Sweetie (15 page)

‘Really? How fantastic,’ Kelly replied sarcastic

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ally. ‘So, is this what all the fuss is about? I mean, all these people. Did ya know Jamie Hoare went missing earlier, but he’s back and he’s all right? I spoke to his Auntie Grace, you know, the money bird. She was all right actually. Anyway, gotta go. See ya.’ Without a 138

second glance, Kelly turned on her heel and walked back up Hackney Road, leaving Lucy standing there, all the wind taken out of her sails.

Terry headed straight for the betting office, which was full of men feeling bold after a good lunchtime session at the Birdcage. He asked Harry if he’d seen Wayne, but the bookie just shook his head and said,

‘He might have been outside but I ain’t been able to get from behind this counter all day. One of my girls has called in sick. Sorry, mate.’

Terry thought he remembered Grace saying some young girls had seen Harry walking past his house earlier, but dismissed the thought. Standing in the corner, gazing at one of the TVs with a short betting office pen behind his ear, stood George, the caretaker from the local school. He knew all the kids round here, and had to be worth a try.

‘George, you haven’t seen my Wayne, have you?’

Terry forced a smile though he’d never really liked this man. George was a scruffy, grimy sort of bloke, but seemed harmless enough.

‘Not today. I’ve been in the betting shop all day.’

George gave him a concerned look. ‘You look worried, Tel.’

‘Yeah, I know. To be honest, George, with all the goings-on lately, I’m just a little bit uptight. All these bloody attacks on our kids, it makes you paranoid, don’t it?’ He looked at the TV screen as a huge cheer went up in the betting shop. Someone’s luck had just 139

turned. A solitary fan stirred the stale, smoky air, heavy with the aroma of sweat and lunchtime drink -

ing. Sober himself, Terry found the dense atmosphere choking.

‘You’re not joking, mate. I don’t know what’s happened round here, no kid’s safe.’ George hiked up his elastic belt, which was beginning to ride low. He had on old grey work trousers, shiny with wear, a piss stain near the fly and stale dry food deposits near his crotch. He wore a yellow nylon shirt and jacket.

Terry thought he must be roasting in all that.

‘Yeah, but that little Lucy saw him off, didn’t she?

Did you hear about that? Fucking amazing, she can’t be more than five one.’ Terry shook his head with wonder.

‘Yeah, Old Bill were swarming all over the park this morning and that PC Watson has been talking to everybody. Useless, the police, haven’t got a clue.

Silly load of plods, they won’t catch him. I reckon he’s too clever for them!’ George picked up a half-smoked roll-up from the ashtray and lit it.

‘Anyways, the retarded kid was involved, I reckon, but he got a good ’iding, I ’eard. Still in hospital now, ya know.’

Terry looked down at the floor at this mention of Steven Archer. ‘Well, Old Bill might know more than they’re letting on. You never know with them, the shifty bastards. I hope they get a bloody move on, though, and catch him.’

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Dragging hard on his fag, George went on, ‘So it wasn’t Steven Archer after all then?’

Terry looked at him, trying to read what he knew.

‘No, I guess not,’ he said.

‘Don’t blame whoever did it for trying, though.’

George pushed back the lock of greasy, grey hair which fell over his eyes. His brow was shiny with sweat and Terry noticed white flecks of spittle in the corners of his mouth. Time to change the subject.

‘You working today, George?’ he asked.

‘No, course not, it’s Saturday. Why d’ya ask?’

‘I dunno. You look like you’re dressed for work, that’s all.’

‘No, just haven’t been down the launderette yet, been here all morning,’ said George, scrawling through a horse’s name on his betting slip.

Grubby old sod, thought Terry. Still, must be hard to stay on top of things like the washing when you were on your own and working, with no woman around. Terry thought of Sue and her twin-tub, at it every day.

‘Well, look, if you see him, tell him I’m looking for him, eh?’

‘Tell who?’ said George, looking confused.

‘Wayne.’

‘Oh, yeah, course, mate. Sorry, will do. Good luck, hope you find him.’

