‘But—’ Sophie forced herself to think. ‘Perhaps I should try to talk to them? If I go back to the sitting-room and shout through the window, I can tell them who I am. Most of them will probably know me. I have several patients in Humbert Street. One of them’s just next door. There might be a policeman out there.’
‘No.’ The fat old man laid a hand on his chest and drew in a noisy breath. ‘You stay.’ He added something in Polish.
His son gave a rueful shrug. ‘He’s afraid he’s going to die.’
‘He’s not the only one,’ Sophie countered with spirit, ‘and, frankly, I don’t think hiding in here is a solution. We’ll be sitting ducks if they break down the front door.’
‘He says he can feel another attack coming on.’
She shook her head angrily. ‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ she snapped. ‘He ran in here like a two-year-old. In any case, I dropped my bag in the hall.’
If Nicholas was surprised by her lack of sympathy, he didn’t show it. ‘The police’ll be here soon. We’ll be all right then.’
Sophie listened for sounds in the corridor but all she could hear was sporadic and muted shouting which seemed to be coming from the direction of the window. ‘Can the crowd get round the back?’
Nervously, he followed her gaze. ‘It’s gardens. They’d have to break down the fences to reach us.’ He broke off to listen. ‘It’s an echo from the road,’ he said.
Sophie grabbed the edge of the table and slid it away from the door. ‘Yes, well, I’m not prepared to bet on it . . . and this bit of rubbish wouldn’t keep a child out.’ With an irritated gesture towards Franek, motioning to him to get up, she turned the handle and peered through the gap. Ominously, the shouts from the street seemed to have quietened, but the doors were still closed and there was no one in the hallway. ‘Take your dad upstairs and I’ll get my bag. I’ll check through the letter box to see what’s happening.’
Another burst of Polish from Franek, followed by Nicholas’s grip on her arm, dragging her backwards. ‘I’ll get the bag,’ he said. ‘You look after Dad.’
She shook him away. ‘Get off me!’
With a muttered ‘sorry’ he released her immediately, only for his father to clamp a filthy palm over her mouth and grasp her round the waist with the other. He urged her towards the stairs, the heat of his naked breasts pressing against her shoulder blades. ‘Be good, little girl,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘or I break your back like a twig. You keep us safe till the police get here. Yes?’
Eleven
Saturday 28 July 2001
Incident room, church hall, Portisfield
AMY HAD BEEN missing for over twenty-four hours, and the phones in the incident room had rung nonstop since her photograph was shown on television news broadcasts. She had been seen the length of Britain, from Land’s End to John o’Groats, and each report had to be painstakingly investigated. The most promising were those describing a little girl in the company of a man, but at the height of the holiday season this wasn’t unusual. Fathers regularly escorted their daughters to buy food in service stations or stood outside the Ladies while the child went in. There was a sense of growing frustration as each new lead faltered.
In contrast to this scattergun approach, which such investigations invariably generated, the focus of Inspector Tyler and his team’s efforts was on finding out where Amy had been during the last two weeks. The pattern that was emerging was a strange one. According to Barry, she had left every morning at ten o’clock – he always woke when the door banged – and returned every evening at quarter to six, saying she’d been with Patsy. But when Kimberley challenged her on the Wednesday evening with being a liar, Amy had turned into a ‘right little bitch’.
The boy looked puzzled as he described the scene. ‘Normally she was a bit of a spastic – cried a lot – didn’t like telly – then Kim calls her a liar and she goes fucking ballistic. She was kicking and fighting, and it was only when Kim promised she wouldn’t tell her mum that Amy backed off. The deal was that she had to get back before Laura, otherwise Kim’d lose her babysitting money.’
‘This was Wednesday?’ Barry nodded. ‘And she stuck to the bargain on the Thursday night?’ Another nod. ‘Did either of you try to find out where she was going?’
‘Sort of. Kim kept needling her about crawling into a hole because she didn’t have any friends.’
‘Did she react?’
‘Just said we’d be jealous if we knew.’
