like faint parentheses at the corners of her mouth. ‘He’s got a history , Karl. Least that’s what they say.’ Leanne talks about Karl Colquhoun as if he’s still around, not lying blue-grey on a slab nearby with his belly and chest butterflied for autopsy.
Staffe listens as much to how she’s talking as to what she says. ‘And they said he was …?’
Leanne Colquhoun nods. Staffe can see she’s fighting back the tears. Is it pride? Is it because if she cries, it’s an acceptance he is dead?
‘Do you believe them? Do you think he did that to his other children?’
‘I’ll swear on my life he never touched a hair on my kids’ heads.’
‘And would you swear on his life too?’
She looks at Staffe, says, ‘I love him. I love him so much.’ And the face goes soft. ‘Where does a woman like me find love in this world?’ The creases in her forehead go smooth and she smiles. Her eyes are glassy and the tears come. And come.
The Phoenix Suite, a newly built specialist unit for holding victims of sexual offences, is just five minutes down the road from Leadengate Station and as Staffe approaches it, the Barbican shimmers in the summer heat.
He is immediately shown into a brightly decorated room with windows overlooking a jungle-style garden. Children’s paintings adorn the walls and classical music is in the ether. From a Wendy house in the corner, a young woman in her early twenties appears on all fours.
‘Hi, Will,’ she says, standing up, dusting down her skirt.
‘Hi, Carly.’
In the windows of the Wendy house, the faces of two children become suddenly miserable.
Carly Kellerman nods behind her and says, ‘This is Calvin and Lee-Angelique.’ Carly smiles brightly. Her hair is a bounty of rolling, golden curls.
‘Hello,’ says Staffe, crouching and overly cheery.
One look at Staffe is enough to tell them that their fun is dead.
Carly sits down at a low table and invites Staffe to take a child’s seat. She beckons the children and turns off the smile, nods earnestly as Staffe begins to ask his questions, encouraging the children to answer.
Calvin is the younger, at six, but he does all the talking. Lee-Angelique is eight and simply stares at Staffe, her mouth turned down towards the floor.
‘When was the last time you saw your mum?’
‘Sunday. We see her every Sunday and she took us to Margate. It’s the best place.’
‘And what about Karl? Do you ever see him?’
At this, Lee-Angelique gets up from the table and goes back into the Wendy house.
‘We never see him. Mum talks about him.’
Staffe looks at Calvin’s hands, scrunched up into pudgy little fists.
‘He can’t come near us,’ says Lee-Angelique from inside the Wendy house. ‘That’s what she said.’
‘Shush, Lee-Ange,’ says Calvin.
‘But he came to the seaside.’
Calvin gets up and Carly tries to comfort him, saying, ‘He didn’t. You’ve got it wrong, Lee love.’
‘And he touched me. He did.’
Calvin shrugs Carly off, goes to join his sister in the Wendy house. He pulls the door closed behind him.
‘He can’t have,’ whispers Carly. ‘They check. They can tell, you know,’ and she looks down into her own lap, shakes her head slowly.
Calvin calls out from inside the Wendy house. ‘Is Karl gone?’
‘He’s gone away,’ says Staffe. ‘He won’t be coming back.’
Calvin lets a smile appear, showing the gaps between his teeth. Lee-Angelique is standing behind him, looking as though it will take much, much more to bring a smile to her face.
‘Take these down to secretarial and tell them it’s important,’ says Staffe, handing Pulford a tape of the interview with Leanne Colquhoun and his notes from the meeting with Carly Kellerman and the Colquhoun children. ‘I’m going to have another word with Leanne Colquhoun.’ He picks up his jacket from the back of the chair. It’s suede and too young for him, he thinks. It was Sylvie’s choice and, if truth be known, it
Staffe listens as much to how she’s talking as to what she says. ‘And they said he was …?’
Leanne Colquhoun nods. Staffe can see she’s fighting back the tears. Is it pride? Is it because if she cries, it’s an acceptance he is dead?
‘Do you believe them? Do you think he did that to his other children?’
‘I’ll swear on my life he never touched a hair on my kids’ heads.’
‘And would you swear on his life too?’
She looks at Staffe, says, ‘I love him. I love him so much.’ And the face goes soft. ‘Where does a woman like me find love in this world?’ The creases in her forehead go smooth and she smiles. Her eyes are glassy and the tears come. And come.
The Phoenix Suite, a newly built specialist unit for holding victims of sexual offences, is just five minutes down the road from Leadengate Station and as Staffe approaches it, the Barbican shimmers in the summer heat.
He is immediately shown into a brightly decorated room with windows overlooking a jungle-style garden. Children’s paintings adorn the walls and classical music is in the ether. From a Wendy house in the corner, a young woman in her early twenties appears on all fours.
‘Hi, Will,’ she says, standing up, dusting down her skirt.
‘Hi, Carly.’
In the windows of the Wendy house, the faces of two children become suddenly miserable.
Carly Kellerman nods behind her and says, ‘This is Calvin and Lee-Angelique.’ Carly smiles brightly. Her hair is a bounty of rolling, golden curls.
‘Hello,’ says Staffe, crouching and overly cheery.
One look at Staffe is enough to tell them that their fun is dead.
Carly sits down at a low table and invites Staffe to take a child’s seat. She beckons the children and turns off the smile, nods earnestly as Staffe begins to ask his questions, encouraging the children to answer.
Calvin is the younger, at six, but he does all the talking. Lee-Angelique is eight and simply stares at Staffe, her mouth turned down towards the floor.
‘When was the last time you saw your mum?’
‘Sunday. We see her every Sunday and she took us to Margate. It’s the best place.’
‘And what about Karl? Do you ever see him?’
At this, Lee-Angelique gets up from the table and goes back into the Wendy house.
‘We never see him. Mum talks about him.’
Staffe looks at Calvin’s hands, scrunched up into pudgy little fists.
‘He can’t come near us,’ says Lee-Angelique from inside the Wendy house. ‘That’s what she said.’
‘Shush, Lee-Ange,’ says Calvin.
‘But he came to the seaside.’
Calvin gets up and Carly tries to comfort him, saying, ‘He didn’t. You’ve got it wrong, Lee love.’
‘And he touched me. He did.’
Calvin shrugs Carly off, goes to join his sister in the Wendy house. He pulls the door closed behind him.
‘He can’t have,’ whispers Carly. ‘They check. They can tell, you know,’ and she looks down into her own lap, shakes her head slowly.
Calvin calls out from inside the Wendy house. ‘Is Karl gone?’
‘He’s gone away,’ says Staffe. ‘He won’t be coming back.’
Calvin lets a smile appear, showing the gaps between his teeth. Lee-Angelique is standing behind him, looking as though it will take much, much more to bring a smile to her face.
‘Take these down to secretarial and tell them it’s important,’ says Staffe, handing Pulford a tape of the interview with Leanne Colquhoun and his notes from the meeting with Carly Kellerman and the Colquhoun children. ‘I’m going to have another word with Leanne Colquhoun.’ He picks up his jacket from the back of the chair. It’s suede and too young for him, he thinks. It was Sylvie’s choice and, if truth be known, it
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