Sweetie (17 page)

She was a mess, and so was this flat.

Without further thought, and with the girls and Michael still sound asleep, Potty started to clean.

When she was finished, the kitchen and front room looked as shiny as a new pin. It could have been a different house. Potty roused the twins, got them breakfast and proceeded to tidy their bedroom squalor. She finally sat down at lunchtime and switched the TV on and the radio off. As the final of the tennis at Wimbledon was building up, Potty made a fresh cuppa and grabbed herself a pen and paper.

She was going to write a list of everything she knew about the recent events and attacks.

After four pages of scribbles, including times, locations and victims, Potty knew beyond reasonable doubt – in her own mind, anyway – that it could only be one person. She had to tell the others. Once she 160

had washed her hair and put fresh clothes on, she entered the bedroom to wake Michael.

‘I’ve got to go out. Look after the girls. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ Stunned, he could only nod in sleepy agreement.

It was just the interruption Grace needed, the door bell ringing. An uneasy silence had developed between her and Gillian and she was beginning to feel uncomfort -

able in her own kitchen. Grace wasn’t sure what her sister knew, but she had aroused some thought-provoking questions. She must know some thing.

Potty stood on Grace’s doorstep, looking hot and flushed but very nicely turned out. In truth, Grace was taken aback to see her so clean and tidy, something she hadn’t been for years. With a smile on her face, Grace beckoned her friend inside.

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Chapter Ten

With the girls over at Nanny Parks’s and TJ round at Grace’s, Sue finally got up and went downstairs around four in the afternoon. She hadn’t wanted to come out of the bedroom while the kids were still about because she didn’t want them to see her so upset. Her footsteps were heavy and laboured. Terry was in the front room with PC Watson and John Ballantyne, their voices lowered to a whisper.

Watson had been assigned to babysitting duty here after DCI Woodhouse had broken the news and taken Sue and Terry with him to the station to identify Wayne’s body. Officially he was there to record details of Wayne’s whereabouts on the day of the murder, but it was hard to get any sense out of the grieving parents.

Sue didn’t want to hear any more talk, she was sick of it all. She tiptoed past the front room and went into the kitchen where she flicked the kettle on. Her knuckles were white from the strength of her grip on the counter top and she stared blindly at the toaster, lost in her thoughts. She didn’t hear Terry come up behind her and gave a start when she felt his arms slide around her, his face nuzzling 162

into the back of her head while he wept silently.

Terry needed her now more than ever before, but Sue was distant and cold towards him. She hadn’t been able to touch him since they’d heard the news from Woodhouse the previous evening, which they’d both received in numb silence. Unable to really take it in, Sue hadn’t been able to cry yet. She just knew she couldn’t turn to her husband for support, and his arms gave her no comfort.

She pulled herself free from his embrace to go to the fridge and get out the milk. ‘Do you want tea?’

she asked.

‘No, you go back to bed, I’ll bring that up.’

‘I don’t want to go back to bed. I can’t just lay there with all this shit in my ’ead.’ Sue banged the kettle down after pouring the hot water into the pot.

She stared at the tangerine-coloured splashback tiles, almost mesmerised.

‘You should eat something’ said Terry. ‘There’s a loaf in the breadbin. I can make you a Spam and pickle sandwich, if you like.’

‘I don’t want to eat, Terry,’ she said, not lifting her gaze. ‘What time are the kids coming back?’

‘TJ is staying at Grace’s tonight and I thought the girls could stay with Nanny Parks. It’s not as if they’ll be going to school tomorrow.’ Terry shoved his hands deep into his pockets, head bowed. He was talking, but the words seemed meaningless. Why hadn’t he acted sooner? Why had he let Wayne act 163

the big man and tear off looking for Jamie? His boy was dead, his pride and joy, his Jack the lad, his first-born.

‘Who says they’re not going to school tomorrow?

It’s the last week of term.’ Sue turned angrily on her husband.

Terry stood up to her this time. ‘Exactly, it’s the last week of term, I thought it wouldn’t matter.’

‘Well, it does matter, Terry. We’ve got to make life as normal as possible for those girls.’

