Suffer the Children

by Adam Creed

  ‘Sir!’ calls Pulford, sitting at his computer. ‘You’ve got to see this.’ Pulford pushes his chair back so Staffe can get to the screen.

  Staffe goes across, kneels down and rests his forearms on the desk. He leans right up to the screen. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he says. ‘It’s getting clearer.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your porn, boys. But I thought it was urgent,’ says Josie, standing in the doorway.

  ‘Come and have a look at this,’ says Staffe.

  On the screen, the bottom-right quadrant is demisting. Beneath the picture of the prostrate and butchered Karl Colquhoun and to the right of the crucified Guy Montefiore, the outline shape of a house can just be discerned.

  ‘What’s that in the background? A hill?’ says Staffe.

  ‘Or a shadow?’ says Pulford.

  Staffe leans back, puts his hands on the back of his head and sighs, exasperated. ‘It could be anywhere.’

  ‘Why would they make it less obscure?’ says Pulford. ‘Is it a sign that something is about to happen?’

  ‘Or a red herring. They’re in the driving seat. We’re just guessing,’ says Staffe, standing up, going to the window again. ‘What was the upshot of that trace on Jessop’s account, Josie?’

  Josie is peering into the computer screen, squinting. ‘I’m not so sure? It could be a building.’

  ‘I asked about Jessop’s bank account.’

  ‘If Jessop is our man,’ says Pulford. ‘Maybe they are using the website to distract us, buy him some extra time.’

  ‘It reminds me of somewhere,’ says Josie, still staring at the screen.

  Staffe goes back to the desk, looks over her shoulder. ‘Come on, it could be anywhere.’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling,’ says Josie. ‘A feeling I’ve been there. That dark area is a building, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘It’s too big, compared to the one in the foreground.’

  ‘If it’s nearby,’ says Pulford, ‘we could go down there and see if we can see the camera.’

  ‘If I’m right, it’s close.’ But Josie shies away from Staffe, stares out of the window.

  ‘You have to tell me,’ says Staffe. ‘If it’s relevant to the case I need to know. I have to know. We’re a team for God’s sake.’ Staffe goes up to Josie and she hangs her head. ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘You don’t know what trouble I got into for going to VABBA with you. Pennington threatened to pull me off CID.’

  ‘We’re in this together.’

  ‘In what, sir?’ says Pulford. ‘It’s a case that’s solved.’

  Lightly, Staffe puts his hands on Josie’s shoulders. ‘I’m asking you, Josie. Anything you can tell me, anything – I’ll only damage myself, I promise you.’

  ‘They’re barking up the wrong tree.’ She leans in, peers and the men gather round her. ‘If I’m right, the building in the foreground is empty.’

  ‘What is the shadow?’ says Staffe.

  ‘I think it might be the Limekiln tower.’ Josie stands up, backs away from the screen, narrowing her eyes. ‘And …’ she tilts her head, unable to take her eyes off the computer, ‘… remember the Martha Spears case? That’s why I went.’ She reaches out, taps the screen. ‘This is the street where the guy who raped her used to live. He was released last week. His name is Errol Regis. And there’s no point rushing over there. Johnson came with me. We knocked on the door but the house is empty.’

  ‘Why did you go with Johnson? That seems like overkill,’ says Staffe.

  Josie is dialling the station. ‘The neighbours said Regis has gone. They saw the wife leaving. She had suitcases. There were no lights on, no sign of life and the curtains were drawn shut. He missed a probation appointment, too.’

  Jombaugh picks up at Leadengate and she says, ‘Sergeant, can you find out the address of an Errol Regis. He’s a recent release on a rape – the victim was Martha Spears. Me and Johnson visited a few days ago. Thanks.’

  Pulford says, ‘This one’s going to be live. It’s like Absolom said, it’ll be filmed on the web this time – for everyone to see.’

  ‘Nobody’s there, though,’ says Josie.

  ‘There will be,’ says Staffe.

  ‘Unless like you said, it’s a red herring,’ says Pulford.

  ‘It’s a swansong,’ says Staffe.

