TR01 - Trial And Retribution

by Lynda La Plante

  As she entered the Harris flat she was struck by the essential decency of the place, at such odds with the

  surrounding environment. Now, as Anita painstakingly poured her a cup of tea, she noted the pristine tea service, the bowl of lump sugar, the milk in a jug.

  "I keep going over and over everything," the mother was saying.

  "I

  keep seeing her in the yard. She's no trouble, never any trouble, not really. And she's friendly, you know? Very friendly. "

  She put the tea pot down and dragged a wisp of hair back behind her ear.

  "But of course, she knows not to go with strangers. We've told her I don't know how many times."

  The toddler was sitting on the floor screaming and the older boy, Jason, was shouting at him, his mouth right up to his ear: "Shutup!

  Shutup! Shutup! "

  Richards sipped her tea, trying to block out the noise.

  "And you don't think Julie's gone to the house of a friend or neighbour?"

  "I've called round to everyone she knows. Now everyone on the estate's helping look for her. They're all so kind. They will find her, won't they? Do you think they'll find her? I mean, she could just have crawled into some place, got trapped or something. She's ever so inquisitive. Bit naughty like that, really."

  "Mrs. Harris, we have uniformed officers doing house- to-house inquiries right now. In no time they'll have covered every single household on the estate and if we don't find her we'll move on to the surrounding area. We also have a large search team on its way, but there's every chance we'll find her even before they turn up."

  Four floors above the Harris's PCs Brown and Barridge were knocking on the doors of two adjoining flats. Each

  had a copy of the electoral register but, as far as Howarth Estate was concerned, this seemed to be a largely fictional document. It was Brown who had the quicker response.

  "Excuse me, Mrs?"

  "Yes? What's it about?"

  "There's a missing child, Julie Ann Harris. Five years old, lives on the third floor."

  "I know her."

  "She was last seen this morning. I--' " She was last seen by me. With my Ryan and some other kids playing on the roundabout. "

  "When would that be, exactly?"

  "Be about lunchtime."

  "Do you know the exact time at all?"

  The woman still hadn't opened the door more than a crack. Brown could see that she had not unlatched the safety chain.

  "Well, one-ish. I was getting my kids in for their lunch. That good enough for you?"

  "And your name, madam?"

  "Hyam. Karen Hyam. But you ask Ivy, my next-door neighbour, about that pervert what's his name? Well, some people reckon he's a pervert.

  She's had words with him before now about him and the kids and that. "

  But Barridge hadn't needed prompting. He was already pr ising the information from a mock-reluctant Mrs. Green in the doorway other flat.

  "There's this bloke, see?" she was saying.

  "Real alkie he is. And he's always messing about with the kids, know what I mean?"

  "No. What do you mean?"

  "I mean he gives them sweets. They go in there, watch his videos.

  Cartoons apparently. "

  "He live locally?"

  "Oh, yes."

  Barridge sighed, writing.

  "Name and address?" I "Ivy Green, Flat number Barridge held up his hand and coughed discreetly.

  "No, I've got yours, Mrs. Green. What's his name: and address?"

  "Oh! One of those ground-floor flats, down behind the shops. Howarth Parade, number twelve I think it is. Anyway, his name's Michael Dunn."

  Barridge was still scribbling in his notebook when Ivy Green touched him lightly on the forearm.

  "I don't want my name mentioned, though. I don't actually know anything, know what I mean? I can't make a statement or nothing."

  Barridge nodded sagely.

  "I understand, madam, but your help is much appreciated."

  On the next floor down. Brown was having one door slammed in his face whilst Barridge became Enid Marsh's second visitor of the day.

  "Good evening, Mrs, er ...?"

  "Yes?"

  "I am Constable Barridge, Southampton Street police. We're doing a flat-to-flat inquiry about a little girl missing from number nineteen on the third floor. Julie Ann Harris?"

  Like most of the people Barridge had spoken to since he got here, Enid had opened the door with the safety chain in place. She peered anxiously at him through the crack, shaking her head.

