Deborah Knotwood — or Debs, as she called herself on the forums — lived in what looked like a slab of concrete. The entire building was a depressing grey colour, with graffiti on most of the walls, not the arty kind, just the BEX LUVS KEV 4EVA type. The entrance was a flimsy little door that looked like it could be kicked through even by old Mrs Shepherd. As they entered, they were struck immediately by the smell of urine and stale weed.
“What is that?” choked Rebecca, holding her hand to her nose. “Cat piss?”
“Probably human, courtesy of last night’s drunkards.”
“Rank. If you’re already in the building, you may as well hold it until you’re at the loo.”
DS Clarke laughed at Rebecca’s disgust. After Kacey’s nappy changes, a bit of wee was nothing. “Come on, up we go.”
They made their way up the bland staircase, which only had a banister for the first set of stairs. Gouges in the wall implied that the next banister must have been torn off at some point.
“Who rips off a banister?!”
“Someone who wants to use it as a weapon, probably,” Clarke muttered. He kept thinking about Deborah Knotwood’s kids — the youngest only three years old. Same age as Kacey. Imagine raising children in this shithole.
They paused outside Knotwood’s apartment, the cries of young children and a woman shouting reverberating on the other side of the door. Clarke grimaced at the sound. No wonder they were known to Children’s Services. He barely knew anything so far, but what he did know wasn’t painting a pretty picture.
He knocked loudly, the racket from inside suddenly ceasing. He heard some shushing and whispering, then the rattle of the door being unlocked.
A plump woman opened the door. Her hair was greying, cut short into an attempted pixie crop. She was wearing jeggings that were clearly too small for her, with a t-shirt that said, “I got heels higher than your standards.”
“Deborah Knotwood?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Debs. What you want?”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Clarke, and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Reynolds. We’d like to come in and talk to you for a moment, if that’s okay?”
Deb’s hands flew to her hips as she launched into her practised rant.
“I don’t know why the social are sending you pigs round here now — I ain’t done nothing wrong. Is this about the little’un knocking on the neighbour’s door with the chicken nuggets? I was right here. What? You gonna arrest me for him walking one fucking metre out the front door?”
Clarke looked how he felt — bewildered and a little bemused. Why on earth would he be there about chicken nuggets?
“We’re here about Teigan Walker,” Rebecca jumped in. “And her mother, Suzanne Walker.”
Debs pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. “Well,” she said, smacking her lips together, “I don’t know nothing about her daughter, but I can tell you a few things about Suzanne Little-Miss-Perfect Walker.”
“Good. Can we come in, then?”
As he walked through, he tried to keep any judgment out of his facial expression. The once-beige carpet in the hallway was covered in dirt and dust, plus some other stains he’d rather not know the origin of, with a pile of shoes littered along it. As they turned the corner, he caught sight of what must have been one of the children’s rooms. There was a bunk bed crammed in, with mounds of battered-looking toys shoved in the corner. Even from the corridor he could see random bits of food and rubbish scattered on the floor.
Debs led them through to the living room, a rectangular shape with two tatty sofas facing a 36-inch flat screen TV. Clarke raised his eyebrows at Rebecca — funny how the rest of the house was in shambles, but they could afford a state-of-the-art television. Climbing on one of the sofas was a little toddler. He looked unkempt, with ketchup smeared across his face and grubby hands. His clothes were certainly overused hand-me-downs, but all in all he looked quite happy. He spotted them and ran over, holding his hands out in excitement, hoping for freebies.
“Tyler, don’t be a beggar, you ain’t Oliver Twist.” Debs picked him up and sat him back on the sofa, handing him the television remote to keep him distracted.
“Oh, it’s fine.” Clarke didn’t want the boy to get in trouble. He imagined he was told off pretty frequently. “How old is Tyler?”
“He’s three. He’s my little’un.”
Just as he was about to ask Deb about her other children, another boy came flying through with an iPad in his hand. Two seconds later, a frustrated young girl followed.
“Give it back!”
“I wanna play Angry Birds.”
“No, it’s mine!”
“Muuuum!”
