Riley and Enders were trying to get to grips with North Prospect’s particular brand of children. Savage had designated their next action should be to try and find out what Forester had been up to before he disappeared, and according to a report filed by one of the area’s Police Community Support Officers he had often hung around one particular playground. One of the kids at the regular football nights they held had mentioned Forester, and Savage had suggested they should get over to North Prospect and see what they could find out. The PCSO said there were always a lot of kids hanging around and had figured some of them might know something.
‘I think you two will have more street cred with them. I’m old enough to be their mother,’ Savage said.
‘Grandmother in some cases, ma’am,’ Riley said.
‘I’ll take that as a comment on social deprivation and teenage pregnancy rates rather than anything to do with my age or appearance shall I?’
‘Of course, ma’am,’ Riley smiled.
They pulled into Grassendale Avenue and parked next to a small park. Out of the car and Riley was thinking that although the day felt colder, at least the rain had stopped.
‘Sleet and snow,’ Enders said, looking up at the sky. ‘According to the guys in Wet Orifice. Rain off the Atlantic meeting cold air from the north. If the idiots are correct.’
The headquarters of the Met Office was only a few miles away in Exeter, but the scientists seemed incapable of predicting the weather for Devon and Cornwall. Riley still hadn’t got used to the local practice of ignoring the forecast and as a result he’d spent many an uncomfortable day wet, cold or sweaty.
The park was bordered with large boulders, presumably intended to stop joyriders or boy-racers from wheel-spinning their way across the turf, and had a fenced-off playground for the tots, a basketball court and a larger, grassy area where four older boys in football gear were having a kick around, a coke can and a foam burger container acting as goalposts. Only one wore the dark green shirt of the Pilgrims – the local team – the other three’s loyalties were divided between the deep blue of Chelsea, the claret and sky blue of West Ham and the vertical red and blue stripes of Barcelona. None appeared to be aged above nine or ten. The two detectives strolled across the muddy grass to the boys who were trying their best to stay upright as they skidded around chasing a toddler’s Thomas the Tank Engine football.
‘Shouldn’t you lot be in school?’ Riley said.
‘What do you care?’ The blond-haired lad in the Chelsea strip answered.
‘They’re the pigs and they’re going to bang us up.’
‘Nah, they’re paedos. My mum said I had to look out ’cos they are always sniffing around.’
‘They’re paedo pigs, that’s what they is.’
Riley and Enders stood still and the boys danced around them laughing, full of spirit and life, without a care in the whole of their limited world.
‘What’s your name?’ Riley asked the blond-haired boy.
‘Ewan,’ the boy replied. ‘What’s yours?’
‘He’s a ninky nonk,’ one of the others shouted out. ‘I know that’s what they’re called ’cos my nanna told me.’
‘He’s not a fucking ninky nonk, Kyle, you daft cunt,’ Ewan said. ‘Ninky nonks are like those people in the takeaway.’
‘He is too! Hey can you sell me some crack you black mothafucka?’
The other boys burst into fits of laughter and began jumping around, giving each other high-fives and mimicking a troop of bad-ass rappers. Riley took the opportunity to step forward and kick the ball, lifting it with his foot and performing a clever little flick up to Enders. Enders used his head and a knee, before dropping the ball to the ground and hoofing it high into the air for Riley to chase. Riley raced along, outpacing the kids screaming behind him. The ball bounced a couple of times and he trapped it with his foot. He stood with his hands on his hips challenging the boys to get closer.
‘OK, who wants to take on Pele?’
‘Who’s Pele?’ Ewan said.
‘He was nearly as good as Ashley Cole only he wasn’t a bum boy,’ Kyle said.
‘Ashley Cole isn’t a bum boy.’
‘Yes he is!’
‘No he isn’t.’
‘Is too!’
‘Isn’t.’ Ewan turned to Riley for some sort of adult input to settle the dispute.
‘You like Chelsea, Ewan?’ Riley said, pointing at the kid’s shirt.
‘Yeah, sort of. Better than Man U Wankered anyway.’
‘Chelsea are my team too. Think they can win the league this year?’
‘Dunno. Yeah. If Torres can do the business.’
‘Hey, isn’t there a guy who is a real Chelsea nut round here?’ Riley nodded his head in the direction of North Prospect Road. ‘Wears his shirt all year? Bit of a lad?’
Ewan hesitated and the boy’s eyes wandered away from Riley towards the estate. Conflicting loyalties, Riley thought, and wondered if he had pushed his luck. He tried again.
