“Oh,” she groaned as she slid off the car bonnet and lay in a heap on the ground, panting and exhausted. Tears of humiliation trickled down her face, smearing the mascara over her cheeks. She was wet and dirty and half-naked. She felt utterly spoiled.
“Sorry,” he muttered, “but we say in the army that it’s the only way to treat you bloody women when you’re asking for it.”
She still couldn’t raise the energy to respond. There was silence for some seconds. Then she was jerked back to awareness by the car’s engine starting up. Was he going to run her over? She started to drag herself painfully to her feet. The car backed away from her. The headlights came on, blinding her and exposing her nudity to anyone who might be watching at half past one in the morning. The next second the car accelerated, swung away from her and sped across the car park and round the corner onto the road. The noise of its engine faded away and she was left alone in the middle of the wet parking area with the steadily increasing rain plastering the hair onto her ravaged face.
With an acute sense of misery she pulled her clothes into place as best she could and wrapped her mack round her to hide the worst of her shame. Then she limped across to hammer on the staff door to try and get them to come to her relief. As she did so she realised she hadn’t even had the sense to take the number of his car.
- 2 -
Detective Sergeant Greg Mallinson pulled the grey Vauxhall into the kerb and looked along the rows of terraced turn-of-the-century houses stepping their way up the hill. He pulled out his notebook and consulted the first page. He was looking for number twenty-seven. A quick check of front doors told him it was four houses up on the opposite side of the road. He got out of the car and locked it, crossed the street and walked up the hill towards his target.
It was a dull, damp morning - somehow unlike the weather one expected to find in late June in Torbay. The rain made him even more aware of the similarity of the setting to the back streets of Leeds where he had been brought up - the red brick houses with the grey slate roofs, the second-hand cars lining the kerb (some of them would never be driven again) and the net curtains stretched across the front windows. The only difference was the lack of youngsters playing in the road which you would always have found at home. That made the place seem like a cardboard film set instead of a real lived-in place.
In reply to his ringing the bell, the door was opened by a middle-aged woman in dark-rimmed glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a bun.
“Is Sidney Pullman here?” asked Mallinson in response to her quizzical gaze.
She had a clear Welsh accent. “Who wants him?”
The sergeant showed her his warrant card. He said nothing while she studied it and looked back at him.
“You don’t waste much time, do you? He hasn’t been here a week yet.”
Mallinson didn’t intend to argue with her. “Is he in?”
She jerked her head to indicate that he should enter. Then she closed the door swiftly behind him after a surreptitious glance outside to see if they had been observed. She preceded him down the narrow hallway, past the foot of the stairs. She opened the door to the front sitting-room and stood aside for him to enter, but she didn’t follow him in.
“I’ll get him.”
Mallinson crossed to the empty fireplace and inspected himself in the ornate mirror above the mantelpiece. He hardly recognised the character who gazed back at him. He saw a man who was no longer young although he was still in his early thirties. His pale ginger hair was starting to thin. His jowls sagged a little. He was hardly aware of the tar stains on his fingers and the developing beer gut. Here was a man, he thought bitterly to himself, who had little chance of further advancement in the police force. His prospects were a lot poorer than DCI bloody Charlotte Faraday - the new bright hope in the Devon and Cornwall force, and she was several years’ younger than him.
His thoughts were interrupted by seeing the reflection of a thin, seedy individual who appeared in the doorway. The bloke was supposed to be only forty-five but already he looked nearer sixty. The DS turned to face him.
“My sister says you want to see me.” There was the merest trace of Welsh music in his voice.
Sidney Pullman had a hunted look - almost as though he was the victim and not the tormentor that Mallinson knew him to be. His wire-rimmed glasses were begrimed with grease. His thin, grey sweater had patchy food stains down the front. The trousers had baggy knees and his carpet slippers were rubbed bare at the toes. Most of all, his body seemed weak and bent. Perhaps he was burdened down by the guilt which he had been forced to carry for the last twenty-one months.
The sergeant’s lip curled as he looked at the pathetic figure, “We’ve been notified that you have given this address as your place of permanent residence following your early release from prison.” He felt no sympathy as he barked, “Is that correct?”
Pullman flinched but only nodded.
“And you intend to live here for the foreseeable future?”
“Yes.”
“I have to inform you that you have been entered on the local Register of Sex Offenders as a paedophile living at this address.” Mallinson sniffed. “We don’t like it but we’ve got to accept it.”
The man looked at him in horror. “I ain’t a paedophile,” he whimpered.
The sergeant looked down at the notes on his pad. He advanced on Pullman. “What else,” he demanded, “would you call a character who has sex with a young girl?”
“I didn’t have sex with her.”
“Only because you were caught before you could get it up her.”
The man flinched. “I was set up.”
“It was a bloody good job you were. These kids have to be protected from bastards like you.” Mallinson grimaced. “The poor bloody girl was thirteen.”
