Sweetie (9 page)

Eileen walked into the front room and staggered slightly at the sight that met her eyes. She had to fight down a wave of nausea. She’d never seen so much blood in her life, it was everywhere: all over the three-piece suite, the carpet, even up the walls. And lying in a crumpled heap on the floor was her little boy, her last-born, her baby. His face was unrecognisable, like a bloodied cabbage, his nose halfway across his face and swollen mouth gaping open to reveal his missing 73

front teeth. Puke oozed out of his mouth and nose, congealed with blood and making a foul smell.

For several seconds Eileen stood rooted to the spot, too shocked to do anything. Then she knelt down next to her boy. She saw that the blood had already dried on his
Muppet Show
T-shirt and felt too afraid to touch him. She wanted to scoop him into her arms, to rock him, to beg God to help him, but found that she couldn’t.

‘Steven,’ she whispered, ‘say something, love. Talk to me.’ A low groan came from somewhere inside him and she thanked God that her prayer had been answered and her baby was still alive. She put her arms around him gently and said, ‘Can you sit up, love?’ but he just groaned again. An ambulance! She had to get an ambulance, but had no phone to call one. ‘Don’t go anywhere, love. Mummy’s gonna call for an ambulance,’ she told him. ‘Stay still, don’t move, sweetie. I’m here now and I’m gonna help you.’

As if he
could
move! You’ve let him down, Eileen, was all she could hear in her head. Her own voice was torturing her now, blaming her for leaving her innocent child alone and vulnerable. Outside her flat, she ran along the landing, banging on doors and screaming for help. Neighbours came out in their dressing gowns and lights went on in flats all over the sixth floor as people woke up to her anguished cries.

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‘Please help me! Please help me! My baby . . . my baby.’

Eventually her voice trailed away into a whimper as she fell exhausted against the balcony. Big Geoff from two doors down took charge and called an ambulance, then he accompanied the stricken Lizzie back to her flat where the sight of Steven made him splutter, ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’

Meanwhile, down at Bethnal Green Police Station, DCI Woodhouse had been summoned in from his night off to interview the latest victim. He had been putting in fifteen-hour days since Chantal’s murder and so far had come up with very little. He was still finding it hard to believe that nobody had made a sighting and for a while toyed with the idea that there was some kind of cover-up going on. But he was grasping at straws, he knew. Who would cover up crimes like these? Robberies, handling stolen goods, sure; that was how many people round here made their living. But
this
? For the first time in ten long frustrating days he had an evening off at home and had planned to spend it watching a programme about Agatha Christie, his favourite author, who had recently died. He’d also wanted a hot meal and a good night’s sleep, but it wasn’t to be. As he wearily entered the station the sergeant on desk duty looked up and gave him a sympathetic nod. ‘She’s in the interview room with a WPC and the mother. The 75

kid’s all right, considering, but the mother’s in a right old state. Good luck.’

‘Has the doctor been in yet?’

‘No, he’s delayed over at Dalston. Usual Friday night carnage.’

Woodhouse drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the desk for a few seconds before drawing himself up and sighing, ‘Right then, here we go.’ He lit another cigarette, dragged on it long and hard, then walked slowly down the corridor to the interview room.

They knew from forensic analysis that the same person was responsible for the murder of Chantal Robinson and the attack on Adam Ballantyne. Semen analysis had proved that. Although no rape had actually taken place on Lucy Potts, that drumstick lolly was surely no coincidence. It had to be connected.

Several of Woodhouse’s men were already at the park but didn’t expect to come up with anything useful until morning. It was pitch black now. Apart from preserving the crime scene there was not much they could do. Woodhouse was tired and found himself wishing that he had Watson with him now, to say the right things. Give him a hardened criminal any day, he hated the softly, softly approach.

He paused outside the interview room then doubled back to the coffee machine, which dispensed some thing wet and warm that would hopefully liven him up a bit. The coffee was both bitter and weak 76

and he wished he were at the station in Dalston where there was always somebody human around to make a proper cup of tea or coffee, not this machine rubbish.

