‘I can understand why you needed to come with us, sir,’ Bella Moy said.
Malcolm smiled thinly. He felt a tightening in his gullet as the beam of his torch struck the wooden Wendy house. Then he stopped. Nervous suddenly.
In a way, he was surprised it was still there, and in another way, he wished it wasn’t. It was too much of a reminder, suddenly, of the pain of his split with Lynn.
The little house was made from logs and supported on stubby brick legs at each corner. He had rebuilt it himself as a labour of love for Caitlin. There was a door in the middle, with steps up to it, and a window either side. There was still glass in both of them, although the beam of his torch could barely penetrate the coating of dust through to the interior. He was pleased to see that the asphalt roof was still in place, although curling at the edges.
He tried to call her name, but his throat was too dry and nothing came out. Flanked by the two police officers, he walked forward, reached the steps, turned the wobbly handle and pushed open the door.
And his heart leapt for joy.
Caitlin was sitting on the floor at the back of the little house, all hunched up like a bendy doll, staring down into her own lap.
A tiny green glow came from her iPod, which rested on her thighs, and in the silence he could hear a refrain that went, ‘One… two… three… four…’
He recognized it. Feist. Currently one of her favourite singers. Amy liked her too.
‘Hi, darling!’ he said, trying not to dazzle her.
There was no response.
Something lurched inside him. ‘Darling? It’s OK, Dad’s here.’
Then he felt a restraining arm on his shoulder.
‘Sir,’ Glenn Branson cautioned.
Ignoring him, he hurried across, dropping down on to his knees, putting his face up close to his daughter’s.
‘Caitlin, darling!’
He cupped her face in his hands and was shocked how cold she was. Stone cold.
He raised her face gently, and then he saw that her eyes were open wide, but there was no flicker of movement in them.
‘No!’ he said. ‘No! Please, no! No! NOOOOOOOOO!’
Glenn Branson raised his torch, stared into her eyes, looking for any movement of the pupils or lids or lashes. But there was nothing.
Desperately, Mal laid Caitlin gently down, pressed his lips to his daughter’s and started giving her the kiss of life. Behind him, he heard the voice of the female detective radioing for an ambulance.
He was still frantically trying to resuscitate Caitlin twenty minutes later, when the paramedics finally arrived.
123
Ten days later the kindly woman PC and the female translator walked Simona across the apron at Heathrow Airport, towards the British Airways plane.
Simona clutched Gogu tightly to her chest. The officer had rummaged through all the wheelie bins at Wiston Grange and recovered him for her.
‘So, Simona, are you happy to be going home in time for Christmas?’ the PC asked chirpily.
The translator repeated the question in Romanian.
Simona shrugged. She didn’t know much about Christmas, other than that there were lots of people around with money in their bags and wallets, making it a good time to steal. She felt lost and confused. Shunted from place to place, room to room. She did not know where she was and did not want to be here any more. She just looked forward to seeing Romeo again.
She looked down at the ground, not knowing what to reply, and it still hurt to talk. It was from the breathing tube, they had told her, and it would get better soon.
She didn’t understand why they had put the breathing tube down her, nor why she was being sent back now. The translator told her that bad people had planned to kill her and take her insides away. But she did not know if she believed her. Perhaps it was just an excuse to send her back to Romania.
‘You’ll be fine!’ the PC said, giving her a final hug at the foot of the gangway. ‘Ian Tilling has arranged for someone to meet you at Bucharest Airport and take you to his hostel – he has a place for you there.’
The translator repeated the assurance.
‘Will Romeo be there?’ she asked.
‘Romeo is waiting for you.’
Simona climbed the steps forlornly, unsure whether to believe them.
Two stewardesses greeted her cheerily at the top, checked her boarding card, and led her to her seat, then helped to buckle her in. She stared in glum silence at the rear of the seat in front of her for most of the flight, clutching the passport document she had been told to present at the other end, and left her tray of food untouched. She just thought about Romeo constantly. Maybe he would be there. Maybe, when she saw him, things would be OK again.
Maybe they could find a new dream.
124
This had always been Roy Grace’s favourite walk, underneath the chalk cliffs, east from Rottingdean. As a child it was almost a Sunday ritual with his parents, and recently, at least on those Sundays when he didn’t have to work, it was becoming a ritual for himself and Cleo.
He loved the sense of drama, particularly on rough days, like this afternoon, when there was a blustery wind and the tide was high, and occasionally the sea surged right up the beach and sent spray and pebbles crashing over the low stone wall. And the signs that warned of the danger of falling rocks added to that drama. He loved the smells here too, the salty tang and the seaweed and the occasional whiff of rotting fish that would be gone in an instant. And the sight of cargo ships and tankers out on the horizon, and sometimes yachts, closer in.
Today was the last Sunday before Christmas and he knew he should be feeling free, and looking forward to some time off with the woman he loved. But inside he felt as churned up as the roiling, spuming, grey Channel water to his right.
They were both wrapped up warmly. Cleo had her arm comfortably looped through his and he wondered, suddenly, if they would still be doing this walk as wrinkly old people in fifty years’ time.
Humphrey trotted along on his extended lead, holding a large piece of driftwood proudly in his mouth, like a trophy. A small brown dog bounded towards them, yipping, its owner some distance away yelling its name. Cleo broke free for a moment and knelt to stroke it. But it backed away nervously when Humphrey dropped the driftwood and growled. Hushing him, she took a step towards it and it bounded back again. They both laughed. Then, recognizing its name, it suddenly raced away.
‘So, Great Detective, how do you feel?’ she asked, placing her arm back through his.
‘I don’t know,’ he said truthfully. He watched Humphrey struggling to pick up the wood again.
‘Tell me?’
‘Was it the Duke of Wellington who said that the only thing worse than losing a battle is winning one?’
She nodded.
‘That’s how I feel.’
‘Something I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘How were all those medical people kept silent for so long?’
‘A surgeon in Romania earns 4000 euros a year. Other medical staff even less. That’s how. They were all making a fortune at Wiston Grange, so they were happy as hell.’
‘And tucked safely away in the countryside.’
‘Most of them not able to speak English. So no gossiping with the locals. It was a smart set-up. Ship them in, let them all make a bundle, then ship them out again. They’re members of the EU, so no cross-border work restrictions, no questions asked.’
‘And Sir Roger Sirius?’
‘Big money. And he had his own moral justification.’
They walked on in silence for a while.
‘Tell me something, Grace – if that had been our child – that girl, Caitlin. What would you have done?’ With her free arm she patted her belly. ‘If it were to happen to this little person, sometime in the future?’