We’d leapt through these hoops in 2008. The Nigerian police had elicited some sort of statement from Joyce under oath, but it had petered out through lack of corroborating evidence. I was beginning to regret having come.
‘She’s confessed to the whole thing: bringing him in from Germany; handing him over to someone here.’
She told me how at the end of the previous year she and Will had flown out to Lagos at ITV’s expense. With a bit of robust journalism Ronke had tracked down Joyce’s brother and then Joyce herself. The interview had contained some prompting and Joyce had appeared a little short of marbles, but Ronke was in no doubt about the weight of her confession to the trafficking. She corroborated my theories about the preparation for and act of sacrifice, as well as the ritual deposition in the river. And she repeated her claim that she knew the boy’s identity.
‘She has given me an actual name.’ Ronke looked at me expectantly.
I leaned forward.
‘Ikpomwosa.’
I repeated the name slowly, separating each syllable: ‘Ik-pom-wo-sa.’ If Joyce was to be believed, the boy in the river now had a name.
She then passed me a photograph.
It was the one the police had seized from Joyce, taken in Germany at the time she was trafficking him to London. The image will always be etched on my mind: a young boy in a blue buttoned-up jacket, with innocent eyes and a smile that carried all the cheekiness, delight and zest for life a boy of six should have. Joyce had kept it because her own two children, now in care in the UK, were standing alongside him.
42
Devon, February 2011
‘Phone call for you.’
Faith leaned out of the window.
‘Very bad moment. I’m teaching Silas how to play a Pietersen chip through mid-wicket. Tell them I’ll call back.’
I placed the plastic ball on the grass in front of us and together we pinged it into a nearby rose bush.
‘He says it’s really important . . .’
The voice at the other end of the line sounded strangely euphoric.
‘Dr Hoskins? I’m Simon Metcalfe and I’ve spent the past three years looking for you. You did an excellent job. Kicking over the traces, I mean.’
I racked my mind. Metcalfe?
‘Are you familiar with the National Policing Improvement Agency?’
I confessed that I wasn’t.
He explained that the NPIA pulled together all the major cases in the UK, and sometimes beyond, then sought specialist assistance for the senior investigating officers.
‘There’s been another African child murdered in London. Witchcraft case. The kindoki thing you used to talk about. Terrible torture; days and days of it. We need you back. Please. For this poor little bugger’s sake.’
I stared at the picture on the desk in front of me. Those sparkling eyes gazed back.
I sat down and nudged the mouse. My computer screen flickered into life. I nestled the receiver under my chin and clicked the Word icon. Without quite realizing it, I was about to start taking notes.
Sometime later I wandered back into the kitchen. Faith was setting a plate of tea down in front of Silas, who was busy trying to describe what the Pietersen shot should look like. His glass of milk seemed as if it might be about to get the treatment. It was the perfect family scene. The one these children should have had. Faith saw the expression on my face.
‘You . . . are . . . joking . . .’
I shook my head weakly.
‘I knew he was a police officer. I just knew it.’
I nodded.
She looked down at Silas. ‘Flipping heck. After all these years.’
‘It’s another African boy, in London. A kindoki exorcism.’ I lowered my voice so Silas might not hear. ‘It’s very, very nasty. They say they need me . . .’
‘All I ask is that you don’t bring it into our lives like you did last time. I don’t mind, honestly. If they really need you, they need you, and you must help. But keep it separate this time, OK? Keep this as . . . well, this.’ She nodded from me to Silas.
‘That seems reasonable,’ I said quietly.
‘No, I mean it. Keep it away from here. From him. From us. Find a place to work on it, and then have your fix here. Just don’t bring the darkness back into our family life. Or our marriage.’
As a coping strategy, it suddenly seemed blindingly obvious.
