by Jay Nadal
As he left his house, the autumn breeze rattled through his cold body and prickled his cheeks like a thousand needles. The warmth just a few weeks ago had evaporated into the sky or leached into the earth. Scott stood by his car and checked the street in both directions. His eyes tracked each car, looking for a silent observer monitoring his every movement. Nothing stood out. No one acted suspiciously on the street corner, no curtains twitched, and he didn’t see exhaust fumes swirling in the early morning air from an idling car engine. He glanced at his phone, almost willing it to ring or display a text message from the killer. Scott wondered if the man had gone to ground, or worse, was plotting something far more sinister?
Thinking he’d be the only one in, he was surprised to see Abby hunched over a box sifting through some papers.
“You couldn’t sleep, either?”
Scott’s words jolted her from a deep concentration. She rubbed her eyes and stretched her arms up towards the ceiling to relieve the stiffness in her back.
“No. If I’m honest, the pictures of all those kids haunted me. They looked sad as if the life had been sucked from them.”
Scott agreed as he pulled up a chair. He flipped open the lid of another box and pulled out a stack of files, splitting them between himself and Abby. They each took a file and flicked through the details. It was a tiresome and often difficult chore that offered more dead ends than leads. The public never saw these essential parts of a police investigation.
Many only saw the front line of policing. The cars racing to emergency calls, doors being kicked in and drunks being hauled into the back of vans on a Friday night. The reality painted a different picture. Most of their work involved poring through reams of paper, reviewing hours of CCTV, sifting through days and weeks of text or WhatsApp messages, drinking endless cups of coffee, chasing twenty-four hour deadlines to charge suspects, filling in umpteen forms and chasing up leads, many of which amounted to nothing. With public accountability and government funding on the line, their work left little margin for error.
The names just kept coming. Sally Dawson, died aged thirty-one, suicide through overdose. James Cooper, accounts clerk, living in the Wirral. Annette Richards, age thirty, whereabouts unknown, last seen nine years ago.
Scott picked up the next file as Abby headed off to make another coffee. Flicking open the cover, the photo of a young teenage girl, glared back. Her lips were pulled tight, and her eyes narrow and piercing. An air of aggression and malice jumped out in the way she glared at the camera. He scoured the details on the first page. It highlighted her circumstances, her height and weight, together with a general review of her personality, emotional well-being and difficulties.
The next page stopped Scott dead in his tracks.
Only a hint of bleach wafted down the stuffy hospital corridor. The walls were magnolia, scraped in places from the hundreds of trolleys that had bumped into them. Cheap, benign prints of uplifting scenes hung on the walls. Above the double doors were large, blue plastic signs with directions to different wards and units.
The woman in the bed looked beyond her young years, her body paying the price for the lifestyle she’d led. Christine Lamb lay in the curtained cubical, examining the polystyrene tiled ceiling. There was nothing else to look at. Moans from an adjacent bed pierced the silence. She stared at the faded vinyl curtains, thanking them for providing a barrier to polite conversation.
Helen peered from around the curtain asking, “Christine Lamb?”
The woman turned her head in Helen’s direction. “Yeah, who are you?”
Helen produced her warrant card. “I’m Detective Constable Helen Swift from Brighton CID.”
Christine tutted. “I’ve got nuffin’ to say, and I ain’t pressin’ charges. So you wasted your time.”
Helen took a moment to observe the woman’s injuries. She had scratches across her face, bruising to the bridge of her nose and her left eye was swollen. Dried blood matted her dark brown hair. The fresh-faced picture that Helen had of Christine as a girl was in marked contrast to the woman opposite her. Her skin now dry and creased, years of smoking or drinking, or both, no doubt played a major part.
“I’m not here because your pimp kicked the shit out of you. I wanted to talk to you about a different matter.”
Christine glared at Helen. She hated the police and nothing good ever came from a visit by them. She gave Helen the slightest of nods.
Helen grabbed her pen and pad saying, “I wanted to talk you about Western care home.”
Christine tutted. “I haven’t heard that name mentioned in a long time. To be honest, it’s not something I want to remember, either. Why?”
“We are following a few lines of enquiry in an ongoing investigation. I need to track down the former residents.”
She pointed an accusatory finger in Helen’s direction. “It was anything but a care home. In fact, I’m not even sure why the word care was even in the title,” she spat.
Helen ignored the blatant sarcasm. “Well, as I said, we’re trying to locate as many people as we can who were at that care home over a certain period of time. How long were you there?”
Christine shifted her gaze from Helen to the wall opposite her bed. Her eyes glazed over as if lost in her deepest thoughts. “I was there from the age of six. My mum couldn’t cope with me on her own. I think I was the product of a one-night stand. I never knew my dad.
“Mum loved her booze and drugs. Spaced out most of the time. Every time they threatened to take me into care, she pleaded with them. Stupid cow convinced them that she had changed. They had no choice after she ended up surviving an OD.”
Helen let her continue.
