Lost Boys

by Stewart Giles

  “Morning Mickey,” Smith said, “have a seat.

  “You’re sat in my seat,” Mickey pointed to the chair Smith was sitting on.

  “Then sit on another one,” Smith said.

  Mickey appeared to be about to say something but something made him change his mind. He sat on the desk opposite Whitton.

  “This won’t take long,” Smith said, “we just need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Is this about Miss Braithwaite?” Mickey asked.

  “In a way yes,” Smith said, “we believe there was some kind of rumour going around about Miss Braithwaite and Barry Dunn’s step dad.”

  “He was shagging her,” Mickey said, “everybody knew about it.”

  “And how did everybody know about it?” Whitton said.

  “Is she for real?” Mickey looked at Smith, “How the hell do you think they knew about it lady? Grimes saw them. He told the whole world. Barry is going to kill him for it.”

  “Ok Mickey,” Smith looked at the list that Carter had given him.

  Josh Grimes was on the list.

  “Have you met Liam Fletcher?” Smith said, “Barry’s step dad?”

  “A couple of times,” Mickey said, “he’s a real loser. I don’t know why Barry looks up to him so much. That’s probably why Barry’s such a wimp.”

  “Thank you,” Smith said, “that will be all. Could you ask Mr Carter to send the next one in?”

  “Am I missing something here?” Whitton said when Mickey French had left the room, “This is a complete waste of time.”

  “Just humour me,” Smith said, “besides, I think Mickey liked you.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  Carter walked in with a short boy with acne that seemed to cover his entire face. He smiled at Whitton and revealed a row of yellow teeth.

  “Who are you?” Smith said.

  “Josh Grimes,” the boy said, “who are you?”

  “Ok Josh,” Smith said, “take a seat; you’re our star witness for the time being.”

  Grimes sat next to Whitton.

  “We believe you’re the one who’s responsible for this rumour about Miss Braithwaite and Liam Fletcher?” Smith said.

  Grimes’ jaw dropped.

  “I didn’t mean anything like this to happen,” he said, “do you think she was killed because of me?”

  “No,” Smith said.

  “I just told a few people,” Grimes said, “they’re the ones who must have spread it around further. I saw them in town together. They were holding hands. It wasn’t me that spread it around, I swear.”

  “It’s alright Josh,” Whitton said, “you saw them in town holding hands. When was this?”

  “A couple of weeks ago,” Grimes said, “they were coming out of some pub. They were holding hands. Did Dunn’s dad really kill her?”

  “We don’t know,” Smith said.

  Two hours later, Smith and Whitton were exhausted. They had spoken to some of the nastiest young people they had ever spoken to. There was one name left on the list – Barry Dunn. When Dunn walked into the room, he seemed bigger than he had when Smith had been to his house to speak to Liam Fletcher.

  “Hello Barry,” Smith said, “how are you today?”

  “Fine,” Barry said, “what do you want?”

  “We just need to ask you a few questions,” Smith said.

  “Are you going to chuck me in jail like you did to Liam?” Barry said, “Why did you arrest Liam?”

  “Your step dad is helping us out,” Smith said, “can we talk to you for a bit?”

  Barry shrugged his shoulders and sat down.

  “I know this is hard Barry,” Smith said, “but did you know what was going on between Liam and Miss Braithwaite?”

  “I only found out yesterday,” Barry said.

  “Are you sure?” Smith said.

  “Of course I’m sure,” Barry said, “I’m not a bloody idiot, Briggs told me. He said everybody knows about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Smith said, “that must have been a horrible way to find out. What do you think about it?”

  “Think about what?”

  “About Miss Braithwaite and your step dad,” Smith said.

  “What about it?” Barry said, “It’s a free country. Can I go now?”

  “Not yet,” Smith said, “do you think your mother knew about them?”

  “How should I know?” Barry started to chew on a fingernail, “It’s none of my business is it?”

  “Do you get on with your step dad?” Whitton said.

  “Liam’s alright,” Barry said, “he’s better than some of the others. At least he doesn’t come home pissed and start throwing his weight around.”

  “Has your mother had lots of boyfriends?” Smith said.

  “I’ve lost count,” Barry said, “can I go now? It’s lunchtime.”

  “Just one last question,” Smith said, “you said something about Liam not throwing his weight around. What did you mean by that?”

  “What do you think I meant?” Barry said, “Some of them would hit me so hard that I didn’t go to school for a week.”

  “So Liam isn’t violent?” Smith said.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Barry said, “No, he’s never laid a finger on me or my Mam. Liam wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Thank you Barry,” Smith said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “We’re not getting anywhere are we?” Whitton said to Smith as they drove to Charlie Briggs’ house.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Smith said.

  “You’ve thought of something haven’t you?”

  “I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out,” Smith stopped the car outside the small pebble-dashed house.

  They could hear the music as soon as they got out of the car. It was the kind of offensive hip hop noise that Smith hated. He knocked on the door and waited. There was no answer. He knocked again. The music was still playing from inside the house. Smith looked around. In the garden was a small rockery that had seen better days. It had obviously not been maintained for a very long time. The cacti were all dead and the rocks were covered with a layer of moss.

