The police were very gentle with Daniel, I have to say, and he began having therapy very soon after we realized what he’d seen. We were introduced to the wonderful Rhona Lucas, the head of the Child Protection counselling division, who promised to work with Daniel for however long it took to purge the experiences from his system. I wasn’t allowed into the room, but I could watch through a two-way mirror. Rhona worked wonders. Each session, I saw the anger diminish and more and more of my little boy return. After six weeks, he was back. No shouting, no anger, no hitting. My innocent angel was home.
I don’t think Daniel remembers the therapy and we have never spoken about those events. He’s put them behind him and I’ve done my absolute best to protect him from ever being reminded of them – starting with my decision to hide the real reason his father was in prison. The sooner Daniel was able to push the terrible things he’d witnessed in Havant from his mind, the quicker he’d be able to move on. That’s why I told him that Peter was in trouble for having drugs. It was nothing to do with knives or rapes or attacks on young girls. When he thought of his father, as I knew he would from time to time, I didn’t want his head to automatically be filled with those images of sickening violence.
Back in 1994, though, there were plenty of other people who wanted to obsess about the horrors of that night in Havant and their repercussions. It didn’t help that every day the local papers and TV news seemed to talk about nothing else. Every detail of the case was gone over. The main focus, though, was on the whereabouts of the rapist Peter Tobin.
The police were convinced he would contact me. Even though we were separated and I’d moved on with another partner, they felt I was pivotal to their hopes of capturing him. I didn’t have a clue how Peter’s mind worked, but I’d seen enough films where the criminal wants to get rid of any witnesses. Daniel had seen things. We were both at risk.
I couldn’t be too scared though. A panic button was installed by my front door and I was given another one to carry around. One press of that button and the whole of Hampshire’s police force would descend on Liverpool Road. On top of that, the police asked if they could tap my phone line. You have to get permission from the Home Secretary for that, I was told. I didn’t think Peter would call, but I had no problem with it. On the plus side, it meant there were burly police technicians and officers swarming over the place every hour of the day. I’d probably never felt safer.
Then, about six weeks after the attacks, I finally received word from Havant police station. Two officers had been strolling past a café on St James Street in Brighton, one of the old haunts I had told them we used to drink in. They’d recognized the man nursing a cup of tea without an apparent care in the world as Peter Tobin and arrested him on the spot.
‘Thanks to you, Cathy, we’ve got him.’
I was glad to have been of help, but I couldn’t celebrate. I just felt numb.
TWENTY
Turn Round! Turn Round!
I didn’t think Peter’s story could get any worse. Then I heard he’d been using the name Peter Wilson – my maiden name – when he was captured. Even in police custody, he can still find new ways to torment me.
Like everything else, the full story of Peter’s forty days at large eventually trickled out. By chance, he’d met a Christian group on a day trip from Warwickshire. Presenting himself as a homeless gent who would work in exchange for shelter, he wangled a trip back with them. When his photo had been shown on an episode of BBC1’s Crimewatch, not even Peter’s hastily grown moustache could hide the obvious likeness. That’s when he’d gone back on the run and headed back to Brighton.
Peter was held on remand at Winchester for eight months before his trial. As the date neared, press interest in the case increased. Once the trial began, coverage went into overdrive. There were photos of the flat, of Peter, of the route the girls would have taken. Most distressing for me, though, were the ones of Peter’s old blue Metro – because for the last few months it had been sitting on my drive.
I don’t know why, but he’d decided I should have it and so one day it had been delivered outside my house and the keys dropped through my letterbox. I had my own, much better car, so I didn’t need his old banger. Even if I did, I wouldn’t have touched it after I’d discovered what he’d done. As quickly as I could, I sold it to a dealer for £150. I was shocked to later learn he’d shifted it on to a guy who’d paid £900 – just because it belonged to a famous criminal. There are some sick people out there.
None more sick, of course, than Peter himself. I’d always marvelled at the way he was able to detach himself after smacking or insulting me to make me feel guilty. It took chutzpah, especially, to pitch up at Granny’s breakfast table that day, knowing she must have been told about the screwdriver launched at my pregnant tummy. But he didn’t care. It’s like he didn’t even know what he’d done wrong. How else can you explain the letter I received from his solicitor asking to see Daniel?
My initial instinct was to rip it up – how dare he put Daniel through that hideous ordeal and now think he could carry on as if nothing had happened? But I couldn’t do it, not without getting advice from Rhona Lucas.
‘I think you have to ask Daniel if he wants to see his father,’ she said. ‘And whatever he says, you have to honour.’
That was easier said than done.
‘I’d like to visit Dad,’ Daniel said.
‘Okay, that’s fine. I’ll sort it out.’
I really wasn’t looking forward to driving Daniel out to Winchester. There was no way I could let him go in alone. That meant I would have to come face to face with the bastard as well.
I honestly don’t think I can do it.
When it came to the crunch, I wasn’t the only one. Daniel woke up on the morning of our scheduled visit and found me in my room.
‘Mum,’ he said quietly.
‘Yes, my darling? What is it?’
‘I don’t want to visit Dad anymore.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said calmly – but inside I was jumping for joy.