43
London, March 2011
It was a warm day in early spring as the DLR train approached Royal albert Dockside station. The Olympic stadium rose like a toadstool from the flat wasteland of the East End. Brash developments were interspersed with sections of marshland and rows of houses unimpressed by the sudden presence of flash new money. New-builds looked as if they had been parachuted in, untouched by their surroundings. The ExCel Centre glistened in the sunshine.
Newham Dockside, as it was Nicknamed, had apparently cost the local borough – working amongst some of London’s most deprived inhabitants – at least £130 million. Melanie Adegbite had sounded quite sheepish when she’d given me directions. Now I could see why. The central atrium looked more like the Eden Project than a council office block. Giant palms soared upwards, surrounded by a glass fortress. A reception desk was tucked furtively to one side, doing its best not to detract from the spectacle. I’d witnessed such misplaced opulence in parts of Africa; I hadn’t expected to find it here.
Melanie was in her late thirties. She greeted me with a warm smile and explained that she was a safeguarding intervention officer. We would be joined by representatives of the different parties in the case.
For the next two hours I sat in a conference room answering questions on Congolese culture, witchcraft, exorcism and attitudes to children. The assembled company needed guidance on motivation as well as assistance with the family network involved in the case. The tentacles of this crime seemed to spread far and wide and I was their link to a dark and unfamiliar world. I outlined the basic tenets of kindoki and deliverance. As the meeting closed Melanie reminded us of the Section 39 court order imposed on the case – effectively gagging the media until the trial.
I emerged into the late afternoon sunshine. As I climbed up to the DLR platform I looked out across the rooftops. I paused there for some minutes, oblivious to the arriving and departing trains. Somewhere to the right of the Olympic stadium lay Hathaway Crescent, Manor Park. One of the most brutal cases of child torture and murder in this country’s history had taken place there, with possible paedophile links in the UK and in Europe. I pulled my jacket more tightly around me and headed back into the city.
That evening I laid out the case documentation on my desk and began to go over it once more. I’d taken a flat in London. It wasn’t anything grand – it didn’t need to be: I had all the space and beauty I could wish for in the West Country – but it gave me a way of keeping my work on the case physically separate from our home life. I spent the week in London when required, and went back to Devon for long weekends.
Kristy Bamu arrived in London on 16 December 2010. His parents had sent him and his four siblings to stay with their older sister Magalie, her boyfriend Eric Bikubi and their young son.
The mother and father were from the DR Congo but now lived in Paris. They travelled regularly to Britain and worshipped in a revivalist church in North London. During the autumn they had become concerned that at least one of their children was possessed by kindoki. Magalie and Eric, who both held British citizenship, were members of the same church; the London trip would enable them to properly investigate the matter. What triggered the parents’ conviction was not clear, but it seemed they had begun suffering from bad luck and bad dreams – ‘voodoo dreams’ as their father described it. They seemed particularly concerned that the sorcery would affect the other children.
Between 19 and 24 December all the children underwent sustained and systematic torture. They were made to stand in a line for all four days without food or drink and were beaten with a h
orrifying variety of instruments until one of them cracked. Police later found over thirty weapons, including light bulbs, a six-inch knife, four-inch pliers, large floor tiles, a wooden stick, a table leg, a large black metal dumb-bell, a small metal pole and a hammer.
When the eldest son, Kristy, wet himself in terror, it appears that Eric and Magalie focused on him as the most likely conduit for the kindoki. Kristy had tried in vain to cover up his incontinence. The poor boy must have been absolutely terrified. During a graphic phone call to his parents on Christmas Eve, a traumatized Kristy told them he thought he’d be killed by Eric unless they came to rescue him. The phone call ended. Nothing happened.
A ferocious onslaught was now unleashed on the boy. The two adults took it in turns to torture him. When Eric grew tired, Magalie took over until he felt sufficiently recharged. They forced other siblings to join the torture on pain of death if they didn’t conform. Teeth and nails were pulled out, fingers smashed with a hammer. Pliers were used to cut off parts of Kristy’s body. He was forced to drink the urine of one of the other siblings and he was beaten and stabbed with a variety of instruments, suffering over a hundred serious injuries.