George winked and patted Terry on the arm as he made his way over to the counter where men were 141

pushing and shoving, trying to place their bets. ‘One at a bloody time!’ Harry was shouting. Terry had been a betting man once but couldn’t afford it any more, not with four kids, and was pleased to push his way out through the multi-coloured plastic strip fly curtain and get back on the street.

The park! Of course, Wayne was probably down there having a nose at Old Bill. I’ll kill him, thought Terry, I’ll bloody kill him.

He walked up Columbia Road, looking in door -

ways, then crossed the main road and went up past the City Farm where families with pushchairs and hot impatient children were queuing to get in. As he neared the park behind the farm, where Lucy had narrowly escaped, he saw two patrol cars and a gang of kids hanging around, trying to see what was going on. Police tape cordoned off an area about thirty yards square, and officers were walking in a line across it, slowly combing the grass with sticks.

Beneath a tree in the far corner of the park he could see Lucy Potts with PC Watson and a few others. She was pointing and he was writing down notes in a little book. A crowd hung about, chatting excitedly to each other. Wayne will be in there somewhere, Terry thought to himself, nosy little sod, just like his mother.

But as he drew nearer and eagerly scanned the faces in the crowd, looking for Wayne’s dark, shaggy mane of hair, he drew a blank. He saw a couple of the 142

kids from school and asked them if they’d seen his son but they just shook their heads and turned back to the drama unfolding behind the police tape, uninterested in what Terry had to say. He moved further along towards the far corner until Lucy turned and he caught her eye. She smiled and waved with the carefree look of a girl at a birthday party, not one reconstructing a serious crime. A tall hippy-looking bloke was taking down notes and another feller in stripy jeans was snapping pictures with a camera.

Watson turned to see who she was waving at and raised a hand in greeting to Terry. The Williamses were not unknown to PC Watson who suspected Terry of regularly handling stolen goods which were distributed for ready cash around the local pubs. He had a bit of form but seemed to have been keeping his nose relatively clean for the last few years. Marriage often did that to a man. That eldest boy of theirs was a handful, too. Watson suspected it was just a matter of time before he was up on a few charges of his own.

‘Lucy,’ Terry shouted, ‘you seen Wayne any

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where?’

‘No, been here all morning with the police. Did you hear what happened last night?’ She was bragging like she’d just won a swimming gala or something.

‘Yeah, I did, love. You all right?’ Terry had to 143

smile. Lucy was a right little character. He nodded his acknowledgement of Watson.

‘Yeah, I’m all right. What’s up? Only I’m gonna

’ave my picture taken soon. I’m gonna be in the paper.’

‘Oh, nothing really. Just haven’t seen Wayne for a few hours, that’s all. He went off looking for Jamie and he’s not back yet. We want him home. If you see him, tell him to get himself back sharpish.’

Something in Terry’s tone made Watson study him more closely and say sympathetically, ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be back. We’ll tell him to get off home if we see him, Mr Williams.’

Kelly wandered round aimlessly and eventually found herself at the bottom end of Hackney Road, a short way from the swing park. She never usually went down there unless she wanted to do a bit of acting on their big concrete stage or there was a small gang of them, ready to play ‘drop the lolly stick’ on the roundabout, but with no one much visible except for Lucy Potts being the big I am, she thought she’d go and have a look down there, to see if anyone else was about.

There were two entrances to the play park, one in a small back street off Hackney Road, which was the main entrance, and one round the side. It was a bit like a secret garden door, tucked away in a corner almost covered with shrubs. A set of stone steps led 144

down to a muddy patch of earth, and a latched door opened off this into an alleyway behind. Only caretakers and park officials were supposed to use it, but most of the kids knew it was there.

Kelly entered via the main entrance. The whole park was deserted, apart from two old women with their grandchildren, who were playing in the sandpit.

Usually, kids would be on the big umbrella, or swinging high on the swings, but today everyone seemed to be watching the police and Lucy Potts.

Kelly sat on a swing. As she looked around, and gently pushed herself to and fro, she took in the old red bus, the unused maypole, and the small coloured animals rocking on huge metal springs. God, she was bored.

Normally, she wouldn’t think of actually going into the museum, but there was nothing else to do.

Maybe later this evening she could get together a few of her mates and head down to Ye Olde Axe, watch the young lads filing in to get under-age drinks.