“I was there till I was seventeen. I got a job in a chippy’s, and the owner let me stay in a spare room upstairs in return for the occasional favour.”
The woman met Helen’s eyes again. Conveying through her pained expression what the occasional favour meant.
Helen pulled the visitor’s chair alongside the bed and planted herself on the edge of it. “I know it’s difficult, but could you tell me what it was like at the home?”
Just the mere mention of the word home, brought a look of contempt to the woman’s face.
“Back then, homes offered little in terms of comfort or happiness. There were never enough staff, and far too many of us. We were all crammed into bedrooms like sardines, sitting in the dark most nights. Some of us were lonely, some were quiet, some cried all the time, and others well, I can only describe them as basket cases.” She swirled her index finger by the side of the temple.
“Did you make friends with many?”
“I wouldn’t call it friends. It was a nightmare. Some kids were there for just a few days, others were there for weeks or months. Some were there for life, or so they believed.”
“Did you see anything that just didn’t feel right?”
“What do you mean?”
Helen cleared her throat, trying to find the compassionate way of saying it. “We’ve had some serious allegations made about things that were going on at the care home around the time that you were there. Does anything spring to mind?”
Christine smiled, almost in defeat rather than humour.
“Most of the care staff were okay. They were doing an impossible job, in impossible situations. But there was the odd few who weren’t nice. From what I can gather, our care home was no different to any other across the country. There were shits who used to give the care staff a lot of grief. In return, the staff would dish out their punishments. I reckon they would be arrested for it today.”
“Like what?”
“Beatings. Being left outside in the dark. Forced to have cold showers. Deprived of food. Tied to a chair. The list goes on.”
“Did you experience any of that?”
Christine shook her head. “Nah, I was okay. I was groped every so often by some of the boys. The place was a melting pot of hormones. But I was never touched by any of the adults.”
“Did you know of any others who received unwanted attention from the adults?”
Christine fell silent, lost in her thoughts once again.
“Christine?”
The woman took a long deep breath and winced. She had other injuries that weren’t visible.
“Some older girls would sport cheap, tacky perfumes, necklaces, and new outfits. They would sneak out at night and come back in the early hours of the morning through some of the windows that they had left partially open.”
“And where were they going?”
The woman snorted. “At first, everyone thought they were sneaking out to meet boys.”
“Were they?”
“No. It turned out that there were a couple of older blokes hanging around. The very same ones that used to come in at Christmas with bags full of toys and gifts. Anyway, these blokes would give them little presents, and tell them how beautiful they were. They were putty in their hands and loved the attention.”
“They didn’t try it on with you?”
“They did, but I didn’t fall for it. It wasn’t just the girls sneaking out, it was boys, too. They were promised fags, and booze. It made them feel like grown men…”
“Were the police ever called?”
“The police came a few times, but they laughed it off and turned a blind eye.”
Helen held up a picture of a younger Golding in his police uniform.
“Did you ever see this officer?”
“Yeah, I saw him. Everyone would get excited when a police officer turned up at the door. Those who needed him the most were let down by him.”
“Christine, we’re investigating the allegation that a prostitution ring was being run out of the home, and children were exploited. Does this face look familiar? Did he ever approach you?”
Helen held up a picture of McCormick.
“No. I can’t say I recognise him.”
47
“Abby look at this,” Scott said, waving a file.
“What have you got?”
“Sarah Critchley. Her body was found in the grounds behind the care home. She had allegedly taken her own life. A kitchen knife was found by her body.”
“Jesus, another fucking suicide?”
Scott nodded. He went on to explain that it wasn’t the fact that she had possibly committed suicide, but the manner of her death. A long singular cut along her abdomen.
His pulse quickened as he continued to read through her records. The file included pictures of Sarah Critchley slumped against a tree, the mid-section of her clothes stained in blood. It wasn’t the pictures that struck a chord with him, but who had discovered her.
Amy Evans.
“We need to have a chat with Amy as soon as possible. We need to find out if anyone had a close relationship with Sarah at the time. Is Helen still at the hospital?”
Abby checked her watch. “Well, I haven’t heard from her, but that’s where she planned to be this morning.”
“Get in touch with Helen now. Find out if the name Sarah Critchley rings a bell with Christine. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Scott was just grabbing his jacket as Mike barged through the doors. “Guv!” he shouted.
Scott spun on his heels as Mike’s heavy frame lumbered towards him. “McCormick’s been taken.”
Scott and Abby both took a double take. Scott pressed for more information.
“McCormick and two of his heavies were attacked at his casino late last night. It was after hours. The bodies were only discovered this morning when the cleaner came in.”
Scott felt the tension begin like a cluster of spark plugs in his abdomen. Apprehension tightened his face and limbs, his mind replaying all the scenarios.
It resembled an underground dingy room more than a casino, as Scott, Abby and Mike descended the carpeted wooden stairs to a basement. They had signed into the scene log and put on white paper forensic suits.
