The Lies and Crimes of Sweet Caroline Read online

  Copyright © 2021 Darren Wills

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

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  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 9781800468740

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Dedicated to Shirley Ann Fellows and Charles Wills.

  Contents

  Tragedy

  Another Dawn

  Opportunity Knocks

  Birthwrong – The Origin Of Sweet Caroline (1983)

  Childhood Woes

  Bonding

  Date Night

  Conquering Jacob

  Preparing Kaleel

  Introducing Peter – A Good Step?

  Crystal Spurr (A Show Of Power)

  The Fun Of Kaleel

  A Bitter Step

  Bringing The Sting

  Sweet Sixteen (A Girl’s Gotta Do…)

  Introducing Leoni

  Doing The Business

  A Severe Consequence

  In Conversation

  Settling The Score

  Leoni Loses

  Another Judy Choice. (Mother’s Not So Little Helper)

  In Conversation

  Big Incident In Little Sheffield

  Vulnerability

  Exposure

  In Conversation

  Epilogue I: Judy In Decline

  Epilogue II: Revelation

  Tragedy

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s a bad business. A very bad business.”

  “How bad?”

  “Can’t say more than that at this stage.”

  Everything was orderly. The quietness of the reception area suggested that things weren’t all that bad around here. The lack of activity suggested that crime was on holiday, sunning itself on the Algarve or the Costa del Sol. It was a typical Wednesday night.

  There was still a negative feel in the air, however. Suspense was looming, like the gloom of an oncoming dark grey cloud. The police station hadn’t quite been abandoned. There were a few people scattered around, yet no one was saying anything, and the odd uniformed officer entered and left the area with only the fewest of words being spoken.

  “What’s it about, then?” The man was clean-shaven, in his twenties, sporting a dark grey raincoat with a notepad clutched in the depths of his right coat pocket, and he had a determined and enthusiastic look on his face. Something big was going down in this very station – right here, right now. Freelance was pretty tough at times. So much hanging around waiting for something that would invigorate a struggling career, an opportunity. For him, an event in this town today might bring such an opportunity, the chance of an exclusive. His big break.

  The desk sergeant was as firm as a dry stone wall, and even drier, with his bowed head unshifting. “I’m not at liberty to divulge that, but I’m sure you’ll hear all about it in the morning.”

  “Come on, mate. It’s my livelihood. Just give me a sniff, something I can work from. Is it a murder?”

  “I’ve already said that I can’t say. You’ll have to wait.”

  “Just tell me if it’s a murder. You don’t even have to say the word. Just nod your head.”

  The sergeant finally raised his head and his steely eyes seemed forceful enough to be seeing right through to the back of the younger man’s skull. “Sir, I think you’d better leave.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  The sergeant dropped the pen he was holding. In a child it would have been petulance. “If you don’t leave, if you don’t go out of that door right now, I’ll have you arrested for making a nuisance of yourself. And I warn you, our cells aren’t all that nice.”

  The younger man, with a deep frown, loosened his grip on his notepad and shrugged his shoulders. “OK. You win. I’m off.” He took a couple of steps than turned back. “Where’s the nearest phone box?”

  The officer merely pointed to some imaginary location in a distant place to the right, beyond the station perimeter. He uttered no words.

  For Joe Tibbs the wall of silence would not do. One day he would have the exclusive he sought, writing about a vicious attack and near-murder by two prostitutes, but he could hardly know that today. On this occasion, things weren’t quite so fruitful. He consequently scurried out into the dark, where the tension seemed to extend, a spreading virus of doubt intruding on the mood of the night. Invisible it might have been, but it had taken an unpleasantly firm hold this evening in this part of the town. People walking past the building were having frank and tense conversations. This was coincidental, since such problems and revelations were standard features of life in any city and bore no relation to the things going on inside this office of law and order.

  Similarly, but not quite so coincidentally, officials going into the building in their stark dark uniforms also appeared to sense something unpalatable, aware of something serious and problematic that might have some kind of impact on their working lives. Much was thought-inspired rather than evidence-based. A little knowledge was fuelling speculation of the grimmest kind.

  Something notable had occurred.

  Back inside the cluster of rooms and offices inside the police station, the uniformed personnel not out patrolling were moving around with an unusual sensitivity and stealth. Everyone was trying hard not to disturb others who were operating similarly, as if common crime had suddenly become a gentle pursuit, almost obscure, in what had become a heavy environment. There were whisperings going on around corners. Banter was absent today, while speculation raged. Several were content just to shuffle papers and scribble notes, whilst always keeping their ears on red alert, since knowledge meant power, not to mention a free pint or two in the Old Crown later.

