by Steven Dunne
Adam stood up in case Scott lost his cool and produced the Stanley knife again. ‘Chill, man. I’m your bredrin.’ When Scott seemed calmer he asked, ‘What did the note say?’
Scott exhaled. ‘Saying it was Josh, asking me to meet him.’
‘Where?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said with a covert glance towards Adam, unable to meet his eyes.
‘Anything else?’
Scott took a deep breath. ‘Josh said I should be careful because he wants me next.’
‘Who wants you next? You mean that tramp what merked Josh?’
‘Maybe. Dunno. It just said I’m next.’
‘But that don’t make no sense. The feds caught the skell and banged him up. How can he be after you?’
Scott shook his head. ‘Dunno.’
‘The note, where is it?’
‘Home. Why?’
‘Maybe we can trace the handwriting like they do in Criminal Minds?’
‘OMG – stop being a div. We’re kids, you knob. ’Sides, it weren’t written by hand. It were bits of newspaper stuck together.’
Adam’s mouth fell open. ‘Just like in the movies. Creepy.’
Scott turned back to the window, ‘Creepy if you’re a girl.’ He stared blankly at the Stygian gloom below, only a rectangle of light falling on one corner of the overgrown lawn, itself corrupted by the moving silhouettes of partygoers, dancing to some gay music. Poker Face.
A movement caught Scott’s eye and his head turned like a frightened bird. A figure in a hoodie stepped out of the bushes and stood in the shadow of the largest tree. The fat lettering across the chest reading LEGEND, the baggy tracksuit held up by the thighs and the white trainers all caught the eye in the millisecond it took to process the information.
‘Josh!’ exclaimed Scott, gripping the sash window as though trying to pull his face through the glass for a closer look. Though hidden in the shadow of the hood, Scott felt certain the figure was looking up at him. When the figure raised an arm to touch one finger against his head, Scott turned, ashen-faced, to Adam and let out a whimper. Our salute.
‘What you say, Scoot?’
Scott turned back to the window, his legs buckling, his fingers gripping the frame to stay upright. The figure had gone.
Adam moved towards Scott who was mumbling incoherently. He peered down over Scott’s shoulder to the garden.
‘What is it? What did you see?’
Scott gathered himself and wrestled his way past Adam, brandishing his Stanley knife again. He hurtled out of the room and down the stairs.
‘Scoot!’ shouted Adam. He ran to look out of the window again but, seeing nothing, followed his friend down the stairs at a safer lick. ‘Scoot! Wait up.’
Seven
Tuesday, 11 December 2012
Detective Inspector Damen Brook woke from a familiar dream with a violent shudder. After running his hands over his face, he sat up to get his bearings, staring at the splayed palm of his right hand. Unlike Lady Macbeth he was unable to find any blood and after a moment’s contemplation, Brook let his hand fall.
It was gone midnight. The TV was on and the trailer for the DVD was playing over and over. He felt for the warm remote under his body and switched off both machines.
He picked up the empty case for Don’t Look Now, one of the hundred favourite films his daughter Terri had sent him at the start of his suspension, her misguided apology for almost losing him his job. Brook tossed the case on to the top of the DVD player. It was a good film – atmospheric and chilling.
Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie played a married couple living in Venice, trying to work through the numbing grief that followed the loss of their daughter, drowned in a pond as a young girl. Then the husband begins to see her – in slides he’s shot for his work, in glimpses out of the corner of his eye – and suddenly the couple can believe that their daughter is with them again to comfort them, if only from the afterlife.
Brook had fallen asleep at that point, certain that the couple’s new-found sense of contentment and purpose would end badly. He smiled groggily. Or maybe that’s just personal experience kicking in.
He clambered unsteadily to his feet and rustled around in his tiny kitchen, readying the tea things for morning. Tomorrow would be his first day on duty for five months. ‘Today,’ he croaked in a voice unused to conversation. For the first time in his career, the prospect filled him with dread and he thought of his resignation letter, sitting on the printer in his office. The same internal debate that had disturbed his sleep for the last week rose in him again.
