Cry of the Children

by J M Gregson

  ‘I think so. Is his house-mother Amy Allen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is Raymond a fair-haired boy? Thin and spindly?’

  The description they had from Mrs Allen hadn’t used either of those words. But someone as heavily built as Big Julie would no doubt think of any healthy growing boy who was less than burly as being spindly. He wondered if the adjectives derived from her handling of Raymond Barrington earlier in the evening. ‘That would be him, yes.’

  ‘He asked me about my mother. He wanted to know how I came to be in the home. I think his mother was a junkie. She didn’t look after him properly. People shouldn’t have children if they’re not going to look after them.’ She looked sadly past him at the silent television and the wall beyond it. He knew more clearly than if she had stated it how much she wanted the babies she would never have.

  ‘Did you see Raymond earlier tonight, Julie?’

  ‘No.’ The monosyllable came dully. Then, as she realized the implications of his question, she said more loudly, ‘No, I didn’t. Has something happened to him?’

  ‘Did you pick him up in Church Lane? Did you take him for a ride in your car?’

  ‘No I didn’t!’ She was shouting now. ‘I was on my own. I went up the M50 and then down into Tewkesbury. I like the motorway at night, when it’s quiet.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can give us confirmation of that?’

  He spoke quietly, trying to calm her down, to preserve the embryonic relationship he had built with her. But he had used the familiar police term and Julie did not understand it. ‘Confirmation’ was something they’d talked to her about long ago in school, something that was supposed to follow on after baptism. She looked at him suspiciously and repeated the syllables carefully. ‘Confirmation?’

  ‘Is there anyone who saw you in Tewkesbury? Did you go into any shops there? If you spoke to people, they might remember seeing you.’

  The big, open face frowned a little as she gave the matter her full concentration. ‘No. I didn’t speak to anyone. I’m used to being on my own. People don’t like you speaking to them, unless you already know them.’ She spoke as if giving him guidance on how he might behave in company, and in doing so offered him another glimpse into her loveless life. ‘I walked up and down for a while, looking into the shop windows. I thought I might go to the pictures, but when I got to the Roses Theatre there was a play on, not a film. I don’t like plays – they’re hard to understand. And it costs more than the pictures.’

  ‘Do you think anyone will remember you from when you were walking up and down?’ Bert wanted desperately to throw her a lifeline, but he was pretty sure that no lifeline existed.

  ‘No. There weren’t many people about. It started to rain and most of them were hurrying along. I went to look at the abbey. It’s nice at night, when they have the floodlights on. It looks like something out of fairyland.’

  ‘And you weren’t in Church Lane tonight? And you haven’t set eyes on Raymond Barrington?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t recognize him in the dark if I did. I don’t know him that well. I just remember him talking to me about my mum and my house and thinking that he must have had a rotten time before he was taken into care.’ Then her voice rose again. ‘Something’s happened to him, hasn’t it? Someone’s taken him. Have they killed him, like they killed Lucy?’

  ‘We think that someone has taken him, yes. We very much hope that he’s still alive. But if you can help us at all, if you know anything about this, you must tell us now, Julie. We need information very quickly if we’re to help Raymond.’

  ‘I didn’t take him!’ Her voice rose towards a scream.

  Was this panic because she was innocent but feared they would not believe her? Or was it panic because the enormity of what she had done was pressing upon her? Both Hook and Lambert felt a searing sympathy for her, but an even greater and more fierce desire to find and rescue that lonely boy who might be trapped and terrified as a result of her actions.

  Just when she had become used to DS Hook’s friendly and understanding manner, it was the older man who now took over. John Lambert’s long, lined face seemed a huge threat to Julie as he said, ‘You really must tell us everything you know, Miss Foster. If it’s you who has taken Raymond, you must tell us now. We’ll do everything we can to help you, But you must help us before we can help you. Where is Raymond?’

  ‘I don’t know! I’ve told you I don’t know! Why won’t you believe me?’

