Authors: Jenny Tomlin
Lizzie Foster studied her friend’s face and saw the pain etched deep in its folds. She reached across the table and grabbed Iris’s bony hand, gripping it hard.
This simple gesture was too much for Nanny Parks.
The tears began to roll down her cheeks. ‘My babies, 116
my babies, my little men . . . oh, God, Lizzie, what’s happening to us all?’
Lizzie silently handed her a clean handkerchief which she had fished from her handbag with her free hand. The two women, both survivors of tough lives, needed no further words to be spoken. Sue felt like an intruder in her own kitchen. God, she wished Potty was here with her, to support and stand by her without question. Sue could feel the other women’s silent hostility towards her, and turned away as tears filled her eyes. Everything had gone horribly wrong!
Humiliated first by Grace, and then by Gillian, she was starting to feel the uncomfortable slide from ringleader to outsider. She knew how bitterly they blamed her, first for the mistake last night and now for this. The atmosphere was so dense and thick that she felt she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole.
Terry hovered in the doorway to the kitchen. ‘Any chance of a cuppa?’
Turning on him, Sue spat, ‘Why don’t you do something useful, you twat? Can’t you see what’s happening here? Can’t you think for yourself? Must I do all the thinking and fixing, all the time?’
Terry stood there looking gob-smacked. ‘Like what? What can I do?’ He sounded wounded and confused.
Sue’s face twisted with anger. ‘Go and bloody look for him, you pillock! Don’t keep hanging around here 117
like a spare part. Little Jamie’s missing, for Christ’s sake.’
Terry shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, a reply on the edge of his lips, but stopped himself.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Sue challenged him.
‘Don’t you think you might be overreacting a bit, love? I mean, he’s only been gone half an hour, he’ll probably walk his arse back through that door any -
time now. Besides, Jamie’s a tough kid, he can handle himself. Blimey, remember when he got a black eye from that big lump from Goldsmith Row? How Jamie thumped him back and wouldn’t give in? You remember . . . he hid from Gill for hours after wards, too scared to go home. Come on, love, loosen up.
He’ll be OK.’
Terry held his breath as Sue turned sharply towards him again. ‘This ain’t no after-school punch-up at the gates, Tel. We’re all scared silly here. Don’t you understand?’
It looked like he was going to answer her back then, and Sue was ready for him, but Lizzie got in first.
‘Terry, there is a sex maniac out there somewhere and he’s getting through our kids like a dose of salts.
A nasty, evil thing, raping, murdering and torturing our kids. He gets off on it. He messes with their little parts and leaves them for dead. Jamie could be number four, for fuck’s sake!’
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‘What, and I haven’t tried to do something about it?’ Terry’s face was colouring under the strain of actually standing up for himself for once.
‘You got the wrong bloody bloke, you fuckin’
idiot!’ Sue chipped in.
‘Whose fault was that then?
You
swore blind it was him, swore on TJ’s life it was, now you’re trying to blame
me
! You told me what our Wayne saw and heard in the playground. You told me that Steven Archer wanked himself off over our kids. It was you that got us all going, you and these two old cows as well, so don’t pick on me!’
Terry waited for a reaction from Iris and Lizzie but both of them stared into their teacups. He stepped towards his now subdued wife in the small kitchen, bearing down on her. TJ looked up to see his parents screaming at each other. His happy little face crumpled and he began to howl. As the whole place descended into bedlam, Lizzie stood up and tried to restore some order.
‘Pack it in, the pair of you! You’re upsetting the baby.’ With that she scooped little TJ into her arms and hugged him. ‘It’s OK, precious, let’s get you some juice.’ She picked up his blue plastic beaker and headed for the bottle of Kia-Ora on the draining board.
‘We’re in a mess, but screaming at each other won’t help,’ she told the rest of them. ‘We got it wrong, we know that. We all have to take some 119
responsibility for what happened to Steven and his mum. It was a mistake, but it’s done with and we can’t change it. We have to forget Steven for now.
Jamie’s all that matters. We’ll give it half an hour more, wait for Grace and Gill to come back, then if we get no joy we’ll call the police.’
