Back at the incident room, there have been a couple of developments.
‘Firstly,’ Mortimer tells the packed room, ‘there are a series of lockups a street away from Doyle’s address under a railway arch. One of them has clearly been broken into and someone has been spending time in there, judging by some food detritus – a number of drinks cans, a banana skin, and a packet of Pringles. We’re treating this as a possible location where Gregory was kept before Heather’s flight. There’s an unidentified stain on the Pringles wrapper, which we’re fast-tracking. Which leads me to the other development.’ He looks around at everyone, his expression grave.
‘We’ve identified the bloodstain in Doyle’s property as belonging to Gregory Fuller. Now we want to know if it’s his blood in that lockup too, but we’re fairly sure we know who’s behind this now.’
‘Shit,’ says Adam quietly, to Rose’s left.
‘Okay,’ Mortimer continues, ‘there’s a vulnerable child out there, possibly injured, in the hands of a manipulative, multiple murderer. I shouldn’t need to remind anyone in this room of the high priority of this case. We’ll be working night and day until we can find that boy, return him safely to his parents, and put Heather Doyle behind bars again. We’ve had a helicopter out all afternoon. But our last confirmed sighting of Doyle is at 3 p.m. on the 10th, when she withdrew £400 from a Halifax cashpoint on Camden High Street, which appears to be the nearest branch to where she lives. We then tracked her on buses all the way back to the corner of Archway Road and Pauntley Road, which is the last CCTV sighting.’
‘Where did she get that money in her account?’ says Gail. ‘She’s not working, is she?’
Rose lifts a hand to speak. ‘Guv, we’ve just got back from meeting the daughter of the one visitor Heather Doyle had in the entirety of her time in prison,’ she says. ‘The visitor was a recently deceased woman called Jeanette Peters, who seems to have been a bit of do-gooder. She knew Heather from way back because her daughter, Freya Bond, went to school with her. Bond wasn’t friends with Doyle though and she was actually very unhappy about her mum visiting her over the years. Even more so about the fact that she left Doyle £500 in her will.’
There’s a murmuring in the room.
‘Okay,’ says Mortimer. ‘Look closely at this woman Peters. What property did she own? Is there anywhere that Doyle could be headed that’s connected to her at all?’
‘She had a camper van,’ says Adam, ‘but the daughter says that was sold over a year ago. I’m planning to look into it.’
‘Good,’ says Mortimer, ‘please do that.’
He pauses and takes a sip from his water before continuing.
‘Surveillance team, let me know if you need any extra resources on this because it’s an absolute priority that we track the movements of the child and Doyle during the window of time after last sightings. Any information we can get about intelligence leads of family or friends too, with cell-site overlay. I want live feed surveillance on her address and am getting that authorized by my superintendent as soon as I finish here. Look closely at her bank account. I want to know everything about any possible phone use too.’ He pauses for breath. ‘Okay, people,’ he says, ‘we have plenty to do here. Rose and Adam, can I get you to speak to Gail and Jamie about the contact you’ve had with the prison so far? If I need you as back-up on that, I’ll let you know. Other than that, let’s get started. We have a lot to do and I don’t need to stress again what is at stake here. Thank you.’
Conversations bloom and there is mass movement as the meeting room empties. Gail is regarding Rose and Adam warily. She says something quietly to her fellow officer – Jamie, who’s about Rose’s age. He’s tall and slimly built with a reddish beard and bright blue eyes.
‘So you got the impression the daughter disapproved of the friendship between her mother and Doyle?’ says Gail, in a soft Northern Irish accent.
‘Definitely,’ says Rose, ‘she practically shuddered at the mention of her name.’
‘Hmm.’ Jamie and Gail exchange glances. ‘We’d better tell surveillance to watch her anyway and do a check on her just in case.’
There’s a pause during which Gail regards Adam and then Rose a little suspiciously. ‘I don’t quite understand how you fit in,’ she blurts. ‘Sorry.’
Here we go, thinks Rose, but Adam rescues her before she has time to open her mouth.