‘Their brother was killed yesterday. I don’t think life is going to be normal for any of us ever again.’

Terry’s voice was getting louder. His raised voice helped him disguise the sobs that were threatening again.

‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Sue shouted.

At that moment John came into the kitchen and looked at them both before lowering his gaze and putting his empty mug into the washing-up bowl.

‘Can you get me those bits for TJ then, Tel, and I’ll shoot off? Just a couple of days’ clothes and a few of his toys. I can take some stuff for the girls too, if you like, drop it off on my way home.’ John felt useless here and had a terrible urge to get out of the grief-stricken atmosphere and head home, back to Grace and the kids.

Terry looked at his wife, waiting for a response.

Finally Sue sighed and said, ‘I’ll pack a bag for TJ but I want the girls back tonight.’

164

The two men looked at each other but said nothing as Sue made her way upstairs. Then Terry started to cry again and John enveloped him in a clumsy embrace.

‘You’ll be all right, mate. We’re all here for you.’

Upstairs Sue sat on Wayne’s unmade bed in the room he’d shared with TJ. She picked up his pyjamas and held them to her face, breathing in the smell of him. Her boy couldn’t be dead. She could still feel him with her, smell him, and if she closed her eyes she could hear his voice, calling her. On the wall were his West Ham posters, and at the side of his bed stood a cereal bowl with the remains of yesterday’s breakfast inside it. Messy little sod, she thought. Typical Wayne, always forgetting to bring anything back into the kitchen!

She opened the bottom drawer of the chest between their beds and took out some T-shirts and shorts for TJ. She picked up his teddy and shoved it in the Tesco bag with his clothes and went back downstairs. She wasn’t ready to spend any more time in that room yet; wasn’t ready to face reality.

Watson stood in the hallway, shifting uncomfort -

ably from foot to foot. In the kitchen Terry and John were still locked in an awkward embrace and he didn’t like to interrupt. He felt like an intruder. No matter what people said about the blokes round here, 165

they were all right guys who stuck together. The PC

smiled weakly at Sue as she quietly said, ‘’Scuse me’

and went round him to the kitchen.

Seeing her return, John released Terry and took the bag from Sue. Usually a larger-than-life character, today she appeared strangely shrunken to John. He wrapped his arms around her.

‘You gotta stay strong, you two, don’t let this bastard tear you apart.’

Sue nodded as she began to cry into his shoulder.

Suddenly, she started to gasp and choke and sob so loudly that it almost deafened him. Everything suddenly gushed out and Sue was drowning in grief.

Gently he released her and she turned to her husband and let out a low animal groan of agony.

This time he held her and she gripped him tightly as sobs wracked her body. Terry could contain him -

self no longer then, and the two of them howled and cried together. Reluctant to interrupt, Watson none -

theless couldn’t leave without saying anything. He caught John’s eye and pointed towards the front door. John told them that he was leaving and that the policeman was too, but they didn’t hear him.

They were locked together in their pain, a pain only they could understand. As the two men let them -

selves out, Sue and Terry Williams cried long and hard together.

It had taken its time coming, but finally Woodhouse 166

had the break he had been waiting for. A muddy bootprint taken from the scene of the death was a positive match for one found in the park after the attack on Lucy Potts. There was also a roll-up fag end. Lucy had mentioned the odour on the breath of her attacker and her description had included tobacco smells.

There had never been any doubt in Woodhouse’s mind that these attacks were the work of one man and now he had the matching prints and could feel his investigation taking off.

The print indicated a Doctor Marten-style boot, a working man’s footwear, well-worn but with the tread clearly visible. He had little doubt that such boots were common enough but the owner of these was very heavy on his shoes and the outside edges of the heels were worn down in a distinctive pattern. Big feet too, size eleven or twelve, so probably quite a big bloke. Bit by bit a description of the murderer was slowly emerging. He was tall, large, and had big feet.

He was a smoker, and probably worked with chemicals of some description. He fitted in with the locals and held down a job hereabouts, either in the paint factory, one of the reproduction furniture outlets, or somewhere similar where there would be plenty of chemicals and solvents. He was known in the community and the children were not afraid of him. The victims were never carried off to another place; they always seemed either to be there already 167

or to go off with him happily, as if they knew and trusted him.

