The Secret Child (DI Amy Winter #2)(57)

‘He could also go by the name of Lukasha. It means “light”, whereas Volkov means “wolf”. Quite a combination, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Do you have children?’ Amy asked, feeling it only fair to warn her. ‘We can offer safeguarding, just in case Ellen’s kidnapper turns his attentions to you.’

‘My son graduated with a first-class honours business degree,’ Deborah said dryly. ‘He’s also a black belt in karate – quite capable of keeping himself safe.’

‘You must be very proud,’ Amy replied. ‘But if you see anything suspicious, you should report it to the police.’ She cast an eye over the photographs on the kitchen sideboard in an effort to get to know the woman behind the mask.

Her head tilting towards the clock on the wall, Deborah rose to her feet and grasped the handle of her cane. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to get going.’

‘Wait,’ Amy said, temporarily stalling her movements. ‘What can you tell me about the fire that killed Luka and his mother?’

‘Really, Officer, I don’t like talking about it.’ Deborah froze, her expression taut. ‘I gave a statement at the time. You must still have a record of it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a manicure booked and I’m going to be late.’

‘We have your original statement.’ Amy dug her heels in. Officers had pored over the old paperwork. ‘From what you can remember . . . is there anything about their deaths that doesn’t ring true? Ellen’s kidnapper . . . he’s claiming to be Luka.’

Deborah sighed, leaning on her cane. ‘I wish Luka had survived. I’d like nothing better than for him to have started again. But they found two bodies in that fire: a woman and a child.’

‘Why would someone claim to be him?’

‘They could be delusional. Hugh’s worked with many patients over the years. Some of them take on the identity of other people to get away from past traumas.’

Amy turned the idea over in her mind. ‘No, that can’t be it. They know too much.’

‘Which means it’s someone Luka knew. That, or they’re making it up and have convinced themselves it’s real. Now, as much as I’d like to do your job for you, I really must insist you leave.’

‘Ellen’s nightdress was found covered in blood. I’m sure your manicurist can wait.’ Talk about first-world problems, Amy thought, glancing at Deborah’s nails. They looked perfectly fine as they were.

A flush bloomed on Deborah’s face. Pulling open a drawer, she reached for a battered blue address book. ‘Here,’ she said, scribbling on a blank page and ripping it out. ‘These are the last addresses I have for Christina and Stuart. Perhaps you can track them down.’

But Amy was not so easily fobbed off. The woman was hiding something; she could not get her out of the house quickly enough. ‘Let’s play devil’s advocate. What if Luka survived? Why would he want revenge?’

‘You wouldn’t ask me that if you saw where he came from. We saved him from abject poverty. He had his own room, hot meals, private tuition at the institution. He was grateful for everything we did.’

‘But what about the testing . . .’

‘A bit of aversion therapy and a few minor personality tests. No worse than the ones you did when you joined the police.’ But Deborah refused to meet her eye. ‘Now, I really must ask you to leave.’

Amy reluctantly followed Deborah as she showed her out. In the hall, the last rays of late-afternoon sun cast a beam through the stained-glass door. Evening would soon be upon them. With Paddy at the helm the office would run smoothly in her absence, but there was so much to oversee. ‘We may need a further statement. My officers will be in touch.’ Slipping her hand into her suit pocket, Amy pressed a card into Deborah’s palm.

‘Hugh is the victim here,’ Deborah narrowed her eyes. ‘So why do I feel like we’re all suspects? What happened to Luka and his mother . . . it was a tragic, tragic accident.’ She took her jacket from the coat rack in the hall.

‘You’re not in any trouble,’ Amy said, watching her intently. ‘We’re just trying to put the pieces together.’ It was true. She thought of the tangle of red lines across the board in the briefing room. It seemed to double in size as each day passed. It was a giant puzzle of connect-the-dots.

Her mobile phone rang as Deborah opened the front door to allow her outside. She wasted no time in slamming the door behind her, and Amy felt a chill in her wake. She glanced at the screen before answering the call. It was Paddy, and his voice sounded strained. ‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but there’s been a development. How soon can you get back?’





CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The Curtis Institute, January 1985

Lying in his dormitory bed, Luka stared at the ceiling, his thoughts swirling in his head. He had not seen Mama in weeks. Silent tears drizzled down the side of his face and dampened his pillow. Christmas had passed with little celebration. Seasons came and went but, in his heart, it was winter, grey and bleak, with storms ahead.

Wiping his tears, he held his breath as a key turned in the lock of his door. Someone was entering his room.

‘I heard crying,’ Deborah said softly, coming to the side of his bed. ‘Are you OK?’ Her lab coat was creased, wisps of blonde hair escaping her ponytail and falling into her face.