  ‘A lot of people tell us lies. When one child has been murdered and another one goes missing, we can’t afford to believe anyone. That’s why DS Hook was asking if you’d seen anyone who could support your story about where you’ve been in your car tonight.’

  ‘I was in Tewkesbury. I walked up and down the main street and I looked at the abbey in the lights.’ She spoke as if she no longer expected to be believed.

  Lambert stood up slowly, as if it was important not to alarm her by moving quickly. ‘We’ll need to examine your car for fingerprints and any other evidence, Miss Foster. It’s just routine. Two of our officers will be round in the morning. Will you be here then?’

  ‘Yes. I’m working ten to six tomorrow.’

  She stood up, moved quickly to the door and held it open for them. There was a small scratch on the back of her hand. A tiny trickle of blood, no more than an inch long, had run away from it and dried on the brown skin there. Three pairs of eyes fastened upon it. ‘I don’t know how that happened,’ said Big Julie Foster.

  FOURTEEN

  Raymond Barrington woke when the night was at its blackest. For a moment, he had no idea where he was and he did not care. His whole frame was consumed by the need to pee. Raymond had been beaten for wetting the bed when he was small, but he had stopped doing that now. He felt almost superior about it, because some of the kids in the home still peed their beds. He didn’t tease them about it, as some of the others did when the adults weren’t there, but it gave him a feeling of superiority that he didn’t do that anymore.

  Now he was going to piss himself and soak the cushions and the floor where he lay. It wouldn’t be his fault. He’d been grabbed and brought here and not been allowed to clean his teeth or go for his last pee of the day, those rituals they taught you at Bartram House until they became habits. But he was bent nearly in two, with his knees against his chest, and it was coming any second. As he twisted hopelessly in the darkness, the back of his hand touched something hard and cold. He ran his fingers cautiously along its cold, curved surface, found a handle, pulled it towards him. A chamber pot.

  He’d never used a chamber pot. Now he pulled it against him and used it thankfully and copiously. The long, exquisite sound of his relief tinkled very loud in the stillness that surrounded him. He pushed the pot as far away from him as he could, moving it an inch at a time across the carpet. You mustn’t spill this stuff.

  He couldn’t remember the monster leaving him a chamber pot. But then he couldn’t remember the blanket that covered him. He remembered a pillow and cushions, but he’d had his eyes shut most of the time and been too terrified to recall much of what was going on around his small, prone frame. He only remembered that he was tied when he felt the pain in his ankle as he stretched to push away the chamber pot. He panicked for a moment when he realized that he was roped to the leg of a bed he could not see, that he could not move away from this spot on the floor where he had been covered and left for the night.

  For the night. Would it be for as long as that? Or – he hadn’t thought of this before – would it be for much longer? Would he be left tied here until it became light and then for long hours, even long days, after that? Had he been dumped here for ever, to live out in solitude the last days of his young, unimportant life? He tried to think about that, but even the fear he tried to summon could not keep him awake. His whole body was dominated by the overwhelming relief that he had peed, and peed not in this makeshift bed but in that great, cold chamber pot which now lay stinking seve
ral feet away from him.

  Raymond was young, exhausted, filled with the short-term relief of his urination. He turned on his other side, facing away from the invisible chamber pot. In two minutes, he was asleep again.

  It was getting light when he woke for the second time. He must have slept for many hours, he thought. He watched the oblong of the window at the far end of the room appearing, then passing through various shades of grey as dawn moved into day. He knew what time it was now: about half past seven. That was when it came light in Oldford at the end of October. They’d be dressing themselves at Bartram House now, having breakfast and getting ready for school.

  He wondered if Mrs Allen was missing him, as he was so fiercely missing her at this moment. She’d have told the police about him last night when he didn’t come back from cubs; he was sure of that. He wondered if the police might be looking for him. He supposed they would, but he wasn’t sure how much they would care about one small boy who had gone missing. They’d probably have other and much more important concerns.

