by Anna Smith
‘Okay, sweetheart. Break a leg, as they say in these parts.’ He winked. ‘And don’t do anything that’ll get us thrown out, no matter what he says to you. He’s an arrogant bastard. He’ll probably suggest you should be horsewhipped on the steps for your sheer impertinence.’
Rosie smiled as she got up, but her heart was going like an engine. She reached into her jacket and switched on the tape recorder, then slung her handbag over her shoulder. She walked across to where he was reading The Times, the paper covering his face.
‘Mr Chambers?’ Rosie said.
He lowered the newspaper, his face twisting with impatience as he stared up at her.
‘Mr Chambers, my name is Rosie Gilmour.’ She smiled coldly. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’
His expression changed from bewilderment as the penny dropped. He shot a furtive glance around the room. ‘Who?’
Rosie let it hang for a moment, then looked him square in the eye. ‘Oh, I think you know my name, Mr Chambers, so can we cut the crap? You need to hear what I’ve got to say.’
‘Who the blazes are you? What business have you to barge in on me at my club? That’s the bloody problem, these days. They let anyone in here. Now, if you’ll forgive me . . .’
He was about to lift his paper to his face when Rosie stepped a little closer and thrust a copy of the Post at him. ‘You don’t want to read that fusty old rag. Have a look at a decent tabloid. Your wife was all over it a couple of weeks ago. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already?’
His face paled. ‘I can have you removed from here in less than five seconds, madam.’
‘But you won’t. It’s not smart. I’m here for a quote for my newspaper. For the exclusive we’re about to run – an exposé on you and your web of corruption, and the dossiers of child-abuse allegations you made disappear all those years ago.’ He opened his mouth to speak, but Rosie put her hand up. ‘It’s too late now for some kind of tantrum. You’re finished, Chambers. Luckily for your copper mate, who was in it with you, he’s already dead. But you? Your number’s up, pal, and that’s the message my editor wanted me to deliver to you.’
He seemed too stunned to speak. Rosie decided to throw the kitchen sink at him, to provoke a reaction.
‘You know something, Chambers? It’s people like you who ruin lives, and if you’re not ruining them, you preside over the people who do. You covered up and hid crimes to protect your toff friends, while vulnerable people were abused by them and anyone else with money. And your wife, Millie. What a lovely woman, wasted on a piece of shit like you.’
His face turned crimson, and Rosie put her hand up to stop him speaking.
‘Yes. She’s told me the whole story. How you broke her. You’re the worst kind of human being, Chambers, the worst. You even kidnapped your own wife and locked her away. What kind of monster does that? It might be too late for her, but I have it all, chapter and verse, on tape, and our lawyers have said we can go ahead and publish.’ She could feel sweat on the back of her neck and her hands were shaking by her sides. ‘So, if you’re smarter than you look right now, you’ll at least say sorry publicly. Or you could deny everything, but this is your only chance to tell the truth. And if you’ve got any scrap of decency, you’ll sign the papers to release your wife from that prison. You have one last chance to do something right in your privileged, selfish life. You failed all those children. You failed the woman who loved you. You, Mr Chambers, are a failure, and my newspaper is going to tell the world exactly what you are.’ Rosie took a breath, waiting for a reaction.
Chambers stood up, beads of sweat on his top lip, a little unsteady on his feet. ‘My lawyers will be in touch with your editor, you lowlife little tart. It’s not me who’s finished, it’s you.’ He strode off.
‘Not drinking your brandy, sir?’ Rosie shouted to his back. ‘Oh, well! No point in it going to waste.’ She downed the remains in one, feeling it burn all the way down. She didn’t even like brandy, but that one hit the spot. She knew Matt would be standing outside, hosing him down with his camera as soon as he stepped out of the doors. Job done.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rosie peered at the red-brick terraced houses in Hackney for the right number, as Matt drove along the shabby street. She knew it was a long shot, but it had to be done. Even if the guy did still live there, it was unlikely he’d be willing to relive the story of the abuse he had suffered. But, right now, he was the only thread she had that might back up the retired detective’s revelations and those of Millie Chambers. Kavanagh had managed to dig out one of the cops involved in the investigation, but he didn’t want to meet a journalist in person. Instead, he passed on the name and address of a victim he’d interviewed.
