‘Better call the police.’
I stumbled backward, hitting my head on a back gate. I thought they’d just take her, not call the police. The woman was in the phone box, picking up the receiver, dialling and talking. She came out, arms folded.
‘They’re on their way. To my house. Come on, Jack, let’s bring her inside.’
She’d gone. Across the road and into their house. I didn’t hang around. No doubt the police would be looking for the mother, and it was for the best they didn’t catch me. Yes. For the best. For her, anyway. She’d be well looked after and happen I’d find out through the papers where she got put. With someone nice.
I walked home slowly, and when I got there I went straight upstairs. My dead daughter was on my bed, and I hardly looked at her as I lifted her up, light as a feather, and put her in an old box in my wardrobe. Pretty in pink.
I thought that would be a temporary place, that I would, at some point, take her out and bury her, maybe in the church grounds. But I never did. I couldn’t because it would be like another memory slipping away, another thing that I would wake up one day and think, ‘did that really happen?’ I’d search the house for proof and there would be none, and those children would be forgotten.
I know now, as the years have gone on, that all this makes me look cold and unloving. I left my daughter in a phone box. And my dead baby in a cardboard box. What kind of woman would do that?
Well, I’ll tell you what kind of woman. One who’s desperate, that’s what. One who doesn’t even know what’s going to happen to her, who’s going to pay the mortgage, or if someone will come and take this child away as well. That’s what kind. I was wondering what would happen to me, and how I would carry on after this. But I soon found out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Oh my God. It’s morning and I haven’t even been to sleep. I’m shocked at poor Bessy’s story, but even more shocked that she was closed out by almost everyone, left to suffer on her own. And she closed everyone out.
Her friends, her husband, everyone who tried to help her. Like I seem to be doing. She suffered so badly she didn’t even tell anyone had those babies. I lie on my bed and somewhere, on a very deep level, I wonder if everyone who loses a child reacts in the same way? Do we all sink into an invisible pit of despair that lies just below the life we have to live on the surface?
I flick back through the pages to where Bessy visits the police. My eyes rest on one particular line, the only about Thomas and the other boys. Bessy hadn’t mentioned the other boys up until now, only the murder victims. She must have known about them? Or maybe she was too consumed with her own grief to stay in touch with wider news?
It shakes me back into reality. Bessy was alone, no one to turn to, and she risked her own life to save Colin’s shame, and to try to find Thomas. I look around my bedroom, large and roomy and empty, except for me. Me, in my black clothes purposely donned for breaking and entering. Me, with two policewomen sleeping downstairs. Even they had each other. But who did I have?
Everyone around me seemed to be suggesting that time had gone on now and Aiden was gone, one way or another. I know they mean well, and that they’re trying to help me. Somehow silently urging me to stop and forget about him, like he was an object that had been stolen, and all enquires had led to nothing.
They think I should grieve now, carry on, and recover. Maybe it’s something only a parent can feel, that presence that goes on and on. The only person who still believed me was Mike, but I could tell that even he had his doubts. But I can’t ever forget. Just like Bessy, I have to keep searching.
I want answers. I don’t want to give up. I’m not going to. Thomas and the other boys. I have no idea how the police system worked all those years ago, but I’m pretty sure that there would be some records in the archives. We keep everything, and most of it is on microfiche.
I think about the money I took, Bessy’s life savings that rightly belonged to Thomas or the baby she left on the doorstep. I need to find out about Thomas, what happened to him. And the little twin girl, what happened to her. At least then I could make part of this right. At least I could honour Bessy’s memory and do the right thing.
I don’t even know why I took it now, some kind of idea about a ransom that Connelly would no doubt ask for, because I was so sure he had Aiden. I ask myself the question again. Did I still believe that Aiden’s disappearance was something to do with Connelly? I receive the same answer. Yes. Yes, yes, yes.
It’s all to do with instinct. Good coppers have brilliant analytic skills, fantastic people skills, and a sense of duty. But a really good cop listens to their gut feeling about something.
