by Keith Nixon
Seemingly, not anymore.
Underwood appeared relaxed and happy, a grin on her face, something he struggled to remember previously. Her hair was straight and brown now – the artificial attack by chemicals seemingly now done with. Underwood closed Gray’s door and sat.
“Congratulations,” said Gray. “How are you?”
“I’m great,” said Underwood, “she’s great.” Must be a daughter then. Another fact he wasn’t aware of. Underwood pulled out a photo, passed it to Gray. Yes, an infant. Dressed in pink.
“What’s her name?”
“Amelie.”
“Nice. And you’re looking well.”
“It’s been a revelation. Caring for something so helpless, it really brings everything else into perspective.” She shook her head. “Some of the stuff I was worrying about, God, ridiculous. And we’re getting married soon.” Underwood held out her left hand, displayed a ring with a sparkly stone. “You must come to the wedding.”
“I’d be delighted.” Actually, he couldn’t think of anything worse. Milling around with people he didn’t know, making small talk, watching others get steadily drunk.
“The invite is in the post, then.”
“Look forward to it.”
“And I’ll be expecting you to bring someone.”
Gray forced a laugh. “I can’t think of anybody who’d want to be my date.” He moved the subject on quickly. “DCI Hamson said you’d want to discuss the baby in the box.”
Underwood scrunched up her face, like she’d tasted something bitter. “How could somebody do that?”
“We don’t know all the circumstances.”
“Even so.” Gray wondered how much Underwood would have been bothered before she’d given birth herself. She continued, “I’m getting an increasing number of calls from the press. They’re really interested. One of the bastards described it as a bit of light relief after the Brexit shambles.”
“Nice.”
“I told him what I thought, don’t you worry. Anyway, there’s a hunger for information on the topic. I expect we’ll see reporters here in Margate before long. Then they’ll work out where the house is, who the relatives are, where they live. Speaking of the relatives, what do you think their reaction will be?”
“Polly Draper and Philip Ogilvy? Hard to say, I’ve only met them once.” Underwood waited for Gray to consider. “I suspect Ogilvy would probably get aggressive, but hard to say with Draper.”
“Maybe I should advise them as to what they might expect?”
“Probably sensible. I’ve got a contact number for the daughter. She might give you her brother’s details.”
“What about a press conference?”
“There’s not much we can say right now.”
“When we’ve more detail, then.”
“I’m not keen.” Gray didn’t like being the centre of attention in front of the press in such a false environment.
“The leeches will keep sucking ‘til they find blood.”
“I can’t help that, Bethany.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She stood. “Can I have the number for Draper?”
“No problem.” Gray scrolled through the contacts in his phone, wrote the details down and handed them over. And then she was gone.
Gray’s phone bleeped. A text, from Fiona Jenkinson. “Do you still want to come over and see Dad? I understand if you don’t.”
Gray replied, “This evening okay?”
Fiona’s response came back within seconds. “Great.”
A knock at his door. Pfeffer. “I’ve got an identity on the ginger kid who went to A&E,” she said. “Freddie Kirton.”
“Don’t know him.”
“He’s from Newington.” A council estate the far side of Ramsgate, a well-known trouble spot. “He’s fifteen and has a couple of ASBOs to his name.”
“And someone set a dog on him.”
“Maybe it was a falling out between scally mates?”
“Possibly. I’ll find out when I talk to him.”
***
Kirton lived on Auckland Avenue, in the shadow of Staner Court, a high rise on the southern edge of the estate. His house was an unimaginatively designed red brick semi. Hard edges, sharp angles, uPVC windows. Opposite stood the Newington Community Centre, a single-storey white-painted building, and beyond that was a play area with swings and a roundabout.
Three kids on bikes, on the grass behind the community centre, watched Gray park. He eyeballed them as he got out of the car. The kids returned the stare, didn’t move. Gray walked up to the house, stepping over children’s brightly coloured plastic toys strewn on the driveway. He knocked on the door, glanced over his shoulder. The kids were still there.
