Rills nodded.
‘Then you’ll be pleased to know Albert Carmelo is in custody, so he can’t hurt you any more, Mr Rills,’ Murphy said. He didn’t reveal that Carmelo may be responsible for the disappearance of Antonio Lombardi. The connections between these people were becoming extremely suspicious.
‘Was Johnny Wilder with him when this horrible torture took place?’ Murphy said, grimacing at the thought of it.
‘That bloody coward ordered him to do it!’
‘Where did this happen?’
‘They barged into my house a week or so ago. I can’t remember the exact day. All this digging the past up has been traumatic.’
‘I don’t want to distress you any further, George, but surely they wouldn’t do this just to cause you pain? Did they give a reason for this horrendous torture?’ Murphy asked.
The question seemed to really unsettle Rills, ‘That… bastard… thinks I had something to do with his brother’s murder,’ he stumbled over his words.
Seizing the opportunity, Murphy asked, ‘Did you, Mr Rills?’
‘No, I bloody didn’t. I wish I had killed that evil bastard though. His actions affect every hour of my days.’
‘How’s that possible, Mr Rills? Lenny Wilder has been dead for over forty years.’
Rills’ face turned red with fury, ‘Because he threw me down the concrete cellar steps at The Golden Nugget, locked the door, and left me to die the night he disappeared!’
CHAPTER 44
'What hospital was your daughter born at, Mr Bates?' Blake wasn't going to confront him until the morning, but decided to seize the moment.
Bates’ body stiffened at the question, 'The old North Staffordshire maternity ward. Why, what's that got to do with anything?'
'Well, you provided a lot of intelligence about Margot Matheson, Valletta Lombardi and George Rills in your earlier interviews. As a result, we now believe Lenny was involved in a paedophile ring. Valletta Lombardi helped him procure vulnerable, underage girls for a group of abusers, at a price, and with the help of another man, as yet unidentified.’
'That's all tragically sad, but what has any of it got to do with my Joanne?'
'Given we found incriminating child abuse films in your shed, we think you're also involved in this historical child abuse cover-up.'
'How many times do I have to tell you? I was blackmailed into looking after those films. I only tried to help Lorna Atwood. Once Lenny Wilder and his cronies found out I was going to expose them, they set me up with that trumped-up accusation in the Sentinel.'
'Mr Bates, to build up a picture of you and your late wife’s interactions with the local community, one of my officers has spoken to several of your neighbours. PC Emerson had a very interesting chat with Mrs Lowe at number 56. She informed her you adopted Joanne back in 1978.'
'So?'
'Well, we've accessed social services adoption records, and there's nothing on file relating to this adoption. Nothing at all. Can you explain the reason for this strange anomaly, Clifford?'
Bates looked shocked, 'That nosey old bag knows nothing about us. She's stirring up trouble because I fell out with her late husband after my wife saw him bump our car. He didn't have the decency to even tell me.'
'When was this?' Blake asked.
'Back in the late eighties. When I confronted him, he took a swing at me, and after that we never spoke again. Mrs Lowe apologised to my wife, but she sided with her husband.'
'Why would your wife tell Mrs Lowe Joanne was adopted if she wasn't? It's not the kind of thing a mother would say about her own daughter unless it was true?' Blake said.
'You can listen to the gossip of a bitter old woman, but Joanne is our daughter.'
'The thing is, the Births, Deaths and Marriages Office has no record of her birth, either. She doesn't exist!' Blake said, trying to rattle him.
A look of despair appeared on Clifford Bates’ face, 'I never registered her.'
'Really? I find that extremely suspicious. If you’d lie about something as important as your own daughter’s birth, what else are you hiding, Mr Bates? The only way to settle this is with a DNA test. We already have yours on the database so, with your daughter’s permission, we'll do a familial test and use hers to compare them.'
‘It’s been a long night and I’m tired. Can I go now?'
‘I’ll get one of my officers to give you a lift home. Please remember your 9p.m. curfew in future, Mr Bates. Next time you won’t get off so lightly.'
