The Jag reached the river and turned right, driving west through town. Once they got to Hammersmith, Winkler realised they were heading towards his and Gareth’s patch, past Chiswick and out on the A316.
By the time they reached Richmond it was growing dark and rush hour was beginning, the roads becoming more choked with traffic, Hammond’s Jag just visible ahead, though a bus had pushed in between it and Winkler’s Audi.
‘Where the fuck are they going?’ Winkler asked.
A few minutes later Mangan took a right at a roundabout signposted Isleworth, almost catching Winkler off guard. He turned left and saw the Jag just up ahead, following it through a series of left and right turns until, suddenly, the Jag pulled up and drove between two pillars onto the forecourt of a large white building.
Winkler pulled up in a parking space on the street and turned the car lights off.
It was a shabby-looking street, comprising mostly terraces, apart from this building. The streetlamp outside was broken, so he couldn’t make out the lettering on the sign attached to the white building’s front wall. He cracked the window a little, letting in freezing air, and waited till he heard Hammond’s car doors shut. This was followed by men’s voices, and the faint thud of a front door closing.
He got out of his car and examined the sign: ‘St Mary’s Children’s Home.’
He lifted his head slowly to look up at the building, most of the windows illuminated, a dark figure drawing a pair of curtains as Winkler watched. Ice and heat – horror and anger – competed for supremacy in his veins. Only last week Winkler had watched a documentary about the systematic abuse of hundreds of kids in children’s homes in North Wales. And many of the girls forced into prostitution, raped and abused by gangs of men in Rochdale and Rotherham, two other big news stories, had been in the care system.
Winkler thought back to his own childhood. There had been a children’s home near his primary school – Winkler’s mum was always telling him she’d send him to live there if he didn’t behave – and several of the kids from the home had been in Winkler’s class. One of the boys, a kid called Michael, had gone berserk one day, shitting his pants and wiping it on the walls, sticking a turd underneath a girl’s desk. Michael always had brown stuff caked on his fingers and the other kids, including Winkler, would tease him mercilessly, though Michael was a fighter, could handle himself. Winkler’s mum told him he should stay away from the boy. Thinking back now, it seemed highly likely that Michael must have been a victim of abuse.
He stalked back to the car and jumped into his seat.
‘It’s a children’s home,’ he said.
Gareth’s eyes widened. ‘What’s Hammond doing here?’
Winkler picked up the coffee they’d bought back on Goswell Road. It was almost completely cold, but he needed something to take the bad taste out of his mouth.
‘These places are like honeypots for paedophiles and child abusers,’ he said.
Gareth’s eyes grew even wider. ‘I don’t think—’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m sure most of them are run by well-meaning do-gooders. But you watch the news, don’t you? Every other story in the papers over the last few years has been about some child abuse scandal, from Jimmy Savile to Rochdale. They’re nearly always centred on some place where kids are easy to get at: hospitals, youth clubs, care homes. Places like this.’
‘But the two victims – Rose and Jess – lived at home with their families,’ Gareth said, wincing. ‘They didn’t have any connection to the kind of places you just listed.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Winkler insisted. ‘Hammond is the only link between the murders of Rose, Jess and Nancy Marr. He has access to teenage girls through his work. He’s never married, never had any kids of his own. He drives around with some shifty bloke who got kicked out of the army for some reason we don’t know about. And now we see him visiting a children’s home miles away from where he lives and works, after dark. I bet he treats this place like a drive-through McDonald’s.’
Gareth looked like he was going to be sick.
‘So what do you want to do now? Go in, see if we can catch him with his . . . with his pants down?’
Winkler thought about it. ‘No, if we could sneak in through a window, surprise him . . . But that’s not going to happen. I bet you he’ll have an excuse for coming here. “Market research” or something,’ he said, waggling his forefingers in quote marks. ‘Wait here.’
He got out of the car and jogged into the forecourt of St Mary’s, then took a couple of snaps of Hammond’s car on his phone, making sure the building was clearly visible in the background.
Before getting back in the Audi and driving away, he looked up at the closed curtains and felt the bile rise in his throat as he imagined what might be going on behind them. He made a silent vow.
Hammond was going to spend the rest of his life shivering in a cell, fearing for his arse and his life. But first Winkler needed some evidence.
Either that or a confession.
Chapter 40
Day 13 – Patrick
Patrick was back in his car, sitting in the station car park yet again while he called Tenpin’s head office. He didn’t want anyone overhearing and asking why he was ringing them when he ought to be concentrating on Rose and Jessica. He was also taking the opportunity to charge up his e-cigarette in the car’s phone charger – it had run out after only two puffs that morning, and he was dying for a nicotine fix.
After a twenty-minute wait while the director of HR tracked down all the CVs received for the current job advertised at the Kingston Rotunda, Patrick had the address of a girl with the incongruously glamorous name Chelsea Fox. He was sure she was the one he needed to talk to. Not only had she not showed up to her interview the previous day, with no reason given, but the scan of her application form said under Additional Comments:
I know Tenpin in the Rotunda really really well its my faverite place to hang out with my mates so I would totally love to work there and you wouldn’t even need to show me around there ☺
Tutting at the misspelling and inappropriate font, he jotted down the address at the top of her meagre CV – it was indeed the Kennedy Estate – and rang the mobile number. Somewhat to his surprise, Chelsea answered on the first ring.
‘Yeah?’
‘Chelsea Fox?’
‘Yeah. Who is it?’
Patrick cleared his throat. ‘Ah, hello, Miss Fox. My name is . . .’ He looked around the car park for inspiration, his eyes lighting on Winkler’s flash car. ‘. . . Adrian Wilson, assistant director of HR at Tenpin Leisure Group. I’m just ringing to ask if there was some kind of mix-up regarding your interview yesterday, since we didn’t hear from you – we were expecting you in our Kingston office at 2.30 p.m.’
There was a brief silence, then a feeble, artificial-sounding cough. ‘Oh yeah, I’m ever so sorry, I was ill, I’ve got the flu, and my phone had run out of credit, so I couldn’t let you know, I was going to email, but I felt too ill, I’ve been off school and everything . . .’
Patrick decided not to point out that it was half-term.
‘Please don’t worry, Miss Fox. Are you still too unwell to come in for an interview, if we reschedule for tomorrow?’
More fake coughing. ‘Yeah, sorry.’
‘Well, not to worry. We’ll be in touch if another suitable vacancy arises. I take it you’re at home tucked up in bed and keeping warm?’
‘Yeah,’ she said feebly.
Patrick wished her well – the flaky little mare – terminated the call and switched on the car engine. He very much doubted he’d find her tucked up in bed smelling of Vicks VapoRub, but hopefully she was at least telling the truth when she said she was currently at home.