Endangering Innocents

by Priscilla Masters

  “You’ve done well enough,” Mike said grudgingly.

  “Come on,” she said. “Enough reminiscing. Let’s go talk to the headmistress.”

  Since Dunblane, schools - and in particular primary schools - were kept locked. Since Wolverhampton their playgrounds were fenced off too. Joanna pressed the buzzer, they announced who they were and the door opened. A woman was walking towards them in dark trousers and a generous sized orange sweater.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Sally Tomkinson, the headmistress here. And you are?”

  “Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy and DS Mike Korpanski.” It wasn’t how Joanna remembered headmistresses. The very title evoked tweeds and greying hair; clumpy, sensible shoes.

  They followed Ms Tomkinson across the playground and into her office.

  She shut the door deliberately behind them. “I hope this isn’t a wasted journey,” she began.

  Joanna cut in. “I hope it is a wasted journey.” She settled into one of the chairs. Korpanski took up his usual stance, arms akimbo, legs slightly apart, blocking the doorway reminiscent of a Blackamoor guarding a harem.

  Sally Tomkinson glanced nervously at him as she opened the file. “It’s a terrible responsibility,” she said, “all these young children. And working mums are frequently late picking them up. I do worry when the children go charging out of school like the wildebeest migration. But they get so excited.”

  Joanna nodded.

  “The man’s been spotted quite a few times,” Sally continued. “We don’t know who he is. No one seems to recognise him. And as far as I can ascertain I don’t think he’s ever approached anyone - not children or staff or parents. He’s never picked anyone up. He just sits there, watching the children come out of school - almost as though he’s hoping one of them will run to him.”

  She shivered. “You can’t be too careful these days. The children run out so fast. They’re so young. And vulnerable. It would be awful if …” She didn’t need to complete the sentence.

  Joanna took out her notepad. “When was he first noticed?”

  “Sometime in the winter when the afternoons were dark. When the children came back to school. January sometime. I didn’t keep a record at first. I don’t know how long he’d been coming here. No one seems to remember him being there before Christmas.”

  “How often is he around?”

  “A couple of times a week. No regular day. He just appears.”

  “Has anyone approached him?”

  “One of the teachers tried to talk to him one day but when he saw her walking towards the car he drove off. That was when she took down the registration number.”

  “We’ll need to talk to that teacher.”

  “Fine - yes.”

  Joanna’s pen was poised. “Her name?”

  “Vicky. Vicky Salisbury. She teaches the reception class.”

  “Then maybe we’ll start there.”

  A sea of earnest faces turned upwards as Joanna and Mike entered the classroom. The teacher was casually dressed in trousers, a T-shirt and trainers. Sally Tomkinson had a brief, quiet word with her and she nodded her head.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said. “I had such a bad feeling about him.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know,” the teacher said. “Dishevelled, mousy hair. It was the van I really noticed, a blue Ford Escort.”

  “I’m glad you took the number plate.”

  Joanna turned to her side. Korpanski was squatting on the floor, already chatting to the front table of children. He looked as though he was enjoying himself. She turned back to the teacher. “Have any of the children mentioned him?”

  “No. None of them.” Vicky tucked her straight shoulder-length hair behind her ears. “But one or two of the parents have,” she said. “And they want something doing.”

  Joanna scanned the children. They were busily colouring bits of paper, absorbed in their task. Mike was giving his table a hand, passing around the colouring pens.

  In the corner of the room was a small, screened off area with a soft rubber mat on the floor. Shelves of books formed a room divider. A few toys were scattered around.

  She tapped Korpanski on the shoulder. “Why don’t you talk to the children, a table at a time,” she suggested. “Give them the old ‘don’t talk to strangers’ routine. And tell them if they can’t actually see the person they know is going to be picking them up to stay safe in the classroom.”

  “I wish,” the teacher muttered.

  Sally Tomkinson edged forward. “Can I leave you to it then? I’ve got a heap of paperwork to do.”

  “Fine. We’ll call in before we leave. And we will be having a word with your ‘visitor’.”

  Joanna waited until the door had swung to behind the headmistress and Korpanski had headed for the story-time area.

  Madeline Wiltshaw sat, still as a mouse, and stared up at the policewoman who smelt so nice. Like oranges and lemons and flowers instead of fags and chips.

  She followed the policeman obediently towards the story area, glanced back once and smiled.

  Chapter Three

  3.30 pm

  The blue van was parked a little way down the road but still in sight of the reception class window, on the edge of its view. Joanna and Mike watched from the classroom as the cars began to gather, like animals round a waterhole, as three-thirty approached. People got out and waited, shivering at the gate. They looked cold, this huddle of waiting parents, childminders and grandparents. A few stood in clusters. Some stood apart, arms wrapped around them to keep the chill out.

  The blue van stood alone - apart from the other cars - and no one climbed out. The windows were slightly steamy. Inside, the shape of one person bent forward, slightly hunched.

  Joanna kept her eye on it for a couple of minutes then prodded Mike in the side. “I’ll go out,” she said. “He’ll think I’m one of the mums. I’ll have a quiet word with him. When I’m in his car you can approach.” She grinned at him. “But don’t come over all heavy-handed. We don’t want to scare him away.”

