by Martina Cole
She had seen plenty over the years but had made a conscious effort not to label people or assume anything about them because of their home, lifestyle or attitude. It was this that had kept her sane during George Markham’s reign of terror.
She liked Jenny and knew how easy it was to become jaded in the type of job they both did. It was human nature. But there was still a part of Kate that saw the goodness in people. If it had not been there she would never have accepted Patrick Kelly as her lover.
Though, she reminded herself, he had turned out to be rather different from the way she’d imagined. He had let her down badly but she would still rather try and give humanity as a whole the benefit of the doubt until it was no longer possible.
She had learned a useful lesson from her daughter: never judge a book by its cover. Lizzy had taken an overdose when her mother had found out all about her and her activities. Kate had thought her daughter was still a virgin, waiting for Mr Right, when instead she was into all sorts of things, from drug taking to gang banging. But for all that she was still Lizzy, Kate’s daughter, her own flesh and blood.
Some people looked and acted good but were nevertheless bad. Others looked and acted bad and were basically good. Kate had found that out the hard way.
When she had read her daughter’s diary she had been devastated, as had her mother. Evelyn had been even more disgusted than Kate if that was possible. Lizzy had actually given local lads marks out of ten!
Reading it had made Kate feel sick, physically sick. But Lizzy was still her daughter. That was why she had found it in her heart to sympathise with Lenny Parkes. She knew the shock and horror of finding out a child was not only sexually active, but sexually active with everyone and anyone. It changed you, and it changed the way you perceived your child.
Patrick Kelly had learned that lesson too with Mandy. But why was she wasting her time thinking about him? He was a liar and a bloody cheat. Kate could have wept with the hopelessness of it all.
‘When you’re ready get your stuff and I’ll give you a key, OK?’ she told Jenny, who smiled her thanks.
Willy was given a glass of water and his parched throat eased slightly. As the cool liquid dribbled down it he felt almost high with relief. He was wasted and he knew it; his strength was all gone, and he realised that his captors knew this too. Untied at last, he was unable to move himself from the narrow Z-bed.
He listened to his jailer leave the room and lay in the darkness once more. At least they had given him something to drink and after nearly a week he was grateful for that. He was actually grateful to his captor for a small kindness and that troubled him. He should hate the ponce with a vengeance but he was too weak and too tired to get up the energy.
Willy wished Pat would get his arse in gear and get him out. He had a terrible pain in his kidneys and guessed this was something to do with being kept captive, lying down constantly and having nothing to eat or drink.
He tried, unsuccessfully, to raise himself. Nausea enveloped him like a shroud and he laid his head down carefully. He did not want to vomit and risk dehydration.
He’d not had the strength to talk to his captor, yet there were questions spinning around his head day and night. Was Patrick dead? That thought terrified him, but he was beginning to think it might be the case as he was nowhere nearer release than he had been and he knew it. His captor was too cocky, too sure of himself.
If Patrick was dead, then so was Willy.
Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it down. He could smell himself now. He’d had to evacuate where he lay and was sore, dreadfully sore, all over.
Closing his eyes, he felt the sting of tears and fought them back bravely. He must not break down now. Pat might be negotiating his release even as he lay here in despair.
Turning his head, he saw a large rat peering at him through the gloom. Shaking his head, Willy decided he’d better start counting again. Anything to take his mind off what was happening. Because it was getting to him now, really getting to him. And he wasn’t sure how long it would be before he started screaming or crying.
This frightened him more than anything. Being seen to be weak was something he had fought against all his natural life. Acting tough was in his nature, in his very bones. But William Gabney, hard kid and harder man, was finally near to breaking point.
Kate and Jenny were getting an update and both realised that ‘demoralised’ was too mild a word to describe how the team was feeling. Child murder was an emotive crime. Eventually it depressed even the most hardened officer.
Kate surveyed the glum expressions around her. Lenny Parkes’s murderous attack on Kevin Blankley had somehow given them all a boost yet they knew they had lost in Kevin a vital witness for their investigation. And Davey Carling was dead, too.
Kate sometimes wished she could bring the bleeding hearts in to see the knock-on effect of a child murder or rape and then ask them to justify the release of the guilty parties. All the man-hours put in for free by dedicated officers. All their disgust at hearing the sordid details and having to follow up on them. The crawling of the skin that accompanied just being close to the perpetrators of these crimes. She knew most of the people in front of her now would say they would willingly act as hangman to scum like that if the law permitted it.
She listened to Jenny raising morale, saw how she made them all feel they were vital to the enquiry and doing a good job. If only they could find something to make the cases stick, they would all be celebrating overnight.
‘If the women were ID’d how come we haven’t enough to go with?’ The young PC’s voice was low and tentative, but Kate watched as the others nodded to one another in agreement.
‘I mean, ma’am, all the mothers could be placed at the scene . . .’
She stood up to take the question.
‘The fact that they are the children’s mothers would naturally put them at the scene. Mums touch their kids all the time, so consequently they would share fibres and other physical evidence that we would normally use to place an unknown perp at the scene. And remember that one of them, Jackie Palmer, has a very good alibi. She could not have been at the scene as she is on CCTV at the Black Rose at the very time her child was taken from the nursery. So where does this leave us as regards her?’
