It was the machete that was frightening. He was swinging it at his side like a counterbalance. It swiffed through the air, backwards and forwards, a blade so old and unused it was red with rust. Or blood? Even Jimmy wondered, and he’d spoken to the man. He called out reassuringly.
‘It’s OK, Gaynor, I know this geezer. Hey, mate! Do me a favour! Put the machete down. You’re frightening her.’
The soldier straightened. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘I followed you. You came in here to steal.’
Jimmy held out his hands in surrender. ‘You’ve got me bang to rights, sir. That’s me. Jimmy James the thief. Always have been. Always will be. Do you wanna leave the lady and take me in?’ He crossed his heart. ‘God’s honour, I won’t give you no trouble.’
The old man took another puzzled look at Gaynor. ‘This woman needs help.’
‘No, she don’t, mate. She’s got kids outside. Show him you’re OK, Gaynor. Get off your arse and open the door. Go tell Mel and Col to shift themselves into the house. I’ll get to you soon as I can. OK, darlin’?’
Gaynor nodded and scrabbled along the floor towards the door.
Jimmy turned his hands palms up and beckoned to the soldier with spread fingers. ‘Move yourself, my friend. This ain’t healthy. There’s guys out there on crystal meth gonna come through that door like Exocet missiles. I might be a nigger, but I know what I’m talking about. Trust me. You don’t wanna be around when it happens.’
The old eyes stared into his. Confused. Frightened. But trusting . . .
He took a step forward.
Too late . . .
Wesley came out of the sitting-room.
‘GO, GAYNOR!’ Jimmy roared.
Command centre – police helicopter footage
The police camera recorded the front door opening and the woman they believed to be Gaynor Patterson come tumbling out. She struggled to her feet and waved her arms in desperation, but her voice and gestures were lost against the trampling mob of youths who were climbing through the window to her left.
Did she hear something? See something she recognized on the ground? She made a sudden dart into the fray and began hitting and kicking like a street fighter. They saw the black woman who had stood beside Melanie wade in from the edge, plucking boys aside with her large hands, boxing their ears and shoving them away. She must have been calling for help, because a handful of people separated from the watching crowd and ran towards her.
Perhaps twenty youths made it through the window before a semicircle opened up to show Gaynor’s son and daughter sprawled in tangled union on the grass in front of it. Even to the cold, unemotional eye of the camera lens, the attempt Colin had made to protect his sister was clear and heartbreaking. He lay half across her, his thin, immature arms wrapped about her shoulders, his cheek pressed against hers.
Were they alive? Every head bent towards the monitors, willing, praying, urging, as Gaynor flung herself to her knees to lift their hands, stroke their faces, call them back. But there was no response. Just the awful relaxation of death.
Inside 23 Humbert Street
Wesley herded the old soldier in front of him, allowing the youths behind him to enter the corridor. One of his friends kicked the front door shut to block out some of the noise. Others set off up the stairs. Wesley was more interested in his prize. He pricked the old soldier in the arm with his flick knife and giggled when he squeaked in terror.
‘This the pervert?’ he asked Jimmy, swinging the old man against the wall and thrusting his head forward to examine him.
Jimmy stayed where he was in the kitchen doorway, afraid that any movement would cause Wesley to use his knife again. ‘No. This guy lives in Bassett Road.’
‘So what’s he doing here?’
The only answer Jimmy could think of was the truth. ‘He thought I was nicking . . . came in to stop me.’
‘Wos you?’
‘Yeah, why not? There’s no one here, Wesley. The house is empty.’ He nodded towards the door of the back room. ‘There’s a whole studio in there if you’re interested. One of the perverts is a musician.’
Wesley reached down to yank the machete from the man’s grip. ‘What’s he got this for?’
‘I guess he didn’t fancy tackling me without a weapon.’ Jimmy took a cautious step forward. ‘Let him go, Wesley. He’s a harmless old geezer who was trying to stop kids being trampled at the other end of the street. I’ll do a swap. I’ve got the key to the back room in my pocket. I was planning to come back and empty it before anyone else got a chance.’ He unzipped his pocket and took out the key, placing it on his palm, where Wesley could see it. ‘I’ll give it you for the old guy. There’s a fortune in sound equipment in there.’
