by Martina Cole
Free from his burden, his hand went into his pocket where his wages sat snugly.
He grinned to himself. His first week’s wages. He would treat himself to some new shoes. His final errand of the day done, he began the long walk home. From tomorrow he could take the bus to work. Unless . . . He shook his head to clear the bad thoughts away. He walked the busy streets confidently, like a boy who knew where he was going. Over the years, he had gradually found his way all over London - north, south and east. His mother moved so often he knew just about everywhere. Now they were in Ilford and he knew the place like the back of his hand.
Finally, after an hour’s walking, he came to the house in Green Lanes. He was tired. Bone tired. One good thing about his mother, she always provided a good meal. He walked round the back and let himself into the kitchen, wiping his feet fastidiously on the mat by the back door.
‘You’re late!’ Nancy’s voice was annoyed. George nodded, aware that there was no appetising smell to greet him. He glanced at the cooker in consternation.
‘It’s no good looking like that, Georgie boy. Until I get me housekeeping we ain’t got nothing to eat. I thought we’d have chippy tonight, to celebrate like.’
George took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the door on the hanger there for that express purpose. Nancy hated sloppiness.
‘Well?’ It was more a statement than a question.
George slipped his hand into his pocket and took out the wage packet. It was unopened. Nancy grabbed it greedily from his hand and ripped it open. She poured the coins out into her large red-varnished hand.
‘Is this all?’ Her green eyes narrowed as she looked at him. ‘Thirty bob?’
George nodded again. ‘I need new shoes.’
Nancy laughed. ‘Don’t we all?’ She threw two half-crowns on the table. ‘That’s your cut, Georgie boy. Twenty-five shillings is for your housekeeping.’
She saw his face and went on the defensive. ‘Listen here, you, I kept you all your life, it’s about time you paid some of it back.’
As she spoke Jed McAnulty came into the kitchen. He had obviously been asleep. He looked at the money on the table and his face lit up. Nancy saw and turned on him. ‘You needn’t think you’re getting any of this, ’cos you’re not.’
George sighed and hastily picked up the two half-crowns. He couldn’t have the shoes and bus it to work. He’d have to save up. His newfound freedom dissolved around his ears while Nancy and her boyfriend fought. George walked into the front room and sat on the settee. A little while later he heard the back door slam and his mother’s high heels on the concrete pathway. Jed walked into the front room.
‘She’s gone to get the chips.’ Jed sat on the chair by the fire and ran his plastic comb through his hair. ‘I don’t know why you don’t get yourself a little place, Georgie. Don’t give that old bat your dosh.’
He was silent, staring into the fire.
‘Listen to me, son, she gets a fortune doing what she does. She don’t need your money, she’s taking it for spite. I’ve never known a woman like her in me life.’
George looked at the man calmly.
‘You live off her, Jed. That’s where all her money goes.’
Jed bit his lip and grinned.
‘Me and your mother’s got an arrangement. I supply her with the means to do her job, that’s all. But all that aside, son, she’s got a small fortune stashed, she don’t need your money.’
George knew it was true. Knew that Jed was trying to help him. But as always his loyalty to his mother came to the forefront.
‘All you men - the men she meets - you all take advantage of her.’
Jed grinned again. ‘Listen, boy, your mother likes her way of life. She’s one of the only Toms . . . I mean, working women . . . I know who loves her job.’
George closed his eyes. Jed brought men to the house for Nancy and then sat drinking downstairs while she plied her trade upstairs. The last man Nancy had had was a big Irishman who had made George part of his arrangement. Jed, in fairness, never tried anything like that on. When Nancy had mentioned it he had gone mad, saying that she was unnatural. George had quite liked Jed after that. He seemed to have taken over where Edith had left off.
‘Think about what I’m saying, son. You got a good little job, try and get yourself a room somewhere.’
