by Martina Cole
‘Of course I will.’ Kate felt the burning inside her own chest. It was not physical pain but hatred and had been building up inside her all day.
‘Louise was our life, you see. We hoped . . . we hoped she would walk back in the house. You know.’ He squeezed his eyes shut to stem the tears. ‘That she was still alive somewhere. Anywhere.’
Kate felt the man’s agony as if it were a tangible thing. As the trolley was pushed away, she knelt down and retrieved the handbag that she had thrown to the floor as he collapsed. Standing, she went once more to Louise Butler’s body and pulled the sheet away from her face.
Fifteen. Loved and wanted. Her whole life ahead of her. And now she had been reduced to a bloody pulp.
Swallowing hard, Kate left the mortuary. She had decided to be in on the post mortem and now she would go to the Pathologist’s office and wait for the remains of Louise Butler to be laid on the mortuary blocks and then systematically cut to pieces.
Ronald Butler had made Kate feel the futility of all their investigations. His daughter was dead, Mandy Kelly was dead, and Geraldine O’Leary was dead. Three women raped and murdered in less than seven weeks.
They had to find him before he struck again, and they had nothing to go on. Nothing at all. Every avenue they pursued hit a dead end. Every lead went nowhere. This man was either very clever or very lucky. Or else had a mixture of the two.
She was still dwelling on it when the post mortem started. Kate had been given a small white mask to wear and when the pathologist cut Louise Butler from the breastbone to the navel she was glad of it. The stench of the gasses was appalling.
Kate watched everything through heavily lidded eyes. The burning was back in her breast. Stronger this time.
She brooded on what kind of man raped, murdered and buried a young girl, then went back and dug her up and mutilated her again?
He had to be caught.
Chapter Seventeen
Kate was feeling depressed. She’d just had the news that both Geraldine O’Leary’s and Mandy Kelly’s bodies could be released for burial. She decided to tell the families herself. She was not looking forward to it.
She drove towards the O’Learys’ house with a feeling of trepidation. She parked just down the road and sat for a few minutes, watching the house itself. The nets were pristine white. Obviously either Mick O’Leary was a good housekeeper or he had someone helping him. Probably Geraldine’s mother; Kate had met her on one occasion and had had the impression that she was a capable woman. Taking a deep breath, she got out of the car and locked it. She walked slowly to the front door and rang the bell.
The door was answered by Kathleen Peterson, Geraldine’s mother, who had the youngest child, Sophie, in her arms. Kate could see Geraldine in the child: the same long, brown hair and almond-shaped, hazel eyes. She smiled.
‘I don’t know if you remember me? I’m Detective Inspector Burrows . . .’
‘Oh, come in, love. Come in.’
The woman moved from the doorway so Kate could enter the tiny hall.
‘Come through.’ She walked through a doorway to her left and Kate followed her into the lounge. On the carpet toys were lying about everywhere. The television was on and Mick O’Leary was sitting in the armchair by the fire, staring at the screen. Kate was shocked at the sight of him. He was hunched in his chair like an old man, it was obvious he had not shaved for days and his clothes looked a crumpled mess.
Kathleen Peterson caught Kate’s eye and shrugged her shoulders. She motioned for Kate to follow her through to the kitchenette.
Putting Sophie down on the floor, she closed the kitchen door quietly behind her. ‘Sit yourself down. Would you like a coffee? Tea?
‘Coffee would be fine, thanks, no sugar.’
While Kathleen put the kettle on, Kate watched the child. She stood on the floor exactly where her grandmother had left her. She watched avidly every move her granny made, her eyes darting restlessly around the kitchen to wherever Kathleen was. Kate smiled at the child, but Sophie just glanced at her and then carried on watching her granny.
When Kathleen had put the coffee in front of Kate, she sat at the small table and pulled the waiting child on to her lap. Sophie curled into her granny’s bosom and popped a thumb into her mouth, shifting herself around for a few seconds before she was fully comfortable. Kathleen swept the hair back from the child’s face and then looked at Kate.
‘She’s taken it hard, the young one. They all have.’
Kate couldn’t answer.
