The Judas Sheep (22 page)

The stepfather was in the frame, although he wasn’t the man Nicola was last seen with. He’d married Nicola’s mother ten years earlier, but it wasn’t much of a marriage. Mother was an alcoholic and possibly schizophrenic. Most of the time she was either undergoing treatment or pursuing oblivion. She had two daughters, but the older one had married and moved away. My twisted mind wondered if the daughters were the real reason George Leach had married a drunkard. When I saw his record, I was convinced – he’d done six years for indecent assault on a minor.

He also had a cast-iron alibi. On the weekend in question he was admitted, to Heckley General with acute appendicitis. Neither he nor the mother expressed much grief at the death of their daughter, but that’s not a crime. I told Nigel that a conversation with the sister might prove profitable.

Pauline lived in Bristol, we discovered, when Leach eventually found a torn-off corner of a letter in a drawer full of dirty socks. A female detective from the local force went round to confirm that she lived at that address, and made an appointment for me to visit her the next day.

It was a long way to go, and we could have asked the local people to do the interview, but the offences were
serious and I wanted to talk to her myself. There wasn’t a pool car available so I went on the train. The lady ‘tec, called Jean, met me at the station and drove me to a mushroom farm of high-rise flats that made Heckley look like Palm Springs. We parked outside a block that was evidently the right one, although I couldn’t see why, and rode up in the toilet to the sixth floor.

Simple mathematics told me that Pauline was
twenty-two
, but she could have passed for a young forty. Every few seconds she brushed her hair from her face, and I saw a bottle of two-coloured capsules on the table. The flat was cheaply furnished and untidy, but clean. A photograph on the wall betrayed the reason for the clutter: she was the mother of two mixed-race imps with grins like angels.

‘What a lovely picture,’ I told her, after Jean had introduced us and I was seated in a sagging easy chair. I meant it, but it still sounded like the opening gambit of a double-glazing salesman.

She smiled her appreciation and asked if we’d like a cup of tea. I said we would.

‘How did you learn of Nicola’s death?’ I asked, after a few sips.

‘In the paper. Friday, I think it was. It was a shock.’

‘I can imagine. I’m sorry it happened that way but we didn’t know you existed. Your stepfather should have let us know,’

At the mention of her stepfather she pulled the mug of tea towards her, clutching it against her stomach as
if it were a teddy bear and gazing down at the carpet. ‘Him’ was all she said.

‘When did you last see Nicola?’ I asked.

‘When I left ‘ome, five years ago. I was seventeen, Nicky was only ten.’ Her eyes filled with tears and the DC handed her a tissue. They always carry a supply.

‘Did you write?’

She nodded. ‘Christmas, and her birfday, that’s all. She wanted to come down ‘ere, but we don’t ’ave no room. We tried for somewhere bigger …’

‘It’s difficult,’ I said. ‘In her letters, did Nicola mention any friends? We think she was into drugs. Did she say anything about that?’

Pauline shook her head, as if she were elsewhere in her thoughts, and swept some non-existent hair to one side.

‘What about George Leach, did she mention him?’

I saw her knuckles whiten as she clenched the untouched mug of tea, but she didn’t answer my question. Maybe a change of tack was called for. ‘What does your husband do, Pauline?’ I asked.

She looked at me and said: ‘He’s an electrician. Just got ‘is first job on ‘is own. Probably be working late tonight.’

‘On his own,’ I said. ‘That’s a big step. Should be plenty of work for a decent electrician, though. What’s he called?’

‘Leon.’

‘Where did you meet him?’

‘A club in Bradford. He ‘as relatives down ‘ere.’

‘So he took you away from the bright lights of Heckley?’

She nodded.

‘And from George Leach?’

She threw me a scared glance and the knuckles whitened again.

‘Pauline, did Nicky ever write and tell you that Leach was abusing her?’

She relaxed a little, now that the cards were on the table. ‘No,’ she replied.

‘So do you think he was?’

She nodded and blew her nose.

‘What did Nicky say?’

‘Just … just ‘ow rotten he was. He used to beat her, an’ was always drunk. ‘Ow she ‘ated him, and wished he was dead.’

‘But she never wrote that he was abusing her, sexually?’

Pauline raised her head and looked me in the eye for the first time, ‘You don’t write to your big sister and say that your stepdad is doing it to you summat rotten, do you?’

