TR01 - Trial And Retribution

by Lynda La Plante

  Mallory grunted and at this moment, Walker, North and a police photographer arrived. They took up stations around the table, near enough to see without being in Foster's way. The pathologist reached for the sheet and

  drew it back slowly. In that moment his manner changed. There was no exaggerated reverence, but he was now serious and committed.

  "Well, little one," he said in a soft, intimate voice which excluded the others present, 'let's find out what happened to you, shall we? "

  The photographer's camera flashed and the postmortem began.

  Walker had instructed that the whole team assemble in the new Incident Room at five p. m. The preparation of the space was nearly complete, with phone lines and computers installed, desk space for a dozen officers, cabinets and display boards.

  As he spoke to them Walker's body language. North noted, was assertively brisk. He wouldn't suffer fools or be much of a diplomat but, at the same time, she could tell he wasn't personally vain. There was no arrogant expectation that people should bow their heads before his person. He worked hard at his job and expected others to do the same.

  "OK, listen up!" he called. The buzz in the room subsided to a hush.

  "I have with me DI North and DS Donaldson, CID from this station.

  They'll be working alongside us together with back-up from uniform.

  We've just come from the post-mortem. And I should add the body has now been formally identified by the grandmother as Julie Anne Harris. "

  He looked across at a dark-haired man over by a white board who was writing details of the victim alongside a photograph.

  "Over there is DC James, our Office Manager. These two are DCs Soames and Harrolds and over here we've got Smith, Macklin, Morrissey and Grimes."

  The two local detectives nodded their greetings, trying to fix the names in their memories.

  "Oh, and this is Detective Sergeant David Satchell, my right hand."

  A handsome, smartly dressed man in his early thirties came forward. He was half smiling, an expression that might almost be called smug.

  Warily North shook his hand that 'right hand' of Walker's. Satchell looked as if he might be possessive. He might take a little handling.

  "And finally, Reg Cranham, our Exhibits Officer."

  Cranham was black and as sharply dressed as Satchell. North thought they were either allies or rivals.

  "OK, now! Tomorrow morning we have a Mrs. Wald coming in who's meals on wheels. She may be able to help as she seems to be one of the few people who was around the estate after twelve-thirty. We also have an ice- cream seller who was parked up on the estate around lunchtime.

  Otherwise we are very short of leads. We are looking for a wino am I right? -- name of Michael Dunn? "

  North nodded.

  "He has a flat on the estate. At the moment he's A.W.O.L.."

  "Right. Keep chasing him. We'll know a lot more about time of death, etcetera, when the pathologist comes through with his results.

  Meanwhile forensics are looking at the shoes, the pants, the rope. But we need the rest of the clothes that's our priority right now. OK?

  Those not on shift tonight, go home and get a good night's sleep.

  It'll be the last you get. This inquiry starts, in earnest, tomorrow.

  Good night. "

  Helen sat at the kitchen table, warming her hands around a mug of tea.

  Her eyes were shut and there was an odd sensation in her stomach, a flickering alternation of heat and cold. Her grief was like the paralysis of fear, a desire to run away combined with the knowledge that even if her legs would carry her this grief could never be given the slip. Anita was in her bedroom, trying to sleep. She'd taken some Valium. Helen knew, with a mother's certain knowledge, that Anita was beginning to feel the same way that she was. But Anita was still insulated by shock, going through the motions of ordinary life.

  This afternoon had been Helen's second experience of a coroner's morgue. The first time was when Jim was killed and he'd been so badly damaged by the lorry that hit him, his face appallingly crushed on impact. Some of his work mates for example, might not at first have recognized him, but she'd known him instantly by a hundred small, familiar things the shape of his ears, his bitten nails, the liver spots on his hands, the old acne scars. It had seemed like Jim, even though he was horribly disfigured.

