by Cari Hunter
“No, I do not.” He gaped at her, and then his eyes narrowed with cunning. “Name your price.”
They stood slipper to slipper in front of the fire, her efforts to outstare him thwarted by her inferior height. “No teasing me about Rosie, and you don’t mention her to Mum,” she said.
“Done.” They shook on it. “Spill the beans.”
“Spill the bran flakes, more like. You didn’t hear this from me, but check out the box,” she told him. “There’s never been any cereal in it. She just knows you bloody hate those things.”
Chapter Seven
A flick of a switch changed the circle around Rosie’s body cam from luminous green to red. It was a simple visual, designed to remind even the drunkest or stupidest perp that their actions were being recorded for posterity, and yet it outwitted them in their thousands.
“Search of thirteen Battersby Walk,” she stated. “Starting in the bedroom of the deceased, Kyle Parker.”
From her position just across the threshold, she turned to capture an establishing shot of the tiny room. A bare bulb swung from a central ceiling fixture, its sallow glow illuminating a grubby Manchester City quilt thrown over a threadbare mattress, and three drawers wedged at angles in a chipboard chest. A desk was shoehorned under the window, its surface strewn with DVDs, computer games, and takeaway cartons.
“Do you want me to take the desk?” Kash asked, peering round her shoulder. He had slept better than she had, and his enthusiasm was getting on her wick.
“Be my guest.” Her latex gloves snagged on her sweaty fingers, the tips ballooning until she smoothed them down one at a time.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” she snapped, and then shook her head in apology. “I’m fine, Kash. Let’s just get it done.”
Everywhere she looked, she saw traces of the lad Kyle had been: the empty bottles and crisp packets that told of a fondness for chocolate milk and pickled onion Monster Munch, and the chewed pens tossed alongside a school assignment. She checked the submission date at the top of the homework: February 5th. He’d missed the deadline by six weeks. He didn’t have many schoolbooks, but a collection of dog-eared Harry Potter novels was stacked by his bed, as if he dipped into them when he couldn’t sleep. Their garish covers, designed to appeal to children, were a stark contrast to the gore-soaked sleeve art on the DVDs he had amassed.
Kash lifted the lid of a pizza box and recoiled at the mould-furred crusts. “I’m guessing Debbie’s not much of a cook.”
Rosie was rummaging through the detritus in the top drawer: sweet wrappers, football stickers, filthy shin pads, and school timetables, all burying the photos Kyle had torn from an ancient porn magazine. “Kashif Ahmed, are your teenage years so distant you don’t remember eating your tea and being starving again half an hour later?” she said, tucking the photos into a sticker album in the hope that Debbie wouldn’t find them.
Kash scoffed. “You haven’t met my mum, have you? If you ever finished a supper of hers and wanted so much as a wafer-thin mint in the next twelve hours, she’d consider it a personal insult.”
Rosie paused, album still in hand, to look him up and down. “How on earth do you maintain your fantastic figure?”
“I chase around after three kids, and I married a woman with a sense of moderation.” He carried a tower of polystyrene containers to the corner of the room, clearing his access to the desk’s only cupboard. “This is a nice bit of kit,” he said, pulling out a PS4 so new it was still boxed.
She shut the door and came to crouch beside him. “How the hell did he afford that? The family don’t seem to have two ha’pennies to rub together.”
“Back of a lorry?” Kash suggested. It was the most likely explanation. The majority of the loot nicked from the north side ended up traded on the south.
“Maybe.” She ran a finger over the security seals. “Unusual for it to come with its packaging intact, though.”
She went back to the drawers and emptied the middle one of underwear and T-shirts, unpairing the socks and refolding the shirts Kyle had screwed up and jammed into any available space. The bottom drawer was more of the same, except themed around jeans and sweaters and creased school uniforms.
“You find anything else over there?” she asked, jerking the drawer closed along a dodgy runner.
“No.” He tossed her half a bag of Maltesers. “I might nip out for a breath of fresh air before I make a start on Debbie’s boudoir.”
