Suffer the Children (22 page)

‘Are you OK, Sian?’ He beams a smile at her.

She says nothing. Staffe looks at Johnson who looks at the carpet.

‘You look terrible, man,’ says Staffe once Becky has closed the bedroom door on the mayhem.

‘Thanks,’ says Johnson.

‘You corroborated Sally Watkins’s alibi, didn’t you?’

‘I wrote it up.’

‘Just tell me if you didn’t follow it up.’ Staffe listens to the commotion in the next room. ‘We can change the paperwork.’

‘She was with some bloke off the estate. He’s married. I didn’t want to go busting his family apart but it stacked up. What’s the problem anyway? You can’t finger her for the Montefiore case, surely.’

‘No. Colquhoun.’

‘Colquhoun! Why’d she do anything to him? She never knew him.’

‘Tyrone Watkins knows Debra Bowker.’

‘I don’t get it.’ Johnson sits down on the edge of a
threadbare
sofa and pulls the duvet tight around him. He’s shivering.

‘We can manage without you for a day or so. I’ll see you Monday, Rick.’

‘A whole day off, why thank you,’ says Becky Johnson,
leading
the children out of the bedroom.

Staffe tries a stoic smile out on Becky as he walks towards the door but gets nothing back. He wants to ask how the Chinese was the other night, but says nothing. Just as soon as Janine gets back to him about the syringe, Staffe will have words with Rick. He daren’t think about the action he will have to take.

As he leaves, young Ricky is trying to wrestle Sian to the floor. She fends him off, disinterestedly. Tiny Charlie hits Ricky on the back of the legs with a fish slice and Becky Johnson starts up on her husband before Staffe can close the door behind him. As he does, Sian looks at him with wide, sad eyes, as if to say she can’t live like this much longer.

Ross Denness has been brought in for assaulting one of his neighbours, a five-feet-four ‘rag-head’ who was supposedly on the sex offenders’ register. Josie has checked it out and the
victim
is not, nor has ever been, on the register. As if Saturday nights in the station weren’t bad enough anyway.

‘The fuckin’ register’s wrong, innit,’ says Denness. ‘Everyone knows what goes on with them Moslem bastards.’

Staffe raises his eyes to the duty solicitor who shrugs as if to say, ‘Don’t blame me. I don’t get to choose my clients any more than you do.’

‘Even if he was on the register, assaulting him is still a
criminal
offence.’

‘You sayin’ the law protects him more than me.’

‘You tell me how you know Debra Bowker. Tell me why you never told me you are related to Leanne Colquhoun and then we’ll see what the law’s got in store for you.’

‘I’ve been here hours. You charging me, or what?’

‘Did she tell you what he was doing to her kids? Ask you to sharpen him up, did she?’

‘You know where I was when that happened,’ says Denness with a smug smile. He leans back, puts his hands behind his head.

‘You knew Karl when he was with Debra Bowker and you never liked him then. Debra told you he was more interested in her kids than he was in her. That’s right, isn’t it, Ross? Were you giving her one?’

‘Inspector, please,’ says the solicitor.

‘Well?’

‘Might of,’ says Denness, unable to resist.

‘Who’d blame you’, says Staffe, ‘for getting involved.’

‘Involved?’

‘Maybe you can sleep on it, Ross.’ Staffe stands up, makes to leave.

‘You can’t just hold me here like this.’

‘An officer will be in soon, to charge you with actual bodily harm and inciting racial hatred. For starters.’

‘You bastard.’

‘Mr Denness,’ says his lawyer.

‘Keep it coming, Ross. Keep it coming,’ says Staffe. ‘It’s all good for business.’

Denness’s smug grin falters; he looks as though he can tell Staffe isn’t interested in the ABH.

Staffe pauses by the door. ‘Should be right enough for a
two-to
three-year sentence. You ask your friend here,’ says Staffe, nodding at the duty solicitor. ‘With your history.’

‘It was self-defence,’ says Denness. ‘I’ve got a dozen witnesses.’

‘Just like for when Karl Colquhoun was killed. Best we let the courts make sense of it, eh?’ And Staffe turns his back on Ross Denness for a final time tonight. He’s had as much as he can take for one day and decides to kill two birds with one
bottle
: in the Steeles with Smethurst for a bit of R&R and Met networking.

On his way out, he calls Pulford, tells him to chase up the Sally Watkins alibi and get it re-corroborated. Pulford sounds down, but Staffe lets it slide. He can’t afford to get sucked into being another man short, so he says he’s breaking up and clicks his DS dead. 

Errol Regis has spent sixteen hours sitting in his mother’s old rocking chair in the window of his front room, praying for Theresa to walk down the street. He doesn’t think he can bear a life all on his own.

At three o’clock some men came to fix the porch roof of the house next door, except nobody lives there any more. Errol opened the top window of his front room to let in the smell of the burning tar. He likes the smell but in the end he had to shut the window because it reminded him of Theresa. She couldn’t bear the smell. At four, he made tea: two mugs instead of one and he put out ginger biscuits even though he doesn’t like them. He’s been eating them fifteen years and never said a word.

