They stood at the cellar doors and looked down a flight of stone steps. The cellar was much larger than one would have thought; it ran the entire length and width of the house. There were wrought-iron candleholders spaced three feet apart, leading down; by now, forensic had brought in some lamps. The white-suited scientists were already at work; there were markers on the steps to indicate where they shouldn’t tread.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Harry muttered.
On one wall was a massive cross; in front of it was a stone altar. Grotesque masks, skulls and hideous shrunken heads hung on the walls, and robes in various shades of red hung on hooks.
‘Oh my God,’ Brandon breathed.
There were deep red stains over the stone altar. The forensic team was gathered around it, taking scrapings. There was a hideous smell that made their nostrils flare. Both men knew it was the stench of rotting flesh.
Anna was led into the Child Protection Unit’s ‘home’ section by the carer working that morning, Alison Dutton. This was an area dressed like a warm, friendly house. The nursery was decorated with paintings and big colourful posters. A doll’s house and boxes of toys were placed neatly against one wall. The room was bright and cheerful, with coloured bean bags and small children’s tables and chairs. Nothing gave any hint of the torment that brought these children into this environment; everything was designed to help the children adjust to normality, yet the entire place was somehow fake to Anna. The women she met were kindly and helpful but, at the same time, protected their charges with a set of rules and regulations made by the Government. The children were waiting for the social services to find them a foster home; until a satisfactory one had been found, they would remain at the protection house.
Anna was told that the little girl, Sharon, was making great progress; she had not started to talk yet, but had formed a strong bond with one of their team. At first, she had refused to eat and never slept; it had taken time and patience for them to get her to the point that she could now be spoon fed and had begun to play with the toys. She had not, after examination, been sexually abused, but she was deeply distressed. She could not control her bladder and would easily become hysterical, screaming continuously.
‘What about the little boy?’
They were having problems with him; unlike his sister, he was not responding. Although he did sometimes talk, he was quite violent if anyone touched him. His medical examination had been very difficult, as he was so traumatized. They ended up tranquillizing him. When examined, it became obvious that he had been sexually abused. His anus was ulcerated; he also had wounds to his genitals and marks on his wrists as if he had been tied up. They were concerned that the infection in his bladder was not responding to the antibiotics.
Anna felt tears stinging her eyes. But she was there for a reason. She spent considerable time explaining the need for her to at least attempt to talk to Keith.
When she got a cold, flat refusal, she went on the defensive. ‘Alison, do you think I want to do this? That little boy’s mother was found mutilated and his other sister decapitated; all I want is to find out what he might know.’
‘Detective Travis, all I have trained for, all I do, is to try to help these wretched children in any way I know how. Yesterday he held my hand — only for a second — but that was my first breakthrough. You want to try to talk to him about his dead mother, his dead sister? Don’t you understand? I am trying to heal what has been done to him.’
‘Please, let me just have a few moments with him. I am not asking to be alone with him; you can be in the room and monitor whatever occurs between us. If you want me to stop at any time, I give you my word that I will. It’s just possible too, that what I need to know might help him.’
Mike Lewis tapped on Langton’s door, then popped his head round. ‘Kramer’s in the holding cell, and not a happy man.’
‘Right.’
‘You want him brought up here?’
‘No, he can stay down in the cell, and Mike — keep the uniforms off my back, will you?’
Lewis hesitated, then gave a nod and closed the door.
Langton flipped a pencil over while he looked at his watch. Five minutes passed before he got up and walked out.
The Hampshire station had only four holding cells; these were situated at basement level. Used mostly for drunks and smalltime burglary suspects, they were cold and bare. They smelt of mildew, stale vomit, urine and disinfectant. The cell doors were the old heavy steel studded ones, with a central flap that opened for officers to monitor the prisoner. At ankle level was a second flap, used for pushing in meal trays. The walls were a dim green, and the stone floor a dark red. Each cell was as unwelcoming as it could be.
Langton carried a clipboard, holding all the statements that had been taken in the previous sessions with Vernon.
Printed by the side of Vernon’s cell door, in chalk, was his name and time of arrival. Langton noisily opened the flap, purposely banging back the bolt. He looked into the cell, just half his face showing.
‘We need to talk,’ he said.
‘Too bloody right we do. What the fuck is going on? I want a lawyer, because this isn’t fucking right. You got no right to bring me here and bang me up!’
‘Have you been offered a cup of tea?’
‘I don’t want a bloody cup of tea, I want to know what the hell is going on. What you got me here for?’
‘To talk.’
‘I’m all talked out with you. I am not saying a fucking word until I got legal representation.’
‘I need some answers.’
‘To what? What the fuck are you up to?’
Langton clanged the flap back into place and shot back the bolt. He turned to Lewis. ‘Leave him here to stew,’ he said loudly. ‘I’ll come back in the morning.’
‘You can’t leave me in this Victorian shithole!’
Langton kept his voice raised so Vernon could hear. ‘See if we can get a lawyer in; this time of day, one probably won’t be available until tomorrow. Maybe we can contact the guy he used before.’
Vernon screeched, banging on the door, ‘You can’t do this to me! You listen to me! You can’t leave me in here! I know my rights!’
Langton looked at Mike and smiled; they both remained silent.
‘Eh, you still out there? You bastard!’
Vernon could be heard kicking and banging; there was a thump as his mattress hit the door. It then sounded as if he was trying to haul his bunk bed across, only to discover that it was bolted to the floor. In a rage, he then threw himself at the door: there was a thud, thud, then another kick.
Then there was a pause, as if he was trying to hear what was going on outside the cell. ‘You still there?’ he called out.
Langton let a few minutes pass before he shot the bolt again and opened the flap. Vernon was calmer now, having exhausted himself.
He looked up at Langton. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ he said, near to tears.
‘I just want to talk to you, Vernon, and get some answers.’
‘To what, for Chrissakes? We’ve been through it all before, ain’t we?’
Bang. The flap closed and the bolt went back across: Langton was starting to get impatient. He checked his watch and sighed.
Lewis wasn’t exactly sure what was going on. It was a game that could get them both into trouble. Obviously, Langton wanted to unnerve Vernon and get him to talk, but about what, Lewis didn’t know. Vernon had given a statement that Rashid Burry had been at the bungalow with Gail. He had also given details of being taken to Camorra’s property; sketchy they might have been, but Lewis didn’t understand what more they could get from him.
Langton obviously had a different opinion. The charade of opening and shutting the flap in the cell door continued, as did Vernon’s accusations. He veered from threatening legal action, to abusive screaming, to throwing himself against the cell door, kicking and punching at it. Eventually, he huddled on the mattress on the floor, crying. Langton gestured that the cell door could be opened.