Through the glass in the door of the interview room he could see the WPC comforting not the child but the mother, who seemed to be completely hysterical. She kept raking back her unruly hair then burying her face in her hands and rocking backward and forward. God, she was gonna be hard work! The girl was slightly out of his line of vision but as he entered the room he saw a plump redhead, in her early teens perhaps, wearing a red and white towel -

ling tracksuit. She looked surprisingly composed.

Woodhouse introduced himself and the mother managed to calm down for a moment by holding on to the desk as firmly as if she were on a white-knuckle rollercoaster ride, until he said, ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Potts, we will get the man responsible for this,’

whereupon she started up a fresh round of howling and crying.

At Woodhouse’s nod, the WPC took Potty out of the room, ostensibly to get her a cup of tea. The DCI was well aware that he would get very little out of the girl while her mother was in the room hearing every word she said.

He couldn’t begin his official questioning until there was a female police officer present, but there was 77

nothing to prevent him from establishing a rapport with the girl.

‘How are you feeling, Lucy?’ DCI Woodhouse tried to keep his voice soft and low.

‘All right, I s’pose.’ She looked at her hands, clutched together in her lap, then mumbled, ‘A bit, you know, sore . . . but all right. Your police lady’s been really nice.’

Woodhouse nodded and managed an encouraging smile. This girl was strong, a real trouper, quite possibly the sort to give them some vital clues. He had an instinct for a good witness, and got a strong vibe from this kid straight away.

‘I know this is difficult, Lucy, but I want you to tell me everything – from beginning to end. We’ll just have to wait a moment until our WPC is back in the room. She’s gone to get your mum a cup of tea. Your mum’s taken all this pretty badly. Highly strung, is she?’

‘Mum’s pissed,’ said Lucy, then reddened slightly.

‘Well, she’s bound to be upset, considering.’

‘No, she’s always like this lately. She’s not getting on with me dad so well and they ’ad a row so she was pissed before I went off to judo tonight. Got herself in a right pickle about something to do with Dad and his mates.’

Lucy was still matter-of-fact and the DCI felt himself warming to this gutsy kid. ‘I see. And how old are you, Lucy?’

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‘Twelve and three-quarters. I’m the youngest blue belt in East London,’ she answered rather smugly.

Woodhouse smiled. ‘Sounds like it came in handy tonight.’ Lucy nodded and frowned at this reminder of her ordeal, and the way she’d got him with that judo move. She used to hope that someday she would be able to use her skills, but tonight’s events had shown her how foolish that had been.

At the same moment the WPC came back into the room. She explained that she’d got Lucy’s mum a cup of tea. She was now in the waiting room drinking it and would stay there until her husband showed up.

Woodhouse winked lightly at her to indicate good work.

‘OK then, love, are you ready for this?’ the police -

woman asked. Lucy nodded and the WPC took her hand.

‘You’re a very brave girl, Lucy,’ said Woodhouse, and meant it.

The WPC squeezed her hand and nodded to her to tell the full story. Lucy gave an excellent account of her movements between leaving her judo club and reaching the Hackney Road where she’d flagged down a passing car. Her answers were clear and descriptive. She faltered only when Woodhouse asked her to describe exactly where her assailant had touched her. Her face went bright red and she looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her up. The 79

WPC told her gently then that she was doing really well, there wasn’t much longer to go.

Lucy stared blankly at the wall in front of her.

With eyes bulging and nose running, she started to speak with tears in her eyes.

‘He had his hands all over me, pinning me down. I can’t remember how he got me to the ground. I don’t know if he knocked me down or pulled me down. I couldn’t breathe, his arm was round my neck, and I tried to scream but just a silly sound came out. I didn’t have time to pull my trackie bottoms up, really I never. My knickers were tangled up and I couldn’t move.

‘His fingers were hard and rough and he slapped me across my bum. Then he stopped groping me for a moment and started breathing heavily against the side of my face. He said, “You pretty little red-haired cunt,” and then he tried to push his fingers up my bum hole but I squeezed my cheeks together. My bottom felt all cold and drops of rain were falling down on it from the trees.