Relatives of Laura Biddulph and Martin Rogerson had been interviewed overnight to no effect. Rogerson’s parents were living in a retirement home in Brighton and hadn’t seen their granddaughter for almost two years. ‘She only came the once. Martin wanted to mend fences . . . we hadn’t spoken since his divorce . . . but Amy was very trying . . . cried all the time. We think she was ill . . . kept going to the loo with stomach ache but wouldn’t be helped. Strange child . . . very irritating . . . takes after her mother, we think . . . She certainly irritated Martin. We asked him not to bring her again. No, we had no idea he and Laura were separated.’ His sons from his previous marriage had never met her. ‘We warned him before he married that we’d take Ma’s side . . .’ What sort of father was he? ‘Distant . . . uninterested . . . We never had the feeling he liked us very much . . .’ Did he beat you if you were disobedient? ‘Hardly . . . he never came home till late . . . that was Ma’s job . . .’
Biddulph’s parents, retired and living in Oxford-shire, near their eldest daughter, had also seen Amy only once, when Laura had brought her on a surprise visit during the summer of the previous year. Like the Rogerson family they presented a picture of alienation from the child that had disappointed them in marriage. Mr Biddulph did most of the talking.
Did Laura mention any problems in the marriage? ‘She wouldn’t . . . too afraid of hearing “we told you so” . . .’ They didn’t approve of Martin? ‘Of course not . . . little better than a paedophile . . . taking a child-bride as a trophy . . .’ Did they know Laura was planning to leave him? ‘No . . . it came out of the blue when she phoned to say she was with someone else . . .’ Did they ever meet Townsend? ‘No . . .’ Did Laura talk about him? ‘I think she said he was a builder . . .’ Did Amy talk about Martin while she was staying with them? ‘No . . . it wasn’t encouraged . . .’ Was Laura’s relationship with her daughter a loving one? ‘If you mean, were they all over each other all the time, then no . . . We’re not a demonstrative family . . .’ Did they see anything to suggest Amy was being physically abused? ‘By whom . . . Martin or Laura?’ Either. ‘Certainly not Laura . . . she wouldn’t harm a fly . . . As for Martin . . . the man’s capable of anything . . .’
Laura’s sister put a different gloss on the answers. ‘My mother was forty-eight when Laura was born. She assumed she was going through the menopause and out pops a bouncing baby daughter. I was eighteen and my brother was sixteen. We thought it was a spare tyre . . . you know, fat moves south after forty-five . . . and instead we get presented with Shirley Temple. All-singing, all-dancing and three times as cute as we ever were. She was spoilt rotten. Dad was approaching retirement and suddenly discovered the joys of fatherhood, while poor old Mum got relegated to second place. Dad’s only himself to blame that she married Martin. He taught her how easy it is for pretty girls to wind old men round their little fingers.’
‘Do you get on with her?’
‘I hardly know her. She’s more like a distant cousin.’
‘Are you jealous of her?’
The sister was a stocky farmer’s wife with wind-blistered cheeks and work-hardened hands. ‘Used to be,’ she admitted, ‘not any more. She lost her glitter when she married Martin.’
‘Did you meet Amy when they came up?’
‘Oh, yes. Laura brought her over one evening.’
‘What did you think of her?’
She smiled rather cynically. ‘She’s her mother’s clone. All-singing, all-dancing, if she thought the routine would get her
something . . . quiet as a mouse if she didn’t. She seduced my husband in two seconds flat for a 50p tip. He thought she was the most adorable child he’d ever met.’
‘And you? Were you seduced?’
She considered for a moment. ‘In a funny sort of way I suppose I was. She was like an organ-grinder’s monkey . . . all over you whether you wanted it or not. That’s Laura coming out in her, of course. We just peck each other on the cheek from time to time, but Laura’s incredibly tactile. It’s very un-Biddulph of her.’ She paused. ‘Or was,’ she said with a touch of surprise. ‘Thinking back, I don’t remember her being at all demonstrative last summer.’
