Bye Bye Baby (18 page)

He turned to her now, his eyes glittering. ‘That baby is mine, Annie,’ he said. He gave a small, harsh laugh. ‘I can’t believe it, but it’s true.’

‘He’s mine,’ she defied him.

‘You can’t keep him, Bletch,’ he whispered, stealing a glance at the boys.

Anne began to pray.

Anne came to full consciousness, her eyes fluttering open at the sensation of raindrops falling on her face. Pain hit her so hard she cried out. And then she remembered in slow-motion and in horrific detail what had happened. She turned her head and retched. There was nothing left inside her; she had lost it all during the night, when Pierrot had first jumped on her belly.

She remembered him screaming at her — long after the four boys had fled — that he and his wife had wanted a child for so long and now she’d stolen that from them. He had called her a slut, a whore, a slag. Anne touched her belly now and felt the flaccid flesh that moved like the bread dough at the bakery. Her body was a deflated balloon, its womb empty of its precious life. She had hoped the whole thing was a nightmare, but as she lay there in agony, the world spinning around her, she remembered it all in stark clarity. The tiny body dangling from Pierrot’s bloodied hand, her tormentor’s laughter as he told her her baby was dead.

She began to scream relentlessly, the bloodcurdling keening finally rousing an early morning passerby and, ultimately, the police.

She remembered lovely Sergeant Moss clearly. He so badly wanted her to give him the information he needed. He knew she’d been coerced, abducted — said as much — but she wouldn’t give him a thing. It was her own fault that the police couldn’t help her.
But then that was such a terrifying time. She recalled now how she couldn’t think straight that day.

Anne shook her head free of the memory. Her pulse was racing, and she was gasping for breath. She put a trembling hand to her forehead. It was clammy. Memories could still reduce her to a shaking wreck.

She looked around, concerned that someone might have noticed her distress. She couldn’t afford to stand out now, not when she was so close to her target. She took a deep breath and got to her feet. She would make them all pay. And Billy Fletcher was next.

19

As they reached Brighton, Kate stuck her earpiece in and dialled the operations room. ‘Find out where we’re going on the street map, would you?’ she said to Sarah while she waited for the call to connect. Sarah obediently found the directory in the glove compartment and looked up the address she had written down for Moss.

‘Hi Joan, it’s Kate.’ She paused while Joan passed on her own message. ‘Good, I’ll let Sarah know. Is the DCI there? . . . Thanks.’

She looked over at Sarah who was waiting expectantly, then put a finger in the air to stall her.

‘It’s Kate, sir. Yes, sir, just heading into Brighton now. . . . Er no, we decided to do both calls together. Just wanted to let you know that we have a firm ID on Fletcher, which puts him in a precarious position. We need to find him.’ She quickly relayed everything they’d discovered. ‘I agree, we should start there, even if it does mean ringing every W Fletcher in the book. Okay, sir . . . Yes, she did, thank you. Bye.’

She hung up and turned to Sarah. ‘He’s going to start the hunt for Fletcher, and Joan said to tell you that
your clown theory is right. Apparently the DCI rang one of the oldest touring circuses in Europe and got on to some ancient clown academy in Italy. Clowns are highly suspicious of blue and don’t even carry that colour in their make-up boxes. Blue on the face is considered the worst kind of luck. In their words, death on stage — meaning they’re going to dip out and not make a single person laugh.’

Sarah punched the air. ‘Yes!’ Then she frowned. ‘I don’t know how that brings us any closer to the killer though.’

‘Maybe he or she trained as a clown or always wanted to be one?’ Kate suggested.

Sarah wrinkled her nose at the idea. ‘Then why smear blue paint on someone else’s face? No,’ she shook her head, ‘if we follow the theory, then the killer is calling the victim the clown, giving him the bad luck. Death to them, in other words.’

‘Or telling them their luck’s run out,’ Kate said, and then looked at Sarah, knowing they’d stumbled on something. She braked before she ran straight into the back of another car. ‘Oops, sorry.’

‘That sounds closer, doesn’t it?’ Sarah said, thinking it through some more. She bit her lip. ‘But why? Why clowns in the first place?’

‘That’s the sixty-four-million-dollar question. Tell me where we’re going.’

Sarah gave directions and they finally drew up outside a small house near St Ann’s Well Gardens. ‘This should be it,’ Sarah said, ‘number eighteen.’

‘Come on then, maybe your ex-sergeant will fix us a cup of tea.’ Kate looked at her watch. They’d missed lunch and it was way too early for dinner.
What she wouldn’t give for a custard cream right now.

Former Sergeant Moss met them at the front door before they’d even let themselves inside his gate.

‘DS Sarah Jones and DI Kate Carter,’ Sarah said. ‘Are you Sergeant Moss?’

‘Just Mr Moss these days, DS Jones. In fact, call me Colin, I answer to that more happily.’

He shook their hands and showed them into the house, where the chocolatey aroma of tobacco permeated the hallway. He guided them into a sitting room, cluttered with family memorabilia and silent save for the ticking of a very old clock.

