Mercy Killing (28 page)

‘He’ll be a good place to start. He was always very accepting of what happened to him at the time, although how he’s coped over the years is anyone’s guess.’

‘What the fuck do you want?’ were the first words from Russell Wilson’s mouth when Hazel and Pierre knocked on his door and introduced themselves as police
officers.

‘We’d like to come in and talk to you about Cuxington Children’s Home,’ said Hazel, standing her ground.

The transformation of his face was completed in an instant: it went from a mask of anger and hatred to one of torment. Hazel put him at the same height as her, five feet nine inches, and with
the physique of someone who spent a lot of time weightlifting.

His biceps were straining at the sleeves of his T-shirt, and made to appear a little more menacing by his hands clenched into fists.

They were by his side but very visible from the corner of her eye.

His mouth hung open slightly and he dropped his shoulders, stretched his fingers out and considered his options.

At the point where it was looking as if the door was about to be slammed in their faces, he said, ‘Suppose you’d better come in then.’

They followed him to a sparse lounge with a tiny wooden table and single chair pushed into the corner. The window was covered by a blue bed sheet nailed up below the empty curtain rail and an
old television set sat on a bowed coffee table opposite the two-seater sofa.

Russell Wilson stood in the kitchen doorway staring at them both, arms crossed. He took up most of the doorway although Hazel noticed that the washing up was draining behind him and she had
certainly been in worst-kept flats.

‘What do you want?’ he said and then immediately began to grind his teeth, chest visibly rising and falling beneath the taut cotton top.

‘We know that you were a part of the investigation into Albert Woodville in the 1990s,’ Hazel said. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘That worthless piece of shit? Let me think. Oh yeah, it was the day he was found not guilty of what he did to me.’

This didn’t seem to be the same man who had opened the door to them and cursed in their faces: he was beginning to crumble in front of their eyes.

‘Is it all right to sit down?’ said Pierre, as he headed in the direction of the dining chair, leaving the other two to take the sofa.

‘You haven’t seen him or heard from him since the trial?’ Hazel said.

‘I heard from him all right,’ said Russell. ‘He fucking well wrote to me from prison. He had the neck to tell me that he forgave me for telling lies.’

He choked up at this point, voice catching on a bad memory, the beginnings of a sob forced into a shout, probably to cover his embarrassment at being caught leaking emotion.

‘Do you know what got me the most?’ he asked, although neither officer attempted to answer. ‘He wasn’t even very nice to me when I was at that bloody home. Some of the
boys he played about with at night, they got toys and games, taken out for meals after he’d done what he wanted with them. You could tell who his next victim was, even if the shock all over
their face wasn’t a total giveaway. They’d be the ones with the new football or a train set or something to keep them quiet.

‘So what’s the nasty bastard done now? You wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

Hazel said, ‘He’s dead. He was murdered.’

There was a momentary appearance of surprise, followed swiftly by Russell throwing his head back and laughing.

‘Please tell me it was slow and painful. That would make my day. You have no idea what that bastard did to me. I’m not only talking about physical stuff, but how he messed about up
here too.’

He put his hand up to his head and tapped his temple with his finger.

‘He was a horrible, manipulative man. I bet he begged for his miserable life, saying it wasn’t his fault and he didn’t do anything wrong. I had to hear all that bollocks at the
trial, despite being told it wasn’t a good idea I sat in and listened.’

After an uncomfortable silence, he asked, ‘So why exactly are you here?’

‘Did you have anything to do with his murder?’ asked Pierre.

Russell sneered. ‘No, of course I didn’t. I have to be honest, I wish I did. For years I didn’t know what to do. I went from Cuxington Children’s Home to another one that
was much better, but I couldn’t settle. The staff there tried their best but I didn’t want to know, didn’t want to talk to adults again. One had already abused me and hurt me,
lied about what he’d done and now I was back in the system that had let me down in the first place. I was lost and I have been for years, but it never for one moment made me want to go and
kill the evil son of a bitch.’