  "I don't know anybody here."

  Barridge placed a hand reassuringly on the door frame.

  "But your balcony looks over the playground, doesn't it? Did you see anything at all today? About lunchtime?"

  Enid froze for a moment. She was concentrating. Her memory .. Then she shook her head, even more vigorously.

  "Lunchtime? Mrs. Wald was late. Late with my lunch."

  "Could I just have your name?"

  "What do you want to know about me for?"

  "Just to eliminate you from our inquiries ..." He noticed the old lady stiffen, as if about to slam the door on him.

  "I mean, to note down that we asked you a few questions, that's all. Are you, er .. ?" He squinted at the electoral roll.

  "Are you Mrs. Edith Shaw?"

  "I'm Mrs. Enid Marsh. I'm seventy-eight years old and I've lived here for .."

  "Well, that's all I need, love. Thank you for your cooperation and I'm sorry to bother you. Thanks for your time."

  Brown wandered up to him.

  "That's my lot for this floor. Electoral register's crap for this job. I've not got a resident off it yet. Any joy with you?"

  Barridge shook his head.

  "Nope. All dodging bloody council tax!"

  Julie Ann Harris had now been missing for nine hours. The atmosphere in the Incident Room had grown more serious and urgent. Pat North's team were, almost imperceptibly, putting aside the innocent reasons for the child's disappearance and focusing on all the possible criminal explanations.

  At nine p. m. Pat North conferred with Donaldson in the incident room.

  "Are there any more addresses for uniform to check?"

  "There's a few we couldn't get access to. But, by now, everyone up there knows she's missing, so those who don't cooperate can be treated as suspects."

  "I hope not formally," warned North.

  "Please, please, don't tell me you want warrants at this time of night."

  "No, don't worry. But telling 'em don't half scare them shitless."

  The DI and her sergeant laughed.

  "Anyway, it doesn't really matter," she said.

  "For tonight we're going to assume she's outside somewhere. TSG and POLSA will be arriving on site about now. Might even have started covering the ground. It's pissing down but they're used to that."

  "Well, while we're on the subject of suspects ..."

  North snapped her fingers.

  "Oh yes, suspects. I can't tell you how much trouble we've had over the father. He started whirling round in my head the minute we knew she hadn't popped round to watch a neighbour's videos."

  "What's been the problem? Wait a minute, don't tell me army liaison?"

  "You've got it. You wouldn't believe how cagey they are. In the end I got someone I know in the RUC to chase him up for me."

  "And?"

  "Well, it seems that Thomas Harris that is this little girl's real father is in the clear. He's in Ireland with his regiment."

  Donaldson could tell she was disappointed. For Julie Harris to have been kidnapped by a father who loved her, however jealously, was preferable to almost all the other remaining possibilities. He said, "About Peter James."

  ' Oh yes. What you got? "

  "He's on probation for wait for it handling stolen bricks. Probably nicked them off that massive building site on the estate. Also he's got two previous and ..." He paused for effect.

  "
Well? And what?"

  "He was arrested in eighty-nine for indecent assault. Charge dropped."

  North's face tightened. She picked up her bag.

  "Go and question Peter James. I'm going down to the search."

  It was Meg Richards who opened the door to Sergeant Donaldson. She had stayed in the flat answering the phone and trying to remain discreetly useful without entirely surrendering her dignity as a member of the Metropolitan Police investigating this serious disappearance. Tony had been very unsettled and she'd eventually picked him up and jiggled him about until he went to sleep. He was still slumped inlier arms, his mouth jammed into her shoulder, drooling in his sleep.

  "Hi, Meg," said Donaldson.

  "Peter James here?"

  "Yes, just come in."

  "I got to have a word."

  "Must you?" whispered Richards.

  "He's been trying to help with the search but he's knackered."

  Donaldson looked at her in surprise.

  "Yes, I got to. DI North says."