Later that day Kristy was dragged into the bathroom and submerged in water. The other children were forced to sit on top of him and watch the final moments of his life. Once his struggle was at an end, Eric and Magalie sprinkled the water from the bath over the children in some sort of purification rite. Both Victoria Climbié and Child B had also been put in the bath.
Magalie Bamu then telephoned for an ambulance.
When the crew arrived there was blood splattered all over the floor of the flat, and all over the walls, curtains and ceiling. They found blood-stained instruments strewn everywhere. CPR on Kristy proved almost impossible as dislodged teeth were stuck down his throat.
I got up from my desk, tears welling and feeling physically sick. I needed some air. I stepped out into the cool evening. People bustled back and forth, jostling for position on the pavements. I’d chosen this place, not far from Clapham Junction, as it offered me a quick escape route on Southwest Trains. It also had a vibe I liked. Right now the busyness was a good antidote to the horror of what I’d just been reading.
I wandered down to The Falcon, the pub on the intersection of St John’s Hill, Falcon Road and Lavender Hill. There was a reassuring hum from within, and the familiar smell of beer wafted out. I pushed the door open and within minutes was being served by a smart barman in black trousers, matching apron and white shirt.
I was too shaken by the case to want to dwell on which of the dozen real ales I should choose, so I let him decide for me. A moment later I was settled at my own table looking across the street to the old Arding and Hobbs department store building.
Boisterous young people spilled onto the street from the Slug and Lettuce next door, but in here the hum was comfortingly restrained. The horseshoe-shaped bar helped induce a sense of cosiness and tradition. It was perfect. I cradled the glass in my hands and reflected on what I had been reading. The attack on Kristy was brutal. I wondered if such sustained savagery against a child had been seen before in this country.
I sipped my beer and watched the buses turning through the intersection. A kaleidoscope of light. Cars whisked their passengers to all quarters of the city and beyond. Immediately outside the window strangers of every gender, colour, age and belief moved along the pavements. Laughter erupted from next door and someone struck up a song. It might not have been pretty, but it was blissfully normal. Psychopathic killers were still rare, and I had to keep remembering that. I downed the last of the ale, thanked the barman and made my way back to the flat.
I picked up the pathology report.
There were three concurrent causes of death: haemorrhage at the base of the brain below the cerebellum; drowning and internal bleeding. A second post-mortem revealed a screw in Kristy’s intestine, showing it had been ingested some hours before death.
I didn’t sleep well that night. I was out of tune with London’s ambient noise, and the combination of radiator heat and case notes sent me into a state between wakefulness and fitful dreams that included screams, witchcraft and soapy warm ale being served by a leering barman carrying a hammer.
At first light I pulled on my running gear and headed out onto Clapham Common. I’d never needed much sleep and I knew a few miles at dawn would prepare me for the day ahead. Besides, I had another marathon coming up soon.
44
London and Devon, April–May 2011
Over the next few weeks my new police mobile began to ring with ever greater frequency. A queue of new cases formed, from gangland attacks to child abuse; Africa to Malaysia; it seemed as if the dam had burst. I was suddenly extremely busy.
The coping strategy seemed to be working.
On Friday afternoons, as the train pulled out of Crewkerne station, bound for the Devon border, a simple flick of the thumb switched off my email until I headed back up to the metropolis the following week. The NPIA knew how to get hold of me in an emergency, but this way I could keep the regular casework at bay. Faith was right, but it was for my sanity as much as hers.
April saw me run the London marathon again for the National Children’s Foundation. I’d shed so much weight in training that I was looking gaunt, but I was becoming a fairly serious runner for my age. Some sponsors were prepared to shell out extra donations for the children if I could break the three-hour barrier. As I set out from Blackheath in the great throng of 32,000 participants I felt positive and confident, despite the effects of a nasty migraine a few days before.
