Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) (30 page)

heard about the commotion on local radio. ‘You don’t have to smash the door in,’ he insisted as three

officers with a battering ram and large boots returned to their van looking disappointed.

There was nothing quite like the sound of boot through door on a fresh-feeling evening to set the

pulse racing.

Warrant in place, keys in hand, camera phones filming, honestly there’s nothing to see here: ‘Go,

go, go’.

The uniformed officers went in first, clumping around and making as much noise as possible.

‘Clear’, ‘clear’, ‘clear’. Time for the boring bit.

The inside of Overton’s house was as unimpressive as the outside: the vague smell of damp with

matching black splotches above the door, a broken light bulb in the hallway, peeling brown wallpaper

and the general sense that nothing had changed in twenty years. If they’d smashed through the door, it

might have done the landlord a favour seeing as they’d have had to replace it and a bit of creativity on his part could have led to a claim for a new carpet as well.

In the kitchen, there was a sinkful of browned coffee cups and an open box of breakfast cereal on

the counter. So far, so slovenly.

The living room presumably was already furnished because the rank brown sofas came complete

with cigarette burns in the arm and a table decorated with coffee-cup rings that made it look like an

out of control Olympics logo. In the corner, a scrunched-up newspaper was sticking out of a mesh bin.

Without taking it out, Jessica could already see part of the headline: ‘DEATH OF A MONSTER’. It

was what had been on the front page of the
Herald
on the day Colin Rawlinson died. The photo of the Stretford Slasher from his arrest a quarter of a century ago stared out at Jessica from the paper; eyes

blank. Before, they’d been the eyes of a multiple killer, now they were the gaze of a man spending his

life in prison for something he didn’t do. Jessica pointed out the paper to one of the officers to be

taken for evidence, before turning her attention to the rest of the room. Not that there was much to see.

Two overflowing ashtrays and a small stack of bills were the highlights. From the red-topped notices,

it didn’t look as if Overton had paid for anything since moving in.

Upstairs and it was a similar story of mould, damp and a vague smell of cigarettes. The first

bedroom was empty of anything except a single bed and bare floorboards. The room next to it had

more items crammed in than the rest of the house put together. An unmade bed was pushed against the

far wall with an empty soft wardrobe at the far end. There was a bedside cabinet next to that and a

large computer desk wedged underneath a windowsill. Jessica sat on the bed and opened the

cabinet’s top drawer with her gloved hand. Inside were piles of letters and receipts which she

emptied onto the bed.

Some were on browning, crusty paper with faded dark handwriting. From the dates at the top, he

must have received them when he’d been inside. The top one appeared to be from a pen pal and

included a host of banal details, followed by some sloppily written, if graphically creative, erotic

ideas.

Jessica flicked through the stack, thinking she’d leave it to someone else to check properly before

she noticed what the receipts were for. She turned to Cole. ‘When you read Overton’s file, do you

remember if he had kids?’

Cole had his back to her, hunting through the drawer under the bed. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I don’t remember reading about children either. So why do you think he has receipts for kids’

clothing? Two coats, two jumpers – bought a week ago.’

Cole took them from her and skimmed the contents. The items had been paid for in cash. Opposite

her, one of the PCs took a laptop out of the drawer underneath the computer table. He looked up to

Cole, asking what to do with it.

‘Bag it,’ came the reply.

‘What else is in there?’ Jessica asked. The officer held up a handful of discs and a small black

plastic square. ‘Is that a memory card?’

‘Yes.’

Jessica turned to Cole. ‘Think the lab will mind if we have a look before them?’

‘Probably.’

Back downstairs, Cole climbed into the patrol car’s driver’s seat, Jessica in the passenger’s. Each

force vehicle had a built-in spot for a laptop between the front seats, which had received particular

attention a few years ago when someone at the
Herald
put in a Freedom of Information Act request to reveal that Greater Manchester Police had had over twenty stolen from their own vehicles in one

year. ‘Nicked-Book’ was their rather weak pun on ‘Netbook’ but the ensuing three days of coverage

had made everyone look more incompetent than usual.

