V for Violet (18 page)

‘Hey,’ he says gently. ‘Come here.’

He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. Then he whispers something to me that makes me think he can read my mind.

‘They haven’t found him yet, have they?’ he says. ‘The bloke who killed your friend.’

I shake my head and breathe in the hot, salty smell of him. I didn’t realise just how much I’d missed him. He bends to kiss me and this time he pushes his tongue into my mouth and flicks it slowly against mine. He tastes of chips and cigarettes. I freeze for a minute, remembering how Jackie once told me a girl could get pregnant if a boy put his tongue in her mouth. How silly we were. I push the thought away. The taste of Beau and the feel of his breath in my mouth makes my chest ache. He’s so close to me, so inside of me, that I’m horrified to feel tears stinging my eyes.

‘You okay?’ he whispers.

I shake my head and pull back from him so I can push my fingers under my glasses to wipe my eyes. I need to tell someone and I want to tell him. He’s the only person I can tell. I take a deep breath. ‘What would you do,’ I say, ‘if you thought that someone close to you had done a really terrible thing?’

‘What sort of terrible thing?’ he asks.

‘The most terrible thing one person can ever do to another.’

He’s silent for a minute. ‘What are you saying, Violet?’ he asks. ‘Do you know who killed your friend?’

‘I … I don’t know. I think I might … yes.’

He turns me around, takes hold of my arms and looks me in the face. ‘Why haven’t you gone to the police? You’ve got to go to the police, Violet!’

‘But what if doing that means destroying a whole family?’ I can’t stop my voice from shaking. ‘What if it means destroying even more lives?’

‘How will it do that?’ He pulls me close again. ‘I’ll come with you, if you like,’ he says. ‘We can go to the police together. But you’ve got to let them know. What if this person kills again? How would you feel then?’

‘But what if I’m wrong?’ I press my face into his chest. His jumper smells sharp and musty, like a damp flannel. ‘What if I go to the police and they come and arrest this person, and I was wrong all along?’

He strokes the back of my hair. ‘You can’t mess around with things like this, Violet. If you only have half a reason to think you know who might be the Battersea Park Killer, you have to tell the police. For the sake of your friend if nothing else.’

He’s right. He’s only telling me what I already know. But what he doesn’t know is that it’s
my
family that’ll be destroyed by this. It’s my
life
that’ll be destroyed by this.

‘Thanks for listening,’ I say. ‘And I promise I’ll think about what you’ve said. But I just need a bit more time. Just to be sure. A hundred per cent sure.’

‘If that’s what you want,’ he says. ‘I promise I won’t say anything until you’ve made your mind up what to do. But when you have, let me know. And I’ll help you, Violet. You know I will.’

I try to smile, but my lips are all wobbly. He leans down and kisses me again. Just once, on the corner of my mouth. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘You never told me what you’re doing here. It’s not to earn extra pocket money, is it?’

He’s joking again. But this time I don’t mind. I glance behind at the doorway to The Golden Lion and try not to imagine what Joseph is doing inside there. ‘Just window shopping on Oxford Street,’ I say. ‘Walked a bit further than I thought and ended up down here.’

‘Got me bike parked up just round the corner,’ Beau says. ‘Fancy a ride home?’

And suddenly, I’m so tired of it all; of Joseph and the terribleness of everything, of the pain of losing Jackie and of the trying and trying to make things right. And I feel so dirty standing here in this place that I can’t think of anything else I’d like better.

There’s a police car parked outside the chip shop when Beau pulls up. My heart sinks. I’m not in the mood for more questions or for the looks on Mum and Dad’s faces when I can’t answer them. I clamber off the bike and turn to say goodbye to Beau. He pecks me quickly on the cheek. ‘Better shoot,’ he says, and before I know it he’s off down the road with a final backwards wave of his hand. I wait until the sound of his engine is like the distant whine of an insect before I turn around and almost bump straight into Inspector Gordon.

‘That was Mr Smith, I presume?’ he says, looking into the distance after Beau.

‘Yeah. What of it?’ I say, before I can help myself.

‘You two been out somewhere, then?’

‘Why do you need to know?’ I snap back. ‘It’s got nothing to do with who killed Jackie, has it?’