Neither was aware that Nancy was standing in the kitchen listening to the conversation, having forgotten her own purse, which was stuffed full of money. Money that Jed knew about but couldn’t find. She had come back to the house and heard everything. Her face set in a deep frown, she went out of the back door quietly and off to the chip shop.
George lay in bed listening to the quietness. He was tired out but couldn’t sleep. Jed’s words were echoing in his head. If he left home and got a room he could have a life of his own. He fantasised about having a little place with nice wallpaper and a record player. He saw it in his mind as if it was real. A clean candlewick bedspread on the double bed. A stack of records by the record player and an electric fire to keep him warm. Maybe a small wardrobe with nice clothes and shoes in it. And mats either side of the bed. In one corner of the room was a comfortable chair, with his favourite books on a coffee table alongside. He was so deep in his fantasy that he didn’t hear his bedroom door open. When Nancy sat on the edge of his bed he was startled.
‘Georgie boy?’ Her voice was low and soft.
He didn’t answer.
Nancy turned on the lamp by his bed and looked down at him, her face wreathed in smiles. She took a ten-shilling note from her dressing-gown pocket and placed it on the night table.
‘That’s for you, Georgie. Fifteen bob a week should be enough for your housekeeping. I don’t like the thought of you walking to work like that, especially in this weather.’
George stared at her warily. She raised her hand and automatically he flinched. He heard her deep throaty chuckle, then felt her cool hands on his face as she caressed him. The hands moved down his body on to his chest, moving in circular motions that made his skin prickle. Against his will he felt the erection and pulled the sheets up over his stomach. Nancy pulled them down and grinned at him.
‘You wouldn’t leave your mummy, Georgie boy, would you?’
Her voice was husky and George could smell her perfume as she moved nearer.
He was willing her to go away. Begging her in his mind to leave him alone, but the habits of childhood are hard to break. He associated Nancy with excitement. He felt her fingers grasp his penis, and closed his eyes tight.
Nancy stroked him. Her eyes were brilliant in the candlelight. ‘Mummy loves you, Georgie boy.’
He ejaculated, his thin body jerking frenziedly.
‘And Georgie loves his mummy, doesn’t he?’
She kissed him on the lips, pulling him towards her. Then, turning off the lamp she left the room as quietly and unobtrusively as she entered it.
George felt the stickiness on his thighs and suddenly the dam burst. He cried - hard, shuddering sobs that were as confused as his mind. He pushed his fists into his eyes to stem the tears. Because he hated her. He hated her so much. He hated the things she had done to him, he hated the way she made him feel and hated the way she touched him. It frightened him. But most frightening of all was that, as much as he hated her, he loved her.
He loved her so much.
Nancy lay beside Jed listening to the boy’s sobs, and smiled. George was all she had and no one left her. At least, not until she was finished with them.
She slept. Jed turned over and broke wind loudly, sleeping contentedly, unaware that after his conversation with George, his days were numbered.
George awoke to a cooked breakfast and bussed it to work on a full stomach. In his half-hour lunch break he bought himself some new shoes. He went home on the bus to a cooked dinner.
Nancy made a big fuss of him. It wasn’t until later in the evening he found out Jed had gone. If he had been a more worldly boy he mi
ght have realised what she was doing. Instead, as usual, he was grateful for the respite in her baiting of him.
The events of the night before were forced from his mind. Until the next time.
Chapter Twenty
Chief Constable Frederick Flowers was sitting in his office reading the latest reports on the Grantley Ripper. He was not happy with what he saw. It was the beginning of February and so far the man had got away with four murders. All murders were newsworthy, he conceded that, but sex murders like these seemed to grab the public interest and the daily papers made the most of this fact. His calls were now being screened because both the Sun and the Star were after something to pin on the police force. Flowers sat back in his seat.
After twenty-two years on the force he had seen many changes. He could remember when the police were respected, admired and feared - yes, feared. Now, if you grabbed a suspect by the arm the chances were his MP would shout out from the House of Commons: ‘Police brutality’. Then, when something like this happened, everyone expected an arrest within twenty-four hours.
