Sins of the Father (39 page)

It had meant another night of watching them, but it had paid dividends and he knew that the time was ripe to make his move. It would take a bit of careful planning and wouldn’t be easy, but then nothing worthwhile ever was.

Moving stealthily, he left the drive, pausing for one last look at the façade of the house. Yes, he would make his move soon, but he would need to be certain that he left no trace of his identity.

The builders had been wonderful, moving Emma’s furniture without complaint. She had added a little extra to their final payment, and then tipped each of the men before they left. Alone now, Emma looked around her new home. Everything was clean and new, the décor fitting, and though still aching to find Doris, she felt just a little brighter.

Emma went upstairs. The ward sister had told her that Patricia might be allowed home that afternoon, but this was dependent on the doctor’s decision when he made his rounds. Emma flung open Patricia’s bedroom door, hoping that her daughter would be pleased with the room. She had chosen Tinker’s favourite colour, and to Emma’s eyes the décor looked fit for a princess. Over the bed there was a white lace canopy, tied back with pink ribbons, and her dressing table was draped with the same lace. The wallpaper
had a white background, patterned with tiny pink rosebuds, with matching curtains and a pink rug.

It was a room Emma would have loved as a child, one that was a far cry from the attic she had shared with her whole family. Oh, she didn’t want to think about her family again, didn’t want to think about the past. It was gone, they were gone, and she could only look forward now, but surely–oh, please–there had to be a chance that Doris would return.

Terry’s face, his warm smile, invaded her mind but she pushed it away. As she went downstairs, the silence of the house seemed to close in around her. To fill the void, Emma switched on the radio, twiddling the knob until she found a station playing music. As the sound of a big band filled the room, playing ‘Little Brown Jug’, an old Glenn Miller number, she moved to the fire, poking it to life, the dancing flames and music lifting her spirits a little.

When she heard a knock on the front door Emma went eagerly to open it, praying it was Doris. Her face dropped when she saw Rose.

‘Hello, Mrs Bell, I know I’m early, but I thought you’d want to see my brother.’

Emma’s heart sank when she saw the young man, but reluctantly stood back to let them in. He looked hardly more than a teenager and, unlike Terry, he was slim, surely too slight to
hold his own against a difficult punter. She led them through to the sitting room, already deciding that Rose’s brother wasn’t suitable for the job.

‘Please, sit down,’ she invited.

They sat on the sofa, Rose the first to speak. ‘This is Tony and, as I said, he’s done a bit of boxing.’

Emma saw the eagerness in both their eyes and swallowed. Then, focusing on Tony, she asked, ‘Are you sure you could cope with this job? There are occasions when clients become difficult and it would be necessary for you to remove them from the premises.’

‘Don’t worry about me, missus. I can take of myself.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you can, but we’re not talking about a boxing match here. In fact, we don’t want anyone hurt. It’s more a matter of persuading them to leave without using violence.’

‘Eh?’

‘What I’m trying to explain is that Terry’s size was enough to intimidate, and a quiet word in their ear, along with a firm hand in the direction of the door, was usually enough.’

‘Oh, yeah, I get your meaning. Well, I’m sure I can handle that.’

‘I can see you’re a fit young man, but you hardly look intimidating.’

‘Honestly, Mrs Bell, he can handle it,’ Rose interjected. ‘I’ve seen Tony in action and, believe me, the punters will leave if he tells them to.’

Unconvinced, Emma shook her head, but Rose wasn’t ready to give up.

‘I don’t know anyone else, Mrs Bell, so for the time being, why don’t you give Tony a try? I don’t fancy another night without a man around, especially as we both thought we heard someone lurking in the bushes last night.’

‘You said it was a cat.’

‘Yeah, but what if it had been a geezer?’

Emma lowered her eyes. Rose was right, and maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give this young man a try, at least until they found someone more suitable.

‘Very well, you can have the job on a trial basis, Tony.’

‘Cor, thanks, Mrs Bell, and don’t worry, I won’t let you down.’

‘It’s the girls you’ll have to protect, Tony, not me. If you can start this afternoon, go with Rose and she’ll show you the ropes.’

They both rose to their feet, smiling as they left, leaving Emma hoping she had made the right decision. She glanced at the clock, dismissing them from her mind for the time being as she prepared to go to the hospital.