  When the attendant pulled back the sheet this afternoon Helen had had to force herself to look really hard at Julie's face. It would be the last time she would ever see it. They told her they'd already carried out a postmortem and Helen tried not to think about what that had involved. Anyway, there was no sign of it on Julie's clean, hardly blemished face. Helen couldn't help thinking that she looked perfect, like the angel on Christmas cards.

  Helen had assented with a simple quick nod. Yes, this was my granddaughter Julie. She had held back the tears somehow until this moment, but then they came in an unstoppable surge.

  All the way back in the police car, and later sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, Helen had thought of the little girl alive. Her high-pitched scream of laughter, her skip as she walked alongside you, the squeeze she always gave when you took her hand, the frown and quick shake of those curls when she didn't care to do something. Who had taken this away? Who could possibly do such a thing?

  Suddenly a violent noise exploded from the sitting room, the clang of guitars and the thud of drums. Helen jumped to her feet and almost ran into the lounge. Peter was lying slumped on the settee. He'd done almost nothing but drink beer since the body was discovered. Now he was swinging his head to the rhythm of whatever foul music it was he'd put on. She strode to the hi-fi unit and punched the off button. Peter reacted instantly.

  "Leave that onf " No, I will not," said Helen, shaking with anger and grief.

  "What are people going to think? And if you don't care, at least let Anita sleep. Let the kids sleep!"

  Peter pouted drunkenly.

  "Everybody's running around making sure " Nita's OK. What about meY "You? You're not pregnant. And she wasn't even your daughter, Peter."

  Peter looked at her menacingly.

  "How long you meaning to stay?"

  Helen stiffened. She defied him.

  "For as long as I'm needed."

  Peter took a swig from the beer can in his hand. He

  gave up the battle, as if it required a concentration he couldn't muster. He lowered his head.

  "When they going to let us bury her? When?" Helen turned away to face the sideboard, where family and school photographs were ranged in frames. Now she was crying again.

  "I don't know. I don't know ..."

  The last thing Detective Superintendent Walker did before returning home to his family in Grays, Essex, was give a press conference. BBC News and the News at Ten teams were both there. He kept his statement very simple, confirming that, after the police's continued search this morning, the body of the missing child, Julie Ann Harris, had been found close to the Howarth Estate and he was treating the death as suspicious. He was pursuing various lines of inquiry. An information hotline had been set up for any member of the public who might be able to help the police.

  As in all cases of child murder, the rat-pack was deeply interested.

  Walker hoped their fascination would be relatively short-lived, as long as he could make a rapid arrest. He had at first considered issuing a description of Michael Dunn, but discarded the idea. The time wasn't yet ripe. He parried the reporters' questions. Asked, inevitably, if she'd been sexually assaulted, he said he was awaiting the pathologist's report. Asked about the murder method, he declined to give details.

  He had good reason for this. Crazies routinely telephone the police claiming to have committed such crimes and it's vital to be able to eliminate them with a few simple, circumstantial questions.

  Getting into bed beside Maggie, he asked if she thought the press conference had gone reasonably well on television. She looked up from her book.

  "
Your tie looked awful. And your bald spot was shining."

  He laughed and rolled over on to his side. She was right to stick a pin in his pretension. At the same time he needed to manage the Press.

  The last thing he wanted was a series of hysterical stories in the tabloids about families that cowered in fear of a madman stalking the estates of East London.

  He was hopeful, all in all. He had the rope, the clothes and a suspect who would surely turn up soon. These factors gave Mike Walker comfort as he closed his eyes to begin his nightly battle with insomnia.

  chapter 7

  SATURDAY 7 SEPTEMBER

  MRS Wald's husband was an inspector on the buses. She was not exactly used to the inside of police stations, and certainly not their interview rooms, though she'd seen these places on Inspector Morse, naturally. They'd always struck her as disagreeably gloomy and dungeon-like but this room was a surprise. It was rather like the little carpeted cubby-hole where she'd recently seen Mr. McKendrick at the bank about her mortgage.

