by John Nicholl
She beamed. ‘There’s a meeting at the local social services office at eleven o’clock on Wednesday morning to discuss Simpson’s supervision. I can ask the chairperson if you can observe if you’d like me to. You wouldn’t actually be taking part in the meeting. You’d be there to watch and listen. But it may give you a better idea if the work is for you.’
‘Oh, thanks so very much, Maisie. I’d love that. You’re an absolute star.’
Maisie grinned. ‘Glad to be of service.’
‘Do you really think the chair will agree to me being there?’
She winked, can you believe that? The silly cow actually winked at me, right there across the table. What a ridiculous woman, so full of herself, so pumped up with her importance.
‘Yes, it won’t be a problem. I’ve known him for ages. I think he fancies me.’
I reached across the table to squeeze her perfectly manicured hand, holding it gently for a second or two before withdrawing my arm. ‘I am so fortunate to have a boss like you.’
Maisie’s resulting smile lit up her face. It was that easy. She was putty in my hands. And I a puppeteer pulling her strings. But then she surprised even me. ‘Why don’t you sleep at my place tonight? We could have a proper drink together. Maybe even go to a club. There’s a good one in the high street I used to go to as a teenager. I do love a boogie.’
The very idea of a busy club filled me with dread. Not so much the dancing, but all those sweaty people in one dark room. There could be anyone in there – any number of dangers. But, of course, I was never going to tell Maisie that, not then, not ever. I poured myself a glass of wine and drained it before pouring another. My aims for the evening were already achieved. Why not numb my troubled mind for a time? I’d been drinking more alcohol in recent weeks, as I did in my college days. It still didn’t seem to help a great deal, as it hadn’t then. But maybe now it would take the edge off if I drank enough. If I poured sufficient quantities down my eager throat. I decided it had to be worth a try as I heard my father’s voice chattering in my ear for the first time that evening.
‘Oh, what the hell, go on then, as long as your Rob’s not going to mind me staying. Let’s get seriously drunk together. We’ll have a right laugh. I can collect my car in the morning.’
21
Maisie rushed me into her office when I arrived in work on the Tuesday morning, closing the door with a bang as soon as I sat myself down. I usually make a coffee first thing. It sets me up for the day. But it seemed even that was out of the question. It was as if she’d won the national lottery. I’d never seen the woman so animated, never so full of great enthusiasm and eagerness. She was desperate to share. And it suited me to listen.
‘Grab a seat, Alice. You are not going to believe this.’
I craned my neck toward her. I didn’t need to feign interest. I really was curious as to what she had to say. ‘Okay, I’m all ears.’
‘A man’s hand was found at the local tip on Sunday afternoon.’
Oh, shit! That wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. You’re probably going to think I’ve been careless when I explain what had happened. And I wouldn’t blame you if you do. I chose to feign ignorance. It was the best card I had to play. ‘Did it belong to the same man as the head?’
She crossed and uncrossed her legs. Not an easy task in her over-tight skirt. ‘No, that’s what the police thought at first. Rob said Kesey arranged urgent lab tests and fingerprints. It doesn’t belong to the same man at all.’
I nodded knowingly. ‘Ah, yeah, right, I bet you’re going to tell me that the missing paedophile you mentioned has been murdered too, probably by the same killer.’
‘Yes, you’d think that, wouldn’t you? The police thought it too. But it seems not. It’s someone else entirely. They still haven’t identified the victim. There’s a small tattoo of a red dragon on the hand. I’ve been trying to think if that describes any of our clients.’
‘Surely he’d be on record if he was one of ours, DNA, fingerprints and the like.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, he would. I wasn’t thinking. It’s been a long night. Rob’s phone kept ringing. I didn’t get much sleep.’
I knew exactly who the hand belonged to – one of my previous guests who’d arrived at the cottage in the summer. The artwork had interested me. There was something about it that I’d liked. I’d finally thrown the hand out after some time in my freezer. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the alcohol. What the hell was I thinking? I’ve rarely disposed of body parts in that way before. And now I’d done it again at the worst possible time.