The neighbours in Portisfield were eager to help – too eager in some cases – but disappointingly uninformative. Those who knew Amy hadn’t seen her during the two-week period; those who didn’t sent the police after red herrings.
‘You wanna search the house at the end of Trinity Street . . . There’s a bloke in there hangs around the playgrounds . . . deserves a right kicking if you ask me . . .’
‘I’ve seen the mother a few times . . . I said to my friend: “What’s that eejit Gregory want with a woman half his age?” “Dirty old man,” she says back to me. Kimberley’ll be jealous as sin. You just wait. They’ll be killing each other before long.’
‘I did see a child very much like this photograph . . . pretty little thing with long dark hair . . . She was with a man in a car . . . they stopped beside me at the traffic lights . . . it was a black car, I think . . . not a Mini or a Rolls . . . those are the only ones I can tell apart . . .’
The police had taken over the church hall next to the Catholic church in Portisfield as their incident room. In one corner, DCI Tyler briefed his superintendent early on Saturday afternoon. ‘There’s something damned odd going on . . . I can’t get a handle on it at all. Biddulph’s clearly distraught . . . swings between screaming and yelling at Kimberley Logan, and sitting like a zombie . . . then refuses to leave the house or make a plea for Amy. Rogerson’s the opposite . . . level-headed, polite, composed, ready to do anything we ask . . . then bursts into tears the minute the cameras point in his direction.’
‘Why does that surprise you?’
‘He was cracking jokes before we went into the press conference. Anti-women by and large.’ He rotated his hand to encourage a response. ‘What happens when your dishwasher breaks down?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Kick her.’
‘Mmm.’ The superintendent stroked a thoughtful hand down the back of his neck. ‘It may be his version of screaming and yelling at the Logan girl. We can’t all do and say the right thing at the right time.’ He paused. ‘You say the parents hate each other.’
Tyler nodded. ‘Rogerson’s quite forthcoming about it, says the age barrier meant they had nothing in common . . . claims he was a fool to marry her . . . should have recognized what was likely to happen . . . Townsend was an affair waiting to happen. He admits that some of the blame was his because he spent too much time at work, but he says he doesn’t bear any grudges, even suggests he’s quite pleased to be shot of her.’ He smiled cynically. ‘That’s what he alleges, anyway.’
‘You don’t believe him?’
Tyler thought about it. ‘I don’t know. He’s too insistent that his only concern is for Amy’s welfare when, by his own admission, he doesn’t pay child support and hasn’t seen the kid in nine months. He explains it away by blaming Laura for returning his cheques when she was living with Townsend, then vanishing completely. He says she’s manipulating the child’s affections to give herself a bargaining chip when it comes to the divorce. You haven’t supported her, she doesn’t like you, won’t want to live with you . . . that sort of thing.’
‘It happens. Children become footballs in these situations. It’s sad, but not unusual.’
‘But that’s the point, sir. I can’t see that there is a situation. It’s rare for a father to be awarded custody, particularly one who works the hours Rogerson does, so why is Laura convinced she’s going to lose the kid? It doesn’t make sense. They should be looking for joint custody, then everyone’s happy.’ He paused to consolidate his thoughts. ‘Something else that doesn’t make sense is Rogerson’s house. You wouldn’t think a kid had ever lived in it. There are no toys . . . the TV’s about six inches square . . . no videos . . . no climbing frames in the garden . . . valuable bits of china all over the place. Amy must have been scared of breaking something every time she went into a room.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m questioning whether he wanted a child at all, let alone custody of her if the wife buggered off.’
Another drawn-out ‘mmm’. People who didn’t know the boss well assumed he was humming to himself. Those who did were accustomed to these verbal ellipses by which he gave himself time for thought. Most of his subordinates had picked up the habit themselves, although they were careful never to mimic him to his face. ‘Interesting. Did you put any of this to Rogerson?’
Tyler nodded. ‘Before the press conference. I asked him why they’d been fighting over the child when joint custody would have solved the problem, and he said he agreed but there was nothing he could do about it if his wife wouldn’t talk to him.’
