Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [126]
Peter was held on remand at Winchester for eight months before his trial. As the date neared, press interest in the case increased. Once the trial began, coverage went into overdrive. There were photos of the flat, of Peter, of the route the girls would have taken. Most distressing for me, though, were the ones of Peter’s old blue Metro – because for the last few months it had been sitting on my drive.
I don’t know why, but he’d decided I should have it and so one day it had been delivered outside my house and the keys dropped through my letterbox. I had my own, much better car, so I didn’t need his old banger. Even if I did, I wouldn’t have touched it after I’d discovered what he’d done. As quickly as I could, I sold it to a dealer for £150. I was shocked to later learn he’d shifted it on to a guy who’d paid £900 – just because it belonged to a famous criminal. There are some sick people out there.
None more sick, of course, than Peter himself. I’d always marvelled at the way he was able to detach himself after smacking or insulting me to make me feel guilty. It took chutzpah, especially, to pitch up at Granny’s breakfast table that day, knowing she must have been told about the screwdriver launched at my pregnant tummy. But he didn’t care. It’s like he didn’t even know what he’d done wrong. How else can you explain the letter I received from his solicitor asking to see Daniel?
My initial instinct was to rip it up – how dare he put Daniel through that hideous ordeal and now think he could carry on as if nothing had happened? But I couldn’t do it, not without getting advice from Rhona Lucas.
‘I think you have to ask Daniel if he wants to see his father,’ she said. ‘And whatever he says, you have to honour.’
That was easier said than done.
‘I’d like to visit Dad,’ Daniel said.
‘Okay, that’s fine. I’ll sort it out.’
I really wasn’t looking forward to driving Daniel out to Winchester. There was no way I could let him go in alone. That meant I would have to come face to face with the bastard as well.
I honestly don’t think I can do it.
When it came to the crunch, I wasn’t the only one. Daniel woke up on the morning of our scheduled visit and found me in my room.
‘Mum,’ he said quietly.
‘Yes, my darling? What is it?’
‘I don’t want to visit Dad anymore.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said calmly – but inside I was jumping for joy.
I’m sure Peter blamed me for Daniel’s change of heart, but I didn’t care. He couldn’t hurt me anymore. When his solicitor wrote back again asking for a picture of Daniel, I took great pleasure in saying no.
‘Your client is a paedophile – there’s no way he’s getting a photograph of my son.’
Part of me was looking forward to the trial because we all knew that Peter was going to be locked away. However, as the last person to see him before he’d fled, I was also going to be called upon as a witness. I know it was silly, but I really wasn’t comfortable with going up against Peter so publicly. The idea of his cold eyes boring into me while I gave evidence against him was enough to make me wither before I’d even set foot in the courtroom. But I had no choice. I had to live with it. As long as they don’t involve Daniel . . .
But then something strange happened. On the first day of the trial, 18 May 1994, Peter pleaded guilty. I think he’d been advised that by not making the victims suffer the ordeal of a trial, he’d be treated more leniently. So he was shocked, I imagine, when the judge sentenced him to fourteen years. He shouldn’t be bothering anyone again until 2008.
I’ve said it before, but that definitely should have been the end of the Peter Tobin story, as far as my