TR01 - Trial And Retribution Page 5

  "Electric's off. We're in the dark. Phelps, go and get some torches from TSG and in the meantime lend me yours."

  With a barely suppressed sigh, PC Phelps handed her his standard-issue torch and doubled back for his second visit to the equipment vehicle.

  Pat North shone the torch ahead. There were four doors leading off the hall. She entered the first on the left.

  The dank smell of Dunn's sitting room was enhanced by a mixture of stale beer, vinegary wine and tobacco ash. The torch picked out tattered curtains hanging drunkenly over the boarded-up windows, a broken-springed and lopsided sofa, a television set piled with video tapes, a morass of bottles, cartons and take away containers strewn about the filthy carpet.

  "Don't touch anything!" warned Pat North as Donald- son, wading into the room, crouched to examine the video titles.

  "Hmm. Local rental shop might be missing a few videos. Here we have Die Hard, Snow White, Die Hard 2 and ... hello-hello, what's these?"

  He peered more closely. Aladdin, Lion King, My Little Pony, Child's Play. Child's Play! - oh my God. "

  Pat North kicked a Corn Flakes' packet that was lying at her feet.

  "Well, we can get him on theft. I doubt he's rented all that lot. And, talking of child's play, what do you make of this?"

  She was standing beside the sofa, the beam of her torch directed downwards at a blonde Barbie doll lying on the bare and greasy upholstery. She wore only her underwear and one other arms was missing.

  chapter 5

  FRIDAY 6 SEPTEMBER

  Anita got up at five. For most of the night she'd lain awake staring at the curtained window. Tomorrow, wash day. No orange juice in the fridge and the milk's off. Got to fit in a supermarket shop. Jason needs new shoes for school. Julie's supposed to have that eye-test the Nursery thought she needs. Better cancel. No way she'll be able to go after staying out all night. That teething gel for Tony she'd been looking for yesterday be in that other handbag. She had it with her last time the two of them went to Mum's. Random, sluggish thoughts about anything but what happened yesterday.

  There were a few lapses into sleep but these had been gashed by intense, violent fits of dreaming. She'd awoken each time hag-ridden, her heart pounding, sweat seeping from her armpits and scalp. The last dream had been of a car crash. The image was still vivid. A screeching tear of metal, a reek of scorched rubber, spattered oil, burning upholstery. And then the car was it a car, a truck? - rolling over and plunging through a bare landscape of slag heaps towards a lake of still, black water. Bursting into consciousness, she had twisted towards Peter's side of the bed, desperate to hug him like a life belt

  But Peter wasn't there.

  She rolled from bed, pattered to the bathroom and sat to empty her bladder. Then, dodging the mirror, she scrubbed her teeth and filled the bath.

  For half an hour she lay, listening to the bubbles snapping around her stomach rising above the foam like an island. This was the best way she knew to take her away from herself. Lying in an envelope of hot water, surrounded by steam, hissing taps, the smell of soap and laundered towels, she forgot the problems of a grown-up person and was transported back into the raw sensations of a child.

  In general, her own childhood had receded to dimness after she became a mother. Wound up in the lives of her children, for their sakes acting the adult, Anita lost contact with the little girl she had once been. Occasionally she wondered if that little girl had survived anyway, inside her. If so, it was a child held hostage and hidden away. It wasn't coming out to play unless the world became a very different place.

  If she was truthful with herself, Anita knew she had put away her child-self even before motherhood. She had done it quite deliberately.

  Leaving aside the usual things that mark the stages into adolescence getting spots, smoking ciggies down on the allotment, the start of her periods there was one day that she would remember as the end of childish things. The head teacher had come into her class in the middle of a lesson. He'd put on a long face especially for the occasion. He asked if Anita would please come out of the room and down to his office. Waiting there were Anita's year tutor, Mrs. Morris, and the school nurse, who was hovering around in the secretary's room. The nurse being there was always a sign something dramatic had happened.

