‘Yeah, it does,’ Cat said.
Half an hour later, she dragged the thin duvet over herself and thumped the cushions on the sofa into a more comfortable shape. She reached for the remote and flicked through the channels until she found an old Clint Eastwood film she’d seen several times before. The one with the monkey.
She turned the volume up.
The walls in the building were paper-thin and Cat had become well used to hearing all sorts, the fucking and the fighting, but some things she could simply not bear to listen to. Not now. What she’d said to Billy was true, but now she was wide awake and knew exactly who was doing the crying.
Wiped out, but knowing her chances of sleep were slim, she nudged the volume up a little higher. Higher still, until the brawling and the roaring of engines on screen drowned out the sound of Grantleigh Figgis sobbing.
TWENTY-NINE
St Mary’s was a large, state primary school half a mile in the wrong direction from the Holloway Road. Thorne knew that fifteen minutes’ walk away there were sought-after schools in Tufnell Park and Crouch End whose pupils lived rather more comfortably than Kieron Coyne. A fair few kids with mums and dads who had high-end jobs in the city or flourishing careers in the arts. Thorne didn’t know a lot about how catchment areas worked, but even though St Mary’s was yet to open its doors for the day, he doubted very much that any of the parents he’d seen gathered near the gates when he’d arrived had comparable incomes.
Not too many bankers or novelists among them.
Elspeth Gibson, the head teacher – younger and dressed rather less formally than he had been expecting – was waiting for Thorne at the door. After a few muted words of welcome, she led him to her office and Thorne moved quickly to the important questions. Had anyone at the school noticed strangers hanging around? Had any of the children mentioned anything out of the ordinary happening? Gibson said that she would, of course, talk to all her staff, but as these things would normally be reported to her immediately she was certain that no such incident had occurred.
‘Everyone’s very vigilant,’ she said. ‘Well, you have to be, don’t you?’
Thorne thanked her, and once he had politely said no to tea or coffee, she offered to escort him to Kieron Coyne’s form room.
They walked briskly along a corridor that had just been freshly mopped and smelled like it. Drawings and collages adorned almost every inch of the walls and a brightly coloured map of the world had been painted on the floor at the entrance to the assembly hall.
‘I’ve never had to deal with anything like this,’ Gibson said. ‘I had a child die when I was at a school in south London a few years ago.’ She glanced at him. ‘Meningitis. That was terrible, obviously, but this is somehow worse. How’s his mum doing?’
‘She’s coping amazingly well,’ Thorne said.
The Head nodded. ‘That’s good. I know she doesn’t have it easy at the best of times. Her partner and everything.’
They walked past the cloakroom area. Rows of labelled plastic baskets with hooks above. Thorne wondered which basket was Kieron’s; which hook would still be empty after the children had arrived.
‘Here we are.’ Gibson knocked on a door, opened it and stepped aside so that Thorne could enter. A man in his early thirties was laying out workbooks. He looked up and nodded, having clearly been pre-warned and knowing very well who his visitor was.
‘Simon Jenner,’ Gibson said. ‘He’s Kieron’s form teacher.’
Jenner was shortish and well built – compact, Thorne thought – and wore a red polo shirt over jeans and trainers. He dropped the workbooks on to his desk then stepped across to shake Thorne’s hand.
‘OK, well, I’ll leave you with Simon.’ Gibson opened the door.
‘No worries,’ Jenner said.
‘He knows Kieron better than anyone here.’
Once the Head had closed the door behind her, there were a few slightly awkward moments as, without saying anything, the two men tried to decide where best to position themselves. The chairs were obviously too small for adults to sit on and, in the end, they both remained standing. Jenner leaned against his desk and Thorne moved across to stand by the window.
‘This is just horrible,’ Jenner said.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Kieron, I mean . . . not talking to you. Mind you, it’s never particularly nice talking to police officers, is it, because it’s almost always because something bad has happened?’ The teacher shook his head and smiled. ‘Sorry, I’m gabbling . . . ’
‘Don’t worry.’ Most people were a little twitchy in these situations, even those who had done nothing wrong. In Thorne’s experience they were often jumpier than those who had something to hide.