‘Have you any news about . . . about the man?’
Kate shook her head.
‘I’m here about Geraldine. Her body can now be released for burial.’
The woman sipped at her own coffee and placed the cup back into the saucer with trembling hands.
‘Thank God! I think that if we . . . well, if we could bury her like . . . it wouldn’t seem so bad. The thought of her . . .’
‘I know. Believe me, I know. Please don’t distress yourself.’
‘It’s funny,’ Kathleen’s voice had taken on a confiding tone, ‘I used to think that nothing really bad could happen to us. I’d see things on the news - like Suzy Lamplugh and murders and rapes - all sorts really. I’d think, How terrible, and then I’d go and cook my dinner or get ready for bingo and it would be out of my mind, you know? It’s amazing how little you really care until it happens to your own family. Oh, I would feel distressed for the victims and their family, but not really for any length of time . . . Now it’s with me every waking moment. I feel as if she’s near me sometimes, I feel her presence.’
Kate sat and let the woman unburden herself. She guessed rightly that she was the first person to cross the doorstep for weeks. After the initial shock wears off, people seem to give victims’ families a wide berth. Maybe they really do think people want to be left alone, or maybe they are frightened of getting too caught up. As if that kind of bad luck is catching.
‘I was shopping the other day in town and I met a girl who went to school with Geraldine. She had her children with her, two boys. Lovely little things. She said hello and we chatted for a while, and I thought after, Why couldn’t it have been you? Why did it have to be my Gerry?
‘I felt terrible later. Just terrible to wish on her and hers what we were going through. I mean, you can see for yourself how Mick is. He lives on tranquillisers. How could you wish that on somebody? It’s wicked.
‘But deep down inside I wish it had been anyone but my child. The older children are back at school but very withdrawn, and this little mite here - she doesn’t know if she’s coming or going. Keeps wanting to know when her mammy will be coming home. Maybe once she’s buried we’ll all come to terms with it a bit more. Say goodbye like. You know?’
Kate nodded, unable to swallow the large lump in the back of her throat. She took a gulp of coffee to try and right herself.
‘Well, if you get in touch with the undertakers, they can collect Geraldine’s remains.’
‘Remains.’ Kathleen smiled. ‘My Gerry’s gone, love, all that remains is memories. Memories and children. I used to look forward to being a granny. You know the jokes about having the children when you want, but being able to give them back? Now I have them all the time and I don’t really think I’m up to it. But these things are sent to try us or so they say. Would you like another coffee?’
‘No thank you. I have to be on my way.’
‘Have you any idea who it was who did it? I mean, my Gerry was the first of three, and people seem to think he’s going to strike again. Do you think you’ll catch him?’
‘We’ll catch him, I can promise you that.’
Kate’s voice was hard and strong and Kathleen Peterson believed her.
Sophie scrambled off her granny’s lap. Going to the back door she urinated on the mat, her thumb still tucked firmly in her mouth. Kate saw Kathleen’s eyes roll up in dismay.
‘Now, Sophie, you know that’s naughty.’ She looked at Kate. ‘
This is the latest thing with her. It’s funny though, she’s as dry as a bone at night. Come on, madam, let’s get those wet knickers and socks off you. Though if you keep this up I’ll make you wear them all day, see how you like that.’
As Kathleen went to the child, Kate stood up. ‘I really must go now, Mrs Peterson. I hope everything works out all right.’
‘So do I, love. So do I.’
‘I’ll see myself out. Goodbye.’
‘’Bye, lass, and thanks for coming to tell us. It’s a load off of me mind.’
Kate left the kitchen and walked through the lounge. Mick O’Leary was still watching the flickering screen. He did not even know that Kate was there.
She left feeling worse than she had before.
Patrick Kelly was in the West End. He owned massage parlours the length and breadth of London and surrounding areas. Today he was in Soho, supposedly checking the books, but in effect just showing his face. It paid in this business always to be on top of everything. If the girls ever thought they could tuck you up, they would.
While he sat in the makeshift office his mind was on his daughter. The account books lay open in front of him so that if anyone came in, it looked official.
