Cry of the Children

by J M Gregson

  ‘Teachers, let alone trainee teachers, are not allowed to touch children nowadays.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous!’

  ‘However ridiculous it may be, you were well aware of the rules. Why did you break them, Matthew?’

  ‘I was offering comfort. I behaved perfectly reasonably.’

  ‘That wasn’t what others thought at the time, was it? It was only by signing a statement to the effect that you would withdraw from teacher training and undertake no employment that involved contact with children that you avoided charges of indecent assault on two minors.’

  ‘It was all rubbish! It was blown up out of all proportion. I wish I’d gone to court and fought it. I’d have won the case.’

  ‘We’ll never know that, will we? Such evidence as there is does not support your view. When you applied with your wife to become adoptive parents five years later, you were turned down because of this history.’

  Matt stared hopelessly at the table in front of him. ‘We should never have applied. You get turned down for any little thing. They’re talking of making it easier to adopt now, but they rejected you for piddling little things then. We should never have applied after the way I was driven out of teaching, but Hannah wanted to try and I went along with it.’

  Hook gave him a few seconds to see if he would add anything to this. Then he said quietly, ‘If you put yourself in our position, Matthew, you will see that we cannot simply discount this. It doesn’t make you guilty, but it strengthens the case against you. Have you seen Anthea Gibson since the weekend?’

  He thought he had been prepared for the question, but the sudden switch back to the present from events of a decade ago caught him off guard. His mind wouldn’t work as he wanted it to. He decided he had better tell them the truth. For all he knew, they’d had him followed; perhaps they had even spoken again to Anthea herself. He said sullenly, ‘I called in there on Tuesday. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was about Lucy. I didn’t know what sort of reception I’d get. I still feel guilty because I was with Lucy when she was snatched.’

  ‘But Mrs Gibson didn’t send you packing.’

  It sounded as if they knew, as if they were inviting him to plunge deeper into trouble. ‘No. It was awkward at first, but I’d expected that. She’d only just come back home. She’d been staying with her sister in Gloucester. I think she was finding it difficult, being in the house on her own, without Lucy. Well, you would, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Did you stay the night?’

  ‘Yes. I was going to stay downstairs on the sofa, but I ended up in Anthea’s bed. At her invitation, I should add, since you seem determined to think the worst of me.’

  He wondered if they would ask if there had been intercourse; being a suspect in something like this seemed to rob you of any shred of privacy. But all Hook said was, ‘Have you been staying there since then?’

  ‘No. I’m staying in the digs in Oldford where I used to stay before I ever knew Anthea. I wanted to be nearby if she wanted me, but not in her house. Apart from Tuesday night, I’ve stayed in my digs. I think I shall do so until after Lucy’s funeral. I’ll let Anthea decide on that – she knows that I’m around, if she needs me.’

  Simple words were concealing the intense and tangled emotions of two people who had been through unspeakable things in the last five days. Hook wondered what Lucy Gibson’s mother really thought of Matthew Boyd, whether sexual attraction could survive his connection to the death of her daughter, even if she did not believe that he had any direct connection. He said quietly, ‘Where were you last night, Matt?’

  ‘That’s when this boy went missing, isn’t it?’ He wondered if Hook would tell him that he was here to answer questions, not ask them, but both detectives merely maintained a watchful, expectant silence. He said heavily, hopelessly, ‘This has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘We need to know where you were last night, Matt.’ Hook was quiet, almost apologetic, but nonetheless insistent.

  Matt gave a deep sigh. ‘I was in my digs. I can give you the address.’ He did that, then looked hard at them, wondering if they already knew it, wondering if he had been followed ever since he had left them on Sunday.

  ‘Is there anyone who can confirm that you were there throughout the evening?’

  ‘No. My landlady was out from around seven until ten thirty.’

  Hook wondered a little at the precision of this. It sounded like a prepared answer, but he couldn’t see why Boyd would have had it ready, when it was so unhelpful for him. ‘Did you receive any phone calls?’