‘There it is,’ Rosie said. ‘Number one three eight.’ She took in the grimy net curtain on the downstairs window and the paint peeling off the once-white front door. ‘Looks a bit rough.’
‘The whole street looks rough,’ Matt said. ‘It’s like they’re all living on top of each other in these rows of houses. So depressing.’
‘No more depressing, I suppose, than a tower block in Glasgow, or the tenements. It’s how half the population lives in cities. The boom of the eighties and nineties obviously never made it out here. My pal Mickey says it’s a lot of second- and third-generation immigrants. They were Irish and Polish mostly, to begin with. But now it’s a mix, with a big Asian population too. It’s a hard life for a lot of people, if this is home.’
Matt parked the car and she gathered up her bag. ‘Okay, let’s go. Don’t bring in all your toys. Just one camera, in case we get lucky.’ She got out of the car.
Rosie rapped on the door and they waited. No answer. She gave the knocker a more emphatic rattle, and they stood for a while.
‘Wasted journey?’
‘Never wasted. It might have worked.’ She sighed. ‘Come on. Maybe we’ll find a greasy spoon for a coffee and come back later.’
As they walked down the path, they stopped when they heard chains and locks being released. Then the door opened a fraction. Rosie swung round, back to the step. Through the six-inch space she could see a balding man, with a blotchy, boozy face. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Sorry to bother you. We’re looking for James Gallacher. Is that you?’
The man nodded. ‘Yeah. What is it?’
Rosie caught a whiff of stale food from the open door. ‘Is it possible to come in and talk to you? My name is Rosie Gilmour. I’m a journalist.’
The man looked a little confused, stared at her, then beyond her, but said nothing.
‘Mr Gallacher, I’m investigating a paedophile ring in London some years ago. Could we please come in? I don’t want to talk on the doorstep.’
‘Who gave you my name? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Rosie’s heart sank a little, but gut instinct told her he was lying, perhaps afraid and ashamed. He wouldn’t give her much longer. She’d better make the next couple of sentences count.
‘Mr Gallacher, I can’t say right now where your name came from, but it was a reliable source, and I’d like to talk to you about it. I know things like this from the past can be painful, but I also know that the police interviewed a lot of people who gave statements about abuse, and in some cases brutality, by some high-profile members of society. I want to expose that, and I’m trying to trace victims. My newspaper would like to unmask the people who did this, who ruined lives. The victims didn’t have a voice because there was an elaborate cover-up. I’m hoping to expose that.’
He said nothing. Rosie took a step back. ‘Okay, Mr Gallacher. I’m sorry to have bothered you. But if you do want to talk to me just let me know.’ She handed him her card. He took it. She looked at Matt and they turned away.
‘Wait!’
Rosie glanced at Matt and they turned as the chain was detached and the door opened. He stood before them, a portly, shambolic figure, in an old yellow V-neck sweater, with straggly chest hair poking out, grey tracksuit bottoms and slippers. �
��Come in.’
There was a smell of grease mixed with old food. Overflowing bins were stacked up along the hall. Rosie could feel her feet sticking to the carpet. They walked into the living room. She stopped in her tracks when she saw the chainsaw on the coffee table. Matt shot her an anxious glance.
‘Excuse the mess,’ James Gallacher said. He bent down to lift the chainsaw and Rosie felt a little wobble in her stomach. She glanced at the living-room door, wondering how quickly they could escape. He looked at them as though reading their minds. ‘I was just cutting down some trees in the back garden. I’ll put this away.’
Rosie saw the relief in Matt’s face and almost burst out laughing as James disappeared into the kitchen.
‘Sit down,’ James said, as he came back in. He sat on a threadbare armchair next to the old fireplace.