He stopped talking and sighed. ‘He really messed me up. It’s not only the thought of him touching me and making me do stuff to him that got inside my head, it was other stuff. For
years I thought I was gay, I even had a relationship with another man. It didn’t work out, probably because I’m not gay. At least I don’t think I am. I’ve struggled with
relationships with women too.’

He picked at his thumbnail. ‘I doubt that I’ll ever lead what people call a normal life. I’ve been in trouble with the police, although you probably know that. Done a bit of
drugs too. I thought it would make it better. It didn’t of course. The problem was still there when I came round and remembered how fucked up I was. How am I supposed to get over what
happened all those years ago if I’m still reliving it on a daily basis?’

Hazel knew that whatever she said next would sound crass, but she went ahead anyway.

‘Have you tried talking to anyone about what happened to you?’ She kept a close eye on his reaction. ‘I mean someone professional who might have been through the very same
thing?’

‘No, love.’ He gave a long slow breath out and said, ‘Perhaps I should. The last few weeks have been OK. I got a new job and thought I’d make a clean slate of things. I
couldn’t face going in today. I was all right until last night when the newspaper headlines caught my eye on the way home. They were about children’s homes shutting down, though not
because of perverts caught with their hands in kids’ pyjamas, but it still freaked me out. I called in sick, so here’s hoping they still want me in tomorrow.’

His face formed a smile. Hazel couldn’t bring herself to mirror it.

‘I can leave you some leaflets if you like,’ she said as she opened her file. When no objection was forthcoming, she took out pamphlets from three different charities and handed them
to him.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘If I’m upfront with you, I wasn’t even going to let you in. I fucking hate the police. You let me down.’

‘We’re glad you decided to talk to us,’ said Pierre. ‘Any chance we can really push our luck and get a statement from you?’

For the first time, Russell gave them a genuine smile. ‘You’re a couple of cheeky sods, aren’t you? This is what happens when you cooperate.’

It took Hazel some time to get the information she wanted from him, but the longer she spoke to him, the more she warmed to him. It was always impossible to establish exactly what someone was
thinking, but up until her rapid exit from Major Crime she had prided herself on being a good judge of what was going on inside someone’s head. It was something she rarely trusted herself
with these days.

In spite of that, he seemed to be giving them a cast-iron alibi for where he was on the evening of Friday the 5th of November.

‘So there were seven of you in the Smugglers’ Inn on Friday?’ said Hazel.

‘Yep, straight from work at four p.m. and I left with two of the others at about half ten. I was pissed as a handcart but walked home as I didn’t think a cab would take me. Besides,
it’s only about a twenty-minute walk back to here.’

Hazel knew that it was at least twenty-five minutes’ walk to Albert Woodville’s flat from the Smugglers’ Inn. It still needed checking out, although it appeared highly unlikely
Russell Wilson could have sneaked out after a couple of hours of drinking, strangled Woodville, and then rushed back. And they suspected that two people had carried out the murder.

Even so, trust no one, believe nothing.

When they had all they wanted, including Wilson’s fingerprints and DNA, Pierre and Hazel stood up to leave.

‘Is it OK if we come back, Russell?’ said Hazel. ‘In case there’s anything we’ve forgotten.’

‘Course you can, although I hope to be back at work tomorrow.’

‘And good luck if you decide to make a call.’

She turned her gaze to the leaflets left on the arm of the sofa, encouraging him to look at the same thing. Above all, Hazel wanted to leave him with the thought of asking for help.

Back in their car, Hazel sat in the passenger seat, running her hands down her face.

‘That’s a big sigh,’ said Pierre. ‘Never mind Russell Wilson, are you doing OK?’

‘The more I hear about Albert Woodville, the more I’m glad he’s dead.’

‘I don’t think you’re alone in that, his killers aside.’

She turned in her seat to watch Pierre’s reaction when she said, ‘If I’m truthful, I don’t want to find who murdered Woodville. One less sex offender on the
books.’

She was disappointed to see that her colleague exhibited no sign of outrage, just gave a smile and said, ‘We don’t get to choose whose murders are worthy of our dedication: they all
are. Besides, what if whoever killed Woodville also killed Dean Stillbrook, the innocent man?’