Coat on, and clutching Patricia’s bag of clothes
as she left the house, she prayed her daughter would be allowed home.

‘I love it, Mummy,’ Patricia cried as she bounced on her bed. ‘It’s so pretty.’

‘I’m glad you like it, darling,’ Emma said, joyful to have her daughter home. ‘Now let’s go downstairs and have our dinner.’

Patricia jumped down, running ahead of Emma. As they reached the kitchen she spun round. ‘Where’s Auntie Doris?’

Emma had dreaded this moment, but had prepared a story she hoped would hold until she could find Doris. ‘She’s having a little holiday, darling, but don’t worry, she’ll be back soon.’

‘But people don’t go on holiday in the winter.’

‘Well, Auntie Doris has. Now come on, I’ve made your favourite dinner,’ Emma said as she placed two sausages onto her daughter’s plate.

‘Where’s Terry? Did he go with her?’

Emma grasped at this. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘It’s not fair. I want to go on holiday too. Why can’t we go with them?’

‘Because you haven’t been well, darling. Now come on, eat up and then you can watch television for a while.’

Thankfully this was enough to mollify Patricia temporarily, but at bedtime things became difficult again.

‘I don’t want to sleep in here on my own,’ she cried. ‘I want to sleep in your room, Mummy.’

‘Darling, when we lived next door we had to share a room, but you’re a big girl now and I decorated this bedroom especially for you.’

With a little more persuasion, Patricia finally agreed, but insisted that the door was left open. Emma conceded, also leaving the landing light on.

It was almost ten o’clock, past the child’s normal bedtime, but they had been snuggled together on the sofa all evening and Emma had been reluctant to put her daughter to bed. Now, though, she returned downstairs and flopped onto a chair beside the sitting-room hearth. She was missing Doris so much, and was desperate to find her friend, but had no idea where to start. She’d ask the girls tomorrow, see if they knew where she might be, and if she apologised, surely Doris would come back?

Emma kept her ears pricked, but her daughter didn’t make a sound and she smiled with relief. It had been an eventful day and Emma was tired, but she had to wait for Rose to bring the takings round before she could go to bed.

At last the girl arrived, but having counted the money, Emma found takings were down by about twenty pounds. Too tired to worry about it now, she gave Rose her cut.

‘How did it work out with Tony?’

‘He was fine. One punter got a little funny, but Tony soon dealt with him.’

‘Really? Funny in what way?’

‘He didn’t want to part with his money.’

‘Oh, well, we can’t have that. Right, Rose, thank you and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, all right. Good night, Mrs Bell.’

Emma closed and locked the door, and then as usual she banked down the fire before going to bed. She looked in on Patricia, saw her daughter was fast asleep, pulled the blankets up to the child’s chin, then went to her own room. The house still felt strange, the smell of fresh paint invasive, but her bed felt wonderfully familiar as she climbed into it. She snuggled down, and for the first time in ages, immediately fell asleep.

The man crept closer. He had watched, he had planned, and crouched in the bushes the night before, had heard the conversation between Emma and one of her tarts. It seemed fortuitous, his timing perfect. The child was home now, they were alone, and it was time to make his move.

It wasn’t easy to get in, but he’d been practising on locks, and finally, when he opened the door, he made no sound. The narrow beam of his torch swept around the hall, and on soft-soled shoes he crept upstairs.

The landing light was on, her door open. Cautiously he moved to the side of the bed. For a moment in the small ray of light shining in from the landing, he studied her face. She looked so pretty, so innocent, and for a moment he balked at the task.

With a soft sigh he took a small, glass bottle from his pocket, unhappy about this stage of his plan, but there was no other way to get her soundlessly out of the house. It had to be done. Soaking a small cloth, he held it over the child’s face. For a moment her eyes opened and she began to struggle, but it was too late to stop the effects of the anaesthetic. With infinite gentleness he lifted her limp body from the bed, her head lolling on his shoulder as he quietly left the room.

Emma slowly awoke and, reluctant to leave the warmth of the blankets, she remained snuggly tucked in for a few minutes. She then climbed gingerly out of bed, throwing on her dressing gown and shivering as she groped for her slippers. The windows were frosty, but before going downstairs to light the fire, she went into Patricia’s room.

