by Steven Dunne
Kyle’s smile disappeared. ‘I . . no, I mean-’
‘Wilson. Either sit down or get out!’ shouted Rifkind, finally losing his temper.
‘Gay boys don’t laugh at me,’ bellowed Wilson, wading through chairs towards Kyle.
Jake McKenzie jumped hurriedly between the two. ‘Back off, Wilson,’ he said calmly. He held a hand up to Wilson’s chest, keeping him at bay with ease. ‘You’ve had your say. Sit down or fuck off.’ He flexed his neck. Jake was not just sporty but also a fitness fanatic and built like a middleweight. And as the object of lust for female students, he was naturally well respected by the male students.
Wilson looked him in the eye. A second later the pressure on Jake’s hand eased. Wilson smiled and put his hands peacefully in the air. ‘Sure, Jakey. Whatever you say,’ he said softly. He turned back towards Kyle. ‘We’ll talk later, Faggot,’ he added menacingly.
‘No, you won’t,’ said Jake. ‘You won’t go near him.’
‘Why are you defending the little bumder?’ Wilson leered towards Jake, a further insult bubbling to the surface. ‘Are you his boyfriend, Jake? You potting the brown with that little-’
Jake threw a hand to Wilson’s throat and gripped it hard. ‘What did you say to me, Fatso?’ Wilson was choking and pawing at Jake’s hand as he was pushed back over his chair. ‘What did you say?’
‘Get him off me,’ gasped Wilson, trying to loosen Jake’s grip but to no avail. Rifkind, Kyle, Becky and a few others grabbed Jake’s shoulders and tried to pull him away.
‘He’s not worth it, Jake,’ shouted Kyle, forcing himself into eye-contact. ‘Jake, he’s not worth it.’
Jake glared at Kyle then relaxed his grip on Wilson. He turned away to confirm his pacification and Wilson got to his feet, rubbing his throat.
‘That’s assault, that is!’ Wilson screamed at Rifkind. ‘And you let it happen.’
‘You provoked that situation, Mr Woodrow, despite my asking you repeatedly to avoid confrontation. Now sit down.’
Presented with a direct instruction, Wilson said the only thing he could to regain face. ‘No.’
Rifkind tried not to smile. The teenage God of No. He knew the script from here and Wilson was too stupid to resist.
‘Wilson, I order you to sit down because there’s no way you’re leaving.’
Wilson looked back triumphantly, seeing his path to victory. ‘You wanna bet? Just watch me.’ He turned to leave, throwing an angry look at Kyle, whose eyes were now glued to the floor.
‘You can’t leave and you’d better attend next week or else,’ shouted Rifkind, at the retreating Wilson, laying down his final ace.
‘Or else what? You won’t see me for shit.’
Rifkind faked a look of annoyance but broke into a big grin as Wilson turned and snatched up his Saw DVD, storming towards the doors.
Wilson looked over at Kyle. ‘Oi, Faggot.’ He stuck his tongue out and pulled a finger across his throat.
Kyle looked up from the floor, gathering his courage. His look of terror gave way to a mocking smile and he blew Wilson a big kiss. The assembled students laughed and jeered as the fuming Wilson kicked open the double doors and stalked away, a couple of sympathetic friends trailing in his wake.
‘Respeck, Kylie,’ said Becky, holding her hand up for Kyle to high five. ‘That asshole butt-munch got well and truly parred and merked.’
Kyle basked in a couple of backslaps until the worry reinfected his face. I shouldn’t have done that. He looked gratefully up at his saviour but Jake looked away at once.
‘Why do those with the fewest brain cells always have the loudest voices?’ said Adele Watson to no one in particular.
Becky turned and poured her body back into her chair, looking over at Russell who had his camcorder in front of his face. ‘Look at Steven Spielberg here. I hope that’s going on YouTube, Geek Boy,’ she said, striking a pose for him.
‘Maybe.’ Thomson pointed his camcorder in her direction. He lowered the camera and smiled at her briefly but her stony expression killed his pleasure and he blushed.
‘Just start the film, Geek,’ ordered Becky.
Nearly two hours later, the credits rolled in the darkness. Rifkind and most of the other students had gone to lunch an hour ago but Adele, Becky, Fern, Kyle and Russell had continued watching through the bulk of the lunchbreak and even sat in silence as the cast of characters scrolled down the screen.
