by Martina Cole
Tommy had on cotton trousers and a thin shirt. The water burned straight through. His eyes flew open and a scream escaped his lips.
‘Now tell me what I want to know.’
Jon Jon held the kettle out to Earl.
‘Boil that fucker up again. I’m going to cook him.’
Tommy’s eyes were glazed with pain.
‘Please, Jon Jon, I’m begging you . . .’
‘Hurt, does it, you fat nonce? What have you done with her? Was she begging you to stop hurting her? Was she?’
Tommy was shaking his head, too paralysed with fear to talk.
‘She’s dead, ain’t she?’
Jon Jon punched him in the head again.
‘Where is my sister? Tell me where she is!’
Tommy was crying, fat globules of snot and spit all over his face.
‘I don’t know, I swear . . . Ask me father . . . He was the one . . . Not me . . .’ He was rambling now the pain had overtaken him. ‘He liked the little girls . . . not me. Not like that! Not me . . .’
He was groaning in pain and distress but still trying to convince Jon Jon.
‘Where is my sister? What did you do with her?’
Tommy was nearly delirious now.
‘I don’t know anything. I swear on my mother’s grave.’
He was crying, great heaving sobs that made his words almost unintelligible. Jon Jon stared down at him dispassionately.
‘She was so sweet, so sweet. My Kira . . .’
The unearthly crying was reaching a crescendo now.
‘I loved her . . . loved her. I never wanted her to get hurt.’
The words penetrated Jon Jon’s brain and then the kicking started in earnest. All reason was gone now; he kicked until he was spent.
‘You loved her, did you?’
He was panting from the exertion.
‘I’ll kill you, you cunt, and your father!’
But it was too late to talk to Tommy now.
Tommy couldn’t hear anything.
Before he left, Jon Jon poured the newly boiled kettle of water over his face. Then, after spitting on him, he left.
They drove straight round to the father’s girlfriend’s house, Jon Jon riding shotgun in the car as they cursed the child’s killers. He was crying his eyes out because now they knew she was gone; it just remained to find what was left of her. He was almost hysterical with grief; it was as if now the floodgates had opened he would never stop crying again.
He pictured her, her terror, the pain of what had happened to her. It was like a film playing in his head.
And he had welcomed her betrayer into his home.
Jon Jon felt it was all his fault.
It didn’t occur to him to call the police. This was personal, he would deal with it himself.
Tommy’s neighbour, Mrs Carling, waited for them to leave before she phoned the police. Even then she did it anonymously. No way was she getting involved when Jon Jon Brewer was on the warpath. She’d decided that on Saturday and she was sticking to it.
Della and Joseph had been to Patricia’s house. On the way back they had stopped for lunch in Upminster. Della was happier than she had been. Joseph had convinced her that his argument with Little Tommy was strictly family business. His son was jealous of the fact he had moved out, apparently, though in fairness to him he had not seemed that kind of person. In fact, as she kept pointing out, he seemed to like his father living somewhere else.
Now that Kira Brewer was missing Della was worried about how it would affect them. The police had already been to her house and interviewed Joseph. Even though she knew it was only natural, anyone who knew the child would be questioned, it still bothered her. She couldn’t leave it alone and knew this was annoying Joseph. But what had happened was so outrageous it was natural to keep talking about it, surely?
‘Do you think Kira knew whoever it was who took her?’
Joseph sipped his pint and didn’t answer her. Even at her daughter’s he had refused to discuss it, and Patricia was as interested as everyone else. They had first-hand knowledge of a national news event and he was just sitting there like a stuffed toy. Joseph’s son, as Patricia had pointed out, knew the girl better than anyone else. He was her babysitter, for crying out loud. But still Joseph would not be drawn.
Instead he had taken Della’s grand-daughters to the park and left them to discuss it between them. Now he was sitting there sipping his pint for all the world like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
He was strange that way.
‘Are you going to answer me, Joe?’
He shook his head.
‘I don’t want to keep going over it. It’s a terrible thing to keep thinking about.’
It sounded like fair comment but she was still not satisfied. Like her husband before him, Joseph was about to find out exactly what his new girlfriend could be like when the fancy took her.
‘Anyone would think you had something to hide.’
He stared at her, his pint halfway to his mouth.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
Della shrugged nonchalantly then said sarcastically, ‘Whatever you want it to mean. Only anyone else, any normal person, would be interested in what was going on. But not you.’
He was sneering now.