I’m sure Peter blamed me for Daniel’s change of heart, but I didn’t care. He couldn’t hurt me anymore. When his solicitor wrote back again asking for a picture of Daniel, I took great pleasure in saying no.
‘Your client is a paedophile – there’s no way he’s getting a photograph of my son.’
Part of me was looking forward to the trial because we all knew that Peter was going to be locked away. However, as the last person to see him before he’d fled, I was also going to be called upon as a witness. I know it was silly, but I really wasn’t comfortable with going up against Peter so publicly. The idea of his cold eyes boring into me while I gave evidence against him was enough to make me wither before I’d even set foot in the courtroom. But I had no choice. I had to live with it. As long as they don’t involve Daniel . . .
But then something strange happened. On the first day of the trial, 18 May 1994, Peter pleaded guilty. I think he’d been advised that by not making the victims suffer the ordeal of a trial, he’d be treated more leniently. So he was shocked, I imagine, when the judge sentenced him to fourteen years. He shouldn’t be bothering anyone again until 2008.
I’ve said it before, but that definitely should have been the end of the Peter Tobin story, as far as my son and I were concerned. Fate, however, wouldn’t be that kind.
As I’d discovered what Peter had done to those girls, the efficient part of me had kicked in once again. Daniel was due to start a new school anyway – but he would do so under a new name, Daniel Wilson. I too reverted to my maiden name. One more link to the past destroyed – as long as no one discovered it was the name he’d been using when he was captured.
In contrast to the mess Peter had left, Steve 2 and I were still going strong. After I sold my house for a lovely profit, we decided to rent a four-bed in Emsworth. Daniel was very happy in the private school system and Steve and I both drove nice cars. I had a bright-red Spitfire two-seater which I absolutely
loved bombing up and down in. There were probably more expensive cars pulling up at the school gates, but Daniel’s mates said we had the coolest.
Relationship-wise, I think I was pretty close to the perfect ‘wife’. I know it’s old-fashioned, but I’d never had a proper family life. My first chance at domesticity was with Peter and he’d ruined everything. So I really enjoyed serving meals from the Gary Rhodes cook book and looking after Steve’s two young girls at weekends. While he was off working, I’d take all three children down to the beach or we’d make our own toys and bake together. It was really idyllic, actually.
Relationships tend to have a natural lifespan though. Ours could have gone on longer, but it was actually our business that got in the way. By taking care of everything to do with home, I left Steve able to concentrate on working every hour under the sun. We both profited as business people, but as lovers it died out. I can’t say the break-up was harmonious – some men save their passion for the day you say you’re leaving – but I thought I handled it as maturely as I could by moving out and not rising to any provocation. Yet again, ever the practical head when others would be falling apart.
Working together, though, was much more stressful. Steve found it hard to be in the same room as me, but, as fellow directors, I thought it my duty to make it work. Then one day he told me with some relish that I’d never been a director. He and his friend were joint owners. I was basically a well-paid employee.
‘Well, in that case, these are the hours I’ll be working from now on,’ I announced, and suddenly I was able to see a whole lot more of Daniel again.
The things I’d been through with Peter had probably hardened me emotionally when it came to responding to the problems with Steve, but there was another blow around the corner that I hadn’t prepared for: Grandpa’s death.
By 1996 he’d been ill for a while, needing sticks to hobble around on. It was sad watching a proud man’s decline, but I put it down to old age. Then Granny phoned in tears: old Reg was dying of lung cancer – and had been for years.
It was typical of the man that he never told a soul until it couldn’t be avoided. Suddenly the Beavises’ downsizing move to Southsea made more sense. That was when Grandpa had discovered he had the disease and he wanted to make sure Granny was set up financially before he went.
I had the choice of either telling Daniel or not – and I decided I would. How I wished I’d been told my mother was dying eighteen years earlier. At least he’d get the opportunity to say goodbye – something that had been denied me.
I cried when I saw Grandpa for the last time in hospital. By then the doctors couldn’t hide the cancerous growth coming out of his chest. It was revolting. It was no way for such a lovely old bloke, and the closest Daniel and I had to a male role model, to go. No way for Granny to witness the end either.
I was left all his correspondence to do with Mum’s death and my childhood, but I didn’t want to read any of it, so I put it into a box for another day. I wanted to look forward and, in fact, I didn’t open that box until I came to write this book.
Granny was obviously devastated, but regained the family stoicism very quickly. Reg wouldn’t have wanted her to spend months feeling sorry for herself, after all. One of her first decisions as a widow was to find something to do with her money. After hearing me moan yet again about my horrible working environment, she said, ‘If I lent you £20,000, would that be enough to start up on your own?’
‘Easily!’ I said. ‘I know the plastic fabrication business inside out. I’d love to start doing it for myself. But would you really want to do that?’
‘I trust you,’ she said. ‘And I can’t bear to see you working where you’re not appreciated and so unhappy.’
So out of the cloud of Grandpa’s death had come this amazing silver lining that not only gave me my independence as a boss, but also allowed me to walk away from Steve and co with some pride.
