Sweetie (28 page)

Ward, and although that wasn’t one of Potty’s she pretended she was looking for one of the other cleaners and crept along its length, hoping to get a peek at him. It was a huge ward, mostly full of old men who looked as if they didn’t have much time left in this world. She had to scan it carefully before she found him. He was asleep. Although badly disfigured by bruising and swelling it was undoubtedly George Rush, the same greasy hair and big stomach sticking up from under the covers. A shiver ran through Potty and she realised that he still had the power to terrify her even from his hospital bed. But the immediate danger had passed. She was able to report back to the others later that he had been badly hurt but would survive.

A mood of jubilation swept through the women and that hot Thursday afternoon cups of tea were jettisoned in favour of Bacardi and Cokes for the younger girls, and for Nanny Parks and Lizzie Foster Mackeson milk stout.

But in the days that followed their jubilation was replaced by a feeling of intense weariness. They all complained of feeling drained and strung out by the events of the last month. They had been living in a perpetual state of high alert. Now that the menace had been contained, they could finally relax.

John and Grace planned a holiday abroad, the first time either of them had ever left the country. They asked Nanny if she wanted to go with them, but she 280

was adamant that she would rather die than set foot on a plane. They couldn’t decide between mainland Spain or Majorca, but both wanted to get away and forget about it all for a fortnight. Sue and Terry planned on taking their kids to a holiday camp on the Isle of Wight if they could scrape the money together.

For a week or two it began to look as if life might be returning to normal. Questions were asked around the neighbourhood for a few days about who might have beaten George up, but they soon died down and people lost interest as they invariably do.

Harry said the police had been in only the once to make enquiries in his betting office. Clearly, finding George’s assailants was not a priority for them.

This bothered the women. They had been so sure the police would investigate George, but it seemed they’d decided he was just another victim of random street violence.

Lizzie Foster kept the pressure up. She’d made several visits before this to DCI Woodhouse down at the police station, nagging him about his progress on the case and asking if he was close to catching the man who had attacked and murdered all these children. To stop now would only arouse suspicion and she was too smart for that. PC Watson sensed a change of mood in the neighbourhood but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Most of the women still hovered over their kids nervously, and his job was 281

to soothe and placate them. There had been no further progress towards finding the attacker and Woodhouse had been kept busy by the bank robbery at Shoreditch. Watson could only repeat over and over that they were using all the resources they had, a phrase he had been taught at the police training centre in Hendon.

Grace was idly flicking through the clothes in her wardrobe one afternoon, alone in the house for once.

Nanny Parks had taken Adam and Luke down to the swings then over to her flat for their tea so that Grace could clean the house. Afterwards she had taken a long bath followed by a nap and was now going through her wardrobe, looking for something that wasn’t too tight. She had obviously piled a few pounds on in the last couple of weeks and would have to get a few new bits if they did go on holiday as nothing seemed to fit. She’d found a button-through sleeveless denim dress and was relieved that she could still get the buttons done up when there was an urgent banging on the door, shattering her peace.

What is it now? she thought. The banging started up again, this time more insistent.

‘All right! I’m coming . . . I’m coming,’ she shouted as she made her way down the stairs. Through the glass panel in the front door she could clearly see the outline of her mother with the two boys. Grace immediately assumed that something must be wrong with either Luke or Adam and took the last few steps 282

two at a time, opening the door to find her mother ashen-faced and the boys looking sullen.

‘What on earth is going on? What’s happened, Mum?’

‘Oh, Grace!’ said Nanny Parks, her eyes filling with tears.

‘Quick, get inside, what is it?’ Grace took the baby out of his pushchair and closed the door behind them.

‘Nasty man, Mummy,’ said Adam.

Grace’s mind whirled. ‘What do you mean?

What’s happened?’

‘It’s TJ, Grace,’ sobbed Nanny.

‘What about him?’ Grace’s heart began to beat faster, as if she already knew what was coming next.

‘He’s gone.’