‘We’re a specialist division that investigates the kind of thing the Fullers had reported,’ he says, meeting Gail’s eyes coolly. Rose feels a prickle of admiration at the way Adam lays it out without fanfare or apology. This, she thinks, is what she needs to learn to do.
‘Do you mean neighbour interference or all the mad stuff about ghostly presences?’ says Jamie. He looks like he is trying to keep his face straight.
‘Both,’ says Rose crisply, willing herself not to give in to her thumping heart and blushing cheeks right now. About time she got used to this. She could swear there’s a slight snigger from Gail, but it’s quickly covered up when Mortimer approaches the desk.
‘Rose, Adam, a word?’ he says.
They follow him into his office. He lets out a sigh and takes a swig from the can of Red Bull on his desk.
‘Tell me more about the house and the obsession with this so-called ghost,’ he says, ‘and please, take a seat.’
‘Heather Doyle told Jeanette Peters that a “ghost” made her carry out those killings,’ says Adam once they’re sitting. Mortimer’s bushy eyebrows rise over his pouchy eyes.
‘Well, I’ve never heard that one before,’ says Mortimer. ‘Did she have a psych assessment when she was originally arrested for the triple murder?’
‘Not as far as we know,’ says Adam. ‘She said surprisingly little at the time. Claimed she couldn’t remember anything.’
‘Maybe she thought prison was better than living in the house,’ Rose says suddenly and she feels as surprised as her two colleagues evidently do. ‘I mean,’ she adds hurriedly, ‘it could be that she knew she had no real defence but what if she was trying to burn it down in order to, I don’t know—’ she searches for the right term ‘—exorcise a ghost or something.’
Mortimer regards her silently for a moment. ‘If Doyle thinks she’s somehow saving this boy, that would be one of the better outcomes I can picture right now,’ he says wearily. ‘But I want you to ramp up efforts to find out whether previous occupants of the house have been contacted by either Heather Doyle or Gregory. We need to know where they are or where they’re headed. Anything else at all on that front might help.’
‘Right,’ says Adam.
‘And, Rose?’ says Mortimer. ‘What happened with this?’ he does a circular motion around his face.
Rose feels her stomach swoop. It’s one thing telling her UCIT team members but quite another saying it out loud to the SIO of this case.
‘I wish I knew what happened,’ she says. ‘I was in Gregory’s room, standing still, and the next thing I knew, I was thrown face first into the wall.’
Mortimer makes an appalled face. ‘You mean like in a, a … supernatural way?’
Rose takes a large gulp of breath, then registers the pain in her ribs. These injuries are very real, however weirdly she got them.
‘There was no one in the room,’ she says in a quiet voice. ‘That’s all I can tell you for sure.’
‘Christ.’ Mortimer rubs a hand across his mouth. ‘This case gets stranger by the minute.’ He seems to give himself a shake. ‘Anyway, get yourselves back to your division and see what you can find on this house. I don’t know how it ties in but my instinct is that it does. Somehow. And look after yourselves. Both of you.’
‘Thanks, guv,’ says Rose. ‘We will.’
Scarlett’s eyes fill with genuine, fat tears when she sees Rose walking into the office.
‘Oh, love,’ she says and comes in for a hug, which she does gingerly. ‘Your poor sore face. Can’t you go home?’
‘I will, soon,’ says Rose. ‘But we have nothing at all really on where Gregory is right now.’ She tells her about the bloodstain and Scarlett lifts a hand to her lips in horror.
‘Oh God,’ she says, ‘I can’t bear to think that funny little guy might be hurt, or frightened. He seems even younger than twelve in some ways.’
‘I know,’ says Rose, ‘it’s appalling.’
Adam arrives shortly after, looking more stressed than when she left him. Scarlett goes off to make coffee and Rose sits with him in the briefing area on opposite sofas. He taps frantically at his phone screen then puts it into his pocket with a grim expression.
‘Okay?’ she says.
He closes his eyes and leans his head back for a moment before replying.
‘I won’t bore you with it,’ he says. ‘Christ knows I’m bored with it myself.’
‘Your ex?’ says Rose gently and he nods.
‘It’s her mission in life to cause me as much aggro and worry as she can, let’s say.’
