by Jane Adams
‘Tell me,’ Mike demanded. He abandoned all pretence of eating the fricassee and pushed the bed table aside, reaching over to grab some fruit instead.
Price took his time, infuriatingly, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of apple before he said, ‘Well, so far as we can tell, allowing for the two foot of mud at the bottom, there’s bugger all down that well. Or if there is, then it’s . . .’
‘Stuck in the two foot of mud and refusing to be dredged out. I get the picture.’
Price grinned again, clearly enjoying his boss’s frustration. ‘What we have got, though, is two patches of recently disturbed earth round at the back of the house. Looks like someone’s been digging,’ he added, as though doubting Mike had got the point of it.
‘And?’ Mike demanded.
Price shook his head. ‘We found a body, guv, part decayed, buried no more than a foot down. Been wrapped in black plastic. The SOCO had to pull a bit of it away to find out what we’d got. God, the stink!’
‘So, Fletcher was telling the truth,’ Mike whispered.
‘Looks that way. And there’s another thing, guv, you were right about that notebook of Fletcher’s. You know the one we found in his cell?’
Mike nodded.
‘Well, we got the results of the ESDA.’ He pulled a folded page from his back pocket with all the flourish of a magician conjuring rabbits, then hopped down from his perch on the side of the bed.
‘List of names,’ he said, ‘and places, times and dates and what looks like a detailed confession addressed to his solicitor.’ He grimaced slightly. ‘We’ve only got a part of that, though. Seems it ran to two pages and the first one muddied the detail on the second. The list, that’s more promising. We’ve got our collaters office liaising with a half-dozen other divisions over this, and guess what?’
Mike looked expectantly. ‘Our computers won’t talk to their computers,’ he said.
Price laughed. ‘Apart from that.’
Mike smiled, but his eyes were grim and tired. He noted that for all Price’s hyperactive enthusiasm he too looked strained and weary below the surface expression. ‘They’re all missing persons,’ he said. ‘And they’re all kids.’
‘Take a look, guv,’ he said. ‘See what you can get out of it. But for Chrissake, don’t let Jaques know. Official line is, you’re out of it. Case closed. Inspector Croft invalided out.’
He took another bite of apple and shook his head, not able now to conceal the worried look around his eyes.
‘You ask me, guv,’ he said, ‘there’s someone out there much happier now you’re out for the count and a hell of a lot of people determined to see you stay that way.’
* * *
Eric felt that he had been truly imaginative in the way he had done things. He had thought carefully about where and how to distribute the photocopied pages from the journal.
A half hour of calling directory enquiries the night before — he’d worry about the phone bill later — had supplied him with addresses for the main regional papers, a selection of the nationals and a half-dozen radio stations.
To each of these he had posted ten or so pages from the journal, together with what he had termed ‘A Deposition’, outlining the problems he had encountered in trying to make his voice heard.
He had included a full and open accusation of those in authority, the police, the courts, the local power mongers. Outlining how they had ignored his testimony. Ignored the facts. Allowed Eric and his family to be persecuted, driven from one place to the next, stoned and assaulted. Disbelieved by everyone, because of one unproven mistake in Eric’s own life. How, by their own blindness and corruption, those who should have put justice first had left Eric Pearson and his family without protection. Persecuted and reviled.
Eric saw his cause as having almost Biblical importance and millenarian implications. How could God fail, in the final analysis, to bring justice to those that disregarded the law and so persecuted the very people who tried to bring the wrongdoers to notice?
To Eric it was inconceivable that justice — his total, absolutist, unswervable view of justice — would not in the end prevail.
And if God needed a little help along the way? If there were those who chose to ignore what was right? Then Eric had shown himself more than ready to be the one acting as intermediary.
Eric didn’t hear the voice of God in his head. If someone had suggested such a thing he would have been outraged. The hearing of voices was something endured by the mad, the insane. By those poor misguided souls who needed help and comfort. Needed locking away somewhere safe and peaceful, out of sight and sound of the rest of humanity.
No, Eric didn’t need to hear the word of God. He knew His wishes. Knew them; felt them deep within himself.
Eric knew that his actions had brought pain to his family. Lost him friends, his home, even the work as a teacher that he had truly loved. But it didn’t matter.
All of that would soon be over. It just needed one more push. One more try. And when Eric Pearson’s story had been told, when the corruption amongst the powerful had been revealed, and when it was publicly known what Eric and his family had been through to get their story told, then everything would all be right. Then Johanna and the children would be happy and they could go home once more. The Children of Solomon would be proud to welcome them back once again. There would be no more nightmares. No having to comfort the little ones when they woke with bad dreams. No blame from Johanna.
They would have the old days back again.
Eric went through the swing doors of the public library. His bag was almost empty now. He’d lost count of the number of places he had gone to that afternoon, leaving little stacks of paper; extracts from Blake’s journal and copies of his own Deposition at the town hall, two of the branch libraries, book shops, cafes, anywhere he could think of where people might gather.
He glanced swiftly about him in the library. The counter staff were busy, customers lining up to have their books checked in or out. A couple more people pushed heavy trolleys stacked with books between the shelves.
Where would be the best place?
