by Michael Wood
‘How?’
‘He wasn’t breathing.’
‘How far into the room did you go?’
‘Not far. Just a few steps.’
‘The pool table is right at the other end of the room from the door. How could you tell he was dead from just inside the doorway?’
‘Judging by how much blood there was. It was obvious he was dead.’
‘So you didn’t interfere with the crime scene or try to administer first aid?’
‘No. I didn’t do anything like that. I know I probably should have. We’re taught first aid, but I panicked. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I didn’t know what to do. I closed the door behind me and went to fetch Kate.’
‘Who else has a key to that room?’
‘We all do,’ Kate said. ‘All the staff have keys to the communal rooms. There’s no reason for them not to.’
‘The only other way into the recreation room is from the patio doors. Is that correct?’
‘That’s right,’ Kate said. ‘They’re double-locked, and there is an alarm on the doors which will sound if they are interfered with in any way.’
‘Is the alarm working?’
‘It is tested every two days. Yes, it’s working.’
‘What about the windows?’
‘They are all locked and on separate alarms to the door. And before you ask, they are also tested every two days and are working perfectly.’
‘So we have a murdered young man in a sealed room and the only people who have a key are members of your staff, Ms Moloney.’
‘If you think one of my staff is capable of that then you’re very much mistaken. All the staff are vetted many times before being employed here. I know all of their employment and personal history. None of them have a history of violence and all are capable and credible,’ she said with strong determination.
‘It would appear, on the face of it, one of them has slipped through the cracks. The only person who could have committed the crime had to have a key to the recreation room. Have any been lost or stolen recently?’
‘Not that I have been made aware of,’ she looked over to Oliver who quickly shook his head.
‘Then it would appear you have a killer on the loose here, Mrs Moloney.’
‘The whole place is full of bloody killers. Take your pick, Inspector.’
ELEVEN
A couple of small offices had been taken over by South Yorkshire Police to use as makeshift interview rooms. Ideally, Matilda would have liked to take all the inmates to the station where their interviews could be recorded and videoed in specially equipped rooms. Matilda could monitor them from her office and potentially feed the detectives with questions through their ear pieces. However, logic, and ACC Masterson, dictated that the interviews take place on-site. It would cost money and resources to securely transfer each inmate individually to HQ and back. It was not feasible.
The rooms themselves did not have the grandeur of high ceilings and cornicing of the original building. It was obvious these had been adapted from a once larger room. The small, soulless boxes were all plasterboard, faux sash window frames and watered-down magnolia paint. The smell was of stale air. These rooms were rarely used. It wasn’t difficult to understand why.
Sian and Aaron were to each lead separate interview teams and report back to Matilda.
‘Are we all set up?’ Matilda asked.
‘Yes. Aaron and Scott are at one side of the room, myself and Rory at the other. Some of the officers are acting as appropriate adults as everyone here is under eighteen.’
‘Aaron, I hear congratulations are in order,’ Matilda said on seeing the sprightly detective bounce into the room.
‘Sorry? Oh, Katrina, yes. Thank you.’ Aaron’s face lit up. He was beaming and delighted at the thought of impending fatherhood. ‘It’s still early days but we’re both very happy.’
‘I’m pleased. Send my love to Katrina, won’t you?’
‘Of course. Thank you.’
Matilda and Aaron stood smiling at each other. Neither of them knew which way to progress this conversation. When it came to small talk, they weren’t in the same league as mothers at a school gate. The awkward silence grew. It was getting embarrassing.
‘Right, shall we get on then?’ Matilda asked.
Aaron and Scott sat close together at one side of a small table. Opposite was fifteen-year-old Callum Nixon. He was slouched in his seat. Sitting next to him, but at a safe distance, was one of the officers, bolt upright in clean, crisp uniform.
