Never Forget

by Lisa Cutts

  Unable to utter a word at this revelation, I sat back into the cold metal chair, snapping to it when I heard the sound of Laura approaching with a noisy tray of ceramic cups and saucers. Laura handed out the drinks, sat down and drew her coat around her. I saw her shiver and pick up her cup, placing both hands around it.

  ‘We waited until you came back,’ I said to Laura, to convey to Judith that I had no intention of mentioning my old friend Stan. I turned my attention back to Judith again. Her face was now relaxed, no sign of the earlier eye-narrowing. ‘Where do you want to start?’ I asked her.

  She moved her chair closer to the table. Laura and I did the same. Judith spoke quietly.

  ‘Back in the mid-Eighties a local children’s home burned down. Some of the children and staff were accommodated in other homes but places had to be found quickly. The old asylum at Leithgate had only just been closed so it was fully functioning, albeit unsuitable. After a few weeks, the home was holding a number of children, some on a short-term basis.’ Judith paused, cleared her throat and moved a hand towards her coffee cup before changing her mind and continuing, ‘Peter Woods was placed in temporary accommodation at Leithgate. He was quite a difficult boy. He used to wander off all the time, get lost, up to no good. A cat was found drowned in a barrel. It was thought that Peter had done it. Some of the other children had seen him playing with the cat, then it turned up dead with a piece of wood over the top of the barrel. He was unpleasant. Sorry, sorry, know that I shouldn’t talk about a little boy like that who died so horribly. The other children didn’t like Peter, and the staff didn’t care too much for him either. I was never happy that it was an accident.’

  The noise of the two young girls from the next table getting up and scraping their metal chairs on the tiled floor, giggling with each other about some private matter, caused Judith to pause. This time she reached for her cup and took a sip.

  ‘There is a possibility it was an accident, but how a child falls through broken floorboards, hanging himself as he goes, is beyond me.’ Judith closed her eyes. ‘It’s beyond me,’ she repeated.

  ‘You must have worked for Social Services for some time,’ I said, after she had remained silent and unmoving for a few seconds.

  She opened her eyes, nodded weakly and said, ‘Yes, some years. Before that I worked at the children’s home. That’s how I know so much about it. I remember how scared little Adam was when Peter died. Thing was, Adam was such a lovely young boy, and he was… well he was the one who found Peter’s body.’

  Judith broke off at this point and wiped at the end of her nose with a tissue she fished from her pocket.

  ‘He was in a terrible state afterwards. He couldn’t speak for a while. It really got to him. Probably still haunts him to this day. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? It’s something you’d never forget. He seemed afraid of everything at one point.

  ‘He was about to be sent off to a short-term foster home when his father came for him. That just seemed to snap him out of it. He seemed to go back to being the same lovely little Adam. The change back was remarkable, and rapid. I remember him clearly because, apart from being the one who found Peter, Adam and another boy, Anthony, weren’t from round here. They had southern accents, like London accents. Well, like yours.’

  ‘Do you remember their surnames, Judith?’ asked Laura.

  ‘Adam Spencer and Anthony… no, I can’t remember his surname. Think it began with B. They spent quite a lot of time together but they weren’t there for long. Anthony left shortly after Adam but I don’t recall where he went. I left too, soon after that.’

  All the time Judith had been talking, I had been listening intently but also wondering why she hadn’t wanted to meet anywhere official. She hadn’t told us much more than we could have found out by reading the police reports and statements. I was beginning to wonder if we were talking to someone who pictured themselves at the core of an investigation but in reality was nothing more than a bit-part witness. She knew Stan, though, so I was prepared to cut her a bit of slack, see where she was going with this.

  ‘Thing is,’ she said, glancing left and right, ‘what seemed to unnerve little Adam more than anything, even more than being the one who found Peter hanging, was one of the other members of staff. She was at the home only briefly, before Peter died. Then she left the area.’ Judith stared down miserably into her empty cup.

