Deadly Focus (27 page)

Little’s feet hardly touched the ground as Dylan cautioned him and then dragged him outside to the waiting officers.

‘Cuff him and take him to the cells,’ he ordered.

An officer handcuffed Little, then placed the palm of his hand on the crown of the prisoner’s head as he lowered him into the police car.

‘For a minute there I thought you were going to punch him,’ Dawn said, as she dropped the house door latch and they headed for Dylan’s car.

‘Tempted. I was very tempted, Dawn,’ said Dylan, throwing the gear stick into first.

‘We should get at least one interview this evening, shouldn’t we?’ asked Dawn.

‘Definitely. How was Larry when you told him we were going to arrest?’

‘Sulking. He still thinks Meredith’s the murderer. He says he doesn’t think Little is strong enough. When the call came in from the ice rink today, I think he really thought that he was going to sort it without you.’

‘You don’t have to be strong if you’ve got a weapon,’ Dylan said smugly. The news of the DNA hit had lifted him, there was no doubt, and although Dylan didn’t feel a hundred per cent, at least he felt as though there was some progress in the investigation at last. Maybe just a few more interviews Maybe by this time tomorrow, Little would have admitted to the murders. He had to ring Jen. His mobile phone beeped: low battery.

This interview was different. This time they had solid evidence and, two hours after Little’s arrest, Harold Wilkinson-Little sat in the interview room again next to Brenda Cotton.

‘You have been re-arrested, Mr Little, due to fresh evidence,’ Dylan said. ‘I’m sure you’ll remember from the last interviews that we’d recovered a cane from your van.’

Little listened intently but made no sound.

‘If I recall correctly you said you’d borrowed it from the police station stores to deal with rats at your home, remember that?’

‘Yes,’ Little’s whisper could hardly be heard.

‘Was that a “yes”? Could you speak up for the tape, please.’

‘Yes,’ Little barked.

‘Thank you. It’s now been examined forensically and the blood of Christopher Spencer was found on it.’ Dylan paused. ‘How do you explain that, Harold?’ Dylan leaned forward across the table. ‘Well, Harold?’

‘I told you. It’s not my fault,’ Harold replied. He screwed his hands tightly on his lap.

Dylan and Dawn sat perfectly still. Dylan’s eyes bored into Little’s as if he could pierce his subconscious for a reaction.

‘It’s their …,’ Little stuttered slowly, quietly.

‘Whose, Harold?’ asked Dawn, with compassion. ‘Whose?’

‘Nobody knows what I’ve been through. Nobody knows what I’ve suffered. Nobody,’ whispered Little.

Dylan instinctively knew he was talking about his schooldays, but needed him to tell them on the tape.

‘Who’re you talking about, Harold?’ asked Dylan.

‘People just don’t realise how bad it was,’ Little said solemnly. ‘I could be sick just thinking about it.’ His face was expressionless;
trance-like,
thought Dylan.

‘They called me names. They pushed me down. I still have nightmares. I wet the bed. My mother hit me … she said I was dirty.’ He turned to look at Dawn. ‘I wasn’t really, I wasn’t.’ A tear trickled down Harold’s cheek, but he didn’t attempt to brush it away. Dawn handed him her hankie.

‘Thank you,’ was all he said as he dabbed his eyes. He composed himself.

‘The memories don’t vanish, you know. Just like that.’ Little clicked his fingers. ‘They’ve ruined my life. Sometimes ….’ He stopped, struggling with his emotions. He swallowed. ‘Sometimes I wished they’d ‘ave killed me. It would’ve been better than living with this pain.’ Little held his fist to his solar plexus. His head was bent. He was pale and pitiful, thought Dylan but he wasn’t fooled. He knew Little was still a vicious child killer.

‘What sort of things happened to you, Harold? Can you tell us? Can you talk about it?’ Dawn spoke softly so as to prompt, not disturb him. His eyes were lifeless.

‘Didn’t you tell anyone?’ she asked supportively, her voice reassuring.

‘I once tried to tell my teacher, Mr Whittaker. I thought I could trust him.’ He swallowed again. ‘They called him “peg leg”. He knew what it was like to be called names, to be ridiculed, but it was a mistake. He laughed in my face … he told me not to be soft.’ Little shook his head. ‘After that,’ he said, ‘I never listened to anything he told me because he didn’t know anything. I was their plaything to do as they wanted, when they wanted. I was trapped.’

