Acid Row (10 page)

It was like a little bird alighting in his palm and Nicholas stared at it with a strange fascination. He wanted to hold on to it, fill his nostrils with the scent of someone clean, but his hand trembled under hers and he pulled it away. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Morrison,” he said, reaching past her to open the door.

There was a moment, Sophie always thought afterwards, when she could have walked out of that house as innocent and undamaged as when she went in. But the time for thinking was so brief a heartbeat to make a decision that she didn't know she needed to make. A fraction of silence as the door opened, when she should have walked out but didn't because a patient's son said thank you and she paused to smile at him.

Police Message to all stations EMERGENCY LINES AT FULL CAPACITY >28.07.01 >14.35 >Bassindale Estate EXTREME URGENCY Anonymous call mobile telephone reports 200+ crowd entering Humbert Street Armed with stones & bottles Possibly Molotov cocktails NO ACCESS SITUATION OUT OF CONTROL EMERGENCY LINES AT FULL CAPACITY >28.07.01 >14.37 Police helicopter airborne  

Saturday 28 July 2001 - 23 Humbert Street, Bassindale Estate

THERE WAS NO preparing for what happened next. No defence against the blast of sound that beat against them like a tidal wave as a hundred throats let out a howl of triumph. No protection from the sharp-edged flint that scythed through the air and sliced the skin on Sophie's right arm. It was so unexpected, so shocking, that her automatic reaction was to slam the door and lock herself inside a prison.

She could hear herself swearing but the words were drowned by a hail of stones which thundered against the wooden panels and sent her into a scrambling crouch as she backed away from the danger. She saw the door shiver under the assault and shouted at Nicholas to run. He stared at her, his mouth working as if he were trying to say something. For an awful moment she thought he was going to pass out before instinct kicked in and he scurried crabwise towards her. They evinced the most visceral reflexes, hunching their bodies like animals, reducing themselves as targets, heads down, facing the predator beyond the door.

Even if either of them had had time to rationalize what was happening the sound of the fusillade beat against their ears and numbed intelligence.

Sophie looked to the open doorway of the sitting-room as sanctuary failing to recognize that the windowless corridor was a thousand times safer. With heart thudding, she pushed herself upright and spun into the room, ready to slam the door behind Nicholas. She was aware that Franck was on his feet, she was even extending a supportive hand towards him, when the window exploded inwards and shards of glass ripped through the flimsy curtains to let in dappled streaks of sunshine. It happened in a split second of time, but she saw it with such clarity that the tableau became indelibly printed on her mind.

Beautiful in the way the light pierced the room. Tragic in the inevitability of what must happen next. An old man's murder.

She remembered it as bloody in her dreams because the terror of anticipation created a more powerful memory than the reality. But it was a false memory. Even while she was screaming a high-pitched warning “Get away, get away, get away!” and Franck was turning to look at her, the glass daggers were falling harmlessly to the floor, their momentum absorbed by the cloth of the curtains. He must have been visible to the crowd outside because they raised their voices again and this time individual words were recognizable.

“Animal.. !”

“Fucker.. .!”

“Pervert.. .!”

Nicholas caught him by the arm and bundled him into the corridor calling to Sophie to close the door. “The kitchen,” he told her herding his father past the staircase. “There's a phone in there.”

It was all happening too fast. Sophie's reason clamoured that they were running into a trap, but the impetus of the frightened men swept her towards the kitchen. Franck slumped to the floor beneath the sink shouting at his son in Polish and gesturing angrily towards Sophie.

Nicholas answered in quick, rasping phrases, motioning to the old man to move away from her. He grabbed at the telephone, rattling the receiver rest for a dialling tone, then abandoned it to barricade the kitchen door with the table.

“What are you doing?” Her voice shook with nerves.

“The phone's dead.”

She gestured towards the door. "Yes, but I don't understand what's going on. Why are the people outside? Why were they shouting at your father?"

Another burst of Polish from Franck.

“What's he saying?”

“That there's no time for talking,” said Nicholas, shifting a small microwave to the table to add some weight to the flimsy obstruction.

“We need to make the barricade stronger.”

Franck spoke from the floor, this time in English. "This keeps us safe till help comes, yes?"