  “Look at that,” Smith said to Whitton, “do you recognize those stones?”

  “They look like the one Stephanie Braithwaite was killed with,” Whitton said, “only much dirtier.”

  “Quite a coincidence,” Smith said.

  “Come on,” Whitton said, “surely you can get those kind of stones from any garden centre.”

  “I suppose so.”

  The music stopped and the front door opened. Charlie Briggs stood in the doorway. He was almost as tall as Smith.

  “Charlie Briggs?” Smith said, “We meet at last. Can we have a word?”

  “What do you want?” Briggs said.

  “Police,” Smith took out his ID, “can we come in?”

  “Have you got a warrant?” Briggs said.

  “We don’t need one,” Whitton said, “We’re just here to ask you a few questions.”

  “Piss off,” Briggs tried to close the door but Smith was too quick. He stuck his boot in the way.

  “Briggs,” Smith said, “where are your parents?”

  “Who knows?” Briggs said, “try the Lion’s Arms, the Old Station, I don’t know.”

  “Ok,” Smith was tired of fighting against obnoxious youths, “we can do this one of two ways. The first way is by far the most pleasant. You let us in and we have a nice chat.”

  “What about the other way?’

  “The other way goes something like this,” Smith said, “we take you down the station and talk to you there. Of course, as you are considered a minor in the eyes of the law, that would mean trawling the local pubs and having to drag one of your parents down there with you. I’m sure they would also be interested in why you’re not at school today too.”

  “They couldn’t give a shit,” Briggs opened the door, “you can come in but make it quick; I have stuff to do.”
/>   Smith and Whitton followed Briggs inside the house. There was a strange smell coming from upstairs. Briggs led them to a tiny living room and sat down on a tattered old arm chair.

  “Do your parents often leave you alone?” Whitton said.

  “All the time,” Briggs said, “I’m fifteen years old. I can look after myself.”

  “That’s a nice rockery you have in the garden out the front,” Smith said.

  “What?” Briggs said, “Did you come here to talk about a bloody rockery?”

  “It needs some attention,” Smith said.

  “It was here when we moved in,” Briggs said, “what the hell has a rockery got to do with anything?”

  “How well do you know Barry Dunn?” Smith said.

  “He’s a bit weird,” Briggs said, “but he’s alright I suppose. His dad killed Miss Braithwaite didn’t he?”

  “Do you know Barry’s step dad?” Whitton said.

  “No,” Briggs said, “I’ve never been to Barry’s house. We’re not exactly friends.”

  “That’s not what Mickey French said,” Whitton said, “Mickey said you, Barry, Mickey’s sister and him were drinking cider together last night.”

  “Mickey’s a liar,” Briggs said, “is this going to take long. I have to go out.”

  “You should be at school,” Whitton said.

  “I’m taking some compassionate leave,” Briggs started to laugh, “I’m traumatized after the death of Miss Braithwaite.”

  “You’re a real tough guy aren’t you Charlie?” Whitton said.

  Briggs’ chest seemed to swell up with pride.

  “It has been said,” he smiled.

  “Do you know the average life span of boys like you Charlie?” Smith said.

  “What are you going on about now?” Briggs said.

  “There’s somebody like you in every neighbourhood,” Smith said, “a bully, a tough guy, hard knock, whatever you want to call it. These boys seldom make it into their thirties. Do you want to know why?”

  “No,”

  “I’ll tell you why,” Smith said, “somebody bigger, stronger and smarter always comes along Charlie.”

  “Whatever copper,” Briggs said.

  “People like you are usually found dead in a ditch one day,” Smith said, “or killed in a fight in a nightclub. Whatever way you look at it, your prospects are not good.”

  “I’ve tired of this now,” Briggs said.

  “We’re done here anyway,” Smith said, “but I can promise you, we’ll be seeing each other again. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  Smith closed the door behind him and walked back to his car. He glanced at the rockery as he walked past. Something made him take a closer look. There were seven or eight stones arranged in a circle around the edge. Smith thought that whoever had designed the rockery had had a good eye for symmetry. Smith realized there was something missing. He bent down and brushed aside the brown leaves of the dead cactus. There was a gap in the dry soil where one of the ornamental stones had been removed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Grant Webber arrived outside the house less than twenty minutes later. He got out of the car with a man Smith had never seen before.

  “Smith,” Webber said, “this had better be important. I do have other things to do you know.”

  “Take a look at the rockery over there,” Smith pointed to the garden, “there’s something missing. I’m sure they’re the same stones as the one that was used to kill Stephanie Braithwaite.”

  Webber shook his head and walked over to the rockery outside Charlie Briggs’ house. He put on a pair of gloves and started poking at the rocks. His colleague stood there and watched carefully.

  “Well?” Smith said.

  “I can’t be absolutely sure,” Webber said, “but you could be right for a change.”

  He took out a tape measure and started to take various measurements in and around the stones.

  “The size is right,” Webber said, “but these stones are filthy and covered in moss. The one on the teacher’s stomach was smooth and clean.”

  “He could have cleaned it first,” Whitton suggested.