Maybe it’s time to get out of the force and get on with life.
And he’d made a good start. He’d finally given up smoking, for one thing. And having spent the entirety of his suspension hiking around the Derbyshire Peaks by day and sitting on his garden bench by night, whisky and water in hand, examining the stars, Brook wanted more. Five months of rest and recuperation from his injuries. Five months of isolation in his Hartington cottage – easily his longest absence from the job since his breakdown over twenty years ago.
The irony, not lost on Brook, was that only three of those months covered his suspension for gross misconduct; the other two months had been taken up by his recovery from the burns sustained to his hand on his last case, hunting the Deity killer.
Were he ever to break the habit of a lifetime and engage colleagues in conversation, Brook was certain many would tell him he got off lightly, that he should have lost his rank and maybe even his job. It was hard for Brook not to agree with them, not that he felt his offence deserved to end in dismissal, more that such an outcome would at least have simplified everything, made his life easier, his future choices clearer.
And losing his job would have cauterised the seeping loss of his moral authority at a stroke. It would have lanced the sense of shame he had experienced, that for the first time in his career, encompassing all his brushes with superior and junior officers, he’d never been so clearly in the wrong. And with the ringing endorsement of the disciplinary panel, his detractors would be able to look down their noses at him for a long time to come.
Brook padded wearily upstairs to bed, expecting no sleep, settled in his decision. Again.
Early that morning Brook tossed his smartcard on the passenger seat, relieved to see the barrier swing up. He hadn’t been to the car park of Derby Division’s headquarters at St Mary’s Wharf in many months, and he’d got it into his head that his parking privileges might have been withdrawn as part of his suspension.
Brook drove under the barrier to park his elderly BMW in the nearest empty bay, aware that, sooner or later, he’d have to run the gauntlet of derisive remarks from local officers. He killed the engine, at least content that the first wave had been postponed; he was hours early for his reinduction meeting. He poured tea from his flask and reclined, eyes closed, on to the cracked leather, listening to the Radio Derby news bulletin in the dark.
The search for Derby schoolboy, Scott Wheeler, continues and, four days after his disappearance on December the seventh, police are no closer to finding out what happened to the thirteen year old.
Scott, who is five feet eight inches tall with striking blond hair and blue eyes, was last seen by school friends at a party in St Chad’s Road, Normanton, last Friday evening at around eight o’clock. He was wearing black jeans, black Nike training shoes, a camouflage T-shirt with matching baseball cap and a blue hoodie with the words RIP CURL on the front.
A pupil at Derby Community School, Scott disappeared during a birthday celebration at the house of classmate Chelsea Chaplin. The party finished at nine p.m. and Scott’s mother, Beverley Wheeler, who lives in nearby Stone Hill Road, went to collect her son but when she arrived at the Chaplin house, Scott had vanished.
According to witnesses, Scott left the party of his own accord, apparently in an agitated state, though police have yet to verify this. So far, there have been no sightings of Scott after he left the house.
/> Mrs Wheeler said she was unaware of any problems her son might have been having or why he might have been agitated. She told Radio Derby that Scott is a popular young man and there is no suggestion that he was a victim of bullies. However, gang involvement has not been ruled out because Scott is the younger brother of Callum Wheeler, who was convicted last year of racially aggravated assault and wounding in a fight between rival Normanton gangs.
Needless to say, police are desperate to find witnesses to Scott’s disappearance and although there is no direct evidence of abduction, police say it cannot be ruled out.
At this stage, investigators have denied any connection with last year’s murder of Scott Wheeler’s friend and classmate, Joshua Stapleton, who died thirteen months ago, after an evening spent trick or treating with Scott. Joshua’s body was later found on the ground floor of a derelict house in Whitaker Road, Normanton. He had suffered severe head and spinal injuries.
Noel Williams, a fifty-five-year-old vagrant known to shelter at the house, was found guilty of the boy’s manslaughter and began a twenty-year sentence in April this year.
