Cath Staincliffe: Make Believe

‘Er, no,’ he said stammering a little, ‘you’re fine.’

‘You risking the bus?’

‘No, I… er… I’m sorted.’

‘See you there, then.’ Why was everyone being so weird today?

The crime scene cordon on the residential street had been set about fifty yards from the address where the body had been found. 16 Kendal Avenue. The place was a hubbub of activity, crime scene vans were within the cordon and outside the house itself. Neighbours stood in twos and threes speculating with each other. As Janine pulled on her protective suit, another car arrived, her colleague Richard Mayne in the passenger seat. And look who’s driving, Millie Saunders from the press office. Janine watched Richard kiss Millie on the cheek before getting out and waving her off.

‘Hi.’ Richard came over, ‘Have you got a spare suit?’ Janine stared at him, eyebrows raised in question.

Richard rolled his eyes at her, gave a laugh, sighed. ‘Millie Saunders,’ he said, ‘press office. Satisfied?’

‘Was she?’ Janine said dryly. Richard laughed. She turned and picked another suit out of the stash she carried with her in the car boot and passed it to him.

Janine felt the teensiest pinch of jealousy. Unfair she knew. Richard and her were mates, that’s all. Work partners and pals. Yes, there was an attraction, they flirted with each other now and again but would never take it further and risk ruining their friendship. Janine had the odd fantasy – he was gorgeous, tall, dark, and the rest. But that’s all it was, fantasy.

When he was ready they approached the officer in charge of cordon, showed her their warrant cards and walked up the road.

‘Not a bad area,’ Richard remarked.

Janine agreed. Large, solidly built, semi-detached houses, the sort with decent sized gardens and enough roof space to make conversions. Some sort of improvement was going on at this place, a skip on the pavement, rubble and debris in the front garden, windows boarded up, bricks stacked at the far end of the drive. An inner cordon was rigged up around the driveway where a white tent had been erected to preserve the scene. Janine introduced herself and Richard to the crime scene manager, a man called John Trenton.

‘Young child,’ Trenton said, ‘in the main drain.’ He led them into the tent where there was a manhole, rectangular, nothing visible but murky water. Sammy Wray? Janine’s first thought. The city was awash with posters of the three-year-old missing for the past nine days. Sammy’s picture photoshopped to include the clothes he’d last been seen in and the heading, ‘Have You Seen This Child?’ Each time she’d driven past one of them Janine had felt a surge of sympathy for his parents, for the unimaginable horror they must be living through. And the professional in her knew that with the time that had elapsed the probability was that if Sammy Wray was ever found he would not be alive.

‘Sammy Wray?’ she said aloud.

‘Could well be. The size of the body is right,’ Trenton said, ‘the T-shirt.’

She glanced at Richard, his face set for a moment, then his eyes met hers, a look of trepidation and resignation. This will be a hard one. Child murders always were, grim and heartbreaking.

‘Looks like a blow to the head,’ Trenton said, ‘impact to the back of the skull.’

‘We’ll get the parents to ID him?’ said Janine.

‘Too distressing,’ Trenton replied. ‘The effects of the water, and animals.’ He cleared his throat. ‘An appalling scenario for all concerned.’ He held up a video camera, ‘Would you…?’ he invited.

Janine nodded.

She watched the shaky footage. The scene in the drainage tunnel lit garishly. The camera panned up the sewer a couple of feet to reveal the bundle, a white sheet torn and stained, the mess that had once been a little boy. She swallowed.

‘Pathologist on their way,’ Trenton said.

‘Good,’ though there was no doubt in anybody’s mind that this was a suspicious death.

‘Who alerted us?’ Janine said.

‘Flood reported by the neighbours at the other side.’ He gestured towards the adjoining house. ‘The Palfreys. They called the builders, thinking it might have something to do with them, a blockage or whatever. Builder came out and called the utility company. When the water guy goes down he finds the body.’

‘The water’s gone down now,’ Richard said.

‘Yes, flash flood apparently, old drains, they’re too narrow to cope with the run off and we’d several inches of rainfall in the early hours.’

‘We’ll speak to the parents. Fast track the DNA,’ Janine said. I don’t want them waiting a minute longer.’

They set off immediately. She was eager to reach the Wrays before they heard any whisper of the morning’s discovery. On the way, she alerted Lisa, one of her detective constables, asked her to start setting up an incident room and to call in the rest of the team. Then she spoke briefly to the officer who had been co-ordinating the missing child operation, informed him of the discovery and got an overview of their investigation to date.

The Wrays’ house, a well appointed Edwardian terrace, stood on Foley Road, a stone’s throw away from Withington Park where Sammy Wray had last been seen and about half a mile from the Kendal Avenue crime scene.

At the front door Janine took a moment, bracing herself for what was to come. Richard waited, then gave a rueful smile, cocked his head. Ready? Janine nodded and he knocked on the door, three loud raps.

Claire Wray opened the door, her husband Clive close behind her and at his side a woman who was acting as their family liaison officer, Sue Quinn.

‘Mr and Mrs Wray, I’m DCI Janine Lewis.’

Claire’s eyes darted between Janine and Richard as if searching for something but Janine could tell Claire knew, even before she spoke, fear quaking in her voice. ‘You’ve found him?’ She knew. After all it had been nine days, nine days waiting for this knock at the door, expecting redemption at first, living on crazy hope and air, then nerves shattered and sleep deprived, craving any news, anything at all.

Claire sought the answer in Janine’s expression, in the silence, and understood. Her face crumpled.

‘Can we come inside?’ Janine said gently.

The house was stylish, clean lines and natural materials, wood floors, a slate hearth. Framed landscape photographs hung on the walls, some child’s drawings too. Clive was a graphic designer, ran a small firm. Claire did French translation for an import company.

Janine watched Claire clutch at a small navy blue fleece on the arm of the sofa and hug it to herself as she sat down. Sammy’s, Janine assumed. Totem. Security blanket.

Clive hovered, coiled, tense.

Janine told them what she had to. ‘I am so sorry. I’m here to tell you that we’ve recovered a boy’s body matching Sammy’s description.’

‘Get out,’ Clive Wray yelled. A normal reaction, Janine had come across it often before, shooting the messenger.

Claire bent double, crying out, ‘God, no. No.’

‘Get out,’ Clive wheeled around.

Janine continued calmly, ‘It’s terrible news, I know.’

Claire was sobbing, howling really.

Janine exchanged glances with Richard, some mutual support in a harrowing situation. After a few moments she indicated he should pick up the thread.

‘Until we have the DNA result, to confirm identity,’ Richard said, ‘we will not be releasing Sammy’s name.’

‘Why can’t we identify him?’ Clive said.

‘I’m afraid there is extensive damage to the body,’ Richard said.

‘Oh, God,’ Claire looked up, her face blotchy with tears. ‘Where did you find him? Where was he?’