  “Oh yes we do,” the teacher intervened.

  “To another school, Miss Salisbury?”

  The teacher shrugged. “I’m responsible for the safety of my own pupils.”

  “And we have a wider remit.”

  She left through the gate at the far end of the playground, the headmistress unlocking the padlock to let her out. Something angry flashed through Joanna’s mind. How we needed to protect children in this so-called civilised society. Youngsters from third world countries had problems of deprivation but they were, in general, safer than the so-called privileged offspring of the first world.

  She was standing on the pavement. The light was fading, the air dingy. And in spite of the children peeling out of school in their bright anoraks and dayglo schoolbags the scene seemed flat in colour. And dead, the families resembling nothing so much as Lowrie’s stick groups.

  She approached the van slowly and without glancing once in his direction.

  He was smoking a cigarette, his window open an inch or two to allow the waft of smoke to escape. His gaze, she knew, was focused behind her, at the school gates.

  She crossed behind him, skirted round and knocked on the passenger window. He jumped. He hadn’t noticed her coming.

  She pulled the door open.

  One has a cliched image of a paedophile. Thirties, thin, dishevelled, smelling of cigarettes and a suspicion of alcohol.

  He fitted the description.

  Add small, shifty eyes and scruffy, dirty jeans and he was described down to a T.

  “Hello, Mr Baldwin,” she said crisply, settling down in the passenger seat. “My name is Joanna Piercy. Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy. Leek Police.”

  He gaped at her, the only movement a sharp flick of the cigarette straight through the gap in his window. She heard it sizzle in a roadside puddle.

  “Do you want to see my ID?”

  His
eyes moved swiftly across her face then dropped. He shook his head.

  She peered through the windscreen at the grey day. “It’s a nice sight, isn’t it, the children coming out of school - finding their families and going home, safe and sound?”

  He looked across at her again, a wary expression on his face.

  “Why do you come here, Joshua?” she asked softly.

  No answer.

  She pressed on. “Don’t you know the teachers and families - the people who care for these children - worry about people - particularly men - who hang around schools?”

  His head dropped further. It seemed an admission of guilt.

  “You don’t have any children?”

  Again he said nothing. He could almost have been briefed by a solicitor. “Look, Joshua,” she pointed out reasonably, “the teachers and the parents have noticed you here. They are concerned. They think. They believe. They don’t understand why you’re here. And I must admit I don’t either.”

  “To look after them.” It was a protestation of innocence.

  “They have their families to do that. Childminders.”

  He lifted his head to stare at her.

  “You don’t know nothin’,” he said.

  It was time she made her point. “You’re causing a problem, sitting here, watching the children. The parents don’t like it. The teachers worry and we don’t like it either. We want you to move on.”

  His chin jutted out very slightly. It was the only sign that he had heard what she had said, but it was also an indication of stubbornness.

  “And if I don’t - move on?”

  “I don’t want to threaten you, Mr Baldwin,” Joanna said softly. “It isn’t the way I work. But I want you to think - very carefully. Public feeling is very high against people who show too much interest in children. This is an old van. And I daresay you need it for work. But it’s surprising how bits wear out on old vehicles. If, say, I was to find faulty brakes - or lights not working - or even three or four bald tyres it would be very expensive for you - besides costing you points on your licence. It could mean losing your van - and I suppose that could mean your livelihood.”

  His eyes were startled. He had not expected this. And he knew she wasn’t bluffing. “Are you warnin’ me off?”

  She laughed. “Perish the thought, Mr Baldwin. All I’m saying is that we don’t want you hanging around this school - or any other. If you can’t fall in with this we may even be forced to find a way to make sure you do.”

  “And if there isn’t?” It was the first sign of spirit.

  For a moment she was puzzled. “Isn’t what?”

  “Anything wrong with the car?”

  “Put it like this, Mr Baldwin. If your car was in such fine shape that even my Detective Sergeant was unable to find any fault with it we might have to resort to a ‘Breach of the Peace’ charge. The trouble with that is that we would need to bring you in to the police station for ‘a chat’. And then tongues would start to wag. I don’t need to tell you that Leek is a small town. Rumours start from nowhere and spread like a forest fire after a drought. Rumours. They don’t have to be the truth. Understand? But if even a rumour began spreading around this town that we wanted to chat to you about hanging round a local primary school I wouldn’t give you, your home, or anyone you came into contact with, a minute. You would not be safe. Even if you were innocent.”

  He wasn’t listening. He was leaning forward, an expression on his face of utter absorption. Joanna followed his gaze and saw the child with the pudding-basin haircut being dragged along the pavement by an irate parent.

  Baldwin jabbed a finger in her direction. “That’s what you ought to be warnin’ off,” he said furiously. “Never mind me. I never touched a kid in my life. I’m fond of ‘em. I just miss company. That’s all. But ‘im. Well.”

  Joanna’s hand was opening the door. “Don’t come hanging round here again, Baldwin,” she warned. “We’ve had a nice chat today. Next time…” In the wing mirror she could see Mike striding towards the car. “Well, just don’t let there be a next time. OK?”