No answer so Gray tried again. Now the door opened. A woman with a child, maybe under two years old, on her hip. She wore dark blue tracksuit bottoms and a white sleeveless t-shirt revealing a small tattoo on her shoulder; a couple of Chinese or Japanese symbols Gray couldn’t translate. Her mousy brown hair was held up by a plastic grip. This was the woman from the CCTV footage. He was in the right place.
“Yes?” she said.
“I’d like to speak with Freddie Kirton.”
“Why?” Gray showed his warrant card. She leant over, read the card closely. “What’s he supposed to have done?”
“I just want a talk with him. About his visit to the hospital yesterday.”
The woman blinked. The child stuffed a thumb into his mouth. “He won’t tell you anything.” She glanced past Gray to the kids on their bikes. “Nobody does.”
“I’d like to try anyway.”
“He’s in his bedroom.” She moved out of his way, allowed Gray to enter then pushed the door shut with her foot. “Second door on the left. When you’re done come and find me in the kitchen.”
“Okay.”
“Freddie!” she shouted. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Gray passed by a buggy before heading up the stairs. He found Kirton propped up in bed, a pillow behind him. The walls were covered in posters – for games and movies, all sci-fi like Star Trek, Star Wars and Fortnite.
Kirton’s hair was a strong copper colour and unkempt. Skinny too. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, bandages on show. The room was hot despite the winter weather outside. Kirton was intent upon some shoot-em-up console game. His tongue poked out the side of his mouth while a thumb rattled fast onto a controller button.
Gray waited for a few seconds, but the kid didn’t divert his attention away from the exploding aliens. “Freddie.”
“What?”
“I’m here about the dog.” Gray held out his warrant card. Now Kirton properly looked at Gray, stopped hammering the button. A scream emitted from the TV. Kirton’s character had died. He pressed another button and the game paused.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Kirton absently rubbed a large white spot on his chin.
“You went into hospital yesterday with bite marks on you. They’d got infected. I spoke to the doctor who treated you.” Kirton’s fingers moved from his face to the bandages. He said nothing, stared at Gray. “Somebody set a dog on you.”
“That’s not what happened. I climbed over a fence and there was a dog in the garden. It went for me. It was all my fault.”
“Where was this?”
“Other side of the estate.” Kirton wave his hand towards the window. “I don’t remember exactly.”
“You don’t remember where a dog bit you?”
“On the leg and arm.” Kirton rolled up his sleeve to show Gray a white bandage.
“I meant the address.”
“Oh, no.” Kirton shrugged. “And it weren’t really like what you said. He were just playing, jumping up at me. No biggie.” He picked up his controller, began shooting again.
“Freddie?” asked Gray but Kirton paid him no attention.
Gray headed downstairs. The kitchen door stood open. Gray glanced inside. The woman was on her o
wn, seated at a table. “I’ve just put him down for a sleep.” She meant the toddler. “Did he talk?”
“Not really. Just that he’d been jumped at by a dog, and it was his fault. He totally played it down.”
The woman beckoned Gray. She closed the door behind him. “I’m Laura, by the way, his step mum. He tells me stuff ‘cos he thinks I’m more of a mate than a parent. He’s a good kid, you know.”
“He seems all right.” From what Gray could tell inside a couple of minutes.
“Every now and again he loses control, it’s the ADHD.” Gray had heard a lot about this condition in recent years, never anything previously. He half wondered sometimes if it was actually real, or some invented behaviour.
“When was he attacked?” asked Gray.
“A couple of days ago. He was in a right state. His clothes had been shredded, there was blood all over him. He was really upset. Scratches everywhere and a couple of bite marks. I wanted him to go to the hospital, but he wouldn’t have it. His Dad agreed so we put him to bed. Little I can say, right? As he’s not mine. All I could do was clean him up as best I could.