By the time we reached the halfway point at Tower Bridge I was worried. The sun was beating down fiercely, my right hip was starting to ache, and the brand-new white shirt I had donned for the charity was stained red by my bleeding nipples.
I was hurting, and for the first time in a race I seriously felt like giving up. There was another marathon in Edinburgh in a few weeks’ time, and I could regroup for that. Dropping out might be sensible.
As I pushed up the incline of the bridge I found myself glancing to the right over the parapet towards the distant water. The river was the colour of steel. Another man had glanced over this parapet at this very point as the world was still reeling from the events of 9/11. He had glimpsed a flash of orange in the water and hurried down the steps to discover the mutilated body of a small boy. A boy who became known as Adam.
There was nothing sinister in the water now, just some scummy foam and a cluster of plastic bottles.
I pictured Ikpomwosa’s beautiful face, as I had done many times in recent months. The boy in the river, who now had a name and an identity, but whose life had been taken so cruelly.
I pulled the cricket cap down over my eyes and dug deep, very deep. I don’t remember much of the remaining miles except pain, but I crossed the finish line in two hours and fifty minutes.
Ronke Phillips also ran the marathon for a children’s charity that day. We’d continued to swap training notes up until race day, and we swapped congratulations as we finished.
Eric Bikubi and Magalie Bamu appeared before Mr Justice Ryder at the Old Bailey a few days later, to be remanded in custody pending trial. The media were starting to circle, and Ronke had a proposal from the ITV news team.
Shortly after, I was sitting in front of a bank of computers assigned to the London Tonight team.
‘We obviously wouldn’t broadcast until the day of the convictions,’ Ronke said. ‘The usual rules apply. We prepare the piece as much in advance as we can, then hit the transmit button on the day of the verdict.’
‘Sounds good,’ I replied. ‘So where do I fit in?’
‘We want to take you to Kinshasa for a week’s filming.’
‘Oh fuck.’
The expletive had come out before I could stop it. Faces peered over screens, eyebrows raised. One lady looked at me particularly sternly. Ronke was clearly expecting some explanation.
‘The last time I w
ent out there with a TV crew I was nearly killed. I swore I’d never go back.’
Ronke looked at me firmly. ‘I do understand,’ She said, not altogether unkindly. ‘I know what it can be like out there. We will film it very low key, with just a cameraman, you and me.’
The BBC crew had been bigger – and white: we must have stuck out like a sore thumb. This would be very different.
I was still wavering when I caught sight of the photo she had pinned to her monitor. The photo of Ikpomwosa.
It didn’t take more than a moment to agree.
But on the train home, as Devon approached I found it increasingly hard to explain to myself why I’d agreed to do this film, let alone to Faith and Silas. Until I thought once more of a little boy’s smiling face. The boy in the river.
45
Kinshasa, August 2011
N’djili Airport, Kinshasa, on a tropically misty evening in the middle of August: my fellow passengers erupted in applause as we landed – a delightfully African response to the wonder of air travel. I wasn’t in the mood to join in. The last time I’d been here, broken and exhausted by the heartrending cases I’d witnessed, I’d vowed never to return.
Six years later, I was back with another film crew. Persuading Faith of the wisdom of the trip had taken some doing, but I think she’d always known why I needed to make it. She was holding the fort in Devon, her energies focused on our family home, and she looked forward to seeing me return. That was all I needed to know as I set off once more for Central Africa.
It seemed incredible to me that a quarter of a century had passed since I’d first landed here, complete with Land Rover driveshaft. As I walked into the terminal building with Ronke and Bill, the cameraman, little seemed to have changed. Except for the conveyor belt: tonight it was working. The bags were still hurled through the hole in the wall, but they now made their way relatively smoothly to their awaiting owners.
The Boy in the River: A Shocking True Story of Ritual Murder and Sacrifice in the Heart of London Page 25