She hadn’t realised how hungry she was until the scent of chocolate hit her. She tipped a couple of Maltesers into her mouth. “Thought you were quitting,” she said, knowing full well what he was actually nipping out for.
“I am. I bought one of those bong things.”
“E-cig, Kash,” she said hurriedly, for the benefit of the camera.
“Yeah, that’s the one.” He patted his pockets, checking where he’d put his fags. “I’ll be back in five.”
Deciding they’d both earned a break, she switched off her body cam and sat on the floor, nibbling the chocolates and resting her head against the wall. The room was stuffy and smelled fusty, and now that she’d stopped, everything seemed to be humming. She closed her eyes, but dots still floated across her vision, amplifying the drunken feeling that traditionally followed a night shift.
“Our Kyle’d buy me sweets.”
The quiet statement came out of nowhere, the voice close enough to make Rosie jump. Her eyes shot open, and she dropped the Maltesers into her lap.
“Shi—oh hey,” she said, trying to pretend she wasn’t having an internal conniption fit. The girl she had seen in the kitchen shoved herself onto the bed and kicked her bare feet. “It’s Lily, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Lily-Mae really, but I don’t like it. What are you looking for?”
That was a good question. “I’m not sure. I’m hoping we’ll know when we find it.” Rosie held out a hand. “I’m Rosie, so we’re both flowers.”
Lily stopped scrubbing at the tomato sauce on her cheeks and shook Rosie’s hand. “I think I’m in charge now, cos our Kyle’s gone.”
“You are? What about your mum?”
“She gets busy with her stuff,” Lily said, back to worrying at the sauce. “With her friends and Terry—that’s her new boyfriend—and she goes out a lot.” She pointed at the Maltesers. “Can I have one?”
“Of course.” Rosie poured a generous helping into Lily’s waiting palm. “What sweets would Kyle buy you?” she asked, wishing she’d never turned her camera off, but reluctant to spook Lily by restarting it.
Lily spoke around three Maltesers, her cheeks bulging like a hamster’s. “It weren’t just sweets. He’d get us crisps, pop, some toys. When Mum were cross with him, I’d text him to tell him she were gone, and he’d come round.”
“Did he buy you a phone, then?” Rosie put no weight behind the question, and Lily nodded immediately, reading nothing into it.
“Yeah, a really nice one, only I can’t show it to Mum.”
“Gosh. He must’ve won the lottery or something.”
The look on Lily’s face made Rosie feel like the class dunce. “No, duh. He got a job.”
Rosie’s ears pricked up. “Doing what?”
“Dunno. He never said. He showed me a twenty quid once. Have you ever seen a twenty quid?”
“Not very often, no.” She gave Lily the bag of Maltesers. “When did you last see him?”
Lily clasped the bag in her fist. “I can’t remember. He got nowty and all sneaky and didn’t come round much, and he wouldn’t answer my texts.” She looked up at Rosie, her eyes wet with tears. “He won’t ever come round again, will he?”
“No, love. He won’t.”
“I wish he would. I don’t want him to be dead.” Lily began to sob, her chest heaving with misery, and covered her face with both hands.
Rosie went to sit beside her on the bed. She wanted to tell her that everything would be okay, that the grief and loss would become easier to bear, given time, but t
he promises rang false, and Lily made no attempt to seek comfort from her. So they stayed like that, close but not touching, on a quilt that stank of a dead child’s unwashed socks.
* * *
A two-for-one happy hour and a fault on the local tramline had packed the Blue Door to capacity, and Rosie was struggling to make her order heard above a woman’s shrill laughter and the freestyle jazz blaring from a nearby speaker. She bit the skin at the side of her thumb as the barman fiddled with mint leaves and lime wedges. She hated the place. Hated its trendiness, its well-heeled clientele, and its tendency to serve bar snacks on trowels. More than anything, she hated its choice of music, and when the barman had finally finished mucking about she threw a tenner at him, abandoning her change in her haste to escape to a quieter corner.
“Here,” she said, sliding Steph’s mojito in front of her and taking the opposite seat. “Cheers.” She raised her pint and drained half of it in one chug. She might have caved in to Steph’s wheedling, but she’d be damned if she’d drink some frou-frou monstrosity with a brolly stuck in it.
