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Part Four: Kittens and Gratitude
Foyle stared unseeing out the windscreen as they drove north out of Hastings. He was thinking back on his interview with Perkins, the kidnapper. It hadn't been very difficult to get the man to talk; any resistance on his part had been seriously undermined by the shock of being pitched headlong into the canal by a mere slip of a woman. The outraged expression on his face when they hauled him out was something the DCS wouldn't soon forget. And Foyle couldn't blame him – who would have thought she'd have the nerve?
At any rate, the interrogation had been one of the easier ones of Foyle's career. The dripping, shivering Perkins had protested his innocence for only a few minutes, capitulating as soon as Milner had extracted the sodden envelope of bank notes from his inner coat pocket. He had confessed to the kidnapping and told them that they would find the child unharmed at a house on the outskirts of London.
"Sir?" Sam broke into his thoughts. "Do you think we'll find her all right?"
"I expect so," he replied. "He claims he left her in the care of his widowed aunt up in Croydon. It's not likely she'll have come to any harm with an old lady."
"An old lady! But that would make her an accomplice, wouldn't it?"
"Not necessarily," replied Milner from the back seat. "He says he told her that the girl's mother had been taken ill and she needed someone to look after her for a day or two. She can't be held responsible if she knew nothing about the abduction."
"But wouldn't the girl have told her the truth?"
"Not if she didn't know herself. He works at her school, you see, so it's likely she knew him. Apparently he lured her away with the same story."
"What a dreadful thing to do!"
"Yes, but he was fairly inept about it," put in Foyle. "He doesn't seem to have planned this business very well. He claims to have acted alone and I strongly suspect the whole thing was spontaneous. We haven't had a chance to check his criminal record, but I daresay he hasn't tried anything like this before."
"Well, it didn't take you very long to get a confession out of him," said Sam.
"Nnnno," said Foyle.
"I think that ducking rather took the wind out of his sails," added Milner. "There wasn't much fight left in him. I meant to ask - did you throw him in on purpose, sir, or was it an accident?"
"Can't take the credit, Milner," he replied, a trifle reluctantly. "The, uh, mother was responsible for that."
"What?" said Milner and Sam in unison.
"Afraid so. I was still thirty feet away."
"You mean she pushed him in?" asked Milner. "She can't weight eight stone!"
"Yup."
"Well, jolly good for her!" cried Sam. "He deserved it, the brute!" Glancing sideways, she noticed Foyle's frown and subsided hastily.
Darkness had fallen when they reached the Croydon address Perkins had given them. It belonged to a run-down terraced house on a decrepit street. "Wait here," Foyle told Sam as he and Milner alighted from the car.
They picked their way carefully up the front walk in the blackout darkness. There was no answer to the first knock, nor to the second. The two men exchanged worried glances, then Foyle knock again, still louder. After a minute, to his immense relief, he heard footsteps within.
"Who's there?" called a quavering voice.
"Police," Foyle called back.
"Police? What do you want?" They could hear fumbling with the lock and the door swung open a crack. A rheumy pair of eyes peered up at them before the figure stepped back and let them enter.
After the door had swung shut, they heard a click as the old woman switched on the light. Foyle's nose detected a strange odour, an unpleasant combination of sour milk, pungent liniment and too many cats living in a small space. "What do you want?" repeated the woman querulously. She was white-haired and bent, at least seventy-five by Foyle's estimate.
"Mrs Moffett?"
"Who wants to know?"
"My name is Foyle and this is Sergeant Milner. Hastings police. We're sorry to disturb you so late but we're looking for a missing child, a seven-year-old girl called Cecily Neville-West. We were told she was here."
"Little girl? Why yes, she's here, but - missing?"
Foyle breathed an inward sigh of relief. "I'm afraid so. Where is she?"
"She's upstairs. You'll have to go up on your own, I can't manage those steps anymore. But I thought her mother - "
Foyle didn't wait to explain, deputising that duty to Milner with a glance. He hurried up the stairs. The first room he looked in was empty, but in the second he could make out a small figure sitting cross-legged on the floor.
"Cecily?" he said softly, and the little girl looked up. Even without the photographs he felt sure he would have recognised her. Her large brown eyes were a replica of her mother's.
"Who are you?" she said.
"My name is Mr Foyle. Your mother sent me. I've come to take you home." He took a few steps into the dimly lit room and saw that she was cradling a kitten in her lap.
"But … Mummy's sick." She sounded wary.
"No, she's not."
"Mr Perkins told me she was. He said she's in hospital. What's wrong with her? He wouldn't tell me." She looked down and started stroking the curled-up ball of fur, clearly reluctant to trust him.
"Nothing is wrong with your mother, Cecily, except that she's very worried about you. She asked me to find you."
"Then why did Mr Perkins say she was sick?"