As if on cue, the front door swung open then and three boys stood on the step, laughing and jostling each other. The front door was banging against the wall and lots of shoving was going on. The other two pushed the one with the collar-length blond hair down the passageway in front of them, and there in the kitchen stood Jamie, cool as you like.
‘All right, Nan? Where’s Mum then? Gavin said she was looking for me.’ And Jamie, as cocky as always, made his way to the fridge to help himself to a drink.
Lizzie, Sue and Terry just stood there open-mouthed with relief while Nanny Parks made her way over to her grandson. At five foot one she was an inch or two shorter than him, but that didn’t stop her giving him a good clout round the ear.
‘Ya big fucker! Where ya been, we’ve all been worried sick.’
‘Ow! What d’ya do that for, Nan? I’m ’ere, ain’t I?’
Jamie looked wounded, confused, and completely humiliated to be getting a crack like that from his nan in front of his friends.
‘
That’s
for going off without telling us where 120
you’d gone.’ Then Iris stood up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. ‘And that’s for coming back safe and sound.’
‘What’s everyone getting so worked up about? I only went to get Kevin Ferguson so he could see Auntie Grace’s car.’
DCI Woodhouse had dispatched PC Watson on a special mission to visit Lucy Potts the morning after the attack on her. He had the gentle touch and Woodhouse hoped he’d get her to remember some -
thing else. She’d been a brilliant witness last night, but there was nothing better to jog the mind than a trip back to the crime scene. He was hoping Watson would be able to take her down to the park to retrace her exact route from the night before, taking her through it step by step so that every detail was covered. It wasn’t going to be easy for her, but it was vital to their investigation.
Woodhouse was beginning to get some hunches about this attacker. He knew from long experience that this was evil on a different scale from anything he had encountered before. This animal had sprung out of nowhere and was targeting kids. Woodhouse knew in his gut that he wouldn’t stop until he was caught. The three cases all had striking parallels.
Those lollipops and his liking for trophies: the eye -
lashes missing from Adam and Chantal. Woodhouse felt certain it was someone local, someone who 121
could hang around without arousing unnecessary suspicion. Someone who blended in with the community. Someone no one would ever suspect. An outsider would have been fingered by this lot ages ago. It was a close-knit neighbourhood. Too close-knit sometimes. The attack on Steven Archer had sickened Woodhouse, to the point where he’d lost sleep. The kid had been completely pulped and that experience would stay with the already confused lad for ever. God only knew what kind of flashbacks he would suffer in the future. It was exactly the kind of vigilante have-a-go heroism that muddied the waters of police work, but Woodhouse had no time to worry about that now. He had his suspicions about who had attacked Steven, but more pressing matters needed his attention first.
The attack on Lucy Potts was the third in two weeks and Woodhouse was getting jumpy. The attacker, having escaped the police so far, would be getting more confident – more likely to slip up, granted, but also more likely to have another go.
The DCI had men permanently patrolling Haggers -
ton Park but the first attack on Chantal Robinson had happened on the street; it was likely he would strike wherever and whenever the opportunity presented itself, so drawing up a list of suspects was essential. That way he could keep an eye on them, track their movements. He was convinced that this man was an opportunist, a monster who kept his 122
eye out for a pretty child, left for a minute – or even a few seconds – by chance. All he needed was that one chance.
The little boy, Adam, hadn’t been able to provide any information beyond ‘nasty man, horrible man, smelly man’. This could have been child’s talk but the details Lucy Potts had given about that familiar smell intrigued Woodhouse. A chemical smell – someone from the paint factory perhaps?
PC Watson arrived at the Pottses’ flat somewhere after two to find Sandra sobbing on the sofa while Lucy warmed some beans in a pan for her twin sisters. What a pathetic figure the mother was. Her clothes were crumpled and stained down the front, her hair an unruly mess. She sat with her legs folded underneath her large backside, on a threadbare sofa, feeling sorry for herself. He hoped his face didn’t betray the disgust he felt. He came across this all the time, kids who looked after their own parents, but Sandra Potts took the biscuit. What sort of parent was she? Her daughter had been the victim of an attempted rape less than twenty-four hours ago, and here she was looking after the family while her mother fell apart. Watson glanced at Lucy with new respect.
