The Boy in the River (34 page)

The families involved or connected with the case were known previously to social services in other boroughs. Magalie Bamu and Eric Bikubi had been living in the UK since 1996. Paul Maddocks had mentioned that Eric had been on Westminster Council’s radar in 2008. There were also incidents in Barking and Dagenham. Naomi Ilonga had indeed made allegations against Eric Bikubi, and Westminster had begun a core assessment of the family. Somehow – and it was difficult not to put this down to incompetence – these enquiries were not followed through. According to Newham social services, their counterparts at Westminster appeared to be gripped by inertia.

The French authorities were no better. I could now see why both the Met and the Newham social services department were incensed. The French police had refused to pursue allegations that included child rape, enforced imprisonment, trafficking and sex slavery. In immigrant communities throughout France, it seemed it was increasingly common for young girls of twelve or thirteen to be assigned domestic duties, usually when the mother of the family was pregnant. Known as
menagière,
this included various forms of sexual servitude. Astonishingly, French social services claimed that they had never heard of witchcraft and had ‘no clue’ what it was. Neither the police nor Newham could get them even to entertain the idea of looking into it. The Congolese community was, apparently, of no interest.

After two weeks I produced my forty-four-page report, shining as bright a light as possible on the issues. I cross-referenced the witness statements and constructed a vigorous challenge to any notion of a ‘cultural’ defence. Despite the widespread prevalence of belief in
kindoki
I made it clear that in Congolese culture the torture and murder of a child would never be condoned, and that the majority of Congolese would be appalled by what had happened. Indeed, the Congolese Government had now made it officially illegal even to accuse a child of being infected by witchcraft, let alone perpetrate any physical damage to the ‘sufferer’.

I tried to keep my statement as objective as possible, but my sadness for Kristy threatened to overwhelm me. For five days he had experienced a living hell. Within a stone’s throw of the new Olympic Stadium, a teenage boy had been slowly and savagely tortured to death without anyone noticing.

Or so I thought.

On a family walk along Widemouth Bay during the Christmas holidays my police mobile rang. The distant voice of Susannah Beasley-Murray from Newham Children’s Services did battle with the pulsating wind and the roaring Atlantic breakers. She was calling on behalf of the head of Safeguarding in Newham Borough, Gareth Flemyng. They were concerned about the way the case was going to be reported, and were attempting to get a wider court injunction gagging the media from using any of the names, including those of the two accused. Could I produce a report for the following morning, and then attend a hearing at the Royal Courts of Justice at the end of Christmas week?

I looked at my watch. ‘It’s nearly 4 p.m.! Are you serious?’

She was. A bundle of emailed documents would be awaiting my return to the house.

At eight fifty the following morning I pressed the Send button on my report and crawled upstairs for a few hours’ sleep.

Just before New Year’s Day, I climbed the steps of the Royal Courts of Justice and walked along the deserted marble hallway. I was the sole witness in Court 39 of the Family Division and I didn’t have to wait long. I took the card with the oath in my hand and promised to tell the truth. Religious beliefs were what seemed to have pushed Bikubi and Bamu over the edge; I wasn’t in the mood to rekindle mine, so had chosen to affirm rather than swear on the Bible.

I was cross-examined by barristers for the next half hour, during which I stated my case. Despite the Council’s concerns there was also a public interest issue at stake. I suggested that the court shouldn’t lose sight of the fact that there was more than one child involved in this case, and that we owed Kristy a trial that was conducted in the full light of day rather than one that was clandestine and quickly forgotten. Thinking back to the Child B case in 2005, I added a heartfelt plea. I told the court that I did not want us to be back again in five years’ time with another child abuse or murder trial, knowing that we had missed an opportunity to place this issue under public scrutiny because the media had been stifled.

We awaited the verdict with some trepidation. The Judge found in favour of the public interest and the injunction was overturned. The media could report the case, name the accused and show photos. I knew this might open the floodgates to some lurid coverage, but the matters that needed to be aired drove to the heart of ‘multicultural’ Britain. It was also vital for Kristy’s memory that we knew what he looked like and what he had endured, rather than allow him to be shunted aside as London’s pristine Olympic image was presented to the outside world.