‘Only some of the lads at the station are thinking of organising a minibus up to the Bridge one Saturday and we’ve got a few spaces free. Fancy coming along?’
‘Oh, you mean rabid David?’ The name was pronounced so the couplet rhymed.
‘That’s him. Did he ever have a kick around? Like we have.’
‘No. He was scary. Once he nicked our ball and booted it right out there.’ The lad pointed to the Wolsey Road, a dual carriageway on the other side of the playground. ‘He was a bloody nutter. Lewis almost went under a fucking bus trying to get the thing back.’
They were interrupted by a shout and Riley looked over to where a woman was getting out of a little red Toyota parked behind their car.
‘Hey, can I help you?’ The woman began jogging over towards them.
‘DS Riley, miss,’ Riley said, producing his warrant card.
‘Oh, sorry.’ The woman flicked a lock of dark hair away from her face and smiled. She was late twenties and wore faded jeans and a purple and black chunky knit jumper that hugged her figure, accentuating her curves. Cute, Riley thought. She continued. ‘Only I got a phone call saying a couple of guys were down here talking to the kids. Can’t be too careful these days.’
‘And you are?’
‘Julie Meadows. I run NeatStreet, a kids’ charity. Minding this lot is part of the job. For my sins.’ She ruffled Ewan’s hair and when the boy smiled back at her Riley saw something approaching love in the lad’s eyes.
‘He’s a real detective, Julie, ’cept he’s black.’
‘There are black cops as well, Ewan, only we don’t get many down this part of the world.’
‘Yeah, I know that. He said he was going to take some of us to watch Chelsea. Not on TV, not on Sky. For real. At the Bridge. He promised.’
‘Did he now?’ Julie cocked her head to one side and half-smiled at Riley. The smile hit Riley somewhere deep inside his ribcage. To hide his embarrassment he kicked the ball away towards Enders and the boys took chase.
‘We are trying to find out about a man called David Forester. I understand he used to hang around down here?’
‘Forester? Large guy with a football shirt? Drove a big 4x4?’
‘Yes, that’s him.’
‘Yes, he came from here. Forever poking about with his video camera.’
‘What, shooting the kids?’ Riley indicated the playground.
‘No, the mums. Young mums, yes, but legal. He was always promising them modelling contracts, saying he would help them get discovered. He belonged to some photo club and he said to the girls he would get them work doing glamour shoots if they would audition for him first. From what I heard an audition involved them going back to his place and taking their clothes off.’
‘Anything else?’
Julie stopped. She belonged here, like Ewan, and Riley guessed she would be unlikely to want to reveal information which might make their lives any worse.
‘It’s important,’ Riley said. ‘Forester’s missing, a girl is dead.’
Julie looked around, as if the whole neighbourhood was watching in judgement. She sighed.
‘Forester did drugs. Used and dealt. Some of those girls ended up getting screwed by him. Metaphorically and literally. Do you understand what I mean?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘He could talk the talk, that was the problem, and round here people cling to any last hope. It is all too easy to tell them a fairy tale they want to believe. He could spin things so it seemed as if it was only one step from here to living in a mock Tudor mansion with a footballer as a husband and Hello magazine beating a path to your door.’
‘Any idea what type of stuff he used to shoot?’ asked Riley.
‘Glamour, to begin with. Then he’d get them to show a bit more flesh, give them a little titbit as a reward. Next, rumour has it at least, he’d get the video camera out and start shooting full-on hardcore. I heard the material used to go up on the web on some paysite he helped run.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not a prude, but to think of those girls with Forester makes my skin creep.’
‘Do you recognise this girl?’ Riley took out his picture of Kelly Donal.
‘I’ve seen her on the news, yes, and once before, here actually.’
‘At the playground?’
‘Yes, she was draping herself over the roundabout, breasts hanging out of a halter top. Forester was using a video camera and following her around as she went on all the equipment. Then the girl left and Forester started chatting to some of the mums.’
‘Was he popular round here then?’
‘I don’t think popular is the right word, respected is more like it.’
‘Respected?’
‘Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? But Forester had money and drugs as well as the gift of the gab.’
‘Enemies?’
