by Nick Oldham
Grace closed her eyes, opened them slowly. Defiance.
‘Earlier today you were caught shoplifting in Smiths. You assaulted the store detective, then hit three police officers.’
A smile now, pleasure and remembrance.
‘You think it’s funny?’
‘Yeah, very fuckin’ funny.’
‘Is that because your brain’s rotted with glue? Does that make you see things differently? Can you see anything at all?’
Grace leaned on the table. ‘I can see an old bitch whose mouth is opening and closing and spewing shite. That’s what I can see.’
Danny grinned, thought, less of the ‘old’. ‘You’ve been on the run a long time,’ she said aloud. ‘Three months. How have you survived?’
‘Easy - when you’ve got a cunt.’
Danny flinched inwardly. Outwardly she did not blink or show shock. The social worker blanched, her tight lips parting in shock.
‘And that’s how you’ve survived?’
‘Hand jobs, blow jobs, fucks. Yeah, you name ‘em. The cash keeps rollin’ in.’
‘You know what sexual intercourse is then?’
Grace grunted in amusement.
‘And shoplifting?’
‘Bit of that, sure.’
‘Who puts a roof over your head?’
‘None of your business, Mrs Busybody, nosy-cow bitch,’ she spat, sat back and folded her arms.
‘How do you know Claire Lilton?’
‘Who?’ Her face curled up. Danny repeated the name. ‘I don’t.’
‘You mentioned her name when you were brought in here.’
‘I probably mentioned Robbie Williams too. But I don’t know him.’
‘You’re a smartarse, aren’t you?’
‘I could outwit you any day of the week.’
Danny paused, leaned back and eyed Grace, not surprised by the responses she was getting. She’d had worse from eight-year-olds. There was quiet in the room and the slightly metallic hiss of the tape spools rotating could be heard.
‘Let me tell you a story, Grace. It’s about a little girl very much like you.’
‘I’m not little!’ She was affronted by the insinuation.
‘Oh yes, you are. Little in every sense. Body, mind, brain, intellect. You only think you’re big. You talk big words. You do big girl things. But underneath you’re a little kid. A child. Nothing more than a child. I’ll bet you still have a teddy, don’t you?’
Grace swallowed. She blushed.
‘Do you hold it every night? I’ll bet you do ... Anyway, I was telling you a story. Just a short story, because it’s about a little girl like you. Same age, same height, same braveness. . . and she went missing from home, but she didn’t last three months or even three days, because I found her strangled to death.’
Grace was listening, riveted.
‘Ever wonder what it’s like to be strangled? No air. Can’t breathe-’
‘I say, is this really necessary?’ the social worker interrupted. Danny fired her a look which had the effect of clamping the woman’s mouth up. Grace was transfixed by Danny.
‘Squirming, trying to. get away, being held dawn, throttled, maybe even more than one person doing it . . . screaming, a hand over your mouth and nose so you won’t make a noise and that rope tightening around your neck, tighter and tighter and your tongue grows in the back of your throat and your eyes bulge because they feel like they’re going to pop out. . .’
‘Don’t!’ Grace screamed, covering her ears. She started to sob all the way up from her guts, almost retching, then she vomited all aver the table, over the tape deck, then jerking her head and covering the lap of the social worker. Danny saw it coming. She moved in time.
Grace choked, bent double, head between her legs, spitting out the last of her stomach contents.
Danny walked round the table and laid a hand on the back of her head. ‘There, there,’ she muttered softly. ‘Everything’ll be all right, Grace, but you need to tell me about yourself, don’t you? Then tell me about Claire Lilton, because you know about know who killed her, don’t you?’
‘Yeah. . .’ she gasped.
‘Who?’
‘Charlie and Ollie.’