Time and time again I’ve looked around the landscape of a case and found seemingly unconnected clues and signs that have eventually been drawn together by a single thread of evidence.
It’s like knitting in a way. You start with a single stitch and gather the yarn together to make a complete piece. You have an idea of what it will look like when it’s finished, but you need the thread to complete it.
And that’s what’s missing. The thread. I know it’s there, somewhere, and I decide to do something different today, something unconnected to Operation Prophesy. Get a little distance. I want to read more of Bessy’s notebook, find out more, but instinct tells me I need proof to link it to Sean Connelly’s operation before I can take action. One step at a time, Jan.
I call Jim Stewart and leave a message on his phone.
‘Jim. Jan. I’m going to do a bit of digging today in the archives, see if I can find anything on Connelly. You know, collating old charges, list of offences. Seeing if there are any details in the reports we’ve missed. I’m really getting a feel for this case now. I’ll let you know what I come up with.’
I can almost feel his relief as he listens to the message. I can tell that he considers me risky, dangerous to have on the ground. He’ll be pleased that I’ve seen sense and used my initiative. Another task from the operations board to pull a thick black line through. And one no one else wanted.
Of course, I wouldn’t be doing that at all. I’d be searching the public records for any traces of Bessy’s children. I’d be finding Thomas Swain’s case and discovering exactly what was done about his disappearance and the other boys’ cases.
I get dressed and go downstairs. There’s a shift change going on in the lounge and Sheila is handing over the important details to the new team, Sally and Joanne.
‘Tea and coffee in the top cupboard, I’ve bought milk. Biscuits and bread for toast in the bread bin. There’s some bacon in the fridge and some pop and crisps in the bottom cupboard. Help yourself to bits and bats.’
They all turn as I appear on the stairs. Sheila leads a delegation.
‘We wondered if you wanted us to do anything while we were here? I mean, we have to be here, watching your house, and we feel a bit guilty, so do you want us to, for instance, wash those curtains?’
I look at the curtains. They’re covered with dust and debris from my plants. Then I look back at the WPC’s.
‘No. Go ahead. Do what you have to do.’
Shelia nods.
‘Righto. I hope you’re not offended?’
I shake my head.
‘Nope. I never was housewife of the year.’
I see that their raised eyebrows confirm this. Just as I leave my phone rings. It’s Sal and I nearly don’t answer it. At the sixth ring I relent, just in case it’s about Aiden. He speaks before I do.
‘There’s been a sighting. A sighting. In London.’
I stare at the surrounding rooftops, heavy with starlings. Their voices are sharp and irritate me. I look at my phone. When I look up again, the starlings are in the birch tree at the end of my garden. Nearer and nearer.
‘Right. Good. Where?’
‘In the West End. He’s been caught on face recognition video. Someone’s been trying to get hold of you on your landline, but no one answered.’
I look back into the house and the WPCs we
re sitting on the sofa and the floor watching Jayne Eyre. I expect they had turned the phone down so it wouldn’t interrupt the film.
‘OK. I’m going in now. I’ll review it and speak to Jim Stewart.
Sal clicked his tongue.
‘Too late. Jim’s already suspended the case. He told me. When they couldn’t get hold of you at home in the night they called me. I went in and watched the film and made a positive ID.’
I pause and think. Sal’s been in the station. He’s there more than me at the moment.
‘So you went in to see it? Couldn’t you have waited for me?’
I hear him snigger.
‘What, so we can present a united family front? Bit late for that, isn’t it? Anyway, Jim phoned me and I went to his office.’
‘In the ops room? He let you into his office?’
It’s almost unheard of that the public are allowed into the ops room.
‘Yeah. We had a coffee and he showed me around. Why? Shocked he trusts me, are you? Why shouldn’t he? He just wanted my side of the story, for me to ID Aiden.’