  "I'm afraid I have some bad news to tell you, Anita," said Mr. Passmore at last, in his thin, precise voice. He had one hand up to his neck, nervously smoothing the wings of his spotted bow-tie. With a sound halfway between a squeak and a cough he forced some phlegm to the top of his throat.

  "There is no way in which I can soften it for you, so I'm going to tell you straight out." He had shot a nervous, uncertain glance at Mrs. Morris who nodded encouragement. He continued.

  "Your father's been in an accident. I'm sorry to say, he's been killed. Nobody knows yet what happened, but it appears he stepped into the path of a lorry."

  Compassion didn't come easily to Passmore. Disapproval was more in his line: how inconvenient of her father to get killed worse, to do it in the middle of double maths. That was why he had Anita's year tutor at his elbow. Mrs. Morris supplied the necessary; she did compassion brilliantly.

  "We're so terribly sorry, Anita, dear. This is a tragedy, a real tragedy."

  There was a moistness about Mrs. M's eyes that Anita might have found touching, except that nothing could touch her just then. She had just felt cold to her very bones.

  Back in her bedroom Anita dressed mechanically and, coming back through the lounge, stepped out on to the balcony. A few spatters of light rain, the remnants of last

  night's downpour, flew around on the wind. She looked down. In the area below the tower block, the roundabout and climbing frames were deserted and silent. It was where she had last seen her daughter.

  Further away a few police vehicles not so many as at the peak last night could be seen in the dawn light. Julie had not been found, but nor had hope been abandoned. Anita had been told they'd go on searching all day.

  "Hey!"

  She turned. Peter stood just inside the room, still wearing his long overcoat. He had a look that Anita had never seen on his face before.

  It was a mixture of exhaustion and fear. Her own face must look just the same.

  "Oil, Peter," she said.

  "I had such shitty dreams."

  She went to him and they hugged tightly.

  He said, "I've just come in for a coffee and a wash, then I'm going out again."

  She pulled back and took his face between her palms.

  "You'll crack up, Peter. Then where will we be?"

  He shook his head and there was a staring intensity in his eyes.

  "I

  got to keep going. Don't see how I can stop at the moment. "

  She shook her head and kissed him.

  "No. I know."

  Pat North had hardly more sleep than Anita. At six-thirty she was back in the station belling AMI? - the Area Major Investigating Pool to find out at what point they'd be grabbing the wheel.

  Wanting to find out wasn't some chippy thing. North was aware of the score: AMI? was the murder squad. Anyway, she really could do with a hand, because already this inquiry had eaten up close to five hundred man hours and hardly seemed to have advanced since the off. They hadn't found Julie. They hadn't found anyone who'd seen her after twelve-thirty, when the group of mothers at the playground had drifted away to dish up their kids' lunches. They hadn't even managed to find a drunken piece of low-life called Michael Dunn. What was she doing wrong?

  Back in the Incident Room she joined Sergeant Donaldson and PCs Brown and Phelps. The two constables had been on shift all night.

  They'd just come back from an early visit to the Howarth, having interviewed the news agent as he opened up for the early trade. Yes, he remembered Peter James all right, coming in at about 1. 15 the previous day looking for Julie, and then returning in the next half hour, all in a panic, to ask a second time. But, like he'd told Peter James on both occ
asions, the shopkeeper hadn't seen the little girl at all that day.

  "So. Has anything useful come in on the phones. Skip?"

  Donaldson waved a sheaf of forms phone-messages to the incident room and faxes from other police stations around the capital. It was the sum of the general public's responses to last night's television news appeal, and they did not make Christian reading. Every one of the messages assumed that Julie Ann Harris had been abducted by a predatory paedophile. Most accepted that she was already dead. By no means all were phoning or faxing to express their sympathy.

  "Just the usual sick bastards," grunted the sergeant.

  "Nothing to follow up as yet."

  "Well, I was just thinking I've got to talk to the Press Office in a minute. So what about another TV appeal, this time by the family? Do you think they'd do it?"

  "Course they will. Wouldn't you?"

  North checked her watch. It was 7. 10.

  "I'll get Meg back up there to speak to the parents about it."