Nerves were rarely a reliable indicator.
He asked Jenner the same questions he had asked the headmistress and Jenner gave the same answers; the answers Thorne had been expecting. He doubted very much that the man responsible for taking Kieron had been watching him at school. There were always too many people around. Still, he had to ask.
‘So, you think he’s definitely been abducted then?’
‘We can’t know for sure,’ Thorne said. ‘But three days is a long time to stay lost in the middle of London.’
‘He’d ask if he was lost,’ Jenner said. ‘Kieron isn’t exactly shy. He’s actually a pretty confident kid.’
‘Trusting, you think?’
‘You talking about strangers?’
Thorne said that he was, though he had not forgotten what Felix Barratt had told him. The man and the boy, hand in hand.
‘Well, they’re all told about talking to strangers. We do it in school certainly, and . . . well, at home too, I’m sure.’
‘You know what some kids are like, though?’
Jenner waited.
‘You tell them not to climb up on a roof, it’s the one thing they most want to do.’
Jenner grunted and reached behind him to straighten some folders on his desk. ‘They’re at a funny age.’ He nodded out towards the arrangement of empty chairs. ‘Kieron and his classmates . . . an “in-between” age. They don’t want to be babied.’ He laughed. ‘Certainly not the boys and definitely not in front of their mates. But every now and again you see how desperately some of them still need a cuddle. You know?’
‘Was Kieron like that?’ Thorne glanced out of the window, saw that the playground had filled up. ‘Did he need a cuddle?’
‘He got upset sometimes.’
‘What about?’
‘I don’t think he’s ever quite settled in. Well, not as well as some of the other kids, anyway. It was a lot to do with his best friend, I think.’
‘Josh?’
‘He goes to a different school, right?’
‘Up in Highgate.’
‘Right. Very nice.’ Jenner clearly knew the kind of school Thorne was talking about. ‘Look, we see this quite a lot every year. Boundary lines kicking in, friends getting separated. It’s a shame, but there’s not a lot anyone can do except encourage kids like Kieron to make new friends.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yeah, he’s got plenty of mates. He’s . . . popular, but he and this other boy were obviously very close. He talked about him a lot. I think Josh was as upset about it as Kieron was.’
‘Did Kieron talk about his dad much?’
‘Yeah, a bit. His dad’s . . . away, right?’
Thorne understood that the teacher knew exactly where Kieron’s father was. ‘For the time being.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Jenner said. ‘A lad needs a male role model around. An older brother . . . someone. Without that, it can be—’ He stopped when a bell rang outside, and they both turned towards the window. ‘Right then.’ Jenner moved around his desk and picked up his workbooks. ‘The stampede is imminent . . . ’
Thorne thanked the teacher for his time. On his way to the door he reached into his jacket for one of the cards on which the incident room contact details were printed. He
’d scribbled his home number in biro at the bottom. ‘If you think of anything,’ he said.
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘Or I might pop back.’ Thorne opened the door. ‘If I think of anything.’
Jenner took a step towards him. ‘The truth is, you don’t always connect with kids. It doesn’t matter how hard you try, but I was getting there with Kieron.’ He tucked the card into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘I was definitely getting there.’
THIRTY
Thorne had only been back an hour or so when he was summoned by one of the team at the front desk. He could hear the commotion as he jogged down the stairs and, though he wasn’t sure what was happening, he guessed the shouting could be heard by pretty much anyone in the station. Anyone on the neighbouring streets, come to that. It felt more like a full-moon Friday night than a Wednesday mid-morning that had, up until now, been mercifully Q.
It wasn’t until he pushed through the door into reception that Thorne could see who was doing the shouting.
‘No, I will not bloody well calm down.’ Grantleigh Figgis struggled against the two uniformed officers who had set themselves at either side of him and had each taken hold of an arm. ‘I should not have to put up with this. This is intolerable.’
