‘Paul Watling,’ he said, offering his hand. He greeted the three men who were making slow progress with their tea, and they replied warmly. Geri felt a surge of optimism — this was a man who might be prepared to listen.
He showed her into the interview room and shut the door.
‘Bit of a goldfish bowl, but at least it’s private,’ he said. ‘Excuse the smell.’ There was a musty odour, like damp cardboard. ‘We had a load of new clothes donated recently and some of the lads left their old stuff for disposal; haven’t been able to get the smell out since.’
It was said to disarm, but Geri’s encounter at the hostel had made her wary, and she determined to keep her distance. She apologized for taking up his time, but he dismissed it lightly.
‘You saved me from a shitload of paperwork,’ he said, sitting opposite her in one of the chairs. He leaned forward slightly and made eye contact. Geri was struck by the iridescence of his eyes; their colour seemed to shift from time to time, like light reflected from brown silk. There was intelligence and a huge charge of energy that seemed to spark about him, appearing almost to make him crackle as he moved. He held her gaze with such intensity that she had to look away, unable to bear his steady, open appraisal of her.
‘You know Adèle Moorcroft? Adèle N218,’ she added, giving Adèle’s badge number.
‘I know her.’
She was grateful, when she glanced up into his face that the question hadn’t put him on his guard, that it hadn’t made him suspicious of her.
‘She’s vanished. I’ve looked everywhere for her — she’s not at her usual pitch and she’s left the shelter. She been acting strangely this last week; something was bothering her, and now—’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘I’m really worried.’ It had come tumbling out, despite her original resolve to test the water, see how far she could trust this man.
He sat cross-legged on the chair, his hands gripping his ankles. ‘She hasn’t been into the office since Thursday,’ he said. ‘It happens. People have good intentions, big dreams, but reality sometimes gets in the way. It takes a hell of a lot of will-power to get off the street.’
‘When I talked to her last week, she was full of plans for her flat. She told me she wanted to train as a hairdresser. Adèle isn’t stupid. She was getting herself together, saving up . . .’ Her voice trailed off. It’s impossible, she thought, crushed by the enormity of the task. She would never find Adèle.
‘The longer you’re on the streets, the harder it is to get off them,’ Paul said in answer. ‘The skills that help you survive on the street are the skills that keep you there.’ He frowned. ‘But you’re right. Adèle was getting herself straight. She’s off drugs, stopped doing sex work months ago, and she’s coming to the top of the list for supported accommodation.’ He shrugged, unwrapped one ankle and stretched out his leg.
‘I saw her on Wednesday,’ Geri explained. ‘She seemed frightened. She refused money from me.’
‘Refused money?’ He seemed incredulous.
‘I got the feeling she was being watched and didn’t want to get me involved.’
He was still for a moment or two, and his gaze drifted slightly to Geri’s left. ‘Shit,’ he said quietly and unemphatically.
‘One of the men at the shelter said she owed taxes. Could that have anything to do with it?’
He glanced up. ‘Is that what he said — that she owed taxes?’
Geri tried to remember the phrase the woman at the shelter had used. ‘Someone told me she was “running from the Taxman”.’ Something like that. It’s street slang, isn’t it?’
Paul nodded. In one fluid movement he climbed up onto the chair, crouching like a gargoyle and staring at the floor. ‘“Taxing” is another word for thieving,’ he said. ‘Sometimes gangs, sometimes individuals. They prey on beggars, Big Issue vendors, whoever they think won’t fight back. Sometimes they take a percentage, sometimes the lot.’
‘Taking a percentage?’ Geri said. ‘Of what?’
‘It’s easy money,’ Paul said, with a shrug. ‘And it builds their rep. as hard men.’ He moved again to a sitting position. Geri was fascinated by his sheer physical energy.
‘If Adèle was being taxed, maybe she decided it was safer to move on.’
‘Don’t you know?’ She glanced apologetically at him. ‘I mean, wouldn’t she tell you?’