  "Oh, all right. He's in the kitchen." She stepped aside to let Donaldson move towards the kitchen.

  As he did so he whispered, "Proper little earth mother, you!"

  Richards didn't react. She could hear Anita's voice from the lounge.

  "Jason, what did I say? Get to bedV Before Richards could leave the hall the doorbell rang and she opened it again. A dark-haired, comfortable looking woman of about fifty stood there shaking out an umbrella. A small suitcase stood beside her.

  "Yes?" enquired Richards.

  "Oh, hello!" The woman's voice was hesitant, trembly as she went on.

  "Are you one of the neighbours?"

  "No, I'm a police officer, DC Richards, Southampton Street. Can I help?"

  "Oh, I see. I'm Mrs. Hughes Helen. The little girl's gran?"

  "Oh, Mrs. Hughes, of course." Richards stood to one side, swinging back the door.

  "Please, come in. Let me take your case."

  Mrs. Hughes ignored the hand which Meg had extended to take the case, and parked it in the small hall, propping her dripping umbrella against it.

  "I came as quick as I could. Is there any news?"

  "None. I'm sorry. We're still looking."

  "Yes, I saw the search party out there. Awful weather they've got, too. How's the boys? I see that one's taken to you. What about Jason?"

  "He's asleep, or going to sleep anyway."

  "Those are two very different things to that boy. Anita7 It's me' She pattered into the lounge where her daughter was standing alone and in a kind of daze. She turned slowly, her face sparking in recognition as her mother came in. Helen opened her arms and Anita walked gratefully into the hug.

  "Oh, Mum. She's going to be all right, isn't she?"

  The mother patted her daughter's back.

  "Sssh. We've got to stay calm and think if there's any place, or anyone, she might've gone to."

  Helen moved a step back from the embrace and held Anita by the shoulders, looking intently into her face. It was just what she used to do years before, when she sent Anita off to school. A single hair had come loose and was hanging down over Anita's face. Helen brushed it back with her fingers.

  "They got a nice woman looking after Tony, anyway. And Jason he's asleep?"

  Anita made her hands into fists.

  "I'd like to wring his bloody neck!

  It's his fault, Mum. I said to him, Jason, look out for Julie. Never listens to a word you tell him. Never. "

  "You're going to make yourself ill, love. Try not to worry." She nodded at Anita's swollen belly.

  "And you don't want to start hurting the baby, now, do you?"

  "But Julie, Mum ... She's my baby too. Oh God, please, don't let anything have happened to her! Please!"

  There was an efficient tap on the door and Meg came in with a tray.

  More tea. Anita swung round.

  "Where's Peter? He still outside looking?"

  Richards smiled and placed the tray on the low coffee table.

  "No, he's here. Just talking to Sergeant Donaldson in the kitchen. Mrs. Hughes some tea?"

  Helen's mouth was crumpled, a film of tears beginning to form over her eyes. She shook her head, as if she hadn't properly understood the question.

  In the kitchen Peter James and Donaldson were facing each other across the small formica tabletop. The Sergeant

  was stirring three sugars into his mug of tea. He had his notebook open in front of him. Peter was slumped forward on his elbows. His head with its lanky unwashed hair hung down.

  "I've said all this," he mumbled.

  "How many times do I have to repeat it?"

  Suddenly he jerked his head up and nodded at the window.

  "I should be out there."

  "Come on, son," said Donaldson.

  "You've been out there all afternoon.

  Mrs. Harris is going to need you here, you know. "

  "Why?" demanded the young man. He was agitating his head frantically up and down as his eyes challenged Donaldson.

  "Why did you say that, that she's going to need me? Do you know something?"

  Donaldson shook his head slowly.

  "You know we don't. But there's fifty men out there searching already..."

  "I don't understand why everybody keeps making me go over and over it."

  Donaldson used this as a cue to pick up his notebook and study it.

  "Now you said there was an ice-cream van ..."