  Webber stared at her.

  “Who lives here?” He said.

  “One of Mrs Braithwaite’s pupils,” Whitton said.

  “Surely you don’t think a child could be our killer?” Webber said.

  “We don’t know,” Smith said, “that’s why we need you to help us.”

  “Hold on,” Webber pulled something out from underneath one of the stones, “what have we got here?”

  He lifted it up in the air. It appeared to be a sheet of sandpaper.

  “Sixty grit if I’m not mistaken,” he said.

  Smith took a closer look. The sandpaper appeared to be covered in moss and soil.

  “I think we’re finally getting somewhere,” Smith said, “do you think you’ll be able to get any prints off it?”

  “I doubt it,” Webber said, “it hasn’t rained for a few days but the soil will have probably removed any prints.”

  “Check it anyway,” Smith said.

  “I do know my job Constable,” Webber put the sandpaper into a large plastic bag.

  The front door of the house opened and Charlie Briggs stood there with a scowl on his face.

  “What the hell are you doing?” He said to Webber.

  “Briggs,” Smith said, “Sudden change of plan. You’re coming down to the station with us. I’ll arrange for somebody to locate your parents.”

  Briggs looked terrified.

  “Please,” he said, “they don’t have to know.”

  “What’s going on here?” Smith said, “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  The door to the house next door opened and a haggard looking woman stood watching them.

  “Not here,” Briggs’ face had turned a strange grey colour, “I’ll come with you but I don’t want these interfering bastards to know anything.”

  An hour later, Charlie Briggs sat opposite Smith and Whitton in Interview Room two. Briggs was sipping on a can of coke.

  “What’s this all about Charlie?” Smith said, “What’s going on?”

  “I didn’t want anybody to find out,” Briggs said, “I didn’t want anybody to know.”

  “Know what?” Smith said, “What do you know about the murder of Stephanie Braithwaite?”

  “Miss Braithwaite?” Briggs seemed confused, “What has this got to do with Miss Braithwaite?”

  “Isn’t that why you’re here?” Smith said.

  “No,” Briggs said, “I thought this was all about my Mam and Dad.”

  “Go on,” Smith said.

  “They left,” Briggs said.

  His tough guy bravado was all but gone.

  “They left?” Smith said.

  “They went over a week ago,” Briggs said, “they said they were going to Spain.”

  “They went on holiday?” Whitton said.

  “They went for good,” Briggs said, “I begged them to take me with them but they’ve never really wanted me around. I just get in the way. They’ve said it plenty of times.”

  “You’ve been living by yourself for over a week?” Whitton said.

  “I can look after myself,” Briggs’ tough guy was back.

  “I don’t doubt you can,” Whitton said, “that’s not the point. You’re fifteen. It’s against the law.”

  “What about Miss Braithwaite?” Smith said, “What do you know about that?”

  “Nothing,” Briggs said, “do you think I killed my teacher?”

  Smith did not know what to say.

  “Do you have any family?” Whitton said, “Someone who could maybe look after you?”

  “I told you,” Briggs said, “I can look after myself.”

  “I believe you,” Whitton said, “but you shouldn’t have to.”

  “Whitton,” Smith said, “can I have a word outside?”

  He stood up and left the room. Whitton followed him.
/>   “We’re wasting our time,” Smith said, “I thought Briggs knew something about the murder.”

  “His parents have deserted him,” Whitton said, “I feel sorry for him.”

  “He’s a thug,” Smith said, “I’m sure he can fend for himself. He probably doesn’t really care.”

  “Then why tell us?” Whitton said, “Can’t you see. He’s crying out for help.”

  “Tough guy like him?” Smith said, “I don’t believe that.”

  “He is,” Whitton said, “I think that underneath that macho exterior there’s a child who just wants his mother and father.”

  “You’ve gone soft Whitton,” Smith said, “besides, he’s not our problem. Social services will have to sort him out.”

  “He’s just lost at the moment,” Whitton said, “lost in a world that doesn’t give a damn about him as far as he’s concerned.”

  “Enough of this social worker crap,” Smith said, “We’re still no closer to finding out who killed the Geography teacher.”

  “We’d better call social services then,” Whitton said, “It’s the law.”

  “Do what you have to do,” Smith said, “I’m off to find the strongest cup of coffee I can.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Smith was halfway through his second cup of coffee in the canteen when his phone started to ring. He looked at the screen. It was Webber.

  “Webber,” he said, “tell me you’ve got good news.”

  “I’ve got good news,” Webber said, “but I’ve also got bad news. We pulled a couple of prints off the sandpaper.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “They’re not on any of our databases,” Webber said.

  “Which means they don’t belong to Liam Fletcher,” Smith sighed even though he knew in his gut that Fletcher was innocent.

  “Another thing,” Webber said, “the stones are the same as the one found on the teacher’s stomach. I’m almost a hundred percent sure about that.”

  “Thanks Webber,” Smith said, “thanks once more for sending us straight back to square one.”

  “It’s always a pleasure,” Webber said.

  He rang off.

  Smith crushed the coffee beaker in his hand and threw it across the room. He missed the rubbish bin by miles.