I shrank into the chair and felt a spasm in the muscles of my lower jaw, ‘No,’ was all I could say.

The DC came to the rescue. ‘And was he?’ she asked.

Pauline nodded.

Very quietly, the DC asked: ‘Did George Leach ever abuse you, Pauline?’

She started to cry. When she had regained some
composure I said: ‘Pauline, this is obviously very upsetting for you. We don’t want to force you into anything against your wishes, but poor Nicky didn’t have much of a life. George Leach didn’t murder her, but he hurt her enough. Maybe we can get something back for her, give her some justice. I’m going now, but you know where you can get in touch with Jean if you need to. Just remember this, though. It’s your life; don’t let us push you into anything you are not happy with. Think of yourself, and what’s good for you. Nothing else matters.’

I rose to my feet, but she reached out and grabbed my sleeve. ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘I want to tell you.’

The pattern had been set the night before George Leach married her mother. When the bride-to-be was unconscious in bed he went next door and raped her twelve-year-old daughter. For the next five years he plied the mother with alcohol, or waited until she was having one of her many spells in hospital, and satisfied his cravings for young flesh on Pauline. He was almost pleased when a young black stud ran away with her, because she had a ten-year-old sister …

We sat in stunned silence for a couple of minutes. It was what we’d expected, but hearing it told, first-hand, turned the blood to ditchwater.

‘How much of this does Leon know?’ I asked.

‘Everything. He got me away from it. He … he’s so patient and understanding. I don’t know where I’d be without him.’

In Nicola’s place, I thought. ‘If you testified against Leach,’ I told her, ‘the papers wouldn’t be allowed to print your name, but they’d make it pretty obvious that you were Nicky’s sister. And some twisted barrister for the defence could give you a hard time – say you were promiscuous, led him on, that sort of thing. It could be rough for you.’

She looked up at me like a mouse studying a cat, wondering which way to jump. I wandered over to the photo of the kids and examined it for a moment. They illuminated the room like a ray of sunshine. Maybe the cycle of abuse had been broken. That was the good part of the day.

I said: ‘Think about what we’ve said, Pauline; discuss it with Leon. Don’t do it to please me, or even for Nicky. Do what’s best for you.’

She said she’d think about it, and Jean took me back to Temple Meads railway station. I’d never make a salesman. He’d have closed on her, to use the jargon. ‘What time would you like to come to the station to make a statement?’ he’d have asked, making the bigger decision for her. That’s not my style, but I usually have my way.

I arrived home earlier than expected. It had been one of the warmest April days of the century and was developing into a pleasant evening. I rang Nigel about my trip and he told me that Fearnside had been chasing me. I thought about ringing him, but called Annabelle instead.

‘I thought you were in Bristol,’ she said.

‘Been, bought the sherry, come back,’ I replied. ‘Do you fancy going out for a bite?’

‘I could cook.’

She always says that. ‘No,’ I insisted. ‘I was thinking of driving over to the cottage to pick up my things. I’m afraid my sojourn there has come to an end, but we could have a pub meal on the way.’ Even as I spoke a development occurred to me. ‘If you’re not doing anything first thing in the morning, we could stay overnight …’

Annabelle was afraid of headlines in the tabloids – The Cop And The Bishop’s Wife – if I slept at her place. Being dropped off at the door at seven-thirty in the morning, if she had stayed with me, or furtively letting me out of her house, were not for her. It wasn’t priggishness. She did it to protect her late husband’s reputation and his family’s feelings, and that was all right by me.

‘Mmm,’ she replied. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’ It looked as if I’d have to buy a little place at the seaside.

I had a lightning shower and swapped the cars around. As a special treat, we’d go in the E-type. I was giving the results of my labours a final check in the mirror when the phone rang. I assumed it was Annabelle with some last-minute arrangement. ‘Yes, darling,’ I cooed into it.

‘Er, is that you, Charlie?’ asked a rather puzzled Commander Fearnside.

‘Ooops! Sorry, boss, I was expecting someone else.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it. Thought I’d better give you an update on the drugs thing.’

‘Right, fire away.’ I slid my sleeve back to see the time, and hoped he wouldn’t be long.