  Raymond lay on his back and looked at the ceiling and tried to forget that his leg was still tied to the bed. He had attempted to undo the rope, but it was knotted hard and he couldn’t do that. It was the cord from a dressing gown, he thought; that was another sign that the monster knew his way around this house. He thought for a while that he might bring his ankle to his mouth and try to chew his way through it. But he didn’t think he could do that with his small teeth. Even if he succeeded, it might annoy the monster; he couldn’t afford to do that.

  Raymond wasn’t sure how long it was before he heard the engine of a car outside. It was an old car, he thought, because the engine sounded quite noisy. For a moment, Raymond was glad that he wasn’t to be left alone and forgotten in this strange place. But when he heard the monster turning a key in the lock, he was abruptly very frightened again.

  It seemed to be a long time before the door of the room opened and the monster stood looking down into the wide blue eyes of the boy on the floor. The thing seemed not quite so tall, but broader than ever, in a big blue anorak. It had a balaclava helmet and a scarf round the bottom half of the patch of face that showed, so that Raymond could see only its eyes. The eyes stared at him for a moment, then a hand with fat, strong fingers picked up the chamber pot and took it away. He heard the sound of it being emptied, then the noise of a toilet flushing.

  It took the monster a long time to come back. Raymond wondered if it was washing its hands, the way he’d been taught to do in the home. That didn’t seem the kind of thing a monster would do. Not a monster that kidnapped and killed small boys. He wondered if he would be killed today. Perhaps right now. He didn’t know what it was like to be strangled, but he thought he’d prefer it to having his throat cut. He was surprised that he could even think about such things.

  The monster had a big plastic bag with it when it came back. It put the bag down on the bed, above the leg to which Raymond was tied. Then it stood looking down at him for what seemed a long time. It had its feet apart and it scarcely seemed to breathe, let alone speak, as it towered above him. Raymond wanted to say something, just to break this long and threatening silence, but his tongue wouldn’t work. He knew that he mustn’t risk annoying this strange and powerful thing that had complete control over him. Eventually he managed to gasp out, ‘My leg hurts.’

  The monster looked at the bed and the tie, then back at Raymond. It said, ‘Will you promise not to run for it, if I untie you?’

  They were the first words it had spoken since the car arrived. Raymond nodded, not trusting himself to speak again. The monster had a gruff voice, indistinct through the scarf. It could have been male or female; to Raymond, it sounded scarcely human. He tried to think of the thing as the Gruffalo, which he’d read about in a story when he was younger. That should have made the monster less frightening, but it didn’t work.

  The monster still didn’t move towards the dressing-gown cord that held him. Perhaps it hadn’t seen him nod, or had forgotten about it. Raymond said tremulously, ‘I won’t run.’

  The monster said nothing, but it moved its big hands suddenly down towards Raymond’s face, so that he cowered against the floor, throwing one arm across the cushion he had pushed away. But it didn’t touch him. Those fingers must be very strong, because they untied the knots he’d been unable to loosen, however hard he’d tugged. He flinched away as the hands moved towards his leg, but the thing moved almost tenderly – like that big ape in King Kong, the video they’d been allowed to watch at Bartram House. He wished he hadn’t thought of the care home again. It seemed a very long way away now. He rubbed his ankle gingerly, because he didn’t want the monster to handle it.

  It didn’t try to touch him. It stood over him for another moment, then turned and moved quickly through the door. This time it came back quickly. It had a small square table in one hand and a chair in the other. It put them together, reached into the bag and put a bowl and a spoon on the table. Then it produced a packet of cornflakes and poured a big helping into the bowl, so that it piled up and almost overflowed. The bottle of milk looked small in that huge hand, but the monster poured carefully, until the bowl brimmed and one or two cornflakes fell off.

  Raymond cringed away as the monster turned towards him, trying to avoid its touch. But there was no doing that. The hands picked him up as if he weighed nothing and plonked him on the chair by the table. A big dribble of milk overflowed and trickled across the table as Raymond lurched against it, so that he wondered if he would be punished. But the monster only said, ‘Eat now!’ behind his head, and Raymond bent swiftly to do its bidding.

