It was from Linda Moscow. She had read the blog and wanted to help.
Now, I wasn’t completely stupid. I did my homework because I still carried a deep mistrust of anyone related to the establishment. I knew Linda Moscow was once the Home Secretary and later quit politics in the middle of a scandal where she was accused of awarding Government contracts to her mates.
But, and this was a big factor, she had spent much of her career campaigning for tougher child protection laws. She would be well connected, influential. Where was the harm in replying?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Linda,
Thank you for your email and your offer of support. However, many of the women feel let down by the establishment, justifiably so. Trust is a big issue and you haven’t explained why it is you want to get involved.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
You are absolutely right to ask these questions.
I do know some of the men you accuse. I won’t deny it. But please be assured they are not my friends. I haven’t seen any of them for years.
If you have searched for me, as I’m sure you have, you will have seen that I campaigned for more rigorous child protection laws. Learning that this abuse could have taken place during my tenure in the Home Office shames me. While I can’t change the past, I am determined to push for justice for you and your associates.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Between us we have spoken to the police, the press, we have told social services. Nobody seems to care. Nobody has ever taken it further. They think we’re prostitutes and alcoholics. They think we did it willingly and therefore that makes it OK. Nobody believes our testimonies would stand up in court. Why do you think you can succeed where everyone else has failed?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I understand you must feel let down by a system that was supposed to protect you. I can only apologise. But surely that doesn’t mean we should all just give up and let them win? I’m not saying it is going to be easy. I’m not making any promises. But I give you my word, I will try to expose them. I can’t do it alone. I can’t do it without speaking to people who they preyed on and hearing what happened. That is what I want from you. I want to hear your stories – not just yours, but as many as I can. Because while they might be able to ignore one or two, it is much harder to ignore ten or twenty or fifty.
I would ask you to pass on my contact details to anyone who wants to speak to me. As you know, there are many people who would like to keep this covered up. I am taking sensible precautions to keep what I am doing under wraps until such times as I have gathered enough evidence.
With best wishes,
Linda
www.whathappenedatkelmore.com
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Posted by Charlie Pedlingham
We’ve been contacted by a woman who formerly held a senior position in the Government during the 1990s. She wants to write a book uncovering the abuse that has taken place and exposing those involved. I have checked her out as far as I can and she seems to be genuine. She would like some of you to share your stories with her for research. She has promised to protect your identities. If you want to speak to her, please message me first and I will put you in touch.
It’s a leap of faith, but if we want justice, maybe it’s one we have to take.
Charlie
The first woman to contact me was Jennifer Patcham, who agreed to meet Linda the following week.
It was the last I heard of Jennifer.
Thursday, 3.36 p.m.
Detective Inspector Victoria Rutter
In DI Rutter’s opinion, it is hard to disappear comprehensively these days. God knows, there are times when she’s fancied doing it herself for a day or two, for some peace and quiet, no one shouting ma’am or mum at her. But there is always some form of communication stream flowing – social media, texts, mobile phone calls – that prevents escape. Charlie Pedlingham seems to have achieved the impossible: she’s closed them all down and slipped out of her life without making a single splash.
Victoria has already had two officers search her flat; following a chat with her neighbour, Marjorie, they’ve reported back with the same story Jonathan recounted. A call to her former boss at the Langdale Hotel revealed Charlie left abruptly eight months ago. Her mobile phone contract elapsed in June but no calls had been made on it since March.
They have her passport and the registration number of her now missing car. If it’s in use, it will appear on the ANPR database. At the very least, that should throw up some clues as to her whereabouts.
A few other findings have piqued DI Rutter’s interest. There was a break-in at Linda Moscow’s house last October, yet the only item she reported missing was a six-year-old laptop. After reading the file, she has noted that Gabriel’s allegation of abuse against Curtis Loewe seemed to have been shelved quickly – prematurely, in her view. This has caused a stirring of unease. Gabriel Miller would not have made a credible witness, that much is true, but does she also detect a streak of institutional reluctance to believe a man of such standing could do any wrong? DS Huxtable was the investigating officer; she makes a note of his name, will have a discreet chat with him today.
She has read some but not all of the website posts Jonathan Clancy sent her; www.whathappenedatkelmore.com was not a figment of his imagination, she is satisfied of that much. With each new story of abuse she found, her indignation grew and a queasiness settled in her stomach. Now Victoria senses she is peering into a pit and she can’t see the bottom. Gabriel has been in custody since yesterday. Even with another extension, she doesn’t have long left. The question she has to ask is, will any of this bring her closer to solving the case?
She stares out of the window at life racing by on London’s streets. The answer is this: she could spend weeks and months chasing Clancy’s theories and in all probability she would emerge looking like a first-class eejit. Never before has she had so many eyes trained on her, voices clamouring for a quick result, bosses eager to put an end to the hysteria around the Linda Moscow Affair that a ravenous press is stoking. Not only that, she has to make the decision whether to formally link Mariela Castell’s murder with Linda Moscow’s. They have Gabriel Miller’s DNA on her body, but he’s admitted they had sex. What is complicating matters is that they’ve found traces of another man’s DNA too, and a footprint. All of which may yet come to nothing.