The men went away but they left the tar burning in a small tin drum over a Calor ring. Just half an hour ago, a man in a donkey jacket came along to check everything. He went away and left the ring burning, still. Errol wanted to ask him why, but he didn’t have the nerve. He thinks something might be afoot so he turns off the lights and gets a blanket to spread over his legs. He turns the radio right down and dials the
number
for Leadengate Station. He lets it ring once then hangs up, rests his finger lightly on the redial button.

Later, drifting in and out of a troubled sleep, Errol wakes. Thinking he can hear somebody knocking on his front door, he draws his knees up to his chest, feels his body tighten. His head pounds and he thinks he hears steps, fading away. He waits, musters the courage to go to the window and peers through the gap in the curtains. He sees two people disappearing and thinks they are police but he’s not sure. He checks the doors are locked, front and back, and resumes his position in the chair.

On the hour, Capital Radio tells him that the attacks on sex offenders on and around the Limekiln have abated. Men have been apprehended and order is, for now, being restored.

Smethurst is already in the Steeles when Staffe gets there and before he can say what he wants, Smethurst gives the barmaid a wink and puts up two fingers. Two halves of bitter arrive together with two large Jameson’s. She is the same barmaid who served Staffe and Josie the other day. She fixes her hair, puts a hand on her hip and smiles.

‘You get it in the neck from Pennington about the Leanne Colquhoun story?’ says Smethurst.

‘I can handle it.’

‘And what about the complaint, from that gang. I heard the PCA are involved.’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Word is, the Montefiore and Colquhoun cases will be with AMIP before the weekend’s out.’

‘No chance. I’m getting there.’ The AMIP rumour, the Area Major Investigation Pool, is news to Staffe. He downs his Scotch in one.

‘How d’you make that out? Some victim support group and a bunch of people with rock solid alibis.’

‘Everybody knows each other. Even Ross Denness, Karl Colquhoun’s workmate, is Leanne Colquhoun’s cousin. And we’ve had him in for beating up a supposed sex offender.’

‘He’s got an alibi right?’

Staffe thinks about Sally Watkins and Johnson’s cock-up over the corroboration of her alibi. He doesn’t want her to become a real suspect.

‘How’s Johnson bearing up?’ asks Smethurst.

‘Why d’you ask?’

‘He’s got mates at the Met. I hear he’s got problems at home. Word is, he’s struggling. And that young pup, too.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with Pulford.’

‘You can be
too
loyal, you know, Staffe.’

‘I’m not
too
anything,’ says Staffe.

‘Course not.’ Smethurst clinks glasses, says ‘Chin chin’, drains his beer and throws his head back, laughing. ‘I’ll drink to moderation.’

‘Bastard,’ says Staffe, following suit, trying not to think about the PCA and AMIP.

‘You’re a different man since you split up with that Sylvie. All uptight.’ Smethurst laughs again. ‘Maybe being single doesn’t suit you.’

The barmaid sets down another brace of braces. She smiles at Staffe. Ever since he went to see Jessop, this case has taken him back. Towards Sylvie? If he was to see her, just once and for old time’s sake, it might somehow help the case.

‘Staffe?’ Smethurst is looking straight at him, obviously talking to a deaf ear.

‘Sorry,’ says Staffe.

‘Hit a nerve, did I?’

‘I’ve just got to make a call,’ says Staffe, getting up from the bar stool and making his way outside. It’s coming up to last orders but it’s still warm out – revellers spilling round the bench tables.

He scrolls down through
Calls Received
. Sylvie comes up and his thumb makes contact with the green
Call
button but just as he applies the telling degree of pressure, the handset vibrates in his hand and he gets the incoming call, hears his sister’s voice.

‘What’s wrong, Marie?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all is wrong. It’s exactly the opposite.’

‘What is it?’

‘I wish Mum and Dad could be here.’

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘I’ve had a couple, but …’

‘What do you want?’

‘Paolo’s asked me to marry him.’

‘Are you mad?’

‘I think I am. I just wanted to say thanks, for letting us have your place.’

Staffe clicks the phone dead and curses into the hot night. As he turns to go back into the pub he thinks he hears someone shout his name. He spins round and looks up and down Haverstock Hill. There’re some youths in a bus shelter on the other side of the road, but a bus pulls up. Staffe thinks they might be the e.Gang. Then he thinks he’s being paranoid. When the bus pulls away, the youths aren’t there.

He marches back into the pub, barging into a couple of youths by the door. They’re holding bottles as if they are weapons and say something he can’t make out as he passes them. ‘Fuck yourselves!’ he says, turning on them. They take a step back, in formation. One of them looks familiar, but Staffe can’t place him. When he gets back to the bar, Smethurst says, ‘Jesus. Looks like we’re going to need a couple more.’

