Paedophilia and child pornography must be at the sick end of the league table of of fences It's all around us all the time, but mostly it is spread so thinly it remains unnoticed and undetected. It's kept within the family, and the victims suffer in silence, repressed by fear, guilt and an ignorance of what is normality. Nobody ever complains, and without a complainant we have no crime.
We stumble across the evidence, and prosecute for possession of indecent material. In the various raids during the Georgina investigation we'd found more than we expected. All the owners claimed they had bought it mail-order from abroad, but our vice people were confident it was being produced locally.
There is a mythology around the subject, created in the dreams of the evil genie who lives inside all of us. For some, the genie takes over, and when we catch them we judge and vilify, then whisper a little prayer of thanks that it didn't happen to us. We hear the horror stories and dismiss them as fantasy. But we can't be sure.
Sparky parked the van and we walked along Crowfield Road, noting the house numbers. I was armed with a clipboard and the relevant page from the electoral roll.
"This looks like one of ours," he said, standing over a manhole cover.
I read the legend cast into the metal. "That's the water board," I told him. "We're gas."
"Are we?" He looked back at the van. "Oh aye."
Number twenty-six had the neatest garden in the street. Norman was a mainly a roses man, and the borders round the shaven lawn were a blaze of colour. It was like finding a smiling face at a disciplinary hearing. A gorgeous Nelly Moser was climbing up the wall round his front door.
"That looks gorgeous," I said.
"It's a Nelly Moser," Sparky replied. That's how I know. I wrote it on my board as he rang the bell.
Mr. Toft looked surprisingly dapper for the hour. We flashed our IDs and I made the introductions. Eventually recognition dawned on him like the sun rising out of Filey Bay on a balmy bank holiday and he invited us in.
"Cup of tea, lads?"
"No thanks."
"Yes please."
"Go on, then."
I followed him into the kitchen. "The garden looks a treat, Norman," I said. "It's a credit to you." Through the back window I could see rows of vegetables stretching down to the lane he'd told me about. Now I could understand his concern about thieves and vandals.
"Aye. It's all I've got to do, these days. Biscuits?"
I shook my head. "No thanks, a cup pa will be fine. How long have you been on your own?"
"Fifteen months. Do you both take milk?"
"I don't. It must be hard for you."
"I get by. Can you carry them through?"
I picked up the mugs and sugar bowl and we went back into the front room. A wizened little terrier was curled in a basket near the fireplace.
I sipped my tea and stared at the dog. The problem with drinking it black is that it comes boiling. I was still blowing and sipping when Sparky put his empty mug down and said: "Could you show us where you were when you saw the flashing, Mr. Toft?"
We trooped upstairs to the spare bedroom at the back of the house. It was as neat as expected, used to store a few spare pieces of furniture.
The wallpaper pattern looked like a huge dissected kidney, repeated in great diagonals across all four walls.
Through the window we could see the backs of the houses on Crowfield Street, about a hundred and twenty yards away. I picked up the pair of ten-by-fifty binoculars that were lying on the windowsill and looked through them. I was transported straight into the bedroom of the house opposite. The alarm clock was ten minutes fast and something black and lacy was dangling across the bedside cabinet. I could almost smell the bodies. You dirty old sod, I thought, as I fumbled with the focus control.
I handed the binocs to Sparky. "Which house was it?" I asked Norman.
He pointed. "That one, to the left, with the curtains closed."
"Are the bedroom curtains ever open?"
"No."
They didn't look like curtains. There were no folds or drapes. My guess was it was just a piece of material pinned over the window.
In my mind I was juggling with the various ways of handling this. First intention had been to set up twenty-four-hour surveillance of the house opposite, but now I was having second thoughts. It would have been satisfying to catch them in the act, but we had the welfare of the kid to consider.
I was satisfied that the little girl that Norman had seen leaving the house wasn't Georgina. He'd said she had long fair hair, whereas Georgina's was dark and short. There was probably no connection, but we couldn't be sure. We'd heard stories about the evils that these people perpetrated, and what one person is capable of imagining, another might be motivated to act out.