Same old story, Danny thought whilst listening - in a different, vomit-free interview room - to Grace. Abused by a succession of ‘uncles’ (her mother’s lovers), social services become involved, goes into care from the age of seven; the short forays home result in more abuse; behaviour worsens, the homes become more secure, better supervised. Ends up in one, aged ten, abused by the staff and the older kids ... it becomes part of a dark life, part of her day-to-day existence. She runs, returns, runs some more, but this time vows not to return. Blackpool sounds good. She’s been there on several day trips. Lots of life, sounds and people. And that’s where she ended up. Sleeping rough, cruising the arcades, stealing food ... and then being spotted and watched, eventually approached. A meal provided. A bath. Somewhere comfy to sleep. Some cash. Build up trust, something which didn’t take too long, and then she was hooked. . . and introduced to the man who had done her so much good; it was no surprise when his cock came out and it tasted like all the others had done, felt like all the others had done. And soon she was on the lookout for him - other vulnerables, mispers, day-trippers even - bring them in, make promises ... but something horrible happened to one of them. Her name had been Claire. She didn’t want it, didn’t want the sex, not for anything. She fought and was subdued. Fought again, subdued even more and then she was dead.
And now something else: Danny was being nice to her and getting something from Grace, something for nothing.
Cleaned up, but smelling of sick, the social worker listened in silence.
Danny coaxed, reassured, probed as she pulled out a tangled web of emotion, fear, hatred and a million other things because this was the first time Grace had ever talked. Danny had to deal with all the excess baggage. That was the way it had to be, like plaiting fog, as they say. Only then, when it had all been faced and talked through, could- the questions begin to flow, slowly at first, about Claire Lilton.
And yes, Danny had to admit, she was not really interested in Grace’s story. All that was blind alleys. She wanted to hear about Claire Lilton.
Grace talked for three hours.
Every single operational operative from Kruger Investigations was out on the bricks searching for Tracey. Photos in hand, descending on as many likely places as they could think of.
Myrna, meanwhile, was on to Mark Tapperman.
Under pressure he refused to yield. ‘No, I cannot spare any of my officers to go looking for a reluctant witness who’s probably regaled you with the most bullshit you’ve ever heard, just for a bed for the night and the opportunity to steal from your purse. And it worked!’
Myrna silently mouthed numerous cuss-words at him from her end of the phone.
‘And it’s a godamned good job we don’t have video conferencing otherwise I’d be able to see your lips bad-mouthin’ me,’ Tapperman laughed.
‘How in hell..?’
‘I’m a cop. People are always cussin’ me silently down the phone. Hey, look, Myrna, sorry, but we can’t afford the manpower. Tell you what I will do - I’ll get a radio message out to all mobiles, ask’ em to keep their eyes peeled, okay? That’s all I can do. We’re chasin’ our tails here.’
‘Fine, thanks,’ Myrna conceded. ‘Any progress on Steve’s killer?’
‘Patrick Orlove? No, nothing. We’re trying our best.’
‘I believe you.’ She hung up.
‘He calls me his little honey pot, but I don’t really know why. Because I’m sweet, I suppose.’ Grace managed a weak smile. The effort of self-revelation had taken everything out of the little girl. All her own important stuff had been about herself, not Claire; her past, present and unspeakable future. ‘I met Claire in one of the arcades and I could tell she were alone, like. I talked to her and said I could get her somewhere to sleep for the ni
ght. I took her to see Ollie and he give her a couple of quid for some chips an’ me an’ her went for some an’ came back when the arcade had closed. We got into Ollie’s car and he drove us to his flat an’ Charlie were there waitin’ for us. I got pissed on wine - I like wine. Claire had a bit to drink and she got smashed easy, like. Then Ollie asked me to give him a suck an’ he got it out an’ I started. I had to close me eyes ‘cos I don’t really like lookin’ at it and the wine takes the taste off.
‘While I were doin’ this,’ she went on, ‘Charlie took Claire out the room and into the bedroom. Going for a shag. Everythin’ were all right and Ollie’d cum in me mouth an’ he made me swallow it an’ then all hell broke loose. There’s a loada shoutin’ an’ screamin’ from the bedroom and Claire ran out ... she had no clothes on and Charlie were chasing her. He were fuckin’ angry. He grabbed her and thumped her in the face and sez to Ollie, “Come an’ ‘elp me with the little bitch.” They both grabbed her then an’ dragged her back into the bedroom an’ slammed the door behind ‘em. Well, the door don’t close proper and it just sorta bounced open a bit an’ I sneaked a look.’ Tears welled up in Grace’s eyes.
