Tom Whitemore sighed. ‘What now?’
‘One of my clients, Emma Laurie, suspended sentence for dealing crack cocaine, lives up in Forest Fields. Not the brightest cherry in the bunch. She’s taken up with Pitcher. Seems he’s thinking of moving in.’
‘That’s a problem?’
‘She’s got three kids, all under six. Two of them boys.’
Whitemore shook his head. He knew Darren Pitcher’s history well enough. An only child, brought up by his mother, who had given birth to him when she was just sixteen, Pitcher had only met his father twice: on the first occasion, magnanimous from drink, the older man had squeezed his buttocks and slipped two five-pound notes into his trouser pocket; on the second, sober, he had blacked the boy’s eye and told him to fuck off out of his sight.
A loner at school, marked out by learning difficulties, readily bullied, from the age of sixteen Pitcher had drifted through a succession of low-paid jobs — cleaning, stacking supermarket shelves, hospital portering, washing cars — and several short-term relationships with women who enjoyed even less self-esteem than himself.
When he was twenty-five he was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment for molesting half a dozen boys between the ages of four and seven. While in prison, in addition to numerous incidents of self-harming, he had made one attempt at suicide.
Released, he had spent the first six months in a hostel and had reported to both his probation officer and a community psychiatric nurse each week. Since which time, supervision had necessarily slackened off.
‘Ben?’ Whitemore said, turning towards the psychiatric nurse at the end of the table. ‘He was one of yours.’
Ben Leonard pushed a hand up through his cropped blonde hair. ‘A family, ready-made, might be what he needs.’
‘The girl,’ Bridget Arthur said, ‘she’s not strong. It’s a wonder she’s hung on to those kids as long as she has.’
‘There’s a father somewhere?’
‘Several.’
‘Contact?’
‘Not really.’
For a moment, Tom Whitemore closed his eyes. ‘The boys, they’re how old?’
‘Five and three. There’s a little girl, eighteen months.’
‘And do we think, should Pitcher move in, they could be at risk?’
I think we have to,’ Bridget Arthur said.
‘Ben?’
Leonard took his time. ‘We’ve made real progress with Darren, I think. He’s aware that his previous behaviour was wrong. Regrets what he’s done. The last thing he wants to do is offend again. But, yes, for the sake of the kids, I’d have to say there was a risk. A small one, but a risk.’
‘Okay,’ Whitemore said. ‘I’ll go and see him. Report back. Bridget, you’ll stay in touch with the girl?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Let’s not lose sight of this in the midst of everything else.’
They sat on the Portland Leisure Centre steps, a wan sun showing weakly through the wreaths of cloud. Whitemore had bought two cups of pale tea from the machines inside and they sat there on the cold, worn stone, scarcely talking as yet. Darren Pitcher was smoking a cigarette, a roll-up he had made with less than steady hands. What was it, Whitemore thought, his gran had always said? Don’t sit on owt cold or you’ll get piles, sure as eggs is eggs.
‘Got yourself a new girlfriend, I hear,’ Whitemore said.
Pitcher flinched then glanced at him from under lowered lids. He had a lean face, a sickly pallor, a few reddish spots around the mouth and chin; strangely long eyelashes that curled luxuriantly over his weak grey eyes.
‘Emma? That her name?’
‘She’s all right.’
‘Of course.’
Two young black men in shiny sportswear bounced past them, all muscle, on their way to the gym.
‘It serious?’ Whitemore asked.
‘Dunno.’
‘What I heard, it’s pretty serious. The pair of you. Heard you were thinking of moving in.’
Pitcher mumbled something and drew on his cigarette.
‘Sorry?’ Whitemore said. ‘I didn’t quite hear…’
‘I said it’s none of your business…’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘My life, yeah? Not yours.’
Whitemore swallowed a mouthful more of the lukewarm tea and turned the plastic cup upside down, shaking the last drops onto the stone. ‘This Emma,’ he said, ‘she’s got kids. Young kids.’
‘So?’
‘Young boys.’
‘That don’t… You can’t… That was a long time ago.’
‘I know, Darren. I know. But it happened, nonetheless. And it makes this our concern.’ For a moment, his hand rested on Pitcher’s arm. ‘You understand?’
Pitcher’s hand went to his mouth and he bit down on his knuckle hard.
Gregory Boulevard ran along one side of the Forest Recreation Ground, the nearest houses, once substantial family homes, now mostly subdivided into flats and falling, many of them, into disrepair. Beyond these, the streets grew narrower and coiled back upon themselves, the houses smaller with front doors that opened directly out on to the street. Corner shops with bars across the windows, shutters on the doors.
Emma Laurie sat on a lopsided settee in the front room; small-featured, a straggle of hair falling down across her face, her voice rarely rose above a whisper as she spoke. A wraith of a thing, Whitemore thought. Outside, a good wind would blow her away.
The three children huddled in the corner, watching cartoons, the sound turned low. Jason, Rory and Jade. The youngest had a runny nose, the older of the boys coughed intermittently, open-mouthed, but they were all, as yet, bright-eyed.
‘He’s good with them,’ Emma was saying, ‘Darren. Plays with them all the time. Takes them, you know, down to t’Forest. They love him, they really do. Can’t wait for him to move in wi’ us. Go on about it all the time. Jason especially.’
‘And you?’ Bridget Arthur said. ‘How do you feel? About Darren moving in?’
‘Be easier, won’t it? Rent and that. What I get, family credit an’ the rest, s’a struggle, right? But if Darren’s here, I can get a job, afternoons, Asda. Get out a bit, ’stead of bein’ all cooped up. Darren’ll look after the kids. He don’t mind.’
They walked down through the maze of streets to where Arthur had parked her car, the Park and Ride on the edge of the Forest.
‘What do you think?’ Whitemore said.
‘Ben could be right. Darren, could be the making of him.’
‘But if it puts those lads at risk?’
I know, I know. But what can we do? He’s been out a good while now, no sign of him reoffending.’
‘I still don’t like it,’ Whitemore said.
Arthur smiled wryly. ‘Other people’s lives. We’ll keep our fingers crossed. Keep as close an eye as we can.’
Sometimes, Whitemore thought, it was as if they were trying to hold the world together with good intentions and a ball of twine.
‘Give you a lift back into town?’ Arthur said when they reached her car. It was not yet late afternoon and the light was already beginning to fade.
Whitemore shook his head. ‘It’s okay. I’ll catch the tram.’
Back at the office, he checked his emails, made several calls, wrote up a brief report of the visit to Emma Laurie. He wondered if he should go and see Darren Pitcher again, but decided there was little to be gained. When he finally got back home, a little after six, Marianne was buckling the twins into their seats in the back of the car.
‘What’s going on?’
She was flushed, a scarf at her neck. ‘My parents, I thought we’d go over and see them. Just for a couple of days. They haven’t seen the boys in ages.’
‘They were over just the other weekend.’
‘That was a month ago. More. It is ages to them.’
One of the boys was marching his dinosaur along the top of the seat in front; the other was fiddling with his straps.
‘You were just going to go?’ Whitemore said. ‘You weren’t even going to wait till I got back?’
‘You’re not usually this early.’
‘So wait.’
‘It’s a two-hour drive.’
‘I know how far it is.’
‘Tom, don’t. Please.’