  But Donaldson was remembering Michael Dunn and the spin they'd given his flat in the middle of the night.

  "Maybe she should ask them if Julie Ann had a doll with her as well, yeah?"

  The DI nodded and, lowering her voice, she said for Donaldson's ears only, "Not looking good, is it? I've contacted AMIP. They're not keen to come in on this unless and until we've got a body. So I've asked TSG to stay put and do the area all over again this morning. But we'll keep our lads after Dunn. While he's still A.W.O.L. he's got to be a suspect. Agreed?"

  In the cramped Harris kitchen, Helen was feeding spoonfuls of Weetabix into her youngest grandchild's mouth while Jason drove one of his screeching battery-powered battle machines up and down the kitchen table.

  "That's it, my pet, here's another one. Open wide."

  Anita came in, depositing an empty mug in the sink.

  "Peter's been out all night, he's exhausted but he says he'll keep on."

  The telephone rang and Anita jumped.

  "It's all right, love," said her mother.

  "Meg's here. She'll get it probably for her anyway."

  Anita came to the table.

  "Here, Mum, let me. He does it better for me.

  Come on, Tony, love. Open your mouth, there's a good boy. Jason! I told you stop that! "

  Jason was adding to the noise of the toy with his own high-pitched impression of a badly shot gearbox. Anita leaned over and swatted his head.

  "Oi, Mum!" Jason stood rubbing his head for a moment, then darted forward, lifted his fist and dealt a painful, knuckly blow to Anita's arm. Something inside his mother snapped.

  "Don't you do that to me, you little shit!" Anita raised her hand again, higher this time. Jason flinched, then dodged out of the kitchen. He cannoned off Meg Richards as she entered.

  "You all right, Anita?" asked the policewoman. Anita sighed and, still standing beside the high chair, shoved another spoonful of milky mush into Tony's mouth.

  "Yes, yes. Sometimes he can be a real handful.

  Misses his dad, of course .. " She looked at Meg a moment, questioning.

  "He phoned but I haven't spoken to him ... Jason and Julie's dad, I mean. They will find her, won't they?" Meg unslung her bag and sat down at the table.

  "Don't lose hope. And why don't you just sit for a minute, eh? There's something I want to ask you." Anita slumped in the nearest chair.

  "What?"

  "Do you know if Julie had any any kind of toy with her in the playground? A doll maybe?"

  Anita stared at Meg. Toys? Dolls? What was the woman talking about? As soon as she thought it she gave up the effort of working out how these coppers' minds worked. She merely shook her head. She couldn't remember, anyway.

  Dressed in fresh clothes from the bedroom, Peter appeared. Meg was glad he was here. She wasn't sure Anita was concentrating hard enough to give a considered answer to her next question.

  "Peter," asked Meg gently, 'would you be prepared to do a television appeal? "

  Peter looked pleased to have been asked. He didn't pause to consider it. The? Yeah, 'course. "

  "Inspector North spoke on the local news last night, but she feels k'd be good to do an appeal. It would be broadcast about the time of day that Julie Ann Julie was last seen. And it'd be good if it came from ... from the family."

  "Fine, Meg. No problem. We'll do whatever you people want eh, love?"

  He leaned over and squeezed Anita's hand.

  Arriving in a smart, recently registered hatchback, the Scotland Yard Press Officer met Pat North at the main entrance of the tower block two hours later. Her clothes were maybe a touch flashy, her weight was a pound or three over the optimum, but there was no denying the great hair, the brilliantly applied make-up and the fantastic teeth. They flashed and flashed again as regular as a lighthouse.

  "Hi," she said, pumping North's hand briskly.

  "Terrible traffic. This where they live?"

  "Yes. Let's go straight up. What time is the press conference?"

  "Twelve, at Scotland Yard."

  "Any other press action?"

  "We contacted all the radio stations and breakfast TV shows overnight and there's been coverage in their morning bulletins. Also, there'll be a photo in the early editions of the Standard. Sadly, it's too late for this week's local rags. What are the family like?"

  North gave her the facts as they climbed the stairs.