‘Go on,’ Danny said gently.
‘I were frightened. Claire were strugglin’ an’ fightin’. They were both holdin’ her down and Charlie was trying to get his dick in her, but she were really fighting and kickin’ and they were gettin’ really mad. Charlie had a rope or somethin’ round her neck, pullin’ tight an’ next thing Claire weren’t moving at all.’
She fell silent.
Danny touched Grace’s trembling fingers. The social worker was white.
‘They said she were all reet, just sleepin’. I could see she wasn’t. They’d been smashing her in the face too and it were a real mess. I’ve never seen a dead person before. It were ‘orrible . . . I can still see her now.’
‘What happened then?’
‘They carried her into the shower and washed her, I think. They told me not to look. I just ran out and glued meself up . . . I haven’t been back.’
‘Who were the two men?’
‘Like I said. Charlie and Ollie.’
‘Do you know their last names?’
‘Charlie Gilbert. Ollie Spencer.’
‘What do Charlie Gilbert and Ollie Spencer have in common?’ Henry Christie pondered out loud. He knew Gilbert was one of the most respected figures on the Fylde, and Spencer was a purveyor of porn and perversion across the Northwest. ‘Other than their sexual interests, that is.’
‘The fact is, they are together and I want to go and arrest both for murder,’ Danny stated categorically. She could hardly contain herself after listening to Grace’s story and recording the subsequent statement. Grace was still in the police station, being held on the assault and shoplifting charges whilst a decision was made about what to do with her. In many ways it was out of the hands of the police. She had to be handed over to Social Services for safekeeping - not something either Henry or Danny was happy with. They would rather have kept her under lock and key.
They were in the incident room at Blackpool police station, scrumming down with FB and other members of the murder squad.
‘Just hold your horses,’ FB said impatiently. His jacket and tie were off. He paced the room, taking up the tension more degrees than necessary. ‘Tell me where we’re up to exactly.’
He looked at Henry, who, never afraid of delegation and empowerment, looked in turn at Danny.
She cleared her throat.
‘Okay, we’ve boxed off Trent. He’s out of the picture, back on remand next Thursday, charged with numerous serious offences. If he ever sets foot out of prison again, it should only be in a pine box.
‘Claire Lilton: missing from home. Turns up murdered, and initially we think it’s down to Trent, but it doesn’t quite match his murder MO - the knife. So we agree we have a problem - another child-killer on the loose. Then Grace Lawson turns up, a witness from nowhere, also a misper, eleven years old who says she saw Claire get murdered by Ollie Spencer and Charlie Gilbert. Describes the whole event in gory detail and it matches everything we know medically and forensically about Claire’s death.’
‘Thanks - very succinct,’ FB said. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. Claire had four-day-old sperm in her. Her step-father gave himself up and admitted having sexual relations with her. We’ve DNA’d him and at present he’s on bail, returning here in a week’s time. We’re pretty sure he didn’t kill her, but we are going to fettle him good and proper. Unfortunately there are no further forensics or DNA; as Grace told us, Gilbert and Spencer washed her body off. They were very thorough.’
‘Do we know where the crime took place?’ FB asked.
Danny nodded. ‘Spencer’s flat.’
‘In that case we need to hit it quick and go for bedsheets, et cetera, et cetera, down the plughole, everything,’ FB decided. ‘Let’s just see how thorough they’ve really been. Anything else?’
‘Yep,’ said Henry, ‘and it concerns Gilbert, bastion of society. It’s an American angle. Remember Karl Donaldson?’ Henry raised his eyebrows at FB, whose face went sour at the mention of the FBI operative. FB and Donaldson had a history and did not match well. ‘Gilbert was recently arrested in Miami on child-molestation allegations and released without charge. Seems he’s involved with some American gangster called Bussola, very big crime-wise in Florida. His legal business side includes amusement arcades, where it’s believed he deals drugs. The amusement side is probably where Bussola’s connection with Gilbert comes in, a man who made most of his fortune from kids’ pennies. Gilbert apparently buys Bussola’s arcade cast-offs. That’s how they know each other, I believe.’