‘Did your parents not help you, Harold? Didn’t they speak to the teachers at school for you? Did you tell them how bad it was?’ asked Dylan.

‘You’re joking.’ He smirked, shaking his head. ‘They were busy, always out. Mum worked in the corner shop during the day and cleaned in an office at night. Dad worked in a factory all day, called at the pub on the way home until Mum finished her cleaning job. Usually by the time they got in I’d be in bed.’ Dylan and Dawn continued to listen. There was no need for questions. He was talking to them. ‘I was the original “latch key kid”. I didn’t see a lot of anyone and that was the way I liked it. I stopped telling them anything and they didn’t ask. Mum would say, “Oh, dear, dear”.’ Little mimicked his mother’s whining voice. ’And dad would call me a wimp and give me a clip round the ear. If my clothes got torn, he’d hit me harder, saying I should stick up for myself and fight back.’ There was a long silence, but just when Dylan opened his mouth to speak, Little spoke, so he shut it again and let him talk.

‘We didn’t have a lot of money and what we did have Dad drank away. They wouldn’t spend money buying me clothes. You’ve really no idea have you?’ Little asked. ‘No idea at all. I’m not your murderer, Inspector.’

‘Who are these people at school you talk about?’ asked Dylan.

‘Bullies, Inspector, bullies.’ He raised his voice and Dylan raised his eyebrows. ‘They were twice my size. I used to think they’d done their worst, that they couldn’t do anything else to me, but then they found something more horrible, more disgusting. When I screamed, they laughed, so I learnt how to keep silent as I cried.’ As if to prove he could do this, tears ran down his face and Little cried without making a sound. It was eerie.

‘Tell me, like I asked before, what sort of thing did they do, Harold, so we can perhaps try to understand?’ Dawn used every ounce of compassion in her voice to try and get to the bottom of what had happened. But it was like pulling teeth. The room was still and quiet. The only sound that could be heard was the tape whirring as it continued recording. They waited in silence for a reply.

‘One time, lunchtime, we’d just had Spam fritters for dinner … I liked them,’ Little reminisced. ‘They for no reason tripped me up in the playground and dragged me across the football pitch by my ankles, like a horse rider with his leg stuck in a stirrup.’ Little nodded as though liking the simile. ‘My head banged on the ground ‘til my forehead bled. I remember passing people who were laughing and jeering … they pulled my shoes and socks off … then my trousers … they … stripped me naked. I was left cut and bruised … when they’d had their fun. I curled up on the grass and they … they came back and … urinated on me. I had to search for my clothes that they’d thrown. The teacher shouted at me for being late back for class. He said boys would be boys.’ Little grimaced and swallowed hard, as though reliving the nightmare, a memory that was still raw. ‘A note was slipped onto my desk. The teacher’s back was to the class as he wrote on the blackboard. It said “you smell of piss”
.
As I looked around, all eyes were on me. The boys grinned. The girls giggled. They all knew.’

‘It must have been a horrible time for you. Harold, how old were you then?’ asked Dawn.

‘Fifteen.’

‘So, Harold, that was about … thirty years ago?’ Dylan said, unable to keep quiet any longer.

Harold threw his head back. ‘It feels like yesterday,’ he hissed, as he jutted his head forward. His eyes stared into Dylan’s with pure hatred. Dylan didn’t react, but held his stare.

Softly, Dawn spoke to him, although her heart must have been racing at the verbal attack, Dylan thought. He could see her breathing heavily. ‘There’s no need to shout, Harold. Was this a one off?’

The Walter Mitty character turned his glare away from Dylan and his face softened as he looked at Dawn.

‘That was just one occasion … just one.’ He’d dismissed Dylan as if he didn’t exist, but it didn’t bother Dylan; he would bide his time. He couldn’t and he wouldn’t let Little take over the interview.

‘Where are your parents now, Harold?’ Dawn asked, trying to change the subject.

‘Dead. Died in a fire. Friday the thirteenth,’ he shrugged. ‘Unlucky for some,’ he smirked.

‘Parents and teenagers, eh?’ said Dawn. ‘Did you get on with them any better as you grew up?’ It was obvious to Dylan that Dawn had been taken aback by his response.

He made no reply.
Did he start the fire?
wondered Dylan.

‘I know it’s upsetting for you, Harold, but could you please tell us more about your dreadful treatment at school. You know, specific things,’ coaxed Dawn.