  "Yes!" Peter was being overtly aggressive now. He didn't like coppers at the best of times.

  "I went up to him, asked if he'd seen Julie." He shut his eyes and jammed the heels of his hands against the closed lids.

  "That's another thing. Everybody keeps on calling her Julie Ann.

  It's not. Ann was her second name. We just call her Julie. "

  Donaldson was still staring at the notes he had made. He cleared his throat.

  "It's just that we're trying to pinpoint the last time she was seen."

  Peter shook out a cigarette from the packet which lay in front of him.

  "One o'clock. I told you ..." He leaned back in his chair and was rummaging in his jeans pocket.

  "One o'clock," he said.

  "That's ... how long ago is that?"

  He pulled a butane lighter from his pocket, flicked the flame and applied it to the cigarette, inhaling viciously.

  "What time is it?

  What time is it nowF Donaldson glanced at his watch.

  "Just gone half ten, Peter."

  "Ten hours ... Nine and a half fucking hours}'

  In the living room, Helen had switched on the television. There was a comedy on BBC 1, but you couldn't watch that, so she'd switched to the national news on ITV. She sat with her daughter on the sofa and watched it through to the 'and finally' and Trevor MacDonald's goodnight. Neither woman had taken much in but there was relief in the numbness of watching that rapidly moving screen, flipping from one bland political interview about the Berringham by-election to the next, from one remote foreign conflict to another Chechnya in flames, American presidential candidates on the stump, a football team unexpectedly losing.

  During the adverts the telephone rang. It was Thomas Harris, calling from Northern Ireland. Helen took the call. She liked Tom and had never blamed him for the break-up of his marriage to her daughter. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. He wanted to know if they'd found his daughter. He wanted to speak to Anita. But when Helen looked across at Anita she saw her face white and rigid with shock as she stared at the television screen. Helen herself looked at the screen and understood why.

  "Tom," she said as calmly as she could, "Anita can't talk right now . Look, I've got to go. I'll call you back as soon as something .. Soon as I can .. All right. Bye."

  She hung up and moved back to the sofa. The programme was the local London news bulletin London Tonight. The first story was Julie.

  Detective Inspector North was standing on the steps
of her police station. You could see the traditional blue police light above her head, artfully placed in shot by the cameraman. A knot of journalists was jostling around her.

  She was saying, "Julie Ann is wearing a green pleated skirt with a blue and red anorak and she has curly blonde shoulder-length hair. She has blue eyes. We are asking anyone who has any information at all to contact either the Incident Room at this station or any police station. The number is ..."

  Anita and her mother looked at each other. Neither spoke for a long time. Then Helen reached for the remote control unit and switched off the set.

  "Mum." Anita's voice was a whisper.

  "Mum, she said is. Julie is five years old, Julie is wearing an anorak ..."

  Helen took Anita's hand and carefully stroked the back of it, as you might reassure a frightened cat.

  "I know, love. I know she did. Got to hang on to that, right?"

  chapter 4

  THURSDAY 5 SEPTEMBER. NIGHT

  Five van loads of TSG officers had arrived, with a catering unit and a pair of motorized telescopic masts mounted with arc lights. Their powerful beams shone down from sixty feet, making the raindrops glitter like tracer bullets. And above these, the area helicopter circled, directing its own searchlights downwards through the sousing cloudburst. Every officer on the ground had a personal radio and a constant traffic of radio signals crackled on the air.

  Using the classic method whereby a large stretch of ground is meticulously combed, the area around the Howarth Estate had been subdivided into a grid and seven search parties, with seven officers in each, were formed. Togged up for the driving rain in rubber boots and Gortex jackets and equipped with powerful torches, crowbars, probes and other tools, these parties were now patiently trudging in lines across the ground allotted to them, marking the terrain section by section as they went with plastic yellow tape and a waxy yellow waterproof crayon.

  Barridge was with the other locals. They'd been formed into a single search party under PC Phelps and detailed to cover one of several demolition and building