They blew it. The idiots blew it. The tracking devices were working beautifully, and an unmarked car had picked them up. Somewhere over in Greater Manchester it all went pear-shaped. The tailing car decided to overtake and wait for them again at the next junction. Just at that moment some hawk-eyed bloody motorcycle patrol who knows more about cars than I know about my cock happens along and notices that the numberplate on the Sierra doesn’t tally with the design of the
taillights
, or something equally obscure. So he gives chase.’

‘Shit,’ I said.

‘You haven’t heard the half of it. Laddo drives off, but stops on a bridge, somewhere called … is it Irlan?’

‘I know it.’

‘Right. He throws two holdalls off the bridge, then runs over the motorcycle patrol and makes his getaway. West Lanes are dragging the canal, but haven’t found the bags yet.’

‘What about the pursuit car?’

‘Bah! They were listening for a signal. Apparently they can’t listen and watch at the same time.’

‘Mmm. Like you said, they blew it. The tracking devices – do you think the car driver realised they were there? It could be important for my future health.’

‘Can’t be sure, but I doubt it. I’m paying them a visit tomorrow, to kick a few arses. I’ll let you have a copy of my report. You did your bit, Charlie, and I’m grateful for your contribution.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Cushiest job I’d ever had, and the most rewarding. ‘How’s the motorcyclist?’ I shouted into the phone, but he’d gone.

When Annabelle saw the Jag she forgave me for being late. I told her about my trip to Bristol and dropped a few titbits about the Nicola enquiry. This was my new policy, and I knew she wouldn’t gossip. I didn’t say anything about the bungled drugs bust.

We took the motorway system to the south of the river, which led us over the Humber Bridge. Annabelle had never crossed it, and looked pleased. I liked to inject a little geographical interest or local history into an evening out with a girl. The sky wasn’t yet dark, but all the lights were on, and it was like driving through a magic spider’s web.

There was nothing magical about the pub meal we had, but we still lingered over it, and the landlady’s cherry pie compensated for the tough steaks. The moon hadn’t risen, so it was as dark as the inside of Dave Sparkington’s wallet when we left the street-lights behind and picked up the Withernsea Road towards the cottage.

‘Will all your stuff fit in here?’ Annabelle asked, turning in her seat to survey the luggage-carrying capacity of the Jaguar.

‘I think so,’ I replied. There’s my radio and portable TV, plus a few kitchen items. The only bulky stuff is the bedding. Oh, I mustn’t forget the electric blanket off the spare bed.’ I glanced across at her and she smiled at me.

‘That was a waste of electricity,’ I teased.

‘What was?’

‘Warming the spare bed for six hours, and then you didn’t use it.’

She reached across and took my hand. ‘No, it wasn’t,’ she said, giving it a squeeze.

‘Wasn’t what?’

‘Wasn’t a waste of electricity.’

‘How do you make that out?’

‘Oh, nevermind.’

I pulled my hand free to drop the Jag into third for a tight bend – the land might be as flat as a motorway hedgehog, but the roads zig and zag like Alpine passes. ‘Why wasn’t it a waste of electricity?’ I repeated.

Annabelle twisted in the seat and leant against her door, facing me. ‘Because,’ she said.

‘Because what?’ I insisted.

She gave a long exasperated sigh. ‘Because … because it showed you weren’t taking me for granted.’

‘Oh.’ I wouldn’t have dared to take her for granted. It looked as if Lucky Charlie had done the right thing for the wrong reasons once more, but I’d settle for that. I reached across and took her hand again.

Twenty-eight years in the Force and I still wonder
what I’ve done wrong when a blue light comes up behind me. I saw it when he was way back, flashing on the telegraph wires like distant lightning. He caught me quickly, and I pulled over to let him through.

‘He’s probably been for the fish and chips,’ I explained as he raced away from us.

Before he’d vanished, another blue light was visible in my mirrors. The road was narrow, so I pulled into a gateway and waited for him. This one was an ambulance.

‘Traffic accident,’ I surmised.

We could see the glow from the lights when we were about a mile from the cottage, flickering on the night sky like a television screen on the curtains of a darkened room.

‘It looks as if something has happened quite close to the cottage,’ Annabelle said, but I was a long way in front of her.

Three fire engines were drawn up outside, with a police car behind and the ambulance trying to turn round in the narrow lane. A uniformed Constable stopped me while the ambulance completed the manoeuvre and sped off, siren strangely silent, back towards Hull.