‘Does that mean there may be three dead men?’
Maisie nodded her agreement.
‘That is exactly what it means. The police suspect they’re dealing with a serial killer, here, on our patch. Rob says it’s a man who hates sex offenders. Someone who’s probably from this area and knows it well. The police call it the killer’s zone of comfort. They are even talking about involving a profiler. There’s a guy who worked for the FBI who Kesey is planning to talk to. Can you believe it? It’s the sort of thing you see on the telly.’
‘Shall I put the kettle on? I can’t stop shaking. I think we need something to prepare for the day.’
Maisie blew the air from her mouth. ‘Yes, why not? Make mine a strong one, plenty of coffee.’
‘And a biscuit?’
‘Yes, what the hell, I could do with a treat. I think I may be in shock after everything that Rob told me. To think we might know the killer. Can you imagine? It could be someone we’ve seen in town, even a neighbour. These people are sometimes the last person you’d suspect.’
‘It’s a pity they don’t come with a warning stamped on their foreheads.’
Maisie grinned but didn’t comment as I stood to leave the room. The silly mare really would be in shock if she knew the truth. She was looking for the executioner in all the wrong places. She wouldn’t recognise fairness if it jumped up and bit her on her fat arse, sank in its teeth and chewed out a chunk. The thought amused me no end as I stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to come to the boil. I wish I could have told her of my secret activities with pride and passion. I wish she were the sort of woman who’d give me the credit I deserve. I’d like to shout it out for all to hear. Why doesn’t the world celebrate my contribution? I know I’ve asked that question before, but I still don’t have an answer. If those in power had more sense, I’d be given a thousand plaudits. People would be cheering for me in the streets. But instead, I’ve got to hide in the shadows. As if there’s something intrinsically wrong with what I do. Where’s the justice in that?
I returned to Maisie’s office a few minutes later with two mugs of hot coffee and a plate of biscuits on an old tin tray. ‘There you go, just as you like it.’
She looked up from her paperwork. ‘Thanks, Alice, much appreciated as always.’
‘Did you have a chance to speak to the guy you mentioned? The one who’s chairing the Simpson meeting?’
Maisie dunked a biscuit into her coffee before eating, talking with her mouth full. ‘Yes, it’s all done. There’s not going to be a problem. It took a bit of persuasion, but he agreed in the end.’
‘That’s brilliant; I had a horrid feeling he was going to say no.’
‘Some of the things discussed at the meeting may be a bit difficult for you to hear. But I think you’re up to it. You’re made of strong stuff.’
I prepared to leave. I didn’t think she had anything else useful to say. ‘You’ll be there if I need you, that’s good enough for me.’
Maisie picked up a sheaf of papers and smiled. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Alice. I’d better get on.’
So unhelpful, so dismissive, I liked her a little less after that comment. Or was I being unreasonable? I find such things hard to judge sometimes. Not that it matters. She’s so easy to please.
I’ll tell you how the risk assessment meeting goes after it’s happened. The more information I can glean, the better for m
e. That’s how I see it. It seems things may be going my way after all.
22
The day of the risk assessment meeting came, and still no arrest for murder, not of me or anyone else. I was still free, with not even a hint of police attention. There’d been no knock on my door, no interview under caution, not as much as an accusing look. Maybe my self-inflicted downtime wasn’t necessary in the first place. Perhaps I’d overreacted to events all along.
In conclusion, I’d already decided that the time was right to target another offender. I could no longer see any reason for delay. I still had my shortlist. I had someone in mind. I’d even considered how best to kill him. I was itching to get my hands on the bastard. But the day of the meeting was a day that would change everything. The information I’d glean would prove pivotal, both for Simpson and for me. That’s the way life is sometimes. We’re swept along by the tide.