Woodhouse also thought about those lollies. What was that all about?

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Chapter Eleven

Lizzie Foster sat at her kitchen table smoking furiously. Her piercing green eyes were fixed on her daughter Mary, her mouth set in a tight furious line.

This was terrible news, and made even worse by the soppy excuses her daughter had given her for not relaying it earlier. What the hell had she been thinking? Mary was fat and a total wimp. Looking at her, Lizzie just grew more and more annoyed. She was so different from Lizzie’s other kids. Her Paul was so tall and handsome, and Monica, although plain, was kind and sweet. If Lizzie was honest, Mary had proved a big disappointment to her. All mothers have such high hopes for their daughters, but even as a little girl Mary had absolutely no interest in anything feminine, despite Lizzie’s efforts to tempt her with pretty dresses and mob caps, pierced ears and jewellery. Mary had always preferred her own company, too, her idea of playing being a solitary game of marbles on the drain covers.

At least Monica had allowed Lizzie to do all the proper mum and daughter things. Such a shame that she and Pete couldn’t have kids, but at least she had 169

her nieces to spend time with and a high-flying job at the Education Department.

Wayne’s body was found on Saturday. It was Monday now. Lizzie felt cross and disappointed that she was probably the last to hear. Why had no one thought to tell her? Her newspapers were delivered on Sunday, there’d been nothing in the nationals, and because her rheumatism had been playing up she hadn’t left the house. She could understand that Sue and Terry might not be up to spreading the news, but what about Iris Parks? She was supposed to be Lizzie’s mate. And what about Grace, Gillian and Potty? They had all as good as ignored her.

She ran through the events of Saturday in her mind: the hysteria surrounding the disappearance of Jamie, then the way he’d just walked back in, the cheeky little fucker. Nobody had seemed worried about Wayne then – why should they be? She’d left Sue’s with Iris around two to go and visit Steven in hospital – and, Christ, hadn’t that been a shock, seeing the state he was in? – but she might have got word from someone!

Truth be told, she was still haunted by memories of Steven’s face, grotesquely swollen from the bruising.

He just sat propped up in bed, the
Spiderman
comics they had brought him left untouched as he stared out of the window into the hot, clear blue sky, as if in some sort of trance. But it was the sight of Eileen, praying softly at the side of his bed, that had really 170

done Lizzie in. She’d aged significantly overnight, all the colour and life drained out of her face, and there was a terrible emptiness in her eyes, which constantly brimmed over with tears. Her thin little body seemed stretched to breaking point. She barely seemed to have the strength to look up as they entered the room. When she did, Lizzie detected the despair in her eyes as she looked at her boy and then at his visitors. She knew that the two of them had been involved somehow.

Lizzie wanted to break the silence and beg her old friend’s forgiveness, but out of loyalty to the others she kept her mouth as firmly shut as if it had been sealed. No words came out, just a deep sigh from the two visitors. They had colluded in the savage beating of an innocent boy, and this was the result. It was Iris who nudged Lizzie in the ribs, to indicate that they should leave. All the way back from the hospital the two women remained silent and tense, lost in their own thoughts.

Wayne had been the last thing on Lizzie’s mind then. Even with everything that had been going on recently, he just wasn’t the sort of kid you ever worried about. She often saw him on the streets, hanging around with a group of older boys as late as 10.30 when she came out of Bingo, even on a school night. One night she’d told him to get his arse home then immediately regretted it when the other boys began jeering and laughing at him. Worst thing you 171

could do to a kid was humiliate them in front of their mates. She had often scolded her Paul and then realised she’d made a mistake. After all, boys would be boys, and round here, you needed to stay in with the crowd.

‘How did you find out then?’ Lizzie quizzed her daughter, still unable to quell the temper rising inside her.

‘That Kelly Gobber mouthing off to Maria, telling her all sorts of horror stories about blood and shit everywhere. Seems like Lucy’s been knocked off her perch as most popular kid at school. It’s a right old carry-on.