Of course, putting a company together from scratch isn’t as easy as it sounds. I found cheap premises in the Paulsgrove part of Portsmouth and then went back to my old company to poach the best staff members. I actually persuaded one older guy, Michael, to come out of retirement for a couple of days a week to help me.
They were exciting times, but I soon realized twenty grand didn’t go very far. There are so many costs when you run a business, especially when you employ staff. It didn’t matter that we had no orders at the start, the boys still had to be paid. Even as the first meagre bits of business started to trickle in, I could see my money pot trickling away. I was already working every hour I could, but desperation called for innovation.
First, I took an extra job in a bar, then I began delivering evening papers and finally I set up another company catering for the wedding industry and similar events. For a while, I was doing all four. I’d finish work, deliver papers, pick Daniel up, eat and put him to bed and then make cakes to be delivered the following day or do paperwork until the small hours. Then up at six, deliveries, drop Daniel at school, work – and on and on. I was getting three hours’ sleep at night – and all to pay my bills and staff. It was hell. The only consolation was that it was my hell. If – no, when – we turned the corner, I would be the one to benefit.
Right then, though, the workload was suffocating. I was barely seeing my son, but I couldn’t stop. Everything I was doing, every hour after midnight I slaved away over the oven, every Saturday I spent on my own in the workshop moulding and drilling plastic while he played with friends, I was doing for him. It had been a lack of money that had driven me to attempt to take my life. More importantly, my poverty had been one of the reasons I’d been so susceptible to the charms of Peter Tobin. It wasn’t just him as an unsuspecting father figure I’d fallen for, but the whole package. The promise of a roof over my head and a job had been too tempting.
I swore that I would work and work, so Daniel never had to compromise like I had done.
There were other mistakes I’d made that I didn’t want Daniel to copy. When I’d met Peter, I’d considered myself a strong, independent, modern woman. I’d already proven myself as a wheeler and dealer at school. I was obviously going places. But then he’d used brute force against me and I’d crumbled.
As a consequence, Daniel was enrolled in every self-defence class going. Judo, karate, kendo, taekwondo – if there was a martial art course near us, he was doing it. He only took a few belts in any of them, bless him, but he loved going. I couldn’t tell him why it was so important to me that he could handle himself. I couldn’t shake the knowledge that Peter would be out one day. We need to be prepared.
While I didn’t really think Peter would ever hurt Daniel, I’d denied him access. He would want to avenge that the first chance he got, I just knew it.
Gradually business picked up and I won some good contracts. My proudest achievement was acquiring the John Lewis Partnership. It meant I was in Bracknell every week for meetings, but I loved that. You couldn’t walk into a Waitrose or John Lewis without seeing my handiwork. It was a proud time.
I was able to pay Granny back and, as a surprise, she said, ‘I’d like to give you the deposit for a home.’ Wow – not a loan this time, a gift. It meant so much to me, being able to afford to put down proper roots for my son. In fact, that first moment of opening the door to our two-bed bungalow in Hazlewood Avenue, Bedhampton, as the owner was just as thrilling as walking into Liverpool Road had been. To this day, I still get the same buzz when I buy a new property.
I may have had help purchasing it, but not from a man – and that’s how it stayed. After Steve 2, I wasn’t in another relationship for several years and I did most of the house renovations myself. With the help of a trusty Collins DIY manual, I single-handedly built a conservatory along the whole width of the back of the bungalow. When that was finished, I honestly don’t think I’d ever been prouder of myself. As I poured a glass of fizz to celebrate, I couldn’t help thinking of all the potential in me that had been wasted during those years
of being subjugated by Peter.
Speaking of him, with everything else ticking along so comfortably, it suddenly occurred to me that I should take care of some unfinished business.
It was 1999 and Peter had been inside for five years. A lot of people don’t bother with divorce because it means you have to see your estranged partner again. I didn’t have to worry about that. He was locked up. We would only be communicating through solicitors and I was confident it would be pretty straight forward. I was wrong.
‘You realize, of course, that your husband is entitled to fifty per cent of your plastic fabrication business and house equity, don’t you?’ my solicitor said, to which I replied, ‘You must be bloody joking!’
I was employing twenty staff and raking in decent money and I owned my own home. Why should that scumbag, who’d contributed nothing to my success, get a penny? The lunacy of the law got worse though.
As far as I was concerned, I already had sole custody of Daniel. For the purposes of a divorce, however, I needed to clarify why this should continue to be the case. I was laughing as I answered the question.
‘How about because he’s in prison and I’m not!’
It was utterly demeaning, but I had to write out in black and white exactly why I felt I should have sole custody of Daniel. So I mentioned the home, the private education, the swimming lessons twice a week, the martial arts, everything. Peter had given the boy nothing but nightmares. I’d even had to pay him, for God’s sake, to look after his own son.
Someone must have been smiling on me, though, because my solicitor advised me to write to Peter asking to be let off his legal claims to my wealth and he agreed. I didn’t do it personally, although Peter probably didn’t know that. I was grateful though. It was the first selfless thing he’d ever done and to this day I don’t know why he did it. He couldn’t have been harbouring delusions of winning me back. Could he?
Escape From Evil Page 29