Suffer the Children (6 page)

He is immediately shown into a brightly decorated room with windows overlooking a jungle-style garden. Children’s paintings adorn the walls and classical music is in the ether. From a Wendy house in the corner, a young woman in her early twenties appears on all fours.

‘Hi, Will,’ she says, standing up, dusting down her skirt.

‘Hi, Carly.’

In the windows of the Wendy house, the faces of two
children
become suddenly miserable.

Carly Kellerman nods behind her and says, ‘This is Calvin and Lee-Angelique.’ Carly smiles brightly. Her hair is a bounty of rolling, golden curls.

‘Hello,’ says Staffe, crouching and overly cheery.

One look at Staffe is enough to tell them that their fun is dead.

Carly sits down at a low table and invites Staffe to take a child’s seat. She beckons the children and turns off the smile, nods earnestly as Staffe begins to ask his questions,
encouraging
the children to answer.

Calvin is the younger, at six, but he does all the talking.
Lee-Angelique
is eight and simply stares at Staffe, her mouth turned down towards the floor.

‘When was the last time you saw your mum?’

‘Sunday. We see her every Sunday and she took us to Margate. It’s the best place.’

‘And what about Karl? Do you ever see him?’

At this, Lee-Angelique gets up from the table and goes back into the Wendy house.

‘We never see him. Mum talks about him.’

Staffe looks at Calvin’s hands, scrunched up into pudgy little fists.

‘He can’t come near us,’ says Lee-Angelique from inside the Wendy house. ‘That’s what she said.’

‘Shush, Lee-Ange,’ says Calvin.

‘But he came to the seaside.’

Calvin gets up and Carly tries to comfort him, saying, ‘He didn’t. You’ve got it wrong, Lee love.’

‘And he touched me. He did.’

Calvin shrugs Carly off, goes to join his sister in the Wendy house. He pulls the door closed behind him.

‘He can’t have,’ whispers Carly. ‘They check. They can tell, you know,’ and she looks down into her own lap, shakes her head slowly.

Calvin calls out from inside the Wendy house. ‘Is Karl gone?’

‘He’s gone away,’ says Staffe. ‘He won’t be coming back.’

Calvin lets a smile appear, showing the gaps between his teeth. Lee-Angelique is standing behind him, looking as though it will take much, much more to bring a smile to her face.

‘Take these down to secretarial and tell them it’s important,’ says Staffe, handing Pulford a tape of the interview with Leanne Colquhoun and his notes from the meeting with Carly Kellerman and the Colquhoun children. ‘I’m going to have another word with Leanne Colquhoun.’ He picks up his jacket from the back of the chair. It’s suede and too young for him, he thinks. It was Sylvie’s choice and, if truth be known, it
probably
wasn’t just the jacket that was too young for him.

In the corridor, Staffe catches sight of Josie, walking away. He walks double-quick to catch up with her but there’s no need. She stands by the coffee machine. As he approaches, she presses a button but nothing happens.

‘It’s out of order.’

‘What exactly is out of order, sir?’

‘I was wondering if maybe …’ He reaches his hand out, presses the flat of his palm on the wall that she is leaning against.

‘What?’ She smiles. ‘You know, I’ve heard you used to be a bit of a ladies’ man, sir.’

‘And I heard you should believe half of what you see …’

‘… and nothing of what you hear,’ she says, laughing. ‘My dad used to say that. Maybe he’s right.’

Staffe pushes himself up and away from the wall, runs a hand through his hair and takes a step back, tugs at his jacket. He’s seen Pennington coming down the corridor and takes another step back.

‘Wagstaffe, Chancellor,’ says Pennington, the merest break in his stride.

‘Sir,’ says Josie.

‘Your office, Wagstaffe. This Colquhoun debacle, a quick word, if you will.’

‘Debacle, sir?’ says Staffe, following the DCI into his office.

‘Chancellor!’ booms Pennington from the doorway to Wagstaffe’s office, ‘get Pulford and tell the clever dick to bring his university educated backside down here tout suite.’