Inspector Gordon laces his fingers together and stretches his arms out in front until I hear his knuckles cracking. ‘Now, here’s the thing, Violet,’ he says. ‘I popped around to ask you a couple of questions, but you weren’t here, and your mum and dad had no idea where you were either. So, I’ll ask you again. Where have you been with Mr Smith?’

He’s serious. A shiver runs through me, like someone’s dropped an ice cube down my back. I knew I’d get into trouble with Mum and Dad for buggering off for the morning but I never thought I’d get in trouble with the police. ‘I just went up West,’ I say. ‘I needed to get out of the house for a bit. You know. I did some window shopping.’

‘And Mr Smith?’ asks Inspector Gordon.

‘I bumped into him up there. He was buying records and he offered to bring me home. Save on bus fare.’

‘Uh huh.’ He nods, but his face tells me he doesn’t believe me. ‘But you didn’t think to tell your parents you were going out?’

I shake my head. ‘They wouldn’t have let me go. They’d have been too worried about me.’

‘And you can’t blame them for that, can you?’ he says.

He looks at like I’m a disappointment to him and for a moment I feel like I’m being ticked off by Constable George Dixon from
Dixon of Dock Green
. But if it really was Constable Dixon standing here in front of me, I could tell him about Joseph. Right here, right now. I could tell him everything. He would understand. But then I see Mum, staring at me through the shop window, her face like thunder, and I know that Inspector Gordon is not someone from off the television and I just can’t do it.

‘I need to ask you something about Jackie,’ says Inspector Gordon. ‘Her grandmother told us that Jackie always wore a chain around her neck, with a silver J attached, and that you have a matching one, with a V.’

My fingers rush to my throat.

‘Only the chain wasn’t on Jackie’s body when we found her. Do you know anything about it?’

‘I … I … no,’ I say. ‘I don’t know.’

He waits.

‘I … I took mine off when we fell out that night. Perhaps she did the same.’ Not perhaps, I think. I know she did. Of course she did. Our friendship was broken that night for ever. Why would she have kept it on?

‘Mmm,’ says Inspector Gordon. ‘Perhaps she did. Oh, and just one more thing. How long, exactly, have you known Mr Smith for?’

I don’t like him talking about Beau. It makes me feel funny inside. Like I’m doing something wrong just by knowing him. But Beau’s the only thing making the world turn right now. ‘Two weeks, six days and thirteen hours,’ I say. ‘Is that exact enough for you?’

Mum actually slaps me across the face. I’ve never seen her so angry. ‘Don’t you dare do that to me again,’ she spits. ‘Don’t you dare go off without telling me.’

I bite my tongue as tears sting my eyes.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ she asks. ‘I’ve been worried sick.’ I can’t exactly say, I was following your precious son because I think he’s a monster. She’d just slap me again. So instead I say, ‘And what about Joseph? You know where he is, do you?’

‘That’s different,’ she says. ‘He’s a grown man. I don’t need to know his every movement. You can ask him yourself later, if you’re that keen to know.’

I bloody will ask him, I think. Just to see what lies he’ll come up with this time.

But, it is later now, much later. And he still hasn’t come home. I’m in the shop with Dad and I can’t concentrate. I’ve splashed my arm twice already with hot oil and I’ve dropped a parcel of large cod and chips all over the floor. ‘What’s up with you, Violet?’ Dad hisses at me. ‘Come on, get with it.’

But I can’t get with it. All I can think about is Joseph in The Golden Lion. What was he doing in there? Is that where he hunts for victims? He’s good looking for a fella of his age, even I can see that. And he can turn on the charm. I’ve seen that too, with all his fancy French speak. There’s some girls who’ll fall for anything.

He’ll buy her a drink, whoever it is that he snares in his trap. And then he’ll buy her another. Port and lemon, perhaps? I think that’s what she’d drink. She’ll have just too much. And then she won’t think that maybe Joseph is too old for her and she’ll forget about what she’s read in the papers about the Battersea Park Killer and she’ll just be giddy with all the attention.

Then Joseph might tell her about the war. He’ll tell her how he flew planes over France, about how he bombed the enemy, about how he is a hero. Then she’ll feel safe with him. She’ll perhaps think it will be a feather in her cap if she gets to kiss a war hero. She certainly won’t think twice when he invites her to come home with him. They’ll get on a bus back to Battersea and she’ll giggle all the way as he flirts with her and makes her feel good. We’ll just cut through the park, he’ll say to her, when they get off the bus. No need to be frightened, I’ll look after you. She’ll hold on to his arm as they reach the deepest darkest centre of the park. And perhaps she’ll start to have second thoughts then. Perhaps the cold night air will sober her up and she’ll realise what she’s done. But it will be too late by then. Because there’s too many places in the park to hide and there’ll be nobody there to hear her scream.