‘Wow,’ said Kyle, standing and stretching his slender frame in the gloom. ‘Sick film.’
‘Hard to believe a film about a girls’ school could be that good,’ agreed Becky.
When the inert screen ensured total blackness, Becky edged towards the large curtain and pulled it aside. Bright sunshine streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Media Suite and she and Fern immediately bent to check their phones. Adele remained seated, unable to move. She stared straight ahead. There were tears on her cheeks.
Back in his office at St Mary’s Wharf, Brook got his mouth around his second cup of tea and closed his eyes to savour its soothing heat while his computer loaded. He logged on then registered his dismay at the volume of internal emails in his inbox.
‘Thirty-six emails — in one day,’ he sighed. ‘The tyranny of faceless communication.’ Brook scrolled down the list checking for his personal buzzwords. Any email containing the words Committee, Budget, Target or Liaison in the subject line was deleted without being opened. Happily this was most of them and Brook was left with five relevant messages about open cases and upcoming trials.
After dealing with them, he rifled through the drawers of his desk for an A-Z he knew he had somewhere. He was both pleased and appalled to find his desk bereft of cigarettes. He remembered wistfully the pack in his locker given to Noble earlier that morning, as a demonstration of his willpower.
Brook flicked through the pages of the A-Z and stared at the sparse countryside to the south and east of Borrowash, taking in the minor roads accessing Elvaston Castle and Thulston. He didn’t know the area well but it seemed very flat and he knew from his trips along the A50 to the M1 or East Midlands Airport, that the land on either side of the carriageway was prone to flooding. Indeed, even without flooding there was sufficient water around the confluence of the Rivers Trent and Derwent to merit a marina at Shardlow for the nautically minded.
Brook pulled the Yellow Pages from another drawer. His eye glimpsed a mangled, half-smoked cigarette butt behind some old papers, covered in dust and fluff. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked it out of the drawer and brushed it clean like an old soldier polishing his campaign medals. He stared lovingly at the butt for longer than necessary then threw it resolutely in the bin, chuckling noiselessly at the absurd sense of achievement that followed.
Noble walked in, holding papers. ‘We’ve got more uniform searching up and down the river, just to be thorough. Nothing yet. On the plus side, DS Gadd’s organised a door-to-door on Station Road and, apparently, someone leaving early for London on Tuesday did see the road was closed. Every other resident says the road was open later that morning so it looks like you were right. Our perpetrator faked the closure while he dumped the body.’
‘When was this?’
‘Two days ago.’ Noble consulted a scribbled note. ‘A Mr Hargreaves left his house at three thirty in the morning to drive to London. He couldn’t cross the bridges and had to take the A52 instead.’
‘Three thirty,’ Brook said thoughtfully. ‘So we’re unlikely to get witnesses walking the dog.’
‘What about anglers? They get up at all hours to bag the best spots.’
‘Get uniform to speak to every angler on that stretch. And maybe run off some notices to post near the bridges. Any chance of decent forensics?’ ventured Brook, though he already knew the answer.
Noble shook his head. ‘SOCO weren’t confident, not at the scene anyway.’
Brook nodded. ‘Water washes away many sins, John — though I prefer malt.’
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sp; ‘They did find a large piece of cloth in the river nearby. They’ve bagged it for tests but we don’t even know if it connects with our John Doe.’
‘What about the bridge?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Let’s hope the body gives us an ID. What’s that?’ asked Brook, looking at the sheaf of papers.
‘Statement taken from the lads who spotted the victim in the river.’ Noble handed the report to Brook, who skimmed it briefly.
‘Let’s call him the deceased until we’re told it’s murder, John.’ Brook yawned heavily and tossed the papers on to the desk. ‘Decent lads?’
‘Solid kids from good families. No juvey-juvenile cautions,’ Noble corrected himself before Brook caught his eye. ‘And those CCTV cameras near the bridge were dummies.’
‘Any other cameras locally?’ asked Brook.
‘In Borrowash? Hardly. The only excitement round there seems to be the odd broken wing mirror.’
Brook put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘All this careful planning suggests our man’s a murderer.’
‘Man? So you’ve definitely ruled out multiple suspects.’