‘He’s conning you, Wes,’ jeered one of the other youths. ‘That key don’t fit that door. He’s got the hots for the nonce.’
Jimmy’s eyes narrowed immediately. ‘Do you wanna come closer and say that again, motherfucker?’ he growled, bunching his fists and taking another step forward. He spread his lips as the boy retreated. ‘OK, I’m gonna spell it out for you one more time. This guy ain’t the one you want. The perverts legged it out the back. I’ve checked the house and the only room that’s got anything worth nicking is this one. There’s about ten grand of gear in there. That’s why I locked it.’ He raised the fist with the key. ‘If Wesley’s too fucking stupid to make a deal, then I’m gonna throw this in the air and whichever one of you gets it takes the jackpot.’
Wesley’s eyes rolled as his slow brain tried to follow the argument. He relaxed his hold on the old man and turned to glare at his friends to warn them off. Now less than a couple of feet away, Jimmy folded the soldier’s frail, marbled hand inside his huge black one, ready to pull him away, when feet thundered on the stairs and a frightened voice shouted: ‘He’s killed Amy. There’s blood everywhere.’
There was a brush of warm fingers, a glance of bafflement from faded eyes, before the machete sliced through the air and came down on Jimmy’s head like a piledriver.
Command centre – police helicopter footage
The footage of the old man’s murder was too horrific to be shown in full, and only a few people outside the command centre ever saw it uncut. Twelve of those were the jury members at Wesley Barber’s trial, when the judge overruled his defence team’s efforts to have it banned. There was no mistaking Wesley’s face. He raised it to the helicopter as he smeared the blood of his victim on his cheeks, before strutting and prancing at the upstairs window and raising his fist in a panther salute to the crowd.
The jury reached a guilty verdict in under half an hour. They, too, were offered counselling.
Drugs were cited in mitigation. Lysergic acid diethylamide – LSD or acid. Methedrine – crystal meth – the drug of choice of Gianni Versace’s murderer – Andrew Cunanan. Taken individually, each was a proven exaggerator of anxiety, aggression and paranoia. Taken together, it was axiomatic that anyone under their influence would lose touch with reality. Particularly someone as ‘socially damaged’ and ‘educationally subnormal’ as Wesley Barber. He was deprived. He was abused. He was black.
Blame the dealers. Blame his absent father. Blame his over-religious mother. Blame his school for allowing him to truant. Blame the climate of anger in Bassindale. Blame the crowd for inciting the mentally unstable to action. Blame the boy’s accomplices for encouraging his madness before melting away into the hinterland of the gardens and never being identified.
The judge, unmoved, commended the jury on its decision before passing sentence. He reminded the court that Wesley Barber had been given numerous opportunities during that afternoon to reconsider his position. Various brave people had tried to reason with him, but he had chosen not to listen. Drugs may well have been a contributing factor to the appalling savagery he inflicted, but he could find no evidence that Wesley was any more ‘socially damaged’ than his victims.
‘No civilized person can understand,’ he said, ‘what led a vicio
us young man like you to think you could pass judgement on other human beings. Yours is a flawed and dangerous character. In your short life you have contributed nothing to society, and have learnt nothing from it. It is my hope that a long period of incarceration will teach you wisdom.’
It had been a lynching by strangulation. The body was lowered on a rope from an upstairs window, blood streaming down its legs where the genitals had been hacked off with a blunt machete. It danced for several minutes while the noose tightened round the old man’s neck.
Down below the crowd laughed as Wesley strutted his stuff.
Hell . . . ! It was funny . . . !
The black guy was gibbering like an ape . . .
The paedophile was wearing a hat which flopped from side to side as he jiggled in his noose . . .