I turned to the old man. "Norman, would you mind leaving us alone for a few minutes?" I asked.
He looked crestfallen. "Oh, er, OK. I'll be downstairs if you want me."
When I'd heard him reach the bottom of the stairs I asked Sparky what he thought of things.
He lowered the binoculars and examined them. "He'd be better off with a pair of eight-by-thirties," he replied.
"Or a tripod," I suggested.
"Mmm, a tripod. Definitely."
"Is the dog stuffed?"
"No, I saw it flick an ear."
"Thank God for that. We've got four options," I said. "One we move in soon as pos.; two we wait till the flashing starts and move in; three we wait till the flashing finishes and move in."
"Number two, the little girl will be in the middle of things," said Sparky. "For three, we'll have put her through it all again, while we sit outside. I couldn't go along with that."
"I agree. And today's only Tuesday. They might not come back until Saturday, if then."
"What about option four?"
"I haven't thought of it yet."
"Me neither."
"There's bound to be one."
"Quite. And there might be a simple explanation."
"Quite."
"Shall we have a ride round and read his meter, then?"
"No," I said. "Let's not bother. We can do it in the morning, nice and early. C'mon, let's get back and arrange the paperwork."
We drove slowly round the block in the gas board's van and had a good look at number twenty-seven. A naked lightbulb glowed in the kitchen.
We were both itching to knock at the door, but resisted the temptation.
The garden was converted into a dog compound, and a smart caravan stood in it. A two-year-old Mitsubishi Shogun was parked in the road, registered to one Paul Darryl Lally, which was also the name shown on the electoral roll. The other name on the list was Fenella Smith.
As we reached the gas board depot, CRO were coming back to me with Lally's criminal record. It was longer and more depressing than a Moscow bread queue. Mainly petty theft and receiving. Nothing heroic.
"He drives a better car than me," stated Sparky.
"And me," I replied.
"Well, we can't have that, can we?"
"No way," I concurred.
I didn't really have time for lunch, but the night before's excesses were growing more apparent as the day wore on. I fetched a cheese sandwich from the canteen and ate it in the office, with a couple of aspirin for dessert. Tea is always in plentiful supply. If any of the team were ever suffering from overindulgence I'd lean on them all the more, so I wasn't pleased with myself.
Sparky went to find a magistrate, preferably female, to sign a search warrant; I filled the Superintendent in on the story so far. Gilbert agreed with how we'd decided to play it, but suggested we ask for expert help from the Regional Pornography Squad. They immediately attempted to take over the enquiry. I made it clear that they were only invited along to assist. Six thirty a.m." our place. Take it or leave it.
It's fair to say that when the front desk rang to say that Julia LeSt rang and a journalist were downstairs demanding an audience, I wasn't in a receptive mood.
&n
bsp; "Where's Caton?" I growled.
"They insist on seeing you, sir."
"We decide who they see. Where is he?"
"Bentley Prison, talking to Section forty-three offenders. Won't be back today."
"Oh aye. OK, stick 'em in an interview room and tell them I'll be ten minutes."
I drank my tea and finished bringing the daily reports up to date, managing to spin the time out to nearly twenty minutes. Then I went downstairs.
Madame LeSt rang was a riot of colour, dressed in chiffon and leopards king from the Oxfam rejects box. Her hair looked like it was crafted from fibreglass. The wind tunnel at Farnborough wouldn't have ruffled it. The man could have stepped straight out of Home's window. They both jumped to their feet as I entered, but it wasn't out of politeness.
"Inspector Priest! We've been waiting ' "I'm sorry. I'm very busy. What can I do for you?"
She opened her mouth, but he spoke first. "Madame LeSt rang is convinced she can be of use to you in the Georgina Dewhurst enquiry.
She believes ' "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't catch your name," I interrupted.