‘I think so. Statistically we’re looking for a male, especially as our John Doe may have needed lifting. And, whether he has accomplices or not, he was on his own when he dumped the body.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The traffic cones,’ replied Brook, looking up at Noble to see if he wanted to take the reins.
Noble lifted his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. ‘What about them?’
‘He couldn’t carry the cones as well as a Road Closed sign. Two people could have done it. After he dumps the body, he’s in a hurry so he picks up his sign . .’
‘. . and leaves the cones stacked on the pavement thinking no one would notice,’ finished Noble. ‘Presumably he blocked off the road from the other side as well — somewhere out of sight of the bridges.’
‘I think so.’
‘We should-’
‘I already looked, John. There’s nothing to see though I’ve got a picture of an impression in the road that could have been from a line of cones — all fairly pointless.’
‘We might get a fingerprint from the cones he left behind.’
Brook wrinkled up his nose. ‘Doubtful.’
‘At least we know he must have driven off south, towards Elvaston Castle, because if he parked on the river bridge to dump the body, he must have run the hundred yards back up to Station Road for his sign.’ Noble looked at the ceiling, thinking it through. ‘But when he drove away, he pulled up to his other road-block so it was easier to put the sign and the cones in his car.’
Brook smiled approvingly at his DS. ‘There you go. Though if he’s transporting a body, some kind of van is more likely.’ He pushed the A-Z towards Noble. ‘All of which gets us to here, the junction of the B5010, where he turns right towards the A6 and A50, maybe heading for the M1 or back into Derby.’
‘Or left towards Shardlow — assuming he’s not from Thulston.’
Brook sighed. ‘You’re right. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s wait for Forensics and the post mortem to find out exactly what we’re dealing with.’
The middle-aged man in a crumpled white chef’s uniform stared in disbelief as Rusty spoke to him. He then turned and glared over at Kyle and the others, giving them a lingering look up and down. Finally he shrugged and a moment later followed Rusty to their table and set a tray of soft drinks down, before distributing them to the students. He wore an ID badge with the name Lee and the archaic title Refectory Manager.
Adele smiled for the first time that day. The uniform and the title seemed incongruous to her, since the pinnacle of culinary sophistication in the college cafe was cheese on toast. Nevertheless she added the word ‘Refectory’ to her mental list of arcane words for future use. Just in case.
Rusty smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said, talking to the table.
‘Aye. Well, don’t get used to it,’ said Lee. ‘I’m not a fucking waiter.’
Rusty placed a pound coin on to the empty tray without looking up.
The Refectory Manager looked down at it in surprise, if not gratitude. ‘Blimey. Think I’ll have it framed.’ He nodded his appreciation before trudging back to his till.
‘Waiter service, eh?’ teased Kyle.
‘Hark at Simon Cowell over here,’ added Becky.
Rusty was embarrassed. ‘My mum was a waitress for a while, and they earn a pittance, so I try to leave a tip if I can.’
Adele beamed at him. He squirmed under her gaze. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Rusty.’
‘Yeah, thanks for the drink, bruv,’ said Kyle, taking a swig of Coke.
Rusty examined the camcorder strapped to his right wrist. ‘No probs.’
‘I can’t imagine your mum as a waitress, Rusty,’ said Adele. ‘She’s so pretty.’
‘It wasn’t for long. And there was nothing else she could get in Chester.’
‘Don’t they need models in Wales then?’ asked Fern, turning to grin at Becky. To her surprise, Becky looked away, unsmiling.
‘She must be raking it in now though, if you’re such a moneybags,’ said Kyle.
‘Not really,’ said Rusty. ‘But it was my eighteenth last week so Mum’s spoiling me.’
There was an uncomfortable silence round the table from all except Fern. ‘Happy Birthday,’ she said gaily, missing the sudden mood-change. ‘Did you have a party?’
Becky and Adele rolled their eyes at Fern until she became vaguely aware she’d said the wrong thing.
Rusty smiled at the table, equally unaware of her faux pas. ‘No. But my mum bought me this new camcorder.’ He brandished it proudly. ‘And a cake.’