Looking around again he saw a table, close to the check-out desk and covered in leaflets.
He walked over to it, diving his hand into his bag and pulling out a thick sheaf of paper.
Briefly, he scanned the leaflets on the table. Night school courses, ‘know your rights’ advice for the unemployed. Adverts for local concerts and events.
With a sweep of his hand, Eric cleared himself a space right in the centre of the table. He placed his own sheaf of papers between a stack of roughly photocopied sheets advertising a Scouts’ ‘summer fayre’ and neatly folded orange sheets issued by the local tourist information office.
He laughed softly to himself as he carefully placed a smaller stack of paper next to the first. His ‘Deposition’.
It was a good choice, he thought, sitting his words next to adverts for local tourist attractions. Very soon it would be Portland Close that would draw the visitors. A tourist site. A centre of interest for anyone concerned with truth and justice.
Eric allowed himself the pleasure of visualizing the journalists, the newsmen, the civil rights agitators who would soon be beating a path to his door. He smiled broadly, nodding happily to himself. ‘That’ll show them,’ he said aloud. Yes, that will show them all.
As he left the building, still unobserved by the counter staff, busy dealing with the line of customers trying to beat early closing time, Eric’s only regret was that it was Saturday. That even though his letters would have caught the post, already be in the system, already unstoppable, no one would read them until the Monday morning.
He sighed, a little let down by the thought. That almost certainly meant an evening and an entire day of waiting before the action really began. Unless, of course, someone picked up one of his hand-delivered messages and acted on it sooner.
That thought had him smiling again. Eric felt light of heart and satisfied
with a day’s work well done.
He set off for home, stopping on the way only to buy a reel of tape from a stationer’s. He still had about a half-dozen copies of his Deposition left. He could go out, late tonight, tape them up at the local shops and at the bus stops along the main road. Maybe even to the door of the local police station. The thought amused him so much that Eric Pearson laughed out loud. They would listen to him this time. Eric would take pleasure in making certain of that.
* * *
It was around dusk before the body at the farm house was removed, lifted carefully along with the adhering mud on to a white sheet then wrapped in a body bag and carried away.
Digging had begun in the second area, slow and precise under the harsh false daylight of the dragon lamps.
Chapter Thirty
Saturday evening
Jaques had decided that he didn’t want to go home. Home was a comfortable place where his wife, a pretty woman to whom he had been married fifteen years, would be waiting for him. A place that held all the things that mattered but which, right now, was the last place he felt able to go.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want, desperately, to be there. Rather that he couldn’t face his wife’s questions. Her concern if she realized something was wrong. Her desire to help him.
He tidied his desk carefully, placing papers in neat, orderly stacks. Pens and pencils in the side drawer. Telephone, calculator and plastic stationery trays placed just so, parallel to the edge of the desk. He slipped a long brown envelope into his pocket and switched off his office light for what he knew would be the last time. Then he left the police station, pausing for a moment in the front office as though to check the day book.
Outside it was raining. Just a light drizzle, enough to mist the windows of his car and make the roads feel greasy and insecure. Jaques drove, heading without thought from the centre of town to the rundown streets and derelict warehouses that backed on to the canal. Almost before he noticed where he was he had stopped in front of the terraced house where Ryan had died. Jaques got out and stood motionless, facing the boarded windows and the blank front door.
Further down the street, lights glowed from behind drawn curtains and faint sounds reached him of overloud music. This end of the street, though — this end was scheduled for demolition. The row was boarded and deserted and the bend in the road made it hard for anyone further down to see who went into the house and who never came back out. It had been perfect, Jaques thought. So close to ordinary people and their boring, ordinary little lives and yet set apart just enough to be almost invisible.
He turned abruptly and walked back down the street towards the canal. He stood on the bridge, staring down at the dark water below. At water clogged with weed and the random supply of rubbish people dumped there and which sank into the thick, cloying depth of mud and clay at the bottom.
Rather like that damned well, he thought. Vaguely, he wondered what it would be like to drown.
Chapter Thirty-One
Saturday evening
‘And will she get over it?’ Mike asked. ‘Really get over it, I mean. Or will there always be things bringing the memory back to her?’ He paused thoughtfully. He had told Maria about Ellie’s visit and about what had spurred her into telling him about her father.
‘We can’t wipe out our own memories,’ Maria told him softly. ‘We can bury them, think the pain of them is gone for ever. Even shove them into a mental hole so deep we’re not even aware that they were there in the first place, at least not on a conscious level. But, no. I don’t believe we can ever really get rid of them.’
Mike looked doubtful. He felt very tired now, and, welcome as Maria’s company was, he knew that what he really wanted was to go to sleep.
It was as though the events of the last couple of days since his accident had finally caught up with him. He knew that he’d been trying very hard to make a good showing. Not to let on that not only was he physically very uncomfortable, but mentally he was deeply shaken.
Here he was, lying in a hospital bed with broken bones and a headache that still wouldn’t completely say goodbye, growing more and more aware that he had been profoundly lucky.
Images of his own mortality kept impinging on his consciousness and he felt, at times, absurdly close to tears. Angry with himself, he tried to drive all the negative and frightening thoughts from his mind and to concentrate on Maria.