‘Sometimes it’s easier to pay up and keep shtum. Hope they get fed up or move onto bigger prey.’ He frowned, tugging at his lower lip. ‘You’re right, though — normally I get to hear about it. Either he’s got them badly scared, or he’s new. Maybe he’s only just moved in on them.’
Geri considered for a moment. Paul had been straight with her, but she didn’t want word getting out that Adèle might know something about Frank’s death. ‘There was something else,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘Something that made her frightened to sleep on the streets.’
‘Yeah. I was surprised she went into a shelter.’
‘She hates those places,’ Geri agreed.
‘If she thought this Taxman would find her at her squat, it could explain why she plumped for the emergency shelter.’
‘Maybe,’ Geri said.
He regarded her steadily for a few moments, the colours in his irises shifting and swirling. ‘But you think that’s why she moved out of the shelter, don’t you?’
Geri nodded. ‘I don’t think she feels safe anywhere.’ She hesitated, then decided to ask, ‘I was wondering . . . If she gets in touch, or if anyone hears anything, could you give her my number? Tell her to call any time.’ She rummaged in her handbag for a scrap of paper and wrote her name and number on it. ‘Any time,’ she repeated, handing him the slip.
He tucked it in his shirt pocket. ‘You a relative?’
‘A friend.’
He smiled. ‘It’s nice to have a good friend.’
Geri felt sick to the core. If she was such a good friend, why hadn’t Adèle come to her — told her what she was frightened of?
* * *
Self-preservation was a large part of Adèle’s reason for keeping quiet about what she had seen, but a concern for her friend’s safety was also a factor. Geri was more than just another punter, and when she was properly straight, and off the street for good, she would make Geri proud to be called her friend.
She shivered and curled up tighter in her layers of cardboard. One damp old building was much like another, but in this new city, where everything was unfamiliar to her, the shadows seemed deeper and the emptiness bigger and lonelier and far, far more dangerous than ever they did at home.
She felt homesick for her warehouse, her own things around her, the bivvy she had spent so much time gathering together. A shudder racked her like a convulsion; it was nearly two weeks since she had made that final journey to the warehouse, seen what she had seen — but his laughter had rattled around in her head, replaying that fearful night over and over.
When she heard that laugh again, on Thursday night, it was as if a monster had stepped right out of her nightmares. Even here, a hundred or more miles away, faceless and nameless, she was afraid.
36
PC Mayhew snaffled a mug of tea and some beans on toast from the food counter and hurried over to the group sitting in the centre of the canteen. They were taking a lunch break and catching up on the latest on the glue-sniffing case.
Mayhew slid his tray onto the table and dragged out the middle chair of three. ‘Have you heard?’
‘Heard what?’ Dhar asked.
‘Beresford, on the CCTV videotapes. Mincing around, chatting up them lads on the concourse.’
‘Old news, Sam. He was asking around for information on Frank Traynor,’ Dhar said.
‘So he says. Only he wasn’t told to question the rent boys until three days later.’
‘He’s—’
‘Keen?’ Mayhew laughed. ‘We all know what he’s keen on. He can’t stay away from the place.’
‘I was going to say co
ncerned. What is your problem?’ Dhar demanded.
Mayhew stared at her, astonished. ‘He’s bent, a shirt-lifter—’
‘You always said Sergeant Beresford was all right.’
‘That was before.’
‘Before? He was gay “before”. You just didn’t know it.’
‘Well, now I do.’ Mayhew was enjoying himself: he hadn’t forgiven Beresford for dragging him off the squealing little fucker at the railway station earlier in the week. He took another mouthful of beans and toast and chewed as he spoke. ‘Me, I like to see what I’m up against.’
‘That why you and me got on so well when I first came here?’ Dhar saw the others look at her as if to remind themselves of the colour of her skin. They looked away as she caught their eye — even Mayhew looked a little abashed.
‘That was a misunderstanding, Nita,’ he said, blushing slightly. ‘We got off on the wrong foot. Beresford has been sharing a locker room with us lads.’ He shuddered at the thought. ‘How can you trust a guy like that? He could’ve lied about all kinds of stuff.’