  There was no response.

  Mike raised questioning eyebrows at her.

  “Talkative creature, I must say.”

  “Have you warned him off?”

  “Tried to. Can’t guarantee I’ve got through. He is a strange man.”

  “How strange?”

  She watched the blue van pull away from the kerb and inch towards the lolly lady brandishing her Children Crossing pole like a battle standard. “I don’t know, Mike.”

  The school building appeared deserted as they filed back in but both Vicky Salisbury and the headmistress were waiting for them in the classroom. “The guy hasn’t got a record,” Joanna said. “I’ve explained the situation to him. But to actually remove him would take time. We’d have to take him into custody, and then apply for an order preventing him from being here. You would need to make full statements. And we’ve nothing to go on. It would be a flimsy charge at best. We’d have trouble making it stick.”

  The two women exchanged glances. Joanna sensed their reluctance.

  “Let me know if he comes back.”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door.

  A face peered round. Middle-aged woman, face too heavily powdered. “Sorry - didn’t know you were with someone.” It vanished again.

  Joanna left her direct telephone number and moved to go. But was snagged back, bothered by something. “Tell me one thing,” she said. “The little girl with the straight bobbed hair. Funny little round face. She was sitting towards the front of the class and was very quiet. What can you tell me about her?”

  Vicky Salisbury answered for both teachers. “You mean Madeline Wiltshaw at a guess. She’s a strange little girl. Hardly speaks at all. We’ve even wondered whether she might be autistic. She seems to have problems communicating. And not just with us. With the other children too. Plays all alone most of the time however hard I try to encourage her to join in - and to get the other children to include her.”

  “Her home life? I saw someone …”

  “Mum and stepdad,” Vicky said. “Or really Mum and Mum’s partner. Like lots of the children. An extended family. They seem OK.”

  “I assume it was her mum’s partner who met her today from school? Quite a big, beefy man. Number one haircut. Blond, I think.”

  “I didn’t see. But it sounds like him. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh - nothing. Thanks.” Joanna shook hands with both teachers, paused on her way out. “Look - please - if you do have further concerns let me know. We …” she hesitated, wanting to choose her words carefully. She didn’t want to alarm them. This was maybe something, hopefully nothing. They would enter the details on the PNC. The incident would melt away but be recorded. “We do take any sort of harassment seriously. If you see the blue van here again ring us. We’ll come straight out.”

  Both teachers looked reassured.

  They were halfway along a peach-washed corridor gaily decorated with children’s paintings. All brightly coloured. Almost all very unskilled. Huge eyes, stick legs, heads balanced on triangular bodies without necks. Dishmop hair assorted colours. Yellow, brown, red, blue, purple.

  Further along the wall featured an Easter theme: bunnies, ducks and decorated eggs.

  “Excuse me.”

  The woman who had briefly interrupted their final chat was slightly short of breath from hurrying to catch up with them. They waited for her.

  “You let me down,” she accused Joanna angrily.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You don’t even remember me, do you?”

  Joanna was too taken aback to say anything.

  “I’m Gloria. Gloria Parsons. We met. It was only yesterday. At the christening?”

  Now she did remember her. It had only taken a small prompt. “Sorry. Sorry.”

  The woman brushed her apology aside. “Please don’t.” She held her hand up. “People often do
n’t remember me. No it wasn’t that. I don’t mind that. But I wanted you to help. And you didn’t.”

  Again Joanna apologised. “I’m sorry.”

  “I rang the social workers.” Gloria’s face was red. “Just an answer phone. And no one’s called me back. I’ve had my mobile switched on all day. It’s just soft-soaping.”

  “Look, I’m sorry.” Joanna was confused.

  Gloria Parsons’ lips tightened. “It’s OK,” she said. “Don’t worry. I expect …”

  And she hurried off.

  They looked at each other. Mike spoke first. “What a weirdo. What did she want?”

  Joanna stared after her. “A child she suspected was being ill-treated.”

  And Korpanski, it seemed, agreed with her viewpoint. “Oh - that old can of worms.”

  They were back at the station by four-thirty and spent the next hour and a half recording the incident on the PNC until Joanna glanced through the window. The light was almost gone. “I’d better head off,” she said. “It’s getting late and I’m on my bike. I’ll see you in the morning, Mike.”

  She pedalled slowly back across the moors, thinking. The rhythmic action always had released her thoughts. Baldwin occupied some of them. Instinct told her he was a loner. He fitted everyone’s idea of a paedophile. And yet … The wheels whizzed round. She began the climb into Waterfall wondering what it was that stopped her from worrying about Baldwin. She flicked through the events and knew. Paedophiles lusted after children. Beneath their exteriors burned a real, awful passion. Baldwin had not struck her like that. He had wanted to protect. The little girl’s fear had upset him. Not given him any sort of perverted buzz.

  By the time she reached Waterfall Cottage and wheeled her bike along the blue brick path the sun had dropped. It was dark. And getting very cold. The cottage was unlit. No Matthew.

  She put her bike away and opened the door.

  Chapter Four

  Tuesday April 10th