Suffer the Children (21 page)

‘I loathe
him
enough for a name to mean nothing. I changed the name for my children.’

‘Why lie to us when we asked you if you had been back to England.’

‘Because I knew it would bring you back snooping. I soon realised it was naive of me to imagine you wouldn’t get your nails in a little deeper. It was an error.’

‘Do you drink, Debra?’ says Josie.

‘A little too much, probably.’

‘And did that cause you any problems, when you and Karl were together?’

‘He caused me enough problems. A few too many glasses of vodka doesn’t count when you look at what he did to my children.’

‘Did you drink to get at him, to damage him?’

Debra Bowker looks at Stanley then quickly away. Stanley says, ‘I hardly see why you’re wasting my client’s time with this.’

‘You know about Karl, the way his father used to beat him. The other things he did to Karl.’

‘You’re not going to get me to feel sorry for him.’

‘The things he did to your children, who can blame you if you tortured him.’

‘Torture?’

‘You said you took the children away as soon as you found out, Debra,’ says Staffe.

‘Of course. And you lot did nothing. Nothing!’

Josie says, ‘But that wasn’t the start of the bad times between you two? Not if you were drinking and he hated it so much.’

‘It’s no mystery that if I hadn’t got pregnant, me and him would never have been together. It was a mistake.’

‘Two mistakes.’

‘I tried to make us a family. I tried to make the best of a bad job.’

Staffe scribbles a note and slips it to Josie.
Get Denness and sit him outside
. He waits for her to go and says, ‘We’re nearly done, Debra. I know you weren’t happy with the way the
allegations
against Karl were dealt with by the police and the CPS. However, we’re trying to do our jobs as well as we can and there have been other incidents drawn to our attention.’

‘That poor Watkins girl. I read it in the
News
on the way over here. Let’s hope that bastard Montefiore gets what’s coming properly this time.’

‘Tell me about VABBA, Debra.’

Without the faintest hesitation or flicker, Debra Bowker says, ‘It didn’t work. For me, it made things worse, getting together with people who just wanted to keep going over and over the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. They were hooked, some of them. They let the grieving replace what they loved. That’s no way to carry on.’

‘Can you remember who went to VABBA?’

‘A whole bunch of people who got more and more into that victim “thing”.’ She makes speech marks in the air and shrugs.

‘Specific people, Debra.’

‘It was a while ago. There were only one or two I ever got on with. One was a man, funnily enough. Tyrone. That’s Sally Watkins’s dad. He was in bits, poor soul. Like me, he was
trying
to put it behind him.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘A woman called Delilah. I forget her surname but she was a black lady. A real lady.’

‘Why was she there? How had she suffered?’

‘Her daughter was raped. Poor Delilah. She wanted to go out and kill the bastards. That’s why I left, truth be known. I’d’ve ended up doing time when it should have been him.’

‘But you couldn’t have killed Karl, could you, Debra?’

She smiles. ‘If only I could have been there.’

Staffe thinks,
If only someone had videoed it!
‘Would you have paid someone to kill him, Debra?’

‘Maybe,’ says Debra.

‘Miss Bowker!’ says Stanley.

‘To stop him doing it again?’

‘That was Leanne’s problem. I told her, what more could I do?’

‘Why do you hate her so much?’

‘He’d been seeing her for two years while he was still with me. He was lining up her kids while mine were getting bigger. When I found out about, you know, what he did to Kimberley, I told Leanne and she told me to “piss off”.’

‘You must have dreamt of getting back at him,’ says Staffe as there is a tap on the door and Josie sidles in.

‘And ruin my children’s lives more? I’ve found better things to do than having that dirty bastard get his comeuppance.’

‘Thanks, Debra. We might want another word while you’re here. We really appreciate you coming in.’

‘That’s it?’

Stanley looks at Staffe as if to say ‘Was that it?’ and as soon as Debra Bowker gathers her handbag up and makes her way to the door, he says, ‘I forgot. What about a woman called Greta? Greta Kashell? Did you ever meet her at the group meetings?’

‘Greta? I didn’t like her one bit. But you didn’t need to ask me that, did you, Inspector? She calls me every so often. You wouldn’t be doing your job if you didn’t know that, would you?’ And she winks at Staffe.

‘Why don’t you like her?’

