Evil in the Land Without

by Colin Cotterill

  But this was the CPU, and mail like this raised hackles. They knew too well of the men who had winter residences in Arusha, Mombassa, or other seaside resorts on the East African coast. There they assembled stables of houseboys or girls only too grateful for a few shillings and a meal. If it were necessary to provide sexual services to the nasty foreigners . . . well, it was better than a slower death by starvation. Sometimes.

  The customers were safely beyond the gravity of British law, and had the petty cash to keep the local police deaf and dumb. Interpol kept a list of temporary foreign residents in Kenya, mostly Germans, Italians, and British. Many were known but not convicted paedophiles. Extra-territorial laws were their allies rather than their foe. They fondled and fucked with impunity in their beachfront villas, then returned to overtly conservative lifestyles in Europe. So little funding was available to pursue offshore crime by even the most brazen offenders that those who understood the system were able to float effortlessly beyond its grasp.

  John flipped over the postcard and read the text. He was expecting a 'wish you were here' message from one of the many sleazebuckets who had slipped out of the British prosecution process due to some ambiguous legal crap. But what he read disarmed him. To be true, it shocked him deep in a place he believed had become immune from feeling.

  John Jessel,

  It isn’t you in control. You exist as long as I allow you to. How proud you must be of your round up of the pathetic BLOUKS. Your arrogance has made me angry, and it isn't wise to make somebody as powerful as me angry again. You will have to learn the hard way. You have caused unnecessary hardship to those you profess to protect.

  This is the revenge of The Paw.

  XXX

  P. S. My regards to Eddo.

  John looked up at Yardly. He hid the chaos with his clever eyes.

  "Don't even think of telling me this is a crank, John.

  "Well, isn't it?"

  "Not our regular. How does he know your name? How does he know about the raid? And us? The CPU doesn't have a registered address." She held up the envelope to his face to emphasize that John's name and the CPU location—“3rd floor, Securities Building”—were clearly printed beside the message

  "He's a crank," John repeated and stood and headed out of the office without waiting to be dismissed

  "And who's Eddo?" She called after him

  "No idea, boss." And he was gone.

  She sat clenching her fists, wishing she were a male copper who could get his way just by having a deep voice. She wasn't and she couldn't.

  He walked past the open door to the briefing room without bothering to stop in and say good-bye. As ever, Beth was on duty at the front desk. To people passing outside, this was just one more office belonging to one more company with a forgettable acronym. From outside the glass doors, Beth looked like a frazzled but otherwise boring receptionist. But boring or not, nobody got inside that office unless she wanted them there. She looked up at John, and before buzzing him out she asked, "How well do you get on with your neighbours?"

  "What kind of question is that?"

  "Present simple tense. Non-rhetorical."

  "Well . . . okay I suppose. Is there a point?"

  "We got a call from Sutton Central. There's been a complaint about you."

  "Me? What have I done n—" He nodded his head as the possibility occurred to him. "The street kid?"

  "Your neighbour at 17A reported there was a wino living opposite her who's molesting young boys."

  "Boys? I'm only molesting one."

  "You know how neighbours like to exaggerate."

  John walked into the corridor and ran down the stairs to the rear door of the building. It was raining. Under the small porch he removed the mobile from his pocket. It was usually switched off. He prodded the numbers for his sister's house.

  When John needed someone to answer the phone in a hurry, they never did. It rang so long he felt the battery would run out. He was just about to give up and go over there when Susan answered.

  "Jesus, girl. Where've you bloody been?"

  "I'm very well thanks, John. And you?"

  "Hello, Chick. Sorry. Didn't mean to snap at you."

  "You couldn't possibly have had a bad day already. It's only mid-afternoon and I know you don't start work 'til lunchtime."

  "Bad night, Chick. I have my bad days at night. Listen . . . er . . . how's Eddo?"

  "He's annoying. Can't you hear him?" John noticed for the first time the happy singsong that accompanied the background stereo music. Edward Fossel was possibly the happiest three-and-a-half-year-old John had ever met. Even his rare tantrums fizzled into laughter as if he realized himself how silly he was being. His granny accused her daughter of giving the boy mind-altering drugs and she of all people should know.

  She inferred that Eddo was a passive inhaler of ganja. She argued that the boy would grow up to be some happy fool if his parents didn't learn to control their drug habit.

  She had dropped by to annoy them all one winey Christmas. She didn't come by that often. She'd insisted John arrest the parents. She said she was prepared to sign the complaint. Susan and Bruce were unfit. John was cross-legged under the dining table at the time suckling a bottle of supermarket Scotch. But you couldn't blame dope for the way Eddo was. He was one of those naturally 'up' kids

  "Chick."

  "Yup?"

  "Have you noticed anything . . . out of the ordinary at home?"

  "You mean apart from Bruce?"

  "I'm serious."

  "Stop it. You're scaring me. Like what?"

  "Anybody, I don't know . . . hanging around, watching you?"

  "Oh bum. Now I really am going to have heart failure. What are you trying to tell me, Johno?"

  "Have you, Chick? Have you noticed anyone?"