  The desk sergeant, the greying Tom Hooper, was an officer with an abundance of experience. Having necessarily and willingly rebuffed the intrusive journalist, he was distracting himself from tonight’s awful reality by looking through his copy of the training manual, and making the occasional notation, whilst the only others around, three men of varying ages, sat silently on the long seat on the facing wall, nursing their own concerns. Two of them had been burgled and one had been on the wrong end of a mugging, all waiting for crime numbers and meetings with officers that were likely to be somewhat delayed this evening, even if they weren’t yet aware of it. Not that things were solved so much these days. It was obtaining the crime number that was the crucial thing. Each of those sitting there had to be patient, since this was the only way. None of them realised just where on the spectrum between triviality and outrage their grievance actually was.

  Tom Hooper knew one thing. Whatever happened in the next
hour or so, at some point in the lightening and tightening earliness of morning, things would change.

  It would be more than a change. The station was going to be thronged with reporters from local and national newspapers, all desperate and enthusiastic, and he would be hard pushed in the final hours of his shift. They would want to know every sordid detail and would probably make up more of those for good measure. They called that journalism. Tom despaired. Tom often despaired.

  For now, there was an ominous calm about the place. It would have been comforting if it hadn’t indicated that something disturbing was further down the line.

  There was a door to the right of the front desk, a black door with the gleam of a recent paint job and large silver letters declaring ‘Restricted Access’. When opened, it exposed a long bare corridor that ran to the rear of the building. There, activity of a different nature was taking place. Deep in the recesses of this building, probably its bowel, if the front desk was taken to be its face, there was a small room amongst several small rooms, where a voice inside could be heard protesting loudly. “I don’t see why we had to be brought down here. She’s seven years old. It’s not like she did anything. Look at her.” It was a feminine voice, but without much femininity.

  Inside this interview room, two grim-faced police officers were trying to handle a truth that had claws that would tear hearts and carve out holes in careers. They were seated opposite a mother and her daughter, a pale child who seemed to be utterly clawless in both possibility and intent. The girl was rubbing her finger along the edge of the table in front of her. She had never been in a police station before. This was not the case for the mother, who sat back with her arms folded and who maintained a scowl that seemed to have been etched into her face by an aggressive sculptor.

  The officers, professional to a fault, were trying to play down the confrontational aspects of the proceedings with calm utterances and open hands. It was often best to be positive. Sometimes good cop, good cop was more effective than good cop, bad cop. Today that was not easy.

  Across from them, the mother’s posture and demeanour were intense. She was straining at an invisible leash, keen to show both strength and resilience. She seemed to be gripped by a sense of outrage and was making the most of hand gestures and eye-rolling. Her eyes flashed, darted and lunged. Her body language made it clear that for her, all the seconds spent here added up to unwanted minutes. Here was where she’d been brought, transported in a marked vehicle that would have got the tongues wagging, but here was not where she was going to stay any longer than she had to. She was half-seated in the chair, looking as though she would get up and leave at any time, at the slightest provocation.

  At her side, the little girl looked as vulnerable as a fox looking up at red jackets on horseback. She was a pitiful little creature, pale and fragile, with overly-dry long hair that partially eclipsed her face, a face that gave the impression that she was one good meal a day and several vegetables a week short of decent nutrition. She was like several of the kids on her street in that respect, as both officers in the room knew.

  The detective sergeant, in his early fifties, the older of the two officers, with closely-cropped grey hair and a defiantly dark moustache, managed a reassuring smile. He tried to look comfortable in a way that masked the bubbling frustration and curiosity inside, as well as the prevailing sense that he was investigating the worst tragedy of his career. “We’re not saying she’s done anything. Of course we’re not. We just need answers.”

  “How’s she going to give you them? She wasn’t there.”

  “OK. We accept that. We just want Caroline to give us her version of events.”

  The mother unfolded her arms momentarily to point a finger at the male officer. “Oh, for crying out loud. Who the hell do you think you are? She’s already said she didn’t see anything. What was she supposed to have seen anyway? Don’t you think you should tell us?”

  “Try to stay calm. I’m well aware of what she’s said. Sometimes this happens, Miss Lawrence.” The officer, whose name was Hawkins, looked into the innocent eyes of the child, before abruptly switching back to the mother. “It’s hard to remember things sometimes. I do know that. I just want to know the full details of what happened.” He switched his attention back to the child and lowered his head with a softening of his voice, just like they had told him to do in his training so many years ago. “We just want you to try to recollect, Caroline. Tell me again. How did you, Edward and Sally Cassell come to be near the railway line this afternoon?”