‘She gives me the creeps, that’s all. If you take my bastard husband as the exception, I’m not a bad judge of character.’ As she says it, she smiles. Then she opens the door and sees Ross Denness. The smile disappears. His too.

‘Do you two know each other?’ says Staffe.

‘Never seen her,’ says Denness.

‘How about you, Debra?’

‘I’ve seen him, when I lived on the Limekiln. He’s that bitch’s cousin.’

‘You’re Leanne Colquhoun’s cousin?’ says Staffe, looking at Denness, recalling that he claimed not to know her. 

As she slides into the car, Debra Bowker lifts her feet in the footwell of the Peugeot’s passenger seat and looks down at the drinks cartons and discarded newspapers. Staffe says, ‘Don’t worry, there’s nothing important down there.’

‘I didn’t want to dirty my shoes,’ says Debra Bowker and she gives him a mischievous wink. ‘I take it you’re single,’ she says, looking across at him. She casts her eyes down and back up. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘How’s your room?’ says Staffe, looking over his shoulder and pulling out into traffic.

‘It makes me feel like a tourist.’

Staffe thinks that she’s a cool customer, whether or not she has anything to feel guilty about. For most people, simply visiting a police station makes them feel as though they are a criminal. Most wouldn’t feel like jaunting around to see the sights.

‘I might even go up the Trocadero later,’ she says.

Staffe laughs out loud, says, ‘I could drop you.’

‘Come with me, Inspector. You look as if you need to loosen up.’

‘I don’t do “loose”,’ he says, looking across at her, smiling.

She leans forward in her seat, frees up the back of her hair and her scent wafts through the front of the car. Staffe can’t imagine her and Karl Colquhoun together. He can’t imagine Linda and Tyrone Watkins together. He wonders at mothers like them fashioning some kind of improvement from the
terrible
things that happened to their daughters.

‘You’ve not always been single, Inspector?’

Staffe brakes and eases himself forward, takes a peek down at how the traffic is on Queensway. ‘I’ve always …’ He looks in the wing mirror, pulls into the bus lane, gets bad looks and V-signs from the stationary drivers.

‘Always?’ she says.

He looks across at her, watches her expression soften. Suddenly, she looks as if she could be easily hurt. ‘Always preferred to ask the questions. It’s my job, Miss Bowker.’

‘A man can get too much of his own way.’

Staffe pulls up outside the Grafton and leans across, pushes open Debra Bowker’s door. ‘Like I said, we’ll need to speak with you again.’

‘It’s his service on Monday. Are you going?’

‘Are
you
going?’ he asks.

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

‘Have you seen his mother yet? Maureen.’

‘I’ve got nothing against her.’

‘It’s just that she didn’t even know you’d moved away. I think she’d like to hear how the children are. I could get my colleague to take you.’

‘I know the way.’ Bowker gets out of the car and reaches back in for her handbag. ‘Thanks for the lift. And for not being a bastard.’

‘I wouldn’t know how,’ says Staffe.

‘Don’t spoil it by lying, Staffe.’

‘Staffe?’ he says, but she shuts the door, walks through the Grafton’s revolving front door; he moves off and parks up in the underground car park. There’s only one way out of the Grafton and the Alma Café is straight opposite. He takes his accounts out of the glove compartment and decides to spy on Debra Bowker for an hour or so. 

Staffe’s accountant sent him the papers three weeks ago. It only takes an hour to check them over, but there are always more important things to do. He orders a double espresso and a slice of Dutch apple pie and looks across to the Grafton’s entrance, then down at the profit and loss account. The figures look extraordinary. The rental income is twice his salary but everything is not what it seems. Deductions take their toll: interest payments; sinking funds for repairs, renovations and rental voids; management company’s fees; accountants’ fees; bank charges; and a provision for the taxman.

He looks back out at the Grafton with the figures swimming around in his head and takes a sip of the coffee. It is scalding and bitter and a much-needed slap to the system. It makes him crave a cigarette. He looks back down to the next page, sees a breakdown of the monthly income and makes a note to let the accountant know not to expect anything from the Kilburn flat now Marie is staying there.

He turns to the balance sheet and sees how much this part of him is worth, after the building societies have been taken care of. The noughts look absurd, make him feel alone.