47

London, January–February 2012

There are eighteen courtrooms in the Old Bailey, and Court 5 is located up two flights of stone stairs. The room was hushed as Brian Altman QC rose to open the prosecution case. He made a point of not sparing us any of the details; we needed to understand the terrible savagery that had been meted out to the deceased. Two porter’s trolleys were stacked high with bags containing weapons recovered from the flat. The boy had suffered 131 separate injuries. The final week of his life had been one of almost unparalleled suffering.

Altman drove home the fact that
kindoki
was central to the case, and told the court they would hear from me on the subject in due course. The two defendants were, he said, obsessed with the notion that the siblings were possessed, eventually fixing on Kristy as the source and conduit for the witchcraft.

The days following were dominated by the testimonies of the surviving children, except for the eldest, Yves, who was very autistic, and another who was too young to give evidence.

Kelly Bamu was twenty at the time of her brother’s death. Over two days she described in graphic detail, through racking sobs, how again and again they had begged for mercy; how Eric and Magalie began to focus on Kristy, taking it in turns to rain blows upon him. She looked at the jury: ‘Magalie deserves to die for what they have done. I have no pity for her. She had no pity for us.’ Later, after she was given time to compose herself, Kelly said she thought the two accused still believed the siblings were witches to this day. ‘She didn’t give a damn and said we deserved it.’

The court watched the evidence from the other brother and sister by video link because they were not yet eighteen and their names could not be reported. They backed up everything Kelly had said.

Kristy’s parents Jacqueline and Pierre were the final members of the family to take the stand. They claimed they had been unable to intervene from Paris, even after Kristy had telephoned on Christmas Eve to tell them he was going to be killed. Jacqueline broke down as she described the loss of her son.

After the family’s evidence came the reports from the paramedics, police, pathologist and coroner. Those attending the scene of the crime described it in graphic detail. Forensics showed Kristy’s blood spattered all over Eric and Magalie’s clothing.

I met Brian Altman the day before I was due to take the stand. He talked me through the report I had written and told me which elements of it he would refer to. The jury needed to understand the belief systems that lay behind the killing. Eric was attempting to plead insanity, whilst Magalie believed that people can be possessed by
kindoki
. For her, it was the norm. Clearly they couldn’t both be right. Altman wanted to draw a distinction between what was ‘normal’ to the Congolese, and the terrible actions of the accused. He wanted me to take those present deep into the world I had inhabited for the past quarter of a century, but which would be alien to most of them.

The following morning was overcast and drizzly. I walked eastwards along the viaduct, approaching the Old Bailey from the north side to avoid the media scrum. I looked up at the dome and saw the gilded figure of Justice, the sword in her right hand pointing heavenwards, the scales balancing in her left. The inscription carved into the stone beneath her reads:
Defend the children of the poor and punish the wrongdoer.

Barristers, jury members, witnesses and journalists mingled in the corridor outside Court 5. DS Dave Boxall ushered me away from the advancing reporters. Cedar panels lined the walls, and a large flat screen monitor for video evidence was mounted opposite me. A perspex box led to a closed, padded door, through which the defendants were brought from their cells.

Ushers and recorders scurried around tables at the centre of the room, preparing files, making calls and checking on those present. Journalists clutching notepads and mobile phones began to settle like locusts in the green leather seats around me. The case was being tweeted live. The public gallery above my head sounded as if it was filling fast. Barristers in wigs and gowns strutted into position. Dave whispered in my ear, ‘Eight of them.’ He grinned. ‘Imagine that lot cross-examining you.’

I couldn’t smile back. I was beginning to feel nauseous at the prospect. Dawn, the court usher, came over to see if I was all right.

The jury took their seats and the recorder called, ‘All rise.’