Pennington takes the seat behind Staffe’s desk. Turning the tables is his style. Before he got the move upstairs, Pennington was one of the canniest coppers Staffe had come across. He must have been, to always be one step ahead of Jessop. Pennington picks up a pen and taps a 10 x 8 photograph that he has placed on the desk in front of him, spins it around so Staffe can see it.

In black and white, the carnage of Karl Colqhoun’s butchered body looks even more grotesque. Staffe leans
forward
, then stands back. He squints, to get the detail without getting too close – as if it might be contagious. When it was taken, only one of the testicles has been placed into an eye socket. By the side of the bed, someone is leaning over his body, twisting to look into camera. They are wearing a peaked hood with eyes and a mouth cut out – a hurried imitation of the KKK or a religious penitent. Their eyes are heavily made up with kohl and the mouth, smiling manically, is daubed with dark lipstick. Long blonde hair flows from the bottom of the hood. The figure is wearing white gloves, spattered with blood.

‘Is that Leanne Colquhoun?’ says Staffe.

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ says Pennington. ‘The last thing we want is publicity. You know what the commissioner is like. Sort this out fast, Staffe.’ He leans forward, hands Staffe a piece of paper. It’s a photocopy of a note that has been pasted together from a newspaper – the
News
– judging by the typeface.

‘What I don’t get’, says Pennington, ‘is Karl Colquhoun has never even done time. There was that allegation three years ago, but nothing came of it. It’s not a matter of public record, just a dead file down at the CPS. So if she didn’t want him dead, who would? And want him dead the way he went. These are sadistic bastards. The question is, Staffe …?’

This was a Pennington ploy.

‘The question is, sir …’ Staffe is trying to not only deduce the profile of the likely murderer, but do it within the template of Pennington’s own processes. ‘The question is … Who would have suffered so much at the hands of Karl Colquhoun to feel the need … Feel compelled to replicate that suffering. Like a mirror, to hold it up to him.’

‘I’m getting wind that you don’t fancy the wife for this one, Staffe. And she’s the only one that answers your question so far.’

‘There’s Debra Bowker, Karl Colquhoun’s ex-wife. She’s in Tenerife and according to Social Services she took her kids with her, away from Colquhoun.’

‘How old are they?’

‘They’ll be ten and twelve now. And I’m trying to get hold of Leanne Colquhoun’s ex, to see if he might have a motive.’

‘Tick tock, Staffe. Tick tock.’

There’s a knock at the door and before either Staffe or his boss can respond, Pulford strides in. He stands proud, legs apart, arms crossed. Anybody would guess he had come for a commendation. His expression changes the moment Pennington begins to speak, his voice scarily quiet.

‘What makes you so special, DS Pulford, as to be able to swan roughshod over the simple rules that the rest of us mortals have to follow …’

‘I fully support what DS Pulford did, sir,’ says Staffe. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Pulford’s head hang, like a scorned schoolboy. ‘Given the urgency of this case, sir …’

‘Don’t be clever with me, Staffe. I want good evidence that we can present to a court of law. Good evidence and
admissible
statements, Staffe.’ Pennington gets up, puts Staffe’s pen into his inside pocket and adjusts his tie.

He closes the door behind him, softly, and Pulford says, ‘Thanks, sir.’

‘Shut up, Pulford. Just bloody shut up.’

Stanley Buchanan smells of mint which is unable to mask all the drink. Leanne Colquhoun’s eyes are red and it is clear that the truth is beginning to set in.

‘I understand you took Calvin and Lee-Angelique to Margate last weekend,’ says Staffe.

‘It was nice weather. So what?’

‘You took them there with your ex, did you? Calvin and Lee-Angelique’s dad?’

‘You got to be jokin’. He’s a waste of space.’

‘He never went? Must have been hard work for you on your own.’

‘Not as much as if he’d gone fightin’ or on the piss or trying to screw some slag.’

‘He’s got a temper, has he? Holds a grudge?’

‘I’m better off without him, is all.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Rob. Rob Boxall.’

‘But Karl was more of a help was he?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘No one would know, would they? Easy enough to slip away to the seaside.’

‘You’re out of order, DI Wagstaffe,’ says Buchanan.

‘Why would Lee-Angelique lie? She said Karl went with you.’

