Suspect (32 page)

“They say the first year is the hardest. I tel you it’s like being fucked over by fifty cops with batons and riot shields. I stil can’t get my head around the fact that he’s gone. I even blamed
him
for a while. I thought he’d abandoned me. It sounds sil y, but out of spite I sold his record col ection. It cost me twice as much to buy it back again.” She laughs at herself and stirs her coffee.

“You should have got in touch. We didn’t know.”

“Boyd lost your address. He was hopeless. I know I could have found you.” She smiles apologetical y. “I just didn’t want to see anyone for a while. It would just remind me of the good old days.”

“Where is he now?”

“At home in a little silver pot on my filing cabinet.” She makes it sound as though he’s pottering around in the garden shed. “I can’t put him in the ground here. It’s too cold. What if it snows? He hated the cold.” She looks at me mournful y. “I know that’s stupid.”

“Not to me.”

“I thought I might save up and take his ashes to Nepal. I could throw them off a mountain.”

“He was scared of heights.”

“Yeah. Maybe I should just tip them in the Mersey.”

“Can you do that?”

“Don’t see how anyone could stop me.” She laughs sadly. “So what brings you back to Liverpool? You couldn’t get away from here fast enough.”

“I wish I could have taken you guys with me.”

“Down south! Not likely! You know what Boyd thought of London. He said it was ful of people searching for something that they couldn’t find elsewhere, having not bothered to look.” I can hear Boyd saying exactly that.

“I need to get hold of a child protection file.”

“A red edge!”

“Yes.”

I haven’t heard that term for years. It’s the nickname given by social workers in Liverpool to child protection referrals because the initiating form has a dark crimson border.

“What child?”

“Bobby Morgan.”

Mel makes the connection instantly. I see it in her eyes. “I dragged a magistrate out of bed at two in the morning to sign the interim care order. The father committed suicide. You must remember?”

“No.”

Her brow furrows. “Maybe it was one of Erskine’s.” Rupert Erskine was the senior psychologist in the department. I was the junior half of the team— a fact he pointed out at every opportunity.

Mel had been the duty social worker on Bobby’s case.

“The referral came from a schoolteacher,” she explains. “The mother didn’t want to say anything at first. When she saw the medical evidence she broke down and told us she suspected her husband.”

“Can you get me the file?”

I can see she wants to ask me why. At the same time she realizes it is probably safer to remain ignorant. Closed child-care files are stored at Hatton Gardens, the head office of the Liverpool Department of Social Services. Files are held for eighty years and can only be viewed by an appropriate member of staff, an authorized agency or a court officer. Al access becomes part of the record.

Mel stares at her reflection in her teaspoon. She has to make a decision. Does she help me or say no? She glances at her watch. “I’l make a few phone cal s. Come to my office at one thirty.”

She kisses me on the cheek as she leaves. Another coffee is ordered for the wait. Down times are the worst. They give me too much time to think. That’s when random thoughts bounce through my head like a ping-pong bal in a jar. Julianne is pregnant. We’l need a child gate at the bottom of the stairs. Charlie wants to go camping this summer. What’s the connection between Bobby and Catherine?

Another van— but it’s not white. The driver tosses a bundle of papers onto the pavement in front of the café. The front-page headline reads: REWARD OFFERED IN MCBRIDE MURDER HUNT.

Mel has a clean desk with two piles of paperwork on either side in haphazard columns. Her computer is decorated with stickers, headlines and cartoons. One of them shows an armed robber pointing a gun and saying, “Your money or your life!” The victim replies, “I have no money and no life. I’m a social worker.” We’re on the third floor of the Department of Social Services. Most of the offices are empty for the weekend. The view from Mel’s window is of a half-built prefabricated warehouse. She has managed to get me three files, each held together by a loop of red tape. I have an hour before she gets back from shopping.

I know what to expect. The first rule of intel igent tinkering is to save al the parts. That’s what the social services do. When they mess about with people’s lives they make a careful note of every decision. There wil be interviews, family assessments, psych reports and medical notes. There wil be minutes of every case conference and strategy meeting as wel as copies of police statements and court rulings.