It was no exaggeration to say Aaron and Scott felt slightly uneasy in Starling House. They were away from their home ground so didn’t feel in complete control. Although they had quickly glanced at Callum’s file, they had no idea who the boy sitting across from them was and how he was going to react to their questions.
Aaron cleared his throat. ‘Callum Nixon, yes?’
‘That’s what it says on my birth certificate.’ His accent was thick Scouse.
‘How long have you been at Starling House?’
‘Since February.’
‘How are you finding it?’
‘It’s a palace. I’m loving every minute of it. Could do with having room service though.’ His replied dripped with sarcasm.
‘Do you get on with the other lads?’
He shrugged. ‘They’re all right.’
‘What do you talk about?’
‘The pros and cons of Brexit—’
‘That’ll do, Callum,’ the officer chimed up.
‘Did you meet Ryan Asher yesterday?’ Aaron asked.
‘Yes. He seemed like a sound lad. We played a bit of table tennis.’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘Like I said, he seemed sound.’
‘Do you know why he was here?’
‘On a £9.50 holiday from the Sun?’
‘I won’t tell you again, Callum,’ the officer scorned.
‘No. I don’t know why he was here. He didn’t say.’
‘And you didn’t ask?’
‘It’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Did you notice Ryan talking to anyone else yesterday?’
‘Just the other lads?’
‘Which ones?’
‘I don’t know. He spoke to Lee and Craig a bit, I suppose.’
‘Did any of the other lads say anything to you about Ryan?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. That they didn’t like him, maybe?’
‘He was only here five minutes. We didn’t get chance to like him.’
‘What did you do last night?’
‘The usual: dinner, theatre, then off to the club for a nightcap.’
‘Final warning, Callum,’ the officer raised his voice this time.
‘We had tea. We went into the rec. room from six till nine then we were locked up in our cells until this morning.’
‘Did you hear anything during the night? Anything wake you up?’
‘Well, Scarlett Johan—’ he looked at the officer who raised an eyebrow. ‘No. Nothing. I sleep like the dead.’
‘What did you think when you found out Ryan had been killed?’
‘Nothing. Jammy bastard doesn’t have to serve his sentence though now, does he?’
Aaron and Scott exchanged glances.
‘Who do you think could have done it?’
‘No idea. Have you asked Officer Phipps here what he was doing last night?’ He leaned back in his seat and let out a loud throaty laugh.
On the other side of the thin partition wall, Sian and Rory made themselves as comfortable as they could on hard chairs. They waited patiently while an officer brought an inmate for them to interview.
‘Do you ever wonder why kids kill?’ Rory asked.
‘I try not to, seeing as I’ve got four of my own.’
‘That’s what I mean. You’ve got kids; all of them are decent, law-abiding and do well at school. What turns a child from that into a killer?’
‘I’ve no idea, Rory,’ she answered quickly, not wanting to dwell on the subject.
‘I mean, when I was fourteen I didn’t think about setting fire to my grandparents. I was always out on my mountain bike and trying to get Rosie McLean to go out with me.’
Sian looked over at Rory and noticed the intense look of sadness on his young face. ‘Background, upbringing, I honestly don’t know, Rory. You’d need to ask a psychologist that one.’
The door opened and a female officer brought in a fifteen-year-old taller than she was. Sian wondered whether she should really be left alone with someone who could so obviously overpower her.
‘Name?’ Sian asked.
‘Craig Hodge.’
‘Where are you from, Craig?’
‘Hull.’
‘And how long have you been in Starling House?’
‘About a year.’
‘What did you do?’ Rory asked.
‘That’s not important, Rory,’ Sian said as an aside. ‘Craig, did you speak much to Ryan Asher yesterday?’ she asked quickly. She knew of Craig’s crime and didn’t want to hear him describe his actions in glorious technicolour to a captive audience.
‘A bit. Me and Mark Parker were having a pool tournament so we kept to ourselves yesterday.’
‘But you did speak to him?’
‘Kate asked me to show him around but, as usual, Callum Nixon stepped in and took over.’