‘I think she’s doing a remarkably good job of getting her life together,’ Maria told him. ‘She isn’t blocking her feelings or trying to hide them away somewhere. She’s actually trying to do something with them.’
‘And that’s good?’ Mike asked. Then, ‘Yes, I suppose it is, isn’t it?’
‘You look very tired,’ she said.
‘I am.’ He swallowed spasmodically, feeling the tears threatening again. He looked for distraction. ‘And you,’ he asked, ‘have you had to deal with many cases like Ellie’s?’
Maria continued to look thoughtfully at him. ‘A few,’ she said. ‘Not quite like Ellie Masouk. I’ve had women referred to me by rape crisis centres and social services. A few men too.’ She laughed at Mike’s look of surprise. ‘But I’ve only ever dealt with adult survivors, not with kids. That’s just not my field.’
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the side of the bed and speaking quietly. ‘You’ve got to remember, Mike. You can’t see this as a sex thing. It’s about power, just the same way as most rapes and sexual assaults are about power. And it’s often not the sex part that does the damage.’
He frowned at that, his look sharp. ‘You can’t condone that kind of thing, surely. I mean, having sex with kids is wrong. No one can argue with that.’
Maria laughed softly again, refusing to be intimidated by his tone. ‘Taking something by force is wrong. Dominating and demeaning the rights of another human being is wrong. Mike, I’ve had a woman come to me severely traumatized because her father locked her in a dark cupboard whenever she was naughty. Can you imagine that? A two year old, shut away in a dark place she couldn’t get out of. Knowing that however much she cried or screamed or hammered on the door she wouldn’t be let out until her father thought she’d been punished enough. Someone who was supposed to love her and protect her, betraying every ounce of trust she put in him.’
She sighed and shook her head, slowly. ‘However you look at it, Mike, it’s the power game that’s wrong; not just how it’s expressed. Not just the fact that it’s sex or violence or any other permutation.’
‘But,’ Mike said stubbornly, ‘you can’t think that sex with under-age kids can ever be right.’
‘Under what age?’ Maria challenged. ‘Under sixteen, under fourteen? Under twenty-one? Mike, I’m not trying to play devil’s advocate here, but the idea of what age is right for sex is largely a cultural thing.’
She glanced across at him, noting his stony expression. ‘In other parts of the world girls are married at fourteen or even younger.’
‘Well, I don’t think that’s right either,’ he declared irritably.
Maria shrugged. ‘Maybe not,’ she said, ‘and I’ll go as far as saying that the thought of an adult having a sexual relationship with a young child appals me.’ She grinned. ‘Very unprofessional, I know.’
Mike allowed himself a half-smile.
‘But there are so many borderline cases, where it’s hard to know what’s right. You can’t deny that kids have sexual feelings. That they explore what makes them feel good maybe long before they even know what to call it.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll bet when you were six or seven, you got told off for playing with yourself!’
‘I did not!’ he declared, his anger so out of proportion to the statement that Maria laughed affectionately.
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Of course not.’ Then, ‘Mike, I’m not suggesting you had any notion that what you were doing — OK, what little boys that age tend to do is consciously sexual. But the beginnings of awareness are there and by the time kids reach adolesc
ence . . .’
Mike was glaring again, clearly very uncomfortable with the whole track of the conversation.
* * *
Chief Superintendent Charles dumped the bundle of papers on the desk and glanced up as Price walked through the door carrying yet more. Fragments of Blake’s journal, so carefully assembled and photocopied by Eric Pearson were spread across the desk and spilled on to the floor.
‘These were in the Central Library, sir,’ Price said, putting his bundle on top of the rest. ‘The librarian dropped them off at her local nick on her way home.’
Charles sighed. ‘So that’s five locations so far,’ he said. ‘Busy little boy our Mr Pearson’s been.’
He pulled out a copy of Eric’s Deposition from the middle of the stack and read it through again.
‘You think we should have men stationed on Portland?’ Price asked.
Charles frowned and shook his head. ‘Can’t spare the men,’ he said shortly, ‘but you’d better increase the patrols and I want any calls from there graded one.’ He sat down at the desk and motioned Price to do the same. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can put this thing together, find out what all the fuss is about.’
Price sighed deeply and sat down. Even as a kid he’d hated jigsaw puzzles.
* * *
‘Did I ever tell you about Sophie?’ Maria asked him.
‘No, who’s she?’
Maria sat back and crossed her legs, allowing Mike a tantalizing view of smooth thigh. ‘Sophie was a woman we inherited at Oaklands, when it became part of the community programme. She’d been there for years. Oaklands was one of the old-fashioned asylums and by the time our lot took over she just didn’t know how to survive anywhere else.’
‘Is she still there?’ Mike asked.
‘Oh yes. We sorted out her benefits for her and managed to fiddle things so she does little jobs in the kitchen and the garden.’ She shook her head, sadly. ‘She’s not stupid, Mike. One time, she might even have been a bright kid, but sixty years of being an inmate in the old Oaklands probably didn’t do a lot for stimulating her mind. But she’s all there when it comes to remembering why she ended up in the nut house.’