Nowhere Child Page 10

Despite Emma’s refusal to consider protective custody, Tom hadn’t been happy to leave her house until reinforcements had arrived. Something was brewing – something he couldn’t see, hear or touch, but it was happening nevertheless. He wanted two policemen on duty at the house at all times and had waited until they had been fully briefed.

  At the moment the only people who knew Tasha was back were social services and the handful of police who would be used to keep an eye on Emma’s house. Becky knew, of course, but he had asked her to keep a small team out on the streets looking for Tasha. Together with Emma’s visit to Manchester the day before, it should be enough to convince anybody watching that Tasha was still missing.

  Tom had spent some time that day coaching Tasha. Not to put words into her mouth, but to give her an idea of how the questioning might go – particularly from McGuinness’s defence counsel. They wouldn’t go easy on her because she was a kid. She was nervous and anxious, but her answers had been clear, and Tom was confident that she would do a good job at the trial.

  Emma hated the fact that they were virtually under house arrest, but without Ollie at her side she couldn’t keep up her previous performance in the city centre.

  ‘Can’t I even go to the shops?’ Emma had asked, her frustration clear.

  ‘You can’t take Tasha, and you can’t leave her here on her own. So I’ll do it for you,’ Tom had offered as he left the house. ‘I’ll go now, and bring you the stuff tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay, Ollie?’ Tom said over his shoulder to the little boy strapped into his chair in the back of the car as he drove along, heading for the supermarket.

  ‘Kay,’ came the high-pitched voice. Tom smiled. Ollie was a placid kid and no trouble really.

  He pulled the car into the car park, picked up Ollie and sat him in the back of a trolley, his chubby little legs swinging.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said to the little boy. ‘Let’s go and get some bits and pieces for your mum and something for our tea, shall we?’

  Ollie nodded, and rocked his head from side to side as Tom pushed him – clearly enjoying the view from this height. He beamed at everybody who passed, and most of them grinned back.

  Tom was selecting some nappies for Ollie when it happened.

  He had his back to the aisle, and the voice came from behind his back.

  ‘Tom Douglas?’

  Tom turned round. A man in bike leathers and a helmet – visor down – was standing behind him, holding out an envelope.

  ‘This is for you.’

  Tom frowned and kept his hands by his side. ‘Who are you? And how did you know where to find me?’

  There was no answer.

  Tom wasn’t going to take the envelope until he knew more.

  ‘Which company do you work for?’ he asked.

  The man – fairly young by the look of his slim body – waved the envelope again. When Tom still didn’t take it, he spoke.

  ‘I was told you might be difficult. So just read the front of the envelope, and then take it.’

  The man turned the envelope over, and Tom felt the blood drain from his face. His hand shot out to take the envelope. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real. He glanced up at the young man, but all he saw was his back, disappearing into the crowd of shoppers, and his eyes were drawn back to the envelope he was holding.

  Five words, that was all. But enough to send a flash of ice down Tom’s back.

  23

  The man parked his motorbike – the one he had nicked from Rory Slater on the basis that he wouldn’t be needing it for a while – in the woods just down the road from Emma Joseph’s house. This was his second trip of the day, and the final one. From here, there really was no going back.

  After his visit to the prison that morning and the subsequent phone calls, he had been on a mission, collecting supplies from all the names he had been given. He didn’t feel as if he’d had a moment to give any serious thought to what he was about to do, and he knew if he stopped to think, he might falter.

  There had been too much to carry on the bike in a single trip, so he had travelled here earlier that evening after darkness had fallen, creeping silently into the woods, hiding the first batch of purchases under a shrub, covering them with the still fresh autumn leaves. It was unlikely anybody would be walking here on such a cold, miserable night – but he couldn’t be sure, so his supplies had to be concealed well.

  It was now half past two, and the time seemed about right. Even people who have trouble sleeping have usually nodded off by now, and it was too soon for the early awakeners. He reckoned he had about an hour to do everything necessary.

  He picked up both backpack sprayers and put one over each shoulder. He could carry the bag of bottles wrapped in bubble wrap in his left hand and before he picked up his small equipment bag in the other, he pulled down his balaclava. With the exception of a white patch around his eyes, his leathers and head covering allowed him to blend into the night. Even his two white plastic backpacks had been wrapped in black polythene.

  He set off through the dark woodland, leaning forwards slightly to accommodate his burdens but also to help him peer into the shadowy depths between the trees and find his way. He couldn’t use a torch – nobody must see him.

  The most dangerous stretch for him was the small section of road that he would have to walk along to reach the house, but few vehicles came this way, and he would see their headlights approaching, lighting up the night sky, before they saw him.

  As he drew close to the house, he could see two cars parked in the drive. One, he knew, was Emma Joseph’s. The other was a police car. He had been warned that the police would be here, protecting the girl.

  He made his way towards the front of the house, keeping to the grass to avoid any sound of footfalls on the gravel path. There was a light on in a room at the front of the house, and he guessed that would be where the police had positioned themselves. His first job was to cut off the door from that room into the hall.