“For fuck’s sake, give it here,” said Debs, yanking the iPad out of the boy’s hand. He went to scream, then suddenly noticed their presence.
“Who are you?”
“Hello. My name’s Detective Clarke, and this is Detective Reynolds. We’re from the police, but there’s nothing to worry about.” As Clarke said it, he realised it wasn’t strictly true.
“I’m Billy. I’m seven,” he said, his face beaming. “It was my birthday yesterday.”
Clarke raised in eyebrows in surprise; the flat showed no signs of a recent birthday; he couldn’t see a single card anywhere. “Oh, did you get nice presents?”
“Billy couldn’t have presents this year because his dad refused to pay Mummy what he owes her.” Debs spoke clearly, as if this were a lesson she’d been trying to teach her son. That it was all Daddy’s fault.
Billy looked down at his feet, sadness sweeping over his features. Anger swelled inside Clarke. She could afford the flashy TV, but not a single birthday present for her son? Bullshit.
“Why are the police here?” said the girl, speaking to her mum instead of them. She looked about twelve, and just in that difficult pre-teen stage. She was slight, most likely underweight, and looked pale. She had greasy, mousy hair that she’d tucked behind her ears.
“We’re here to talk about your relationship with Suzanne Walker,” Clarke replied to the girl, then shifted his gaze to Debs. “We understand you’d have motivation to … wind her up, shall we say.”
Debs scowled at him. “Kids, go to your rooms.”
“I wanna listen,” said the girl. “I know Suzanne — she’s been my social worker for years. She’s all right.”
“Of course you’d say that — she buys you a fucking McDonald’s every other week.”
Clarke’s ears pricked up. “You see her pretty often then?”
“Yeah, we have Wishes and Feelings sessions every fortnight.”
“Oh, Wishes and Feelings, my arse.” Debs tugged her top down, which had slipped up to reveal her stomach. “She picks her up from school every other Wednesday and takes her to McDonald’s to encourage her to slag me off. Then Suzanne throws it in my face in those meetings, things that Roxy ‘apparently’ said.”
Clarke glanced back at Roxy, who looked increasingly awkward. Chances were, she was the only person in the family who told Suzanne the truth. “Roxy, would you like to talk with my colleague Rebecca in your room, while I talk to your mum?”
She shot her mum a look, presumably to see if that was okay. Debs waved her hand as if to say, I don’t care. Roxy hurried out of the room, gesturing for Rebecca to follow.
“You boys go play in your room.”
“But, Mum–”
“Take this and go,” she said as she thrust the iPad into Billy’s hands.
“So,” Clarke said, sitting down on the sofa opposite Debs. As he moved, he noticed the familiar comically round shape of the head of a doll, tucked away in the corner. It was just like the one that had been left outside the Walkers’, except this one was a male version with ginger hair. He cleared his throat. “I’d like to know what you think of Suzanne Walker. I have reason to believe you’ve played a part in tormenting her.”
Debs made no attempt to defend herself against the accusation. “That Suzanne Walker is a manipulative bitch. I know you think I’m just saying this because she’s from the social and all that, but I’m not. She puts ideas in Roxy’s head. Tries to turn her against us. She’s always saying she’ll let us be if I just keep the house a bit cleaner, if I just make sure the kids’ attendance at school goes up, if I just this, just that … blah blah. But she never does. She took the older two off me four years back, and she’s never bloody left us alone since.”
Clarke’s resolve softened slightly at her mention of the older children, Deb’s voice cracking as she spoke. His eyes wandered to a picture of two teenage girls, one poking her tongue out and the other pouting. They looked almost identical.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That must have been hard. I can understand why you have strong opinions about Suzanne, but it doesn’t mean you’re above the law.”
“Are you suggesting I took her kid or something? Because she took mine?”
He wasn’t, and he knew she didn’t have the capabilities to pull off such a crime, but he took the bait, anyway.
“Perhaps. Where were you last Thursday? The day Teigan disappeared?”
She stood up, uncrossed her arms and placed her hands on her hips. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“I asked you a question.” He stood as well, maintaining eye contact with her.