  ‘But Jessop’s out of the country.’

  ‘Here’s his statements,’ says Josie, pulling a wad of papers from her bag.

  Staffe quickly scans each page. ‘There’s nothing here.’

  ‘That’s all there is – going back three years.’

  ‘No payments in over a grand, apart from his last salary.’ Staffe closes his eyes, says ‘J’.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Where’s Jessop’s confession? Read the last paragraph.’

  Pulford unfolds the copy that Smethurst gave him. ‘Someone showed how and I had to follow, but don’t follow me, there’s nothing to be achieved. What’s done is done. That’s it. What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Jessop didn’t follow. He showed the way. He’s written this note for someone else. He’s protecting someone.’

  ‘Ruthie Merritt?’ says Josie.

  ‘Or Greta Kashell,’ says Pulford.

  Staffe picks up his coat. ‘You monitor that screen, Pulford. Call me the second, and I mean the second, anything changes on that website.’

  ‘Who’s going to tell Smethurst what’s going on?’ says Pulford.

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that, sir,’ says Josie, but her phone rings and Jombaugh gives her the address. ‘Gibbets Lane,’ she says. ‘18 Gibbets Lane.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ says Staffe, more his normal self. ‘And keep schtum, for now. Schtum, I say.’

  *******

  The curtains are three-quarter closed, the way they have been for two days and a night – ever since they came knocking. Three-quarters shut, and with the lights all off, it means he can see out but they can’t see in. Even though he doesn’t know who ‘they’ are, Errol knows he can’t afford to show any signs of life.

  It is beginning to go dark, but surely it’s too early. He looks at the clock on the mantelpiece, which says seven thirty. Theresa used to wind it religiously. He peers through the gap in the curtains into the gloom. The sky is dark; he can’t see any stars in the sky. He pulls the chair up to the window, looks out on the angle so he can’t be seen. Pulling the blanket up around his neck, he watches the fire next door. He feels sick in the empty pocket under his belly.

  The tar has been going non-stop even though the council said there’s no work down to be done on Gibbets Lane. Not now, not in the future, they said – as if he was mad for asking. And he asked them if his wife had been in to get on the housing list. ‘Theresa Regis,’ he had said.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s our business – and hers. Not yours,’ they replied.

  ‘She’s my wife.’

  ‘Then ask her.’

  Soon – when he’s sure Theresa isn’t going to come back, ever – he will move on. Tonight, he will stay awake with the phone in his lap until dawn breaks. Leadengate is still on redial. Just in case. Probation will be round before long and he’ll be sent back to serve the rest of his licence for the breach. At Belmarsh, the POs hadn’t been happy to see him go. Not because they liked him, but because they thought a three-stretch was insufficient for a sicko, a frag, a fiddler. As he had walked through reception, on his way out and carrying all his worldly in a clear, plastic, prison bag, they said, ‘See yer, fiddler. You’ll be back for more, you fucking frag.’

  The strangest thing about jail is the way they let you leave. One morning – and even though you know it’s coming, it’s like a kick to the balls when it finally does – you are taken to a small room and they give you the one prison bag. You get into the clothes you arrived in – all that time ago. In Errol’s case they hung off him. You even get your belt back, as if you’re no longer a danger to yourself; you walk out across the yard witho
ut having to hitch your trousers and you go into reception where all the normal people come in and out. And someone opens a door and the world is on the other side. Down the road, there are buses and trees. Somewhere among the raging streets is a train station. You can go left or right or straight ahead. The air is all around.

  He knows he can’t go back, can’t do another day.

  Even though the windows are shut tight, he can smell the tar. He used to like the smell, but he’s learned to adjust.

  *******

  ‘Thanks for looking after Harry,’ Staffe says to Josie. ‘What did my sister say when she collected him?’ He stares straight ahead, not even blinking. From here, behind the petrol station’s condemned outside toilet at the top of Gibbets Lane, and with the jacket of his collar pulled up against a long forgotten chill, he can just see the windows of number 18. The curtains are drawn almost closed. The house is sandwiched between two derelict units.