‘Why did he do that?’ Rory asked.
‘Because he’s a tosser,’ Craig said, spitting his words out with venom. He clearly didn’t like Callum.
‘Did you overhear anyone talking about Ryan?’ Sian wanted to keep the interview on topic.
‘Nope.’
‘Did anyone say if they liked him or not?’
‘Nope.’
‘Do you know why Ryan Asher had been sent here?’
‘Not a clue,’ he replied nonchalantly.
‘What did you do last night after your evening meal?’
‘Nothing.’
‘When did you find out about Ryan being killed?’
‘Just after breakfast when we all tried to leave the dining room.’
‘Were you surprised?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Didn’t know the lad.’
Sian rolled her eyes. He may as well be answering ‘no comment’ to every question. Was he doing this on purpose, she wondered. ‘Do you have any idea who could have killed him?’
‘I’m not answering that. Why should I help out the pigs when you got me locked up in here?’
‘That Callum’s a right little bastard,’ Aaron said to Matilda.
‘They’re all right little bastards, Aaron, that’s why they’re here in the first place.’
There was an empty office Matilda had managed to secure for them all to use when they wanted to have a cup of coffee and a break from interviewing. It was cramped and cold, but it would do.
‘He’s a sarky shit as well.’
‘Did you get anywhere?’
‘No. He was locked in his room from nine o’clock until seven this morning. They all were.’
‘And even if one of them had got out of his room he’s hardly likely to admit it,’ Scott said. ‘We have to remember these boys are killers. Even if they made a full confession and begged for mercy, they’re killers and they’ve lied to and manipulated their victims.’
‘Scott’s right,’ Matilda said. ‘We can’t treat these boys in the same way as we do regular witnesses. They could be covering up for each other.’
‘This is going to be fun,’ Aaron began but stopped when his mobile phone started ringing. ‘It’s Katrina,’ he said, moving away from the group for a bit of privacy.
‘Are you all right, Scott?’ Matilda asked, offering him a biscuit from a battered tin.
‘Yes. I’m just a bit uncomfortable around all these killers. First time I went into a prison I didn’t sleep for a week afterwards. My mum always said I’m too sensitive to be a copper. I’m starting to think she might be right.’
‘You’re not thinking of leaving the force, are you?’
‘No. I’ve always wanted to be a detective, even when I was a child. I just need to toughen up a bit, I suppose, not be so—’
‘Sorry, boss, I’m going to have to go. Katrina’s bleeding.’ Aaron burst in on the conversation, grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and charged out of the room before Matilda could say anything.
CRAIG HODGE
Hull. February 2015
Two years ago I was in a car crash that killed my parents. I was in the back seat, safely strapped in. I was stuck in that car for nearly an hour before someone came along to help. I couldn’t move. I was trapped against a wall. Dad smashed his head on the steering wheel, and Mum had taken her seatbelt off, I’m not sure why, and went straight through the windscreen. They were both dead by the time help came. I knocked my head and had to have a few scans but I’m OK.
I went to live with my aunt and uncle. I don’t think they wanted me living there. They didn’t want kids, and, all of a sudden, they end up with me on the doorstep. But I’m family, so they had no option but to take me in. Aunt Susan always said that Mum was her sister and she was doing it for her.
I don’t know when they noticed a change in my behaviour. Uncle Pete said it was probably to do with the car crash and watching my parents die. Aunt Susan said I should have come out of it by now because kids are resilient. She wanted me to go to see someone. Uncle Pete was against it. So was I. I didn’t need to see anyone.
One night, Aunt Susan sat me down and asked if I was OK. She asked if I was being bullied at school, if I was taking drugs, if I was in trouble, if I was gay. I answered no to all her questions. There was nothing wrong with me.