‘You said I could see them.’

‘I just need a few more questions answering.’

‘DI Wagstaffe,’ says Buchanan. ‘That sounds like an inducement.’

But Staffe’s watching Leanne. Her spirit is breaking and she murmurs into her lap, ‘He’s not like what they said. He’s not.’

‘Where can I find your ex – Rob?’

‘Dalston, if he’s not banged up. Try the Rag.’

‘The Ragamuffin pub?’

She nods, sniffing the tears away. Staffe goes across to the desk, puts his finger on the ‘stop’ button of the tape machine. ‘Last question, Leanne. Where did you stay in Margate?’

‘The Old Dickens.’

‘Sounds nice.’

‘It’s a shithole.’ She looks up at Staffe, pleading. ‘He didn’t do nothing, my Karl. He never done nothing to my babies. It’s all lies.’ Leanne wrings her hands in her lap.

Staffe presses ‘stop’ and feels like a complete bastard. Even Stanley Buchanan gives him a look as if to say ‘How low can you get?’

Leadengate incident room is practically empty, just a couple of uniformed officers sharing a joke by the water cooler and DI Rick Johnson at a desk, surrounded by paper, head in his hands. All the other uniformed officers are either on another knock and note around the Limekiln estate, or searching the bins and crannies in a four-hundred-yard radius.

Leadengate was built a hundred and twenty years ago and is unsuited to the technological rigours of twenty-first-century policing. The incident room is a cross between a local history society exhibition and a computer auction room. But Staffe knows the importance of having one hub, one place where all the information comes together.

If a case is going to be closed quickly, the key connection usually has to be established within four or five days of the crime. The skill is to be able to see that key connection – amidst the mountains of statements and data – for what it is.

But so far, evidence is in short supply. No one was seen
trying
to gain access to Karl and Leanne Colquhoun’s flat. No one saw Leanne Colquhoun until she ran screaming on to the Limekiln access deck. There is no sign of the murder weapon, which is possibly a narrow-bladed Stanley. No sign of the gauze and other materials that were used to tether and gag Karl Colquhoun. And no eyes.

Staffe has read and reread the forensic report on the scene. It makes no sense to him. The scene was clean as a whistle, save the substances that leaked from Karl Colquhoun. Residues of cleaning solutions were found on all handles, chair backs, doorplates and the bedstead. And on top of that the killer had found the time to pose for, and possibly take, a photograph in the middle of the execution.

If he is asked to believe that Leanne Colquhoun did all this, Staffe cannot for the life of him determine why she would flee the scene, screaming, leaving behind a handbag which
contained
a receipt from a supermarket that placed her out of her workplace close to the time of death.

Staffe sits down next to Johnson and waits for him to look up.

‘Any joy with Tenerife?’

‘Debra Bowker claims not to have been back here for over a year. I’m running checks with all the airlines but my guess is she’s telling the truth.’

‘And what did she say when you told her Karl Colquhoun was dead?’

‘All she said was the bastard never sent Christmas presents anyway.’

‘Was she shocked?’

‘I couldn’t say. Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘If she wasn’t shocked …’

‘I know, sir. I’m sorry, it just didn’t register.’

Staffe can see that Johnson is out on his feet. ‘How’s the new baby, Rick?’

‘He’s great, sir, but there’s three of them now in that bloody flat and Becky has lost interest in even going out. But I can’t afford anything bigger, no way.’

Staffe thinks about what kind of a mess Johnson is in. Becky Johnson used to be a lawyer, pulling in twice what her husband brought home. She went back to work after the first two were born, Sian and Ricky. But after the third, young Charlie, she gave up. Once, Johnson joked they’d be better off if he was the one at home. But he hadn’t laughed. Staffe had asked why Becky hadn’t gone back after Charlie but Johnson had looked daggers at him, said, ‘Is that your business? You don’t own me.’

‘Get yourself off home,’ Staffe says now. ‘Give me Debra Bowker’s number and I’ll call her.’

‘There’s too much to do.’

‘Take Becky and the kids down the park. And there’s a favour you can do me. I’ll call you later.’ Staffe scrunches a note up and presses it into Johnson’s hand, looks around furtively as he walks away.