‘My wife’s going to put the kettle on. Can we offer you girls a cup of tea?’

‘Thanks,’ Sarah said, taking the lead. ‘White and no sugar is fine for both of us, right?’ She looked at Kate who smiled her thanks.

A woman who looked like every childhood story’s grandmother bustled into the room. ‘Tea?’ she asked.

‘This is my wife, Alice,’ Colin Moss said. ‘Meet DS Sarah Jones and DI Kate Carter.’ The women nodded at each other. ‘All of us want tea, my love. And a very simple order: three with milk and no sugar.’

‘And perhaps some home-made shortbread?’ Alice Moss said, a glint in her eye.

Kate liked them both immediately. ‘Your pipe’s unlit, Colin,’ she said to break the ice. ‘Don’t miss out on our account.’

He gave a soft chortle. ‘I miss out entirely, DI Carter, my lungs can’t handle it any more. But I simply can’t shake the habit of the old favourite hanging from my mouth.’

He turned to Sarah. ‘So, DS Jones, your call has opened up a very old wound.’

‘I hope not too painful?’

‘Agony actually, but necessary. It’s been festering, as I mentioned on the phone, for far too long and it bothers me to this day that we didn’t do more for the girl in question. It was that pile-up on the road up to Chanctonbury Ring that distracted us. An idiot was watching the burning torches of some pagan ritual or other and lost control of his car, ploughed into other cars and it quickly became a war zone. All spare units were called in to help because it was remote and the dead of night. Just directing traffic to get ambulances up there was a nightmare. It took up all our time and resources for days.’

Sarah nodded. ‘You said you have a file, Colin?’

‘Here it is,’ he said, gesturing to the table in front of him. ‘It’s the only item I ever took from the station, although everything in there is a copy. If you need the originals, they’re with Lewes.’

‘Thank you,’ Sarah said. ‘But would you mind telling us everything you can? The file will be very helpful, I’m sure, but you met this girl, you were there.’

He nodded and stood to open the door for his wife who was arriving with a tray laden with their afternoon tea.

‘This is very kind of you, Mrs Moss,’ Kate said. She’d been deliberately quiet, determined not to steal Sarah’s thunder, even though she was desperate to hit Colin Moss with a barrage of questions.

‘Oh, don’t mention it, dear. We get so few visitors these days that it’s nice to lay a tray properly again. And anyway,’ she said, a smile in her voice, ‘if you
skinny girls would just eat all these biscuits, you’ll save my Colin another inch on his waistline.’

‘Oh, go on with you,’ Moss said. ‘I love your shortbread as much as I love you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.’

Alice Moss left them to their tea and conversation but not before throwing her husband a private smile. Kate saw it, and knew she wanted exactly that for her and Dan . . . yet deep down recognised they would never have that kind of connection.

‘How long have you been married?’ she asked.

‘We’ve just celebrated our golden wedding anniversary,’ Colin said proudly. ‘Fifty years last Sunday. I’m going to take her on a European cruise called Classic Capitals. First it was our children, then my work — we never got around to fulfilling my wife’s dream of seeing all the major cities on the continent.’

Kate smiled. ‘That’s lovely. Make sure you do — no excuses.’

He saluted. ‘I never argue with a woman. Help yourselves, ladies, please. I’ll pour as I tell you what I know.’

He stirred the contents of the teapot before filling their teacups.

‘The girl’s name was Anne McEvoy. She was fifteen when the attack occurred. It took place at West Pier and an angler raised the alarm — the Brighton fishermen took on a sort of loose security role for the pier when it was formally closed, you see? They had keys, kept an eye on things.’ The detectives nodded. ‘From what we can gather, Anne had been heavily pregnant, and although she wouldn’t speak much to us, the angler who found her told us that she said she’d
been attacked and her baby had died. She said nothing else, refused to talk to the police or any of the medical staff.’

Kate frowned. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘What happened?’ Even as she spoke, she knew he had no answer for her or Anne McEvoy would not be a cold case.

‘I can’t tell you. That’s what makes it so frustrating. She worked at a bakery and was, according to her coworkers, very much looking forward to motherhood. Her manager told us that Anne had once confessed that her life had been pretty miserable until she became pregnant but that she was sure the baby would change everything, give her every reason to love life.’

‘How sad,’ Sarah said.

He nodded. ‘She was a sad girl. She was a chubby sort, you know, and no oil painting, but I could sense spine in her. Not toughness, just that she had courage.’

Sarah sat forward. ‘So do you think it was fear that prevented her from saying anything?’

‘Fear alone? No. But she was certainly fearful. I think her body and mind were in shock. The baby hadn’t been quite full term, according to the hospital notes. When I saw Anne, she was on a drip, very bruised. The doctor said she’d been bashed around, that something heavy had landed on her abdomen.’

‘The baby?’ Kate asked.

He shrugged. ‘Never found.’

Both women looked at him, incredulous.

‘We did everything from putting up posters to doorknocking but no one came forward with news of a newborn child. I’d hoped it might turn up on someone’s doorstep, but the trail was cold from the moment Anne was found.

