at the other end of the line, he calmly said, ‘My name is Eric Randle, and I want to report a murder.’
North or south, murders are the same.
DC Laura McGanity blew into her frozen hands and, just for a moment, dreamt of London. Two weeks earlier it had been her home, but already that seemed like a lifetime ago. She had only moved to Lancashire, a mere two hundred miles from the capital, but it felt like a foreign country as the frigid air blew in from the hills that surrounded the town. She paced along the yellow crime-scene tape and it snapped loudly as it blew in the early-morning wind. She shivered and wrapped her scarf tighter round herself.
It wasn’t just the weather that felt alien. It was the quietness. She was standing by an open-plan lawn in a neat suburban cul-de-sac, with the hills of the West Pennine Moors as a backdrop, painted silver as the rising sun caught the dew-coated grass, just the snap of the crime-scene tape to break her concentration. She missed the London lights, the buzz, even the noise. In comparison, Blackley was like a constant hush.
Laura had been brought up in the south and trained by the Met, but love had brought her north. She had arrived in a small town, concrete and graffiti replaced by moorland grasses and dry-stone walls. She knew she couldn’t afford a mistake. Her transfer north had been a risk, and she didn’t want to destroy her new career so soon. She had seen the looks in the eyes of the other officers in the station. Wariness. Suspicion. She was the girl from the big city, come to tell them their jobs.
She had to be alert now, because there was no time for distraction. With any murder the first twenty-four hours were the most important. After that, evidence on the killer could be lost. Fingernails got scrubbed, hair got cut, cars got burnt out.
She looked up just as Pete Dawson, the other detective at the scene, approached her. He was holding two steaming mugs of coffee.
‘You look like you need one of these,’ he said.
It seemed to Laura like he barked the words at her, the staccato speech patterns all new, the vowel sounds short and blunt. The London rhythm she was used to had more swagger, more bounce.
She smiled her thanks, and as she wrapped her hands around the mug she asked, ‘Where did you get them?’
He nodded over towards a house on the other side of the road, where Laura could just make out fingers on the edge of the net curtain, the light inside switched off so no one could tell that anyone was watching. ‘She’s been twitching those for half an hour now. I think she’s hoping for an update if she gives us drinks.’
‘Did you tell her anything?’
Pete shook his head. ‘I’m holding out for a fry-up. But be careful. These old mill girls can lip-read.’ When Laura looked at him, confused, he added, ‘So they could still talk over the noise of the machines.’
Laura smiled. She liked Pete. He was one of those necessary cops. Precise minds are great—those who can dissect complex frauds or see leads in cases that look like dead-ends—but sometimes you just need someone to kick down a door, or find a quick way to prise information out of someone. Laura reckoned Pete knew many quick ways. He looked one wrong word from hurting someone, all crew-cut, scowl and scruffy denims. He was normally with the drugs squad, more used to throwing dealers against walls than loitering around murder scenes.
She took a sip of the coffee and sighed. It was hot and strong, and she raised it in thanks to the parted curtains on the other side of the street.
‘You look like you expected more,’ Dawson said, nodding towards the crime-scene tape. ‘Not used to the quiet life yet?’
A week before, Laura might have thought he was having a dig, but she knew him better now. Pete’s smile softened his words and his eyes changed. They became brighter, warmer, and she sensed mischief in them.
But he was right, Laura had expected more activity, the usual commotion of lawns being combed by uniformed officers, or a squad of detectives knocking on doors. Today there was none of that. The body had been taken away, but the first two cops on the scene were still there, an ashen-faced probationer and a police officer not far off retirement. Scenes of Crime officers were inside, their white paper suits visible through the front window, but out in the street Laura felt like she was on sentry duty.
‘It doesn’t seem like the quiet life,’ she replied. ‘I moved north for a better life, and I get this,’ she nodded towards the house, ‘and in the middle of the abductions. It seems pretty dangerous around here.’
Pete shrugged. ‘It’s not always like this. Once we catch the bastard who has been taking those kids all summer, we’ll get more people to work cases like this.’
Laura looked back towards the house. ‘And are we any nearer to catching him?’
‘Every time there’s another one, we’re waiting for the mistake, the breakthrough.’ He shook his head. ‘He hasn’t made one yet.’
The abductions had been the big story in Blackley over the summer. The first one only rippled the nationals—everyone thought it was a runaway—but the next one confirmed a pattern and the media all came to town.
Children had been going missing all summer, snatched in the street. They disappeared for a week, sometimes longer. When they were found, they seemed unharmed, but there were things the eyes couldn’t see.
There had been seven of them so far, all boys: latchkey kids, early teens, cocky and street-sure. But that was a mask, protection from what they missed at home: love, security, attention. They came back with the mask slipped, and they seemed confused, frightened, days lost with no idea about where they’d been or what had happened to them. They’d thought they owned the streets, but now they realised how vulnerable they were, and that the world could be much crueller than they’d imagined.
They were found stumbling around, confused, lost, like they had just woken up. They were clothed, with no marks or injuries. They had to be examined intimately, just to check for a sexual motive, but there’d been nothing so far. They were sent home, back to the arms of their parents. The boys were all hugged a lot closer after that.
The eighth child was out there now, Connor Crabtree, with whoever was taking Blackley’s children. He had last been seen cadging cigarettes in a small car park behind a corner shop, accosting strangers as they went to buy milk or something. That had been six days ago, and no one had seen or heard of him since. The press were on standby, waiting for the inevitable return, something to report; the nation was gripped by the story. The press had even given the kidnapper a name: the Summer Snatcher.
Laura didn’t like the name—it sounded corny, no imagination—but she knew that it helped to keep the story in the news. It was more than just a story in Blackley, though. Everyone knew there would be more. Most parents had stopped their children going out, and the streets seemed quieter once it went dark. But the children being taken were the ones of parents who hadn’t listened, whose lives were too difficult to make room for their children.
There weren’t many clues. There were fibres on the boys, just tiny strands of cloth, from a blanket or something similar, but until they got the source they couldn’t get the match. The first two children had dust on their clothes when they were found, small specks of concrete and traces of asbestos, but nothing specific. The police