  "No. Now tell me." The fact that there had never been a secret between them was occasionally difficult for John in his line of work. This was one of those occasions. But he had to tell her straight.

  "One of our weirdos . . . er, mentioned Eddo."

  "What? Oh, John."

  "Look, I don't know how he knows Eddo, or how he knows me for that matter. But it's okay. He isn't in the country. He sent a postcard from Africa."

  "They have planes you know."

  "I know. I know. It scared the shit out of me, too."

  "Well, what do we do? I don't want a siege here at the house."

  "Me neither. I didn't tell the boss. She doesn't know Edward's nickname. She'd be obliged to have you watched 24 hours a day. I was thinking about Aunt Maud."

  "You want us to run away?"

  "I just want you out of harm's way for a while so I can keep my mind clear. Do some investigating."

  "Well, you really know how to stuff up a girl's pregnancy leave. The first chance I get for some peace and quiet away from the caveman." Bruce was off in Berkshire completing a second doctorate in something as useless as the first. So, Susan, Eddo, and the fetus were sharing some quality time together. "But I suppose Aunt Maud's would be nice."

  "Right. That's settled then. Don't open the door to anyone. I'll be there in forty minutes."

  "Bloody hell. That soon. . . ? Okay. It's all quite exciting really. Bruce will love all the intrigue."

  "That's the spirit."

  She was a peculiar lass that Susan. But then again John wasn't exactly 'normal' himself. And their mother was nuttier than a box of almonds. But in situations such as this, insanity came in handy.

  "We'll be ready." She turned to Eddo who was singing karaoke into an old Sunlight washing-up-liquid container. "Okay, Eddo me boy, get your boots on. We're off to visit Auntie Maud."

  John heard the cheer and he knew there wouldn't be any trouble. At least not from his family.

  As he ran to his car through the cool autumn drizzle, he thought about 17A. He didn't feel at all resentful. In fact he intended to commend her for her community vigilance. What this country needed were more people with the balls to report th
eir suspicions, and stuff the consequences. He often suspected 17A had balls. She certainly had a moustache. He'd buy her a bunch of flowers and a razor.

  If he’d been less disturbed by the contents of the card, he may have noticed the rental car and the slightly open window that closed once he'd finished the phone call.

  4

  It was two weeks before he was able to get anything on the postcard threat, and then two leads arrived within an hour of one another. The first he went looking for.

  This “Paw” character was obviously distressed about the BLOUK raid, so there had to be a connection. One of the seven men arrested that day had vanished but apparently not left the country. The others were on bail, pending trial. John spent the day visiting them at their homes or work places. Naturally, they weren’t delighted to see him. It wasn’t in his character to be embarrassed about interviewing men whose lives he was in the process of destroying. But it was also not his way to treat them with disrespect.

  He personally believed they were bad eggs and that no amount of psychological rehabilitation would take the smell away. But they’d been caught and were being punished as the law saw fit. Being rude to them would serve no purpose. What he felt inside about them was his problem, not theirs.

  Only one of the six afforded him what could be described as a conversation. The ex-teacher 'Sir,' lived in a fussy terraced house with lace chair covers and fresh cut flowers. It smelled of these and other strategically placed bowls of dried petals. That and the sweetness of his tea made John feel queasy.

  Sir had a common teacher's disease. He enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He sat in an armchair and talked as if John were a neighbour dropping in for a chat.

  "You fooled me, old boy, I tell you. I didn't even pick the phony accent. And I've been lied to by some of the best. You probably recall I'm something of a performer myself." He looked dreamily towards the lace curtains for a second. "What will happen to my slides?"

  "They won't make it onto Britain’s Funniest Home Videos if that's what you mean."

  "Too bad. Such a lot of planning went into it. I'd hate to think of them being destroyed."

  John looked into the watery eyes of the old man and saw no remorse whatsoever. "We'll probably hang on to them and use them at the training college to show recruits how pathetically compulsive child abusers can get."

  "Ah, that's a relief. I would so hate to be forgotten."

  John put his China teacup on the table beside his chair. "You will be careful with that, won't you. It's very old. It was my mother's."

  "What does the name The Paw mean to you?"

  Sir stared again at the curtain as if his lines were all written there.

  "The Paw, The Paw .... Well, it could be a rather exciting secret name for a cat burglar, or a dog handler."

  After years of interviewing, John had a keenly developed sense of observation. He was sure that the name had found a match somewhere in the teacher's mind. "What do you know about him?"

  Sir smiled and looked from the curtain to John. "Well, personally I thought his performance lacked originality."

  "You've seen him?"

  "As have you, of course."

  John's stomach churned. "You telling me he was at the BLOUK meeting?"

  Sir's smile was beginning to annoy him but it confirmed that The Paw was one of the other six at the presentation. "Which one?"

  "You're no Miss Marple are you, Officer. The chap who did the other slide show of course."