  ‘No. I rang Anthea on my mobile at about six thirty to check on how she was feeling. She didn’t invite me round and I didn’t suggest it. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to go.’

  Hook nodded. ‘It’s a funny expression that, don’t you think? “To tell you the truth.” It almost makes it sound as if you haven’t been telling the truth up to that point. Did you take your car out last night?’

  ‘No. I’ve already told you that I didn’t leave my digs.’

  ‘Which, unfortunately, no one can confirm. Were you in Church Lane in Oldford at any time between seven and eight last night? You should realize that it would be much better to admit to it now, if you were.’

  ‘But I wasn’t. That is what I wish you to record.’

  ‘I now ask you formally: do you know an eight-year-old boy named Raymond Barrington?’

  ‘No. I’ve never even heard the name.’

  ‘Have you any idea of his present whereabouts?’

  ‘No. Of course I haven’t. You must have better candidates to pursue than me.’

  ‘Matt, you are a man we have not been able to clear from involvement in the murder of a child last Saturday night. You were forced to leave your teacher training course because of child abuse. You are unable to establish where you were last night at the time a boy disappeared within a quarter of a mile of your lodgings. Do you really expect us to ignore you?’

  Boyd tried not to panic. It sounded very damning when Hook itemized it like that. And DS Hook seemed to be the sympathetic cop. Matt said, ‘That must seem impressive, from your point of view. From where I stand, knowing that I am completely innocent of both these crimes, it seems unfair and bizarre.’

  ‘We shall need to examine your car.’

  ‘You’re welcome to do that.’ He kept his face as neutral as he could. ‘It’s being valeted as we speak.’

  Hook felt Lambert tensing beside him. ‘A process that is no doubt removing anything that might be of interest to our forensic team. Why is the car being valeted?’

  Matt didn’t shrug his shoulders; they were far too tense for that. ‘I took advantage of the fact that I wasn’t working to have the car made spick and span. It’s important that I present myself decently when I’m selling vehicle spares. That extends to the condition of my car, inside and out.’

  They stared at him for a moment, challenging him to say more, inviting him to condemn himself by elaborating his case. Then Lambert asked quietly, ‘When was your car last valeted?’

  ‘I put it through the carwash every week, but it was last valeted about a month ago, I think. I could check it for you, if you think it necessary.’

  ‘It is necessary. Give me the name and telephone number of the firm who did it, please. We’ll check the date with them.’

  Matt felt his pulse racing, but he gave them the name of the company as calmly as he could. ‘I don’t have their number here, but you’ll find it easily enough.’

  ‘We will indeed. We’ll need to check this date out with them, and also the normal intervals between the valeting of your car. We’ll do that before you leave the station.’

  The implication was clear. They didn’t trust him. If the car hadn’t been due for a valeting today, they’d be all over him again about why he was having it so thoroughly cleaned this morning. He said woodenly, ‘I understand that. I don’t know this boy who was taken last night. And I’d rather you didn’t tell Anthea Gi
bson about that nonsense that ended my teacher training.’

  SIXTEEN

  Raymond Barrington wasn’t dead. He told himself that, told himself that so far it had not been as bad as he had expected. Then he tried not to think about what might be in store for him.

  After the monster had gone, Raymond lay for a little while on the cushions where he had spent the night. It seemed the appropriate place, simply because it was where he had been tethered for so long. Settling down again there felt like returning to a prison cell after being let out for breakfast. He knew that he was free to move around the room now. In a while he would feel bold enough to do that, but for the moment it felt to him that it would be breaking the monster’s rules to move away from where he had been tethered.

  That was a silly thing to feel, because his leg had been freed from its cord. Even though he had been tied to the bed for no more than ten or twelve hours, he could hardly believe that he could now move his leg freely, could climb slowly and gingerly to his feet. He did that, then glanced fearfully around him. The monster’s presence seemed to hang over the room, so that Raymond feared being seized again by the scruff of his neck and flung to the floor. But he forced himself stiffly upright, then put his shoulders back, as Mrs Allen said he should do. He was going to be a big boy, and tall boys shouldn’t slouch, Mrs Allen said. As he wondered how far away she was, he found himself biting his lip to keep back the tears. Raymond had done that quite a lot over the years.

