No Way Home

by Jack Slater

  ‘What about what you said before? The forensics. My hands on that girl’s throat.’

  ‘Which you’ve explained.’

  ‘Yeah, but…’ Tommy slumped forward so his head rested on his folded arms. Moments passed. Finally, he looked up, rubbed his eyes. ‘So, you mean…? All this time… Hiding out in holiday cottages, moving on every few weeks, fishing and nicking to eat all winter. There was no need?’

  Colin shook his head.

  Tommy slumped back in his chair, head falling back as he stared at the ceiling. ‘Fuck.’ He looked down quickly. ‘Sorry. That slipped out.’

  Colin smiled. Then he sat forward. ‘But now we are where we are. These charges aren’t going away. They’ve come from Plymouth, not Exeter. So, it’s not up to your dad or me. We’ve got to play the hand we’ve been dealt.’

  ‘But, can’t I make some sort of deal? Testifying against Mr Burton for a consideration on the other stuff?’

  Colin shook his head. ‘’Fraid not, son. Testifying against Burton’s in your best interests anyway. You can’t have two bites at the same cherry.’

  ‘So, I’m stuck here, whatever?’

  ‘For now, yes. We’ll have to see what happens after.’

  ‘And you said Mr Burton’s case is coming up in seven weeks. What about mine?’

  Colin shrugged. ‘It’s relatively minor…’

  ‘Yeah, but so am I. A minor, I mean. So, they shouldn’t keep me in any longer than necessary, surely? For my long-term wellbeing. Mental scarring and all that.’

  Colin’s eyebrows rose. ‘Have you been reading law books in here or something?’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘They explained it all when I came here.’

  ‘OK. Well, the juvenile court’s separate from the adult one, so there doesn’t need to be a delay in one because of what’s going on in the other. But, I don’t know how soon they’ll get to your case. What I do know is that you’ll be held on remand until they do.’

  ‘How’s that fair?’

  Colin shook his head. ‘I’m just telling it like it is, son. It can’t be any other way in the circumstances.’

  Tommy grimaced. ‘So, at the end of the day, you want my help but you’re not going to help me.’

  Again, Colin looked like he was about to reach across the table, but held back. ‘I’m sorry, son. If I could, I would. You know that.’

  *

  When Colin had gone, Tommy went back to his room. He kicked the door shut behind him and flopped down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. That hadn’t gone too badly, he thought. He’d steered the conversation in the directions he wanted without making it obvious. Had said enough to promote his own case without incriminating himself. And he thought he’d managed to come across as a victim – a regretful and unwilling participant in Malcolm Burton’s crimes rather than a co-conspirator.

  Now, he had just seven weeks to maintain that impression and make sure he could do the same in court with Burton’s solicitor badgering him. His story would have to be solid and flawless and he would have to know it backwards, forwards and sideways, to the extent that even he believed every word. He would have to be the little boy lost, the hapless victim, the innocent caught up in things he didn’t understand and couldn’t control.

  Could he do it?

  He smiled. The smile turned into a chuckle. He’d been doing it for years. There was nothing new here.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Talk to me here, now – it’ll take two minutes and you won’t lose anything by it. Or we can take it down the station. You’ll lose a couple of hours. Maybe a couple of punters.’ Pete shrugged. ‘I’m not out to spoil anyone’s business. I’m just trying to find out who killed a man here in the city last night.’

  The girl couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, but she looked ten or fifteen years older with the harsh make-up and sneering attitude. Her dark hair was tied back in a high ponytail, her skirt couldn’t have been a half-inch shorter without drawing an arrest warrant for indecent exposure, and her naked shoulder-blades above the low-cut vest top were decorated with tattoos that he’d glimpsed when he first saw her a couple of minutes ago on the corner of Queen’s Square, one hand on her hip while the other held a cigarette that she was dragging on like it was going out of fashion.

  As soon as she’d turned around and seen him, she’d pulled an attitude. She didn’t want to talk to him, but she knew he could haul her in if he wanted to.

  ‘All right,’ she said heavily. ‘What d’you wanna know?’

  It was ten o’clock. Trade would be picking up for her any time now. She didn’t have time for Pete and his questions and he knew it. He hoped that the fact she was in a hurry would force her to tell him the truth. ‘First, were you here last night?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you know a taxi driver by the name of Ranjeet Singh? Drives a grey Mondeo.’

  She shook her head with a grimace. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Have you seen a grey Mondeo taxi around here lately?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive. Is that it?’ She threw down her cigarette stub and screwed it into the pavement with the sole of her high-heeled shoe.