He frowned. If they did catch the man, the bleeding hearts would get him. By the time the psychologists and the social workers and every tin pot liberal with a BSc after their name had finished, the man would be found to be unfit to stand trial and would be put away in Broadmoor with a better style of living than he had ever been accustomed to. He had seen it too many times before. At the moment though, the papers and the public were after his blood, so Chummy had to be caught - and quick.
Flowers picked up the reports again, but his heart wasn’t really in them. He had wanted to play golf today, like he did every Wednesday, but that was a no-no. All he needed was a picture of him on the course during a major investigation and the papers would finish him overnight. He was so deep in thought when his secretary buzzed him, he actually jumped in his seat.
He pressed the button on his intercom.
‘What?’
Outside, Janet rolled her eyes to the ceiling. She did not like Frederick Flowers very much and his abrupt manner got on her nerves.
‘There are two men downstairs to see you, sir, a Mr Kelly and a Mr Gabney. Shall I tell the desk sergeant to send them up?’
Frederick Flowers felt his mouth go dry and a wave of nausea washed over his body. Patrick Kelly, here? If someone saw them and put two and two together . . .
The logical part of his brain reminded him that Kelly had never been convicted of anything, that he had every right to be in a police station. But his gut told him it was dangerous to be professionally associated with Kelly at the station. They met socially, as many police and villains did - that was part and parcel of everyday life. They were masons, they were both members of the same clubs. They both socialised regularly with the local MP. But all the same, to have him here, in his office, in front of all his staff . . . Suppose he called him Freddie?
‘Sir, can I send up Mr Kelly and Mr Gabney?’ ‘Oh yes, yes, Janet. Show them up please.’
The worst thing was, there was no way he could refuse to see him.
Flowers opened a drawer in his desk and took out a small packet of Settlers; he popped two into his mouth and chewed them noisily while he waited for Kelly.
Why couldn’t he just see him at the club as usual? What was important enough to bring him here?
By the time Janet showed the two men into his office, Flowers had calmed down, but as she shut the door behind her the sourness returned to Flowers’s face.
‘Have you gone mad? Coming here like this? Do you realise I have got the press practically camped out on the doorstep? Why couldn’t you have seen me as usual in the club?’
Kelly looked at the tall greying man in front of him. He guessed that he and Flowers were of an age. But dissatisfaction with his life had aged Flowers. He had a large paunch that he tried to hold in with a corset and he dyed his hair. All in all, Kelly thought that Flowers was a silly, vain man and he disliked him immensely.
His voice dripped ice.
‘Are you taking the piss out of me?’
Flowers blinked rapidly as Kelly stared him out.
Patrick pointed a stiff finger at Flowers and enjoyed seeing the man flinch.
‘In case it escaped your notice, Freddie,’ he spoke the man’s Christian name with contempt, ‘my daughter was murdered recently. I know the news reached you like, ’cause I can remember mentioning it to you myself on several occasions.’ The sarcasm was not lost on Flowers or Willy.
Patrick sat down and his minder followed suit. Flowers returned to his seat behind his desk. He had dropped a clanger and knew it. But he was relieved. If the press got wind of who Kelly was, then the fact that his daughter was one of the victims would cover up the fact that he and the Chief Constable met socially.
‘I’m sorry, Patrick, but this place is literally under siege at the moment.’
‘And you’ve missed your golf as well? My heart’s breaking for you.’
Flowers did not like the fact that Kelly had hit the nail straight on the head but he swallowed the insult. Kelly was a formidable man and knew too much about Flowers and others ever to be made an enemy.
Janet came in with the coffee and left it on the desk. She smiled at Patrick briefly before leaving. Flowers poured it with a hand that was trembling slightly. Kelly always affected him like this.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I have a proposition for you, Freddie me old son.’
Flowers looked perplexed. Surely Kelly wasn’t here to talk business?