  ‘What was the member of staff’s name?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Daphne – Daphne Lloyd,’ came the reply. ‘Adam seemed to be determined to avoid her and he wouldn’t say why. She was very strict with the children. She always, as my mum used to say, “had her landlady face on”. People said she had a son of her own somewhere but no one knew much about her. She did seem to really care about the kids, but the thing with Peter didn’t sit right. Adam found Peter’s body, and he later told me that Daphne was already in the roped-off area when he found him. But then he clammed up and wouldn’t say another word about it. Who knows what actually went on.’ Judith glanced down at her wristwatch. ‘Is that the time? I’ve been going round the gasworks.’

  ‘Would you recognise Daphne if you saw her again?’ I asked Judith, rifling through my paperwork for a photograph of Daphne Headingly.

  ‘Probably yes,’ she said. I held up the photograph of Operation Guard’s last victim. Judith leaned across and took it from me. She held the picture for a short time before answering, ‘She’s aged a bit but yes, that’s her. That’s definitely Daphne Lloyd.’

  Chapter 56

  Euphoric wasn’t the word. In my mind I was doing laps of the Bullring while air-grabbing for emphasis. This was the link. No coincidence could be this massive.

  Now I had to call Ray, or probably Eric Nottingham, and tell them all about the children’s home. I fumbled in my pocket for my mobile to call the DCI, make his day with news of this breakthrough. The suspect line-up now clearly consisted of Tony Birdsall, Adam Spencer and Benjamin Makepeace.

  I thought about whether, despite his disappearance, Benjamin Makepeace should be just as much of a suspect as Birdsall or Spencer. Birdsall and Spencer lived in Spain. And ‘a foreigner’ had done it, Richard Hudson had told me. According to enquiries, Makepeace didn’t even have a passport. And why Daphne Headingly had been working in Birmingham under her maiden name while still married was anyone’s guess. I didn’t let these complications worry me too much, though. There was an entire team of dedicated investigators working on this. I was never alone, never without support.

  Laura explained to Judith that she had just identified a murder victim hundreds of miles south as her former colleague, and the massive implications this had on everything she had told us. The last thing either of us wanted to do was to cause her more anxiety than she was clearly experiencing; however, we badly needed what she had told us in writing. A murder investigation depended on it. I was itching to call the DCI. It would have been good to actually see his face when I told him the news, but then he’d go loopy that I’d driven all the way back from Birmingham just to watch his facial expression. I couldn’t leave it a minute longer, so I stood up with my phone in my hand and said to Judith, ‘I have to call my boss. You can trust me.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  I winked at Laura, she nodded to tell me she’d stay, and I knew that she’d explain to Judith what needed to happen as I hastened off as far from the shopping crowds as I could manage. I dialled as I strode.

  ‘Hello, Nina,’ Eric Nottingham said as he answered. He’d put my number in his phone’s memory. I liked that.

  ‘Boss,’ I said. ‘Me and Laura have uncovered some great stuff here in Birmingham. Daphne Headingly used to work up here in a children’s home in Leithgate. A little boy was hanged while she was here. Also here at the time were Anthony Birdsall and Adam Spencer, Alf the caretaker’s son, as well as Benjamin Makepeace.’

  He listened, he asked questions and he took notes. I could hear the pages turning. Some of it he read back to make sure he’d recor
ded it properly. Now it was his call whether he arranged an arrest and search team to trace Birdsall, put in progress locating Adam Spencer as a suspect, and did any further work around Benjamin Makepeace’s disappearance. I made a couple of suggestions regarding things that Laura and I should do before heading home. He made a couple more, including that we should stay another night. I hoped it was for welfare reasons and not because he didn’t want me back in his Incident Room.

  ‘Oh, and Nina…’ he said as I was about to disconnect the call. ‘Well done to you both.’ I soared. ‘We’ll talk about why you were investigating a children’s home from the 1980s when you get back.’ I plummeted.

  I’d work it out. Benjamin Makepeace was sure to get me off the hook on that one. Back at the café, as I approached the table I heard Judith say, ‘Benjamin? No, sorry, I don’t recognise the name. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t there after I left, or maybe I’ve just forgotten him.’