‘What was Laura’s reaction?’
‘He’s plausible therefore he’s a lawyer. Or vice versa.’
‘She’s right. They’re all bloody sharks.’
The DCI smiled. ‘There has to be something else, though, sir. One of them’s got a stranglehold over the other, but I don’t know why and I don’t know which. My gut feeling says Rogerson has some dirt on his wife – possibly to do with Townsend – otherwise she wouldn’t have sold herself to Logan to put a roof over her head.’
‘What do we know of Townsend?’
‘Not much. He’s on holiday in Majorca with his new girlfriend. Rogerson’s still acting for him, which strikes me as a bit bizarre. You’d have expected him to kick him into touch when he nicked his wife.’ He looked up with raised eyebrows.
‘In what capacity? Personal? Business?’
‘Both. Laura says they’re always on the phone to each other.’
The superintendent looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe you should turn the question on its head and ask why Townsend would want a man he’d two-timed as his lawyer. That’s more interesting, don’t you think? It suggests they have more things in common than just Amy and her mother.’
‘Like what?’
‘Secrets? Perhaps it’s the men who have a stranglehold over each other? Where’s he based? What’s this business?’
‘Southampton. It’s a building company called Etstone. Rogerson gave us both addresses. We’ve had a car outside Townsend’s house since nine o’clock last night in case the kid turned up, and we’ve talked to the neighbours. One or two of them remember Laura and Amy, but none was particularly friendly with them. They all described Townsend as a player – “pretty tasty” was the way one woman described him – and said he was often away. He’s been married twice. The first wife lasted three years, the second only twelve months. He’s had a multitude of affairs but Laura’s the only girlfriend who was allowed to move in. According to the same woman, he’s far more interested in one-night stands than in relationships. Gary Butler, who interviewed her, said she was definitely one of the one-night stands, and wasn’t too happy about it.’
‘A bit of a bastard then?’
‘Sounds like it. We’ve had no success talking to anyone at his office. It’s closed for the weekend and the answerphones don’t give contact numbers. He left his hotel address in Majorca with his immediate neighbour in case of emergencies, so we’re trying to get hold of him there. The manager told us he has a hire car and disappears off to a nudist beach further down the coast. He’s expected back this evening. I’ll have another go then.’
‘Do you think he’s involved?’
Tyler shook his head. ‘I don’t see how he can be. He’s been out of the country since Tuesday and Amy’s been vanishing every day. I’m ju
st tying up loose ends. He might be able to throw some light on what’s going on between the parents.’
‘Mmm.’ The superintendent studied him closely for a moment. ‘You’re chasing wild geese, old son. Rogerson was at the office all day, Biddulph was on her checkout and Logan was driving his bus. Rogerson might have paid someone to snatch her and hang on to her till the heat dies down . . . but he has nothing to gain by it. It’s not as if he can produce her after a week or two and say it was all a mistake. There’s no record of abuse, and the kid’s teachers describe her as balanced and above average.’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘We’re looking for a psycho. It’s the only explanation.’
Tyler shook his head in frustration. ‘Then where’s the wretched kid been going every day? Who’s she been with?’
One of the incident room computers was routinely reporting police messages from other divisions. ‘There’s a riot going on in Bassindale,’ said its operator to Tyler as he paused on his way out.
‘Why?’
‘They seem to be targeting a paedophile.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Milosz Zelowski.’ He scrolled through the messages. ‘He was moved from Portisfield two weeks ago . . . interviewed this morning . . . house searched . . . requested protection . . . advised police resources stretched . . . rumour that Amy was seen in his road last night . . . two hundred plus crowd after him with stones and bottles . . . barricades going up . . . WPC on the ground not responding . . . Zelowski’s phone out of order . . . situation out of control.’ He looked up. ‘That’s a hell of a choice, sir.’
‘What?’
‘Do we look for the kid or protect the paedophile? We haven’t got the bodies to do both.’
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Police Message to all stations
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28.07.01
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14.43
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Bassindale Estate
Acid Row Page 9