The door opened and the light went on. There were no windows in the room, which suggested they were underground, but she had no idea where. There were no sounds other than the bang from above that signalled he was on his way.
She saw that he carried a bowl of water and a small cosmetics bag over his arm. If only she had the strength to raise her legs, she could kick the contents of the bowl in his face, offering her a moment to try to get herself free. But she couldn’t even wiggle her toes.
‘It’s time to get you clean and ready,’ he said, sitting on a stool in front of her.
Ready for what? she wanted to ask, but it was clear that the affable mood had returned, and for the moment she was thankful.
He placed the bowl on the floor and opened the bag. He took out a cloth and bottle.
He dipped the cloth into the bowl and gently dabbed at her feet. He rubbed a bar of soap onto the cloth until it began to lather.
He took her left foot in his other hand and began to soap it.
His touch was gentle, and she suddenly wanted to cry. She felt every part of her foot being cleaned before he rested it gently on his leg.
A tear slipped from her eye as he dabbed gently at her toes. The smell told her he was using nail polish remover to take the red stain from her nails.
‘Don’t cry, Tracy,’ he said, smiling up to her. ‘There’s nothing to be upset about.’
He took a disposable razor from the bag and ran it up and down her leg. The blunt blade pulled and tore at the short stubble protruding from her skin.
He reached into the bag again and removed a pack of baby wipes. He ripped one from the packet and another sprang up. He grabbed that one too and placed them together.
He pushed back the pink plastic chair and moved towards her, standing between her chair and the miniature table.
First he wiped gently at her forehead. Slow movements across her brow and then tender circles, small ones growing bigger.
‘Close your eyes,’ he said and she did.
She felt the damp wipe move across her eyelid, gently. Not enough pressure to hurt but enough to lift the stale eyeshadow and bitty mascara from her eyes. He repeated the process on her other eye.
‘So much better, Tracy. You can open them now.’
She did so.
He was not looking into her eyes. His gaze was focussed on her cheek as he rubbed in bigger circles all the way down to her jaw. He moved across her chin and then up the other side and over her nose.
Finally he rubbed at both lips together.
He stepped back and assessed her face. One more rub of her lips and he was done.
He reached for the toiletry bag and took out a brush. He moved behind her and Tracy held her breath.
The prongs of the brush touched the back of her head but did not scratch it. He held her long hair firmly so that the brushing motion didn’t pull at her head.
He worked his way from the back rhythmically to the left-hand side, taking care not to catch her ear as he brushed the hair down. Despite the drugs that were attacking her muscles she could feel every touch to her flesh.
He then worked from the centre of the back of her head around to the right. This time he accidentally nicked the top of her ear. Immediately he stopped brushing. She felt his hands on her shoulders as he leaned into her and planted a kiss where he had nicked.
‘I’m sorry, my precious little girl,’ he said tenderly.
Tracy had to work hard not to pull away. Whatever fantasy he was living, she did not want to disturb it.
He completed the brushing and once more stepped to the front of her. She could see that his left hand was clenched closed.
He reached towards her forehead and smoothed away her fringe to the side. He opened his hand to reveal two kirby grips, as her mother called them. But these were white in colour, unlike the plain brown ones that had held her mother’s rollers in place.
Placed at the curve of each hair clip was a jagged heart. He slipped them both into her hair to hold back her fringe.
‘That’s better – now I can see your face,’ he said, tipping his head. ‘Now you’re ready to play.’
The tenderness in his voice brought fresh tears to Tracy’s eyes.
She knew she was being prepared to die.
Seventy-Five
‘I’ve not been here before,’ Bryant said, turning the car into a car park that hugged half of the two-storey building.
The Elms formed part of the Dudley and Walsall Mental Health Partnership. This particular building focussed on Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services, otherwise known as CAMHS.
‘Do social workers operate out of here?’
Kim shrugged. ‘Not sure, but this is where Stacey said she’s working.’
The double doors opened automatically into a functional annex with plastic chairs around the perimeter. A glass window fronted a general office area behind.
Kim approached it and tapped on the window. A second too late she saw the bell that said ‘Ring me’.
A man in his early twenties with hair over his eyes approached the window.
‘Can I help?’ he said through the diamond of air holes drilled into the glass.
‘Valerie Wood – she’s expecting us,’ Kim said, holding up her badge to the window.
The male looked neither impressed nor concerned. She reminded herself this was a building that dealt with troubled adolescents.
He headed to the rear of the office and made a call. He nodded a couple of times and then made a waving motion their way, indicating they should take a seat.
Kim stepped away from the window but paced around the space.
This didn’t feel like any of the facilities she’d visited as a child. But she knew it was. The processes didn’t change all that much. Get it out, talk about it, you’ll feel better afterwards.
Wanna bet? Kim had always thought. She had always chosen silence.
A woman used a card hanging around her neck to key herself out of the main building and into the annex.
Kim guessed her to be late fifties with blonde curly hair that lived close to her head. Her face was devoid of make-up and a few deep wrinkles were etched around her mouth and eyes. A small gap showed between her front teeth as she smiled.
‘Valerie Wood, how can I help you?’
So Stacey had asked if she had time to see them but hadn’t told her what it was about.
‘Do you recall a case concerning a male named Graham Studwick?’ Kim asked.
Valerie’s eyes widened. ‘Back in my social-worker days, yes, why?’
‘Could we ask you a few questions?’
She considered for a moment and then nodded. ‘Come outside, I’m due a smoke break anyway.’
Kim followed as the woman headed outside and removed a small box and tiny lighter from the back pocket of her jeans.
‘Terrible habit,’ she said, drawing on the cigarette. ‘I give up after every one.’
‘So you were a social worker?’ Kim asked, just to understand the relationship between this woman and their suspect better.
‘In a former life – but it wasn’t for me. You have to learn to switch off, and if you can’t learn that, you don’t last long. I didn’t last long. Graham was actually one of my last cases and definitely one of the reasons I made the move to psychology.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that kid needed to talk. He needed more than a social worker. He needed a therapist. He needed a friend, a confidante… but with thirty-nine cases you can’t be all those things. Oh, and I wasn’t all that good at hiding my feelings around neglectful parents.’
Kim fought a smile back into her mouth. She suspected she would suffer the same issues in that profession.
‘At what stage did you get involved?’ Kim asked.
‘How much do you know?’ Valerie asked, demonstrating the reason Kim had never done well with psychologists as a child.
‘We know that Graham suffered a horrifically embarrassing episode at school. Is that when you met him?’ Kim asked.
Valerie shook her head. ‘I met him when he was eleven years old. I know of the incident at school, but social services weren’t called in then – God only knows why not – but he was taken out of the school system and taught at home by his mother. He never went to school again.’