Little studied for a moment or two. He was motionless, as though he was going to clam up once more, but suddenly he lifted his head as if he’d just remembered something. ‘On the way home they grabbed me, pushed my face to the floor into dog shit. Then they prised my mouth open and put some in my mouth. Once, they stood me on a wall and put rope around my neck, saying they were going to hang me. They kept hitting me behind my knees.’ Little put his hand to his mouth and retched. ‘Oh, my god, I think I’m going to be sick,’ he said, suppressing the secretion. He clasped his hand tighter and gulped. His hand still hovered around his mouth.

‘Do you want a drink of water, Harold?’ asked Dylan, as he leaned back, half expecting Little to vomit on the table. Some details he was describing were undeniably similar to Christopher’s death; the last thing Dylan wanted was for the interview to be interrupted now.

Little shook his head and within a moment appeared calmer. ‘No,’ he said, swallowing repeatedly. ‘They just laughed. To them it was fun. I never did anything … I’m okay.’ He waved his hand in protest as he coughed. ‘It’s like this all the time … I can still feel them hitting and burning me.’ Harold was sweating; beads of perspiration trickled down the sides of his head. He patted his brow with Dawn’s hankie.

‘Burning you?’ quizzed Dawn.

‘They used to forcibly hold out my hand and use a cigarette lighter to burn me, or stub cigarettes out on me.’ He held his right hand out as if being instructed now to do so, palm up.

‘Were there a lot that involved themselves with this, or just one or two? Who were these bad children? Who did this to you?’ Dawn’s questions came fast and furious.

Dylan sat in silence although the voice in his head was urging Dawn to slow down
.

‘I know them … I see them … I do … I see their faces. They still laugh at me …. Why did they do that to me?’ Little asked Dylan and Dawn. ‘It’s their fault. It’s all their fault.’ The dam broke quite suddenly. Great, tearless sobs rattled in Little’s chest. Slumping in his chair, he struggled to speak. He lay his head in the crook of his arm on the desk and wept.

‘Harold. Harold.’ Dawn’s voice grew louder as she tried to rouse him. ‘Do you want to tell us, Harold, the names? Who did this to you?’

‘I … he … they ….’ Broken sentences made him difficult to understand.

‘I think my client needs a break, please,’ Brenda said as she observed Little.

‘Okay,’ accepted Dylan. He didn’t want it to get to the stage where Little’s solicitor would ask for a police surgeon to examine him. A doctor could render him unfit to interview.

The interview was terminated. Dylan exhaled a long sigh and arched his back to stretch his aching spine as Little was led back to his cell.

‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink, Dawn,’ Dylan said. ‘So far, so good,’ he remarked as they walked amiably along the corridor. ‘I don’t want some quack saying he’s off his head. I want him to tell me why he killed those children.’

‘Do you think he’s genuine?’ Dawn asked Dylan.

‘What?’ he shrieked, as they swung through the doors of the canteen.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

‘Chilling, ultimate and full of menace, the dark suspicion that nobody is safe until the killer is apprehended, murder calls for redress like no other crime.

‘Homicide represents the supreme test for the detective
.’

Dylan read the words aloud from the scruffy bit of paper he’d kept in his interview folder since becoming a detective. He felt like shit, but the adrenaline rushing around his body at the anticipation of the impending interview with Little was keeping him going. He took his mobile out of his pocket, then remembered it was dead as a doornail.

Little shuffled in; Brenda and Dawn followed. Little looked marooned in his misery. His brow was furrowed and Dylan could see the artery pumping in his neck.

‘You were telling us before about the terrible time you’d had at school. You said people were laughing at you at the reunion, so what happened then, did you lose it?’ asked Dawn.

‘What do you mean, lose control?’ asked Little.

‘Yes.’

‘No, I’m not like them.’

‘Harold, who is
them
? Will you please tell me who you’re talking about?’

‘You know who the evil bastards are.’ His voice grew louder; he was holding back tears.
Is it anger or sadness?
wondered Dylan.

‘Tell me who did what to you. Name them,’ Dawn said.

‘I thought after all these years they would want to apologise to me. But no, no, they just laughed as they stood drinking their beer. After all these years it’s been … an open wound to me and they just rubbed salt into it. Nothing … nothing had changed.’ He shook his head as if in disbelief. ‘Do you know, they even remembered it in such detail,’ he said gravely.

‘So did that make you want to do something about it, Harold?’

‘They hadn’t suffered like I had.’ Little grew agitated.