In the corner of his eye, the shape of Debra Bowker
shimmers
. She doesn’t look out of place. Somehow she has
managed
to narrow the gap between the Limekiln and Mayfair. Staffe tips out all the change he has and swigs back the rest of the espresso, follows Bowker up towards Piccadilly.

She turns the occasional head as she clips her way up Grafton Street on stiletto heels. Turning on to Albemarle Street, Bowker disappears from view and Staffe has to break into a trot, stepping off the kerb to widen his angle of view and as a taxi comes towards him, he sees her disappear into the Albemarle pub. Staffe remembers the place from years ago when he had a night on the tiles with Georgie Best. Not
exactly
a collector’s item, but one to remember.

There is a snug on the left as you go in and a large back room through a small corridor. Staffe waits a few minutes to make sure Bowker has not just gone in to use the toilet. It is a strange place for a woman to come. He glances into the snug and sees her at the end of the bar, his pulse quickening on the way through to the back room as he glimpses Debra talking to another woman, younger than her and blonde. At first, he thinks she is Sally Watkins. Surely not.

In the back room, Staffe gets himself a spot at the bar and angles himself away from the small gap that shows through to the snug. The same staff serve both bars and from here he can see the back of Debra Bowker, a three-quarter profile of Sally Watkins. Except it’s not Sally Watkins. Is it Leanne Colquhoun? He’s sure of it. Or is he going mad?

He orders a pint of Carling so as to fit in and risks another look. Debra Bowker is neither smiling nor frowning. If it is Leanne Colquhoun, surely there would be some kind of a row going on. He takes a slug of the beer and steals another look through to the snug.

Leanne has spent some of Nick Absolom’s thirty pieces of silver on a new look. Her hair is cut on to her shoulders and the blotches on her face have been vanished.

Two things concern Staffe: firstly, Debra Bowker and Leanne Colquhoun are in earnest conversation with no sign of a fight brewing; secondly, he mistook Leanne for Sally Watkins – Leanne being the woman he first thought might be the figure behind the hood in the photograph of the butchered Karl Colquhoun.

He takes a second and final swig of the lager and leaves, quitting for now while he is ahead.

‘He’s not here,’ says Becky Johnson, down the phone.

In the background, Staffe thinks he can hear Johnson calling out to see who it is. ‘Funny, the station said he left. Never mind. Do you mind if I pop round, Becky?’

‘There’s no point.’

‘How are things?’

‘Don’t you know how things are, Will? Things are crap.’

Staffe wants to ask if she knows all about her husband, but knows he can’t. There’s a muted kerfuffle on the other end of the phone and he says, ‘I’m only round the corner.’ And he hangs up.

When he gets to Milford Street, at the wrong end of the Holloway Road, Staffe braces himself for crossfire. He’s known Becky since before Johnson came across from the Met but in the last few years, since Charlie was born it would seem, she has become increasingly resentful and cold. Maybe it’s because the London allowance doesn’t scratch the surface of their outgoings and the pension is a speck on the horizon. Up front and large, Becky Johnson represents the frustrations of a CID widow.

‘I told you not to come round,’ says Becky, standing in the doorway with Charlie clasped to her hip. His Teletubby sweats are clearly handed down and smeared with God-knows how many meals.

‘I just need a quick word with Rick.’

‘I told you.’

‘It’s all right, Becky. Show him in,’ says Johnson from behind her. He is wearing a T-shirt and boxers, has a duvet draped over his shoulders.

‘He’s done in, Will. Can’t you see?’

In truth, there’s little to deny. Johnson looks like death warmed up.

‘Just a quick word, about Sally Watkins,’ says Staffe.

Becky calls the children through from the lounge, to take them into the bedroom. The lounge is open-plan to the kitchen and a decent size, but there is a cot in the corner and it’s easy to see that the place isn’t big enough for a family of five.

Young Ricky leads the way. He is six and runs at Staffe, head-butts him in the stomach and throws his arms around the waist. It is an act of affection disguised as aggression. Staffe ruffles his hair and throws a few play air-punches.

‘Don’t wind him up, Staffe!’ calls Becky.

Sian follows – the oldest. It is all too juvenile for Sian who has an adult’s face. She walks past, head down and glum; Staffe can remember when she was a happy-go-lucky little thing.