"Er, Bond, Quentin Bond. Madame Le ' "And what is your involvement in this, sir?"
He gave me a look that could warp a formica table. She stood there puffing and glowering like ridiculous old bags do. "I'm acting on behalf of Madame LeSt rang he stated.
"As her agent?"
"I suppose you could say that."
"But you're a journalist."
"Yes."
"Freelance?"
"I don't see the relevance of these questions," he spluttered.
"OK." I turned to her. "Right. Mrs. LeSt rang what do you have to tell me?"
She was lost for words for a moment, but the fluency soon came back.
"When little Georgina disappeared the stars were propitious for a monumental event in her short life. She was born with the Moon in the third '
I cut her short. "I'm not interested in the stars — just facts. How can you help us?"
"I'm trying to help you, Inspector. I need something of Georgina's. A lock of ' "No. We'll be grateful for any practical help you or anybody else has to offer. We are not interested in mumbo-jumbo or witchcraft. If you've nothing else '
Bond made a desperate attempt to rescue his investment. "Inspector Priest," he began, with forced moderation, "Madame LeSt rang is a well-respected expert in the art of dowsing. There is overwhelming evidence from similar cases on the Continent and in America that '
I shook my head and opened the door. "Good afternoon," I said.
Her face reddened, like high-speed photography of a ripening tomato.
"I've never been treated like this in my life!" she spluttered, clutching a huge handbag to her bosom.
I pointed the way with my forefinger.
"You'll regret this, Inspector," she promised. "I would remind you that the root of the word divine is from the ' "No, Mrs. LeSt rang let me remind you of something." I pulled the door shut and shepherded them down the corridor. "Let me remind you of just how good we are. If you as much as blink, sweat or break wind we can tell if you have been there, so don't dream of planting or tampering with any evidence. I won't ask you for any samples just yet, but I might do in the near future. Mind you, looking at the trail of dandruff your pet leech is leaving behind we probably have enough already."
"Well, I've never she protested.
"No, you don't look as if you have," I continued. "Listen carefully, because I'll say this once, and once only: we are conducting an investigation into a very serious offence. If I ever have any reason to suspect that you have interfered with this enquiry, or with any evidence, we'll drop on you so hard you won't know if the Moon is in Jupiter or protruding from one of your more intimate bodily orifices. I hope I make myself clear."
I yanked open the outer door to let them out. If looks could kill, the RSPCA would now be able to afford a new flea collar with my modest bequest.
"They didn't stay long," observed the sergeant as I walked past the front desk.
"No," I said. "Something cropped up."
I took the stairs two at a time and hummed the kids' tune that was currently driving everyone crazy: "Ramty tamty diddle, ramty di de doo.
If I could play this fiddle would you take me to the zoo?"
It wasn't often I gave anybody a bollocking. I hated unpleasantness, unless it was with someone really unpleasant. If a member of the team made a mistake, I was content that they knew it. If I didn't trust them, they didn't make the team. I deluded myself that it was good management, but maybe it was just cowardice. Slagging off a defenceless old lady had proved surprisingly enjoyable. I'd have to do it more often.
The kettle had hardly boiled when the front desk was back on the phone.
"It's a lady, sir, with some information. Do you mind seeing her?"
"What does this one do? Read entrails?" I asked.
"No, boss. Books."
"Books?"
"That's right, books. Mrs. Chadwick is a librarian. She's come in in response to a letter sent out by Trent Division. Doesn't mean anything to me. Something about mushrooms."
"Mushrooms?" I was beginning to sound like an echo. "Are you having me on, Arthur?"
"No, boss. Shall I send her up?"
"If you're not sending me up then you'd better. I'll look out for her."
I stood at the office door as Mrs. Carol Chadwick came round the top of the stairs. She was the type of woman who makes me think that growing older is not too bad after all. Perhaps just a touch wide at the hips, but lately I've revised my standards in that area. Her hair was grey, but she had a warm, slightly bemused smile, probably engendered by a lifetime surrounded by fine literature. Unless she sniffed coke.