  Detective Superintendent Walker took her patiently through Thursday morning's meals round on the estate. It was a little difficult at first. Every day tends to be much like another doing meals on wheels and Thursday had already become tangled up with Wednesday, while bits of Monday, Tuesday and Friday also needed weeding out. The weekly roster of menus helped, of course: Wednesday was chicken and Friday fish fingers. On Thursdays the old folks got Irish stew, apple pie and custard. She concentrated on the smell of the stew and it brought some details back to her.

  "I remember when I first arrived a young man came tearing down the stairs. He almost bumped into me. Long hair, long dark coat. I didn't really see his face he had no manners, never said a word of hello or anything."

  "Did you see anyone else around the stairs?"

  "No, just my old people and they were all in their flats. You don't see many people around the stairs and corridors up there you know."

  "But did you see the young man again?"

  "Yes, I think so. You see, I was late. Old Mrs. Marsh wanted me to have a cup of tea and a chat with her, but I didn't have time. We're supposed to have the vans back at the depot before quarter to two, you know, they're very strict on that. Anyway I did my last delivery at one-thirty, that was Enid Marsh. I remember checking the time in Mrs. Marsh's flat. Then I got back to my van after that..."

  Walker cleared his throat.

  "Yes, but I need to know the time as accurately as possible, Mrs. Wald. You made your last delivery at one-thirty. What floor was that?"

  "Sixth."

  "So then you went down in the lift--' " Lift? You are joking. Superintendent. The stairs. "

  Walker struck his forehead with the heel of his hand.

  "Ah yes, I was forgetting. Stairs. You got to the bottom a minute later, then?"

  "Superintendent, I'm not Linford Christie and I was carrying stuff."

  "Two minutes, then?"

  She nodded.

  "What happened next?"

  "I got back to my van and it wouldn't start. I waited a few minutes to let it rest. I looked around in case I needed help and I saw that young man again near the ice-cream seller's van."

  "Are you sure it was the same young man you saw earlier when you entered the block?"

  "Yes, I think so he was a young man, long hair, long dark coat. But I can't remember his face."

  "Did you see anyone else in the playground area at that time?"

  "No, it was empty."

  "So, the time when you saw him, while you were sitting inside your van, was about what?"

  "One thirty-five. Not later than one-forty."

  The ice-cream seller's name was Kenneth Poole, a chain- smoker.

  Sitting slightly hunched in the interview room, he held his cigarette in a cupped hand, and took rapid, nervous drags. His typed-up statement a brief paragraph lay on the table. Walker and Satchell were taking him through it one last time.

  "I was parked at my usual pitch at twelve-thirty."

  "You're absolutely sure about that?" asked Walker.

  "Yeah, twelve-thirty. There was nobody around except this bloke."

  Walker and Satchell exchanged looks.

  "Can you describe him?"

  "Long hair, black coat. He came up and asked if I'd seen his little girl. I said I hadn't."

  Poole's eyes were darting around and he seemed anxious to go.

  "And you didn't see any children in the playground?"

  "Nope. I usually stay on the Howarth Estate until two, two-thirty. You know get 'em before lunch and after. Then I move on to the pitch near the comprehensive school."

  There was a long pause. Poole looked uncertainly from Walker's face to Satchell's and back again. Walker stood up.

  "Thank you, Mr. Poole. If you would just sign your statement you can go."

  Poole seemed surprised as he took the pen proffered by Satchell.

  "Oh, OK. Thanks. Thanks a lot. Sorry I couldn't be more helpful."

  Walker picked up the signed paper and examined the rapid scrawl ofPoole's signature.

  "There's just one thing I was wondering, Mr. Poole."

  Poole looked up, his eyes wary again.

  "Oh, yeah? What?"

  "Are your employers aware of your criminal record?"

  Poole looked down at his hand. He mumbled.

  "Don't know."

  Walker strode to the door and yanked it open.

  "Thank you, Mr. Poole."

  He waited as Poole almost ran out, then turned to Satchell.