Chief Superintendent Mark Charlton says Derby Constabulary are interviewing everyone connected with the party but they urgently need witnesses to come forward, especially if they remember seeing a young man fitting Scott’s description in St Chad’s Road or Stone Hill Road or the wider Normanton area. Any sightings of Scott will be vigorously investigated.
When we spoke to Chief Superintendent Charlton earlier, he told us that officers on the task force are also keen to hear about other unusual occurrences in the area that night.
Brook braced himself for Charlton’s sickly smooth media voice.
‘Scott Wheeler is a happy and well-liked young man. We would ask the people of Derby, particularly in the Normanton area, to rack their brains about last Friday evening.
‘Even if you don’t remember seeing this young man walking the streets that night, maybe you saw something else, something that might have struck you as odd but, at the time, you dismissed it. We’re particularly interested in the hours between eight p.m., when Scott was last seen, and midnight. Did you see something that may have seemed trivial but which could yet have a bearing on the case? Maybe you spotted a car that you haven’t seen before; perhaps you saw a stranger in the neighbourhood, or even someone you know, behaving in a suspicious manner.
‘Did such a person catch your eye? If you can think of anything, no matter how unimportant it might seem, please contact us immediately. All information will be treated in the strictest confidence and it’s imperative. . .’
‘. . . that I get myself on the TV and radio a lot more.’ Brook depressed the button to silence his superior.
‘Four days missing.’ Brook didn’t need to look at the statistics to know the Wheeler boy was almost certainly dead. He knew nothing about the case except what he’d heard from the local media. And DI Frank Ford was in charge, a fact which didn’t fill Brook with confidence. As a result, and despite misgivings about resuming his career, Brook had even emailed Charlton to ask if he wanted him to return to duty early to help the investigation. The Chief Superintendent hadn’t seen fit to respond.
‘At least Noble’s on the case,’ said Brook, surprised and a little miffed his DS hadn’t been in contact for advice about the missing boy.
Glancing up at the building, Brook allowed his eyes to wander to the third floor and the window of the office he’d shared with Noble. A light was on. The churn of police work never ceased.
He peered across to the well-lit entrance of D Division, trying and failing to see who was on the reception desk, pondering whether to make a dash for the sanctuary of his office while the station seemed quiet and the sun was still no more than a suggestion in the east.
More chance of avoiding Sergeant Hendrickson and his ilk if I go now.
In the end, Brook made no move to get out of the car. He poured more tea and flexed his damaged hand, almost good as new, the evidence of skin graft invisible to the eye, and only a slight tingling to remind him it had ever been injured. His head wounds had healed even earlier and only Brook knew about the scar and slight bump under his hairline.
As he drained his tea, Brook caught sight of headlights in his mirrors. A second later, a squad car drove under the barrier, followed by a civilian vehicle and another squad car bringing up the rear of the convoy.
Brook watched. Criminals tended to be night owls; they liked a lie-in after a long night’s lawbreaking which meant arrests were simpler in the early hours. He craned his neck to watch the vehicles drawing to a halt at the front steps and passengers begin to disgorge. The two police vehicles were full and contained eight officers in total. Their car doors opened and closed quickly as the officers jumped out to wait for the civilian car to empty. Three of the officers were CID, Noble amongst them. Brook also recognised DS Rob Morton and DC Dave Cooper, who opened the doors of the civilian car. A slightly built woman stepped from the passenger side and the male driver met her in front of the car and tentatively linked his arm with hers before all ten jogged up the steps to the glass vestibule that was reception and disappeared from sight.
No handcuffs. No separation of the couple. This wasn’t an arrest. They were ‘helping with inquiries’. Brook’s eyes narrowed. He’d seen the man before but couldn’t place him. He stepped from the car and walked with flask and laptop towards the smoked-glass doors. Once inside the glass entrance hall, Brook fixed his eyes to the floor and marched quickly to the lifts.