‘But is it him, Sal? Is it definitely him? Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Well, it’s a bit grainy and he’s with a bunch of lads who are dodging in front of him, but it’s him. He’s alive. I knew he was. All that shit about Connelly and his gang, it was all in your head.’ I can picture him holding his finger up to his temple. ‘So, after all that, after driving your husband and son away with your fucking job, you’re not that good a detective after all, are you? Eh?’
I click off the phone. I’m angry that the WPC’s didn’t pass the message on.
‘Keep that phone on. Call me if anyone tries to contact me.’
They nod and I leave, no time for an angry exchange. I speed down to the station trying to stay calm, but end up bright red and fuming in Jim Stewart’s office.
‘What the hell . . .’
He sits me down with a wave and clicks on the CCTV footage. A grainy film plays in slow motion, fragmented as the camera flicks over every five seconds. Four boys appear from a bar and walk up the road laughing. Young boys, sixteen or seventeen. Underage drinking.
I focus on the third boy in the line, tall and lean and, for a second, my whole body relaxes. It certainly looks like Aiden. But he’s pointing in the air and appears to be drunk.
I give him the benefit of the doubt for a few more seconds, then, as he looks up into the camera and a match is made with an old picture of him, taken at his last birthday party, where I caught him unawares, I see it. This boy has a mole on his neck. He also has genetically defective teeth. Aiden has neither. He does look like Aiden, but it’s not him.
‘It’s not Aiden.’
Jim runs his fingers through his hair.
‘Well a national computer and your husband says it is Aiden.’
‘Ex-husband.’
‘Yes. Ex-husband, but not ex-father.’
I’m shaking now.
‘I know my own son. And that boy is not my son. You know as well as me that face rec software only has a one in ten accuracy rate, and that’s when the suspect is in clear view. If the cameras at a slight angle or not straight on it distorts the image and gives a false result. This boy isn’t even in clear view most of the time. Did anyone bring him in?’
‘No. They’d disappeared into a bar when someone got there. And no CCTV afterward. None that could pinpoint him.’
I play it back a few times.
‘It does look like him, but it’s not him. Aiden’s teeth are perfectly straight. And he hasn’t got a mole on his neck. It’s not him. It’s not.’
Aiden’s teeth are perfectly straight. His perfect teeth. Jim’s shaking his head.
‘Look. Go home, Jan. Think about it. I’ve got two IDs—the computer and your husband.’
‘But the computer isn’t admissible.’
‘No. If it were to go to court it wouldn’t be. But this is all going nowhere. Your husband says Aiden is out there and has IDed the footage. That’s enough for me.’
‘Ex-fucking-husband. Sir.’
‘Ex-husband. Anyway, I’m suspending the case pending further evidence. It’s MisPer now. I know it’s not what you want, but I have no choice.’
Somehow I remain calm. Underneath I feel like jumping over the desk and shaking him, telling him to find my boy, bring him home. I don’t. I sit calmly, looking at the frozen image of the boy who is not my son, who would return home to his mother, or at least phone her soon.
‘OK. I can see that. But I’d like to carry on with my work, if that’s OK? Did you get my message?’
He smiles.
‘Yes, yes. Very sensible. Until you feel better just work on the collations. We need someone to do that. Yes. Of course. But no more of this with Aiden and Connelly, OK?’
He’s patronising me, but I swallow it.
‘Fine. Fine.’
He clicks off the screen and the boy with a mother disappears.
‘I expect he’ll come home when he’s ready.’
It’s almost too much, and I nod, tight-lipped, and hurry down to the archive room.
I flick through the microfiche, back over the decades through thousands of missing cases. I reach 1963 and search through for Thomas Swain’s file. The beginning of it agrees with Bessy’s account.
He was seventeen, and they thought he’d run away. There was a suggestion that he was a victim of the Moors Murderers, just as Bessy thought. Yet the records stop at Thomas’s eighteenth birthday. Case closed.