The pavement outside the club had been cordoned off with blue and white police tape, and the scene guard stood by the entrance logging in the names of all of those who were entering the crime scene. Two white scientific services vans, several squad cars and Cara’s silver Ford Focus were parked close to the cordon. A small group of curious bystanders hovered on the pavement across the road, watching in silent, morbid curiosity.
It was one of McCormick’s operations, an illegal gambling den where thousands of pounds were traded for a few seconds of excitement. To maintain the legitimacy of his businesses, McCormick owned another gambling establishment in Hove, fully licensed, and above board. At this one, the more undesirable characters of Sussex’s underworld gathered to rub shoulders with each other, agree business deals and launder their ill-gotten gains.
Scott stared down the cavernous room, estimating it at about thirty feet long, and twenty feet wide with a low ceiling. It gave the impression of being smaller and more claustrophobic than the dimensions indicated. To the right, a bank of slot machines lined the entire length of the wall. Their garish, flashing illuminations made them resemble redundant robots. To the left, Scott identified an assortment of tables, blackjack, poker and roulette.
The smell of the tobacco clung like an invisible cloak in the air, sticking its poisoned tentacles into those gathered.
After a quick scan, he noticed Cara leaning over the figures of two bodies slumped on the floor. Forensics officers in their white paper suits, and blue foot coveralls delicately examined the surrounding area, conducting a fingertip search on their hands and knees.
Matt, the crime scene manager joined Scott and his team.
“Not a pretty sight, Scott.”
“Are they ever pretty?”
“True.”
“What have we got?”
“Two IC1 males, their hands secured behind their backs with black cable ties, a black hood over their heads, with one gunshot wound each to the back of the head.”
“Executed?”
Matt nodded, suggesting execution the most likely scenario. He confirmed that there was no evidence of a fight, and no disturbance to the surrounding area. “We’ll test the hoods for the usual stuff back at the lab.”
“They wouldn’t have volunteered to get down on their knees, though?” Abby pointed out.
“They would if they had been under duress. You’d be surprised at what people will do when a gun’s pointed at their head,” Mike clarified. “I’ve seen stuff like this in Afghanistan. The Taliban would secure locals like this, stick a black hood over their heads, and shot them one in the back of the head. Instant and efficient.”
Abby pulled a face as she imagined that horror.
Scott instructed Mike to remain on scene, and to check CCTV inside and outside of the club, whilst also liaising with uniformed officers to conduct local enquiries. With no sign of McCormick, and no signs of a struggle, Scott wondered whether McCormick had left voluntarily?
Scott faced two dilemmas. He needed to find the killer, but also needed to find McCormick. He considered whether McCormick was the killer and responsible for this scene, or whether he had come to harm.
Amy was still under police protection, with strict instructions she would move to a safe house when discharged by her doctor. When Scott and Abby arrived, McAllister hovered in the corridor outside, making polite conversation with a uniformed officer.
“Inspector, Sergeant. Your visits only seemed to upset Mrs Harp.”
Scott cleared his throat and offered his sympathies. “I know. If there was an easier way to do this, trust me, I would. Our investigation is moving quickly, and I believe Mrs Harp can help us. We can’t confirm whether her life is in danger or not, but we believe something in her past is linked to the murder of her family.”
“Very well. But I must stress that you keep this brief to avoid any unnecessary upset.”
Amy stood by the window in her room, staring into space. She watched life go by unaffected by the trauma she’d experienced. For all intents and purposes, she felt she didn’t exist to
the world outside. She looked over her shoulder as McAllister entered with the officers.
Scott noticed she appeared calmer, but looked drained and gaunt. Her shoulders hung heavy, and her eyes looked pained.
“Amy, we’re sorry to bother you again, but we need your help on what we believe is a crucial development in our ongoing investigations.”
If Amy was pleased, she didn’t show it. Her face remained impassive and deadpan.
Abby stepped forward and pulled out a few photographs from a white envelope before showing her a picture of Sarah Critchley. In a soft, reassuring voice, she asked, “Do you recognise the girl in this picture?”
An apprehensive stillness enveloped the room, as Amy examined the picture. Her eyes narrowed as she searched the corners of her memory. Scott felt a surge of excitement course through his veins as he noticed her eyes darting towards the left, a sure sign that she remembered an image or recalled a scene or even some sounds.
Amy offered the smallest of nods as she stared towards the lino floor. Resignation and sadness stripped away any strength she had left.
“Sarah Critchley. She died at the home. I found her and called the police. Correction, I didn’t find her first, but I was the first adult to find her. One boy from the care home discovered her and came to find me.”
Scott remained silent as he allowed her memories to flow.
“It was horrible. She was slumped against a tree. Cold. Her clothes were drenched in blood. She must have been there all night. I guess she crept out after the staff did their rounds. The poor girl. At first we didn’t know if Sarah had been murdered or taken her own life.”
Her tone was flat and stilted as if reading the facts from a piece of paper.
“And the police attended?”
She nodded. “Yes, a patrol car turned up, and two uniformed officers attended to begin with. Then the ambulance arrived. There was nothing they could do for her.”