TR01 - Trial And Retribution Read online

  Sam Collins's neighbour on one side was an old bloke she knew by sight. He came to the door in response to her knock wearing slippers and vest.

  "What time was that, love? No, sorry, haven't seen no little girl round here, but I wouldn't have, see? Been watching racing on telly.

  Gone and fallen asleep, haven't I? "

  The flat on the other side of the Collins was boarded up and as she walked along the terrace she found only three more places with curtains up to show they were occupied. No one had seen Julie. Anita's heart was beating not faster exactly, but more heavily, as she suddenly had to accept the fact: it may be only temporary, it may be all over in one minute's time, but at this precise moment she didn't know where her little girl was. Every cell other body was in revolt against this idea. What good mother couldn't account for the whereabouts of her children? And if she wasn't a good mother, what was she?

  Anita turned and hurried back to the tower. Julie would certainly have come home by now. After all, it was way past dinnertime and she'd be starving. Had a great appetite, that little girl, when she didn't nil herself up with too many chocolate bars.

  But Julie was not at home and it was nearly half-past two. Peter ran out to the shops, see if Alf or the newsagent had seen her, or the attendant in the launderette. Anita questioned Jason. Had he seen Julie with anyone else? When they were in the playground together, did she run off anywhere? And why, why, why didn't he keep an eye on her?

  Christ, he was eight years old now, she was only five. It was his responsibility.

  Jason said nothing, just shifted from foot to. foot, staring at the wall behind his mother's head. And Anita knew what a lie she had told him. It wasn't Jason's responsibility at all, never had been. She was Julie's mother. The responsibility was hers.

  She went back out with Tony and the buggy and just walked around, calling Julie's name. She marched three hundred yards along the main road, then doubled back towards the water. Behind the estate was the Royal Albert Dock, a vast basin of deserted, disused water. Someone had once told her that in its heyday it had been capable of docking a ship as big as the Titanic. It had been

  fringed by great warehouses and massive cranes until a few years ago.

  Now most of the land around the dock had been levelled and was strewn with all the rubble of demolition: broken bricks, shattered concrete piles, hay stacks of rusty girders. The waste ground was relieved by the odd building site the next phase of London's dock land development was due to occur here one day. But, judging by the desolation Anita saw all around her, it was a far-off day indeed.

  She approached the edge of the dock. The wind was getting stronger and a few drops of chilly rain spattered her face. Anita scanned the gunmetal-grey water, which was beginning to rise in little peaks under the increasing breeze. She put her hands to her cheeks, scanning the surface for anything red, anything white.

  "Oh, dear God," she prayed.

  "Please let her not be here."

  But there was nothing to be seen afloat on that water, just a few sticks, bottles and drink cans.

  "Oh, this is such crap," she told herself.

  "Your daughter would never have come here on her own. It's too far, woman. You're imagining things."

  But there was already an edge of desperation in her voice as she pushed Tony back to the tower block, still calling Julie's name. There was a small knot of residents standing near the playground, and they'd heard that Julie was missing. Well, bad news travels quick. Karen Hyam, Ivy Green, Ron Hall and a few others were there when she went up to them. They knew Julie and her blonde curls all right. But none of them had any idea where she was now. Peter ran up as she was talking to them. He'd drawn a blank at the shops.

  Exhausted, Anita agreed to go back home while Peter went on searching. She dragged herself and Tony up to the flat. The moment she was dreading most of all was almost upon them: the moment when they would have to call in the police.

  chapter 2

  THURSDAY 5 SEPTEMBER. AFTERNOON

  SKANK CITY FC - TICKET-HOLDERS ONLY While they waited by the lift Police Constable Simon Phelps read the inscription on the door and wondered if he should make a funny comment. But something about Detective Inspector North's way of doing things made it difficult. She was the most poised woman copper he'd come across during five years in the job. Thirty-five, not by any means a dog, unmarried but living with her boyfriend (so they gathered at the station) and, on top of that, smart as a whip. She was definitely Premier League to his Leyton Orient. Not that Phelps meant to stay Leyton Orient for ever but, even so, the Detective Inspector inhibited him. So he kept stumble, allowing Pat North to take the lead. She nodded at the graffiti.