CHAPTER 45
Newfield Children’s Home closed in 1987. The late Victorian, thirty-room former private residence was commissioned as an army convalescent hospital during the First World War. It must have scared the shit out of the kids who were unfortunate enough to live there after its change of purpose in the 1950s. Its fancy cornices, moulded barge boards and elaborate ground-floor bay windows gave it the appearance of something from the gilded age of Victorian horror.
DI Blake and DS Murphy exited their pool car and made their way toward the boarded-up building. They were meeting a security guard from the firm paid by the local authorities to protect the property from druggies, squatters and vandals.A white van, with draught board decals down both sides and the word Safeguard in large red vinyl letters, spun onto the potholed tarmac and parked next to them.
A burly bloke, about six foot, with shaved head, black uniform and utility belt not unlike patrol officers wore, climbed out of the van, hand-cuffs dangling.
Murphy grinned. 'Bloody hell, its Vigilante Inc,' he muttered to his boss.
The man led them to the front entrance which was protected by two galvanised steel plates with a padlock cover welded to the centre. The security guard fumbled with a set of keys attached to a long chrome chain on his belt.
He seemed bemused. 'Has there been a break-in or something? We've not had any reports at our office.'
'No. We're working a cold case and need take a look inside this property,' Blake said, keeping things on a need-to-know basis.
'Do you want me to show you around inside? It’s a bit of a cave in here,' the security guard said, folding back the steel plates to reveal two ornate and faded green doors with a fanlight window.
Blake glanced at Murphy, 'If you could give us a quick heads-up on the layout, I'm sure we'll be OK, as long as there's no dangerous stairs, rotten flooring or collapsing roofing?'
'I was here about a month ago doing my rounds. Everything’s a bit damp and smells musty, but health and safety have passed the place. The old bedrooms are on the first and second floors. The larger communal rooms - living room, kitchen and what looks like it was once an office - are on this floor,' he said, surprisingly informed. 'I'll be in my van if you need me. How long do you reckon you'll be here?'
'Not too long. We'll give you a shout once we've finished,’ Blake said.
He and DS Murphy headed up a flight of dust-covered mahogany stairs leading to the first floor. At the top, they stood looking down a long landing with several doors leading off it.
'Ten bedrooms it is, then,' Murphy said.
'Which side do you want?'
'I'll have a look through this side.' Murphy pointed to the left.
'OK, just be careful?'
'And you, Tom.'
They split up and entered Rooms One and Two situated at the beginning of the hallway, just off the stairs.
Murphy glanced around a room the size of a prison cell. It seemed the conversion of this floor had no regard for preserving period features, and the unevenly plastered stud walls had been papered with pale blue wallpaper covered in racing cars from several decades, bringing back memories of his own childhood growing up in the Harold Wilson years of power cuts, strikes and harsh snowy winters. Young kids must have been terrified on their first few nights in care.
****
Room Two had been stripped completely bare from floor to ceiling, so Blake swiftly moved on to Room Three, which was also a blank canvas with no trace of being inhabi
ted by one of the unfortunate kids. He poked his head out of the doorway, ‘Anything, John?'
'Nothing yet. It's all pretty sparse,' Murphy shouted from Room Four.
'OK, we'll do the last ones together,' Blake said, now standing in the hallway.
Murphy joined him, 'Looks to me like someone has tried to completely remove all traces of any kids ever staying here.'
'Exactly what I thought. The authorities would naturally take out personal belongings, but stripping wallpaper and ripping up carpets seems extreme. Looks like someone has tried to cover something up?'
Lowering his voice, Murphy said, 'Evidence of child abuse?'
'Hard to quantify, but yeah.'
Their search of the last rooms on this landing drew a blank, so they headed up to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, Blake called the security guard to inform him they'd be longer than they’d originally anticipated. This time they were confronted with a short darker hallway and five rooms. They set about searching them.