  Later, sitting around the low table in the lounge, Anita and Peter were told what they would have to do.

  "It's important that we keep it very simple," said the Press Officer.

  "Your little girl is missing. This is what she looks like. Anyone who knows anything, phone this number. Here, I've written out a possible script, something for you both to say. Would you like to try it?"

  She drew a sheet ofA4 from a file and passed it across. Anita's face was expressionless as she read it.

  An hour later they were on their way to Scotland Yard, leaving Tony and Jason in the care of their grandmother.

  "J remember, I remember, the house where I was born ..."

  Midge was trying to remember the rest of the poem. Matted pepper-and-salt hair dragged down to the collar of the man's tweed jacket that she wore over a leather skirt and dirty white cotton tights. A can of Tennants Extra was clutched in one claw-like hand.

  The other held an unlit roll-up.

  According to a now barely legible council sign which stood beside its gate, the scrawny patch of railed-in green across the road from the Job Centre had been officially designated Princess Elizabeth Park. But for as long as anyone could remember this well established haunt of schoolgirls on the game had been universally known as the Scrubbery.

  The bench Midge sat on was the last not to have been dismantled by unauthorized persons or set on fire.

  Amateur prostitution being for hot nights in high summer, and with the weather already growing more realistic, the Scrubbery had become a game reserve for

  junkies, crack smokers and the local wino fraternity. They congregated here to be near the public convenience, a foul and swampy concrete facility, about as far from convenient as you could get without asphyxiation. The ambience suited them, it suited everybody, because nobody else would think of going into the Scrubbery unless it was to vandalize something or for their dogs to relieve themselves. And not even the dogs would go into the Scrubbery's toilets.

  On one side of her sat old Bert and, on the other, young Terry. They too had cans of lager and were listening in a desultory way as Midge strained for the next line.

  "Well?" growled Bert aggressively.

  "How does it go on?"

  Midge screwed up her face.

  "Hang on! Hang on and I'll tell you. I remember, I remember ..."

  "You said that bit. You remember sod all, missus. And that's a fact.

  The piss has gone and taken away whatever wit you once had. "

  "Do not interrupt," said Midge in her grandest manner, taking another s
ip of lager and shutting her eyes.

  "J remember, I remember, the house where I -was born, The little something-somethinjj-something ... I'll get it in a mo. Y'know my Grandmama taught it us at the Big House when I was a child. S'where she lived, old dragon and s'where I was born too, matter of fact, s'why I still like that sloppy old poem. Didn' I ever mention she was a Lady and Daddy was an honourable?"

  Terry groaned.

  "Did you ever? You hardly everlmention anything else.

  Leeches on the body politic, your mob.

  "The rich may drink the blood of the people but they cannot sap our will." Leon fucking Trotsky said that. "

  A squad car containing PCs Marik and Davies arrived at the end of the street, unseen as yet by the trio of drinkers. An observer might have said it was some sixth sense, or else simply a coincidence, but as soon as the car began nosing down towards Nightingale Park, Terry rose and slipped into the toilets.

  Marik eased himself from the car and strolled over to the remaining two derelicts.

  "You seen a Michael Dunn?" he said to Bert.

  Bert wouldn't meet the policeman's eye. He kept his chin jammed against his chest and shook his head.

  "You?" demanded Marik, addressing Midge and looking around to see if there were any others in the area. He saw no one.

  "Do any of you know a Michael Dunn?"

  Midge met the question with a broken-toothed grin. She raised her beer can in salute and shook her head.

  In the Harris flat, the television was droning on about the cost of food or something. Jason was lying on the floor of the lounge. Behind him his gran was on the sofa with Tony in her lap. They were staring at the screen but Jason was preoccupied with a game. So he was surprised when, a few minutes later, he became aware of his mother's voice.

  "Please," she was saying, 'if anyone saw my little girl .. if anyone knows where she is .. "

  Jason looked up, twisting around on the floor and looked towards the door. He saw no Anita so he turned back to the television and examined the screen. His mum was there. Her face was right in the middle of the picture and it was crying, real tears.