‘Violet!’ Dad’s hissing in my ear. ‘They wanted pickled onions with that order. What’s wrong with you tonight?’

The broken veins on his cheeks have flared up red and there’s sweat running in thin trickles down the sides of his face. I could tell him I was having my period, but he’d only die of embarrassment. But it would be better than telling him I was imagining his son taking the life of another young woman. I don’t say any of that of course, I just mumble, ‘Sorry,’ and scoop an extra onion out of the jar, even though I’d rather smash the whole thing on the floor. ‘Can I just have a minute, Dad?’ I ask.

‘I think you’d better,’ he says. ‘But don’t be long.’

I escape through the back kitchen and into the house. Mum’s sitting at the table with the shop’s account books spread out in front of her and a frown on her face.

‘Just getting a drink of water,’ I tell her as I fetch a glass from the cupboard. ‘I’m not feeling too good.’

She sighs and puts her pen down. ‘You and me both,’ she says.

I fill the glass from the tap and turn to look at her. ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.

She rubs her temples and sighs. ‘It’s Norma,’ she says. ‘I’m worried about her. She was round here earlier, without a scrap of make-up on.’

‘So?’ I snort. ‘No make-up? Well, what’s wrong with that?’ I lift the glass of water to my mouth.

‘Norma’s always worn make-up,’ says Mum. ‘She never leaves the house without it.’ She picks up her pen and rolls it around in her fingers. ‘I think all this awful business with Jackie has hit her hard.’

The rim of the glass is cold on my lips. I breathe out and my breath ripples the surface of the water. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ I say. ‘She didn’t even know Jackie that well. Jackie was
my
friend!’

‘I know. I know,’ says Mum. ‘Of course it’s hard on you too. But Norma’s not as strong as you. She never has been. And I’m worried about her. That’s all I’m saying.’

I slam the glass down on the table and the water jumps out and slops across Mum’s account books.

‘Violet!’

‘She can’t just steal my sadness and pain and make it her own!’ I shout. ‘That’s not fair!’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ Mum shouts back. ‘It’s not just your pain. It’s everyone’s!’

She doesn’t understand what I mean. I’m not sure I even understand what I mean. I’m just mad at Norma, mad at the world. Mad at Mum.
Look at your precious son
, I want to yell.
Take a close look. Can’t you see you gave birth to a monster?

But I can’t bring myself to tell her. I don’t want to be the one to rip out her soul again.

I swallow my rage. ‘I’m sure Norma will be fine,’ I say through gritted teeth. It’s obvious what’s wrong with bloody Norma. I can’t believe Mum hasn’t thought of it. She’s pregnant, isn’t she? Her dream has come true. I wonder if even Norma knows yet.

I leave Mum tutting and mopping up the puddle of water and make my way back to the shop. It doesn’t look like I’ve missed much. There’s only a couple of customers left and Dad’s almost finished their orders.

‘Feeling better?’ he asks.

I shrug and start to wipe down the counter, scooping up the spilt salt and dribbles of vinegar in a cloth. The shop door jangles open. I make a wish under my breath that this will be the last customer of the evening. I’m sick of having to plaster fake smiles to my face.

Joseph doesn’t come back until gone midnight. My eyes are itching with tiredness. I waited and waited, tossing and turning in bed, listening to the occasional car passing by outside my window, the raised voices of fellas on their way home from the pub and the distant barking of a dog. There were long stretches of time when all I could hear was my own breathing or Mum and Dad sighing and turning over in their bed.

I checked my watch for the thousandth time. Midnight. And then I heard it. The sound of a door being closed softly downstairs. Then footsteps coming slowly up the stairs.

He’s on the landing. He’s trying to be quiet, but he’s stumbling. There’s a thud. He hiccoughs. Then his bedroom door closes with a bang. His bedsprings creak loudly, then all I hear are his snores rattling through the walls. He’s drunk, I think. And people only get drunk for two reasons; to celebrate or to forget. I pull my blankets tight around my shoulders, because suddenly, I’m freezing cold.