Golding’s voice was raised in reply as Kate had known it would be.
‘But she’s the only one with any kind of alibi. We’ve been all over the CCTV from Lakeside and we can’t locate Kerry Alston who insists she wasn’t anywhere near her kids all afternoon. The other bird won’t even say where she was, and Regina Carlton is a piece of shit basically who had no qualms about leaving her kids on their own and pissing off overnight, or even for a couple of days, according to the neighbours. Yet we’re still fumbling about trying to put them at the scene, even though anything we find that’s forensic is basically a waste of time because, as you pointed out, they would all be in close contact with their kids anyway. But we have witnesses - that must mean something, surely!’
Kate could hear the underlying anger in his voice and privately sympathised. The others were murmuring and nodding their heads in agreement.
‘Well, Mr Golding, you will come across cases like this a lot in your chosen profession, I’m afraid, and you need to bear in mind the absolute necessity of back-up evidence. Any good brief would piss all over forensics in his opening argument. “Of course my client has hairs, fibres, blood even, on them. It’s only to be expected when they’re caring for a child.” No, you have to find more than the obvious, I’m afraid. Look back over other similar cases and you will find in those that relied on this sort of evidence, all too often the accused walked from the courts. I do not intend to let that happen here, OK?
‘We have photographs of the kids and I’d lay money there are videos too, somewhere,’ Kate told the silent room. ‘We need to track down Blankley’s brother and check that out. The Met are getting back to me on him. I am picking up the social reports at long bloody last this
morning. I will get them copied and then you will all be able to see what the social workers think of the clients and what we can gather from that.
‘The child from the dump is still unidentified. We’re contacting Interpol and trying to establish if he might be from abroad. As you all know that’s not in the least uncommon. Two years ago, fifty-five foreign children, mainly Romanian, were found in Amsterdam being used in pornographic literature. A few kids even turned up here. Christ knows there can’t be more than one P-ring in Grantley - at least I bloody well hope not!’
Kate looked at her team and told them: ‘I want you all to dig as deep as possible into the backgrounds of these women and their families and friends. We have to find something - have to. As for the witnesses, we’ve all seen what can happen to them, haven’t we? That’s why I want more and more evidence. A witness can be confused by a good brief, can be made to look unreliable. You all know this. I want to make our case as watertight as possible.’
Everyone nodded and murmured their agreement and she smiled.
‘Right now I need some volunteers to help collate everything on computer. We want to try and put the mothers together at some time. I want to be able to prove that some of them knew one another, just in case this is a conspiracy of Ps and their victims.’
At this point Jenny broke in.
‘And I want to hear from known sex offenders so I’d like to see if we can locate any from Grantley and try to get anything from them about these mothers and kids. The fathers are another worry as are grandparents. We have no idea who they are and the girls aren’t telling. Now maybe they don’t know who the fathers are, but maybe they do. We have to try and see if we can put any names about that might give us an inkling of how deep this ring goes and exactly who may be involved in it. Personally I think the kids aren’t linked as such though some of the mothers are guilty as hell. But thinking and proving are two different things. One area where we can link them is the paedophile activity, but that is separate at the moment from the murder and attempted murder enquiries.
‘This is deep, hard as fucking hell and confusing, but that is par for the course with this kind of case. Bear in mind that unlike blaggers, burglars, et cetera, paedophiles have more reason than any to keep themselves out of clink. They are as hated in there as they are out here. Fear keeps them quiet. Also, though paedophiles come across as passive, they are aggressive with one another, and use fear on the kids and also on the people they recruit to help them. Some groups use initiation ceremonies where a new recruit is filmed without their knowledge and then blackmailed afterwards. We will eventually uncover layer after layer of deceit, lies and confusion. This is how they work, and this is why it is so hard to pin anything definite on them. But if we persevere we will come out on top.’
‘We’d better, ma’am. This is sickening me and everyone else. These women are fucking scum . . .’ broke in a red-faced DS.
Kate took over. ‘We have to keep an open mind, remember. A woman who neglects her kids must not necessarily be seen as someone who is capable of violating them. Remember that. Don’t let your emotions muddy your thinking. Now, you all have an objective today. See if you can achieve it.’
Ten minutes later the women stared at one another glumly across the empty briefing room.
‘Listen, Kate, this always happens,’ Jenny assured her, ‘so don’t worry. It’s the harshness of the case that causes this general depression. Once they make another breakthrough everyone will start to feel better. Take it from me, I see it all the time.’
‘They’re a good team, Jen, the best.’
Jenny smiled. ‘I know, and they’re learning something new which will stand them in good stead for the future. Now, we need to interview Caroline and get some information from her. She’s hiding something and has been from the off. I intend to find out what she’s so scared of and see if we can’t put it into perspective for her.’
Jacques Vignon opened the back of the curtain-sider with a flourish. He had always regarded himself as having a special nose for smugglers. As he opened the door the driver looked nervous, but that wasn’t unusual with the English. With all the trade wars going on between the two countries it was only to be expected.