Maisie did the driving as we headed to the meeting. Her car’s faster than mine, more comfortable, and no doubt a lot more expensive too. It’s a shiny silver German convertible with a folding metal roof, which seems attractive on the face of it. But I soon concluded that it wouldn’t suit me at all even if I could afford it. I quite liked the idea of readily available sunshine and fresh air in the warmer summer months. But there’s no boot space for a body. And that would be a problem. Such a car just wouldn’t be practical. It wouldn’t meet my needs at all.
I sat next to Maisie, glad of my seat belt, clutching my seat with both hands as we whizzed through the morning traffic, on the way to the social services office, where the meeting would be held. Maisie seemed oblivious to the dangerous nature of her driving as she explained the relevant procedures in that animated way of hers. She talked and talked, lording over me and playing the expert as if I knew nothing at all. I closed my eyes more than once, fearing a sudden impact as she dodged one vehicle after another. But she appeared strangely relaxed, at times driving with only one hand on the steering wheel, right up to the time we arrived at our destination about ten minutes later. After failing to find a space in the office car park, we left the car in the street and hurried towards the building to escape the winter cold. I felt like dancing as I went. It was partly relief at arriving safely, and partly anticipation that so raised my mood. Being there that day was so much better than sitting in the probation office. I was there as an observer, but it hardly mattered. I would be at the centre of things and saw that as progress. I was excited as to what the day would bring.
Maisie led the way into the large red brick building. I was glad of the relative warmth that met me at the door. As we entered the conference room, several professionals were already seated and waiting, although we were early rather than late. It seemed they were all almost as keen as I was to take part. Either that or they had nothing better to do.
The meeting was chaired by a man named Nicholson. The same one who’d agreed to me being there. He’s a social work child protection manager who looks as if he’s in his late thirties or early forties. He was quite good looking, with dark brown hair, a short beard, and aviator glasses that are no longer in fashion. Not that his looks interested me a great deal – it’s an observation in the interest of detail – although his calm efficiency did. It was apparent to me that all the attending professionals knew one another.
They smiled and talked as we sat in a circle, the room full of chatter until the chairman raised a hand in the air about five minutes later. All were silenced in an instant. It seemed the chairman had a quiet authority they respected. He’s a lucky man in that regard; if only it were the same for me.
Nicholson introduced himself; I suspect more for my benefit than anything else. There are good guys out there in this world of ours, and I think he’s probably one of them. Not every man is a monster. You’ve just got to work out which men are which. I may have mentioned that all men should come with either good or bad stamped on their foreheads. The world would be a safer place if they did.
Nicholson asked each of the other attendees to introduce themselves in turn. I was grateful for that. Most were strangers to me if not to each other. Words can be dangerous, but they can also be welcoming. And I felt welcomed as he explained the reason for my attendance. He asked the attendee’s agreement, stating it needed to be unanimous, and thankfully no one objected. If they’d known my real purpose, it could have been very different. But my secrets were safe.
I looked at each person in turn, smiled and thanked them for their generosity. My words were genuine. I really was pleased. There was Maisie, of course, that goes without saying, a social worker, a headteacher, a GP, a health visiting manager, a senior prison officer, a uniformed police inspector, a criminal psychologist, and finally a local authority solicitor, and little old me.
It seemed the minute-taker hadn’t turned up due to a last-minute family crisis. Maisie, who was seated immediately next to me, offered my services. She didn’t ask me, she just blurted it out, as if my opinion didn’t matter at all. As if I’m a non-person whose thoughts are an irrelevance. It was clear that self-determination means nothing to her. But I quickly decided the development was almost certainly to my advantage. I said that I’d be happy to do it. I was now an active member of the meeting, no longer an observer. That gave me strength, and it gave me a new power. Everything was as it should be. The universe was conspiring to facilitate my quest.