Rosie and Matt squeezed onto a space on the couch between mountains of newspapers.
‘Mr Gallacher. Er . . . can I call you James?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Thanks, James. Okay. As I was saying, your name came up because we’re investigating this case and we’ve spoken to some contacts who were looking into it at the time.’
‘I thought so. Detectives?’
Rosie shrugged but said nothing.
‘Well,’ James seemed perplexed, ‘they did their job, I suppose. But nothing happened. All that talking and statements and meetings, but fuck-all. Sorry for swearing. It’s a long time ago, but I still feel angry. No, worse than angry.’
‘James,’ Rosie said, trying to tread carefully, ‘can I ask you to go back there in your mind and talk to us about it?’
He looked at her in disbelief.
‘Go back there? Do you think I’ve ever left it behind?’
‘Sorry,’ Rosie said. ‘I don’t mean to be insensitive. But some victims of abuse I’ve spoken to in the past had kind of put it out of their minds and tried to live a life, and that’s why I said “go back there”.’
‘It’s alright.’ His lip twitched. ‘Maybe some people can do that, and I tried to as well. Because life goes on, and nobody really cares that much about your problems after a while. We were abandoned, simple as that. But you have to live your life. I tried. Believe me, I tried. But you need only to look around you to see it didn’t work. My life was fucking wrecked. I’ve got a drink problem. Haven’t had a drop for six weeks, but I’m dying for some, and that’s the truth. It helps me get by. It’s not that I relive it every day, but I relive how shit my life became because of the abuse . . . All the people I let down because of my drinking. I lost everything.’
Rosie said nothing, but took out her notebook and the tape recorder. ‘Do you mind if I tape our conversation? You see, we have evidence from people that senior figures in police and government destroyed evidence, such as dossiers of victim statements and police work. But I have no first-hand accounts from victims. I think this abuse may have gone on nationwide. Not just in London.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. But I only know about London. I was only twelve when it happened. Just a wee boy in the children’s home.’
‘Can you tell me your recollections?’
He said nothing for a long moment, and Rosie watched as he sat staring at the empty hearth. ‘The first time I was taken out with the rest of the bigger boys and girls, I was told it was a party. The older guys, they were fourteen and fifteen, said it was good fun, that you got money and great food, a trip up to London in the minibus. We were taken to a building in the city centre. It was beautiful – even the corridors and the smell of it stay with me. Then we were taken into this house and there were loads of people there. I don’t mean just a dozen or so. The house was full of people in several rooms, like big living rooms. We were taken into a room with tables of cakes and pizza and all sorts of sweets and drinks. We just got in and ate everything we could see. Then some of the bigger boys disappeared. We didn’t think anything about it. There were football magazines and games, and they said we could take them back with us. But halfway through the evening it all changed. That was the first time for me.’ He stopped and they sat for a few moments.
‘What happened?’
‘One of the people, a butler or something, came in and took me to another room. There was a man in there. I thought I’d seen him before, maybe on the telly or something, but I’m still not sure. He was dead rich-looking, well-dressed in a suit and tie. He smiled at me and said what a lovely boy I was, then asked me some things about myself. I told him I liked football and was in the school team and he said maybe one day I would be a famous star and play for Arsenal. I told him I wanted to play for Real Madrid, and he laughed and kind of ruffled my hair. He asked me to sit down beside him. It seemed a bit strange, but he was a nice man. Then he touched my hair and face. Kind of stroked me like this.’ James demonstrated, his fingers tracing his face. ‘I just sat there not knowing what to do. Then he touched my thighs and in between my legs, over my trousers. I felt my face going a bit red, and looked at him, but he said it was all right, that he was just being friendly and that he was going to be my special friend. He would do anything he could do to help me become a footballer. He said he would get me a Real Madrid shirt. I can still remember that moment, picturing myself in a Real Madrid shirt. It was the only thing on my mind. Sounds fucking strange when I say that, but as a wee boy obsessed with football, a Real Madrid shirt was like gold to me. I had all their football cards and knew every player and could pronounce their names. And this guy was going to buy me a shirt.’ He shook his head, almost with disbelief. ‘Then he leaned across me, opened my trousers and put his hand on my pants. It was a very strange feeling. That’s what upsets me about it to this day. He touched me and I could feel myself getting hard. Then he put his hand inside and began to masturbate me. I suddenly ejaculated and I felt embarrassed and ashamed. It was just horrible. Like something in my life had changed and I would never be the same person ever again.’ His eyes were filling with tears.
