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disbelief that this could be happening again.
    Meanwhile Detective Chief Inspector Albert Wood -
    house was waiting for feedback from his officers in 21
    Dalston. They were searching the Haggerston Park area, looking for anything that could confirm that the child had been taken there to be assaulted and for any suspicious sightings in the area. Five officers were conducting door-to-door enquiries and he expected news to filter back soon. This was a neighbourhood where not much went unnoticed. Most of the residents knew each other by sight if not by name.
    Cases in these two square miles of densely populated East London terraced housing and tower blocks were notoriously difficult to close down unless you could get the right people to talk. A lot of covering up went on, but in a case like this, Woodhouse thought he could rely on local help.
    He had worked at Bethnal Green for the last fifteen of his twenty-five years in the force and was a known figure in the area, respected if not liked. The gangs of organised criminals locally preferred their coppers bent, but nobody could ever accuse Woodhouse of that. A humourless man, he was a tall, lugubrious-looking individual whose suits and shoes were worn but well-kept.
    Twenty-five years on the force exposed a man to the worst in human nature but there was something especially sickening about this case. A second sexual assault, the first resulting in murder, in a small area in the same week was suspicious despite the differ -
    ences. Chantal Robinson was a young woman, hers could be a straightforward rape case that had turned 22
    nasty if the girl had put up a fight, and Adam Ballantyne was so much younger. Woodhouse had yet to hear back from the medical officer, but it seemed clear from initial reports that the child had been anally penetrated. What kind of man got his kicks from buggering a four-year-old boy? However, although Woodhouse was uncertain, at this stage he suspected that the attacks had to be linked.
    Woodhouse knew that a PC was holding the parents for him at the hospital while he scoured the area for any positive evidence he could present them with. Families of victims always bayed for immediate blood and Woodhouse knew from long experience that you had to be able to give them some proof that the case was progressing. Besides, he lacked the sympathetic touch necessary in these cases. Although he thought PC Watson was a bit too much of a soft touch to make a really good copper, he was just the ticket for work like this and could be relied on to make all the right noises. It wasn’t that the DCI didn’t care or have feelings; he just preferred to keep them to himself. In his job it was better not to give way to emotion.
    Down at one of the local pubs, the Birdcage, the unofficial investigation was proceeding less dis
    -
    passionately. ‘It’s gotta be that spastic kid Steven Archer, my Sue’s convinced.’ Terry Williams, father of four and husband to Sue, was standing at the bar 23
    with his close friend and workmate Paul Foster, step-father to the recently murdered Chantal.
    Privately, Paul had been rocked to his foundations by her murder, but for the sake of his wife Michelle, and for his own sanity, he was maintaining a calm approach. Beneath seethed anger and a fierce deter -
    mination to find the bloke who’d done this before the police did. A life sentence would be too good for him.
    All the same, Paul wasn’t going to batter somebody on the say-so of a busybody housewife and know-it-all. He thought the world of Terry but kept his feelings about Sue to himself.
    It was talent night and the pub was packed, the stage with its mirrored backdrop reflecting the crowded bar and beyond to the pool table and darts board. Paul checked his watch to see if there was time for another drink before the first act came on. He usually liked to duck out before the show got going, not being a particular fan of middle-aged men crooning Frank Sinatra and Elvis favourites. The