  He moved around the big room, very slowly. He felt as if every step might activate some screaming alarm and bring the monster racing back to kill him. He checked the door and the window. Both were locked, as he had known they would be. He found that rather a relief, as he wouldn’t have known where to go if he’d got out of this place, and he feared what the monster would do to him if it caught him and found that he’d even tried to escape.

  He pressed on the switch beside the door, but the light didn’t come on, as he had somehow known it wouldn’t. He tried not to think about what the monster might be planning for him. Was it like the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk? Would it shout ‘Fee, fi, foh, fum!’ in that huge voice? Would it eat boys for lunch? He didn’t think so. It didn’t seem quite as huge or as awful as Jack’s giant. Raymond thought it had been a little more friendly this morning. It had brought him some breakfast, hadn’t it? And it had left food for him in the big plastic bag.

  He still wasn’t sure whether the monster was male or female. It was so muffled up and it spoke so little. And all of its words came in that strange, gruff voice that he could scarcely interpret. Raymond wondered for a while whether he wanted it to be male or female. Females hadn’t been very kind to him, apart from Mrs Allen. He wouldn’t mind it being male if it was anything like Mr Kennedy, the only male teacher in his school. Mr Kennedy brought him books and talked to him at lunchtimes. Mr Kennedy had told him that he was an intelligent boy who must make the most of his schooling, because that was how he would make his way in life.

  Raymond wasn’t quite sure what it meant to make your way in life, but it sounded impressive. He couldn’t see any similarity between Mr Kennedy and the monster.

  The day passed slowly, but Raymond didn’t mind that, because he didn’t want the monster to come back. There was a small bookcase against one wall, with all kinds of rather battered books on its three shelves. There was one with a picture of a woman with her tits threatening to burst out of her dress on the cover. The big boys in school and at Bartram House talked a lot about tits, when the girls weren’t there. One of them had said Mrs Allen had luscious tits, and the others had all laughed and made funny groaning noises. Raymond hadn’t liked that, even though he didn’t know what ‘luscious’ meant. But he’d kept quiet and been careful not to annoy the big boys. He had a go at reading the book with the tits on the cover, but it had lots of big words and didn’t seem very interesting, despite its cover.

  It was at this point that Raymond found he needed to do number twos. He looked in panic at the locked door, then round the room. He saw the bucket and realized why the monster had left it there. Raymond didn’t want to use it. He held out for perhaps twenty minutes, then knew that he would have to go. The bucket felt very uncomfortable, but he did ones and twos in it quite quickly. He looked in the big plastic Tesco’s bag the monster had left and found a toilet roll there. He’d made a horrible stink, but that wasn’t his fault, was it? Please God the monster would realize that.

  Raymond had never been quite sure about God – he’d heard very little of him until he’d been taken into care. Now he asked God fervently to look after him. Raymond listened carefully, but he couldn’t hear the answering voice he would have liked to hear. In those stories of saintly boys he had heard at school, they usually seemed to hear Jesus calling to them. Perhaps he wasn’t a good enough boy to be that close to Jesus.

  Raymond found a magazine on the bookshelves and placed it carefully on top of the bucket to keep in the smell. Then he found some Enid Blyton books, but he thought the Famous Five were a bit below him now. His teacher had said that he was ready for more advanced books than Blyton, and that had made him feel quite grown up. He found a book that he hadn’t read by someone called C.S. Lewis. It was called The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and he’d seen one of the older girls at school reading it.

  Raymond set it upon the square table where he’d eaten his cereal and began to read. He was soon caught up in it, despite the danger he felt here. He went through the back of the wardrobe in the book and moved out of the prison of this room. He understood nearly all of the words and the book gripped him, making him forget for minutes on end where he was and the awful peril he was in.