  "Got your season ticket then, Simon?"

  "Not yet, ma'am."

  "Don't bother. It's hard to see a player in this club scoring. Anyway, they'll be on borrowed time. This estate's condemned. Coming down as soon as they can find somewhere to park the people."

  Phelps looked around at the hallway. It was bare and brutal.

  "Not a very nice place to lose your kid in."

  "Say that again. And have you ever been here when the bloody lifts have been working? Come on stairs."

  They began slogging up to the third floor, where she indicated flat number nineteen. Phelps rang the bell.

  Jason Harris opened the door and led them to his mother, who stood in her kitchen with two plates of sausages and mash, one in each hand.

  She was holding them helplessly, as if they were stuck to her and she could not dispose of them. Pat North could see the congealed white fat streaking the outside of the bangers. These meals had been cold for hours but their continued existence was a potent act of denial: the food would be eaten by the persons it was intended for, and then everything would be back to normal.

  As Pat North did the introductions, Anita deposited the meal plates deliberately on the laminated counter. With the automatically appraising eye that she had long ago learned to use on domestic visits, Pat clocked the kitchen. It was clean and well stocked. The microwave looked fairly new and so did the toaster. Nothing was more than five years past its sell-by. Nothing was out of an Oxfam shop or the local purveyor of house-clearance junk.

  "We've searched everywhere," she said.

  "Peter's still round the back, looking over the building site and I've been knocking on everyone's door."

  Her voice betrayed her. She was still in control, just. But she was close to panic, the classic patterns Pat remembered from psychology class: articulating rapidly and unevenly and with an intonation pattern in which the stresses hit unnaturally high notes. Meanwhile genuine, high-decibel hysteria was supplied by the toddler who was sitting in his highchair and beating his skull against the

  padded headrest. His screams would have doubled for a circular saw getting to work on a tough piece of hard wood. Pat caught Phelps's eye, nodded at the two children, then glanced back into the lounge.

  "Is there somewhere else we can talk, Mrs. Harris?"

  Anita ushered Pat from the kitchen as Phelps bent to pick up a plastic toy space-tank, which he presented to Tony. It went straight up to the child's mouth, efficiently cutting off the screams. Phelps beamed with satisfaction.

  "Maybe she's just gone into someone's flat," Anita said, following the policewoman into her lounge.

  "She's ever so friendly."

  She began darting about, picking up toys and cushions and a stray pair of trainers that were strewn about. Pat North could hear Phelps in the kitchen, talking to Jason in what he hoped was the tone of a friendly uncle.

  "So, Julie's your little sister, is she? Eh, come on. You're not scared of me, big lad like you?"

  "No I ain't. But you give him my Bone-Breaka, you tosser!"

  Anita didn't seem to hear any of this. She was pitching a handful of toys into a drawer. Pat sat down on the sofa. She had no children of her own she could only imagine what Anita was going through.

  "Why don't you tell me what happene
d, Mrs. Harris? Just the bare facts.

  When did you personally last see Julie? "

  "Oh, yes. All right."

  Anita stopped moving and pressed her fingertips into her closed eyes, concentrating.

  "It was about twelve-thirty. She was there when I looked over the balcony. I remember calling out to her not to get her feet wet."

  "In the playground just below you mean?"

  "Yes. She was playing by a puddle."

  "Do you know if anyone saw her after twelve-thirty?"

  "I sent Peter out to get them. But he said he couldn't find them."

  "Them?"

  "Yes. She was with Jason. Julie was. Their-- I'd got their dinner on the table for them. I didn't know-- I don't know if anyone saw them."

  The front door crashed and a moment later Peter came into the lounge, a glowering, unkempt figure in a tatty long overcoat. Anita ran to him.

  "Peter! Haven't you found her?"

  Peter looked sullenly at the police officer. She was plain clothes but obviously a copper. Peter didn't like the filth.

  "No," he said.