After a few minutes, Murphy called Blake into a room on the left. 'Take a look at these, Tom,' he said, pointing to names carved into the windowsill’s white gloss paint, revealing the pine underneath.
Shane T wants to shag Melody. Mr Hall is a dirty perv. G will save us.
'This could have been Melody Ashton's room? Maybe these were done by some of the resident kids. They may have gravitated to her because she escaped for a few weeks.'
'I wonder who G is?' Murphy asked.
'Maybe some teenager she dated, or maybe the man she ran to when she disappeared?' Blake suggested.
'Almost impossible to prove either way, given it all happened forty-two years ago.'
'A line of enquiry we'll have to pursue all the same,' Blake said.
'Mr Hall was the manager of this place; Christian name Edward. He was Melody's appropriate adult during her interview back in seventy-eight.'
'The fact she called him a dirty perv is suggestive of abuse, maybe? Has anyone spoken to him yet?' Blake asked.
'Forgot to mention, I traced him through local care system records, but he died of a heart attack in 1983, according to his death certificate.'
'Shit. What about Melody? She'd be in her mid-sixties by now.'
'I've not managed to trace her yet. She could have changed her name after leaving the care system. The social worker I spoke with said it’s quite common, especially for young girls with no living parents. They want to escape their pasts. Hardly surprising really: her teenage life was filled with tragedy, abuse and despair.'
'The fact Edward Hall was present during her interview, and not one of the other care home staff, could be a coincidence, but it looks suspicious to me. I'm inclined to think he was there to frighten her into keeping her mouth shut about what was going on behind closed doors here,' Blake said.
'I agree. There were so many abuse cases hushed up around that time. Hardly surprising, considering statements were taken in cells, patrol cars or in the pub, without witnesses or tape machines. It would've been easy for abusers in positions of power to dismiss troubled care home kids’ allegations as unfounded teenage rants.'
'This runs much deeper than we could have ever imagined. We started investigating the murder of a violent gangster and end up in a derelict children's home.'
'And you’re thinking it could be the same paedophile ring connected to Bates, Lenny Wilder and Valletta Lombardi?'
'Sadly, yes. Let's take a look in these last two rooms,' Blake said.
Coldness spread over him the moment he stepped into the next room. He stared at the raised, ply-wood bed frame fixed to the wall. This was the only room with a bed left in it but, like the others, all personal belongings had been removed.
Murphy knew that expression. 'What's wrong, Tom?'
'That's the bed and wall paper in those vile 8mm films, no mistaking them.'
'Jesus! This is a room where abuse took place?'
'One of them, yeah. I've had nightmares about it. How a grown man gets off on abusing an innocent child is sickening.'
Murphy shot him a disgusted look, 'It's like a disease. They want putting down, evil bastards.'
Blake sighed deeply, sweat forming on his brow. 'Let’s give it a quick once-over before calling forensics. I need to get out of here.'
'Look here, in the corner.' Murphy pointed to a worn brown carpet tile, its edge lifted slightly as if it had been removed at some point. He retrieved a pen from inside his jacket, knelt and lifted the tile, 'There's a loose floorboard under here.'
'Fetch it up?'
He carefully placed the carpet tile to one side and lifted the board.
'Anything?'
'Just a dust cavity full of cobwebs. Hang on.' He fished his mobile from his jacket and turned on the torch. Now on his knees, he turned his head sideways on the floor, and shone the bright LED beam down to peer into the space in both directions. 'Something lurking about an arm’s length away: a book of some sort!'
'Can you reach it?'
'Doubt my fat forearms will fit in the gap without getting jammed, but I'll give it a go.'
'It’s OK. Leave your torch there. I'll have a punt. We don't want the fire-brigade here to dislodge you,' Blake grinned, lightening the mood.
‘Sarky bugger, but probably for the best.'
Blake removed his jacket, rolled his right shirt sleeve up, then swapped places with his sergeant. Stretched fully, like a cat grappling at a mouse disappearing into its hole, he managed to get his fingers on the edge of the dusty book. After a few failed attempts, he dragged it toward him. 'Bingo!'