‘So because I’m not a gossip, that makes me suspicious, does it?’
He was trying to keep some semblance of friendliness in his voice but it was getting harder by the second. He wanted to slap her across her fat-cheeked, smug-looking face.
Della shrugged once more.
‘Take it how you like.’
She was spoiling for a fight now, a real row. She wanted to let him know just who he was dealing with.
He gulped at his beer.
‘Do me a favour, would you, Della?’
His voice was friendly and calm.
She nodded.
‘Shut the fuck up.’
Her face was a picture and Joseph felt it was worth the hag just to see that look of shock on it.
‘How dare you!’
Her voice was low. After all, they were in a pub and she didn’t want them showing themselves up.
‘Right, let’s go, Della. I ain’t arguing here.’
He said it as if to imply he would be more than willing to argue in the privacy of the car. This was a new one for Della. Until now she had always been in complete control.
In the car she picked up where she had left off before he had even reversed out of the parking space.
‘I can’t put my finger on it but there’s something not right with the lot of it . . .’
He didn’t answer her because he was negotiating the car out into a country lane. Once he was on the road he said, ‘Is that right, Della? It must be great being you, knowing everything. Being the only woman on earth to have psychic fucking tendencies.’
This was a Joseph she had never heard before and she wasn’t sure how to handle him until he said, ‘What did your husband die of again? Terminal fucking boredom I’d guess, listening to your trap going morning, noon and night.’
The barb hit home.
‘How dare you, Joseph Thompson . . .’
He held up his hand for quiet and miraculously got it.
‘I dare, I fucking dare, because you just couldn’t leave it, could you? Do you know what I am going through? I knew that child, knew her well. She came in my home with me and my son. I liked her.’
His voice was drenched with emotion now and Della was wondering just what she had started. His tone had the ring of truth to it.
‘Look, Joe . . .’
‘Oh, no, you don’t, Della. You don’t talk me round this time. You are a fucking bully.’
He knew it was the pot calling the kettle black but this didn’t bother him one iota. ‘Well, that’s it now, girl. I’m off home to my own place and my poor son.’
Her mobile rang and saved her from answering. She listened to the caller and he saw out of the cor
ner of one eye her look of shocked bemusement.
‘Oh, my God!’
Her voice was high-pitched.
‘What’s wrong, Della?’
‘Little Tommy was attacked at home. He’s in hospital, Joe, really bad by all accounts.’
He slowed down, much to the annoyance of the cars behind.
‘Who done it?’
He stopped in a driveway to allow the other cars to pass them by and stared ahead of him for a few minutes. Then, leaning over her, he opened the car door.
‘Get out.’
‘What!’
‘You heard, Della, get out of the car.’
Something in his voice and manner penetrated her anger. She got out of the car. He drove off then, leaving her stranded.
Della started sobbing into her mobile as her daughter struggled to understand what the hell was going on.
Baxter was considering early retirement. This latest attack on Little Tommy Thompson had caused uproar once more and the press was loving it. Worst of all, everyone knew who had done it but Jon Jon Brewer had a pub full of people who put him there at the time the attack took place.
Baxter was following up on the rumour that Tommy had been accused of noncing. They had put him through the national database and found nothing. They had looked at him every way but which, and still found nothing. But a rumour had been heard and now he was at death’s door in the burns unit of Billericay Hospital, and Baxter was left to sort out the flak.
Joseph Thompson had gone on the trot as well. Was that because he had had a hand in something sinister, or because he was frightened of being accused along with his son? They wouldn’t know until they found him.
Jon Jon the vigilante had done no one any favours but to the people round here he was a hero.
Baxter was going to pull him in anyway. See what occurred.
Joanie didn’t want to believe what her son was telling her. Didn’t want to believe that she had brought the instrument of her daughter’s destruction into their home.
‘Listen to me, Mum, he’s a fucking nonce - him and his father. They were accused and gave a bird money to shut her trap. She had an old man banged up, a violent cunt who she wanted shot of once and for all. The money gave her the means to do that. I’m still trying to track her down, the whore, and when I do, I will find out exactly what went down. But one of them Thompsons knows where Kira is, where she’s b—’
He stopped himself from saying ‘buried’ but Joanie guessed anyway. It was funny but she couldn’t cry any more. It was as if all the tears had been shed. She was dry, inside and out.
She poured a neat vodka and gulped it. Then, picking up the bottle, she walked into her bedroom and shut the door.
