AND SHE’S LOST A PIECE OF HER SOUL,
The file on George Arthur Perkins sat on the table between them; Perkins on one side of the table, Harding and Rawlings on the other. Perkins has a record as a sex offender. Perkins is a Nasty Bastard.
You will not like him.
He’d been left stewing in the interview room for more than an hour before Harding and Rawlings came into the room, and he is very nervous and edgy.
Rawlings glares menacingly at him, and Perkins swallows nervously again.
‘I ain’t done nothing,’ he said at last, finding the tension too much to bear. ‘Honest. Nothing. Not since I got out.’
Still, Rawlings and Harding say nothing, as Rawlings continued to glower.
‘What I’m s’posed to have done, eh? What you brung me in for, I tell you, I ain’t done nothing.’
Harding let the tension build up even more. ‘Sally Morton,’ he said at last.
‘That was before, ages ago. I done my time for that, and I been straight since,’ Perkins answered indignantly, but it is false bravado.
‘Indecent assault and attempted rape.’
‘Led me on,’ he muttered, scarcely audible.
‘What, you saying she led you on, she had never set eyes on you before then. A twelve-year-old girl led you on, is that what you’re saying, you bastard? I should knock you through the wall for that,’ spat Rawlings, his fists clenching.
‘Not just her. All of ‘em, they know, give you the look.’
‘So, you thought you could just jump out on her and try to rape her. And you still do, eh, that what you saying? They still lead you on?’
‘No, no. That was before, and I one my time, hard time it was an’ all, I can tell you. Them bastard screws spitting in your food all time.’
‘My heart bleeds for you, George’ said Harding, sarcastically. ‘Sally Morton was twelve years old. She was coming home from school on a dark night in October. You leapt out at her and dragged her into the bushes by Swandale Lane and tried to rape her. Threw her onto the ground and got your grubby hands into her knickers and tried to get them off so’s you could rape her.’
‘I never done nothing like it before and never will again. Why you hassling me for it like this. I done my time; I keep tellin’ you.’
‘Sally Morton hasn’t done her time, though, has she?’ Rawlings suddenly snarled. ‘She daren’t go out at night on her own. Still wets the bed. Still afraid of the dark and jumps every time a man gets too close to her, even her own Dad, so don’t tell me about how hard it was it in Wakefield Jail ‘cos for me it wasn’t hard enough. They should’ve shat on your food, pissed in your tea, stamped on your fingers, broken your toes. Up to me they’d have sliced your cock off and fed it to you bit by bit.’
Harry Rawlings, the father of two young daughters on whom he dotes, is not a forgiving man, not where assaults on little girls are concerned.
Perkins flinched as if struck and a small tear trickled down his face and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. ‘Why you doin’ this to me? I got rights.’
‘You lost your rights the night you dragged Sally Morton into the bushes, you took her innocence and she’s lost a piece of her soul, so don’t come the sympathy plea with me.’ said Harding. ‘Are you sure you haven’t been up to your nasty tricks again.’
‘Wotcha mean?’
‘Where were you on Saturday night?’
‘Saturday? Which Saturday?’
‘Don’t get fucking clever with us, George; else I’m likely to pound you.’ Rawlings snapped. ‘Just answer the question and don’t piss me off any more than you’ve done already.’
‘Sat’dy, can’t think. Nowt much prob’ly.’
‘Exactly what nowt much prob’ly? You go out at all? Walking the dog? Molesting young girls?’
‘I told thee; I’m not doing that no more. Did it once, not doing it again, I’d kill myself before I’d do owt as would put me back inside, honest.’
‘Go ahead, top yourself then, now, go on, do the world a favour, I’ll even buy you the rope.’ Rawlings snarled.
‘Can I have a fag? You dragged me down here so quick didn’t have time to grab me ciggies.’ Perkins asked, eying Rawlings’s packet on the table.
‘No.’ said Rawlings, lighting up and blowing smoke in Perkins face.
‘I need to take a piss an’ all.’
‘Tough, do it in your trousers.’
‘I really need to.’
‘Why are you wetting yourself, George, eh? Guilty conscience?’ Harding said. ‘I asked where were you, Saturday night? Answer me, else DC Rawlings is liable to lose patience and you don’t want that. The cleaners don’t like having to mop blood up from the floor.’
‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re going on about.’ Realisation suddenly dawned on his face. ‘Oh no, shit no! Saturday night, that little girl from the hospital.’ And he tried to get to his feet but Rawlings reached out and grabbing Perkins arm, slammed him back down into the chair. ‘Sit the fuck down. Do that again and I’ll break your arm’
Perkins shot anxious glances towards the door, as if hoping for rescue, that someone; anyone, would come into the room and rescue him. This was a nightmare. He had served 3 years in Wakefield Jail and like all sex offenders, especially child rapists and molesters, had had a hard time; other cons beating him up whilst the screws looked the other way, screws spitting in his food and in his face. Another con had tried to cut his face with a jail made blade but he managed to kick him away. Suicide had not been far from his mind the whole time he was in jail.
Since his release he has tried to re-build his life. He had a job, although not a very well-paid job. He was a jobbing labourer on building sites where no one knew of his past, just another paid by the day labourer amidst a gang of transient labourers who would take a job on, work for a few weeks for beer money before moving on to another site, exactly the anonymity George Perkins needed.
And now his carefully erected shield to the world was being torn down again. Picked up at the site on Claymore Drive where Carlton Construction was building some bungalows. He had been off-loading bricks from a palette when a car had pulled up and two men, the two men now glowering and threatening him had spoken to the foreman who had pointed him out. ‘George Perkins?’ they asked, he had nodded assent his stomach churning in trepidation. ‘Come with us.’ and they had marched him of the site without even telling him why. As he got into the back seat of the car, he could hear the hub-hub of wagging tongues behind him.
‘Saturday night George?’ prompted Harding again.
‘Look, you’re not putting this one on me. That little girl.’
‘Why not, you’ve got the form? Attacking little girls and dragging them into the bushes. Maybe Sally Morton struggled too much so you decided this time to go for one who couldn’t put up such a fight.’ Rawlings said, indignant spittle flying from his mouth, his voice risen to near shout.
‘You’ve got me wrong, honest. It’s not me. Not me,’ he pleaded.
‘Where’d you go Saturday night? For the last fucking time, Saturday night, George.’
‘I… I…look, give us a fag, please. My nerves are well buggered, look my hands are shaking like jellies.’ Harding nodded at Rawlings who contemptuously pulled out a Woodbine from the packet on the table and tossed it sharply at Perkins. It bounced off his chest and fell to the floor and he scrabbled down on his knees to pick it up, now slightly bent and trailing shards of tobacco from the end. ‘Ta, thanks. Need this.’ And he grabbed at the box of Swan Vesta but Rawlings put his hand over the box.
‘Saturday night.’ he said with quiet menace.
Perkins swallowed convulsively, the cigarette in his mouth bobbing up and down as he gulped. ‘A couple of the lads from the site,’ he said at last, ‘Irish lads, Ruby Murphy and Niall, don’t know his other name, we went to the ‘Saracen’s Head,’ you know, on Bickerton Street, just round from the digs they’re in. Couple of pints, you know. They’re moving on, don’t much like Garside, think it’s a shithole and who can blame ‘em for that? Heard there’s a big job in Wakefield so they’re moving up there. Not for me, Wakefield’s the last fucking place I want to go, still see the place in my nightmares.’
‘You taking the piss? Ruby Murphy?’ Rawlings said.
‘Honest to God, that’s his name, seems like it’s not uncommon in Dublin or wherever the fuck they’re from to call a bloke Ruby, can be a boy or a girl’s name, just like some blokes are called Carol or Leslie, else Kim, can be either way. Course we took the piss on site but ‘e just laughs it off. We called him Ruby Murray; you know, after the singer?’
‘And these lads, Ruby Murray and Niall With-no–fucking-second-name, can confirm you were in the Saracen’s Head with ‘em?’ asked Rawlings.
‘Nah, they buggered off on the Monday morning, Pete Day, ‘e’s the foreman, ‘e was none too pleased ‘cos they hadn’t told him they were going so we were short that day.’
‘The landlord at the Saracen, he’ll confirm you were there?’
‘Should do. Look, give us a light, for pity’s sake.’
‘Didn’t show Emily Black much pity, did you?’ Harding said. ‘Raped and killed her.’
‘How many more times, I did not kill that little lass, honest to God I didn’t. Why won’t you believe me?’ he pleaded, wringing his hands.
‘Because you’re a nasty little bastard scumbag who’s got previous for attacking little girls. Why should we believe you?’ retorted Rawlings.
‘Cos I ain’t done nothing. Jesus, this is a nightmare, fucking nightmare, give us a light now, please.’