He was startled by a knock on the office door. It was opened almost immediately by a tall thin woman who strode purposefully into the room.
‘All right, Pat? Everything shipshape and Bristol fashion?’
Kelly nodded. Juliette Kingsley had worked for him for years and like all his top girls - that is, the women who ran the parlours - she was a trusted friend.
‘I want to ask you a favour, Pat, if you don’t mind?’ She sat in a chair opposite the desk and, leaning over, took a cigarette from the box on the desk.
‘What is it, Ju? Trouble?’
‘Sort of. Nothing to do with this place. Remember my youngest son, Owen?’
Patrick scanned his mind and came up with a picture of a tall, blond-haired, good-looking boy. Not unlike his mother.
‘Yeah. What about him?’
Juliette ran her hands through her short blond hair and Patrick was surprised to see that she was agitated.
‘You know Jimmy McDougall, the pimp?’
He nodded, frowning now.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s got my boy up the ’Dilly. I can’t find him, Pat, and I’m worried out of me bleeding mind. He’s only twelve, as big as he is. Well, I heard a whisper on the street that McDougall had him. I know I ain’t exactly lived the life of a virgin, I don’t deny it, but all my kids have done well, you know that. My eldest girl is a secretary, my eldest boy is at university, my Owen was doing well at school.
‘He’s my baby, Pat, my little surprise I call him. I mean, I was nearly forty-one when I had him. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep with worry at what he’s getting into . . .’
Patrick looked at her. She looked terrible - Juliette never had looked that good. But she’d been one of the best Toms in the business in her day. Bought and paid for her own house and kept her husband in the life of Riley until the ponce drank himself to death. Patrick liked her, respected her.
‘I want you to have a word with McDougall for me. I know it’s a cheek . . .’
He felt a rage inside him and was glad to have somewhere to channel the hatred that was slowly building up in him day by day. McDougall was a scumbag in his opinion. Anyone who lived off the earnings of young boys was a scumbag. Homosexuals bothered Kelly not one iota as long as they were consenting adults. It was the men who slept with children that disgusted him, whether they were young boys or young girls. There was a fortune to be made from youth. Extreme youth. But Kelly would have none of it.
‘Don’t you worry, Ju. Owen will be home within twenty-four hours. Now go and get yourself a stiff drink and let me deal with it.’
Juliette’s hard face relaxed. ‘Thanks, Pat. If you only knew what I’ve been going through.’
‘I have a pretty good idea, you know, Juliette.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry, Pat. What with Owen and everything . . .’
‘You leave it with me, girl, and just bide your time. How long has he been gone?’
‘Nearly a fortnight. I’ve told the school that he’s been ill with flu. I didn’t know what else to say.’
‘How did he get involved with McDougall in the first place?’
‘Well, from what I can gather, a friend of his from school went on the trot about a year ago. Poor little sod had a terrible time of it at home. Didn’t get on with the mum’s boyfriend. You get the picture, I’m sure. Anyway, he rang my Owen up and told him what a great life he was having and Owen went to see him and I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him since.’
‘Well, stop worrying. If he’s with McDougall he’ll be home, quick smart.’
Juliette stood up and left the room.
Patrick picked up the phone and dialled. He was looking forward to sorting out McDougall.
Tony Jones was chatting with Emmanuel at Sexplosion when Patrick Kelly and three large men walked into the shop.
‘All right, Jonesy?’ Kelly’s voice was not friendly and Tony was aware of it.
‘Hello, Mr Kelly, how can I help you?’
‘I want to know where I can find Jimmy McDougall. Now. This second.’
Tony Jones was squirming in his shoes. Jimmy McDougall was not a man to fall out with, but then again neither was Patrick Kelly. Of the two he decided he was more frightened of Kelly. He looked at Emmanuel.
‘What are you staring at, you great big fairy? Get out the back and sort the videos or something. And keep your big trap shut about what you’ve heard here tonight.’
Emmanuel did not need to be told twice. He literally ran from the shop.
‘What day is it today? Tuesday . . . He’ll be at his safe house by King’s Cross Station. I’ll write down the address.’