I wake up with a headache. It’s like someone’s banged a nail between my eyes in the middle of the night. I feel awful. I wrap up in my dressing gown and go to the bathroom to find some aspirin. I swallow two pills, then I wash my face and brush my hair. I stare into the mirror and wonder again what Beau sees in me. It’s hard to imagine what I look like through someone else’s eyes. All I can see is ordinariness.

On the way downstairs I pass Joseph’s room. His door is closed and when I put my ear to it I hear him shifting around and snuffling in his sleep. I pinch the bridge of my nose, but instead of helping, it sharpens the pain in my head. I wince. There’s a heavy lump in the pit of my stomach too; like I’ve swallowed a brick or something. I don’t feel right. Nothing feels right about today.

I thud downstairs. For a minute I wonder if Mum and Dad are still in bed. I can’t hear the wireless and I can’t smell toast or bacon or Dad’s fags, or any of the usual Sunday morning things. The lump in my stomach gets heavier.

But they aren’t in bed. They’re sitting in their usual places around the kitchen table and I know straight away that something is very wrong. Blood drains to my feet and giant fingers squeeze my skull tight. Dad’s face is grey and Mum doesn’t look much better.

‘What’s happened?’ I ask quickly.

They both blink at me, like they’ve only just seen me. Mum scrambles to her feet. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she murmurs.

‘Dad?’ I turn to him. ‘What’s wrong?’

He nods at the newspaper on the table. ‘It’s another one,’ he says. ‘Another girl’s gone missing.’

The pain in my head explodes into a million sparks. I slump into a chair.

The kettle boils and steam settles in the air like a storm cloud. Mum bangs around with cups and saucers and when she puts the teapot on the table, she wobbles and tea slops out and spreads in a brown stain across the cloth. ‘Oh, God. Sorry,’ she says.

I glance over at the folded newspaper.

Concerns grow for missing girl as police continue hunt for Battersea Park Killer

Mum pours the tea with shaking hands. ‘I can’t bear it,’ she says. ‘To think, he’s close by, walking the streets that we walk, shopping in our shops.’ She gasps. ‘God forbid we’ve ever served him in the chippie.’ She takes a sip of tea and her teeth rattle on the rim of her cup. ‘They’re saying there’ll have to be a curfew. No female should be out on her own after six in the evening. It’s like the bloody Blitz all over again.’

Dad shakes his head in disbelief. ‘How many more poor girls?’ he says. ‘How many more before they catch the bloody monster?’

The monster, I think. The monster that’s asleep right above your head at this very minute. I gulp a mouthful of tea. It burns my tongue and throat, but I drink some more anyway, because a scalded tongue is nothing next to what I’m about to do. I don’t have to think about it any more. I don’t have to try and decide what to do. Because now another girl’s gone missing it’s all been decided for me.

‘I’m just going to get dressed,’ I mumble. I’m not sure they even hear me. As I walk back upstairs, I realise the pain in my head has gone and the lump in my stomach has melted away. I’ve just got that feeling instead, the one I used to get when me and Jackie were in the queue for the Big Dipper. That sick, fizzy, stomach-churning feeling that comes before you do something you really want to do, but that you know is going to terrify the life out of you at the same time.

I don’t bother knocking on Joseph’s door. I barge straight in. He stirs and flips over on to his back. His sleep-ruffled hair is sticking out in damp clumps and his bare arms are flung wide open showing off the tangle of dark hairs in his armpits. His blankets have ridden down his body, and I watch the steady beat of his heart tap-tapping under his naked chest. If I had a knife with me, I could plunge it right into him and stop that tap-tapping before he knew anything about it.

His eyes flick open and we stare at one another for a moment. Then he pulls at his blankets and struggles to sit up. ‘Violet?’ he says. ‘You all right?’

‘I know what you are,’ I say to him, slowly and calmly. ‘And I know what you did last night.’

His eyes widen and he swallows hard. I’ve never seen anyone look so guilty. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asks.

‘You heard me,’ I say. ‘I know what you are.’

He narrows his eyes. ‘What do you think I am, Violet?’

‘A monster,’ I say.

His face falls. ‘A monster,’ he repeats to himself. ‘I’m a monster?’