Basically, there’s too much to do to get sidetracked.
Still, one last phone call wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it?
‘Jonathan.’
‘At your service.’
‘You said Linda was trying to gather the survivors’ testimonies. Who has she spoken to so far?’
‘Not much luck on that front, I’m afraid. She was supposed to be talking to Charlie Pedlingham before she went quiet. And there was another woman . . . Let me check my emails, she sent me the details . . . Here it is . . . Jennifer Patcham. According to Linda, they met and she was eager to speak out. The strange thing was she went cold after that initial meeting, ignored her calls and emails. When Linda approached her, she threatened to call the police if she contacted her again.’
‘I wonder what made her change her mind,’ DI Rutter says, aware of the tingle on her skin, a magnetic draw that is pulling her down another path.
She puts the phone down and asks her sergeant, DS Clyde, to find out where Jennifer Patcham works. She will pay her a visit this afternoon. But first she asks for Gabriel Miller to be brought back to the interview room.
‘Did you kill your mother?’
‘No.’
‘Did you hurt her?’
‘Yes.’ Gabriel’s solicitor coughs. Until now his client has answered most questions with ‘no comment’.
‘How did you hurt her?’
‘I was running out of the house and I pushed her out of the way.’
‘You pushed her.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Was she injured?’
‘She hurt her head, it was bleeding. I got her something for it. A towel. I remember pressing a towel to her head.’
All heart.
‘And then you left her?’
‘I had to get out.’
‘Why?’
He presses his fingers to his temples, as if the answer he has found is causing him flashes of pain.
‘Why did you leave her?’
‘She didn’t believe me.’
The solicitor’s stare is burning into Gabriel but he seems oblivious.
‘What didn’t she believe?’
‘That I hadn’t killed Mariela Castell.’
‘Your mother thought you were capable of murder?’
‘No . . . I mean, I don’t know. It’s difficult to explain. I didn’t kill Mariela. We had sex, that’s all, but I didn’t do anything to hurt her. I told my mum someone was trying to set me up.’
‘Why would you say that?’
‘Because I didn’t do it but it looks like I did, just like I didn’t kill my mum.’
‘Is there anyone who would have access to your mother’s house, apart from you and her friend Bernadette? There was no sign of forced entry.’
‘There was a woman who came to the house to help.’
‘Help?’
‘Clean and stuff. Anna, that was her name.’
‘Do you have any contact details for her?’
‘I only met her once, nearly killed me with a vacuum cleaner.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘She was British. Medium height, short blonde hair.’
‘Has your mother ever mentioned the name Curtis Loewe to you?’
‘Why would she talk about him?’ he spits. A darkness clouds his eyes.
‘What’s your relationship with him?’
‘We were introduced about a year ago. December. He called my agent, Palab, invited me to his house – massive place in the Cotswolds. I left early. Made me sick. Lots of young girls there. There was even a camera in the room, they had set it up to record me, but I wouldn’t do that, not with a girl. I’m not that person,’ he says. ‘I reported him to your lot but no one was interested. What’s he got to do with this?’
Nine Months Before
Jay Huxtable
Jay Huxtable sits on the sofa in his flat. It is directly outside his bedroom. The guy in the furniture store said it was regular size but it doesn’t fit the space. There’s an overhang from the breakfast bar, deadly really. He’s cracked his head on it more than a few times. To think there were queues of people to buy these flats, a band playing, free croissants and coffee. The brochure said they were bijou. Jay thought that meant modern. Didn’t realise it meant they were built for fucking dwarves.
He’s been trawling www.whathappenedatkelmore.com all evening but he has to register in order to read the posts on the message board. Nobody uses their real names. There’s jennypenny, southlondonmama, voiceofthenorth, ladybythesea, so he’ll be fine making one up. He’s racking his brains, trying to think of something appropriate or feminine when John calls.
‘All right, sunshine.’ He’s shouting over the background music, which Jay recognises as one of his favourite old school tunes. ‘We’re needed at Curtis’ house at 9 a.m. tomorrow.’
‘No problems.’
Jay smiles, returns to the website and registers NorthernSoul as his new alter ego.
Christ these women can talk. And moan. There’s a lot of moaning going on. He’s got to admit it, some of their lies are convincing. When he read Charlie’s blog, it clouded his mind. He doesn’t want to get involved in any wrongdoing, certainly not that kind of shit. It disgusts him. But Curtis – he doesn’t have him down as one of those types. Mind you, he should ask him, just to make sure. He considers how to broach the subject, delicately; doesn’t want to upset the man, after all. ‘Is any of it true?’ No, that wouldn’t do. He’s hardly going to admit it, even if it is. Thankfully, Curtis spares him the bother.
‘You’ve read it all, I suppose,’ he asks him the next day.
‘I have.’
‘It’s good, isn’t it? Tell me you weren’t a little sucked in by their stories.’