‘That’s awful,’ Rosie said. ‘But you mustn’t blame yourself. It’s common for victims of abuse to react the way you did.’
‘He gave me a five-pound note and said next week he’d have the shirt for me. I pulled my trousers up and he said I could go. I just walked out of the room and didn’t know what to think. I was ashamed of myself.’
‘Did you ever see him again?’
James nodded. ‘There was no choice. You just got told on the Friday afternoon that you were going up to the party. A few of the boys were quite looking forward to it because they came back with money and stuff and we spent it all on sweets. But it was like madness. So when I went up the second time, it wasn’t a week later, it was two or three weeks. Same thing. Taken into the room and this time he was there again. But he had the shirt for me. He handed it to me and told me to open it, and when I did it was the most exciting thing to have those colours actually in my hand and to imagine pulling it on and going out to play football on a pitch, just like my heroes. Then he touched me again and asked me to touch him. He opened my trousers and this time he put me in his mouth. It was disgusting. Afterwards, we went home, and the next Thursday I ran away for the first time. It was so that I wouldn’t be there on the Friday. But they brought me back and I had to go again and again. It was always the same man. One time he raped me. But I know I wasn’t the only one that stuff happened to. There were other boys, and they went with a few men.’
‘Can you remember any names or any of the faces?’
‘No. But somebody said one of them was a politician. Like an MP or something. Labour, I think, but I don’t know that for sure.’
‘Did you ever tell anyone? Did the boys or girls ever talk to each other about it?’
‘No, never. It was never mentioned, but we all knew when we came home on the bus what we’d been doing. Nobody ever spoke on the way home. We just sat there, dead quiet.’
‘What did you tell people about the Real Madrid shirt?’ Rosie hoped it wasn’t too intrusive a question
, but she needed to know.
‘I never wore it. Not once. Didn’t even try it on. Didn’t show it to anyone. Just took it back to the home with me and put it under my mattress.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve still got it. I mean, how fucked up is that?’
‘Seriously? You still have it?’
‘You want to see it?’
‘Yes.’
Matt, she knew, would be visualizing a picture.
James returned a couple of minutes later with a carrier-bag and pulled out the shirt. It was at least twenty years old. The style and year could be checked. Of course, it proved nothing, but it was good to have it.
‘Can I ask why you kept it, James? It must have been a painful reminder.’
‘I don’t know, really. I couldn’t bear to throw it away because I loved it so much, yet I couldn’t even try it on.’ Suddenly he was crying. ‘I know, in the bigger picture of everything I’ve said to you, how fucking stupid that sounds, but sometimes that single thought of the top makes me cry. I was just so innocent. Just a little boy with all these stupid dreams of playing football for Real Madrid. But after those encounters, my life completely changed. I changed. I became angry and troublesome. When I left the home, I took to drink. I trained as an apprentice joiner, but because of my alcoholism, I amounted to nothing. I lost my marriage to a great girl who, to this day, doesn’t know what was wrong with me.’
‘So when did you go to the police?’
‘When I was about fifteen. One of the other guys was going, and we went together.’
‘Can you remember which police station?’
‘Romford. The home was near there. We talked to various officers and they came to see us at the home. It all got a bit difficult then, but the trips stopped. That was it. It never happened again. But nothing ever came of it.’
‘Do you ever see any of the boys now?’
‘No. When I left, I moved away, up to Derby, and married a Scottish girl. We stayed there for years and had two kids, but I drank so much I blew the lot. I don’t even see my kids now.’