If Bobby spent time in a children’s home or psych ward, this wil have been recorded. There wil be names, dates and places. With any luck I can cross-reference these with Catherine McBride’s file and discover a link.

The first page of the file is a record of a telephone cal from St. Mary’s School. I recognize Mel’s handwriting. Bobby had “displayed a number of recent behavioral changes.” Apart from wetting himself and soiling his pants, he had “displayed inappropriate sexual behavior.” He had removed his underpants and simulated sex with a seven-year-old girl.

Mel faxed through the information to the area manager. At the same time she phoned the clerk in the area office and organized a check through the index files to see if Bobby, his parents or any siblings had ever come up on file. When this drew a blank, she started a new file. The injuries worried her most. She consulted with Lucas Dutton, the assistant director (children), who made the decision to launch an investigation.

The “red edge” is easy to find because of the border. It records Bobby’s name, date of birth, address and details of his parents, school, GP and known health problems. There are also details about the deputy headmistress of St. Mary’s, the original referrer.

Mel had organized a ful medical examination dated Monday, 12 September 1988. Dr. Richard Legende found “two or three marks about six inches long across both his buttocks.” He described the injuries as being consistent with “two or three successive blows with a hard item such as a studded belt.” Bobby had been distressed throughout the examination and refused to answer any questions. Dr. Legende noted what appeared to be old scar tissue around the anus. “Whether the injury was caused accidental y or by deliberate penetration is not clear,” he wrote. In a later report he hardened his resolve and described the scarring as being “consistent with abuse.” Bridget Morgan was interviewed. Hostile at first, she accused social services of being busybodies. When told of Bobby’s injuries and behavior, she began to qualify her answers.

Eventual y, she began making excuses for her husband.

“He’s a good man, but he can’t help himself. He gets angry and loses his rag.”

“Does he ever hit you?”

“Yeah.”

“What about Bobby?”

“He gets the worst of it.”

“When he beats Bobby, what does he use?”

“A dog col ar… He’l kil me if he knows I’m here… You don’t know what he’s like…”

When asked about any inappropriate sexual behavior, Bridget categorical y denied her husband could have done such a thing. Her protests became more strident as the interview went on. She became tearful and asked to see Bobby.

Al al egations of sexual abuse have to be reported to the police. After being told this, Bridget Morgan grew even more anxious. Clearly distressed, she admitted to having concerns about her husband’s relationship with Bobby. She wouldn’t or couldn’t elaborate.

Bobby and his mother were taken to Marsh Lane police station to be formal y interviewed. A strategy meeting was held at the station. Those present were Mel Cossimo, her immediate boss Lucas Dutton, Detective Sergeant Helena Bronte and Bridget Morgan. Having spent a few minutes alone with Bobby, Mrs. Morgan accepted the need for an investigation.

Leafing through her police statement, I try to pick out the crux of her al egations. Two years earlier she claimed to have seen Bobby sitting on her husband’s lap, not wearing any underwear. Her husband had had only a towel around his waist and he appeared to be pushing Bobby’s hand between his legs.

During the previous year she had often found that Bobby had no underwear on when he undressed to have a bath. When asked why, he’d said, “Daddy doesn’t like me wearing underpants.”

The mother also claimed that her husband would only take a bath when Bobby was awake and would leave the bathroom door open. He would often invite Bobby to join him, but the boy made excuses.

Although not a strong statement, in the hands of a good prosecutor it could be damning enough. The next statement I expect to find is Bobby’s. It isn’t here. I turn several pages and find that no mention is made of a formal statement, which could explain why Lenny Morgan was never charged. Instead there is a videotape and a sheaf of handwritten notes.

A child’s evidence is crucial. Unless he or she admits to being molested the chances of success are slim. The abuser would have to admit the crime or the medical evidence would have to be incontrovertible.

Mel has a videotape recorder and TV in her office. I slide the tape out of the cardboard sleeve. The label has Bobby’s ful name, as wel as the date and place of the interview. As the first images flash onto the screen, the time is stamped in the bottom left-hand corner.