“Where did Kash end up?” Steph asked.
“He has a home to go to. And he’s teetotal.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” Steph said as if she had forgotten that when she invited him to tag along. “I’ve got a mind like a sieve.”
Rosie opened a bag of scampi fries and offered them to Steph, who grimaced in a manner that could only be described as satisfying.
“God, Roz, put them away. You know I can’t stand them.”
Rosie crammed in a handful and washed them down with ale. “Sorry,” she said, wishing she’d bought two packets. “I guess we both have minds like sieves.”
“On that note…” Steph paused to drink her mojito with her pinkie raised. “Social Services are not happy with you. They want to know why you interviewed Lily Parker without a chaperone present.”
The froth on Rosie’s pint went up her nose as she inhaled sharply. She swallowed her mouthful and set the glass down, waiting out a burst of saxophone and the spike in her blood pressure. “It was hardly a bloody interview, Steph. We spoke for about five minutes. What would they rather I’d done? Ignored the kid and sent her on her way? She was distraught, and she obviously needed someone to talk to.”
“I was there to talk to her,” Steph said. “In an official capacity, in a structured interview.”
Rosie chewed that one over for a couple of seconds. The alcohol had hit her empty stomach hard and given her a quick, pleasant buzz, which allowed her to face down Steph’s self-righteous indignation with unusual equanimity. “Did Lily say much? When you talked to her officially, with the chaperone present?” The question was rhetorical; she’d overheard Ray ranting about the wasted hour before he stomped off to recall the door-to-doors. She watched the colour rise on Steph’s cheeks, pink darkening to a florid red.
“Fuck off, Roz,” Steph said, slamming emphasis on the nickname she knew Rosie loathed. “Nothing she told you was on the record. It’s all inadmissible.”
“She’s not our perp, Steph,” Rosie said quietly. “She’s an eleven-year-old who’s just lost her big brother, the brother who bought her stuff he shouldn’t have been able to afford, who flashed twenty-pound notes at her and had a brand new PS4 hidden away in his room. From what Lily said, their mum doesn’t know anything about this, and it’s an important lead, so does it really matter how we came by the information?”
“It matters that we follow the fucking rules,” Steph said. “That may be an unfamiliar concept to you, but I can’t afford to step outside the lines whenever the fancy strikes me.”
“Ouch.” Rosie finished her pint and reached for her coat. “That was below the belt.”
“Aw, c’mon.” Steph raised both hands, as if calling a ceasefire now that she’d prevailed. “You know I didn’t mean anything by it. Please don’t go.”
Rosie fastened her zip right up to her chin. The bar was hot and airless, but she was still cold. “It’s been a really long day. You stay. I’ll get a taxi.”
Steph caught hold of Rosie’s hand but released it again when Rosie stiffened. “Yours was the only break we got today,” she admitted. “Debbie knew fuck-all. She’s got herself a new boyfriend, and she’s barely seen Kyle in the last three months. She doesn’t have a clue where he’s been or who he’s been with. And yes, I’m pissed off that you got more from an illicit five-minute chat than I got from five hours of interviews. Wouldn’t you be?”
“Probably. But I might not be such an arsehole about it.”
Steph’s laugh was a little too loud. It was unusual for Rosie to fight back to this extent, and she seemed thrown by it. “Okay, okay, I’m an arsehole. You’re not really going to leave me here, are you?”
Rosie pocketed her scampi fries and pushed her chair back, distracted by thoughts of a brew in bed with biscuits and a hot water bottle. “Yes, unless you want to save me the taxi fare.”
The false bonhomie vanished from Steph’s face, and she fished out her car keys. “I’m not going to win this one, am I?”
“No,” Rosie said. “You’re not.”
* * *
The stairs creaked as Jem tiptoed up them, her torch guiding her path so she didn’t have to switch the big light on and disturb Ferg. She strode over the wobbly top step, somehow managing not to spill her mug of Horlicks or upend the plate of banana cake balanced atop it, and made a beeline for her bedroom, where she stowed her supper and huddled back beneath her quilt.