  ‘Judith,’ I interrupted, ‘I’ve just spoken to my boss. We need to arrange getting this in a statement. He’s sorting out the necessary data protection forms so that we can see any files you still hold. He’s also going to make a call to arrange for us to visit you officially at work.’

  With some reluctance, she agreed to see us at her office at one o’clock. As we walked away from her at the café, I glanced at the couple at the next table. The woman laughed at something the man sitting next to her said as he held her hand up to his lips and kissed the back of it. I hadn’t spoken to Bill since I’d left. I got my phone out to call him.

  Laura was tactful enough to stop and look in the nearest shop window, appearing genuinely interested in making her own toy bear.

  ‘Hey, you,’ I said as he answered the phone.

  ‘Hey, Nin,’ said Bill. ‘Been thinking about you since you left. How long are you likely to be away for?’

  ‘Don’t know. At least one more day.’

  ‘Anything interesting happening?’

  ‘Not really, just paperwork,’ I lied.

  ‘Well, you girls be careful. I’ll call you later tonight. And, er…’ He paused and coughed before adding, ‘Still looking forward to another date.’

  ‘Me too.’ I blushed and ended the call.

  When I looked over to where I’d last seen Laura, she was watching me with her phone to her ear. I hadn’t realised that she was making a call too, being preoccupied with my own. As I made eye contact with her, she disconnected, dropping her phone into her handbag in one swift movement.

  ‘Alright, Laura?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, fine. How was Bill?’

  ‘He’s good.’ I grinned. ‘Was that the office on the phone?’

  ‘No, no, it wasn’t. I need to find the ladies’ before we leave,’ she said, heading in the direction of the store locator map.

  A few minutes later we were on our way back to the car, planning how we were going to make use of the time. We devised a plan to split the making of calls, writing up our notes and returning to see our intelligence liaison for further information as a result of police checks made on the staff at the children’s home at the time. Most of what we wanted was already in the paperwork he’d given us, though. It was a question of sorting through it all.

  That done, it was soon time to head to the Social Services offices. The building was an unassuming 1970s concrete structure close to the town centre. Once past reception, we were led along the corridor to a meeting room to await Judith’s arrival.

  She came in carrying a box of paperwork and wearing a frown. She dumped the box down, muttered something about tea and left. A couple of minutes passed before she returned again, closing the door behind her.

  ‘I’ve got you everything you should need there,’ she said, pointing towards the cardboard box she had deposited on the table. ‘I have this room for the rest of the day. I know that you want a statement from me and that, of course, is fine. I’m sorry if my demeanour seems somewhat off. We co-operate with the police but there was always an uneasy feel about Peter Woods’ death. Even though it was supposed to be an accident – ’ as Judith stood there, her left hand fluttered up to her throat, and she stole a glance towards the closed door ‘ – something wasn’t right. You asked me earlier at the Bullring if there was anyone else who might know more.’ Judith was looking straight at Laura as she spoke now. ‘She’s on her way with the tea.’

  I saw how tired Judith looked. My first impression of her was superseded by this new one; the hesitation to talk had been replaced by nervousness. ‘I’ll just see where she is,’ said Judith as she reached out and opened the door. Laura and I found ourselves looking into the corridor at a black woman of about sixty years of age, holding a tray of cups, tea pot and sugar caddy.

  ‘This is Mary Williams,’ said Judith, and we all politely said hello to each other. Mary placed the tray down with more precision than Judith had displayed with the box. ‘Can I leave you to talk for a few minutes? She can help you. She also knew Daphne Lloyd.’ Judith retreated from the conference room, leaving Laura and me in suspense.

  Mary walked to the other side of the table and sat down. ‘Shall I be mother?’ she asked, taking charge of the tea-pouring.

  Laura glanced at me before saying to Mary, ‘Anything you tell us would be really helpful. I don’t know how much Judith’s told you, but we’re investigating three linked murders and it’s led us to Leithgate children’s home. One of our victims worked there – Daphne Lloyd.’