When he reaches the door, Johnson calls out ‘Sir!’ looking at the twenty-pound note Staffe had slipped him.

‘Get a takeaway. And put the kids to bed early.’

Back in his office, Staffe picks up a copy of the photograph, reads the lettering.

See justice done
might mean ‘kill the guilty’.

See justice done
might mean ‘protect the innocent’.

See justice done
. Photograph it.

The Kilburn house smells different. Marie has obviously burnt the lunch and been smoking her roll-ups. Harry has left his computer games strewn over the living-room floor, but Staffe can’t bring himself to be annoyed, possibly because of what he has in mind.

He quickly tidies up and opens the front windows and the doors on to the back garden to get a draught going, then gets down to business. Marie has left a note that she’ll be back at six and will cook dinner, so Staffe texts her to say he’ll be out. It is five o’clock now and he goes straight upstairs to the guest room. He sits on the floor and takes stock of how her suitcase is packed before he systematically goes through her things.

He tries not to feel bad about this. Marie has never asked him for help. They coped with the murder of their parents in different ways: Staffe went off the rails, but put his money into property and then joined the force. Within a few years Marie had blown her inheritance on travel, drugs and bad
relationships
before falling pregnant with Harry. The father, an
out-of-work
session musician, lasted less than a year.

Staffe picks a meticulous way through the suitcase, putting the clothes in one pile, her books and trinkets in another; it is not until he gets right to the bottom that he finds what he wants. A building society passbook shows that she has less than two hundred pounds. Her bank account is overdrawn. There is also a clutch of unpaid bills and he commits the billing address to memory – 26d St John’s Road, Peckham. But there is nothing which bears the boyfriend’s name. No joint names on any of her domestic contracts.

He sighs and goes to the window, looks up and down Shooters Hill to check she is not on her way back. He surveys her gypsy life in miniature and kneels by the small stack of books: Virginia Woolf, Angela Carter and Toni Morrison. He flicks through the pages and on the inside cover of
Beloved
he finds what he wants. Inscribed in a self-consciously flowery hand is the name. Paolo Di Venuto, Summer 2007. Despite his taste in books, Di Venuto has a penchant for roughing up his women.

Downstairs, a door slams and Staffe leaps up.

‘Will!’ calls Marie from downstairs.

‘Shit,’ he says to himself, quickly repacking the case as best he can in the order he recalls. Papers first, then books and clothes. He drops her bras and knickers and the hooks and eyes snag on each other, catch on his
watch-strap
. His hands begin to shake and he makes a mess of the penultimate layer, finishing off with singlet tops and a denim skirt.

She is coming up the stairs and Harry is clattering about in the room below.

‘Will!’

He closes the suitcase, struggling with the lock as he hears her padding along the hallway. He slides the case back by the side of the bed and rushes to the window, begins to open it as the door is pushed open.

Marie frowns, hands on hips. ‘What the hell!’

Staffe knows his only option is to fight fire with fire. ‘For Christ’s sake, Marie. Those roll-ups of yours stink the place out. Can’t you smoke outside?’

‘This is our room. I’d appreciate …’

‘I’d appreciate it if you smoked outside. OK!’

‘If you don’t want us here, there’s other places I could go.’

Staffe knows this is a lie. If there was anywhere, she’d be there. ‘Look. You can stay as long as you want. You know that.’ She is wearing a short-sleeved, Amnesty International T-shirt and he can see where the foundation make-up has faded, failing to cover her bruises. He walks across to her, trying to be cool. He puts his hands on her shoulders. She feels fragile. He kisses her on her forehead and says softly, into her hair, ‘I’m sorry I came into your room. I won’t do it again.’

She wraps her arms around his waist and he pats her back, the way he remembers his mother doing when they wouldn’t go to sleep.

Marvitz Builders Merchants, where Karl Colquhoun worked, is closing up for the day when Staffe gets there. Johnson should have done this visit, but Staffe needs a personal favour from his sergeant and this is his idea of recompense.

Staffe has brought a photograph of Karl Colquhoun but there was no need. The foreman of the timber section knows why he is there as soon as Staffe shows his warrant card.