Dhar sighed. ‘We all lie, all the time. Place like this, if you’re honest, you’re asking for trouble.’
‘All I’m saying is he’s been warned off cruising the station and there he is, back again.’
Dhar exclaimed in exasperation at the word ‘cruising’.
‘He was seen,’ Mayhew insisted. ‘Talking to the lads again. That sulky-looking one — the one on the tape.’
‘If he was, he must’ve had good reason.’
Mayhew looked around the table at the others, raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. It was enough. The others started laughing and Dhar knew the argument was lost.
She was on her way out through the door when Beresford came in. She blushed guiltily for having been talking about him, even if it was in his defence. The laughter died down at her back as the others noticed the sergeant at the door.
‘Go up to the incident room, will you?’ he said. ‘DCI Thomas wants to see everyone.’
‘Has something happened?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘I know he’s had those lab results back.’ He seemed to hesitate, looking past her to the group she had just left.
‘I’ll tell the others, shall I?’ she suggested.
There was no mistaking his relief. ‘Five minutes,’ he said.
As he left, the laughter broke out again.
Not everyone was available to attend the briefing. Some of the uniformed officers were out on patrol, and a few of the CID team working on the case were off duty, but the incident room was still fairly packed. Files, reports and photographs were stacked on desks and filing cabinets, jumbled with crisp and sweet wrappers and empty paper cups. The mess would build up until someone lost patience with it and swept a load of the detritus into the nearest bin. Thomas came out of his office and crossed the room to stand in front of the whiteboards.
‘Until now, we’ve been treating these deaths as suspicious. We hadn’t ruled out the possibility that others were involved, but we didn’t have proof they were, either. Well,’ he gazed into their faces, his eyes glittering with excitement, ‘now we’ve got it.’ He nodded to DI Hesketh, who stood up and faced the gathering.
‘The boss has been mithering scientific support for reports on blood and stomach contents,’ he said. ‘They’ve been slow, as ever, but they came back today with details on Frank Traynor.’
‘I requested a more thorough analysis of his stomach contents,’ Thomas explained, ‘because the pathologist was fairly sure that Frank’s body had been moved after death. It was possible, therefore, that the fire was intended to destroy evidence.’
There were a few nods around the room. The team looked tired, but they were keyed up, sensing his excitement at this new development. He went on, ‘I was particularly interested to know if semen was present in the stomach.’
‘It was,’ Hesketh said, answering the unspoken question of the fifteen or so officers present. ‘Which means we’re now looking at sexual assault and murder.’
Thomas silenced a rumble of concern with a wave of his hand. ‘We couldn’t have treated these cases any other way — there simply wasn’t enough evidence to confirm or completely rule out strangulation in either of the lads, and there was a strong chance they’d been experimenting with drugs. There still is.’
He scanned the room; some of these men and women had children of their own — some of them about the same age as the two dead boys. ‘Blood analysis confirms inhalants in the lads’ bloodstreams.’ He paused, his brow furrowed. ‘And morphiates.’
‘Smack?’ Mayhew murmured, almost to himself.
‘Right now, we don’t know what was forced on them, and what they did willingly, so we take the approach that there have been new developments, but the investigation is ongoing.’
‘Is that the official line, Boss?’ someone asked.
Thomas nodded. ‘We all know how long it takes for lab tests to come through. And it was pure fluke that the semen was intact — forensics say stomach acid normally destroys it.’
‘What about Ryan?’ Garvey asked. ‘Is the pathologist going to check him out for sexual assault an’ all?’
‘He’s collecting samples now,’ Thomas said. ‘There’ll be a press conference at one this afternoon. Meanwhile, we start looking for a male homosexual.’ There was an uncomfortable silence as everyone made an effort not to look at Vince.
‘Will they be able to get a DNA match from the semen?’ DC Winter asked.