Twenty-eight
Saturday 28 July 2001
Rose Cottage, Lower Burton, Devon
THE DOOR OPENED a crack in response to the policeman’s loud knocking and repeated warnings that he would break the door down if it wasn’t opened. He and his colleague had caught a glimpse of movement in the sitting-room window as the car pulled up. A flash of blonde hair as a head ducked out of sight.
‘What do you want?’ said a frightened voice.
‘Are you Amy Biddulph?’ he asked, pressing the door wider. There was a small similarity between this girl and the photograph, but it was very slight. This one looked like an older sister.
She tilted her jaw in defiance. ‘What if I am?’
‘May I come in?’
‘I’m not allowed to talk to anyone.’
Surprise . . . surprise! ‘We’re the police, Amy. We’ve been looking for you, sweetheart. Your mum’s worried out of her mind.’
She flounced her shoulders. ‘She’s just saying that. If she cared, she wouldn’t have left me with Barry and Kimberley.’
‘Come on, love. She’s very upset. She was afraid something bad had happened to you.’
‘Don’t see why. I can look after myself.’
The policeman’s colleague came round from the back, where he’d stationed himself to block any attempted flight through the garden. Their first idea had been that some third party was involved, but he returned when he heard conversation at the front. He caught the tail end of it, took in the child’s made-up face, peroxided hair, tight halter-neck top and brief miniskirt, and raised an eyebrow. ‘I see you’ve been having a good time, Amy,’ he said. He was older than his mate and had daughters of his own. He recognized the symptoms of rebellious alienation immediately, though, at ten, the kid was pretty damn young for it.
‘It’s allowed,’ she said, pushing out her non-existent breasts. ‘Children have rights, too, you know.’
‘Not to waste police time they don’t,’ he said severely. ‘Haven’t you been watching the television? Don’t you know that officers all over the country are looking for you?’
An odd little smile played across the painted lips. ‘I guess I’m pretty famous.’
‘You certainly are,’ said the officer cynically. ‘You’ll be even more famous if the photographers get a snap of you looking like that. Is this what it’s all been about, Amy? Fifteen minutes of fame? Never mind your mum’s breaking her heart.’
She didn’t understand fifteen minutes of fame. At ten, encouraged by the reactions she inspired with her dancing, she wanted a lifetime of adulation. She flounced her shoulders again. ‘She doesn’t love me,’ she said. ‘She’s jealous of me. She doesn’t like it when men fancy me more than they fancy her.’
Had Tyler been there he’d have recognized an echo from Franny Gough, and he’d have asked himself what kind of people fed such ideas to children. The older officer gestured to her to come outside. ‘Time to go home, Amy.’
She stepped behind the door. ‘I don’t want to. I want to stay here.’
The younger policeman shook his head. ‘You don’t have a choice, sweetheart.’
She pulled her arm away as he reached inside to catch it. ‘I’ll say you touched my breasts,’ she warned.
‘God almighty!’ grumbled his colleague, reaching through the car window for the radio. ‘Where the hell do you girls learn this stuff?’ He gave his call sign. ‘Yes, she’s here. Alive . . . dressed up like a tart . . . and refusing to leave. She’s threatening us with accusations of indecent assault. Yes . . . female officers and a social worker.’ He glanced at the child. ‘A right little madam . . . I don’t envy her poor mother, that’s for sure. The kid thinks she’s Lolita . . . but she looks more like Macaulay Culkin in drag. You’ve got it . . . Home Alone . . . and revelling in it.’
Message faxed to Sgt Gary Butler at the Hilton Hotel in Southampton
Telephone Message
For:
DCI Tyler
From:
Mrs Angela Gough
Taken by:
PC Drew
Date:
28.07.01
Call timed at:
16.15
Mrs Gough now wondering if blackmail was the reason for Edward Townsend’s interest in Francesca. During second conversation with daughter in Majorca, Francesca explained the trip in the following terms: ‘Ed said the best way to find out if someone loves you is to see how much they’re prepared to pay for you.’ Francesca assumed he was talking about the plane fares to and from Majorca and the hotel bill. Upset that he didn’t love her as much as she thought. On reflection, Mrs Gough wonders if he was planning a crude form of blackmail – i.e. pay up, or nude photos of your daughter will appear in the News of the World. Mrs Gough describes herself as ‘reasonably wealthy’.