Suddenly, I’m shaking and cold sweat is breaking out on my forehead. I need to get out of here. I’ve got no idea what he’ll do to me now he knows I know. He could kill me this very second with just his bare hands. I turn to go.

‘Violet. Can’t we talk about this?’

I run from his room and race down the landing to my own bedroom. I slam the door shut and grab my chair to wedge under the door handle. I’m panting hard. What have I done? What the hell have I done? I grab my jeans and try to pull them on, but I’m trembling so much I can’t get my feet into the leg holes. I could shout for Mum and Dad. But what if he hurts them too? I shouldn’t have spoken to him. I should have just gone straight to the police. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.

I eventually manage to get my jeans on, and a jumper and some shoes. What’s he doing? Is he planning his escape? Is he packing a bag right this minute?

Suddenly, my door handle rattles. I swear my heart stops. ‘Violet. Violet. It’s me. Let me in.’

My throat fills with terror and the bitter taste of aspirin. I can’t speak.

‘Please, Violet. Let me in. Let me explain. Let me talk to you. Please. You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not a monster. I’m really not a monster.’ He rattles the handle again.

‘Go away,’ I manage to say. ‘I don’t want to speak to you.’

‘Violet.’ His voice has gone all high-pitched and pleading. ‘You can’t just come and say those things to me and then tell me to go away.’

I don’t answer him. I can’t. I’m trying too hard not to scream.

‘Violet! Please!’

I slump to the floor with my back against the chair and my fingers in my ears.
Go away. Go away. Go away,
I whisper to myself.

I’m not sure how long I sit there for, but when I eventually take my fingers out of my ears, there’s silence. I stand up slowly and carefully pull the chair away from the door. Still nothing. He’s gone. I’m sure of it. I grab my leather jacket from the wardrobe and pull it on, making sure my purse is zipped into the pocket.

It’s now or never.

A sudden bang forces a small scream from my throat. But then there’s another and another and I let out a breath as I realise it’s only the water pipes. Someone’s in the bathroom. I inch the door handle down. Slowly, slowly, then I pull the door open a crack.

He’s not there.

I open the door wider. The landing’s empty. The water pipes are still groaning and I can hear water splashing from the taps. If he’s in the bathroom, I’ll have to be quick. I tiptoe along the landing and dart down the stairs.
Please don’t let him be in the kitchen, please don’t let him be in the kitchen
, I chant. I push the door open, and there’s Mum and Dad still sitting in silence at the table. Mum’s staring into space with her chin resting in her hands and Dad’s blowing cigarette smoke over her head. As I walk in Mum straightens up.

‘Is that Joseph up and about?’ she asks. ‘Shall I put some breakfast on now?’

‘Not for me,’ I say. ‘I’m … I’m going out.’

‘Out?’ Mum explodes. ‘You’re not going anywhere. How could you even think it?’

I don’t answer. I look at her face with her eyebrows creased in a terrible frown and at Dad with his cigarette paused halfway to his mouth, and my heart aches for them; for what I’m about to do. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry, Dad,’ I manage to choke out, and then I’m out of the back door and running, with Dad yelling at my back, ‘Violet! Violet! Get back here!’

I run and I run, until my chest feels like it’s about to burst. The pavements, the houses, the trees, the shops, the sky – everything’s a blur. I race across roads and down back alleys, past boarded-up buildings and old bombsites and pubs that aren’t yet open. I run past the west side of the park and I see across the road there’s dozens of police milling around outside the entrance. I imagine them all in there, dragging the boating lake and searching every corner, every building, every overgrown piece of waste ground. I don’t stop. I run and I run until my feet are burning.

I turn onto Battersea Bridge Road and by the time I reach the police station every breath tears my lungs into shreds. I slow my pace and take deep gulps of air. My heart’s rattling along at a hundred miles per hour. I stand on the corner opposite the station. A group of officers are gathered at the bottom of the steps and there are three police cars parked on the pavement. They’ll all be in there, working overtime. No Sundays off until they’ve caught the killer.

I will myself to walk past them all. To walk up the steps and inside and straight up to the desk sergeant. I think about what I’ll say. How I’ll say it. I’ll be calm and matter-of-fact. I’ll look directly into his eyes and say, ‘I think you should speak to my brother, Mr Joseph White. I think he might be the Battersea Park Killer.’ I imagine how his bored expression will turn into one of surprise and panic and excitement. I won’t be just some annoying kid. I’ll be someone important, I’ll be the star witness. They’ll usher me into an interview room and offer me tea and biscuits and Detective Inspector Gordon will be called for. They’ll send a car or two with flashing lights and wailing sirens straight to the chippie and it’ll take at least three officers to get the handcuffs on Joseph.