‘We don’t know yet. For now, we need to check any registered paedophiles in the area and ask the public to come forward with information — sightings of either of the lads with an older man, anyone who’s been behaving strangely — the usual.’
‘Any sick bastard who like little boys for company,’ Garvey muttered.
Thomas saw Vince tense. ‘Sick bastard he may be,’ he agreed. ‘But he’s also cool and calculating. And he seems to have some knowledge of forensic procedure — enough anyway to obliterate most of the evidence. These boys were supplied with heroin. Maybe they wanted it, or maybe it was used to subdue them. Either way, someone provided it.’
‘So, we interview known dealers — ruffle a few feathers,’ Hesketh said.
There were a few mutters of complaint at this, finding and talking to all of the dealers and drug pushers, even in their small patch of the city, was a tall order.
‘What about the possible witness?’ Dhar asked. ‘The girl who bought the gas canister from Great Outdoors?’
‘Nothing so far. If she was homeless, she might have moved on, but a description has been circulated to the emergency shelters and hostels.’
‘I wouldn’t mind talking to a few street people — see if they recognize the description.’
Thomas nodded. ‘Good idea. But take someone with you.’ His eyes skimmed the room, demanding their full attention. ‘This guy could have previous form; he may have done this elsewhere in the country. I’m having a HOLMES room set up,’ he went on. ‘From now on, I want every enquiry, every phone call logged on the proper forms.’ He glanced at Hesketh.
‘There’s a stack on their way up to us now, Boss.’
‘Good. No exceptions,’ he warned. ‘I want the operatives to be able to get to work on the backlog as soon as they’re up and running.
‘But until we get some feedback from the database, we’ll have to do this by hard slog. Garvey — anything on the security guard on the video tape?’
Garvey grimaced. ‘The teams change over at the weekend, Boss, and they have a high staff turnover anyway — new faces coming and going all the time. No one recognized him. But I’ll talk to the supervisor when he gets back off holiday on Monday.’
Thomas wasn’t happy with the delay, but nothing could be done about it. ‘Make it a priority,’ he said. ‘If the guard saw whatever it was that scared Frank off, we might get a description of the killer.’
Teams were set up to question known paedophiles and a
couple of DCs were sent to talk to the boys on the station concourse to see if they had any ideas. Within minutes the room was empty, and Thomas turned his attention to what he would tell the journalists later that day.
* * *
The press conference was noisy and difficult. A briefing room was cleared of rubbish and folding chairs were set out for the gathered media. Blue pinboards were set against the wall to provide a backdrop for the cameras. The table at which DCI Thomas and DI Hesketh sat had been borrowed from a conference room on the top floor and getting it down three flights of stairs had been no easy task.
Cameras began flashing and whirring as the men took their seats. Thomas made a simple statement, explaining that ‘new evidence’ had come to light, and that the two deaths were now being treated as murder. The questions began immediately:
‘Why has it taken so long to discover that the boys had been murdered?’
‘What “new evidence” has been uncovered?’
‘Were the boys sexually assaulted?’
‘What are you doing to put right your earlier mistakes?’
‘How many officers have been assigned to the investigation?’
Then, ‘What have you to say to the parents? Their sons’ characters have been dragged through the mud.’
‘Not by me,’ Thomas growled, his voice cutting through the hubbub.
The gathered TV, press and radio journalists fell silent, and he realized that he had committed an unforgivable gaff: reminding them of the consequences of irresponsible reporting. He needed their co-operation, and was anxious not to alienate them, so he went on in a more conciliatory tone, ‘The men and women on my team have great sympathy for what the families are going through, and we are doing everything we can to find out how Ryan and Frank died.’
He knew that Frank had died, as Ryan had, retching and vomiting, humiliated beyond anything he had ever feared at the hands of the playground bullies.
* * *
Five hours later, some of the team were watching the press conference on a TV in the incident room. The registered paedophiles had been rounded up and questioned; all but two had consented to blood samples being taken for DNA typing; the other two could be matched using samples already on record. It would take time to access the records, but the process had already been put in train.
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