Cole booted the machine, as officers continued to remove items from the house and put them in the

back of a van. After logging in, Cole had used up all of his computer expertise and turned to Jessica.

Using the USB adaptor borrowed from Overton’s computer desk, Jessica inserted the memory card,

clicked into the DCIM directory, and began going through the images one at a time. The first dozen

appeared to be tests – uninspiring photos of the street they were on and of the empty back yard. There

were a couple of others from a local park of someone walking a dog and then the one that made Cole

sit up so quickly that his head cracked into the roof of the car.

They had been at Brendan and Rebecca Hambleton’s house only twenty-four hours ago and its tidy

front was unmistakeable. Each click showed another photo: more of the property itself and then of

school railings and a playground. Everything was there: Rebecca’s car, Rebecca herself, Brendan,

Zac, Poppy – photo after photo each with a neat date and time digitally stamped into the corner.

The simple message was spelled out pixel by pixel: William Overton had been stalking the

Hambletons for the entire week leading up to the children’s disappearance.

32

Two days later and the missing Hambleton children felt like a solved case that hadn’t been solved.

William Overton had withdrawn £250 from cashpoints on four successive days leading up to the

kidnap. Now they knew who they were looking for, they’d traced CCTV of him close to the school

two days before the children were taken – and two of Brendan and Rebecca’s neighbours now

remembered seeing him hanging around suspiciously. So far, so good – except that they couldn’t find

him.

Over three decades of being in and out of prison meant there were hundreds of potential associates

to check out, plus two dozen places he’d lived on the outside – and they were just the ones they’d

found. In their patched history of his life, there were long periods in which they had no idea where

he’d lived and who his friends were. His photo had been all over the media but the decision had been

made – for now – not to release Niall Hambleton’s admissions. The official reason was that the

inevitable media storm would detract attention from the missing children; the unofficial one was that

everyone who knew was bricking it over what might happen. Because of that, the news broadcasts

had been full of ‘nasty man kidnaps grandkids of officer who arrested former cellmate’ stories. They

weren’t wrong but when the truth came out, Jessica didn’t want to be standing anywhere near the

proverbial fan.

Jessica stood in line outside Heaton Park wearing wellington boots, thick socks, jeans and a heavy

coat over a jumper – traditional get-up for a British music festival. With only a couple more days left

in May, the weather had taken a marginal turn for the better; frosty mornings and freezing afternoons

replaced by the relentless grey wash of cloud that defined the city. The one-day ParkFest music event

had been billed as a ‘party in the park’ by the local council but ‘cower from the elements in the park’

would have been a more accurate slogan. Although it had remained dry all morning, it felt like rain

was in the air – although that too could be a motto for the city. Jessica could practically picture it now on the signs leading into the centre:

WELCOME TO THE CITY OF MANCHESTER

Twinned with Los Angeles, Faisalabad, Wuhan, Cordoba, St Petersburg, Rehovot, Kanpur,

Chemnitz.

There’s rain in the air

Cole had ordered her to take the Saturday off, which meant Jessica had no excuse to wriggle out of

having to go. Humphrey – who was inexplicably wearing a bright pink blazer – had made it after all,

with Georgia clinging onto his arm as if it was an extension of her own. Considering they’d only seen

each other for a few snatched hours during the week, Jessica was finding it relaxing to be around

Adam again, even if her mind kept wandering back to Niall, the missing Hambleton children and Tony

– of whom she’d seen nothing since he escaped from her down the alley. Sylvia Farnsworth had

called Jessica the previous evening to ask if there were any updates on her son and Jessica had to tell

her the truth, that she’d been sidetracked. The slow pause followed by a clearly disappointed, ‘Oh,

okay, I understand’, only made her feel worse.