Thorne came around the desk. Looking past Figgis towards the glass doors, he could see the ruck of cameramen that had gathered outside, most still snapping away and a few shouting about ‘press freedom’ as three or four officers ushered them back towards the road.
‘Come on now, sir . . . ’
‘Tell them to let go.’ Figgis struggled harder, the officers gritting their teeth, looking to Thorne. ‘Tell these animals to get off me.’
Thorne gave the nod and the officers stepped back.
Figgis immediately lurched forward, slammed both hands down on the desk and leaned towards the stony-faced sergeant. ‘I want to speak to whoever’s in charge. Really in charge, I mean. I demand to speak to a . . . superintendent or whatever.’
The sergeant reached calmly for whichever form he was duty-bound to fill in. ‘What’s the nature of your complaint, sir?’
‘My complaint?’ Figgis shook his head, breathing heavily. ‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘Wherever you like, sir.’
‘Just get me the most senior officer in the building.’ He was screaming suddenly, hoarse and close to tears. ‘Now.’
Thorne stepped close to him. ‘I think you’ll have to make do with me for now,’ he said. ‘That OK?’
Figgis stared at him for a few seconds as if it was anything but OK, as though he were about to spit in his face. Instead, he turned and waved a hand towards a handful of the most persistent reporters who were still outside taking pictures, fighting a rearguard action against the officers trying to move them away from the station. He cried out and took a step backwards when two of the reporters broke free and rushed towards the door shouting his name before being dragged back.
‘Look at them,’ Figgis said. ‘Parasites.’
Thorne didn’t see much to argue with. ‘You’re safe in here.’
Figgis wheeled round. ‘You think? If I’d never been here, this wouldn’t be happening. This is what you wanted, though, isn’t it? If you can’t prove I did anything, the very least you can do is make me suffer afterwards. You lot must be rubbing your hands in glee—’
‘Mr Figgis . . . ’
Thorne turned at the sound of Boyle’s voice, saw the expression of concern on the DI’s face. Like make-up applied by a blind man.
‘Have we got a problem?’
‘Well, I certainly have,’ Figgis said. ‘And I’m here because I fully intend to make it your problem as well. I’m . . . ’ He stopped, flagging suddenly, and leaned back against the desk. He tried to summon up a last volley of indignation, but his voice cracked. ‘I’m at my wits’ end. Truly . . . ’
Boyle nodded. He came round the desk and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. He was looking at Thorne as he spoke. ‘Come on, why don’t we find somewhere a little more private where we can sit down and talk about this?’
Outside, one of the reporters shouted, ‘What have you done with Kieron Coyne?’
‘We’ll see what we can do to help you,’ Boyle said.
As an officer led Figgis behind the desk and through into the corridor, Boyle stopped Thorne at the door. ‘How did it go at the school?’
‘I was just typing it up,’ Thorne said. ‘Nothing very much to get excited about. I talked to the headmistress and to Kieron’s form teacher.’
‘He or she?’
‘A bloke, and I’ve already checked him out. There was a caution back when he was a student. The big CND march in eighty-three.’
Boyle curled his lip. ‘Oh, one of those, is he?’
‘Other than that . . . ?’
‘Talking of “one of those” . . . ’ Boyle nodded towards the small window in the door, through which they could see Figgis still remonstrating with the officer, ‘let’s go and see how the noncey neighbour’s doing, shall we?’
There were no red lights winking this time, nothing being recorded, but sitting in a room in a non-secure part of the station, Grantleigh Figgis looked every bit as uncomfortable as he had when they’d interviewed him two days earlier.
‘You’ve no idea what it’s been like,’ he said. ‘They were outside the flats, dozens of them. Some of them were inside, banging on my door, pushing notes underneath.’
‘Not since last night, though,’ Boyle said. ‘We took steps to have them removed yesterday.’