“I didn’t know she was thirteen.” The man held out his hands in supplication. “Seriously - she looked at least eighteen to me. She was all made up and dressed in a revealing dress. These Philippine girls are very mature.”
The sergeant sneered. “For fuck’s sake, Pullman, don’t try to tell me that you went all the way to Manila and let some bloke arrange for you to have sex with a local bird and you thought all along that she was a normal prostitute.” He sighed theatrically. “If you believed that, you must be thick as well as a fuckin’ pervert.”
Pullman didn’t respond to the policeman’s aggressive attitude. He seemed lost in his own little world. “It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
“What the hell do you mean - it doesn’t seem fair?”
“I wasn’t really guilty, you see.” Mallinson noticed the man had strange staring eyes when he looked directly at him. “I only agreed to plead guilty so that they could catch the bastard who set it up. I was promised a light sentence if I did that.”
“Thirty-two months in jail?” Mallinson jutted his head forward until his nose was inches from the other fellow’s face. “Less than three bloody years? That seems light enough to me.”
The man nodded. “I thought it was until I was sent back to England to serve the two last years. I was nearly lynched in the Scrubs. So they sent me to an open prison in Dorset. I got fourteen months off for good behaviour. I thought when I was released it would all be forgotten.” He shook his head mournfully. “Now it looks as though I’m going to be labelled for life.”
The sergeant shrugged. “Well that’s got nothing to do with me. If you don’t like the verdict, you can appeal. It seems to me that you’ve got off bloody lightly. All I know is that you’ve landed on my patch and I’m here to tell you what the position is now you’re in Torquay.” He paused for breath but the other man didn’t interrupt him. “Now then - these are the arrangements. You are required to come down to the local nick every Friday evening to sign the book to say you’re still here. Do you know where the station is?”
“I’ll find out.”
“Well, it’s all in here.” The sergeant waved a sheaf of papers at him. “Under the Sexual Off
ences Act, 2003, you have to obey certain restrictions to your lifestyle. You are not to spend a night anywhere else but at this house without telling us. You are to give us at least a week’s notice if you wish to go away, even for one night. This house may be visited from time to time by police officers without warning so as to check that you are keeping to these regulations. You’d better tell your sister to be prepared for that. Do you understand?”
“What?” Pullman was aghast. “Policemen in uniform?”
Mallinson’s sneer twisted more strongly. “Shitting yourself about being found out by the local mums and dads? Don’t worry. It’ll normally be me or someone else in plain clothes who visits you. We don’t want the additional job of protecting you from the mob if we can help it.” He wagged a finger at the fellow. “And if we’re confident that you’re behaving yourself we’ll not need to come so often.”
He turned and walked back to the fireplace. But he was watching Pullman in the mirror. As he saw the man relax he spun round, pointed a finger at him, and shouted, “But if we consider that you are not keeping absolutely to the regulations, Mister Sidney bloody Pullman, or if we have any reason at all to believe you may present a danger to any young persons in our area, we’re likely to turn up with a couple of squad cars with blue lights flashing and take you to the station. We will then apply to a magistrate to grant a temporary custody order while your behaviour is investigated. Do you understand all that?”
Pullman recoiled as though he’d been struck. He swallowed and tried to speak, but without success. At last he gasped, “Oh, my God.”
The sergeant nodded and smiled mirthlessly. “Just remember this - if you behave yourself, you won’t have any trouble.” He advanced on Pullman with his finger still pointing until it was a couple of inches from the man’s eyes. “But if we have any problems with you - anything at all -” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think there’s any chance we would get to you before the mob had torn you apart and cut off your goolies. Do you understand me?”
Pullman stood transfixed as he surveyed his prospects.
“Of course,” said Mallinson chattily, “you can always move somewhere else. Some forces are prepared to tolerate pathetic perverts like you. Inner city areas are probably the best choice. They’ve usually got too many other problems to have much time for a wet character like you.” He paused. “What do you think of that idea?”
The man shook his head. “I haven’t got anywhere else. Daisy’s the only family I’ve got.”
“Not got any young kids, has she?”
“No.” Pullman stared defeatedly at the floor. “She’s alone now. Her husband’s left her and her daughter’s married to a bloke in Exeter.”
“Then it looks like I’m stuck with you.” Mallinson grimaced. “Just remember - if you so much as look at anyone under sixteen while you’re on my patch, I’ll have your guts for garters.” He snorted. “If you ask me, I think you should have been castrated before they let you out.”
There was a long pregnant pause.
“Right then - so long as we understand each other.” The policeman thrust the wad of papers into the other fellow’s hands. “Read these. If you’ve got any questions you can ask them when you report to the station on Friday. Or you can ring to speak to me at the number at the top there.” He shook his head. “Just remember - you won’t be in any trouble if you don’t step an inch out of line. But if you do -” He made the classic throat-cutting gesture.
After another short pause he said, “Well, I’ll be off.” He pushed past the petrified Pullman. “I’ll see myself out.”
