The Babysitter(94)

‘CCTV?’ Dylan whispered, aghast.

‘They do have cameras in red-light districts, Dylan,’ Jade pointed out. ‘But don’t worry, you’re the same colouring and height as him. And if anyone should ask, not that they will, I’ll vouch for you, obviously.’

‘Will you?’ Dylan asked, sounding like an uncertain child.

‘Of course, my love. I couldn’t have done any of this without you. We’ll be free soon. Together forever. But you have to keep your head and do everything I tell you.’

‘I will. I am,’ Dylan replied defensively. ‘It’s just…’

‘Just what?’ Jade felt a prickle of apprehension.

Dylan went quiet again. Jade contemplated garrotting him. ‘Daisy,’ he blurted out. ‘I’m worried about her. She—’

‘Oh, she’s fine,’ Jade assured him airily. ‘We’ll all be together soon.’ She glossed over that inconsequential problem in favour of changing the subject. ‘How’s Angel?’

‘Still sleeping,’ Dylan said. Jade could hear the bed squeaking under his huge bulk, which meant he was checking on her. ‘She looks pale though,’ he added worriedly. ‘I think she needs a bit of fresh air. Me mum always said a bit of fresh air would put the colour back in my cheeks.’

‘Dylan…’ Jade tried very hard not to scream.

‘I could take her to my house as well, if you like. It wouldn’t matter if she cried there, and—’

‘Dylan! No!’ Jade stopped him in his excited flow, and then sighed inwardly as Poppy’s bedroom door squeaked open. She scowled at the child, who was peering at her through the crack in the door with one eye. It was like something from a horror movie, it really was. ‘I have to go. If she wakes up, just give her more Calpol,’ she said to Dylan, and rang off.

Poppy backed away as Jade advanced towards the door, as if she were some kind of evil witch.

Irked, Jade thrust the door open and marched in. The room was an absolute pigsty, as usual, spoiled little brat. ‘Your mother wants you in the bedroom.’ She gestured her that way. ‘And behave.’ She glowered at the girl as she skirted around her, her silly Peppa Pig clutched babyishly to her chest. ‘Or I’ll eat your fucking goldfish.’





Seventy-Two





MARK





‘For Christ’s sake, they’re websites!’ Sweat prickling his forehead and saturating his shirt, Mark dragged his hands exasperatedly over his face and got to his feet. ‘Anyone could have accessed them!’ He looked desperately from Edwards, seated at his desk, his expression impassive, to Cummings, who’d laughably been drafted in to question him.

‘Right.’ Folding his arms, Cummings exchanged meaningful glances with Edwards. ‘And the image of your daughter? Someone accessed your computer to post that too, I suppose.’

Attempting to control his temper, Mark clamped his jaw tight. He could already hear the cell door clanging shut behind him. ‘That was not taken by me!’ he said, his patience fast evaporating. Could they not see the fucking obvious here? That, if he hadn’t taken it, then someone else had. Someone who had access to his family and his home computer. Someone who undoubtedly now had his daughter. What the hell was the matter with them?

‘Yeah, you said.’ Shaking his head, Cummings looked him over scathingly. ‘So, leaving the Category A pornographic images of kids aside for the moment, since we’re clearly not getting the right answers, perhaps you could explain this?’ He picked up a piece of paper and dangled it in Mark’s direction. ‘And, just so you know, “it wasn’t me” won’t cut it.’

Mark noted the colour of the form, green. ‘A speeding fine?’

‘Correct.’ Cummings smiled superciliously. ‘Clocked up at two in the morning’ – he paused, smirking as he held Mark’s gaze – ‘in the heart of the red-light district. So much for the father of the year award, hey, Cain. Play classical music while you’re doing the business, do you?’

Mark stared incredulously at him. ‘No way,’ he said vehemently, his heart rate spiking as he realised he was being set up from all angles. ‘I haven’t been anywhere near there – on or off duty.’

‘We have photographic evidence, DI Cain,’ said Edwards, still watching him in that supposedly non-judgemental way he had. But the pen he was tapping rapidly on his desk and the fact that he was addressing him formally told Mark he was being judged – and found guilty. Of this. ‘CCTV images,’ Edwards went on, now eyeing him steadily, as he leaned back in his chair.

He waited.

Mark kneaded his forehead. He didn’t answer. How could he, other than to say It wasn’t me?

‘We also have a photograph which shows you apparently assaulting a sex worker,’ Edwards added, laying the pen down on his desk, as if demonstrating that he’d considered the facts and found him guilty. ‘Do you have an explanation for that?’

Tanya Stevens. Mark fixed his gaze hard on Cummings. ‘Provided by?’ he asked, bile rising in his throat.

‘A fellow officer who felt obliged to draw my attention to it.’

‘I bet he did.’ Laughing disdainfully, Mark dragged his gaze away. ‘It was a different time, a different place.’