  Leaving the two backpacks and the bag of bubble wrap on the lawn, he made his way around the back of the house, carefully, silently, reaching over to unbolt the side gate. There were no lights in the kitchen or upstairs, and the house seemed peaceful, its usual occupants no doubt deep in a dreamless sleep. He hoped so – and that they stayed that way. Only the policemen in the sitting room would be awake.

  He was relieved to discover that the back door had a number of small panes of double-glazed glass, which would be ideal for his purposes – much better than having to remove a whole window. He took out some tools, gently prised off the beading from around one of the panes and carefully removed the glass, placing it on the floor. He then returned to the front of the house, where he had already discovered that next to the front door were panes of decorative glass. Once again he removed the beading from around one of these, working silently until an empty hole gave him the access he needed. He could just hear a murmur in the background and realised that the policemen were watching the television. He needed to move quickly in case one of them left the sitting room.

  He picked up one of the backpacks – the one marked with a small white X in the top corner – and started to walk around the outside of the house, spraying the wooden window frames, down the brickwork and along the base of the wall. An area of wooden facing boards at the back of the extension received special attention because he knew that the brickwork would allow some of the liquid to be absorbed and therefore might not be as effective as he would like.

  Round at the back of the house, he took the second backpack and extended the arm to the maximum, pushing it through the empty window frame and through the cat flap to a different part of the kitchen to spray the wooden furniture as best he could. He sprayed up into the air for good measure, knowing that the droplets would ignite and create a ball of fire high up, which would begin to work its way through to the bedrooms. The gaping holes in the windows would help too – oxygen had to be in constant supply to keep the fire burning.
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  Praying that the smell wouldn’t penetrate until he had finished his preparations for the front of the house, he quickly returned to the porch entrance and began to spray the inside of the hallway, giving the area around the sitting-room door extra attention.

  He had decided that paraffin was a better option for the inside of the house because it didn’t evaporate as quickly as petrol, a potential problem inside a warm house. The wooden floors in the hall were ideal, because carpet might have soaked too much of the liquid, and every drop was going to count here. He had used petrol for the outside.

  The extension arm for the sprayer just reached the bottom of the stairs, and he gave them an extra soaking too, to make it difficult for people to go up or down.

  He needed to make sure that the sitting-room door was blocked before he did anything else. He checked his pocket to make sure his handgun was there – just in case the police made it out through the door – but that was a last resort. He extracted two bottles from the bag and removed the bubble wrap. Strapped to each bottle was a package containing sugar and potassium chlorate. Inside was a mixture of petrol and sulphuric acid. He knew that when the bottle broke, the acid would react with the contents of the package and produce a white hot flame, which would in turn ignite the petrol. This would light the paraffin-soaked floors, and finally he would then set fire to the trail of petrol around the house.

  Nobody would be getting out of here alive.

  Leaning through the window, he aimed the first of the Molotov cocktails at the legs of a console table, and the specially made thin glass of the bottle shattered on impact. A ball of flame erupted in seconds, and he leaned in to throw another one against the door. It didn’t break.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered. But the heat of the burning paraffin would get to it soon, and it wouldn’t be long before it exploded.

  He quickly lit a match and, standing well back, threw it into a pool of petrol by the front door.

  Racing round the back, he grabbed the last two bottles and hurled them through the empty window frame in two different directions. He heard one break against the worktop, but didn’t hang about to find out about the other. He threw another match at the petrol at the back of the house, although the flames from the front were already taking hold, and he picked up the two spray backpacks and flung them towards the house in the sure knowledge that they would burn off any evidence that he may have left on them. There was no point in removing them from the scene. There would be no doubt that this was arson.

  For a moment, he was worried. The flames were licking around the outside, but apart from the flash of the flames as each Molotov had exploded, there didn’t seem to be much happening.

  He waited. Surely somebody would have heard the bottles breaking by now and would be investigating? He looked up to the first floor, expecting to see lights coming on. But the electrics wouldn’t work any longer – some of the power points would have burned through, and the fuses would have tripped out. As he ran back around the house, sure enough the lights in the front room had gone out. The occupants of the house were probably frantic with fear, desperate to rescue the baby. He thought he heard a scream, but it might have been his imagination, or a distant owl.

  A sense of nausea washed over him, and he knew it was time to get out of there.

  As he backed away, mesmerised by the fire, there was a whoosh, and a wall of flame lit up the inside of the hall. The second Molotov, no doubt. He thought he saw a woman’s face at the end of the hall, and as the lad reversed down the path, his eyes never leaving the sight before him, he watched to see if whoever it was would escape. But nobody came.

  He could see the window frames he had sprayed with petrol burning fiercely, showing the outline of each pane as if the house had been lit up for Christmas. The first window blew in, providing more oxygen to the air-starved rooms, and within seconds the whole of the downstairs of the house was alight – the flames burning brightly.

  Time to go, he thought. As he turned and ran towards his waiting motorbike, he stumbled, his legs weakened by the knowledge that he had just murdered five people.