Harding nodded again and Rawlings flipped the box of matches across the table. Perkins snatched them, struck a match with trembling hands, and drew heavily on his cigarette, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs before coughing and spluttering.
‘After the ‘Saracen’s Head’ then what? Where’d you go then? Off for a sing-song with Ruby Murray?’ Rawlings asked when Perkins finished coughing out his lungs.
‘Nah, they buggered off somewhere, me, I went back to my digs.’
‘What time was that?’ Harding asked, making a note on his pad.
‘Dunno exactly, nine maybe. Thereabouts.’
‘Where?’
‘Where?’
‘Don’t be an arsehole, George. Your digs, where’s your digs?’
‘Derwent Drive, off Barnsley Road, by the railway bridge there, number 17, Mrs. Maguire, she’s the landlady.’
‘She see you come in?’
‘Expect so, at least she was in the kitchen when I got in, made myself a cup of tea and had the potted meat sandwich she’d left for my tea. She’d have to be blind, deaf, and stupid not to have seen me, anyhow she said goodnight as I went up.’
‘We’ll be talking to her, anyway, see if she’ll confirm your story.’ Harding said.
‘Look, do you have to? I mean, if she finds out what all this is about, she’s liable to kick me out. Dead religious, she is, doesn’t hold with anything…’
‘You mean she doesn’t hold with nasty little turds like you attacking little girls?’
‘She doesn’t know that, doesn’t need to know that, does she?’
‘She saw you come in,’ Harding said, ‘but did she see you go out again?’
‘I didn’t go out again. Honest. Had me sandwich and tea, said goodnight to her, and went up to me room. It’s bloody hard work on the site, I tell you, crippling. Look, I have to be there for 6 in the morning, so I read the paper for a bit, had a wash and a piss, and went to bed, well knackered.’
‘What time did you go out, George? What if I tell you that you were seen sneaking out of number 17 Derwent Drive about midnight, walking across town towards the hospital?’ Rawlings asked, flipping through his notebook as though seeking a reference.
‘They’re lying, fucking lying. Why are you trying to fit me up for this, Jesus, it’s a top job, murder. You fit me up for this it’ll be you as is the murderers, not me.’
The questions now came thick and fast from both detectives, trying to trip Perkins up on his story, seeking the lie which would destroy the fabric of his alibi, such as it was.
‘What time did you say you left the ‘Queens Head’ again?’
‘It was the ‘Saracens Head.’ I told you,’
‘What does the sign look like, the pub sign?’
‘I don’t know, never looked.’
‘So, you left at ten, then what?’
‘It wasn’t ten, it was nine, just after.’
‘What time did you sneak out of the house? Midnight? After?’
‘I didn’t sneak out, how many more fucking times, I went straight to bed once I got in.’
‘Thought you said you had a cup of tea and a sandwich. Why are you lying, George?’
‘I meant I went up after me sandwich and tea.’
‘You were seen going out.’
‘Not me, not me. I never went out again, honest. Honest to God.’
‘Ruby Malone, where do you meet him?’
‘Ruby Murphy, Murphy, not Malone, and I told you, he, him, and the other bloke, Niall, worked on the same site.’
‘Noel, what’s his second name again?’
‘Niall, Niall, and it’s not Neil, like what you do in church, mind you, being coppers, they probably don’t let you in church…ok! Joke!’ he said hurriedly as Rawlings started to growl. ‘It’s Nee-al, very particular about that he was, dead touchy, Nee-al.’
‘Ruby Malone and Nee-al, you left the ‘Queens Head’ at ten, is that what you are saying?’
‘No, no, for Christ’s sake, the ‘Saracens Head’, nine o’clock. Thereabouts, Ruby Murphy and Niall, they went off, and I went back to my lodgings, had my tea, and then went to bed.’
‘How’d you get Emily up into the woods, did you carry her, or what?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Didn’t what? Carry her, how then?’
‘I didn’t carry her, I went nowhere near her, I swear, I swear on a stack of Bibles, I swear on my life, on my mother’s life, my sister’s life. I didn’t take that little lass from the hospital, didn’t take her into the woods, and never raped nor killed her. Believe me. Please believe me.’
He leant forward and put his head in his hands, sobbing convulsively. Rawlings looked at Harding, who shook his head, not convinced that George Perkins was the man they were after. Rawlings nodded in agreement, but they would have to continue their investigation of him. Just in case.