  ‘She’s got a temper is all I’d say. I’d get her some flowers if I was you.’

  ‘You explained. You told her it was to do with Jessop.’

  ‘That didn’t seem to help. She said …’ Josie bites her lip, can’t help a smile slide into the corners of her mouth.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said you always had an excuse to make bad behaviour seem good.’

  ‘Fine. That’s just fine.’

  ‘The boyfriend’s kind of cool, isn’t he? Is she younger than you?’

  ‘A year. And they’re reasons. Not excuses.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Josie looks to the sky. ‘Did you feel that?’ She holds her hand out, as if to catch a falling droplet.

  Staffe looks above him then up and down the street. ‘I can’t work out where the camera would be – if this is the right place.’

  Josie looks up and down the street then up at the lamp posts. She blinks as the rain begins to come down hard. Staffe doesn’t stir, stares straight ahead. The sky is suddenly black and even though this is the broken heart of the city, in the shadow of the Limekiln you can hear seagulls above. Their squawk gets louder and a feather drops, slow, to earth. ‘Let’s go to the café,’ she says.

  ‘You go,’ says Staffe.

  ‘It’s just there, on the corner. We’ll be able to see who comes and goes.’

  ‘OK.’ He doesn’t move.

  ‘You coming?’

  He shakes his head, slowly, without diverting his attention from the windows of number 18. Before the sky went black and the rain came you could see the wall of the house next door warbling behind the heat generated by the flame, keeping the tar liquid – ready to go.

  Up and down the street, people come to their doors. They peek their heads out and look to the sky, hold out their hands. Staffe can’t help himself from taking in the scene: a community coming together in the face of the elements, brought together by a crazy storm. Some of them are in their stocking feet – on tiptoes against the wet or only wearing a thin shirt, crossing their arms across their chests against the sudden chill. People shout across their fences to neighbours with broad smiles on their faces. It is over a month since it last rained. Good for the gardens, good for the water companies. But Staffe can’t help thinking it will be bad for someone.

  He looks back to number 18. There is a car outside. He narrows his eyes, sees it is a small van. It wasn’t there before. Damn it! Through the rain, he can’t see if anyone is in the car. Have they gone up the path?

  Staffe doesn’t know whether to go to the café and tell Josie or down to the house to see what’s going on. He decides a middle way – to call her and stay put. If it’s nothing and he races down there, his cover is blown. He feels the clock tick against him, but before he can make the call, his mobile rings.

  He lifts the handset to his ear, feels the wet metal cold on his ear and hears Josie’s crackling voice. She sounds distressed but the line cuts dead. He calls her back but now the line is engaged. Is she calling him back? He looks to the skies and the rain runs down inside his collar.

  Maybe the van outside number 18 is the workmen coming to load up their kit because they’ll be rained off tomorrow. He peers into the stair-rod rain and a fork of lightning flashes in the sky. He counts the seconds to the thunder. On four, the ground shakes with deep wrath. The storm is sweeping fast into the city.

  The mobile rings again and Staffe has to shout to even hear himself through the storm. ‘Someone’s come!’

  ‘I need you here,’ says Josie.

  ‘What!’

  ‘Come here!’

  ‘No! You come here!’

  ‘Staffe! Montefiore’s missing.’

  He can’t help feeling he is doing the wrong thing, but Staffe ducks his head and walks into the rain, away from whatever is going on in the abandoned house of Theresa and Errol Regis. When he looks back, a last time, the van is gone.

  *******

  The knock at the door makes Errol’s heart stop for one, two beats. He looks at his mobile phone, unsure whether to press Leadengate. Having stopped, his heart races to catch up. The pulse thuds in his eardrums. His fingers tremble. He stands, weak at the knees, and peers out between the curtains. The rain teems down, bouncing back up to knee height. A small, thin girl with a pretty face is standing by his gate. She is young and smiles straight at him. Then she disappears. There is another knock at the door.