  "I've been all over the estate. Nothing."

  Pat turned to the sideboard, where a large selection of carefully framed family photos were arrayed. She picked one up which was obviously of Julie.

  "Mrs. Harris?" she asked in a low voice. Having been in this situation a couple of times before, she knew it was the question that really scared the parents. But it had to be asked. This was a missing persons case and, at this stage, nothing more than a missing persons case.

  "Mrs. Harris, do you have a recent photograph of Julie we can use?"

  From the squad car on her way back to Southampton Street, Pat North got on the radio to Sergeant Paul Donaldson at the station. She gave him the bare details of her interview with the Harris family and instructed him to set up an incident room and get a team together smartish.

  There was no knowing how long this might take but one thing was clear:

  the search area was neither small nor perfectly formed.

  It was typical of Skipper Donaldson's devotion to efficiency that a dozen faces were already assembled as North walked into the Incident Room at Southampton Street police station.

  "Right," she said, looking around to see who she had to work with.

  "We have a missing child on the Howarth, a little girl called Julie Ann Harris, aged five. Photo's being copied now. She was last seen in the playground this morning, in full view of the tower blocks. There were other kids about but, unlike them, Julie Ann never came in for lunch.

  I don't need to remind you all of the possible implications, just that we want her found, and before dark. OK? "

  Donaldson shouldered his way through the doors with a sheaf of stapled notes. The first page of each was a colour copy of Julie Harris's photograph. He began handing the notes round, alert to the change of atmosphere, a sudden sobering, as the officers studied the image of the gap-toothed little girl staring out of the snapshot with such beguiling natural confidence. If Julie was alive, and maybe lying injured from an accident somewhere, to find her quickly was a reasonable prospect. Even if the accident was more serious and she was dead, they should still find her. As for the other possibilities, they all knew them and nobody wanted to think about them not until they were forced to, anyway.

  North was tacking a copy of the photograph on to the board behind her when PC Bavesh Marik cleared his throat.

  "We going to get any back-up for the search?"

  North knew these uniformed lads were keen and thorough, she had a lot of confidence in them. But she couldn't hope they were numerous enough to cover the ground without assistance.

  She'd already contacted the Metropolitan Police Territorial Support Group, the reserve of officers kept chiefly for public order dudes.

  TSG could usually be relied on to provide numbers for large-scale searches in London. She might also need POLSA, the specialist search boys. They were nauseatingly gung-ho, most of them ex-military, but they tended to get into places other coppers couldn't reach.

  "Yes. TSG are coming in, probably POLSA too. But in the meantime, we get things started. I want a full house to house. It's a big estate and, remember, she's only five years old. Skipper, who've you got?"

  Donaldson straightened to attention to call out the names from a clipboard.

  "Constables Brown, Phelps, Barridge, Henshaw, Marik and Maudsley.

  That's all we can spare immediately for the estate. "

  "Not bad for a start. And who's doing family liaison?" North looked round. A pleasant-faced, neatly dressed woman of about thirty made a signal with her hand.

  The. Er, PC Meg Richards. "

  North pointed with her handful of notes at Richards.

  "Good, I want you to get over to the Howarth Estate straight away. The mother's Anita Harris, aged thirty- four. She's pregnant, by the way four months gone, she tells me. And there's a toddler, two years old and a boy, Jason, nine."

  Donaldson was frowning over his papers.

  "Who's this Peter James?"

  "Live-in boyfriend," said North.

  "Aged twenty-seven and unemployed then again, down there who isn't?"

  "Record?"

  "We're checking the computer now. I've got a few more details on Anita. She was previously married to a Thomas Harris, divorced three years ago. He's in the army reserves in Ireland." She looked up.

  "Thomas Harris is the little girl's father. We have no reason to suspect he's anywhere but in Ireland as I speak, but we're checking on that too."

  A low buzz of conversation and speculation had begun in the room.

  North raised her voice.

  "She's been missing five hours already, so let's get going."

  The officers began to leave the incident room in twos and threes.

  North called Sergeant Donaldson over.