‘Your mum sounds nice,’ said Kyle warmly. He nodded sadly at the others. Poor Rusty. Nobody knew. Eighteenth birthdays were a big deal in a life so short of landmarks. They were an excuse for wild partying and drunken revelry with friends, extravagant presents from parents and maybe even a cruise round Derby, hanging from a Stretch. Assuming you had friends, of course. He looked at Rusty and realised he knew very little about him.
Suddenly Rusty looked up into his eyes. ‘What’s a MILF?’ The others darted their eyes around the table in panic. ‘That is what Wilson called my mum, isn’t it?’
It was difficult for the others to keep a straight face in the ensuing silence. Fortunately the writer among them came to the rescue. ‘It stands for Mums I Like Fine,’ said Adele, with a quick glance at Fern to discourage giggling.
‘That’s right,’ agreed Becky. ‘And Wilson’s such a good judge of personality.’ She stared at the top of Rusty’s head, then open-mouthed at Fern and Adele. Was this guy for real? Social skills zero, street patter zero. She sneaked a glance at Fern, who was starting to snigger, and Adele who was mouthing at her to stop.
Rusty looked up again and smiled. ‘Funny, I had Wilson down as a bit of a knobhead but he’s right. Mum’s the best. It’s been very difficult for her, having to move again.’ He looked away again, embarrassed, and no one pressed him to finish. They’d all heard the rumours of bullying.
‘It’s my eighteenth tomorrow,’ said Kyle, changing the subject. He looked round at his fellow students with an apologetic smile. This time even Fern was on message and looked intently at her drink. ‘Don’t worry,’ he continued. ‘You don’t need to waste your weekend on me. I’m not having a party either. Things are tight at the moment. There’s just me and Mum. Daddy Warbucks offered to pay but Mum doesn’t. .’ Kyle’s voice became more halting and he began to wish he’d said nothing. ‘Well,’ he finished tamely.
‘I couldn’t come anyway,’ said Fern, trying to hide her relief. ‘My parents are taking me Bournemouth for the weekend. Lame or what?’
Adele laid a hand across Kyle’s and fixed him in her gaze. ‘You should celebrate.’
Kyle looked at her with his doleful eyes. ‘Should I?’ He emitted a half-laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’
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bsp; ‘Well, I think so. You only get one eighteenth. And on a Friday too.’ She smiled but felt a stab of pain. Friday was always her special night with Adam. The first time they’d made love was on a Friday, last summer at his cottage.
‘He doesn’t have to celebrate if he doesn’t want to,’ said Becky.
‘Celebration implies happiness,’ said Rusty almost to himself.
‘Rusty’s right. There’ll be other times,’ said Kyle. ‘When I’ve. .’ He hesitated, then smiled sadly. ‘But thanks, Ade.’
Adele’s face hardened. ‘Suit yourself,’ she replied. ‘You can sit in the corner fondling your Morrissey posters and feeling sorry for yourself. But I’m coming round at seven with your present and you damn well better be there, Faggot.’
Kyle’s mouth fell open and there was shock and surprise around the table. Adele raised an eyebrow and glared at Kyle and he glared back. A second later Kyle’s mouth curved into a huge grin as Adele started to chuckle. ‘You saucy bitch,’ he screamed at her in his campest voice. ‘You’re so un-PC, girlfriend.’
‘That’s a date then.’ Adele laughed and everyone joined in. Even Rusty managed a thin smile.
Kyle looked around the table. ‘And you guys are all invited.’
‘Going Bournemouth,’ repeated Fern.
Becky looked at her sternly. ‘Yeah, leave me dangling, ho — that’s dread.’ She turned reluctantly to face Kyle. ‘I normally wouldn’t waste a Friday on you, Faggot, I want that understood, but if Fern’s dumping me then I’m sure I can find an hour for you — as long as we’re not listening to the fucking Smiths all night.’
Kyle smiled at her. ‘Great. I’ll lay on some booze. Uncle Len can afford it. What about you, Geek Boy? You gonna come?’
Rusty looked at him, puzzled. ‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’ Kyle nodded.
Rusty was still confused. ‘You mean come to your party? As a guest?’
‘No, as a waiter, you sherm. Yes, as a guest.’
It took him a little time for the penny to drop. Then his face lit up. ‘I could film it for you,’ he said. ‘You’ll be the stars. And I promise I won’t get in the way.’
