Evil Games (21 page)

She travelled to the very bottom of the hill and back up again, more slowly, making sure. When she arrived back at the row that was level with the bench, she knew there was no grave marker that was less than ten years old and certainly no resting place of a male and two boys.

She blew a kiss to the top of the hill towards the grave of her brother.

FORTY

The appeal of the Cotswolds was lost on Alex. Labelled an ‘area of outstanding beauty’, she had substituted the last word to boredom after passing through one sleepy village after another. Her journey had ended at Bourton-on-the-Water. Alex remembered reading that the area was rich in fossils. And most of them appeared to still live here, she thought, as she glanced around the village hub.

Stone buildings lined each side of the street, all individually owned shops that had probably been trading for two hundred years. Her brief appraisal confirmed there was no chain store in sight, not even a Costa or Starbucks. For Alex, that said it all. How the hell did these people survive?

If nothing else, the fifty-mile journey had been successful in cleansing her of the disappointment of Barry Grant. Initially, her expectations had been exceeded at the news he’d tried to murder his beloved wife and his brother.

For a few moments, standing on the top of that car park in the biting wind, Alex had felt he could be the one. A true sociopath could never find a sense of moral responsibility; could never defy their innate nature and feel guilt. But her experiment required only one success. One person to defy their true nature and momentarily, Barry had been her triumph.

And then he’d opened his mouth again.

His pathetic bellyaching about ‘red mist’ and the overwhelming guilt he felt had tempted her to push him forward herself. Luckily, Alex’s lie about his daughter had been enough to provoke the desired action.

She had been surprised that he’d lived through the fall, but only just. He was hooked up to life support, being kept alive by machines. And, although he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t far off. The physicians were not hopeful for any kind of recovery. Good enough.

Her disappointment in Barry was tempered with her excitement about Kim. The detective was a tantalising project into which she was compelled to delve deeper. It was her interest in Kim which had brought her to this godforsaken backwater.

Alex headed over to the designated meeting place, an establishment that offered an entire day’s sustenance: breakfast, brunch, lunch, afternoon tea, coffee, and she would imagine, for them, the exotic new inventions of cappuccinos and paninis.

She entered through a waist-high gate and noted that the only table occupied outside was by a portly male, completely bald but for a skirt of hair that travelled the back of his head from ear to ear. He wore glasses on the tip of his nose and appeared transfixed by the Kindle he was holding. In his left hand was a cigarette, explaining his residency outside.

Alex felt he was a safe bet and approached the table. ‘Henry Reed?’

The male looked up and smiled. He stood and offered his hand. ‘Doctor Thorne?’

She smiled in response.

He sat back down. ‘I hope you don’t mind if we talk out here. I am hopelessly addicted to the drug nicotine, which now makes me a social outcast.’

Alex did mind. Although the winds were tempered with the odd ray of sunshine, it was still bitterly cold. However, she wanted something from this man so she’d play along.

‘Of course. May I get you another drink?’

‘A latte, thank you.’

Alex headed inside and ordered two lattes. She paid, and was told the drinks would be brought out. She took a seat as her companion placed his reading device on the table.

‘Dickens as an ebook, who would have thought it?’

Alex smiled, not caring one way or another.

‘So, Doctor Thorne, how exactly can I be of assistance to you?’

Alex had decided flattery would work well in this situation. ‘I’ve been researching a particular subject and I came across your book, mentioned as a great insight into the field. Every review I read claimed that your book had broken ground at the time.’

Only part of this was true. There were no reviews she could find. Alex had researched the name Michael Stone and learned a great deal from newspaper articles. A small piece on Wikipedia had stated that a young reporter had self-published a book depicting the events, but she had been unable to locate a copy anywhere. In the absence of the book, Alex had decided to approach the author. Press clippings were one thing but, twenty-eight years ago, the man before her had interviewed people close to the case whilst events were still fresh.

He appeared pleased with her words, and shrugged. ‘In my opinion, it was a story that needed to be told, although the reading public differed and the book sold a total of seven hundred copies.’