‘I was expecting a visit,’ he says.

‘Do you usually shut at this time?’

‘This weather, there’s only one place builders’ll be. They get rained off in winter and sunned off on days like these. My boys’ll be with them, no doubt.’

Staffe looks around the deserted bays, piles of sawdust and chippings all over the floor, the smell of resin sweet in the thick air.

‘He was a good worker, Colquhoun. Wouldn’t have left the place in a state like this.’ The manager takes hold of a broom.

‘How did he get on with your boys?’ says Staffe.

‘All right, till Ross Denness came.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘A new lad. Knew Karl from the estate he lived on.’

‘And where might I find our friend Denness?’

The manager has begun to sweep up and says, ‘Pound to a penny he’ll be in the Rag.’

‘The Ragamuffin!’

‘You know it?’

‘No. But I know someone who does.’

The landlord of the Ragamuffin points a gnarled, badly re-set finger in the direction of a tall, gangling late-twenties man with lank hair and a sneering smile.

Ross Denness is in the far corner of the pub, leaning against the pool table with a young girl rubbed up against him.

The Ragamuffin would have been a good boozer at some point, until they knocked all the vaults and tap rooms and snugs into one and painted the walls blue and replaced the last beer pump for yet another brand of premium lager. There are more girls than men, drinking alcopops and showing their backsides with impossibly low trousers or obscenely high skirts. The men strut round with their pumped-up chests and shaven heads and there is quite definitely something in the air.

Staffe sips his Diet Coke and watches Denness. The girl shows her face and looks barely sixteen. It’s a thin line, he thinks, that separates Denness from his work colleague, Karl Colquhoun.

He gets the landlord’s attention again and nods to the pool table. ‘Monday afternoon. Was Denness in here?’

‘He’s in most every afternoon.’

‘And Monday?’

‘He was here. Got in about half four, five, I’d say.’

‘For how long?’

The landlord laughs. ‘Till shut. Same ole, unless he pulls.’ He looks across at Denness. ‘Reckon he’ll be havin’ an early one today. He’s a boy!’

‘And what about Rob? Rob Boxall.’

‘Rob’s not been in for ages.’

‘He know Denness?’ asks Staffe.

‘You’d best ask him that.’

‘I’m asking you.’

The landlord shrugs and picks up a glass from the
glass-washer
tray, starts to wipe it dry.

Across the room, Denness must have said something lewd as the girl puts the bottle of blue fluorescence in her mouth. She pretends to be offended and punches him in the chest. He falls backwards on the table and she moves up against him so his knee is between her thighs. When he comes back upright, he puts a hand up her practically non-existent thin white cotton skirt and she kisses him.

Staffe decides enough is enough and by the time he gets to the table their heads are circling manically. She clocks Staffe while she necks open-eyed with Denness, pushing his hand away from whatever base they call it in these parts.

‘Ross,’ says Staffe, tapping him on the shoulder.

‘What the fuck …?’ Denness looks up, a smear of lipstick all around his stubbled mouth.

‘I’m DI Wagstaffe, just wanted a few words.’

‘If it’s about that kid-fiddler Colquhoun, I say good riddance to bad shit.’

Staffe looks at the girl, says, ‘Shouldn’t you be doing your homework?’

‘I’ve got ID,’ she says, playing with her streaked hair
extensions
.

‘I’m sure there’s a story behind that, too. I could look into it, if you want.’

Denness is taller than Staffe and a couple of mates have come across, half laughing, half snarling, holding bottles. Staffe’s heart beats fast and his palms begin to sweat. Even after twenty years in the game, there are places where the law doesn’t wash, people it doesn’t know how to touch any more. ‘On your way,’ he says to the girl.

She looks at Denness and he shrugs. As she gathers up her handbag and cigarettes, Denness slaps her bottom. She laughs and runs her tongue around her lips.

‘The fuck do you want?’ says Denness. ‘You done your job in the first place no one would have needed to top that piece a shit.’

‘How do you know Colquhoun did what he was supposed to have done?’ says Staffe.

‘Everyone knew.’

‘Knew what?’