‘Oh, is that right? Because the minute I left home this morning they just appeared out of nowhere. Like they’d been lurking in the bushes or waiting in cars. They were all over me, shouting and taking pictures. They came after me on to the Tube, followed me all the way here.’
Figgis lowered his head and began clawing at his hair as if he was trying to drag it down across his eyes. Thorne imagined him doing much the same thing on the way here, struggling to get to somewhere he thought he might be protected, the terrible irony of that having long become meaningless. A man with nowhere to run, hemmed in on a crowded underground train with cameras in his face. Trying to keep his head down or hiding behind his hands like a child playing hide and seek.
Like Josh Ashton, four days before in those woods.
‘Why are you here?’ Boyle asked. ‘I mean, obviously I’m very sorry that you’re having to put up with this . . . intrusion, but beyond doing everything we can to keep the press away, I don’t see that there’s much more—’
Figgis looked up. ‘I’ve lost my job.’ He nodded. ‘The college called first thing and told me not to bother coming in at all until further notice. You know . . . under the circumstances.’
‘They can’t do that,’ Thorne said.
‘You want to call them up and tell them?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Thorne said.
‘That doesn’t help me, but thank you.’ Figgis nodded mock-graciously at Thorne, like someone accepting a compliment. ‘So . . . the neighbours look at me like something somebody brought in on their shoe, I’m a prisoner in my own home, I’ve got the press all over me and now I’m out of work.’ He stared at Thorne. ‘So, what? Am I supposed to just trot down to the dole office?’
‘It’s what people do,’ Boyle said.
‘I’m not people though, am I?’ Figgis turned to Boyle and smiled sarcastically, a flash of yellowing teeth. ‘I’m not normal people. How can I declare myself available for work when I can’t go anywhere? More to the point, how many people do you think would be willing to give me a job right now? What can I do, I wonder? School caretaker, do you think? Maybe a nice job at a nursery?’
Thorne knew that, on top of everything else, no job meant Figgis would have no way to buy the drugs he needed, and he wondered how long it had been since the man had been able to score. For all his obvious discomfort, Figgis didn’t look as though he was withdrawing. The heroin found when they’d searched his
flat had been confiscated, so Thorne could only assume that Figgis had sorted something out for himself as soon as he’d got home. Had his gear delivered, like pizza. Thorne knew that most drug dealers wouldn’t mind having to dodge a few journalists if there was cash waiting for them at the end of it.
‘Maybe you should talk to the papers,’ Boyle said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Give them what they want . . . if you’re short of money. I’m sure they’d be willing to make it worth your while. More than worth it.’
Figgis looked from Boyle to Thorne and back. ‘Are you serious? Talk to them? My side of the story, just like that?’ He looked as though he might be sick. ‘It would be like tossing raw meat to a pack of wolves.’
Thorne wondered what game Boyle was playing. Having suggested that Figgis might conveniently lead them to Kieron Coyne, did he now seriously believe that his prime suspect would crack with a few hundred quid on the table and confess everything to the Daily Mirror? In the end, seeing his boss’s barely concealed smirk, Thorne guessed that, for want of anything better to do, the Scotsman was merely twisting the knife.
‘I don’t know what else to suggest,’ Boyle said.
‘You need to do something,’ Figgis said. ‘They’ve got my address and my phone number. I don’t feel safe.’
‘There are officers stationed outside the block.’
‘Oh, right, and suppose one or two of them believe what the papers are all implying? Suppose they think the same way you do? I’m damned sure they wouldn’t mind seeing me get a good kicking, or worse.’
‘We rely on evidence,’ Boyle said. ‘No officer under my command is going to let personal feelings or opinions get in the way.’
Thorne felt his fists clenching beneath the table.
‘What about a safe house or something?’
Boyle raised his hands, helpless. ‘I’m sorry, but strictly speaking they’re for witnesses who need protection. We don’t usually make them available to people in your position.’
‘Suspects.’ Figgis sat back and nodded, breathing noisily through his mouth. He drummed his thin fingers on the tabletop. ‘I mean, I am still a suspect, aren’t I?’
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