  The members usually gave false names when they communicated but it was obviously difficult to keep your identity secret when you invite people to your home. The CPU had been able to collect data on all the men captured during the raid. They had been to their homes, confiscated evidence, and apparently knew everything there was to know about all of them. John had studied it all. He went through the charge sheet in his mind:

  Marcus Aldy.

  BLOUK Code name: “Dong.”

  37 years old. Born in Burgh Heath, Surrey.

  Occupation: Self-employed.

  Residence: Large flat in Colliers Wood.

  Marital Status: Single (lives alone).

  That was all he could recall offhand, except that Aldy was missing. He hadn't reported to his local station as stipulated under the bail agreement, and he hadn't gone back to his flat to collect his clothes. He'd just disappeared. Immigration had no record of him leaving the country, but there was any number of ways to slip out of England's green and pleasant land without leaving a trace.

  "What makes you think he was The Paw?"

  "Honestly. You're making me wonder whether I missed my true vocation in life all those years. I should have been a policeman."

  "Just cut the fucking crap and answer the question."

  Sir was deeply offended by the language. John's outburst had surprised both of them. It was out of character and it confirmed to John that this case was getting to him.

  Sir was in a deep sulk. "Do you have a warrant? I imagine not. In that case, I think you should leave."

  "No. I'm not ready yet. You have one more question to answer." John stood, picked up the delicate cup and saucer with its hardly-touched Earl Grey, and held it high over the cream filigreed lace tablecloth.

  "Oh God, no don't."

  John's hand began to shake. "I don't think I can hold it much longer."

  "No, wait. You really are a beast. It was written in the tattoos."

  John scanned his memory.

  "Tattoos? There was nothing on the ID sheet about Aldy having tattoos."

  Sir rushed across to rescue his teacup. "The tattoos on the boys, Miss Marple. On the boys."

  5

  John raced into the evidence room, not troubling with protocol. He ignored the requisition ledger and went straight to the rear shelf where the BLOUK evidence filled eight cardboard boxes. He found Aldy's slides and took them to the conference room. There he impatiently slotted them all in the slide carrousel and pulled down the screen. In his haste he confused the buttons on the remote.

  It was midnight, so flicking off the overhead light left him drowned in eerie blackness. He struggled with the control to escape the darkness until at last a square of dazzling white appeared on the screen. He was annoyed at his brief panic. Darkness had always filled him with dread. It was a phobia he had mysteriously dragged around since before his father's death. At that moment it was the only thing he was afraid of, but it was soon to have an ally.

  He displayed the first slide. Unlike the teacher, Aldy was apparently not one to build up the mood. He and the boy were already sitting naked, side by side on a mattress on the floor. John walked to the screen and looked at his adversary. Nothing about him prickled John's instincts. Nothing in the eyes spoke to him.

  He was a plump man, not fat exactly, but with the build of a soft person who had never seen a need for exercise. His was the face of a million middle-aged white men. The hair was dyed black and there were indications that the eyebrows had been touched up. The lips were a little too red, the cheeks too pink. But beneath the stage make-up was an otherwise dull face.

  The boy was small, perhaps eight or nine, of African origin, and sadly undernourished. The possible Kenya connection registered immediately. There was no sign of the tattoo Sir had spoken of. There was a series of six slides with this particular child, and none of the first five showed a tattoo. John had seen far too many such scenes, but he never failed to look into the children's eyes to remind himself of how much damage was being done to their souls. It was there to see if you knew how to look. The men who abused them never bothered to look at all.

  It wasn't until the last shot—the act done, the boy alone, face down on the mattress—that John noticed the first tattoo. It was etched across his buttocks as if he were some branded calf. With dark letters on brown skin, you would have to be paying careful attention to notice. It was no wonder he hadn't spotted the tattoos at the club showing.

  He never paid much attention to those shows once he
was sure there was enough evidence to put the men away. He always focussed on a point to the right of the screen, the way you do when something gory happens in a film but you don't want the other people in the cinema to think you're squeamish. So Aldy was The Paw. Here was his calling card stamped on his victims.

  He went back over the previous five slides, but there wasn't an angle to get a clear look. The next six followed the same pattern: one seated together, four action, and one face down on the mattress displaying the tattoo. But there was one slide where the child's backside was half-visible, and John could see no sign of letters. There were a total of six children, and each sported the tattoo only in the final shot. It was almost as if it were inflicted only after the assault. But these seemed to be clinical marks, like carefully scripted welts. There were traces of fresh blood. Time had been taken over them. Why had the boys lain patiently through what must have been a very painful ordeal?

  John isolated the six slides which bore the The Paw brand, and displayed them over and over trying to understand what it was that troubled his subconscious. A person in a photograph, or at least the two dimensional representation of that person, gives clues as to what they were feeling at the time. Even a sleeping child, through the angle of his limbs, the mood on his face, can give hints as to what he's dreaming. When a photograph fails to give up those clues, it can mean only one thing.

  John decided that the photos of the six boys gave up no suggestions of life, because life had been removed from them. He came to the conclusion that the boys were not resting. They were dead. And, with that in mind, when he looked again at The Paw's photographs, it was as clear as day that the boys had been branded after being murdered. How could he have missed it?