  "Dave get the sheet on Peter James, will you?"

  Pat North had had several glimpses already of the ferocious energy that drove Detective Superintendent Walker. In the Incident Room he paced ceaselessly, smoked without stopping, constantly ripping off the filter and occasionally spitting it out as he bit it off. He asked his questions again and again. Where was Michael Dunn? Where were Julie's clothes? Where did she die? When did she die?

  What was bothering him now was the disparity between the statements of Peter James, Mrs. Wald and the

  ice-cream seller, Poole, about James's movements that lunchtime. James said he went out about one; the meals on wheels woman said she saw a long-haired man, who could have been James, at one-thirty, whilst Poole was talking about some time after twelve-thirty that James came and asked him about the missing girl.

  "Did Peter James give a description of what he was wearing when he went out looking for Julie Ann?"

  North didn't have the answer. She flannel led

  "It's been tough to question Mr. James. He's been under a lot of strain very volatile."

  Walker was standing at the pin-board with its diagram of the relationships within the victim's family. He tapped it hard.

  "Inspector, it may be difficult but let me remind you that in ninety per cent of these cases the offender is a member of the family.

  Doesn't matter how tough it is, they've got to be checked out in every detail. "

  He swivelled round towards Satchell. 'tom question him. "

  "Yes, guy."

  "Meanwhile, Inspector North and I will confer with Doctor Foster."

  Satchell's face was wearing a smug grin as he caught North's eye.

  One-nil to the visitors.

  Walker added before he slammed out of the room, "And most important, find Michael bloody Dunn."

  Foster stood smoking beside a vertical lightbox. On the screen were fixed nine large transparencies showing close- up post-mortem shots of Julie's body. Walker and North stood like an audience, looking and listening.

  "She was a well-nourished, healthy young girl of about five years old. As you can see she has bruising and abrasions to her shoulder, upper arm, legs and buttocks. The abrasions on the limbs were sustained when she was pushed into the sewage pipe. But this is important there has been bleeding and bruising around the abrasions to the limbs. And look there are petechial haemorrhages on the face and scalp."

  Another slide displayed small spots on
Julie's skin. They appeared like a rash.

  "These are minute leakages of blood into the skin."

  North and Walker looked more closely at the slide indicated by the pathologist. He showed with his pointer the discoloured skin.

  "Bleeding, bruising those are all vital signs. Blood flowed into and from the damaged tissue, which means her heart was beating when it happened."

  He paused, as if waiting for them to grasp the implication.

  "She was alive when she was pushed in the sewage pipe?" said North.

  "That's about it."

  "What about the rope around her neck?"

  Foster dragged deeply on his cigarette and exhaled quickly. He was an impatient smoker.

  "Oh yes, there was a piece of plastic-coated line ligated around the neck, but she didn't actually die from strangulation."

  "So what did she die of?" asked North.

  "Suffocation. She'd probably been made unconscious with the ligature then forced into a folded position with her head resting on her knees like so. She was then literally crammed into the pipe which was too tight. Hardly any air. Died approximately two hours later,

  judging by the colour of the bruising and degree of blood coagulation.

  Quite a rare blood group, by the way AB negative. "

  "Was she sexually assaulted?" Walker wanted to know.

  Foster consulted his typewritten notes a transcript of the oral commentary he'd made for the tape during his examination.

  "She has a ruptured hymen and extensive bruising to her genitals consistent with penetration with a blunt rounded object."

  "Such as?" asked Walker, then he coughed.

  "I mean, apart from the obvious."

  "It may not have been the obvious." He flicked a glance at North and then went on.

  "I mean there are no obvious traces of seminal fluid, although there might be minute traces. We'll have to leave that to forensics. Otherwise, it could be something like the neck of a bottle.

  There was blood on her pants her own blood. No traces of semen, as I said. Oh, and here's something else you should know . , . "

  He pointed to another slide showing a section of Julie's arm.