‘Get them in,’ says Staffe, looking towards the youths at the door – who have disappeared.

When the Steeles won’t serve them any more, Staffe and Smethurst make their way out. They’re the last by a long chalk and in the middle stages of disrepair. As she makes the way to her minicab, the barmaid gives Staffe a friendly pat on the back. ‘Look after yourself, sweetheart,’ she says.

‘I can look after you, too,’ he says. ‘I’m a policeman, see.’

‘I don’t think you mean that,’ she says, smiling. She gets in the minicab and it pulls away, past a group of youths hanging around in the car park. Even though he’s half cut, Staffe
recognises
two of them from the pub. They smirk and another youth appears from the back of the group – the one who claims Staffe stabbed him outside the Ragamuffin.

‘Shit,’ says Staffe, instinctively feeling the cut on his wrist.

‘What’s going on?’ says Smethurst.

‘It’s that shitbag who’s got me up on that PCA. Leave this to me.’ Staffe takes a step towards the gang, shrugs off Smethurst’s attempt to restrain him. ‘What the hell do you want with me? And how do you want it? Two or three of you will get it. You know that.’ He looks them each in the eye, one by one and when a bottle gets thrown from the back, smashing at his feet, he knows he has a chance. That’s a coward’s move, a gang mindset. He plants his feet, shakes his arms down and turns his palms to face them, as if to say ‘Come on’.

The gang mumble to each other and Smethurst moves
alongside
Staffe, says, ‘And the rest of you we’ll bang up. I’ve seen you. All I need is to call up your file and your girlfriends’ll be in line, too. It’s an offence to pimp your girlfriends, boys.’

‘Wo! You can’t say that. No way, man. This is harassment.’

‘Who threw the bottle?’

The youth from the other night is smirking. He says, ‘We not causing no trouble, man. When we bring you trouble, you won’t see or hear us, pussy.’

Staffe takes a step forward and the youth doesn’t flinch. The gang gathers tight around him and Staffe thinks he hears the metallic shift and lock of a gun being braced. His heart misses a beat and his legs go weak. Smethurst must have heard it too because he whispers, ‘Fuck off out of here. Now!’

The youth smiles as he sees police bravado turn to mush. The law just hasn’t got the weaponry these days and he takes a step forward. ‘Don’t think Jadus gonna lie down and take your white justice. We know about Kelly, man. Don’t matter if it’s from his brief or his bredren – things will come level.’

The gang take a step up and Staffe feels Smethurst tug at his jacket. Beyond the gang, a car swerves across the road. Its lights come straight at them and Staffe holds his breath, not knowing which way to jump. The youth looks round and the gang follow suit.

‘Fuck, man!’

The car’s brakes screech and it mounts the kerb between the gang and Staffe. He recognises the MR2 and although Pulford calls for them to ‘Get in. Bloody get in!’ the gang have begun their retreat. Staffe squeezes in behind the front seats and Smethurst gets in the front. As they tear off in the cram-packed Toyota, a missile hits the boot. ‘Shit,’ says Pulford, ‘I hope that’s covered on police insurance?’

‘Isn’t it Mummy’s car?’ says Smethurst.

‘Do you want to walk?’ says Pulford. Then under his breath, ‘You fat bastard.’

‘What the hell were you doing there?’ says Staffe.

‘There’s something I need you to see,’ says Pulford.

‘But how did you know I’d be there?’

‘I’m supposed to be a detective, remember?’

They dropped Smethurst at the Boss Clef and carried on up to Pulford’s flat in Southgate with Staffe recounting the run-in with the e.Gang.

‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir, maybe you’d be better off not drinking, with everything that’s going on.’ He pulls the car up sharp, pulls into a parking space.

Staffe looks up at the grey-rendered, inter-war semi with its red-tiled, half-hexagon bay window on a long curving street, all the same, and says, ‘You live
here
. I just mean, I thought you’d live somewhere … else, I suppose.’

‘Somewhere hip?’ Pulford locks the car up and ushers Staffe towards his front door. ‘There’s plenty you don’t know. Wait till you see this.’

Inside, Pulford shows Staffe up the stairs and into his
first-floor
flat. In the small living room there is a blue-grey glow from a computer screen, but Pulford heads straight to the tiny galley kitchen and puts the kettle on. He makes the coffee strong and hands it to Staffe.

‘I don’t need to sober up, you know.’

‘I didn’t say you did.’ He logs on to the Internet.

Staffe picks up his coffee and sits alongside Pulford, watching the web make itself available. ‘Every four seconds, someone hits a child-porn site. Did you know that?’

‘I told you,’ says Pulford, busy with the mouse, taking the cursor round the screen double-quick, with the speed of youth. Staffe blinks, trying to keep up. The coffee makes him grimace. ‘Now, look at this.’ Pulford leans back in his chair, blows out his cheeks. ‘Just look at this.’