“When I went in to check on him later, I asked what happened. Some man had gone for him. Came out of nowhere, knocked Freddie to the floor. He held a dog on a chain. The man let the animal snap and growl at Freddie, getting closer and closer. Freddie was utterly terrified.”
“Did the man say anything?”
“Just that Freddie better behave, not get into any more trouble. But that’s what’s strange, he hasn’t been doing anything. As I said, he’s a decent kid.”
“What did the man look like?”
“Freddie couldn’t say anything beyond he was big and had a scarf across his face.”
“Hair colour?”
“He wore a hat.”
“Where was Freddie attacked?”
“There’s a footpath near St. Christopher’s Church that connects Princess Margaret Avenue and Rockstone Way.” Gray didn’t know it. “He had to walk home, bleeding. Everybody would have seen it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I only took him into hospital because the cuts got infected. When we got back there was a box on the doorstep. Inside was a brand new games console and a note addressed to Freddie.”
“What did it say?”
“Just ‘Sorry’. Don’t you think that’s strange?” The child began to cry in the background, distracting Laura. “I’d better go to him.”
“Have you heard of any other kids being mauled?” The baby was still crying. Laura shook her head. “Thanks for your help. I’ll see myself out.”
Gray sat in his car. The kids were gone. He looked up St. Christopher’s Church on his phone’s map app. Just over half a mile away and opposite the Marlowe school, one of the government’s much touted academies. As Gray drove off he glanced up at Kirton’s window. The kid was watching him from the shadows.
***
The footpath was on the curved corner of Princess Margaret Avenue, a strangely designed road in the shape of a cucumber with a narrow patch of grass in the centre separating the two halves.
Houses stood one side of the narrow path, maybe a hundred yards long, fenced-in church grounds the other. The building itself was comparatively new, built in a red brick, regular design which Gray would never have guessed was a place of worship.
He paused on Rockstone Way. More semi-detached houses set back from the road behind small front gardens. Nothing remarkable. Gray returned the way he’d come, slowly now, his eyes on the ground. He didn’t see anything notable, just chewing gum patches and dog shit. He glanced over the fence into people’s gardens. No animals in sight.
He stopped halfway along. Bushes and trees hung low over the path both directions. He couldn’t see the exits. Would people have come running if they heard someone scream? A dog snarling, barking? Maybe not. Bystanders tended to be just that – generally not interested in the pain of others.
Gray’s phone rang as he neared his car. “Inspector Gray, this is Alexander Vardie of Social Services. I understand you’ve been trying to reach me.”
“Yes, sir. I wanted to take up some of your time to discuss one of your foster carers.”
“Why, specifically?”
“It’s better we speak face to face.”
“When were you thinking of?”
“As soon as possible, this afternoon if that’s feasible.”
Vardie made a long hmm sound before saying, “I’m sorry, I’m tied up all day.”
“When is a good time?”
“I’m afraid I’m really busy.”
“This is a serious case, sir.”
“As is mine, inspector. I’m currently on the other side of Kent dealing with a major issue and I won’t be back for a while.”
“Please make yourself available when possible, Mr Vardie.”
“Is it a matter of life or death, Inspector Gray?”
“No,” admitted Gray.
“I might be back in two days if that works?”
It would have to. “When?”
“At the moment I can’t be specific. Let me call you, all right?”
Again, Gray didn’t really have any choice. “Okay.”
“I’ve got your number so I’ll ring when I can.” And then Vardie was gone.
Ten
Amos Jenkinson had retired several years ago to a barn conversion nestled in the village of Fordwich, just off the Canterbury road. A couple of thousand years back Fordwich was a major port, but the gradual silting up of the River Stour meant it was now landlocked. Jenkinson’s home was on the edge of the community, at the end of a cul-de-sac with fields to the rear. Gray parked on the drive behind a small red Fiat.