“I'm not sure.” She struggled to control her voice. "Why are they there? Why isn't the phone working?"

Nicholas gave an uncertain shrug. “I suppose they've cut the line.”

“Why?” She reached for the receiver herself, pressed it to her ear.

“Why would they do that?”

“Why? Why? Why?” said the old man from the floor. "You ask too many questions. Be useful. Help Milosz block the door."

“But Sophie forced herself to think. ”Perhaps I should try to talk to them? If I go back to the sitting-room and shout through the window, I can tell them who I am. Most of them will probably know me. I have several patients in Humbert Street. One of them's just next door.

There might be a policeman out there."

“No.” The fat old man laid a hand on his chest and drew in a noisy breath. “You stay.” He added something in Polish.

His son gave a rueful shrug. “He's afraid he's going to die.”

“He's not the only one,” Sophie countered with spirit, 'and, frankly, I don't think hiding in here is a solution. We'll be sitting ducks if they break down the front door."

“He says he can feel another attack coming on.”

She shook her head angrily. “There's nothing wrong with him,” she snapped. "He ran in here like a two-year-old. In any case, I dropped my bag in the hall."

If Nicholas was surprised by her lack of sympathy, he didn't show it.

“The police'll be here soon. We'll be all right then.”

Sophie listened for sounds in the corridor but all she could hear was sporadic and muted shouting which seemed to be coming from the direction of the window. “Can the crowd get round the back?”

Nervously, he followed her gaze. "It's gardens. They'd have to break down the fences to reach us.“ He broke off to listen. ”It's an echo from the road," he said.

Sophie grabbed the edge of the table and slid it away from the door.

"Yes, well, I'm not prepared to bet on it ... and this bit of rubbish wouldn't keep a child out." With an irritated gesture towards Franck motioning to him to get up, she turned the handle and peered through the gap. Ominously, the shouts from the street seemed to have quietened, but the doors were still closed and there was no one in the hallway. "Take your dad upstairs and I'll get my bag. I'll check through the letter box to see what's happening."

Another burst of Polish from Franck, followed by Nicholas's grip on her arm, dragging her backwards. “I'll get the bag,” he said. "You look after Dad."

She shook him away. “Get off me!”

With a muttered 'sorry' he released her immediately, only for his father to clamp a filthy palm over her mouth and grasp her round the waist with the other. He urged her towards the stairs, the heat of his naked breasts pressing against her shoulder blades. "Be good, little girl," he whispered in her ear, 'or I break your back like a twig. You keep us safe till the police get here. Yes?"

Saturday 28 July 2001 incident room, church hall, Portisfield

AMY HAD BEEN missing for over twenty-four hours, and the phones in the incident room had rung non-stop since her photograph was shown on television news broadcasts. She had been seen the length of Britain from Land's End to John O'Groats, and each report had to be painstakingly investigated. The most promising were those describing a little girl in the company of a man, but at the height of the holiday season this wasn't unusual. Fathers regularly escorted their daughters to buy food in service stations or stood outside the Ladies while the child went in. There was a sense of growing frustration as each new lead faltered.

In contrast to this scattergun approach, which such investigations invariably generated, the focus of Inspector Tyler and his team's efforts was on finding out where Amy had been during the last two weeks. The pattern that was emerging was a strange one. According to Barry, she had left every morning at ten o'clock he always woke when the door banged and returned every evening at quarter to six, saying she'd been with Patsy. But when Kimberley challenged her on the Wednesday evening with being a liar, Amy had turned into a 'right little bitch'.

The boy looked puzzled as he described the scene. "Normally she was a bit of a spastic cried a lot didn't like telly then Kim calls her a liar and she goes flicking ballistic. She was kicking and fighting and it was only when Kim promised she wouldn't tell her mum that Amy backed off. The deal was that she had to get back before Laura otherwise Kim'd lose her baby-sitting money."

“This was Wednesday?” Barry nodded. "And she stuck to the bargain on the Thursday night?“ Another nod. ”Did either of you try to find out where she was going?"

"Sort of. Kim kept needling her about crawling into a hole because she didn't have any friends."

“Did she react?”