Heaton Park was one of the biggest public parks in Europe and the process of cordoning off the

entire area west of the boating lake looked as if it had taken some time. Large metal barriers stretched around the entrance closest to the tram station, with queues of people in long parallel lines winding

along Bury Old Road. The gates were supposed to have opened ten minutes ago but the usual levels

of organisation were in place with ripples of ‘why are we waiting’ sounding along the line. Figures

weaved in and out of the line offering to buy and sell tickets, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the only reason anyone would stand in lines like this was if they already had a ticket.

‘Humphrey!’

Georgia’s boyfriend jumped as a man’s voice shouted from somewhere behind them.

‘Someone you know?’ Georgia was tugging on Humphrey’s arm as he pushed himself up on tiptoes

to peer over the top of the crowd.

‘I don’t know, I can’t see anyone.’

Jessica tried to look too but she was too short to see over people.

‘Humphrey!’

The man’s voice sounded closer this time but still no one approached and Georgia’s boyfriend

insisted he couldn’t see anyone he knew.

‘Two Humphreys in the same queue,’ Adam said, which was a statement that could surely only be

true in Britain.

Finally a cheer went up from near the front and the line began to move. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.

As they finally reached the entrance and had their tickets scanned with a barcode reader, Jessica

saw a familiar face. Esther was wearing a headset, watching the queue of people closely until she

spotted her friend. As she waved Jessica over, a grin spread across her face. ‘Hello, stranger.’

‘Haven’t you been sacked yet?’

Esther winked. ‘Cheeky bitch – you’re the one who hasn’t found the attacker yet.’

Jessica gave Adam a peck on the cheek, pointing towards a Ferris wheel at the far end of a row of

stalls, and saying she’d meet him, Georgia and Humphrey there in fifteen minutes. He gave her the

same raised-eyebrow knowing look he always did when she ditched him for work before heading off

into the crowd.

‘Who’s that guy?’ Esther asked, nodding towards the retreating trio.

‘Adam? He’s my boyfriend-fiancé-husband, depending on who we’re talking to.’

‘Not him, the human flamingo.’

Jessica laughed. ‘Adam’s sister’s boyfriend. Christ knows where he thought he was going in that

thing. He was wearing a bright green one the last time I saw him but no one else said anything, so I

thought it was just me who found it odd.’ Jessica tugged on the blue waterproof jacket Esther was

wearing. ‘Nice anorak, by the way. Have you got the matching thermos and train-spotting binoculars?’

Esther started to reply but her hand shot to her ear. ‘No, of course they can’t bring it in.’ Pause.

‘Why? Because it’s a giant blow-up giraffe.’ Frown. ‘I don’t care if the sign fails to say “No

inflatable safari animals”, they’re still not bringing it in. Let the air out and leave it at the security hut.

They can get it on the way out.’ Sigh. ‘No, of course I’m not going to look after the bloody thing.’

Out of the corner of her eye, Jessica could see a plastic yellow giraffe’s head bobbing along over

the top of the fence. Esther was shaking her head. ‘I hate this job. I gave them my notice last week.

Every time I’m out doing something, it’s like I’m babysitting the work experience kids.’

‘What are you going to do next?’

‘I’m not sure, I’ve put in for a couple of things. I’d rather do nothing than do this.’

Through the main gate a man walked in carrying an inflatable giraffe that must have been twelve

feet tall. He glanced both ways and then strolled past a security guard as if they weren’t there.

‘Oh for f—’

‘I’ll go if you want,’ Jessica said.

‘Forget it, let him keep the bloody thing. At first my bosses were saying they wanted everyone to

pass through a metal detector on their way in and to have their bags checked. When I pointed out the

length of time it would take to do that for twenty thousand people, they said we’d just do random

searches on the way in. After last time, I keep all the emails. No one can make a decision and if

anyone’s going to get it in the neck, it’s not going to be me.’

‘Rule number one: cover your own arse.’