He rang the bell. The traffic making its way in and out of the city was audible. Fiona opened up. She’d lost weight since the last time Gray had seen her. Her hair was shorter, cut to the nape of her neck, and entirely silvered. There were dark circles under bloodshot eyes. She’d dressed plainly, in jeans and a baggy black sweatshirt. “Sol.” She made a weak attempt at a smile. “Come in.” Fiona stepped out of the way.
The kitchen was along a corridor at the rear, overlooking the once neat garden. The grass was long now and the bushes unruly. Dark brown leaves lay spread over the lawn, deposited from the branches of an overhanging tree.
“Do you want anything?” asked Fiona. “I haven’t much in I’m afraid. I can stretch to a cup of tea.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Take a seat.” She pointed to a high stool at a breakfast bar and began filling a kettle at the sink.
“How’s your Dad?”
“His mind is completely gone, and the body is barely clinging on.” She switched the kettle on. “I’m really sorry, but he’s asleep at the moment. You may have wasted your time coming over.”
Gray was actually relieved. “Really, it’s no problem.”
“I’m glad you did as it’s nice to see a friendly face. And a famous face.”
“Famous?”
“You’re in the papers. The baby in the box.”
“God, that.”
“It must have been horrible. I knew Andrea Ogilvy, by the way.”
“Oh?”
“I work for Thanet Social Services. Right now, I’m on leave, of course, while I care for Dad. I met Andrea several times through my job. I work with vulnerable families. Sometimes it’s necessary to rehouse the children to get them out of potentially difficult circumstances, even if just overnight. Andrea was one of the people I’d go to for fostering.”
“What was she like?”
“One of the most caring people I ever met. Always there for everyone.”
“How often did you see her?”
Fiona shrugged. “It really varied. Sometimes several times a week, then not for months. There was no telling.”
“When did you last see her?”
“On the day of her retirement, eight years ago. That was something else I thought neve
r she’d stop; looking after children.”
“Why did she?”
“I think the joy went out of it after her husband died.” Fiona shook her head. “How did she die?”
“I’m not sure, old age, I think. There was nothing suspicious.”
“I thought Andrea would outlive us all. She was so strong and full of energy.” Fiona rubbed a hand across her face. “What with Dad’s illness, I’ve been so cut off lately I rarely hear any news. I thought one of my colleagues would have told me. I’m really pissed off they haven’t.”
“Maybe they’re busy too.”
“Maybe. What about the baby, has she been identified?”
“Not at the moment. I’ve spoken to Polly and Philip. It’s a mystery to them. They told me that children and sometimes babies were brought round at all times of day and night. So, it could be one of these. At this stage we just don’t have enough information.”
“Children are separated from parents only when it’s absolutely necessary and after a lot of consultation and risk assessment and lots and lots of meetings. When it comes to kids nothing happens lightly.”
“I’m sure.”
“It’s simply that whenever tragic situations occur, it’s always the social worker who gets it in the neck.”
“I’m not here to criticise.”
“Sorry.” Fiona pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s been very stressful lately.”
“Would you fix my hair?” The tone was gravelly and quivered. Fiona glanced over Gray’s shoulder.
In the doorway stood Amos Jenkinson. He was frail, bent at the waist and using a metal framed walker to keep himself upright. His wrinkled clothes hung off him. His cheeks were hollow, eyes sunken, skin wrinkled like a chicken’s. Jenkinson still sported the over-sized, pork-chop sideburns but his hair was long and grey and there was stubble now. In his hand he held a hairbrush.
“Who are you?”
“Dad, it’s all right. This is an old friend of yours.”
Jenkinson fixed his eyes on Gray. “Who are you?!”
Gray held his hand out, walked towards Jenkinson. “It’s me, Solomon.”
“Don’t,” said Fiona to Gray.
Jenkinson backed up, his mouth working. He dropped the brush. “Go away, leave me alone!” Then he fell over and shrieked.