G. Drew
Twenty-nine
Saturday 28 July 2001
Manager’s office, Hilton Hotel, Southampton
ROGERSON WAS INFORMED that his daughter was safe as soon as he reached the hotel. Tyler spoke to him in the manager’s office, and waited while he composed himself. It was hard to say if his tears were genuine, but Tyler assumed so. The man’s passions ran higher than anyone had realized.
He insisted he had not, and could not, have known that his daughter had been abducted by his client. He had cooperated fully once certain issues were brought to his attention, and had immediately revealed to DCI Tyler the address of a second property owned by Edward Townsend. Rogerson agreed that he had capital invested in Etstone at the time his wife left him, but was unwilling to say how much. Certainly, it was a substantial amount, and it was in both his and Mr Townsend’s interests to remain on good terms following Laura’s departure to Southampton.
Tyler was amused. On the Trojan horse priniciple? he asked. Bide your time, pretend to retreat, then take your revenge when your enemy is looking the other way?
Rogerson, equally amused, said that while he could not, of course, speak for his client, he had been surprised by Mr Townsend’s readiness to asume that he could take another man’s wife with impunity. He referred to it as the Jeffrey Archer/Bill Clinton syndrome. Some men delude themselves into thinking they can get away with anything, he murmured.
However, he denied absolutely that he had engineered Etstone’s collapse. Yes, as the company’s legal adviser, he knew the local manager of the company’s bank, but he refuted any suggestion that he had ever hinted to him that he was about to call in his loan under the agreement made with Townsend some ten years previously. He had no idea if the manager was a Freemason, and could not say if he had ever met him at a Lodge meeting. The company’s difficulties were of Townsend’s making, not his.
In Rogerson’s view, and the view of the majority of shareholders, the business could only be rescued if Townsend was bought out and the company restructured. It was Townsend’s bad judgement that had led to a collapse of confidence in the Guildford development. He had paid too high a price for the land, and the planners had refused permission for an executive-style estate. The climate of opinion had changed in favour of cheaper properties to allow first-time buyers on to the housing ladder. In these circumstances, Townsen
d’s figures were no longer viable and the bank had taken fright and pulled the rug out from under him.
Clearly, Etstone’s value was considerably less now than prior to the Guildford dcle, which made Townsend’s future uncertain. Both his house in Southampton and his cottage in Devon had been put up as security for loans, and he faced imminent ruin. Rogerson took no pleasure in this. He was not a vengeful man, and had always kept his business and private affairs separate.
How vengeful did he believe Townsend to be? Was Amy a consolation prize or a ransom chip? But to that Rogerson had no answer. He merely repeated his strong denial that he’d ever had reason to think that Townsend was a paedophile.
Laura Biddulph wept down the phone line. ‘Thank God . . . thank God . . . thank God,’ was all she could say.
Tyler explained that the child was unharmed, although she hadn’t yet been examined by a doctor. ‘She’s adamant that Edward’s never touched her in a sexual way,’ he said, ‘and, for what it’s worth, the Devon social worker thinks she’s telling the truth. The woman says she’s grown-up for her age and understands the difference between appropriate and inappropriate touching.’
‘Then why did he take her?’
‘We haven’t asked him yet.’ Tyler paused. ‘Amy says he came for her because she told him she was so unhappy she was going to kill herself.’
More weeping. ‘Why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Perhaps because you were too frightened to put the question,’ said Tyler gently, ‘and he wasn’t.’
Police car en route from Southampton Hilton to Hampshire Police Headquarters
Despite being advised of his rights, Townsend was keen to justify himself. He sat in the back of the police car and spoke earnestly to Tyler in the front passenger seat. Gary Butler, who was driving, watched the shifts of expression across his face in the rear-view mirror.
Acid Row Page 30