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Chapter Seventeen

When they found him he looked as if he had just lain down and decided to take a nap. His soft downy hair lay flat against his head, and his lips were pursed together, forming a perfect cupid’s bow. He was curled up on his side, one thumb in his mouth, his other hand clutching the half-chewed drumstick lolly that was stuck to the side of his face. Small cuts blemished the near-perfect skin of his face where his eyelashes had been cut off, and his body, naked except for a red T-shirt, had gone a strange shade of blue.

He had been dumped by the old railway arches in a side street off Hackney Road, just down from the bridge. It was a dark area where the sun never managed to shine. The cobbled narrow street was home to a variety of black cabs and cars as most of the arches were used by shifty mechanics.

Four boys had been standing around, arguing about who was going to retrieve the ball that had fallen in front of Nobby’s archway garage. Nobby had a fierce reputation in the neighbourhood, but today his garage was closed. He was with a few of the guys that worked for him, on a beano in Clacton. He 284

was always shouting at the kids for riding their bikes past the black cabs he took in for repair as they often managed to scrape the paintwork or hit a ball at the newly washed bodywork. As one of the boys made his way in the general direction of where the ball had landed, he saw what he thought was a coat or some other item of red clothing that had been dropped. It was only as he drew closer that he realised it was a little child, in nothing but a red T-shirt, perfectly still and lifeless. His mates thought he was mucking about when he screamed at them to get the police, they were always pulling those kinds of stunts on each other, but then he kept on screaming for much longer than he would have done if it were a joke. In fact, young Albie, as he was called, couldn’t stop screaming, and when the lad was found he was kneeling with his back against the fence, face buried in his arms, still yelling. He refused to look up.

Woodhouse was first on the scene shortly after 5 p.m.

and knew before he even arrived that their man had done it again. This child was barely three, and Woodhouse’s guts turned to ice as he lifted the blanket and saw the shock of fine blond baby hair lying in a pool of blood. The body was still warm and soft and seemed to glow with the sheen of death. The scene was all too familiar, although there seemed to be no instruments around to suggest the assailant’s usual sexual preference. However, a thin tube was 285

found to be protruding from the child’s bottom, and a strange-coloured liquid was congealing at one side of the body. There were obvious traces of semen present, so Woodhouse could see that this attack was sexually motivated, like the others. He thought he recognised the child but couldn’t quite place him. It was only when Watson arrived with the Missing Persons report filed earlier that afternoon that he was able to make a positive identification.

Woodhouse sucked in the warm air, closing his eyes in disbelief as he realised who this child was. It would be his second trip to the Williamses’ home in three weeks to inform them of the death of one of their children, and even with Watson at his side he wasn’t sure he could do it.

But do it he must, just as he’d have to answer some furious questions about their slow progress on the case. If he didn’t make an arrest soon he would be out of a job. If nothing else, this latest development would help him press his case to his senior officers for more manpower, but thoughts of the job seemed suddenly insignificant compared to the loss of another life on his beat. Looking at the forlorn little figure of TJ, he doubted he even wanted to stay in this line of work any more. His stomach churned and his hands went clammy.

Watson stood nearby, and Woodhouse was conscious that the young PC was watching his every move. He was not a religious man himself but found 286

that in the light of this terrible series of events he could no longer dismiss the concept of evil as the product of a primitive imagination. He couldn’t understand how one person could do this to another; how fleeting sexual gratification could ever be worth the life of an innocent baby.

He couldn’t figure out how the attacker had gone unnoticed either. The arches were not a busy place, but people were living on the other side of that fence, for Christ’s sake, and a group of passengers were usually gathered at the bus stop, some twenty yards around the corner. There were always lots of comings and goings from the hospital about a three-minute walk away, yet this baby had been murdered under their noses. Had no one seen anything?

This crime, like the others, had been carried out with a certain methodology; it was not the work of a man in a hurry or liable to panic when he saw blood on his hands. Watson followed Woodhouse around the garages in silence as medical crews and crime scene officers went into a swarm of subdued activity around them. His notebook was poised and at the ready, awaiting instructions. He studied his boss’s face for signs of his intent but found none.