“Just said we'd be jealous if we knew.”

Relatives of Laura Biddulph and Martin Rogerson had been interviewed overnight to no effect. Rogerson's parents were living in a retirement home in Brighton and hadn't seen their granddaughter for almost two years. "She only came the once. Martin wanted to mend fences .. . we hadn't spoken since his divorce .. . but Amy was very trying .. . cried all the time. We think she was ill .. . kept going to the loo with stomach ache but wouldn't be helped. Strange child .. . very irritating .. . takes after her mother, we think .. . She certainly irritated Martin. We asked him not to bring her again. No, we had no idea he and Laura were separated? His sons from his previous marriage had never met her. We warned him before he married that we'd take Ma's side .. .“ What sort of father was he? ”Distant.. . uninterested ..

. We never had the feeling he liked us very much .. ." Did he beat you if you were disobedient? "Hardly .. . he never came home till late ..

. that was Ma's job .. ."

Biddulph's parents, retired and living in Oxfordshire, near their eldest daughter, had also seen Amy only once, when Laura had brought her on a surprise visit during the summer of the previous year. Like the Rogerson family they presented a picture of alienation from the child that had disappointed them in marriage. Mr. Biddulph did most of the talking.

Did Laura mention any problems in the marriage? "She wouldn't .. . too afraid of hearing “we told you so”.. ." They didn't approve of Martin? "Of course not .. . little better than a paedophile .. .

taking a child-bride as a trophy.. ." Did they know Laura was planning to leave him? l No ... it came out of the blue when she phoned to say she was with someone else .. ." Did they ever meet Townsend? “No .. .” Did Laura talk about him? "I think she said he was a builder .. ." Did Amy talk about Martin while she was staying with them? “No .. . it wasn't encouraged .. .” Was Laura's relationship with her daughter a loving one? "If 'you mean, were they all over each other all the time, then no .. . We're not a demonstrative family .. ." Did they see anything to suggest Amy was being physically abused? '5y whom .. . Martin or Laura? Either.

"Certainly not Laura .. . she wouldn't harm a fly ... As for Martin ..

. the man's capable of anything .. ."

Laura's sister put a different gloss on the answers. "My mother was forty-eight when Laura was born. She assumed she was going through the menopause and out pops a bouncing baby daughter. I was eighteen and my brother was sixteen. We thought it was a spare tyre .. . you know, fat moves south after forty-five .. . and instead we get presented with Shirley Temple. All-singing, all-dancing and three times as cute as we ever were. She was spoilt rotten. Dad was approaching retirement and suddenly discovered the joys of fatherhood, while poor old Mum got relegated to second place. Dad's only himself to blame that she married Martin. He taught her how easy it is for pretty girls to wind old men round their little fingers."

“Do you get on with her?”

“I hardly know her. She's more like a distant cousin.”

“Are you jealous of her?”

The sister was a stocky farmer's wife with wind-blistered cheeks and work-hardened hands. “Used to be,” she admitted, 'not any more. She lost her glitter when she married Martin."

“Did you meet Amy when they came up?”

“Oh, yes. Laura brought her over one evening.”

“What did you think of her?”

She smiled rather cynically. "She's her mother's clone. All-singing all-dancing, if she thought the routine would get her something .. .

quiet as a mouse if she didn't. She seduced my husband in two seconds flat for a 50p tip. He thought she was the most adorable child he'd ever met."

“And you? Were you seduced?”

She considered for a moment. "In a funny sort of way I suppose I was.

She was like an organ-grinder's monkey ... all over you whether you wanted it or not. That's Laura coming out in her, of course. We just peck each other on the cheek from time to time, but Laura's incredibly tactile. It's very un-Biddulph of her.“ She paused. ”Or was' she said with a touch of surprise. "Thinking back, I don't remember her being at all demonstrative last summer."

The neighbours in Portisfield were eager to help too eager in some cases but disappointingly uninformative. Those who knew Amy hadn't seen her during the two-week period; those who didn't sent the police after red herrings.

"You wanna search the house at the end of Trinity Street.. . There's a bloke in there hangs around the playgrounds .. . deserves a right kicking if you ask me .. ."