  24

  The call from Detective Superintendent Philippa Stanley’s office came more quickly than Tom had expected the next morning. She was demanding his presence, and there was no way he could avoid facing the music. The fact that he was on leave for the week made no difference, and he hadn’t really expected it to.

  He knocked once on her door and pushed it open. His boss looked at him, and he noticed her startled expression at his appearance. He knew his face was white, his eyes like dark holes – he had barely recognised himself before he left the house. Apart from a brief frown, though, she didn’t acknowledge Tom’s obvious distress.

  ‘Tom – we’ve got things to talk about. Sit down.’

  He didn’t. He pulled two envelopes from his pocket and handed them to Philippa. She opened the top one first and looked up at Tom, her mouth settling into a hard line.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘You can see what it is, Philippa. It’s my resignation.’ Tom’s voice was quiet. It wasn’t a moment that he was enjoying.

  Without another word, she looked at the second envelope, pulled the single sheet of paper out and scanned it. This time, she struggled to contain her surprise. Then her face settled.

  ‘And the resignation is because of this?’ she asked. Tom just looked back at her.

  Neither of them had time to say another word as, following a perfunctory knock, Philippa Stanley’s door burst open, and Becky Robinson practically ran into the office.

  Becky was white.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know DCI Douglas was with you.’

  ‘It’s okay, DI Robinson. You look upset. What can I do for you?’

  Becky looked uncharacteristically flustered. ‘Err, no – err, can I speak to you in private, please?’ She gave Tom a look that he couldn’t interpret.

  ‘Is that entirely necessary, Becky?’ Philippa said, relaxing her formal attitude slightly. Becky’s gaze just kept flicking back to Tom.

  ‘For God’s sake, Becky – what is it?’ Tom asked.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I’m really sorry, Tom – but that fire last night. It was Emma Joseph’s house.’

  ‘I know it was,’ he said, keeping his voice level.

  ‘Well, I don’t know how to say this, but according to the news it’s been leaked that they’ve found bodies. Oh shit, Tom, I’m so sorry – but they’re all dead.’ Becky burst into tears.

  25

  It had taken quite some time for Becky to gain control of her noisy sobbing, and in the meantime, Philippa had switched on the news. It appeared the fire brigade was denying adamantly that they had put out any statement about bodies, claiming that they were still sifting through the debris.

  ‘Unfortunately the fire has done considerable damage, and the roof has fallen in. We know that a family lived there, and we know that at this point in time their whereabouts is unknown. But I can confirm that as yet we have found no bodies. I don’t know where this rumour has come from.’

  ‘We understand that some communication between members of your team was intercepted,’ the reporter said, ‘and mention was made of these bodies. One of your men said, and I quote, “It’s one of the worst parts of the job, finding the body of a dead child. You never get over it.” You may not be ready to confirm this yet, Mr Concannon, but are you prepared to deny that there are bodies?’

  ‘All I can say is that our investigation has not yet finished, but at this point there are no confirmed bodies.’

  ‘“Confirmed” being the operative word,’ the reporter said, turning to face the camera.

  Philippa watched the screen for a moment longer, then used the remote to turn it off.

  ‘I wouldn’t normally say this in a matter so incredibly sensitive, Tom – but on this occasion I think Becky needs an explanation. Do you agree?’

  Tom paused for a moment. Becky only knew the basic facts about Tas
ha’s return. He hadn’t told her that he was supposed to be looking after Ollie, or that Tasha was being assessed. It wasn’t a police matter, and apart from asking for her help with Andy, Tom had barely spoken to Becky all week.

  He had to decide how much it was safe for her to know, and certainly the fewer people that knew the truth, the better. But Tom would trust Becky with his life, so he nodded.

  ‘It’s your story, Tom – you’d better be the one to tell it.’

  Becky was looking anxiously from one to the other, and Philippa handed the second of the two envelopes to Becky. She read the words on the front out loud.

  White Hat

  Please open immediately

  Becky looked at Tom with a puzzled frown. She wasn’t to know this, but only Jack had ever called Tom White Hat. When he had been given the envelope in the supermarket he had known instantly who it was from.

  ‘Just read it, Becky,’ Tom said.

  Becky pulled a single sheet of paper from the envelope, and Tom watched her eyes skim over the words. He didn’t need her to read it out loud. He had memorised every sentence.

  Tom

  No time for sentimental chat, Little Brother – but I miss you.

  Right now I need you to do something.

  Please call Emma and tell her to be ready 30 minutes from now with anything that she really values from her house. But 30 minutes is all she has. The maximum.

  McGuinness wants Tasha dead – no question about it – and he doesn’t care who is taken down with her. We can try to foil him one attempt at a time, but we won’t win.

  He has paid a man to set fire to the Joseph home tonight, and I think it’s in everybody’s interests if that is exactly what happens.

  Fortunately, I was good to this guy when he wasn’t much more than a kid, before Finn got his claws into him, and he’s remembered. When I knew he’d been visiting Finn in Strangeways, I knew he was up for something serious, so I contacted him. Too bad he’d already hurt that friend of Tasha’s, but now the guy is mine.