  I studied Mary’s face as she mulled this information over. She pursed her lips and gave a tiny nod. It was so fleeting, I wondered if I’d imagined it.

  ‘I never talk about Daphne, she said. ‘I know about that little boy dying because Daphne was lodging with me at the time. My mother had just died and left me and my brother her house. He wasn’t looking to hang around and I didn’t fancy living in that big draughty place alone, so I decided on a lodger. Well, Daphne arrived, she hinted at husband troubles, moved in and a couple of weeks later that little boy was dead. She didn’t stay around long after that.’

  I had so many questions, but began with, ‘What did Daphne tell you about Peter’s death?’

  ‘Tragic, really tragic,’ she answered. Her mass of black curls bounced from side to side as she appeared to be shaking memories from her mind. She turned her attention back to the tea, but then a thought struck her and she stared past Laura and me as she spoke, ‘Can’t say I’ve thought about this in a long time. Daphne came home that day very late – your lot kept her late. She was very upset and kept saying, “That poor boy, that poor boy.” I said to her, I said, “Daphne, it’s so sad but at least he’s at peace, he’s with God.” Then she said the strangest thing.’

  Concentration wrinkled Mary’s face as she fought to recall a conversation from so many years ago. She closed her eyes, which seemed to switch off the part of her brain that told her she was holding a teapot. It clattered to the table.

  ‘She said, “He’ll have to live with it; things will never be the same again.”’ Mary stared straight at me. ‘How could he live with it if he was dead? She didn’t mean Peter Woods, did she? She meant some other boy.’

  Laura and I continued to ask Mary about Daphne, whether she could recall any more of the conversation with her, any other detail such as why Daphne’s stay in Birmingham was so brief. She helped as much as she could, we took her statement and she left us to send Judith back.

  Left alone, Laura said, ‘Can’t believe on the way here you apologised to me for getting us sent up here.’

  ‘Seems like we’ve been very lucky. Do you want to call Nottingham this time?’

  As my friend went off to make the call, I handled Judith. She came back into the room, taking Laura’s empty chair beside me.

  ‘Thanks, Judith. I know that this has been difficult for you. One thing I have to ask is, how do you know Stan McGuire?’

  A mischievous glint in her eye caught me off guard. I hoped I had misinterpreted it. Really, I didn’t want to think of Stan li
ke that. But I’d asked the question; now I had to take the answer, whether I liked it or not.

  ‘My husband was a policeman. He joined the Metropolitan Police, went to Hendon and met Stan there. They were in the same class, became really good friends, but John, my husband, missed his family and Birmingham. He decided to come home, transferred and we met, got married.’ As she told me this, she relaxed completely for the first time in my presence: the hand-clenching and unclenching stopped. I was also more relaxed. The association was innocent.

  She continued, ‘John and Stan still speak from time to time. Before Stan’s Angela died, the four of us would often meet up, have a drink, put the world to rights. Stan told me that you were heading up this way. He called me on Sunday, said that you were working on an enquiry and might end up needing help from Social Services. That’s why I called you.’

  I intended to verify this with Stan. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe Judith, but I liked to double check where my friends were concerned. I had been thinking about Stan on and off since leaving him on Sunday. I didn’t know Judith, but she had known him a lot longer than I had. I didn’t want to talk about him with her any more.

  ‘Have you been asked about Peter Woods in the last few years?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I haven’t, and there’s no way of checking if anyone has looked at the paperwork records unless they added a note. Some of it was on computer but the system wasn’t sophisticated enough to log all enquiries.’

  I got down to the official business of taking a statement. I explained that it was to record her identification of Daphne Headingly from the photograph I’d shown her, and that I was seizing a box bursting at the sides full of paperwork from a child’s death in 1985. I gave the box a quick once-over before opening it. Musty paper scents seeped out. Not as strong as they would have been if the box were the original. The pages felt slightly damp when I lifted a handful out, but were in good condition. I’d sorted through enough police paperwork stored in garages and unheated outbuildings to know that the immaculate cardboard box before me had not spent over a quarter of a century with its contents.