‘My eyes were closed the whole time and I had my teeth gritted. I felt all wet down below, he must have had spit or something on his fingers because they felt slimy and cold, and of course I hadn’t had time to wipe the piss away. I kept hoping he would stop, but I knew he wouldn’t. His fingers were pushing harder and harder. He sort of had a grip with one finger pushing into my bum hole and the other trying to 80

push up my fanny hole. I didn’t know I was gonna hit him back, it just sort of happened.’

A gasping sob interrupted her then and she started to shake. Tears rolled down her face. ‘I want to go home now! Please . . . let me go home.’

The WPC wrapped both arms around Lucy. ‘It’s OK, sweetheart. You’ve been really wonderful and you are a very brave girl.’ She and Woodhouse both knew just how lucky Lucy had been too, despite what that pervert had done to her.

The DCI knew he ought to call a halt to this. The kid was gutsy, but now the shock had hit her. He decided to press her just a little bit more. She hadn’t seen his face, but she had heard the man’s voice. Was there anything else? Lucy shook her head, started to say something and then stopped.

‘Go on. You were going to say something, Lucy,’

urged Woodhouse.

‘Well, it sounds silly, but two things keep coming into my head. I could hear scissors snipping . . . and then there was the smell. He had this funny smell about him. Not just the bad breath and fags smell, but this weird smell . . . like cleaning fluid.’

Cleaning fluid? Scissors? Of course, the other kids were missing their eyelashes. The fucking pervert hadn’t got the chance to cut off Lucy’s.

Woodhouse didn’t voice his thoughts but sat with his pen raised above his notepad and waited for the girl to finish.

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‘Yeah, like that stuff they use on the floors of offices and in the school gym. It stinks for hours.’

The next morning PC Watson was very busy indeed.

Not only was he sent out to make door-to-door enquiries about the attempted rape of Lucy Potts, but there was the additional matter of the attack on Steven Archer. Could the two be linked? He doubted it, there was no sexual assault on Steven, but the attacks had happened within half an hour of each other and less than half a mile apart. Watson privately felt sure that Steven was not victim number four. No sexual assault, no nakedness, no lolly. His assault was different. Somebody at the flats must have seen or heard something, it had been a violent and sustained attack, but nobody was saying. Who -

ever had battered Steven Archer was probably known to the victim as there had been no sign of a forced entry at the flat. He was currently unable to give the police any description as he was still lying unconscious in Homerton Hospital, his desperate mother by his side. It was just a matter of time, though. Steven would wake up soon and then Watson would take his statement.

The boy had no fewer than thirty-five stitches to his face, four broken ribs, a shattered kneecap and three missing teeth.

All local police leave was cancelled. They had their hands full. A few officers had been sent to the 82

hospital in case of any further attack on Steven. The rest were conducting a thorough search of the park, which, along with the nearby City Farm, had been cordoned off with yellow-and-black tape.

By the time Watson started his enquiries the bush telegraph had already been buzzing and there were few people locally who didn’t already know about one or other of the attacks, if not both. Shopkeepers passed on every titbit that came their way and groups of women hung around street corners, gossiping, pointing fingers, then holding their children’s hands tightly as the sickening realisation dawned that they had held the wrong man accountable when they had pointed the finger at Steven Archer.

At the bookmaker’s the men were concentrating on the Saturday races as news filtered through about the attacks on Steven and Lucy. Smoke shrouded the ceiling of the bookie’s cramped premises. Com

-

mentaries and forecasts blared out from the TVs clamped high on the walls. Harry the Horse perched on his stool behind the newly fitted shatter-proof glass counter, looking out over his punters. All the usual suspects were there, bright and early and ready to blow their week’s wages on some useless nag. Bloody fools! Big Geoff, who had helped Steven the previous night and had seen the damage inflicted on him at first hand, wasn’t afraid to voice his criticism.

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‘The kid’s a retard. It’s obvious he couldn’t have done it.’

There was a mumble of general agreement. Some of those who had been all too willing to point the finger in Steven’s direction were now starting to backtrack along the lines of, ‘I never thought it was him in the first place.’ Others more honest in their shame just stared at the floor, puffed hard at their roll-up fags, and then turned their attention to the racing papers, looking for a horse that might win, licking their stunted pencils and marking off the nags that deserved a place or win bet.