Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [125]
I had no idea when I’d picked Daniel up from Peter’s flat in the dead of night that that would be the last time my son would ever see his father. How I wish I’d made the decision earlier. I still had full legal custody. If I’d wanted to, I could have enforced the court’s exclusion zone. But there was always that fire in me to give my son the father I’d never had. It was a mistake and one I will never forgive myself for. I can only say that I did it for the right reasons.
The police were very gentle with Daniel, I have to say, and he began having therapy very soon after we realized what he’d seen. We were introduced to the wonderful Rhona Lucas, the head of the Child Protection counselling division, who promised to work with Daniel for however long it took to purge the experiences from his system. I wasn’t allowed into the room, but I could watch through a two-way mirror. Rhona worked wonders. Each session, I saw the anger diminish and more and more of my little boy return. After six weeks, he was back. No shouting, no anger, no hitting. My innocent angel was home.
I don’t think Daniel remembers the therapy and we have never spoken about those events. He’s put them behind him and I’ve done my absolute best to protect him from ever being reminded of them – starting with my decision to hide the real reason his father was in prison. The sooner Daniel was able to push the terrible things he’d witnessed in Havant from his mind, the quicker he’d be able to move on. That’s why I told him that Peter was in trouble for having drugs. It was nothing to do with knives or rapes or attacks on young girls. When he thought of his father, as I knew he would from time to time, I didn’t want his head to automatically be filled with those images of sickening violence.
Back in 1994, though, there were plenty of other people who wanted to obsess about the horrors of that night in Havant and their repercussions. It didn’t help that every day the local papers and TV news seemed to talk about nothing else. Every detail of the case was gone over. The main focus, though, was on the whereabouts of the rapist Peter Tobin.
The police were convinced he would contact me. Even though we were separated and I’d moved on with another partner, they felt I was pivotal to their hopes of capturing him. I didn’t have a clue how Peter’s mind worked, but I’d seen enough films where the criminal wants to get rid of any witnesses. Daniel had seen things. We were both at risk.
I couldn’t be too scared though. A panic button was installed by my front door and I was given another one to carry around. One press of that button and the whole of Hampshire’s police force would descend on Liverpool Road. On top of that, the police asked if they could tap my phone line. You have to get permission from the Home Secretary for that, I was told. I didn’t think Peter would call, but I had no problem with it. On the plus side, it meant there were burly police technicians and officers swarming over the place every hour of the day. I’d probably never felt safer.
Then, about six weeks after the attacks, I finally received word from Havant police station. Two officers had been strolling past a café on St James Street in Brighton, one of the old haunts I had told them we used to drink in. They’d recognized the man nursing a cup of tea without an apparent care in the world as Peter Tobin and arrested him on the spot.
‘Thanks to you, Cathy, we’ve got him.’
I was glad to have been of help, but I couldn’t celebrate. I just felt numb.
TWENTY
Turn Round! Turn Round!
I didn’t think Peter’s story could get any worse. Then I heard he’d been using the name Peter Wilson – my maiden name – when he was captured. Even in police custody, he can still find new ways to torment me.
Like everything else, the full story of Peter