Sergeant Harry Hendrickson, on duty at the front desk, caught a glimpse of Brook’s retreating frame and smiled malevolently. ‘Snuck past me, did you, mental boy?’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Not to worry. I’m not going anywhere.’ He turned to a uniformed colleague sipping coffee at the back of the office and grinned. ‘Guess what the cat just dragged in.’ Taking out his mobile, Hendrickson scrolled down to the name Brian Burton and began thumbing out a text: ‘Christmas has come early.’ He sniggered, face creased like a leather accordion.
Brook eased back behind a potted palm and watched Noble, Morton and DC Cooper emerging from a door that led from the detention area, heading up the stairs towards CID. The two civilians and the five uniformed officers were nowhere to be seen.
When he was alone, Brook descended to the refurbished custody suite. Opposite the entrance, he slipped into an adjoining toilet. It was deserted so he dumped his laptop and flask in the furthest empty cubicle, hoping no one would need to use it.
Two minutes later, Brook pushed through the shiny new door of the custody suite and stopped cold, his face a mixture of admiration and dismay. As a consequence of his suspension, he hadn’t yet seen the results of the recent modernisation. The suite was now light and airy, where once it was forbidding, the decor soothing when once it was austere. No more cold tiles, narrow corridors or doors with security grilles in these enlightened times. The ambience suggested he was in a supermarket rather than a place of confinement. It was profoundly worrying.
Instead of discouraging those who might be teetering on the brink of a life of crime, today’s wrongdoers, brought to this place for interview, were to be treated like customers rather than potential offenders. Someone in authority, who had never been on the receiving end of the vitriol and violence that was de rigueur in any detention area, had decided it was important that an arrested felon’s experience of arrest and custody be user-friendly.
‘Help you, sir?’ inquired the young PC behind a monitor at the elevated booking-in desk.
Trying not to stare, Brook approached the counter, hoping to identify the officer. He failed but for once felt confident the young man was unknown to him.
‘DI Brook,’ said Brook, flashing his warrant card. ‘Yes, Constable, I—’ he began before giving in to interruption. He fished out his antiquated mobile from a jacket pocket, not even checking to see if it was turned on, and put it to his ear.
‘Chief Superintendent? Yes, I’m there now.’ He covered
the inert speaker with his free hand and locked eyes with the young officer. ‘Is DS Noble in with the happy couple?’
‘Sir?’
‘DS Noble.’ Brook sighed with impatience. ‘I know it was all of five minutes ago, Constable, but it can’t be that hard to remember a man and woman being processed at this hour of the day.’
‘You mean the Stapletons, sir. Yes, I mean no, sir. DS Noble’s not in with them yet. Back in five, he said. Might I ask who you are?’
‘The Stapletons.’ Brook nodded, ignoring the constable’s query. ‘Right. Letting them sweat, I expect. Has anybody taken a drinks order?’
‘Er. . .’
‘Never mind. I’ll do it myself. Where are they?’
‘Interview Two, sir.’
Brook walked into the interview room and, though they’d never met, he recognised Mr and Mrs Stapleton from press conferences the year before, appealing to be left alone to grieve for their murdered son, Joshua. They were visibly on edge, with their hands interlocked, their knuckles white with tension.
‘About time,’ said Mr Stapleton, a tall balding man who dwarfed his tiny bird-like wife. He pushed his chair back with his calves as he stood.
‘Sit down please, sir,’ said Brook.
‘Why have we been brought here?’
Brook indicated the chair. ‘Please.’
‘I want to know why we’re here,’ insisted Stapleton.
As Brook didn’t know the answer he decided not to start his first day back with a lie. ‘I can’t discuss that.’
‘Is this about Scott Wheeler?’ asked Mrs Stapleton.
‘As I said—’
‘You’re that DI Brook. You were on the telly in the summer,’ said Stapleton. ‘About those students who disappeared.’
Brook smiled faintly. He’d never got used to the recognition his job sometimes afforded him. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you responsible for us being here?’ demanded Stapleton.