  The young girl isn’t what he was expecting at all and he doesn’t know what to do, now she knows he is in. Leadengate is illuminated on the screen. He puts the pad of his thumb on the green button, ready to call, and makes his way to the front door. Errol suddenly feels less gloomy than of late. This will be the first conversation he has had since Theresa left, the first face he has seen. He feels nervous, knows that is ridiculous.

  In the hall, Errol can see her waif torso outlined in the frosted glass of the door. He takes a deep breath and says a quick prayer that the visit might have something to do with Theresa. With one hand holding the mobile, Errol unbolts at the top and turns the key for the lock. When he opens the door, he can smell the rain washing the summer clean.

  The girl is smiling still. She has a collection box in one hand and extends it towards him. She shivers as she does it and says, ‘All right for cats and dogs.’

  ‘Cats and dogs?’ Now he smells sweet, roasting tar.

  ‘The rain. I don’t suppose I could step inside, just for a minute.’ She shakes her head and her high-up ponytail sends water spouting in a wide arc. Errol stands back, away from the wet and she takes that as an invitation to come in, makes a stride on to the threshold.

  ‘No!’ says Errol. He holds out his hand and looks at the mobile. He watches as his thumb presses green.

  The girl’s smile disappears in an instant and she too raises a hand – not the one with the collection box. In it, she holds a tiny canister.

  Errol looks at the screen, waits for the call to engage. ‘This is the police,’ he says to the girl, pleading. ‘I’m calling the police. Now go. Go away! Please!’

  The girl shakes her head, looks angry now and says, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Hello!’ he shouts into the phone.

  The girl laughs a sneer and reaches out, points the canister at Errol’s face.

  ‘Hello!’ he shouts into the phone but looking up at the girl. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ Errol is walking backwards now. He can’t stop her coming in, such a tiny girl. How could he raise a hand to her?

  He is backed up against the understairs cupboard and wants to sink to the floor, curl into a ball and let the hurt come so it can go again. Her frown disappears and as she smiles he hears a hissing sound and a fine spray comes towards him. It stings around his eyes, burns his nostrils. He can’t breathe and when he gulps at the air, the acid burn gets into his mouth and throat. He can’t see and he throws himself on the ground, screws his eyes tight shut, fills his lungs and holds his breath. His head jolts and a sharp pain shudders down into his spine. Then another. And another. He curls into
a ball, tries to make himself small. The pain gets duller, cruel in his kidneys. He tries to hold on to his breath but as the pain registers, he can’t help himself. He wails. He tries to keep it quiet, trap it inside himself to preserve some dignity, but he fails.

  After what might have been seconds or minutes, she stops kicking him. His eyes still sting from the spray and his throat burns. There is blood on his hall carpet. He bought the carpet with Theresa. They almost had an argument about it, but Errol reined himself in.

  Errol squints up and sees the girl bent double, exhausted. Her hands are on her bare knees. She has a short skirt on, even though she is wearing heavy walking boots – built for the job. He looks further up and sees fat streaks of mascara all down her thin, white face. In the newspaper, she had worn a white hood and a cloak. When he makes this connection, he can’t help himself, feels the wet spread of urine warm in his groin.

  She sees him looking and summons an effort to stand up straight. She spits down at him and he closes his eyes again. He feels nothing, just hears the girl say, ‘Fuck me. Fuck me? Fuck you!’ And she stamps on him, this time in the midriff. It knocks all the wind out of him. The last thing he hears, before the darkness takes him, is the girl say, ‘I am Sally and this is from Martha.’

  *******

  ‘What do you mean, Montefiore’s missing?’ says Staffe.

  Josie is sitting at a table in the window of the café. ‘He insisted on going for a walk, told the officer on his door that he was only going round the block. That was three hours ago.’

  Staffe looks out of the window and down the street. He can’t see Regis’s house for the rain. ‘I’ve an idea where he might be.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I can’t say, in case I’m wrong.’

  ‘What happened to us being a team?’

  He wants to tell her, to see if she might immediately come up with an argument to prove him wrong – something so obvious he can’t see it. ‘I promised you, I’ll only damage myself.’ He pulls up the collar of his jacket, buttons it all the way and makes to leave. ‘I’ll be an hour.’