Woodhouse wore the look of a defeated man, sickened and beaten by the events of the last months.

Finally, he turned to Watson and said, ‘In the morning we’re going to bring in every man on our list of suspects.’

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‘All sixteen of them, sir?’

‘All sixteen.’

Watson cleared his throat and suggested ner

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vously, ‘We don’t have much to check them for, beyond that bootprint. There isn’t much in the way of definite evidence, sir.’ Their list focused chiefly on men with form for mild sexual assault, peeping toms, flashers, but no murderers, nothing in this league.

‘I know, Watson. I’ve read those files a hundred times, but he’s right under our noses. I know it, I can smell it. Time to apply a bit of pressure and see who squeaks first.’

‘Yes, sir.’ But Watson couldn’t imagine the DCI applying pressure, it wasn’t his style. He was a by-the-rules man, thorough and straight as a die. The PC

watched Woodhouse carefully as he briefed the other officers on the scene in his calm, concise way.

Woodhouse never flapped. Even when three of the top brass arrived on the scene, demanding an explanation, he didn’t look flustered under hostile questioning; in fact, his face betrayed little emotion beyond a quiet weariness. Watson watched him nodding but saying little as his superiors spoke to him. Once he glanced over and gave Watson a look that said, I’ll be with you in a minute.

When his bosses had finished with him, Wood -

house called Watson over. They walked to his car in silence and climbed in, each dreading the task ahead.

‘Ready then?’ asked the DCI.

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‘I think so, sir. I can’t believe we’ve got to tell them that they’ve lost another son. How do you do that?’

‘I don’t know, Watson, but unfortunately it’s our job. Did you radio ahead for the WPC to join us?’

‘Yes, sir, she’s waiting at the station for us to collect her. It’s the same one who looked after young Maria at the school. She’s a good girl.’

‘OK, let’s go.’ Woodhouse pulled away from the kerb and headed east along Hackney Road.

‘Watson?’

‘Sir?’

‘I’m pleased to have you with me. You’re a good officer.’

Woodhouse seemed embarrassed by his own words and Watson wasn’t sure how to receive them so just mumbled his thanks.

Sue and Terry already knew before the blue flashing light appeared on the street outside their house. TJ

just wasn’t the sort of kid to wander off. He could stay happily absorbed in a single task for hours, but never go far from Sue’s side. TJ couldn’t cope with the unfamiliar. He needed routine and order. Other kids might grow adventurous or curious or forget for a moment that they weren’t to leave their parents’

side, but not TJ.

They couldn’t fault the police really. TJ had gone missing around three, and it was just before six 289

when Woodhouse and Watson arrived with the news. Sue and Terry took it with a kind of numb acceptance. Shock, Woodhouse supposed. It was Lizzie Foster, waiting with them in the kitchen, who went for him.

‘Who else, eh? Who else is gonna get killed before you do something? You’re fucking useless, the lot of ya!’

She coloured to the roots of her wispy grey hair and let fly at him then with every insult at her disposal. Woodhouse had seen some angry people in his line of work but she seemed to be in the grip of some especially powerful emotion and he wondered briefly if there was more to it than simple grief.

Woodhouse, Watson and the WPC stood and took it calmly, as they had been trained to do in these circumstances. It was Terry who finally told her to shut up and go home. Woodhouse was able to offer the grieving parents very little in the way of comfort beyond the assertion that TJ would have lost consciousness very quickly, a fact of which he was not at all certain.

Gillian, who had been out with Grace scouring the streets and asking in all the shops for sightings of TJ, arrived exhausted and clueless at Sue’s house to find the police car outside and a group of neighbours standing around on the street, trying to work out what was going on.

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‘Have they found him?’ she asked one of the women hopefully.

The woman shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I dunno, love. Three of them turned up here about quarter of an hour ago but they didn’t have the little ’un with them.’