‘Where’s this leading, Henry?’ FB asked impatiently.
Henry did all but ignore him. Their history gave Henry some rights not normally available to Detective Inspectors. ‘The dead girl found over in Darwen, actually: the five-year-old murder. Don’t ask me how - I’m sure it’ll come out in the wash - but a girl over in the States read about the murder and came forward to say she knew who’d done it...’ he paused for effect ‘...Charlie Gilbert. Then she clammed up and said nothing else, except, and this is the killer’ - his eyes turned to Danny - ‘that she’ll only talk to Danny, who she met some years ago. The girl is a Brit, working over in the States.’
‘She’ll only speak to me?’ Danny was puzzled. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Tracey Greenwood. Ring a bell?’
‘Not offhand.’
‘She also insisted on something else too - that Danny goes to the States and brings her back to England and she’ll give evidence against Gilbert. But only Danny.’
‘Out of the question,’ said FB. ‘She’s pulling a fast one for some reason.’
‘There is another thing too.’ Henry pulled a face. ‘She’s done a runner.’
‘They’ve lost her?’ FB said incredulously. ‘Typical bloody Donaldson.’
‘So I’m waiting to hear,’ Henry said.
‘Okay, thanks, Henry. We’ll see what comes of it – if anything. But for the moment, let’s concentrate on the here and now - Gilbert and Spencer.’ He looked squarely at Danny. ‘Go get ‘em.’
Chapter Eighteen
They had to do it right and they needed the manpower to get it right.
FB, unusually magnanimous, gave the go-ahead.
First up, the Surveillance Unit were hurriedly called in and briefed by Danny: their task to pinpoint the suspects, keep them in sight and report their whereabouts.
Secondly, the Support Unit were roused and, again, briefed by Danny. Their job was to follow arrest teams in and, under the instructions of a team leader, to search, seize and secure evidence. That meant at Spencer’s place the bedclothes, the sink, the drains, the shower – anything which could be useful for forensics and could link Claire Lilton with the address.
Then there would be a forensic and Scenes of Crime team behind them, supporting and bagging any evidence for
further examination.
It had been decided that Danny would lead one arrest team, Henry the other. They would hit both men simultaneously and bring them to Blackpool nick. One at a time. Ensure no contact - eyeball, verbal, physical, whatever, their cells were to be at opposite ends of the complex so they would not be able to even shout to each other.
Once both men were incarcerated, given their rights and everything else they had to be given, Danny would lead the interview teams whilst Henry took a step backwards to supervise the process.
They tossed up to see who would arrest whom. Henry flicked the 2p piece with his thumb. ‘Heads I take Gilbert, tails you take him.’ Both wanted him badly.
The coin rolled up through the air, slow motion almost.
Danny prayed: Let it be tails.
Henry moved out of the way of the falling coin. It clattered on the floor.
Danny smiled grimly.
Four hours later and Myrna had heard nothing. She helped herself to a strong black coffee from the machine in the main office and stared through the window across the cityscape, a vacant look in her eyes but her mind churning angrily because she felt such a fool on two counts.
One, she had been used by Tracey, the little bitch. Two, Karl Donaldson must have thought she was an annoying little tick who could not do anything right.
Damn the girl.
The two detectives waited patiently as the Surveillance Unit coasted into action. There was nothing to do now but be patient.
‘How’s things on the Jack Sands front?’ Henry asked conversationally.
Danny’s skin crept at the mention of the name. ‘Okay. No hassle. Haven’t seen him, actually. How about you?’
‘Me neither. Seems to be keeping a low profile.’
‘Think he’s got the message?’
Henry shrugged. ‘Don’t know. He’s not thick, but he’s stubborn.’