‘That ain’t going to fucking help, is it, Mother!’
Jon Jon was crying.
She opened the door and looked at him before saying sadly, ‘You got any better ideas?’
She had given up and Jon Jon knew that. He looked round the flat. All her stuff from the cupboards was on the floor. She had been looking at it before he had come home. She had been remembering happy times with the kids, her fantasy parties that they had loved so much. She had retreated into them as she always did to cheer herself up. It was all she had to show for her life and he suddenly saw it as overwhelmingly pitiful that a woman could have three children and a long life and all that was left at the end of the day was a few hundred quid’s worth of memories.
He knelt on the floor and picked up a silver cake knife. Cradling it to his chest, he cried like a baby.
Little Tommy Thompson was in a critical condition. He was badly burned and had taken a severe beating. It was common knowledge now that he was a sex offender and even the nurses who had previously shown compassion found it difficult to touch him without seeing a mental picture of Kira Brewer.
Her face was etched into everyone’s mind.
As they looked down at the man thought to be responsible for her disappearance they couldn’t help but wonder if they were restoring a murderer to health.
The policeman who sat by his bed took a different view. As far as he was concerned, if Jon Jon Brewer or any of his cronies turned up at the hospital to finish the job he would be conveniently looking the other way. That huge mountain of flab that passed for a human being could die in agony as far as he was concerned. It was all he was fit for.
From the rumours going the rounds there was no doubt that Little Tommy, his father, or indeed both of them were the culprits.
The newspapers were investigating how the police had failed Kira Brewer and her family by not following up on paedophile allegations made by neighbours. Joseph Thompson had conveniently vanished, adding to public belief that there was indeed something suspect about the whole family.
For Little Tommy, horribly scarred, there was only morphine; he was out of it all now. If he survived this the only thing he could look forward to was prison and a life sentence.
If, of course, the other cons let him live to serve it.
Chapter Seventeen
Baxter read the news reports over and over. He sighed heavily. He hated this case. The papers were having a field day, and he was getting it in the neck from every angle.
Fuck Jon Jon Brewer.
Fuck him to hell.
He was a national hero now. Everyone knew he had done it, but no one could prove it. Supposition, the great British pastime. All Baxter could do now was damage limitation. If they did charge Jon Jon it would cause a public furore. The memory of Kira’s sweet face was enough to see to that.
He felt as if all he wanted to do was go home and sleep and never wake up.
He had a feeling Joanie Brewer felt the same, but for different reasons.
Monika was in her element. Her nasty allegations had proved correct and Jon Jon had finally taken the law into his own hands and battered that fat bastard once and for all.
As she sipped her coffee there was a knock on the door.
‘Answer that, Bethany.’
She was not worried about the neighbours any more. Thanks to Jon Jon she had been proved right. She was the next thing to a heroine, in her own mind. Monika’s utter self-absorption knew no bounds.
Bethany saw who the caller was and wanted to run. She could not look her in the face.
‘It’s Joanie Brewer, Mum.’
Monika felt as if her cup was really running over now. Joanie had probably come to apologise, and she would accept the apology with good grace. After all, they had been friends for years and even Joanie could make a mistake.
‘Well, open the door then, or are you waiting for her to walk through it?’
Normally a quip like that would have made Bethany laugh but the child had been in a deep depression since Kira had disappeared. Unlike Monika herself, Bethany had taken it badly. Almost personally. She sat glued to Sky News day and night. Morbid little cow she was.
Bethany let Joanie in and was saddened by the sight of her. She had aged overnight and now she looked dilapidated. Unkempt and untidy, she was a shadow of her former self.
‘Hello, Joanie love. All right?’
Monika’s voice was full of friendship and camaraderie. As if nothing untoward had ever happened between them. As if she had never betrayed her best and in reality only friend.
Joanie nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Want a cup of tea?’
Joanie shook her head slowly.
‘Got any of the hard?’
Even her voice sounded dead, gravelly, as if it hadn’t been used for months. Monika poured her out a large Bacardi and added a dash of Coke.
‘Here you are, girl, get your lips round that.’
Joanie took a deep swig of the drink and then perched herself on the edge of the sofa.
‘You look so skinny, Joanie!’
She stared back with indifference.
‘It suits you, mate, you look years younger . . .’
Joanie interrupted her idiotic chatter. Only Monika would waffle on about we
ight and looks at a time like this. But then, Monika would be asking if her bum looked big if someone had a gun to her head.