‘The doctor thought she might have thrown the child and the afterbirth into the sea, but we discounted that idea as it didn’t explain the battering she’d suffered.’

‘And Anne wouldn’t tell you anything herself?’ Sarah asked.

‘She wouldn’t give us any details other than her name. It meant we were able to track her mother down — her father and baby brother died when she was a child — and that’s where the story gets even more tragic.’

Colin Moss looked sadly at the two police officers. ‘Anne’s mother was found dead in her house later that day — an empty bottle of pills at her bedside. She’d washed them down with a bottle of Scotch.’

‘Nothing suspicious?’ Kate wondered aloud.

He shook his head. ‘It was largely agreed that the news of Anne’s attack and subsequent loss of the baby prompted her suicide. After telling her that her daughter had been found on West Pier, taken to hospital, believed attacked, our people offered to send a car but she asked them not to, said she preferred to make her own way to the hospital. She never arrived.’

‘Did any of your people say anything about the baby?’

Moss grimaced. ‘Didn’t have to, I suppose. She likely guessed by what they weren’t saying. I gather she was an unstable woman so who knows what thoughts went on in her mind. She’d already lost a husband and child in traumatic circumstances and no doubt she felt she might lose her daughter and grandchild.’ He put down the teacup he’d been cradling to his chest. ‘The East Sussex police didn’t see Anne again,’ he continued
softly. ‘By the time we returned to the hospital, it was evening and Anne had disappeared. All our attempts to locate her came up wanting. The manager at the bakery where Anne worked told us that on the day in question she’d given Anne an early mark and the youngster had left on a very happy note, telling her she might treat herself and her mum to some fish and chips with the day’s wages.’

‘And Anne’s school?’ Sarah prompted.

‘She’d left school the previous autumn, around the time of her pregnancy. Apparently she was a top student and the school principal had tried to persuade her to stay on for her O and A levels. They had no idea who had fathered her baby — in fact, none of the teachers or staff had known she was pregnant — and none of the children could help either. They didn’t know she had a boyfriend — they described her as plain, bespectacled and very overweight. According to all, she was a clever girl who should have been at a grammar school, and a loner. One teacher said she suspected that Anne was “receiving some attention”, as she put it, but thought it was just foolish boys larking around. Anne would likely have said something otherwise.’

The two detectives glanced at each other. Moss gave them an enquiring look, but Kate nodded to him to go on with his story for the moment.

‘The case became a sort of personal mission,’ Moss said. ‘I spoke to the fisherman who looked after West Pier’s security, “Whitey” Rowe, and he told me there were only three keys for the gate. He kept one permanently, another was kept at the kiosk for emergencies, and the final spare was circulated among the fishing community — a sort of you-scratch-my-
back-I’ll-scratch-yours arrangement. According to my notes, Whitey had his key with him all night, and when he did his rounds at the Pier around nine-thirty all was quiet. He’d enjoyed a spot of fishing and gone home at ten-fifteen. No sign of Anne or her baby. It was as if she had never been there.’

‘So what happened next?’ Sarah asked.

‘The case was kept open, but as time wore on it was filed away in the “Unsolved” cabinet at Brighton police headquarters.’

‘What do
you
think happened?’ Sarah said. ‘Pretty hard for a baby to disappear without someone noticing. A baby cries a lot, after all.’

‘The doctor who admitted Anne firmly believed the infant was thrown into the sea from the pier.’

Kate flinched. ‘So possibly the father, not wanting the child, took it upon himself to get rid of it?’

Moss nodded. ‘Which means he was perhaps too young to cope with a baby, or was trying to protect his reputation. Or the attack was an accident and they needed to get rid of the evidence.’

‘An accident!’ Kate exclaimed. ‘How could you not notice that the girl you’re attacking is heavily pregnant?’

Sarah picked up the thread. ‘Colin, you said “they” — what do you mean?’

He hesitated. ‘I could be wrong but I never believed this was an attack by one person.’

‘Why?’

‘We scoured the pier’s concert hall where Anne was found. It was pretty much a ruin in 1975 and closed off to the public. Yet we found sweet and chocolate wrappers there and empty bottles of alcohol.’

‘Pretty normal sort of rubbish,’ Kate commented.

‘Yes, DI Carter, but the wrappers were all current designs and fresh, and all found in one spot. The discarded chewing gum was still sticky and the bottles of alcohol were still wet inside. In my opinion, there was too much debris for it to have been consumed by one person. I mean, he could have, but it struck me as odd and the feeling that there was more than one perpetrator has never left me. Frankly, there was enough debris to suggest a small gang.’

The women exchanged glances again, which told him far more than any words could.

‘So why don’t you tell me what you’ve got and how this might relate to my Anne,’ he finished.

Sarah looked to Kate who nodded, deferring to her to do the briefing. Sarah spared Moss none of the details of the recent murders. Jack had authorised her to tell him everything. When she’d finished, a silence hung over the three of them — as cold as the halfdrunk pot of tea on the table.