I read the summary carefully, and it could be a précis of exactly what Jim Stewart just said to me. There had been some sightings and, despite the commitment Mrs Swain has shown to finding her son, we believe, in the absence of a body, that Thomas Swain is still alive. There are some added notes later on, mostly about Bessy’s continuing visits to the police station, but these trail off around 1970.
It’s frightening. Bessy believed that Thomas was dead, or at least she didn’t believe that he had simply left. She had her reasons. It had clearly ruined her life and I get a feeling in the pit of my stomach that, if I pursue this line with Aiden, the persistence and the constant harassment of the police, my life will go the same way.
But I believe. I do. I still believe that my little boy is out there somewhere. It’s times like this, when I call him my little boy, my baby, night night, sleep tight, mind the bed bugs don’t bite, that the pain seeps through the chinks in my armour and the searing pain hits me.
Funnily enough, it’s these times that make my resolve stronger. Aiden couldn’t do this, not to me. We’re so close. Were. Are. I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in anything, not after the cruel things I’ve seen in my life, in my job. Indescribable acts, carried out by people who don’t have empathy. Or just don’t care about anyone else. But, as if to hedge my bets, I say a silent prayer, just in case there is some ultimate reason for all this pain.
I flick through the 1963 missing cases to see who the other boys in Bessy’s stories are, and how many of them turned up. I count five boys between fourteen and seventeen missing in 1963, none of them returned or found. No bodies. All labelled runaways.
Shortly after I joined the police, I read a book about the Moors Murders. It made me want to get right to the top in law enforcement, if only to catch people like those two bastards. At my interview for DC I gave a presentation on policing and prolific cases, and my theories about them. I was quite young and very enthusiastic.
Afterward, Ted Scholes, the Chief Inspector at the time, sat me down and told me that murders were few and far between and serial killers even fewer. He told me that murdering someone and hiding a body was practically impossible, that the body was always found at some point. Therefore, the number of people murdered roughly equalled the number of bodies found.
Our job was to find the body and create a case against the person who had committed the crime. If there wasn’t a body, there wasn’t a crime. I remember asking him then, what about the pe
ople who go missing and a body’s never found? What then? When you know that someone’s done it, but you can’t prove it. He just shrugged.
‘You have to prove it one way or another. Otherwise, let it go. Chances are the body will turn up later and someone else will go back over your work and build on it. Random acts of unkindness, Janet. Random acts. Few and far between. Outside human nature.’
Random acts of unkindness. It’s always stuck with me. Acts committed in the heat of the moment, in distant locations, unplanned. Few and far between.
It didn’t look like that from the microfiche. I’ve reached the present day and the missing person files, runaways aged fourteen to seventeen, have risen and risen. By last year an average of three boys a year went missing. A couple of girls every few years. Some of them never turned up, but some of them were recorded as suicides. That’s around a hundred boys and ten girls in total. How come we never hear about it? Where are the appeals, like the one me and Sal did last yesterday?
I read three sample cases, the interview notes with the parents, and the recommendation reports. Same questions, any trouble at home? Any arguments? Girlfriend trouble? Boyfriend trouble? Problems at school or college?
Of course, the answer was always the same. They were mostly teenage boys, young people finding their identity. Of course there were challenges, arguments. Some had problems at school, some had relationship problems. In each report, the particular problem that had arisen had been taken, made bigger and the focus of the investigation and eventually the reason the case is closed.
‘Jason had a bad school report and the day before he went missing he had skipped a geography lesson.’
‘Darren’s girlfriend had ended a short relationship two months before he disappeared and he was upset.’
‘Stuart’s parents had divorced six months previously and this had upset him.’
I stare at the file. None of these reasons constitute evidence for the boys running away, or committing suicide, as it turned out poor Darren was thought to have done, when they found his body on a railway line in Northlands. I go to the PC and log in. I bring up Aiden’s case, which would have been updated and archived by now. I find the case closure notes.
Random Acts of Unkindness Page 12