Afterwards, she could head for the kebab house and get a doner with Sha and the others, but for now she didn’t want to go back to her flat and listen to her mum and some bloke snoring so she decided to do a bit of sketching in the museum. It would at least kill a few hours.

Sod walking all the way round, she thought. I’ll cut through the quick way. As she walked towards the side door, she wrinkled her nose. It was so smelly 145

and there seemed to be thousands of flies here. The shrubs were all overgrown. As she pushed open the door, she felt it jam on something and tried to push against it. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ she repeated out loud.

To make matters worse, the ground at her feet was soggy with mud. With no sunlight reaching it, the hollow in the bare earth had filled with water, and she was slipping and sliding all over the place. She put her shoulder to the door and pushed harder.

Something was blocking it from the other side.

She shoved again and slowly the door started to ease open. There was a horrible squelching noise, and a dreadful smell filled the air once more. Shit . . . it was shit. ‘Fucking animals have been crapping down here. God, my new espadrilles,’ Kelly said to nobody.

She finally got the door to open about a quarter of the way and slid sideways through the gap. She couldn’t look down, but felt the sensation of some -

thing soft and slippery giving way under her.

As she emerged at the other side, she finally looked down. There was a puddle by her feet and in it was somebody’s head.

Kelly felt the puke rise in her throat. It must be a joke, she tried to tell herself, it must be a doll or something. But she knew deep down inside that it wasn’t. Thick mud, slime and blood oozed through the material of her sandals and started to turn her foot a funny colour. The smell here was over

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whelming and she clapped her hand over her mouth 146

to stop the sick gushing out. No matter which way she moved, more of that terrible liquid splashed on to her feet and legs. She tried to keep her balance, but in the slimy blood-coloured swamp she lost her balance and sat down hard. She vomited stinking squashed-up chips and bread into her lap, instantly turning her hot pants a nasty orange colour with the acidic vinegar and gassy Coke. Panic-stricken, she clenched all her muscles in an effort to lever herself up, but gaining a foothold was virtually impossible. She shifted on to her knees by clinging to some of the overhanging shrubbery and slowly turning over into a kneeling position. Then, as she gazed down between her knees, a black head became visible. She couldn’t see its face, which was pressed down in the mud, but that T-shirt was familiar.

The police were called by museum workers who heard a gurgling scream that seemed to go on for ever, like a World War II siren. By the time DCI Woodhouse arrived, a young girl was sitting wrapped in a blanket by the back door of an ambulance, ashen-faced, smelling of shit and puke.

As he made his way down the small stone steps from the park he placed his hand firmly over his own mouth, shocked by the sight that greeted him in the alleyway beyond. Lying face down in a muddy pool was the body of a young lad. Woodhouse guessed his age to be around eleven or twelve. His hair was covered in human shit. His jeans had been pulled 147

down to his knees and his bottom was slightly arched to show his anus, which was covered in shit and blood. Red welts were visible on the cheeks of his bottom, and beside the body was the wooden handle from a large shovel, the type used for furnace fires.

The boy’s fists were clenched as if he had fought like a heavyweight boxer. It was obvious there had been a considerable struggle. This lad had fought for his life but he had lost.

Woodhouse was sickened by the spectacle of a young life snuffed out in such a diabolical way. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see what had happened. The victim had been buggered with the handle and had literally shit himself. The killer must then have smeared it all over the boy’s head.

As the detective edged closer to the pathetic body, he already knew what he would find. Stuck to the side of the boy’s cheek was a lolly, and as he gently lifted the lad by his shoulder he noticed that his eyelashes had been cut away.

Dread and fear gripped Woodhouse. For the first time he felt completely beaten. It had happened again. He went back into the park and, concealed in the bushes, quietly wept.

The police siren and the ambulance bell alerted everyone to what had happened. The whole area was on full alert as the locals realised the killer had struck again.

*

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Terry Williams held on to the kitchen table, his knuckles white with the strain. His fruitless search of the area had come to an end. There was the sound of a car pulling up outside, a door slamming, a knock at his own front door. Then . . . screams, the eternal screams of a mother receiving the worst news she can ever imagine.