She sighed, a little overdramatically. “Look, I ain’t gonna lie, I wasn’t exactly heartbroken for her when I heard. It’s kinda nice to see the tables turn. But I weren’t the one that turned them.”
“So you say. But you haven’t answered my question yet, and until you do, I can’t write you off as a suspect.”
Debs turned and trudged through to the kitchen, muttering something about fucking pigs under her breath. Clarke followed, trying not to flinch at the stench of rubbish that hit him as he walked in. Debs was scrabbling around various bits of paper on the kitchen surface, now mumbling about the fucking cheek.
“Here we are,” she said as she brandished a blue diary covered in pink dots. “Written down and everything.”
He flicked through to the entry for that day. In small, disjointed handwriting, he read the words SOCIAL SERVICES CONTACT WITH THE GIRLS. MANCHESTER. 2PM.
“I was with me oldens,” she said, her voice smaller than before. “I only get to see them every other month, so I wouldn’t have missed that. Trust me.”
He did. It was clear from the way her shoulders sagged and her face darkened that it broke Deb’s heart to only see her daughters bimonthly. He couldn’t imagine it. “Only every other month?”
“Yep. Social said it was in their ‘best interests’ for it to not be too often. Then they went and sent my girls off to sodding Manchester to make it even harder for me. Bastards. It costs me half me bleeding benefits to get there and back.”
Manchester. Nearly a five-hour trip one way. “They don’t cover your travel costs?”
“Nah. It’s down to me to manage my finances if I want to see them. I’d like to see them getting public transport all the way to Manchester and back on the pittance I get.”
A wave of unexpected sympathy flew through Clarke. Making her travel so far on so little just to see her daughters six times a year felt a bit unfair. She had her faults, but she was still their mother, after all.
“Yeah, I appreciate that must be hard. I’ll be ringing Children’s Services to confirm this contact took place. I’m sure you understand.”
Debs cocked her head to the side and placed her hands on her hips again. “Want more proof, do you?” She stormed back into the lounge and picked up her iPhone from the arm of the sofa. She opened up her pictures and swiped her thumb across the screen. “Here’s the pictures I took that day — you can see the date, look. There’s Holly in the pink top — she’s grown so much — and that’s Tilly in the black. She’s my little genius — they think she could go to Uni, if she keeps working hard.” Debs’ voice softened, her eyes gazing lovingly at her daughters. “That’s what I hold on to. She’d never have got a chance to go to Uni if she were still with me.”
Clarke coughed uncomfortably, unsure of what to say. “Good on her. Um, I will still have to double-check with Children’s Services — procedure and all that.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m not trustworthy. Whatever. You do your thing.” Debs sat back down on the sofa, staring wistfully at the pictures of her daughters.
“Mrs Knotwood, I’ve got one more question. You’re clearly a straight-talking woman, and I respect that, so I’d like a straightforward answer.”
She shrugged, careful not to commit to anything.
“Did you leave a hostile message on Suzanne Walker’s doorstep regarding your views on what she said on her TV Today appearance?” He stood over her, arms folded, like a parent waiting for their child to ‘fess up.
Her face flushed a deep burgundy, and her eyes shot downward. “What? Nah, how would I even know where she lives?”
“I’ve seen your forum posts. You’ve spent a lot of time online. It wouldn’t be hard to track down her address, especially as it’s the registered charity address for the Walker Foundation. And as you watched and commented on her TV Today debut, you’d know all about that.”
Debs scratched at the dry skin on her elbow, avoiding eye contact with him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We done here?”
Clarke knelt down so that he was level with her. “Mrs Knotwood, you need to tell me the truth. This sort of thing won’t go down too well with Children’s Services, I can assure you.”
“I am bleeding cooperating. I let you in no fuss, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but now you need to answer my question honestly. Look, I can see you’ve been through the mill with Children’s Services, so I wouldn’t blame you for a bit of gloating. What I would blame you for is lying to the police and obstructing the course of justice. So, I’ll ask you one more time.” Clarke leant forward and dragged the other doll from behind the sofa, then held it up in front of Debs’ now bright-red face.
“What happened to the female doll, Mrs Knotwood?”