"He … made a mistake. I promise you, your mother is fine. If she had got sick, she would have let you stay with someone you know, like your Aunt Sarah, wouldn't she? She wouldn't send you all this way with a stranger. Isn't that right?"
The child looked up at him then, one hand still petting the kitten. "How do you know about my Aunt Sarah?" she asked cautiously.
"Your mother told me."
"I don't understand why Mr Perkins said I had to stay here. I don't like it much. It smells funny, and Mrs Moffett says she's too old to cook. All she has is bread and jam. But I love the kittens. I've been playing with them all day."
"I know this has been very confusing for you, Cecily, but I promise you I'll take you straight to your mother. You can trust me. I'm a policeman. Don't you want to go home?"
The big dark eyes gave him another searching look. "Yes," she said. "But may I take a kitten? Mrs Moffett won't mind. She says she has too many already."
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Better not, I think. Such small kittens need to be with their mothers."
She gave a resigned nod and got to her feet, depositing the scrap of fur gently in a basket with the rest of the litter. In the brighter light from the hallway, Foyle scrutinised her carefully for signs of injury or mistreatment. Her clothes were rumpled and her long hair tangled untidily about her face but she appeared unharmed.
He held out his hand to her encouragingly. "Ready to go then?" he said, smiling kindly. She nodded and let him take her hand and lead her downstairs.
" … can't understand the mistake, but I'm glad the mother's on the mend …" the elderly woman was saying to Milner. "I'm too old to be looking after children. I told Bert so, but he wouldn't heed me. That boy never listens."
"Thank you very much, Mrs Moffett," Milner replied, easing toward the door behind Foyle. "We're sorry to have disturbed you. You won't be troubled again."
After the door had closed behind them, Foyle said, "Not much point in bringing her in for questioning, then?"
"I don't think so, sir," Milner replied as they made their way back to the car. "She seemed pretty confused, even after I explained. I'm sure she didn't know anything. She said she hadn't seen him in over a year until yesterday."
"Is she all right, sir?" Sam asked as they approached the Wolseley.
"Seems to be," Foyle answered.
Milner held the back door open for the child. "Would you like to ride back here with me?"
Cecily froze, staring warily up at the tall stranger. The little hand tightened in Foyle's.
"It's all right. This is Sergeant Milner. He's a policeman too. And this is my driver, Miss Stewart." When she still didn't move, he took a firmer grip on her. "Well, I'll sit in back with you, then. All right?" He guided her into the car and slid in next to her, exchanging glances with his sergeant. Milner got in front.
Cecily fell asleep before they were halfway back to Hastings. Her body slumped over gradually until her head rested against his side, her long hair spilling across his lap. Little wonder, thought Foyle, glancing at his wristwatch. It was past nine o'clock. He put an arm over her to steady her against the motion of the car. When at last they parked at the station, he shook her gently by the shoulder.
"Cecily? We're here," he told her quietly. She sat up sleepily and studied him closely for a long moment, as though trying to decide all over again whether or not she should trust him. He opened his door and got out, reaching a hand toward her. "Come now. Your mother is waiting for you."
Slowly the little girl slid across the seat toward him. He took her hand to help her climb out of the car and led her into the building.
Foyle guided her across the lobby and pulled open one of the double doors that led back to the office wing. Katherine was at the end of the corridor, silhouetted in the doorway to his office.
"Mummy!" Cecily shrieked. Dropping his hand, she flew down the passage and into her mother's arms. Katherine scooped her up, gasping, "Oh, Cecily, sweetheart…" They clung to each other, the woman's soothing murmur blending with the girl's sobs.
Foyle hung back, reluctant to intrude on such an emotional reunion. Glancing behind him, he saw Milner and Sam looking tired but pleased at the happy outcome. "Well done, both of you," he told them quietly. "Milner, why don't you get off home now? It's late."
"I think I'll do that. See you tomorrow, sir."
"Shall I run you home, sir?" asked Sam.
"Er, yes, in a moment. Thought we might offer them a lift. Look, you were planning to go home for the weekend, weren't you? Have you missed your train?"
"I think so, but it doesn't matter. I can get the first one in the morning."
"Mr Foyle?" Katherine had materialised at his elbow, still holding the child in her arms. "She says someone told her I was in hospital. What is she talking about?"
He looked at her, shifting his glance to the girl. "Later, perhaps. Why don't you let us run you home now?"
Her eyes told him she understood. "All right," she agreed softly.
In the short ride to Seymour Terrace Cecily fell asleep again. When Sam drew to a stop in front of the house, Katherine leaned forward from the back seat. "Thank you so much. For everything. I don't know what I would have done … I'll always be grateful. Good night." She got out of the car, carefully shouldering the sleeping child, and started toward the house.