‘Dozens, I’m sure. Wouldn’t have bothered him though. You know, on the day when I saw him and the girl, this other guy turned up. He had a camera too. Forester seemed to be showing him the footage on the video camera when out of the blue the other guy hit Forester. Just like that. Well, Forester erupted. He chucked the camera down and laid into this other man. He was soon on the ground and Forester was kicking him over and over again. I was about to call you lot when Forester stopped. He picked up the camera, gave the guy one more kick and went off.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I was a bit concerned about the other guy so I went over to ask if he was alright. His face was a mess and he had blood pouring out of his nose, but I shouldn’t have bothered; he told me to piss off and mind my own business!’
‘Charming.’
‘Anyway, I went to talk to some of the girls in the playground and the guy sat on the bench over there, just sat with his head in his hands. After a while he recovered and then he was scribbling things down in this little notebook. It seemed strange. I remember thinking at the time maybe he could be a reporter, but that didn’t fit with him hitting Forester, nor with the way he kept staring.’
‘Staring at what?’
‘At me, at the girls, the mums.’ Julie shuddered. ‘He kept licking his lips and looking around. He was creepy and I must admit, despite what had happened, I didn’t feel much sympathy for him.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘About your height, black hair, very pale skin, white almost, as if he didn’t get out in the sun much.’
‘Can you remember when this was?’
‘The summer, July, August maybe?’
‘And have you seen Forester or this other man since?’
‘No.’ Julie paused and looked over at the boys, her face saddened and reflective. ‘Forester was probably no different from these kids. Then things went wrong, like they do for so many of them. I heard he used to take quite good pictures once.’
The four boys whooped and shouted and Enders was prancing round the field like he was up front for Brazil. The ball flew back and forth between them and Enders’s smile was as wide and natural as the boys’. Riley wondered when the fork in the road would come for them.
‘Anything else about Forester?’
‘Not that I can think of. I’ll ask around, ask the kids. They tell me things they wouldn’t tell their parents, things you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Thanks. Talking of kids, shouldn’t this lot be in school? I sort of think I should be reporting them to someone.’
‘You do that, Detective Clever Clogs,’ she laughed. ‘But you’ll look a bloody idiot if you do.’
‘Why is that then?’
‘It’s the half-term holiday.’
Riley shook his head and smiled.
‘Thanks for telling me,’ he said, pulling out his card and handing it over. ‘If you think of anything else then please let me know.’
‘No problem. And thank you for offering to take the boys to a Chelsea game. I’m going to hold you to that.’
‘I thought you might.’ Riley stopped and, realising what he was about to say, his pulse began to quicken. ‘I’ll do it on one condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘You come too.’
Riley and Enders walked back to their car, Enders trying to brush a patch of dirt from his jacket where he had taken a tumble.
‘That woman was a bit tasty, hey Darius my old Wily Riley?’ Enders smiled and gave Riley a wink.
‘Julie?’
‘“Julie?”’ Enders echoed Riley’s voice. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, I saw you flirting with Miss Julie fresh-as-summer Meadows. Well, I wouldn’t mind going round and mowing her lawn once a week. Twice if it needs it.’
‘Thanks for the fascinating insight, Constable. Your opinion of Ms Meadows is duly noted. I’ll tell the boss shall I? Maybe your wife?’
‘Ah, well, no need to do that.’ Enders squirmed and changed the subject. ‘Did you discover anything of use?’
‘Forester was pushing drugs down here for sure. Supplying the young addicts and getting his leg over while doing it. And then there were the videos.’
‘We knew that, didn’t we? Doesn’t get us any closer to finding Kelly’s killer though.’
‘There was another guy with a camera too. Seems like Forester and this guy had an argument over Kelly.’
‘Well, she was hot and had a lot for them to argue over.’ Enders grinned. ‘But if the pictures the boss showed me are anything to judge by they could have had one each and there would still have been enough to go round.’
‘Jesus, Patrick! You’re way out of order. The girl is dead, OK? I witnessed her body getting sliced open down the morgue, guts and everything on a tray. Some guy raped and killed her and all you can do is make smutty jokes.’ Riley stared at Enders until he was sure he had got the message.
‘What about this other guy?’ Enders said after a while, sounding admonished if not contrite. ‘Forester kills Kelly and does this guy too. Then he does a runner.’
‘Could be, but we’re missing something, I know we are.’
‘Well?’ Enders ruffled his hair, dislodging a piece of mud. ‘What is it?’
‘I reckon I’m a good detective,’ Riley pointed his key fob at the car and bleeped the locks, ‘but unfortunately I am not a bloody clairvoyant.’