'And?'
'It’s a diary. Six by four, day-to-view job,' he said, flicking through it, releasing a small cloud of dust.
Murphy stood next to him. 'Look at the year on top of the first page - 1978.'
Blake nodded, ‘And look at this.’
Written with biro in joined-up writing, the first entry read:
1st of September
Things have been crazy around here lately. We had some new girl two weeks ago, and that bastard Hall has already smarmed around her. I hope The Gatekeeper gives him a kicking for breaking the rules.
Blake flicked to the next entry two days later. They stared incredulously at what was written:
I don't think I can take this anymore. Hall has put me up here outa the way, just because I said the food tasted like dog shit. He says no one is to speak to me while I'm in isolation. You gotta help me get out of this place, V. Hall is on the prowl at night. I'm shit scared he'll do it again!
The two detectives looked at each other knowingly. If Melody Ashton did write the diary, she was protecting the identities of two people heavily involved in her life. Though he died thirty-six years ago, this was documented evidence Edward Hall was abusing the kids, and it might help them piece the case together. But it was too vague at this stage, and would be inadmissible in any court. They needed to identify who the sinister-sounding Gatekeeper and V were, and fast, before anyone else disappeared.
CHAPTER 46
The scent of her perfume lingered with him in the living room as she made her way down the path to her car. He released a long breath; tears welled in his eyes. Once in a lifetime your path crossed with someone who could have a fundamental effect on your future; not that he had many years left. Fortunately, the timing wouldn't make a difference in this instance; but the shame he felt engulfed him as he watched through the living room window while she fired up the engine of her car. After she'd gone, he ambled across the carpet, picked up the phone and dialled the number that had been inside his head ever since the police first questioned him: the number they’d discovered under the floorboards in his wardrobe. He knew it would only be answered at a specific time of the day.
****
The man stabbed the call end button. God, that bloke needs to get a grip. Things will only get worse if he loses his nerve now. Newfield was history, had been for over forty years. They'd all got secrets, for Chrissake, even those pretending
to be whiter than white. He hated it when someone lost their bottle. Their vulnerabilities could topple the whole house down in one fell swoop. Fucking weak-minded!
Things were hotting up now. The cops were getting close, and he needed to attend to the woman. She'd been grunting and rattling the cuffs on the back of the chair ever since he'd taken her. Not his taste at all, saggy used goods way past her sell by date. This would silence her once and for all. The big-mouthed bitch had blabbed to the cops some half-baked story she'd heard from another gossiping old bitch eons ago. She was there back in the day, but what did she really know? Sod all! She'd know pain though, when he sliced her open like a peach, he thought, standing in the cellar of his second property, glaring at a large steel box he'd owned since 1975, its surface now spattered in rust patches. He'd often thought of replacing it with something more modern - one of those powder-coated fireproof jobs with a combination lock - but he couldn't bear the thought of changing things. It had too much sentiment attached.
The vessel was from a time when things were built like fortresses and, even though he'd replaced the padlock several times, it still remained strongly intact. He'd taken great care not to expose the contents to sunlight or damp, but still, the photographs had faded slightly and their edges curled a little. He sensed this would be the last time he'd view his precious trophies.
CHAPTER 47
Three officers were scouring several terraced streets of Longton, an area of Stoke-on-Trent with many Victorian terraced houses. They'd all been given pictures of the clay sunflower face motif and told to look out for a house with it high on the front gable. But under no circumstances should they enter the property without back up.
PC Emerson retrieved her mobile and opened the images folder. She'd been pacing the streets of the search area for half an hour when a Victorian property with traffic-stained windows and filthy nets hanging behind the glass caught her eye. Looking up, she saw the clay face below the gable. The hairs on her neck stood on end as she crossed the road to look closer.
The Missing And The Dead: A tense crime thriller with a shocking twist Page 11