  It was good, the cereal. He was surprised to find he was hungry. He even felt a little guilty. Shouldn’t he have lost his appetite, after the awful things that had happened to him? There was half a loaf of sliced white bread in its wrapping, a tub of margarine, a plastic knife, even a pot of jam which the monster opened for him. He was glad it didn’t stand over him and watch him eat, because he felt very clumsy as he tried to handle the very full bowl of cereal without spilling any more milk.

  The monster seemed anxious to be away. It went out of the room again and Raymond heard the sound of the front door opening. Perhaps the thing was leaving him. But no. It came back quickly, carrying a bucket, which it set down without a word where the chamber pot had been. It stood looking at Raymond for long seconds, as if wondering what to do with him. Then it said in that harsh voice that was all it used, ‘You won’t run. You promised that.’

  ‘I won’t run,’ said Raymond quickly. You surely couldn’t annoy the thing as long as you agreed with it.

  ‘Make sure you don’t, then!’ And then it was gone, turning a key in the lock of the room this time. It hadn’t said what the bucket was for. It was much later in the morning that Raymond discovered that.

  Rory Burns decided on aggression. That was the way he reacted to most challenges.

  On this occasion it didn’t work. The fairground worker told the two young constables that he had work to do and it wasn’t convenient to talk. Chief Superintendent Lambert and that big ox he used as a bagman could wait. He was a free citizen and he’d help the police in his own time, if he saw fit to help them at all. The filth produced handcuffs and said they’d use them if necessary. Then they arrested him on suspicion of abducting a child and took him to Oldford police station.

  Now he was waiting in a square box of an interview room with a single light in the ceiling. His strategy had failed. When he was a small boy and the troubles had been rife in Ireland, a fanatical republican soldier had tried to explain the difference between strategy and tactics to him. Burns was still hazy about that, but he decided that he had better concern himself now with the narrower issue of tactics.

  He had been in places like this often enough before, but never in connection with anything as serious as this. And he’d never before had a chief super questioning him and watching his every move. He’d need to watch this bugger Lambert, who
seemed to have quite a local reputation. They hadn’t charged him with anything yet, but he knew very well what this was about. He was in deep. They were leaving him alone in this room with nothing but the four green walls to gaze at. That was supposed to make him nervous. It was an obvious enough ploy – the police were nothing if not obvious. But it was working. Rory Burns was already much more anxious than when the young coppers had dumped him here and shut the door on him.

  As was usual with him, nervousness translated itself into aggression as soon as there was someone to shout at. When John Lambert pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him at the other side of the scratched square table, Burns said aggressively, ‘This had better be good and it had better be quick.’

  ‘How useful it is to us and how quickly it is concluded will depend very largely upon your attitude. I advise you to remember that. We can hold you here all day and all night if we consider it necessary, Mr Clancey.’

  He was stunned by the name. He said roughly, ‘What the hell are you playing at now? You know bloody well that I’m Rory Burns. The pair of you spoke to me at the fairground on Monday.’ It was the first time he had acknowledged the presence of Hook, who was sitting quietly beside his chief, studying the tattoos on Clancey’s forearms and enjoying the discomfort of this powerfully built man.

  Lambert didn’t hurry. He allowed himself a sour smile before he said, ‘You are Michael Clancey. You were charged with offences against children under that name in Cork six years ago. You also committed a severe assault on a man and severely wounded him four years ago.’

  ‘I wasn’t guilty with the children.’

  ‘Not what the law said, Mr Clancey. You were lucky to get away with six months, largely because it was a first offence. Or the first one you’d been charged with. Lucky to be out after three of those months, I expect. Good conduct isn’t a phrase I’d associate with you.’

  ‘It’s a long time ago. It’s all behind me now, part of another world. Or it was until you dug it up.’