‘Are the girls with you again tonight?’
‘Yep,’ he says, ‘and I wish they were with me full-time. But she won’t allow that and prefers to play games instead that are no good for me and certainly no good for them. She calls the shots all the time and I don’t know quite how she gets away with it, to be honest.’
‘I’m sorry, Adam,’ says Rose. ‘That sounds like a nightmare.’
He shoots her a tired, grateful grin. Scarlett brings over a tray laden with coffee cups and a Tupperware container.
‘The wife’s been baking again and she’s going to kill us both with it,’ she says, ripping off the lid and offering the container to Rose. Inside are four golden muffins, crusted with nuts and banana chips.
Adam and Rose both fall on the muffins gratefully.
‘Where’s the boss?’ says Adam through a mouthful of crumbs.
‘I don’t really know,’ says Scarlett. ‘She went off in a tearing hurry earlier and didn’t say.’
‘You were here all on your own?’ says Rose.
Scarlett laughs. ‘I don’t mind,’ she says with a grin. ‘I never feel lonely here for some reason.’
Rose isn’t in a rush for Scarlett, who shares Rose’s unusual abilities, to tell her about any more ghoulish occupants of this creepy old building. ‘Anyway,’ she says hurriedly, ‘tell us what you’ve got on Wyndham Terrace.’
Scarlett has already tracked down the living occupants of the house in the Eighties and Nineties. No one had anything unusual to report and hadn’t been contacted by Gregory. She was also able to find information about the commune in the late Sixties and early Seventies online. The artist the old lady mentioned could have been one of a number, but a painter and sculptor called Celeste Allingham came up a few times.
‘She runs an artist’s retreat in Winchester now,’ says Scarlett. ‘I got her on the phone and she wasn’t much use, but she was a bit of a hoot, actually, once she got going.’
‘In what way?’ says Adam, taking a sip of his coffee.
‘Well,’ says Scarlett, ‘once I got her back on that period, she was full of it. I think they had pretty wild times at that place. She said young people never understand they weren’t the ones to invent raves! She was very frank about it all. Said something about “losing count of the gorgeous young men I shagged, darling” and that most of them were off their faces half the time.’
‘Was there anything actually useful, though?’ says Rose, feeling a bit dispirited.
‘I asked her about teenage boys, or any young men and she said something about how it depended on “what my definition of young” was because, quote: “We were all young then, you see.” People came and went all the time, but never families as such. It was always just single people having a good time. She couldn’t recall anyone who wasn’t at least a young adult there anyway.’
‘Did you ask her if she ever witnessed anything out of the ordinary?’ says Adam.
‘I did.’ Scarlett shrugs helplessly. ‘Her precise words were: “It was the swinging Sixties and Seventies, darling. The whole world was out of the ordinary then.”’
Rose directs Scarlett to keep digging to see if she can find reference to anyone else living there at the time.
‘I think you should go home and get some rest,’ says Adam, as he regards Rose. ‘You got quite a bash from whatever it was. And not much sleep at mine.’ He pauses, then looks away quickly.
Rose registers Scarlett’s blonde head shooting up, and forces herself not to acknowledge it.
Rose visits the ladies’ before she leaves.
The huge room has barely changed in decades and still has rusty vending machines on the wall. She goes to the toilet and then takes two more of the Co-codamol, even though she isn’t due for more until another hour and a half has passed. Because they make her constipated, her stomach feels bloated and uncomfortable, but the let-up from the pain is such a welcome relief she can’t worry about that right now. Has to keep going.
As she leaves the bathroom and walks down the long corridor to the main entrance, she hears a squeaking sound and her heart begins to beat a little harder. Not really wanting to look, she forces herself to stop and glance down the short corridor that branches off this one to unused offices. The figure of the tea lady is there again, the one only Scarlett and her can see. Scarlett affectionately calls her Hilda. The trolley holds a metal urn that looks so real Rose can see the shine on it. Hilda appears to be fiddling with cups, her scarved head bent. Slow and steady, in eternal service to no one.
Why has she appeared now?
It feels, to Rose, like the dead are ganging up on her.