‘His last missus had to piss off out the country to keep him off his own kids and now they say his new missus can’t see her own kids in case he starts giving them one. Fuckin’ frag.’

‘You seem to know a lot about the victim.’

‘Victim?’ says Denness. ‘Give ’em a medal, I say. And, anyway, I worked with him, didn’t I?’

‘And you live round the corner from him.’

‘So fuckin’ what?’

‘Do you know Leanne Colquhoun?’

He takes a swig from his bottle of Beck’s and says, ‘I know a lot of women. How d’you expect me to keep track?’

Denness is swaggering now and his mates are laughing, nudging closer still, forming a ring.

‘What about Leanne’s ex, Rob Boxall? You know him?’

Out of the corner of his eye, Staffe can see Denness’s mates look away, drinking from their bottles.

‘Don’t ring no bells.’

‘Just so you know, you’re being watched. Put your filthy hands anywhere near that girl again and I’ll have
you
for
kiddie
fiddling.’

‘She’s a woman, you muppet,’ says Denness.

‘That’ll be your burden of proof,’ says Staffe.

‘The fuck you say?’ says Denness, like he’s wrestling with algebra.

Staffe has had enough. He turns on his heel and pushes his way out of the pub. When he gets to his car, he leans against the off-side wing, sees the girl in the bright white light of a fried chicken queue opposite. Ross Denness comes out of the Rag. The girl waves at him but Denness blanks her. He has a face like thunder and, putting his head down, he strides off up the high street.

Unsure whether to follow him, Staffe feels suddenly
nervous
, as if he might be under-equipped. But then a car blazes towards him. It blares its horn and swerves towards his car and Staffe has to throw himself on the bonnet. He rolls on to the pavement as the car screeches to a halt just yards away and a youth jumps out shouting, ‘What the fuck!’ Staffe gets up off the pavement, brushes himself down.

The youth from the car walks towards Staffe, leaning
backwards
and swaggering with his pelvis pushed out, low-slung baggy jeans and a sideways baseball cap. As he walks, he talks, jabbing two fingers towards Staffe as if he’s holding a gun. ‘You in the fuckin’ road, man. What you doin’? We seen you, man. Know your game.’

Staffe takes a deep breath and reaches into his inside pocket for his warrant card. The youth flinches, reaches into his own back pocket and with a fizzing noise he releases the catch to a flick knife. Staffe holds out his warrant card and says, ‘I’m police, you fucking prick, now drop that knife and put your nose against the wall.’

He doesn’t know how this will pan out, can’t be sure he can pull it off. You never can be sure. And true enough, the
ringleader
looks back towards his mates in the car. Staffe knows he only has one chance. Four of them pile out of the car, so Staffe takes a step towards the youth and launches himself, going for the arm with the knife. He takes hold of the weapon and feels a bright seam of pain open up along his arm. He twists the youth’s wrist and sees his face come towards him, snarling. Staffe shoves him into the wall, drops him to the floor.

The youth squeals and the blade drops to the pavement, metallic, smeared with Staffe’s blood. Staffe puts his boot on the blade and stands back as the chav curls into a ball, saying, ‘Fuckin’ bully, I’ll do you. Fuckin’ bully, don’t hit me no more.’ The ringleader looks daggers at the four mates who have stopped dead in their tracks. Then, to the gathering crowd, he says, to no one in particular, ‘You see that? You see that fuckin’ copper pullin’ a knife on me.’

Staffe bends down, picks up the knife and as he does he sees blood streaming off the end of his fingers. His suede jacket is torn and the pain begins to kick and spread. He grimaces, blade in hand and the crowd takes a step back as he puts a foot on the youth’s chest.

The teenage girl comes out of the fried chicken shop,
shouting
, ‘He’s been lookin’ for a fight, that copper. Been in the Rag tryin’ to start on my boyfriend, he was.’ In the near distance a police siren winds up its wail and Staffe takes a deep breath, holds his wrist as tight as he can. He anticipates the
allegations
, the audience with Pennington and all the paperwork. He wishes he had gone to Bilbao and can practically smell the sea air as he watches the blood pool around his feet. He feels fainter and fainter as the adrenalin begins to abate.