‘I . . . I . . .’
‘It’s fine.’ He raises his hands in the air. ‘I won’t hold it against you. Ever been lied to by a woman?’
Stacey. Every time we had sex.
‘Uh huh.’
‘Course you have. They’re good at it. They lie so well you don’t know what’s real any more. These women are down on their luck. They want someone to blame. So they blame me because my charity offered them a chance and they thought they were halfway to Hollywood. Let me tell you, most of them wouldn’t get through an audition in the Dog and Duck, but you know, we’re a charity so we take pity and give them a chance. Then when it doesn’t work out they think it’s my fault and they go about twisting what happened to bend it out of shape and make it ugly. You’ve been to my parties – see anything wrong?’
‘No,’ he says without hesitation.
‘See anyone forced to do something they don’t want to do?’ Huxtable shakes his head. ‘Exactly. They’re leeches. Now, what have you got for me?’
‘One of them is meeting up with Linda next week.’
‘Find out where. I want to know who she is, where she lives. I want to know where she works, what time of day she has a crap.’
Direct message, NorthernSoul to jennypenny: Hey there lady. Are you sure about meeting up with this woman by yourself?
Jennypenny to NorthernSoul: I think so. Anything to help. I’ll let you know what she’s like.
NorthernSoul to jennypenny: Where are you meeting her? Somewhere public I hope. You can’t be too safe!
Jennypenny to NorthernSoul: Next to the cafe in Bishops Park on Wednesday. I can nip out from work on my lunch break. You can’t get much more public than that.
Jay’s exchange with jennypenny had conjured up a certain picture in his mind. She was blonde, smallish. Cheeky smile. She’d wear skinny jeans and those pointless little ballet shoes that Stacey used to wear. Leopard print. With a pink bow.
Jennypenny is sitting next to the woman he knows to be Linda Moscow (Christ, what happened to her?) and she is not wearing skinnies. He’s not sure they’d sell skinnies in her size. Black work trousers that look like they’re hiding two small children in each leg. Her hair’s the fine flyaway stuff that parts to reveal too much scalp.
He positions himself across from them and for the first time in his life he wishes he had a child or a book. Neither has ever appealed, but at this moment either one would make his appearance less conspicuous. Thank fuck for his phone. He pretends to be talking to someone. ‘I know what she said, but she’s a liar,’ he says to no one at all. He’s getting the hang of this creativity lark. ‘Yeah, I hear you . . . OK . . . I’ll see you later. Seven o’clock for dinner.’ This is no lie. He’s meeting Mariela later on. Taking her out. Her choice. The restaurant looks expensive, serves food he can’t pronounce and doesn’t like the sound of. But if Mariela is his dessert, he’d eat his own shit.
He takes pictures of Linda and Jenny when he ends his ‘conversation’. The pair of them, as thick as thieves. A boy of two or three with a snot trail running down to his lips keeps kicking sand his way from the sandpit. Where t
he hell’s his mother? He scans the park for her but finds only a selection of bored-looking women and a few men staring into their phones. What hope is there for the kids of today?
Jennypenny works for an estate agent’s round the corner from the park. She leaves work at 3.45 p.m. and gets a bus to Parson’s Green where she collects a boy, presumably her son, from Boundary Road Primary School. When they emerge from the crowds and stand at the crossing, he manages to get a decent photo of the pair of them. Curtis wants info coming out of his arse and Jay isn’t going to let any opportunity pass. They go to the park before walking the remaining mile or so home. Jenny lives in a first-floor flat (definitely not an apartment) with her son, who is called Tray or Trey (who knows?). He waits for the rest of the evening and is on to his fourth bag of crisps before he decides no one is coming home to Jenny. Given the hair and the legs, it’s no surprise to him she’s single. I mean, you wouldn’t, would you?
The following day when he calls round to Curtis’ house with the information, he’s ordered to pass all the details and the photographs to John.
‘He’ll deal with this from now on,’ Curtis says, without elaborating on what exactly it is John intends to do. ‘Don’t look so put out. You’re going to have your hands full. I want you to meet Charlie Pedlingham, the one behind the website.’
‘In what capacity?’
Curtis laughs and it’s disconcerting because his face doesn’t move, it remains a smooth mask, no smile or crease to intrude on its perfection.
‘This woman believes Linda Moscow is out to help her. Your job is to convince her otherwise.’
Jay is beginning to understand that working for Curtis is a game, like The Krypton Factor, and he was no fan of that show. Pass one task and the next becomes tougher.
Curtis walks across his office and studies the rows of box files in front of him before selecting one. ‘This should do the trick.’ He pulls a document from the box and hands it to Jay. It’s dated November 1996. It is from Linda Moscow to a Chief Superintendent Bill Joplin of the Metropolitan Police.
‘Charlie Pedlingham has been trying to stir this up for years and Linda knows it’s all bollocks. She knew it then and she knows it now. But she’s using them to get to me. If she believed any of it, why would she have written to the police ordering them to drop the investigation?’
An Act of Silence Page 20
