Bolton, J. - Now You See Me

A discarded sheet of polythene moves in a sudden breeze and it sounds like the rattle of old bones. The polythene marks the way. The figure reaches out and pushes it to one side. Then steps through.

A smaller space. Still cold, damp and dark, but more containable. There is a mattress on the floor, even an old fold-up chair.

‘Perfect,’ whispers the voice again. Then, softer still, ‘Lacey, I’m home.’

11

I TALKED TO RONA FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR. WHEN WE WERE tired of watching the river, we got up and wandered down Bankside. At the bridge we turned back again and joined the crowds admiring the black and white, surprisingly tiny, circular theatre. Everything she told me was off the record. She wasn’t prepared to press charges, just wanted someone to talk to. She told me how two more boys had arrived, the older one she thought was seventeen, the younger, her age – fifteen. The five boys had stripped her naked and then the two new arrivals had taken turns to rape her. Then they’d forced her to kneel at the foot of the bed and perform fellatio on each of them. It was an act, she told me, known as a lineup. When that was over, the oldest of the boys had turned her face-down on the bed and raped her anally. Only when they saw how much she was bleeding did they let her go. Just before she half crawled out of the front door, Miles had given her the money for her bus fare home.

We both knew this case was never coming to court. Rona knew other girls who’d suffered in the same way, she knew the form. If she brought charges against the boys, they’d either deny anything had happened or they’d claim she consented. The fact that she already had a sexual relationship with one of the boys and had gone willingly to his flat would be held against her. The boys had used condoms, again implying some level of consent. Even if they were charged, they were young and could well be released on bail and be back in the neighbourhood. They would have friends, who would be only too happy to intimidate potential witnesses. If Rona went public, she wouldn’t be safe.

When she’d finished, it would have been difficult to say which of the two of us was the more exhausted.

‘What can I do for you, Rona?’ I asked. ‘I understand that you don’t feel able to press charges right now, but is there anything I can do? Do you need medical attention? I can probably arrange for you to see a counsellor if you like.’

She shook her head. ‘Can you sort out protection?’ she asked.

‘Protection?’ I repeated. ‘For you?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s been talk, at school. Girls say they got their eye on Tia now.’

‘Tia?’ I was lost.

‘My sister. People are saying Miles and the others are coming after Tia next.’ She stopped, and for the first time I thought perhaps she might be close to tears. ‘Miss Flint, you have to do something,’ she said. ‘She only twelve.’

12

I SAID GOODBYE TO RONA AND WALKED BACK TO THE STATION, knowing I was probably as powerless to protect Tia as Rona was.

The official line from Scotland Yard is that all reported rapes and sexual crimes are taken seriously. Spokesmen point to millions of taxpayers’ money invested in the Sapphire Units. The truth is they are failing and all over London young women and girls are being let down. Because those in a position to address the problem simply dare not confront its true nature.

What the official reports and even most newspaper coverage will not say is that gang rape is endemic among young black communities. It’s not the sort of thing people want to hear, but the number of reported cases goes way beyond what demographics can explain.

The girls themselves believe nothing can be done. They hate the fear they live in daily, but know they are powerless to protect themselves against these boys. And they certainly know that no one, not the police, nor their communities, not even their parents, will act or speak to help them.

And what was I going to do about it? I honestly didn’t know. Yet.

Detectives operate a skeleton staff at weekends and I was expecting to find my room at Southwark police station empty. To my surprise, DC Pete Stenning was there, leaning against my desk, cheeky grin turned up to maximum. Stenning and I worked in the same team for just over a year before he’d finished his training and successfully applied to join the MIT at Lewisham. He wasn’t a friend – I don’t make friends at work – but we were on friendly enough terms. Normally, I wouldn’t be sorry to see him, but I had a feeling this wasn’t a social visit.

‘I was just about to put out a call for you,’ he said, as I walked over. ‘You’re wanted at Lewisham.’

‘Have they identified the victim yet?’ I asked, as Stenning drove us away from the station.

He glanced over. ‘I had very clear instructions not to talk to you about the case,’ he told me. ‘DI Joesbury was at pains to remind me that you’re a witness, not an investigating officer.’

It made sense and there was no reason for me to be pissed off. Except I really hadn’t liked DI Joesbury.

‘He’s still around then?’ I asked, wondering if the real problem had been that DI Joesbury hadn’t seemed to like me.

Stenning must have picked up something in my tone. I saw him smiling to himself. ‘You remember that drug ring we busted a couple of weeks ago?’ he said.

I did. Sixteen million pounds’ worth of heroin taken off the streets and nearly a dozen people arrested and charged. Three of them major players.

‘He was a big part of it for six months,’ said Stenning. ‘Spent nearly a year before that just working his way into the organization. Almost got himself killed when the arrest went down.’

Well, thank heaven we were spared that loss, I thought. ‘So, the victim, who is she?’

Stenning was still smiling. ‘Rearrange this sentence,’ he said. ‘Sealed. Lips. My. Are.’

‘Don’t make me read it in the papers,’ I pleaded.

‘My instructions are to drop you off and then get back to the estate,’ he said. ‘We have to knock on every door, see if anyone saw or heard anything. It’s going to take days.’

Stenning was making an effort to look bored, but not really managing it. He was fired up, eager to drop me off and get out. Even in inner London, the opportunity to work on a murder investigation didn’t come along every day.

‘Have they had the post-mortem?’ I asked, because it was worth one last try.

Stenning could turn his grin on and off like a light. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

‘This will all be public information in a matter of hours.’

‘OK, OK. They had the PM first thing this morning,’ he said. ‘The DI was there. The full report won’t be in for a while, but time of death fits with everything you told us and the cause was extensive blood loss. Still no clue as to who she was. No one’s been reported missing. They’re going to put her picture on the news tonight, see if anyone comes forward. Happy now?’

‘They’re putting a photograph of a corpse on national television?’ I asked in disbelief, imagining a horror-struck family seeing their mother with her throat cut.

‘Not a photograph, bozo, a drawing. There’s an artist over at the mortuary now working on it,’ replied Stenning.

He turned into Lewisham’s station car park. ‘She was wearing thousands of pounds’ worth of jewellery and had cash in her bag, so it wasn’t about robbery. It all hinges on who she was, according to the DI. We find that out, and what she was doing on the Brendon Estate, and it should become obvious why she was killed. Everyone seems to think it’ll be wrapped up pretty quickly. Oh, and there’s something odd about the murder weapon, but Tulloch was keeping that pretty close to her chest.’