Then a horrible thought strikes me. They’ll bring him here, won’t they? And Mum and Dad’ll probably come too. I might have to see them. I might have to say what I know in front of them all. My feet are shuffling, my hands are sweating, and suddenly I know I can’t do it like this. I can’t do it face to face. I need to tell the police what I know. But I need to do it the coward’s way.

I set off back towards the High Street, my feet pounding the pavements again. In the distance, the four chimneys of the power station are pouring mauve plumes of smoke high in the sky to join the clouds. I keep checking over my shoulder expecting to see Joseph chasing after me, his arms pumping and his face contorted with rage. I see the telephone box up ahead, sitting outside the bank, its red roof gleaming like a beacon. I run the last few yards, my hand already in my pocket pulling out my purse. I reach for the door, and then groan in frustration. There’s someone in there already. A blonde woman, leaning against the window, with a cigarette in one hand and with the phone clamped to her ear with the other.

I walk slowly around the box, making it clear to her that I’m waiting to make a call. She grinds her cigarette out on the floor and scowls at me. Then she turns her back on me and lights another cigarette. There’s a pile of pennies next to her on the shelf by the phone. I groan again. She could be in there for ever. Joseph could have packed a bag by now. He could have left the house and be God knows where.

I jiggle around impatiently. Come on, come on … She puts another coin in the slot. I start counting under my breath. One … two … three … four. By the time I’ve reached sixty, I can’t bear it any more. I walk to the side of the box and tap on one of the panes of glass. The woman whips her head around and frowns at me.

‘Are you going to be much longer?’ I ask loudly.

She flicks two fingers at me and turns away.

I bang on the glass again. ‘Please!’ I shout. ‘It’s an emergency. I need to ring the police.’

She takes the phone away from her ear and pushes the door open. ‘Are you messing me about?’ she asks.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Please. There really is an emergency. I just need two minutes.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say before,’ she says. ‘Hang on a minute.’ She turns back to the phone. ‘I’ll ring you back in a sec, love,’ she says. Then she hangs up and holds the door open for me.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Thanks ever so much.’ I step inside the phone box and close the door. The air inside is still thick with the blonde woman’s cigarette smoke and the stink of old ashtrays. I dig a penny out of my purse, pick up the phone and dial 100 for operator. The phone rings once and then clicks.

‘Hello, operator. How can I help you?’

The woman outside has got her arms folded across her chest. She’s tapping her foot and watching me through the windows. ‘Can you put me through to Battersea Police Station, please,’ I say into the phone.

‘One moment, please.’ There’s a brrr and a click, then I hear the phone ringing at the other end.

‘Hello,’ says a voice. As the pips start bleeping, I quickly push a penny into the slot. ‘Battersea Park Police Station,’ says the voice.

I imagine the desk sergeant with the nervous tick; a cup of tea by his side and a half-eaten biscuit. I turn my back to the woman outside and cup my hand over the phone’s mouthpiece.

‘Hello. Can I help you?’ says the voice at the other end.

My mouth’s gone dry and my tongue feels three times bigger. I clear my throat. ‘It’s about the Battersea Park Killer,’ I manage to say.

‘Yes?’

I imagine the desk sergeant sitting up straight now, grabbing a notebook and pen. ‘I think I know who it is,’ I whisper.

‘Beg your pardon?’ says the desk sergeant.

‘I said, I think I know who the Battersea Park Killer is.’

‘Right. Okay. Can I have your name please, miss. It is miss, isn’t it?’

‘No! I … I don’t want to do that. I don’t want anyone to know I’ve called. Just, please listen.’ I take a deep breath. ‘His name is Joseph White. He lives at Frank’s Fish Bar, on Battersea Park Road. I know he’s got something to do with it all. He … he lied to the police about where he was on the night Jackie Lawrence was killed. He … he goes to Battersea Park, to the places where the girls were found. And he was in Soho last night. He has some letters too … from a missing French girl called Arabella.’

‘Slow down, miss, please. I can’t write that quickly. Just repeat what you’ve just said. But slowly and calmly.’