A child protection evaluation is very different from a normal patient consultation because of the time constraints. It can often take weeks to establish the sort of trust that al ows a child to slowly reveal his or her inner world. Evaluations have to be done quickly and the questions are therefore more direct.

The child-friendly interview room has toys on the floor and brightly colored wal s. Drawing paper and crayons have been left on the table. A smal boy sits nervously on a plastic chair, looking at the blank piece of paper. He is wearing a school uniform with baggy shorts and scuffed shoes. He glances at the camera and I see his face clearly. He has changed a lot in fourteen years, but I stil recognize him. He sits impassively, as if resigned to his fate.

There is something else. Something more. The details return like surrendered soldiers. I have seen this boy before. Rupert Erskine asked me to review a case. A young boy who wasn’t responding to any of his questions. A new approach was needed. Perhaps a new face.

The video is stil running. I hear
my
voice. “Do you prefer to be cal ed Robert, Rob or Bobby?”

“Bobby.”

“Do you know why you’re here, Bobby?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I have to ask you a few questions. Is that OK?”

“I want to go home.”

“Not just yet. Tel me, Bobby, you understand the difference between the truth and a lie, don’t you?”

He nods. “If I said that I had a carrot instead of a nose, what would that be?”

“A lie.”

“That’s right.”

The tape continues. I ask nonspecific questions about school and home. Bobby talks about his favorite TV shows and toys. He relaxes and begins doodling on a sheet of paper as he talks.

If he had three magic wishes what would they be? After two false starts and shuffling his choices, he came up with owning a chocolate factory, going camping and building a machine that would make everybody happy. Who would he most like to be? Sonic the Hedgehog because “he runs real y fast and saves his friends.” Watching the video I can recognize some of the mannerisms and body language of the adult Bobby. He rarely smiled or laughed. He maintained eye contact only briefly.

I ask him about his father. At first Bobby is animated and open. He wants to go home and see him. “We’re making an invention. It’s going to stop shopping bags from spil ing in the trunk of the car.”

Bobby draws a picture of himself and I get him to name the different body parts. He mumbles when he talks about his “private parts.”

“Do you like it when you have a bath with your dad?”

“Yes.”

“What do you like about it?”

“He tickles me.”

“Where does he tickle you?”

“Al over.”

“Does he ever touch you in a way that you don’t like?”

Bobby’s brow furrows. “No.”

“Does he ever touch your private parts?”

“No.”

“What about when he washes you?”

“I suppose.” He mumbles something else that I can’t make out.

“What about your mum? Does she ever touch your private parts?”

He shakes his head and asks to go home. He screws up the piece of paper and refuses to answer any more questions. He isn’t upset or scared. It is another example of the “distancing” that is common in sexual y abused children who try to make themselves smal er and less of a target.

The interview ends, the outcome clearly inconclusive. Body language and mannerisms weren’t enough to formulate an opinion.

Turning back to the files, I piece together the history of what happened next. Mel recommended that Bobby be placed on the Child Protection Register— a list of al children in the area who were considered to be at risk. She applied for an interim custody order— getting a magistrate out of bed at 2:00 a.m.

Police arrested Lenny Morgan. His house was searched, along with his bus depot locker and a neighboring garage he rented as a workshop. He maintained his innocence throughout.

He described himself as a loving father who had never done anything wrong or been in trouble with the police. He claimed to have no knowledge of Bobby’s injuries, but admitted to

“giving him a whack” when he dismantled and broke a perfectly good alarm clock.

I knew none of this. My involvement ended after a single interview. It was Erskine’s case.

A child protection case conference was held on Monday, August 15. The conference was chaired by Lucas Dutton and included the duty social worker, consultant psychologist Rupert Erskine, Bobby’s GP, the deputy headmistress of his school and Detective Sergeant Helena Bronte.

The minutes of the meeting indicate that Lucas Dutton ran the proceedings. I remember him. At my first case conference he shot me down in flames when I offered an alternative suggestion to his own. Directors are rarely questioned— especial y by junior psychologists whose diplomas are fresh enough to smudge.