  The child’s lips parted, as if she didn’t understand why such a question was being asked.

  In a quiet, hesitant voice, she tried to answer. “We just were. We just went up there.”

  “Were you playing some kind of game up there?”

  Blinking and half-smiling, the girl nodded.

  “What were you playing?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “And what was that? We need to know a bit more.”

  “Walking round. Exploring…” Something appeared to snap, a jerk in the child’s attention. “What happened to them? To Eddie and Sally?”

  Her eyes had suddenly widened.

  The officer’s eyes narrowed. His mouth showed suppressed impatience. “And what happened when you stopped playing?” His words had lost their gentleness.

  The girl, dwarfed by these adults, who were all so much bigger than her and who had much louder voices than she had, stared at the clock on the wall behind the officers. Was she trying to remember, or was she managing to forget?

  “Caroline, I need you to answer this question. Do you know what happened to Eddie and Sally?”

  The mother tutted and raised her eyes to the ceiling. “She doesn’t know. She would have told you if she did. Obviously.”

  He looked at her. “Obviously. Maybe. Possibly. The thing is, I have two hysterical parents in another room on this corridor who are in the worst state of their lives. We all need answers. You must understand that.”

  The mother half-nodded.

  The senior of the two police officers turned his attention to the child. “You do understand that we all need to know what happened to Eddie and Sally, don’t you?’

  She nodded, with more commitment than her mother.

  The other officer, a woman, interrupted, addressing the mother. “Do you often allow Caroline to wander about on her own?”

  The mother stiffened. “Of course not. I was ill today. She just took advantage. You know what kids are like.”

  The officer shook her head. “I have two children, Miss Lawrence. Two children I love like any other mother. I have to tell you that no way would I allow either of mine anywhere like Etherton Hill. And just as importantly, I know that there’s no way either of them would have been up there without me knowing.”

  “Why didn’t you know?” echoed the senior officer, wanting to prod and poke.

  The mother sat back and exhaled significantly. “Oh, come on. It’s hardly against the law. So what if I don’t know where she is all the time.”

  “But you should know,” he said.

  “I should? Christ, you’ll be arresting half the parents in this town if that’s a crime.”

  “It’s neglect. You’re meant to be responsible for your child. Especially when she’s as young as Caroline.”

  “Three children went up that hill. Not one.”

  “Yes. And only one came back down.”

  “Like I said, I was ill. Do you not listen? Do you ever listen to people like me? No wonder people slag off the police.”

  “Ill in what way?” asked Hawkins. “In what way were you ill today?” He knew about Judy’s past. He had read through her records. Drunk and disorderly on numerous occasions, shoplifting, several assaults and one city centre arrest for abusive behaviour towards a police officer. There had even been the part she had played in the ro
bbery of a supermarket as a teenager. In recent years, only the fact that she had official responsibility for this vulnerable little girl had kept her out of prison, which was the best place for her, and which would undoubtedly have been best for the daughter as far as this policeman was concerned.

  He knew little about Caroline, though. He was already feeling bitterly sorry for this little waif. After all, she couldn’t have had it easy with a mother of this calibre. He actually half-wondered, but no more than that, how much better off this little girl would have been if she could spend the next few years of her life staying at his house with his family. What kind of a future might that give her? He would have another fifteen years in the job, maybe twenty. Who knew what would happen with this unfortunate young child and her reckless mother in that time? He silently predicted that their paths would cross again, perhaps some time after the dust had settled on this.

  “It’s my stomach. Always gives me trouble. Always has done,” Judy said.

  Richardson, the female officer, turned towards Caroline. “Just tell me this. Why did you go up that hill near your house?”

  Caroline remained blank-faced. Her face was a moon of simplicity.

  “Why did you want to venture up there? It’s a good walk from your house.”

  Caroline opened her mouth then paused. She looked into the eyes of the woman as if she was confessing something serious, something that would carry the deepest of consequences. Her voice was gentle and again hesitant, almost a stutter. “We went up there to see the rabbits.”

  Hawkins didn’t know whether to sympathise or be suspicious. Professionally, he had to choose an approach that wasn’t so instinctive but which was deemed to be appropriate when dealing with innocence like this. “Are there rabbits up there?”

  “We heard there was.”

  “I never knew. Did you know?” he asked his colleague, who just shrugged her shoulders.

  “Can you remember what happened? What happened to Eddie and Sally?”