  "One thing I want to do right away check on any residents with previous."

  Donaldson gave a sardonic laugh.

  "That's half the estate."

  "Specifically sex offenders."

  "That's still half the estate joke ..." He held up his palms.

  "Just a joke! But that place is a nightmare."

  "Don't remind me," said North grimly.

  "I was there less than an hour ago, remember? But at this moment it's Mrs. Harris's nightmare and we've got to sort it for her."

  "What d'you make of the family? Flat a tip?"

  The DI shook her head.

  "No, nota tip. Very far from it. She's house proud Everything's clean, place smells of furniture polish, all the surfaces are wiped, carpets hoovered, beds made. She's not a slut."

  "Got a job?"

  "No, housewife. And she likes the Her Indoors bit. But the second thing is there's money coming in. New appliances, lots of videos and toys, good carpets, children neatly turned out. Boyfriend looks a bit of a scruff' but that's just him."

  "Where's it coming from? Chummy's on the dole." North shrugged.

  "Needn't be more sinister than he's moonlighting. Plus her ex is in the army. He's probably generous with maintenance. It all adds up, and she's careful, no question. But there is one thing about that family which doesn't quite fit the Bisto commercial."

  "Oh?"

  She strolled across towards the picture of Julie Harris, Blu-Tacked to the laminated board.

  "It's the older kid, Jason. He's a tear away yeah?"

  "What is he, eight?"

  "Nine. And the point is, I saw his arms."

  "You saw his arms? Christ, Pat, not needle marks?" North turned and grimaced at Donaldson.

  "No, you berk, bruises. And, in my professional opinion, somebody's beating those kids up."

  chapter 3

  THURSDAY 5 SEPTEMBER. AFTERNOON

  The Howarth estate was built in the 1960s on the wave of the nation's desire to be shot of old terraced slums and get as fast as possible into modern tower blocks.

  The Howarth had two such towers
, each of twenty storeys. They were made from prefabricated concrete sections bolted to a Meccano-like steel structure and clad in roughcast and plate-glass framed in aluminium. Their position overlooking the children's playground was deliberate. The architect's fancy was that the towers were two parents, standing guard over their children's play. Beyond the playground was a row of lock-up garages and, alongside these, a parade of shops. The shops, too, were an important part of the original scheme. At one end the local pub had been the pride of the East End's largest brewery chain, designed to serve ploughman's lunches and chicken-in-the-basket along with the beer. The shops, too, had seemed to offer variety a Co-op food market, fishmonger. Post Office, children's clothes shop, bakery, hardware store, launderette, hairdresser.

  But the Howarth Estate represented something more even than that. In the East End of thirty-five years ago, still with brick and slate back-to-backs by the square mile, this was modern and it came packaged with a vision of the new good life, free of poverty, crime and ugliness. In this urban Utopia the young could raise their families and the old live on in apple-cheeked sufficiency.

  But history played a cruel trick on the Howarth: the vision was shown up as a delusion. In the era of glue sniffing and junk food, of daytime TV, catalogue shopping and snuff horror, it soon fell victim to poverty and human isolation.

  Meg Richards noted the signs of degradation all around as she drove with PC Phelps on to the estate. Everywhere the concrete was stained and graffiti-painted, the hallways and stairs smelled of excreta and most of the shops were gone. The Co-op, its windows boarded up, was a low-grade carpet warehouse and all that remained of the others was the heavily fortified launderette, about- to-close Post Office, dodgy betting shop, off-licence and an Indian news agent with a sideline in video rental. At the pub, if you asked for food, they threw a bag of crisps at you. The two towers, the lock-ups, the shopping parade were all earmarked for demolition. No one could say just when, or how, it had all gone wrong.

  The Detective Inspector's instructions to the Family Liaison Officer hadn't been too specific "Get over to the estate' - but DC Richards knew what was expected of her. This was to play the sympathetic ear but also to open a line of communication, relay any necessary information to the home and bring back to the station her own assessment of that home. Most serious crimes assaults, murders happen within families and it has been known for a result to be gained from the work of the FLO alone.