  Presently, he became very daring. He took his shoes off and lay on top of the big bed to which he had been tied during the night. He turned so that the light from the window fell directly upon the book and read on. He lost all sense of time. When he felt hungry, he went to the window and put his face right against it, gazing up to see as much as he could of the sky. The sun had risen as high as it was going to go and was definitely dropping now, he judged. That meant it must be well past midday. He went back to the table, took some slices of bread from the packet and spread them with the margarine from the tub. On some of them, he spread chunks of the jam the monster had left for him.

  He hadn’t realized quite how hungry he was until he began to eat. Even the plain white slices without the jam tasted wonderful. He couldn’t believe it wasn’t butter he’d spread thickly over them; he looked twice at the tub to check. Some of the women who worked at Bartram House joked about that. Raymond didn’t understand properly, but apparently there’d been some television advert once about not being able to tell margarine from butter. The thought of the care home and its safe and cheerful rooms brought him near to tears, but he seized the bread with jam on it, and that tasted even better. He closed his eyes and deliberately ate it very slowly, wondering again why this simple stuff tasted better in his mouth than any food he had ever eaten before.

  Perhaps it was danger that made you extra hungry and able to enjoy your eats so much. Raymond poured some milk from its container into the plastic cup and sipped it slowly. It tasted as good as the bread and marg.

  Raymond looked out of the window. The sun was behind clouds now, but he could see that it was getting quite low. He climbed on to the bed again, stretched himself luxuriously and plunged back into The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. He read on and on, conscious of the fact that the light would go soon, wanting to cover as many pages as he could before dark. Presently, with the book clutched still in his hand and the room growing dimmer, Raymond Barrington fell softly asleep.

  Dean Gibson was in his working clothes when he came into the station at Oldford. He looked years older than when they had talked to him at his digs in Ledbury three days earlier. He was quite tall, but what little hair he had around his prematurely balding head was dishevelled and held traces of the white plaster he had been working during the morni
ng. His face was grey with fatigue, his eyes were watery and he looked much older than his thirty-three years.

  ‘You look as if you haven’t been sleeping well,’ said John Lambert, who was himself feeling the strain of a child snatch and murder which had been followed by a second child abduction only four days later.

  ‘I haven’t. Would you sleep well if your daughter had been murdered at the weekend?’

  Lambert nodded. ‘Fair point. I have daughters, but I won’t even pretend that I know what it feels like to lose one like that.’ He sighed. ‘But it’s our job to find out who took Lucy and killed her, Mr Gibson. I’m sure you want us to do that.’

  Dean nodded, tight-lipped, waiting for the real business to begin. He didn’t want to talk about Lucy, unless they were near to a solution. But Lambert delayed matters further by saying, ‘You aren’t under caution, Mr Gibson. But I’d like us to have this conversation on record, to avoid any misunderstandings. We have a query about what you told us on Monday, which we’ll take up later.’

  Dean was conscious of the two men studying him, as if looking for a reaction. Perhaps they were waiting for a break in his concentration, but he was beyond worrying about that now. He wasn’t even going to be alarmed by the mention of what he’d said to them on Monday. He just wanted this latest ordeal to be over, so that he could be out of here and alone with his thoughts. Eventually, because it seemed to be expected of him, he said dully, ‘Have you found who killed my girl yet?’

  ‘No. We have our thoughts, but we haven’t established anything definite yet. We need evidence. Or a confession from someone.’ Gibson’s grey, hunted eyes looked up at him on that challenge, then blinked two or three times in quick succession, as they had done in their first interview on Monday, when they’d been forced to give him the news of Lucy’s death. It was the first time his eyelids had fluttered so violently in this meeting. Perhaps his weariness and the fact that he was so near to breaking point had atrophied his normal physical reactions. Lambert was watching him as intently as ever as he said gently, almost apologetically, ‘And now we have this new horror to contend with.’