Mr Justice David Paget was presiding over his final case before retirement. In his gown, wig and spectacles he looked as formidable as the occasion demanded. After some brief discussion, Brian Altman announced the next prosecution witness: ‘Dr Hoskins.’

The witness stand faced the jury. The judge sat slightly to my left, the court officials below me, as if in an orchestra pit. Further to the right the defendants were ensconced behind the perspex screen. It was the first time I’d seen them. Eric’s hair was ruffled and he looked unkempt. He was flanked by three staff, who I guessed were from Broadmoor, the secure hospital where he was awaiting further psychiatric assessment. Magalie, looking altogether more demure, had just one guard by her side.

The preliminaries over, I began to outline the significance of
kindoki
to the case, and how the fact that the accused thought Kristy was possessed ran through every witness statement. I was hitting my stride when Magalie’s lead defence barrister leaned across and whispered to Brian Altman. He nodded and rose to his feet.

‘I don’t normally agree with the defence, Dr Hoskins, but your evidence is very important, so I’m going to stop you right there. You’re going too fast. I want you to slow right down. The court needs to go back. Back to when
you
started, twenty-five years ago. I want you to tell us about the traditions and beliefs that
you
know about. I want this court to understand where this all comes from, and how normal it is for people who believe in it. So please don’t rush. Why don’t we start with the African spirits that you mention in your report? Tell us about the living dead, would you? Take us back.’

Take them back?

The air was heavy with anticipation.

In another life, the breeze stirred the palm fronds and I saw Tata Mpia’s face.

‘The living dead are those whom we once knew on this earth, but who have passed on to the shadowlands beyond the grave.’

Tata Mpia’s words echoed down the years, filling the courtroom.

‘The living dead control this world and everything in it. They have a hundred times more power than you or me. They are all powerful. They can build up or destroy. They bring life, and they take it away . . .’

‘And so, traditionally, where did
kindoki
fit into that, Dr Hoskins?’

‘Any of the living dead can be evil, but it’s the long dead, the distant ghosts who are no longer remembered, who were associated with
kindoki
– witchcraft, as we call it.’

‘And that’s different from how it is today?’

‘Totally different. Back then, back when I first went to Africa,
kindoki
was just an external force. It was bad, for sure, but it was nebulous, diffuse, out there. It was just like an evil eye, something to ward off.’

‘And how did they deal with it then? How did the traditional healers – the
ngangas
, as I think you call them in your report – control it?’

‘The
ngangas
have three methods for dealing with these things,’ I said. ‘First are protective amulets—’

‘A bit like a St Christopher medallion?’ the judge queried.

‘Yes, my lord, that’s exactly right. The traditional belief in
kindoki
isn’t so very different from what people the world over think: that there are good and bad forces. And a great many people in all cultures take steps to keep good luck, whether it’s wearing a cross, reading their horoscopes, or making sure they don’t walk under a ladder.’

Mr Justice Paget nodded and signalled for me to continue.

‘Next there is scapegoating, where the
nganga
will lay his hands on an animal and banish it, along with the evil, to the wilderness – usually the desert or savannah.’

‘And the third?’Altman asked.

‘The third’, I said, ‘is sacrifice. It’s the most powerful of all. It’s the spilling of blood, the transference of power. And they believe it works.’

‘You need to see the
nganga
,’ Tata Mpia said. ‘It’s the only way. You must perform a sacrifice.’

For the sake of one small sacrifice – a chicken, perhaps, or a goat . . . Abigail was the apple of my eye. So why hadn’t I?

I glanced at Eric and Magalie.

I knew why I hadn’t. I think I’d always known.

‘And so tell us about
kindoki
today, in the hands of the churches. What happens now?’

I cleared my throat, regaining some equilibrium. I took the court through the way fundamentalist Christianity had blended with those traditional beliefs to create a monstrous new mix. In the minds of these pastors and their believers,
kindoki
was no longer an outside force that could be controlled by the
ngangas
, as they had, untroubled, for thousands of years. Now
kindoki
was a power that possessed people, particularly children, and they could only be delivered through exorcism.