But when he heard the little cries coming from the back of the lorry Jacques was amazed. By the light of his powerful torch he saw a young child sitting among the boxes of freight, his face streaked with dirt, snot and ink. He was clearly terrified.
Jacques, a father of six, was overcome with emotion as the little figure stumbled towards him, arms outstretched. He brought the child out into the salty air, hardly able to contain his emotion as he turned to face his colleagues. They were as shocked as he. In all their years they had never seen anything like this before.
The driver of the lorry looked equally stricken and had to grab the side of his curtain-sider to stop himself from fainting clean away.
‘Where did he come from?’ Jonathon’s voice was higher than usual from shock and fear. He knew what the other men were thinking about him and he wanted to scream a denial. So many people mixed up gays with paedophiles, he knew that from listening to his own father and his cronies up the pub.
As they all stared at him he felt terrified denials springing to his lips, but dared not utter a word. It would only have made him look guiltier.
The child was crying now, loudly and heartily, as if the sunlight and salty sea air had given him a new lease of life. The Frenchmen were comforting him, wrapping him in coats to keep him warm. One even managed to find a bar of chocolate for him. Another gave him a drop of Coke from a can he had in his office. The child was thirsty and starving. He stopped crying to take the sustenance he so desperately needed.
The men all gathered around him, exclaiming at his beauty, his sturdiness and his predicament. Their hearts all went out to him and they looked menacingly at Jonathon as if they were going to lynch him at any moment.
The police eventually arrived in force. Jonathon was detained for questioning, and the child was handed over to a policewoman who spoke good English. He hugged her so fiercely it brought tears to the eyes of the onlookers.
Jonathon was terrified. As he explained that he had come from Grantley with his usual load and had had no idea that he was also carrying a child, he could see that he was not believed. He knew his very campness, which he tried so hard to disguise, was already making him a prime suspect and the thought made him feel sick.
Then a man from Interpol arrived with coffee and sandwiches. He explained that Grantley had been in touch already about missing children and that they really had no option but to try and rule him out of the enquiry. But Jonathon knew that they thought he was involved. He was a suspect in a child abduction case. He started to cry then, really cry, and the man let him.
The little boy was cleaned and dressed in borrowed clothes after a thorough examination by a doctor. His large blue eyes seemed interested in what was going on and he kept asking for his mummy. His French rescuers knew what he meant and he was showered with chocolate bars, toys and clothing from kind people who worked at the docks. He loved the attention and ate whatever he was given. He was flown home the same day, and that thrilled him too.
Jonathon, however, was kept in a cell until both the French and the English police had finished interviewing him. He made a statement and was released without charge but he knew it wasn’t over yet. Not by a long chalk. He travelled home in tears, minus his lorry and his self-respect.
He wondered vaguely if he still had a job, let alone a relationship with the man of his dreams.
Caroline Anderson, mother of Christian and his murdered brother Ivor, was still vague about her life and lifestyle.
Kate was getting aggressive and lit a cigarette to hide her growing anger.
‘Come on, Caroline, you know more than you are letting on.’
‘I can’t tell you anything about me job . . .’
Jenny interrupted her. ‘Then that makes you more suspect, doesn’t it? I m
ean, see it from our point of view. What would you think if you were us, and someone was sitting in a cell and not telling all they knew even though it was very important. It was about their kids.’
Caroline bit on her lip, she looked very young and very vulnerable.
Kate’s voice was soft. ‘Just tell us who you work for. We won’t make trouble, I promise.’ She could see Caroline was wavering. Fear was a great incentive, Kate knew that from experience.
‘I know what you think of me and I don’t blame you. But I am more scared of the man I work for than I am of you.’ She was nearly crying. ‘He would see me dead if he thought I had opened me trap.’
‘We could guarantee you protection.’
Caroline shook her head in distress. ‘Not from him.’ She was getting hysterical, her voice rising and her hands shaking so badly she had to put them in her lap. ‘He has the same access as you two. Inside or out he could get to me.’ Caroline was crying, big fat tears rolled down her face and she made no attempt to wipe them away.
‘How can anyone have that much power?’ Jenny’s voice was sceptical and that seemed to penetrate into Caroline’s brain.
‘Fucking think about it, lady. Don’t you think I want to tell you?’
Jenny laughed gently. Then she said sarcastically, ‘You’re good, Caroline - I’ll give you that much. You can act, love. You missed out on your vocation. Are you trying to insinuate it’s a copper then?’
‘I am not insinuating anything, and I ain’t saying a word. I’ve probably said too much already. But you can lock me up, you can throw away the key. Put me on the fucking rack if you like. I will not utter another word.’
She refused to answer anything after that statement. Just sat and sobbed quietly. Later, when she had been removed back to her cell, Kate said to Jenny, ‘She was trying to tell us something.’
But the other woman dismissed it with a wave of her hand.
‘All people accused of child or adult sex crimes try on the Old Bill stance. If I had a quid for every time I heard an accusation like that I would be a millionaire by now. It’s common practice. I mean, think about it. She has thrown the ball back into our court, hasn’t she?’