One of those big organiser bags hung over her shoulder. I ushered her into my little office and pulled out a chair for her. It was time to stop being Mr. Nasty and let Mr. Nice come out.
"Sit down, Mrs. Chadwick. I'm just making some tea; would you like a cup?"
"No, thank you."
"Right. Well, I'm DI Priest. What can we do for you?"
She held out a letter. "I've come in response to this. It says… contact your nearest police station, so here I am."
I read the letter twice. "Mmm," I said, several times, adding, when I'd digested the contents: "And what have you found at the library?"
She produced two books from the bag, with pictures of gaudy fungi on the covers. "These," she replied, fumbling with the pages. "In this one, page five is missing." She slid it in front of me. "And in this one, page eleven is gone."
I riffled through the sheets. All the rest were there. The missing ones had been neatly sliced with a sharp blade.
"These are from Heckley library, just down the road?" I asked, pointing vaguely out of the window.
"Yes, Inspector."
"Are you chief librarian there?"
"Yes."
I'd have to renew my membership. "Well, Mrs. Chadwick, I haven't a clue what it's all about," I confessed. "But I know a good way of finding out."
I picked up the telephone and dialled the number given for Inspector Peterson.
Father Declan Birr was the nearest that most of his flock would ever come to meeting a saint. All his waking hours were spent in worship of the Lord and the proclamation of His message. He did this in a way the most ardent sceptic would have had difficulty faulting.
Father Birr had come up the tough way. The youngest of ten children, he overcame hardship and many tribulations to work his way through theological college. And he never forgot his humble beginnings. After stints in rural Ireland he worked in Calcutta, Mexico City and the East End of London. Always he believed in feeding the hungry body first; a full belly made for a receptive mind. He preached by example, and only tried to answer questions after they had been asked.
The phone call, received in the middle of that Tuesday afternoon, was nothing unusual. The problems of the people in the inner-city area of Sheffield where the Father now
held office were little different from anywhere else in the world. Poverty, with the attendant bad housing and crime, knew no national boundaries. Another poor soul, he thought, reaching the end of its tether.
"Of course you can come and see me, my child. As soon as possible, you say. Well, let me see. I can be in the church, that's St. Patrick's, any time this afternoon. Shall we say… four o'clock? Will that be all right?"
He didn't ask if the caller wanted to make a confession, or even if they were a Catholic. It wasn't important. At this stage all that mattered was that another human being had made a cry for help. The Father glanced up at his kitchen clock and slipped his shoes back on.
As he left the house the electric kettle, with which he had intended making a cup of instant soup, came to the boil and clicked off.
The door to St. Patrick's had a character all its own. When it was ajar some freak of architecture caused an outrush of air, which would snatch the door from the hand of the hapless person who had just entered and slam it shut. The resultant reverberations would set the candle flames shimmering at the other end of the church, and columns of black smoke would spiral from them towards the roof.
Deep as he often was in supplication or meditation, Father Birr could never pray undisturbed through a door slam. It was a source of amusement to him, and he privately regarded it as God's early-warning system.
He was half expecting it, this time, for he was certain that the voice on the phone was a stranger. When it came he continued his devotions with practised serenity. The visitor would pause, then walk slowly through the nave towards the altar. The picture he would find there was all part of the healing process.
Father Birr said a final prayer asking for God's guidance in the immediate task, kissed the altar cloth and rose to his feet. He took three steps backwards and genuflected. Then he turned to meet his mystery caller.
Never shocked or surprised, he was not disturbed by the slightly built figure before him. It wore a trilby hat pulled down over the eyes, leaving the face in shadow. Slung diagonally across the shoulders was the strap of a large sports bag, with the name Adidas emblazoned on the end. The right arm disappeared into the bag. The hand was resting on the mechanism of the twelve-bore shotgun it contained, but the priest could not see that.
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