He went to the counter and hurriedly wrote a few lines on a piece of paper. Kelly took it from him and glanced at it.
‘Do you know something, Jonesy? I used to like you once but now I find you disgust me. Flogging all this crap is one thing, but to be an active participant in this kind of filth . . .’ Kelly waved the paper at him and shrugged. Then, spitting on the shop floor, he turned and left, his men following.
Jones breathed a deep sigh of relief. It crossed his mind to phone McDougall and warn him, but after weighing up the pros and cons of such an act in his mind, he decided against it. McDougall could do with being knocked down a few pegs and Patrick Kelly was just the man to do it.
Owen was sitting on a large settee watching a video. The glamour of his new life had already worn off. There was nothing to do but watch videos, drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes, and the novelty of all that was long gone. Plus the big man, Jimmy, who had been so friendly at first, had twice come into his room and made him do things. Things that made him feel sick. That was when he realised he was a virtual prisoner.
Last night he had been taken out to King’s Cross Station. There, his friend Joseph had walked up to completely strange men and asked them if they wanted ‘the business’. All the time this had been going on, Jimmy had stood with Owen, holding him tightly by the arm. He had never been so frightened in his life. Joseph was doing what was called ‘clowning’. Picking up a punter and offering him a ‘chicken’. Chicken was the term for the younger boys. If they were under the age of ten then they were termed ‘spring chickens’ and were worth a fortune.
Jimmy was a bit concerned about Owen’s height at first, but one feel of his face, so smooth and silky, was proof to any discerning punter that he was indeed a chicken. As luck would have it, Owen had been violently sick and Jimmy had taken him home and given him a good hiding for being so stupid. In Owen’s mind this was preferable to doing with one of those men what Jimmy had made him do. Now, with a black eye and bruised body, he was safe for a while. It hadn’t taken him long to suss that much out.
Sylvester Stallone was stitching himself up on screen and with th
e resilience of a child Owen watched avidly. First Blood was his favourite video and Sylvester Stallone his favourite actor. He didn’t like the other videos that Jimmy liked to watch. Joseph was in some of them. Joseph and Jimmy and other boys. Some of them were really young. Like the little boy Jimmy kept in the bedroom whom no one was allowed to see. He cried all the time so they had to turn the television up loud to drown him out. Then every so often Jimmy would bring back a man who would go in there with him and then the crying would be terrible for days after.
Owen had glimpsed him only once. He was about five years old, half caste with enormous brown eyes. But he had seen him in the videos that Jimmy watched. Joseph said that when they made the videos Jimmy gave them whisky and pills and it made them all laugh. But Owen didn’t think he would laugh. He just wanted his mum. His mum and his old bedroom. He had only come up here for a couple of days. Now it was two weeks and he was scared. He was sick of pizza and Kentucky Fried Chicken. He was sick of it all. Especially Joseph and Jimmy.
‘You’re not watching that crap again, are you?’ Jimmy’s loud voice brought Owen out of his reverie.
Jimmy walked over. His cumbersome body rippled with fat. He had on nothing but a pair of grubby underpants. Owen instinctively pulled the flimsy pyjama jacket he was wearing tightly around his body. He was not allowed to wear his own clothes.
Jimmy sat heavily on the broken-down settee. He patted the cushion beside him.
‘Come and sit beside me, let me look at that eye. You shouldn’t have annoyed me, you know, Owen. I don’t like hurting my boys. I just want to look after them, that’s all.’ McDougall’s voice had the sing-song quality that Owen was beginning to loathe, along with everything else about the man. He was aware that Jimmy was trying to talk him into doing what he wanted.
‘Come on, Owen, you know it makes sense. Think of all the money you’d have if you just played along with me . . . I give Joseph ten pounds a day to spend on what he likes. And how many twelve year olds do you know on money like that, eh? Answer me that then. Over seventy quid a week I give him sometimes. And all me other boys. I’ve got loads of boys you know . . . all ages and sizes.’ Jimmy’s voice had taken on a threatening inflection. It was a veiled threat but not wasted on Owen all the same.