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TEN
I didn’t see how Matty could be so sure the killer would strike again, but he was right. The murder at Hampstead Road Lock was just the beginning.
The victim was identified as Sheryl North, an eighteen-year-old homeless woman who’d come down to London from Liverpool six months before in search of a better life.
‘Like Dick Whittington,’ my mother remarked.
‘Dick Whittington didn’t get his head caved in,’ Matty said.
I was curled up on the sofa watching The Smurfs. Matty had my feet in his lap, playing ‘This Little Piggy’ with my toes.
‘Turn it up,’ he said as the cartoon wound up and the news came on.
Before I’d had a chance to react, he’d taken the remote from me and done it himself, Little Piggy abandoned.
‘Sheryl came to London looking for work, same as me,’ a woman was saying; sleeping bag up to her armpits, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. ‘You think it’ll be different down here, more opportunities.’ She scoffed. ‘It ain’t what it looks like on TV though.’
The camera switched to a reporter holding a furry microphone. Behind him, the backdrop of Euston station where Sheryl had disembarked on her arrival into the capital. That night she’d slept in a hostel. Two weeks later her money had run out and she was sleeping on the streets.
‘A growing number of young people come to London every day in search of new opportunities. But with two and a half million unemployed and more joining the dole queue each week, work isn’t easy to find. Which makes these newcomers easy targets for exploitation, and the city an increasingly dangerous place in which to live.’
‘Switch it over, Matty. It’s time for Jim’ll Fix It.’
He usually made fun of the presenter. Worzel Gummidge with a medallion, he called him. There’s something off about that guy and it’s not just his haircut.
Today though he justheld up a finger. One minute.
I harrumphed, kicked at the coffee table, but he didn’t take any notice.
Meanwhile Olivia Paul, a student from North London, also in her late teens and bearing a strong physical resemblance to Miss North, has been missing since March.
A picture of a smiling girl with long curly hair filled the screen.
‘Do you think she’s been killed too?’ I asked Matty.
His left eyebrow angled upwards.
‘Maybe.’
I don’t know why his frankness took me aback, it’s not as if Matty was in the habit of sugar coating. But something in his tone or manner stung.
He gave me a sideways look, raised his arm for a cuddle.
‘Come here to me, pumpkin.’
The burning behind my eyes receded. I breathed in the chocolate and cedarwood smell of him, felt my body relax.
We sat like that a while; him listening to the news, me listening to the soft tick of his watch, the internal sounds of his breathing and swallowing.
Miss Paul’s mother, Carol, today issued an emotional appeal to her daughter to make contact:
‘I love you, Livy. If you’re watching this, please call me and let me know you’re okay. We both said things we didn’t mean that night, but I’m not angry, I promise. I just want you to come home.’
My mother and I had exchanged angry words earlier too.
‘You said you needed extra sandwiches in your lunch box because you were hungry. You didn’t tell me you were selling them to your classmates.’
‘You’re the one who’s always saying I need to learn the value of money. I make 50p on your egg salad rolls.’