As Mallinson slammed the front door behind him the phone rang in the hallway. His sister answered the call and appeared in the doorway.
“It’s for you.”
“Oh.” Like an automaton he walked to the little table at the foot of the stairs and picked up the instrument. “Hello.”
“Sidney Pullman?” It was an educated voice he had never heard before.
“Who’s that?”
“My name is Charles Hawardine. You won’t know me but my friends and I know about you.”
“What do you mean?” He felt the rise of the old sensation of panic.
“Don’t worry,” said Hawardine comfortingly. “I’m ringing to tell you that you’re not without friends. All we chaps have to stick together.”
“Well.” Pullman cradled the phone against his cheek. “Well, I don’t know.”
“I’m also ringing to warn you that the police are on their way. Just keep calm and -“
“They’ve already been. The sergeant’s only just gone.”
“I see.” There was a pause. “Would that be Detective Sergeant Mallinson by any chance?”
“That’s right.”
“The man’s a sadist. You need some help to deal with him.”
“I don’t mind telling you he scares the shit out of me.”
Charles Hawardine took a breath. “I think, Sidney, that you and I need to meet as soon as possible. I’ll pick you up in my car outside the Bunch of Grapes at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. My car is a navy blue Bentley. Carry a folded newspaper under your right arm so that I know who you are. Will you be there?”
Pullman nodded. He felt he needed someone on his side. “All right.”
“Very well. Oh, and Sidney?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell anyone where you’re going - not even your sister.”
“Oh. All right.”
The phone went dead and Sidney Pullman turned to see his sister watching him with a speculative expression.
- 3 -
Seventeen-year-old Jason Smart leaned back against the geological specimens cabinet and surveyed the row of miscreants in front of him. They stood in a line against the other wall of the entrance hall to the Old Building. That was the name given to the original grand old house which formed the nucleus of Torbay Upper School.
The teenage boys were lined up “under the clock” for committing some minor offence of bad conduct or disobedience during the school lunch break. Their hands were clasped behind their backs. They were not permitted to talk, except to the prefects. They fidgeted and looked longingly towards the sunshine of the playground and waited for the end of their fifteen minutes’ separation from the noise and kaleidoscope of activities which was going on outside.
This strange disciplinary ritual had been handed down over generations and formed the main power which Jason and his fellow prefects had over their less exalted fellow pupils. Actually “the clock” which had been fixed to the wall above their heads had been removed some years ago and so the timing of their detention was in the hands of the senior boys who lounged so elegantly opposite them - a source of discontent for those being disciplined.
Another cause of dissatisfaction was the fact that it was only boys who were allowed to be punished in this way. Girls did not suffer this ritual humiliation. In fact they were not allowed to enter the hall unless it was raining. It wasn’t because they were better behaved than the boys, or because they were less deserving of discipline. It was simply that, when the two single sex schools had been merged into a single co-educational school some years ago, the head teacher had decided to keep the old tradition for the boys but not extend it to the girls.
As a result boys “under the clock” became an object of ridicule, especially to the girls who would often stand outside the front entrance and taunt them until they were shooed off by the prefects. At this moment three girls were hovering outside the open doors. But they were trying to attract Jason’s attention.
”’Ere, Smart,” called one of the lads nearest to the entrance, “there’s some of your harem wanting to talk to you.”
“Shut up, Blaydon, or I’ll give you another five minutes.” Nevertheless he sauntered towards the front door, as if with the intention of telling them to scram.
Jason was a good-looking lad. Already grown to his full adult height, slim, fair-haired and blue-eyed, he was the subject
of several young girls’ secret fantasies. He was aware of this with the self-conscious arrogance of the young who learn about power before they discover the accompanying responsibility.
He reached the top step and looked down on the three girls clustered below him. His attention centred on one. “What do you want, Karen?”
Karen Tilt was one of those girls who was physically mature beyond her fifteen years. As a result she was the object of a certain amount of furtive groping in odd corners about the school - attention which she selectively accepted or rejected. Her glossy brown hair fell in waves to her shoulders. Her curved lips were the dream of many a class-mate. But Karen valued herself above her peers. She was keeping herself for a certain prefect she had in her sights.
“I’ve got someone you might be interested in,” she said and indicated the young girl to her left. “This is Tracey Bostock. She’s twelve. She says she wants to know more about it.”
Jason saw the other girl for the first time. He looked her up and down. He noted the long, fair hair, the cornflower blue eyes, the open innocent gaze.
“Do you think she’d be all right?” asked Karen.
He stuck out his chin. “She might be.” He turned to Tracey. “I need to ask you some questions. Come into the prefects’ common room. You others stay outside.”
He turned and preceded the young girl back into the entrance hall and through a door into a small room on the left - scarcely more than a broom cupboard. There was another prefect sitting at the only desk in the room with his head in a book.
“Piss off, Henderson. There’s a good chap,” said Smart good-naturedly.
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