Alex nodded as the waitress placed tall glass mugs on the wrought-iron table.

‘So, how can I help you, Doctor?’

‘Alex, please,’ she said, with a smile. She wanted to glean as much information from this man as she could. ‘I have a patient – obviously I can’t go into detail, but she has been subjected to a similar type of trauma recorded in your book and although it was written over twenty years ago, I think you may be able to help me.’

‘Of course, if there’s anything at all I can do.’

Alex noted that his ruddy cheeks had reddened more. Good, he was flattered.

‘Where would you like me to start?’

‘Wherever you’re comfortable.’ Alex would steer him if he veered off the course she’d plotted.

‘I was twenty three at the time, working for the
Express and Star
local office in Dudley. On Sunday second of June I was writing about the tombola winner at a school fete in Netherton and the following day I was covering the most horrific case of child neglect the Black Country had ever seen. Two days later the story had been knocked off the news cycle by a factory fire in Pensnett that had claimed the lives of three firefighters.’

‘But you didn’t move on so quickly?’

He shook his head. ‘I was young enough to be full of journalistic ideals. I thought there were many questions that needed to be answered. I wanted to know how it had been allowed to happen: who or what had been at fault. So, when I could, I would talk to neighbours, friends and any social workers that would speak to me. I gathered statements from psychiatrists and put the whole story together.

‘The trial wasn’t sensational and got little press attention, after which no one seemed particularly interested. There was no public outcry for an inquiry and that suited the authorities just fine. I realised that all the material I’d collated could fill a book. No publisher was interested and so I self-published the story.’

Alex felt she’d been indulgent enough. ‘Could you tell me about the case?’

He finished his drink and began to speak again.

‘Patricia Stone was a troubled child. Her father was of Romany descent and took a Gorja wife. By the time Patty was five her father had abandoned the family and returned to the Gypsy fold. At the age of seventeen Patty was committed to an asylum near Bromsgrove due to randomly hitting people in the street. She was committed by her mother, who simply left her there, relieved to have one less mouth to feed. When the doctors finally got round to her, she was diagnosed with schizophrenia. It took five years to stabilise her condition, finding the most effective cocktail of drugs. By this time, Patty was twenty-two.

‘Shortly after her diagnosis, an unfortunate event occurred under the Thatcher regime. The Care in the Community initiative that had been floating around for about twenty years gathered speed. Many institutions were closed and some very sick people were discarded into a community that was ill-prepared to accept them.’

Alex didn’t speak. She was grateful to the regime. It ensured a never-ending supply of unbalanced minds; however, places such as the outdated asylums had proved their usefulness in providing captive subjects for research purposes.

As Arthur bemoaned the government strategy, she recalled an experiment carried out in such surroundings in 1950s America. Doctor Ewan Cameron had received CIA funds to research the theory of ‘depatterning’. His aim had been to erase the minds and memories of individuals, reducing them to the level of an infant and then rebuilding their personality in a manner of his choosing. His methods had included drug-induced comas and high-voltage electric shocks. As many as 360 per person.

In addition, he had implemented ‘psychic driving’ which entailed strapping the subject into a blacked-out helmet, for sensory deprivation, and playing a recorded message though the inbuilt speakers for sixteen hours per day, for up to one hundred days.

Although all of the subjects were permanently damaged by the research, Alex felt that such institutions had provided an invaluable service over the years.

Alex tuned back in to her companion, who was still wittering on.

‘ … that the benefit did not outweigh the cost. Some patients went on to live ‘relatively’ normal lives, whilst others went on to murder, rape and commit acts of cruelty.’ He nodded towards her. ‘However that is a discussion for another time. Patty was released into the community, judged to be no danger to herself or anyone else. She was placed in a council flat in a high-rise building in Colley Gate and simply disappeared from the system.

‘Every patient was
supposed to be
monitored, but case workers had no chance of evaluating everyone, and so the quieter, less troublesome patients fell through the cracks.

