The Secret Child (DI Amy Winter #2)(7)

‘I won’t tell her if you don’t,’ he replied. His thoughts darkened. Ellen would not live long enough to tell any tales. Rising from the sofa, he glanced around the room. Photographs, maps and plans had, until recently, adorned the walls. He remembered the first day he got here, how everything had seemed so bare.

A flat-screen television was positioned next to where the plans of Ellen’s home had hung. Tiny blobs of Blu-Tack still clung to the paintwork where the photographs of the other children had been displayed. Now all that remained were four windowless white walls.

Ellen sucked on her Mars bar, her eyes growing wide as she tried to comprehend the impending threat. Yes, she had been brought up shielded from the world, but he knew from the books in her bedroom that she was no stranger to a fairy tale or two. A smile spread on his lips as he decided to breathe life into an old Russian folk tale. ‘I’m keeping you safe from Baba Yaga,’ he whispered conspiratorially, looking over his shoulder as if to check whether she was there.

Temporarily unplugging the chocolate bar from her mouth, Ellen licked her lips. ‘Who?’

‘Haven’t you heard? Baba Yaga – the witch who set fire to your house. In Russia they call her Baba Yaga Kostianaya Noga.’ His features became animated as he recounted the tale. ‘She’s got a long, thin nose which scratches the ceiling when she snores. Her legs are pure bone, her teeth as sharp as knives, and she lives in a house on chicken legs.’ He relished the look of fresh fear in Ellen’s eyes. ‘That’s why I brought you to my special place. See?’ He pointed to the walls of their room. ‘No windows.’ Leaning towards her, he whispered for effect: ‘She flies around in the night, feasting on children whose parents have been bad. Whenever she is near, the birds become silent and the wind screeches a warning to those far and wide.’

‘Mummy and Daddy aren’t b-bad,’ she said, a sob catching in her throat. The man had improvised that part of the story and was enjoying its effect.

‘But they are,’ he rasped, ‘which is why they asked me to hide you. Do you understand? That’s why you must do as I say.’

Ellen nodded solemnly, chocolate dribbling between her dimpled fingers. She had no reason to disbelieve him. A product of her father’s upbringing, she was untainted by the outside world. Every word the man spoke was taken literally and she offered him her complete trust. He watched as she began to sob, half-heartedly returning the Mars bar to her lips.

‘No crying.’ He reached for a packet of wet wipes from the coffee table. ‘She’ll hear you. Now eat up. You don’t need to worry. As long as you’re quiet, you’re safe.’

‘Who are you?’ she said, clumsily swiping away the chocolate from her chin.

‘You can call me Luka,’ he replied, overcome by a sense of surrealness. Kidnap carried a hefty prison sentence. But he wasn’t planning on getting caught. He looked at the child, his resolve strengthening. It had to be done.

‘W-where are you going?’ She pushed her spectacles up her nose, her big blue eyes following his movements as he strode towards the door.

‘To keep a lookout, of course. And remember – not a sound.’ He closed the heavy door behind him, blocking out Ellen’s sobs. The soundproof room would afford him some peace, and she had enough food and fizzy drinks to last her the day. Leaning against the bookcase, he pushed it back so it was against the wall. So this was what it felt like to be the one in control. But what had started off as a source of mild amusement had turned sour on his tongue. Frightening a four-year-old girl was a hollow victory. Besides, he had things to do. The next part of his plan was ready to be put into action. Ellen would not be here for very long.





CHAPTER SIX

Flicking on the kettle, Amy spooned coffee and sugar into her favourite James Bond mug. There was a crack in the handle and a tidemark that was impossible to remove, but it had been a gift from her father. Her lucky mug. His guidance was sorely missed. She sniffed the carton of milk from the fridge before adding a dollop on to the coffee granules and pouring the boiling water. In a rare moment to herself, she stared at the undissolved coffee granules floating on top. She could almost hear her father groan that she was making it all wrong.

She was doing this a lot lately, keeping his memory alive by imagining what he would say. His absence had left a huge hole in her life, and the last thing she needed was Lillian Grimes trying to fill the space. Months had passed since Amy had discovered the devastating truth, and Lillian seemed determined to have her say. The echoes of Jack and Lillian’s laughter still rang in the chambers of Amy’s memories, along with the screams of the victims they had taken captive over thirty years ago.

Was four-year-old Ellen Curtis screaming in a basement somewhere? Or had her body been disposed of like a piece of rubbish, or buried in the grounds of her parents’ home? Amy’s thoughts roamed, unwanted invaders scuttling in her brain. Lately, every snatched moment of solitude returned her to the past: a place of unfinished business, with ugly memories waiting for release.

DS Paddy Byrne sidled into the office kitchen beside her, empty mug in hand. He seemed happier in his work now his life was back on an even keel. They had yet to have a proper chat about the recent turn of events regarding Lillian Grimes, but work was relentless and their personal lives would have to wait.

‘The kettle’s just boiled.’ Amy smiled, grateful for some respite from her thoughts. ‘Manage to dig anything up?’ she added, referring to the case. Dr Curtis’s comment about Ellen’s kidnapper being a dead man was bizarre, but further questioning had been fruitless and Amy had instructed the team to investigate his past.