This was something that sent a chill down her spine. Hazel shivered, despite the suit jacket she was wearing and the heating turned up to the highest setting.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ she said. ‘Mob rule gone wrong. We’ve already seen where that can lead. It’s that all this is getting to me more than I want people
to know. Not you. You strike me as trustworthy.’

He smiled at her and said, ‘I’m not one to argue. Where to next?’

Hazel opened her file to check the next closest address and automatically got her phone out of her bag.

‘Missed call,’ she said. ‘It was on silent. It’s from Harry.’

She sat listening to his message, hung up and said, ‘We can definitely cross Rochelle Harbour off the list. He’s had it confirmed that she died of cancer four years ago.’

‘Was she the one in Yorkshire?’

‘Yes, that’s her. Married with three children, owned her own restaurant according to Harry’s message.’

‘Let’s head for Andrea Wellington next. She’s only about ten miles past Riverstone.’

Hazel didn’t say very much on the journey to their next port of call. She didn’t fail to notice that as Pierre drove them past Russell Wilson’s flat, he was standing at the
living-room window, watching them until their car was out of sight.

Afternoon of Tuesday 9 November

Things were troubling Toby Carvell. His life revolved around his family, business and Leon. His oldest and best friend. With no family of his own to count on for as long as he
could remember before Shirley had come along, he had relied on Leon.

As soon as social services took him from his abusive father, his older brother and younger sister were also removed from his life. It wasn’t part of the deal; they merely disappeared into
the ether. Leon filled the hole they left in every respect.

Toby was putting one foot in front of the other with little thought as to what he was doing. The streets he walked along took him from his home, blurring into one as he made his way towards the
heart of East Rise, through the newer, modernized part with its department stores and restaurants and out onto the other more rundown side. He was moving automatically, in a daze.

Leon was his hero. He always had been since the first conversation they had shared. His admiration for him had ballooned the more he got to know him.

The path that Toby now walked was one he was familiar with. East Rise had been his home town ever since he first met Shirley and she insisted they move there to be near to her family. It was
essential to her that her mum was near by for when their children came along.

The smile on Toby’s lips didn’t register with him as he made his way to Gallery Street. The thought of Shirley’s announcement all those years ago that they were going to start
planning for a family together hadn’t fazed him in the slightest. They had only been dating for three weeks.

He went out and bought the ring the very next morning.

He felt a pain when he thought of how Leon had let him believe for all these years that he had suffered the same horrendous sexual abuse at the hands of Woodville. Toby had tried to cast his
mind back to what Leon had told him Woodville had done to him.

That was the thing with sexual abuse: it made the victim, the perfectly innocent victim, feel like the one who had done wrong. Like they were the one with something to hide. Who wanted to shout
from the rooftops about what had happened to them? Or about what they perceived they had allowed to happen to them.

It was so perfect for the perpetrators of these crimes that they went undiscussed, repelling even their very victims. If no one dared speak its name, it didn’t exist.

Except it did.

Toby couldn’t allow himself to contemplate what else might be happening up and down the country.

His own children were safe. That was a start.

He stopped, ran his tongue around his teeth, a nervous habit, and stepped towards the automatic glass doors of East Rise Police Station.

If the woman on duty felt any surprise at the words of the man standing feet away from her, albeit on the other side of her safety net in the guise of a raised counter, she certainly
didn’t show it.

‘My name’s Toby Carvell. I need to speak to someone about the murder of Albert Woodville,’ he said in a rush, with no discernible breath.

‘Take a seat please, sir. I’ll call someone for you.’

Toby had no idea that he now occupied the same seat that Leon had picked only the day before.

He sat and waited, sure that it wouldn’t be long before he was in the cells.

He leaned back, head resting against the wall, and closed his eyes, replaying last night’s local news in his mind.
Police have confirmed that they’ve been granted further time to
question a thirty-seven-year old man in connection with the murder of Albert Woodville. Their enquiries continue and they aren’t ruling out anything at this stage . . .