Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [122]
‘It’s my heart again. I think this is the big one. Will you come for Daniel?’
By now I didn’t even bother getting dressed. I just threw on a gown over my pyjamas, found my car keys and set off. It was only as I pulled up outside Peter’s building that I thought, I’ve left my keys at home. What if he really is ill this time? I hope he’s well enough to buzz me in.
I shouldn’t have worried. As I ran up to the front door, I could see Peter walking Daniel down the stairs. He obviously wasn’t at death’s door, but as usual I offered to wait until the ambulance arrived.
You never know – this could be the one.
But Peter shooed us away. ‘Get that boy home,’ he insisted. ‘He’s had a long day.’
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘if you’re sure.’
He nodded and kissed Daniel goodnight – just as he always did on these nights.
As we pulled away from Peter’s block, I didn’t look back once. I was too tired, too annoyed by the man’s medical paranoia to care what he did when he wasn’t minding Daniel. If I had looked back, however, I might have seen Peter pretend to return to the building, then stop. I might have seen him wait until we were almost out of sight, then jump into his car and speed off in the opposite direction to us. And I might have wondered: why?
NINETEEN
All About Him
Apart from Daniel being more tired than usual, the morning of 5 August 1993 had started out like just another normal Thursday. I was at my desk at half past eight and the phone rang at nine. It was Havant police, asking me to come into the station. At that stage, they wouldn’t tell me what it was about. Ominously, though, they said, ‘Bring someone you feel comfortable with. A friend or partner.’
That was it. That was all the information I got. As I gabbled down the phone to Steve, I realized the police hadn’t told me anything at all.
‘You must have done something,’ he said.
‘I haven’t, I swear.’
‘Well, is it Daniel?’
‘No, that was my first question. He’s at school. He’s fine.’
So, heads spinning, we got to Havant police station about an hour later. The PC who took me into a back office gave nothing away. Then a more senior officer came in and broke the news.
Peter Tobin, he said, had lured two fourteen-year-old girls back to his flat in Leigh Park, where he had plied them with cider and vodka and violently raped them. He had then tied them up and left the flat.
What the policeman didn’t tell me then, but which I learnt subsequently, was that Peter had sodomized one of the girls with a knife, beaten them black and blue, then turned on the gas and left them to die in the flat. He’d just jumped in his blue Metro and driven away, moments after handing my son over to me. Fortunately, one of the girls had wriggled free and called a neighbour for help.
Later I would spend hours crying about those poor girls, but my initial reaction was utter disbelief. News like that is almost too big for the brain to process. At first my mind just went blank, but then the questions poured out.
‘Are you sure?’ I heard myself say, but I knew the answer even before it was confirmed.
‘Well, when did this happen?’ I said.
‘Yesterday. Last night.’
I froze in my seat.
‘But my son was there!’
And then, I’m afraid to say, all thought of those girls went temporarily out of my head. I just wanted to hug Daniel.
‘We don’t think he was involved, but we’ll know more when the victims are well enough to be interviewed. One of them is in a coma.’
A coma! My God, Peter, what have you done?
Even hearing the outline of the horrific events of that night had me in tears. There would be many, many more to come. But right now the police needed my help.
‘Your husband is on the run. Is there anywhere you think he might have gone?’
‘I don’t know what he does with his time.’
‘Please think: any friends, relatives, just tell us everything you can.’
It was hard to concentrate on addresses while still trying to process everything that had happened.