‘What kind of proposition?’
‘It’s about the murderer. I think I know how we can catch the ponce.’
Flowers put down his coffee cup.
‘Do you know who he is?’ He knew that Patrick Kelly had a price on the man’s head. In some circles it was common knowledge.
Patrick sipped his coffee slowly.
‘No, I don’t know. If I did then he’d be dead, Freddie. Deader than a week-old kipper. No. I don’t know who he is, but I know how we can catch him. I need your help, though.’
‘In what way?’ Flowers was puzzled.
‘In Leicester a few years ago every man in the vicinity of a murder case was given a blood test. Which narrowed down the police’s line of inquiry.’
Flowers put up his hand in a gesture of dismissal. ‘It would cost too much money, Patrick. Plus there’s no guarantee it would work. You don’t know the whole of it. We’d have the NCCL after us, not to mention every other crackpot group. They’d say it was just an excuse to monitor people. That their DNA samples would be ready and available for investigation in every sex crime that occurred. That it was an infringement of their civil liberties. Oh, you don’t know the half of it.’
Patrick finished his coffee and put his cup on the desk. ‘Listen, Freddie, I couldn’t give a monkey’s bollock for any of this. It is going to be done, and I am going to pay for it. So just button your mutton for five minutes and listen to me. All right?’
Kelly’s eyes were hard and Flowers felt the power of the man in front of him.
Patrick Kelly began to talk, slowly and deliberately. After five minutes he had Flowers in a state of fear so acute he could taste it. But after fifteen minutes he could see the sense of what Kelly was saying and relaxed. Two hours later they had reached an amicable arrangement. Patrick got up to leave.
‘I had a man in here yesterday evening - Daniel Burrows.’ Flowers waited a few seconds for the name to sink in before he started to talk again.
‘He seems to think that I should reprimand his ex-wife because of an association with your good self.’
Flowers relaxed. There, it was out!
He watched Patrick’s eyes, which were like pieces of flint. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Kelly went from the room. Fifteen minutes later Flowers also left for the day. For the rest of the afternoon Patrick Kelly made numerous phone calls from home. By eight that evening he had spoken to the DPP, two prominent cabinet members and a host of other p
eople. He phoned Flowers back at seven fifteen with the result of his efforts.
The next day Kate and Caitlin were both called into Ratchette’s office. Kate was surprised to see the Chief Constable in there. When everyone was seated he spoke.
‘I understand, Detective Inspector Burrows, that you are of the opinion that as all we have in the way of evidence is the genetic fingerprint of the murderer, we should set about taking blood samples of all males from fourteen to sixty-five in this area?’
Kate looked around at the three men.
‘Yes, sir. I do believe that. If nothing else it would eliminate an awful lot of people.’
‘But surely the killer would not be foolish enough to take the test?’
Kate shrugged.
‘That’s as may be, sir. But if only some people did, at least it would narrow the field of suspects. A majority of those would be eliminated through corroborated statements. That would leave . . .’
‘All right, all right, we get the picture.’ Flowers’s voice was impatient.
The room went quiet. Kate saw Caitlin and Ratchette look at one another briefly. She knew then that something was going on.
Flowers took out a large white handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. He made a bit of a performance out of it and Kate sensed he was playing for time.
‘You fill them in on the details, Ratchette. I have to get back.’ With that, he walked from the room. Kate watched him leave in amazement.
‘What on earth’s going on here?’ Her voice was plaintive.
Ratchette smiled at her. ‘You got what you wanted, Kate. You got the blood and saliva testing.’
She sat back in her seat, stunned.
‘My God!’
Caitlin laughed. ‘It’s all set up, Katie. I’ve never seen anything arranged so quickly since my daughter’s wedding. The testing starts on Monday the twelfth of February.’
Kate turned to him.
‘How come you knew? Why was the Chief Constable in such a foul mood? Just what’s going on down here?’