Nicholson thanked me for my co-operation, ensuring I had a notepad and pen. He explained that the meeting’s purpose was to share information and then to agree on a suitable plan to protect any children who may be vulnerable.
There were two girls in the spotlight. The monster man was an ex-youth worker and paternal grandfather. He had two grandchildren of five and six years, who may be at risk. The girls’ parents had been invited to the meeting both orally and in writing but had refused to attend. If the children’s names were added to something called the child protection register, the parents would be formally notified. And there’d be a multi-agency child protection plan, which they’d be told about too. It would all be recorded in the minutes I’d be writing. And everyone would get a copy after the chairman signed them as an accurate record, even the parents despite their disinterest. It all seemed reasonably well thought out on first hearing. There’s a book of procedures that I’ve seen since. I think Nicholson wrote it because Maisie said as much. And good for him, I’m sure it’s well-intentioned. But I have my own methods of protection. Practises which I know are much more useful than his. I’m sure the multi-agency professionals involved are well-meaning. But they can’t guarantee a child’s safety as I can. Death is final, and supervision is not.
It seemed the meeting was called a child protection case conference, as opposed to the risk assessment meeting I’d been told of by Maisie. She really should have known that. She has a responsibility. Not that that made much difference to me. I was there to both gather information and develop potential contacts. Whatever the meeting was called, I could do that effectively. And I’d even have written notes of everything that was said. That was a bonus that pleased me. I saw it as a triumph – a big win for me.
The police officer spoke next at Nicholson’s request, clearly enunciating his words in a sing-song Welsh accent. He had two metal pips on each shoulder depicting his rank. And I got a distinct impression that he didn’t think Simpson should be released at all.
By the time everyone had contributed, I was incredulous. Even by the heinous standards of the monsters I’ve encountered, Simpson really was a very dangerous man. He doesn’t only have the conviction for child rape mentioned by Maisie. As if that wouldn’t be bad enough. There was gross indecency too, multiple indecent assaults and even grievous bodily harm. Simpson had been an extremely active offender before his arrest, conviction and imprisonment.
The slug had been the enthusiastic leader of a local paedophile ring, with multiple offenders and even more child victims, some still in nappies. He’d used various manipulative methods to silence the many v
ictims, including the use of extreme violence, which he was only too ready to inflict. Children suffered severe physical and psychological injuries. Some survivors were still in therapy years on. Three had ended their lives. Simpson was a hideous man. The word beast could have been invented for him. He was a nonce on steroids, the worst of the worst.
I sat there making hurried scribbled notes while shaking my head, all the time thinking that the world had gone mad. The fact of Simpson’s release seemed an abomination to me. And I could tell some of the others felt the same way. The social worker had said as much in no uncertain terms, voicing her concerns and frustration with the system, bemoaning its many flaws. But her wise words were hot air and no more than that. It was a done deal. Simpson would be back on the streets. Living in the same area in which he’d offended. It was a case of when would he offend again, rather than if. Have you ever heard anything so utterly ridiculous? Why oh why hadn’t they thrown away the key?
Nicholson summarised the key points of the meeting once everyone had spoken. The two girls’ names were added to the child protection register. And a multi-agency plan of protection was agreed. Simpson would have no contact with the children.
Well, at least, he wouldn’t on paper. Whether it worked out that way in the real world may be a different matter. I knew that. I’m sure everyone else at the conference must have known it too.
I once read that the best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour. That told us all we needed to know. Simpson was what he was. He did what he did. And that hadn’t changed. His deviant inclinations hadn’t abated. As soon as he got the opportunity, he’d offend again. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.
As we left the conference, I felt even more disillusioned with the system than before. The various professionals were trying their best within the limits of the system. But the risks were still so incredibly high. As we travelled back towards the probation office, I sat mainly in silence. Maisie tried to engage me in conversation more than once as we sped down one road after another, but I had nothing to say. Sometimes mere words are wholly inadequate. And this was one of those occasions.