Emma’s brow lifted to see the bed empty, the bathroom too, and, guessing that her daughter must have wanted to explore the new house, she ran downstairs, expecting to find Patricia there.

‘Where are you, darling?’ she called.

Silence.

‘Come on, sweetheart, it’s too early in the morning for games.’

Finding the kitchen empty, Emma tried the other rooms, her voice growing impatient. ‘Patricia, for goodness’ sake, where are you?’

Emma returned upstairs, but when she found all the bedrooms empty the first
frisson
of alarm clutched her stomach. ‘Patricia! Tinker!’ she cried. She ran downstairs again to check the rear garden.

There was no sign of the child, and the grass was white with untrodden frost. Turning, Emma hurried across the hall and threw open the front door. For a moment she stood on the top step, her eyes searching the street in both directions before alighting on the Common. No, Tinker knew better than to cross the road. As the cold wind penetrated her dressing gown, Emma wrapped her arms around her body, frantically considering her options. God, where was she?

Next door! Maybe she’d gone next door? No, the house was empty and, anyway, Tinker couldn’t get in. Maybe a window had been left open? Emma dashed inside, grabbing a set of keys, uncaring of her appearance as she ran to the adjacent house.

Emma walked into the hall, shouting ‘Tinker! Patricia!’ but her voice echoed back in the empty silence. She checked every room, calling out again and again. Then, with nowhere else to look, she ran upstairs to open the door leading to the flat. The lock was heavy, her fingers numb with cold, but finally she managed it, only to find the flat empty, her nostrils twitching at the smell of cheap perfume that pervaded every room.

Oh, Tinker–Tinker, where are you?
Emma scurried home, her heart now thumping in panic as she ran from room to room. ‘Patricia,’ she yelled. ‘Please, darling, if you’re hiding, please come out.’

She stood still for a moment, listening, but heard nothing. Her stomach churned with fear. She flung open the front door again, her eyes desperately scanning the Common, until finally, half an hour later, and almost out of her mind with distress, Emma rang the police.

Tired of the questions and only wanting the policeman now sitting on her sofa to do something to find her daughter, Emma’s voice rose. ‘No, of course she wouldn’t run away. For goodness’ sake, she’s only eleven years old!’

‘We’ve had runaways younger than that, Mrs Bell. Now tell me, was she upset about anything?’

‘No, I’ve told you. She’s been in hospital and it was her first night at home.’

‘You said earlier that you’re separated. Would she have gone to see her father?’

Emma surged impatiently to her feet. ‘No, it’s impossible. He left before she was born and, like me, Tinker has no idea where he is.’

‘Tinker–I thought you said her name is Patricia.’

‘Yes, sorry, it’s her nickname. Oh, please, all these questions are a waste of time. My daughter
wouldn’t run away. Please, it’s after ten and she’s been missing for hours. Someone must have taken her.’

‘We’ll need your husband’s full name.’

‘His name is Horace Archibald Bell, but if you think he’s involved, you’re wrong.’

‘What about other relatives? Friends?’

‘My father lives in Kent, but Patricia doesn’t have his address. One of my brothers has a stall in Belling Street Market, but we aren’t in contact with him. My other brother is a priest, living in Ireland. As for friends, there are only those at Patricia’s school.’

‘I’ll need all the addresses.’

Emma took her notebook from the bureau. ‘My daughter is a happy child and even if she knew any of these addresses, she wouldn’t go off without telling me.’ She paused. ‘Well, there’s Terry, but she thinks he’s away on holiday.’

‘Terry? Who’s he?’

‘Until recently, he worked for me, and I must admit that my daughter is fond of him.’

‘You’d best give me his details too, Mrs Bell. His full name and address.’

‘Please, why won’t you listen to me? I’m sure that someone broke in last night and took my daughter.’

‘There’s no sign of forced entry.’

‘But I keep telling you. She wouldn’t run away,
and if she’d gone to see Terry, he’d have brought her back.’

‘We’ll still need to check. His details, please?’ the officer urged.

After writing all the addresses in his notebook, the police officer rose to his feet. ‘Try not to worry, Mrs Bell. In ninety-nine per cent of cases, runaways turn up safe and sound in a couple of hours.’