While he waited for her to finish washing up the lunch plates, Michael Potts staggered into the kitchen, having just got out of bed. He wore a filthy 123
T-shirt and underpants, and his face had the reddened bloated appearance of a man who enjoyed too many drinks. The smell of stale alcohol seeping out of his pores, combined with the heat of the tiny kitchen, made Watson feel quite nauseous. Not wanting to stay in the flat any longer than necessary, he moved towards the front door. ‘When you’re ready, love,’ he said to Lucy, wanting to get the hell out.
‘What about my girl then? Fighting him off. I wish I’d have been there, fucking mad bastard! What I wouldn’t do to a man like that.’ Michael Potts swaggered right up to Watson as he spoke.
Leaning back while trying to hide his distaste, he replied, ‘She’s a remarkable girl, you must be very proud,’ then looked Potts up and down with barely concealed contempt.
‘I’ve always taught my girls to stick up for them -
selves, I ’ave. See my little Jessica there, she can throw a punch, can’t ya, babe?’ Potts barely looked at the child as he fished a dirty glass out of the sink, filled it with water and downed it in one. Watson could hardly believe that this excuse for a man was trying to take the credit for his step-daughter escaping what could have been a brutal rape or even murder.
‘I’ll just put some clean clothes on.’ Lucy smiled shyly at Watson who was touched to see that at least one member of this family observed the decencies.
How she had turned out so well he really did not 124
know. Michael Potts flipped up the bread bin lid and pulled out a crust of Mother’s Pride. ‘Is this all we’ve got?’ he shouted to Sandra, mumbling obscenities under his breath.
‘Well, I haven’t exactly had time . . .’ Sandra came into the kitchen snivelling. ‘My girl’s been attacked and I just can’t get my head round it.’
‘Fuck this! Ya nothing but a useless lump of lard.
Get off yer arse and clean this dump up – and get some proper grub in. I’m going out!’ Michael Potts stomped off to the bedroom where he slammed the door shut behind him.
‘Off down the pub no doubt,’ Sandra said to nobody in particular, and began to wail again. Watson took in her puffy face, caught between want ing her to snap out of it and feeling sorry that she was tied to such a useless man. As he looked at Sandra Potts he saw what she might have been. She wasn’t totally unattractive but seemed to take no pride in herself or her home, a situation that was all too common among families on the estate. Watson cleared his throat.
‘Is there . . . erm . . . somebody you can talk to?
Have you any friends or family close by?’
The gentleness of his voice made Potty look grate -
fully into his kind, capable face. She smiled faintly.
‘Well, my friend Grace was here this morning, she was good. She’s had a bad experience too with this nutter. Her boy Adam was attacked.’ Sandra twisted a soggy tissue around her finger.
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So the Ballantynes and the Pottses knew each other? It was a small world. ‘It’s just that they reckon the best way to get something out of your system is to talk about it, if you can,’ he said.
Sandra smiled weakly at him again. She’d prob -
ably been a good-looking woman once. What a waste.
‘Who says that then?’ she asked.
‘Well, my lady indoors mainly.’ Watson smiled bashfully, thinking of his pretty little wife.
‘You’re all right, you are,’ said Potty. ‘Most people hate the police around here, but you’re really all right. Thanks.’
Watson gave one of his all-part-of-the-job shrugs, and was rescued by the appearance of Lucy, standing in the doorway of the kitchen in jeans and a thick jumper.
Her mother looked at her and said, ‘It’s boiling hot out there, what do you want a big jumper like that for? You’ll roast, ya silly cow.’
‘That’s normal,’ commented Watson, ‘probably still in a state of shock and feeling cold.’ He glanced from mother to daughter and caught the fleeting expression of disappointment on Lucy’s face. The poor kid still needed her mum’s attention and understanding, no matter how good or bad a parent she was. Lucy just wanted her mum to be a mum, to take charge and look after her. ‘You can come with us if you like, Mrs Potts?’ Watson asked hopefully.
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‘No, I’ll stay here. I’ll be OK, you just go.’
Watson concealed his distaste at the selfishness of her reaction.
‘Right then, shall we?’ He led Lucy out of the door, pretending he hadn’t seen the tear roll down her cheek. How did this kid cope? By the time they’d reached the lifts Lucy had regained her composure.
He spoke to her gently as they waited for the lift to drag itself up to their floor.