The thing that changed it all was during the October half-term holiday. Uncle Pete was at work, and Aunt Susan was doing the washing. I was in the kitchen having breakfast. The washer finished and Aunt Susan was unloading my football shirt when it got caught on the catch on the door and it ripped. She held it up.
‘Oh Craig, I’m so sorry,’ she said. She didn’t sound sorry.
‘What have you done?’ I said, shocked.
‘It was an accident, Craig. I got it caught, I’m sorry.’
‘You’ve torn my shirt.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘That’s my best shirt. That’s my football shirt and you’ve fucking torn it,’ I screamed at her.
‘Craig, watch your language. It was an accident. I’ll replace it.’
‘Damn right you’ll fucking replace it.’
‘Craig, I won’t tell you again. Don’t speak to me like that.’
‘You can’t do anything right, can you?’ I shouted at her. ‘All you do is cook, clean, and wash and you balls that up too.’ I snatched the torn shirt from her and looked at it.
‘Calm down, Craig, it’s only a football—’
She didn’t finish as I threw my arm out and slapped her hard across the face with the back of my hand. She fell against the fridge, held a hand to her face and ran out of the room crying.
She must have called Uncle Pete as he came straight home from work and had a go at me for hitting Aunt Susan. I just sat there and let him rant.
Aunt Susan didn’t speak to me much after that. It was like she was scared of me.
I lost it again with my aunt over Christmas. I can’t remember what happened. I’ve tried but I just remember shouting at her and her cowering when she thought I was going to hit her again. Uncle Pete said he wasn’t going to put up with my outbursts anymore. He didn’t care if I was grieving or suffering from a head injury, I couldn’t keep getting away with it. They were going to see someone about me.
At the end of January, Aunt Susan said they’d got an appointment with a specialist at the hospital. I was going to have a brain scan and see a therapist. It was a day off school so I wasn’t bothered.
I’ve no idea of the results of the scan, even to this day, and I
don’t know what the therapist thought about our session as we didn’t have a second appointment.
Everything was quiet on the way home in the car. Uncle Pete was driving, and keeping an eye on the road; Aunt Susan was looking out of the window, chewing on her fingernail.
‘What did you talk about?’ Aunt Susan eventually asked me.
‘Not much,’ I replied.
‘What did she ask you?’
‘Just about school and stuff.’
‘Did you talk about us?’
‘A bit.’
I could see Uncle Pete shaking his head at my answers. He looked across at Aunt Susan and she nodded once. He nodded back. Something was going on. They’d planned something while I’d been having tests and talking to that therapist woman with one blue eye and one brown. I bet they were going to send me away, get me locked up or something. Talk about déjà vu. This is exactly what Mum and Dad had done, and here we were again on the same stretch of road. Talk about history repeating itself. I wondered if I could get away with it a second time. I took off my seatbelt and leaned forward. I grabbed the handbrake and pulled it up.
I leaned back in my seat, quickly put my seatbelt back on and bent forward into the crash position. I closed my eyes as the car swerved, hit an embankment and ploughed straight into a tree.
I opened my eyes and saw Uncle Pete with his head bloodied and slumped over the steering wheel. Aunt Susan was breathing heavily. Her head had smashed against the window. She turned around to look at me. Her face was covered in cuts where shards of glass had hit her. I looked at her and saw the large piece of glass sticking out of her throat, blood was pouring out and down the front of her white shirt. She tried to say something but she couldn’t speak. Eventually the blood stopped flowing and she died. I’d banged my head and was slightly dazed, but I’d be all right. I was trapped in the back of the car though. It took over half an hour for another car to come along and find us. Just like last time.
TWELVE
With DS Aaron Connolly out of action, Matilda sat in for him during the next interview alongside DC Scott Andrews. The door to the poky room opened and in walked Thomas Hartley. The timid sixteen-year-old had his head down and he took small steps to the table. He perched on the edge of the seat and nervously adjusted himself until he was comfortable. The female officer who accompanied him plonked her ample frame down on the seat next to him.