‘Within a year, Patty was pregnant. No one ever knew who the father was. Patty was known as a bit of an oddball, “the local loon”, if you like. There was a neighbour that took an interest in Patty and made sure nobody gave her too much trouble. She was the closest thing to a friend that Patty had; her only visitor when she gave birth to twins.

‘She had a boy and a girl – named Michael and Kimberley. Because of her history she was placed under supervision. She left the hospital and the next few years are sketchy, but it is noted that the children were placed on and off the “at risk” register quite a few times. A lack of physical contact between mother and children was noted as was the boy’s slow developmental rate, both physically and mentally.

‘They fell off the radar for a couple of years until it was discovered that they hadn’t started school. The authorities got involved again and the children started school two terms behind everyone else. The girl soon caught up, and although withdrawn, was intelligent. The boy was kept in remedial class.

‘Reports were made about the children: their weight, cleanliness, refusal to interact. The girl was questioned but wouldn’t speak. She would just stand and hold her brother’s hand.’

‘You have amazing recall of the events,’ Alex noted. The facts were almost thirty years old.

He acknowledged her comment with a sad smile. ‘I lived and breathed this case while I was researching the book. The story of those two children has never left me.’

‘Was nothing done by the authorities?’ Alex asked.

‘The girl wouldn’t speak. I interviewed a Miss Welch, one of the school teachers who had taught Kimberly. She recalled one lesson when the sleeve of the child’s dress had risen up, revealing a red welt around her wrist. The child looked into the teacher’s eyes for a few seconds, as though trying to send a message, before quietly pulling the sleeve back down.

‘At break time Miss Welch sought Kimberly out and tried to ask her about the injury but, as usual, the child said nothing.’

‘Did the girl have no friends?’ Alex asked, with interest.

‘Apparently not. Each break time she would find her brother and hold his hand. They would sit or stand together somewhere in the playground. Children can be exceptionally cruel and they were bullied mercilessly for many reasons: they were scruffy, they smelled, he was underdeveloped and much smaller than the other kids and their clothes were atrociously ill-fitting. Fodder aplenty for primary school.’

He looked at Alex with real feeling in his eyes.

Oh God save me from nice, caring people, Alex thought.

‘And do you know, that girl never retaliated once. She simply held her brother’s hand tighter and walked away, just blanking them out.’

So this was why DI Stone’s barriers had been formed long ago. Alex’s interest was growing. She watched Arthur take a deep breath, eager for him to continue.

‘Spring half-term of 1987 came and went. The children didn’t return to school. Efforts were made to contact Patty, to no avail. A social worker who cared little for protocol persuaded a neighbour to help her break down the door.’

He lowered his head but continued. ‘I managed to interview that particular neighbour: a six-foot Nigerian drug-dealer who cried as he told me what they found. In the bedroom behind another locked door were the two children, chained to the radiator pipe. Michael was chained directly to the pipe and Kimberly was chained to him. It was a very warm week and the radiator had been left running. On the floor was an empty packet of cream crackers and a bone-dry Coke bottle.

‘The boy was dead and the girl was barely conscious. She had laid beside his lifeless body for two whole days. She was six years old.’

Alex placed a look of horror on her face, when what she really felt was excitement.

‘Did you follow the case after that?’

‘I tried to, but the people I really wanted to talk to weren’t saying very much by this time. The council conducted an internal investigation which was no more than a finger-pointing exercise, producing no real conclusions. Don’t forget, news was not what it is today. People bought their newspaper, read it, threw it in the bin and forgot about it. There was no public outcry for answers and this suited social services very well indeed. Compare that with the Victoria Climbie case which prompted a public inquiry and was the catalyst for major changes in the child protection policies for the whole country.’

‘What happened to Kimberly Stone after the trial?’

‘My understanding is that she went from foster home to foster home. As you can imagine, the poor child would have been significantly damaged and it would have taken a very special family to know how to help her. I have no idea where she is now but I still think about her and just hope that she’s found some measure of happiness.’