‘OK, George, stop snivelling, this is what we’re gonna do. We’re taking you round to Mrs Maguire’s, and we’re going to search your room. You’ll be there to watch. If we find summat, owt, anything implicating you in Emily Black’s killing, we will have you back here so quick and banged up, ready for a short walk and a long drop at Armley. Got it?’ Rawlings asked. Perkins said nothing, still sobbing into his hands.
‘Got it?’ Rawlings shouted, leaping up from his chair and backhanding Perkins across the face. The attack was so sudden that Perkins tumbled over backwards from his chair, falling into an ungainly heap, clutching his reddening cheek. Rawlings was around the table, fists clenched, white with sudden fury. He raised his foot as if to stamp on the quivering Perkins. ‘I ought to stamp his bollocks into the floor,’ he shouted, before Marcus grabbed his arm and pulled him away.
‘Jesus, Harry, calm down, you’ll end up on a charge if the Super hears of this.’
Rawlings shook off the restraining hand. ‘OK, OK,’ spreading out his hands and fingers in acknowledgement. ‘The clumsy bastard just fell off his chair, that’s all, didn’t you, George? George?’
‘Yeah, yeah, fell off me chair.’ Perkins mumbled, rubbing his cheek.
‘Pick the little shit up and let’s go and do what we’ve got to do but he makes me sick, these perverted sick fucks always do,’ said Rawlings, thinking wistfully that if DCI Terry Mason had been conducting the interview, he likely would have beaten a confession out of Perkins by now.
Mason had a technique. The suspect was made to stand in the corner, facing the wall, and using stiffened fingers, Mason would repeatedly jab him in the kidneys, time after time. The result was an agonizing ache deep inside the kidneys which rarely left a mark. ‘If he’s not done this one,’ he would say, ‘he’s likely done summat else, so it’s swings and roundabouts, isn’t it?’ But thinking about it some more, Harry doubted that even Terry Mason would fit up a suspect on a murder charge which could result in hanging. Or would he?
In the meantime, Marcus Harding took Perkins’ arm and half-dragged him, half-lifted him back onto his chair, and brushed some dust from his jacket. He then passed Perkins his handkerchief to wipe his face before suddenly recoiling from the smell. Perkins had wet himself.
‘Jesus, Harry, he’s pissed himself. Let’s get him out of here. Get the search done.’
‘Right, right,’ Rawlings answered, getting himself back under control, breathing deeply through his nose.
They led Perkins to the toilets and let him clean himself up as best he could and arranged with the desk sergeant to take the Ford van that the station used to transport the drunks on a Friday and Saturday night and hence no stranger to the stink of urine.
The search of Perkins’ room revealed nothing, and they had no good cause to remove clothing for analysis for trace elements from the murder site. Mrs. Maguire confirmed that her lodger had returned at 9.10 as he had claimed, ‘smelling of drink,’ she added snippily. She also maintained that as a light sleeper she would have heard if he had tried to leave the house again later.
For the time being, George Perkins is eliminated from the enquiry but was enjoined not to leave West Garside without informing the police.
‘I can’t anyway,’ he answered, ‘cos of my parole.’
Harding and Rawlings left him at the top of the stairs. He watched their departing backs with loathing. Bastard fuckers, bastards, bastards.
Mrs. Maguire asked him to vacate his lodgings and kept the week’s deposit he had paid ‘because he had not informed her that he was a convicted criminal. I keep a good Christian establishment here, and that does not include ex-prisoners,’ she said, as she took his keys from him.
Carlton Construction were more sympathetic, but only because they were short-handed that week. Ten days later, he was given his cards. However, he soon found work on another site, paying a bit better than Carlton Construction and as the project, one of the first multi-storey council house blocks to be built in West Garside, was still a hole in the ground, the chances are that this job might last a bit longer. He has hopes of being taken on as a permanent employee rather than as an itinerant.
I do not know if we shall meet George Arthur Perkins again; that depends upon the course of the investigation and whether Harding and Rawlings will have cause to interview him again. We shall see.
As for Rawlings, I know you’ve met him before but apart from his interrogation of Adelaide Milburn some time ago, he has not really shown his true colour, has he? This is the real Harry Rawlings, permanently on the edge of violence, forget about his love for his daughters and the watercolours and the gallery showings in Skipton; one day Harry is going to lose it in a big way and it is probably best if we are not around when it happens.