“Bloody Nora,” she whispered, trapping her hands between her thighs to defrost them. It wasn’t even that cold outside, but the old terrace had draughty windows, high ceilings, and a landlord disinclined to fit more efficient central heating. She was alternating sips of Horlicks with bites of cake when her phone vibrated with a WhatsApp message from Rosie. Just checking in to see how you’re doing.
Jem wiggled her fingers to get the blood flowing and then tapped out a reply. I’m all right, thanks. Wide awake, eating cake and watching Supervet. You?
The response was almost instantaneous. I’m missing Supervet?? Which channel?
4seven. It’s a repeat. Bet you’ve already seen it.
Jem retrieved her mug as her phone timed out and its screen turned black. Thirty seconds into the first advert break, it vibrated again, not with a message this time but an incoming call. She fumbled to answer it, inexplicably nervous about speaking to Rosie outside of work.
“No spoilers,” she said, cutting off anything Rosie might say. “I’m very worried about the Pom with the slipped disc, but I need to let it play out.”
Rosie snuffled a laugh. “I don’t know why I watch it. Even the reruns make me bawl.” A pause as she slurped a drink. “You couldn’t sleep either, then?”
“No. I dozed off for about an hour, but a car alarm woke me and that was that. I’ve resorted to Horlicks.”
“Hell’s bells, these are desperate times.”
Jem picked a chunk of dark chocolate from her cake and dipped it in her drink, letting it melt a little before she ate it. “On the plus side, Ferg made a fab banana loaf.”
“Lucky you. Fluffy and I are sharing bourbon biccies and hot chocolate.”
“Hey, don’t knock bourbons. They’ve seen me through many a night shift.” Jem licked her fingers. She wanted to ask about Kyle, but it seemed too frivolous to broach the subject with chocolate on her hands. “Did you see the headline in the Manchester Evening News?”
“I saw it,” Rosie said, and Jem heard her put her mug down. “Steph persuaded me to work overtime this afternoon, and I searched Kyle’s house with Kash.”
“Steph?” Jem couldn’t place the name. “Have I met her?”
“Sorry, yes, she was there last night. Dark hair, tall. DS Merritt? She’s taking the lead on the case.”
“Ah, right. Mate of yours?” Jem was no detective, but Rosie’s awkward, arse-backwards explanation suggested she and the DS were more than passing acquaintances.
�
��Long story,” Rosie said, although she sounded quite upbeat about it.
Jem held up a hand, even though Rosie couldn’t see her. “Say no more. Are you allowed to tell me what happened at the house?”
“Probably not, but I don’t think you’re the type to blab, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Did you just do that thing where you lock your lips and throw away the key?”
“Nope,” Jem said again, but then laughed. She’d been tempted.
“Okay, so the Parkers reside on the south side of Curzon, and Kyle has been largely absent from home for about three months.”
Jem stared at the muted television as Rosie described the state of his bedroom, and her impromptu exchange with his eldest sister.
“Steph bollocked me for speaking to her, but I don’t know what else I could’ve done. Turned her away? ‘Look, love, I get that you’re upset, but all this shit needs to be on the record’?” Rosie’s voice had steadily risen, her frustration and anger unmistakable. Jem heard her take a breath and then another. “Sorry, Jem. I didn’t mean to rant on at you.”
“Feel any better for it?”
Rosie paused. “I do, now you mention it.”
“Good. And for what it’s worth, I don’t know what else you could’ve done, and I’d have done the same thing.”
“You would?” There was an uncommon note of uncertainty in Rosie’s question. For the short time Jem had known her, she had always seemed larger than life, full of beans and brimming with an enviable confidence. It was odd to hear her so obviously in need of reassurance.
“Yes, I would,” Jem told her. “Has this been keeping you awake?”
Rosie yawned. “Possibly.”
“Are you any less worried about it now?”
Another yawn. “I think so.”
Assured that the Pom was on the way to a full recovery, Jem switched off the telly and snuggled under her quilt. “Are you going to sleep, then?”
“Mm.” Rosie already sounded halfway there. “I need to brush my teeth.”