  ‘No. Is anyone missing from here tonight that was here yesterday? Or anyone here both nights but acting different tonight? Agitated? Nervous?’

  ‘People get agitated when they’re coming down off the gear. Or when they’ve got things to do and some bloke’s holding them up.’

  ‘True. We’re not picking on you girls because of what you do for a living. We’re looking for witnesses, that’s all.’

  ‘What, so, if I was a waitress in that hotel over there, you wouldn’t be asking me all these questions?’

  ‘Yes, we would. In fact, we already have.’

  ‘And had any of them seen anything?’

  Pete smiled. ‘The more witnesses we can gather, the clearer the picture we can build up and the more likely we are to get a killer off these streets you’re walking.’

  ‘Yeah, well – if they’re killing taxi drivers, I’m safe anyway, aren’t I? I don’t even drive, never mind taxis.’

  ‘So, you don’t give a shit.’

  She shrugged. ‘Like I said, I didn’t know the bloke.’

  Pete sighed. ‘All right. On you go.’

  His last hour and a half had been spent in similar conversations with mostly similar girls. A few had been older, a few significantly younger, but all had about the same attitude. It wasn’t their problem and they didn’t want to get involved in it.

  Yet, if something happened to one of them, they’d be up in arms, wanting protection and all sorts. There was no winning with some people. He lifted his radio and keyed the mike. ‘If we’re all done, let’s call it a night. We can scratch one possible pickup location off the list, at least.’

  ‘OK with me, boss,’ Dave replied from the far side of the hotel the hooker had mentioned.

  ‘I can’t see anyone I haven’t already spoken to,’ said Jane.

  ‘Nor me,’ Dick added.

  ‘Right. Nightcap’s on me.’

  *

  Forty-three minutes later, Pete turned into his drive for the second time that evening and stopped the car.

  ‘What the f…?’ He sat stock-still, staring at his white up-and-over garage door. Nearly three feet high, right in the middle of it, caught squarely in the beam of his headlights, was a drawing – a cartoon, really – in pink spray paint that, in places, had trickled into runs. A pig’s face stared out at him, underneath it the words ‘More bacon, Guv’nor?’

  ‘Who the bloody hell…?’

  He switched off the headlights and the engine, got out of the car and went up to the garage door. He could still see the image clearly in the light of the streetlamp across the road. He reached out a finger, although, even before he touched it, he could smell that the paint was still wet. Sure enough, his fingertip came away smeared with colour.

  ‘Bastards,’ he muttered
and marched towards the front door. Letting himself in, he dropped his briefcase in the hall and stepped into the sitting room where Louise was curled up on the sofa, watching TV.

  An image flashed into his mind from a few short months ago, when all she seemed to want to do was just that. She’d barely been able to acknowledge either him or Annie. But now she looked up, a smile forming on her lips. ‘Hiya. Have you…?’ She stopped mid-sentence when she saw his expression. ‘What is it?’

  He held up his finger. ‘Spray paint. All over the bloody garage. Someone’s figured out what I do for a living and decided to make an issue of it.’

  Louise slumped. ‘Oh, God. Will it come off?’

  ‘I’ve got a can of brush cleaner in there. I’ll see if I can shift it before it dries. Little sods ought to be made to come back here and bloody lick it clean.’

  Louise couldn’t help a grunt of laughter. ‘I don’t think that idea would go down too well with the bleeding heart brigade.’

  ‘Then maybe we ought to go and spray-paint their garage doors and see how they like it.’

  ‘You’re a grumpy bugger tonight. Didn’t anybody want to play with you or something?’

  Pete shook his head. ‘I just don’t understand people’s attitudes sometimes. You’d think they’d want to help get a murderer off the streets. They’d feel safer for it.’

  ‘Yeah, but everybody’s too busy these days. Who’s got time to sit in a draughty corridor outside a courtroom for a couple of days or more, to help put someone away for not nearly long enough, who’s probably never going to be a risk to them anyway, eh? I mean, you can understand it really.’

  ‘You sound exactly like a lot of those girls I’ve been talking to tonight.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m just saying, there’s two sides to every argument.’

  ‘Yeah. Like there’s two sides to that garage door and a can of brush cleaner on one that needs to be on t’other. I’d best go and deal with it, I suppose.’

  ‘You want a hand?’ She nodded towards the TV. ‘This is rubbish anyway.’

  Pete’s eyes widened as he recalled again the time when she’d sit there for hours, staring blankly at the TV, regardless of what was on it.

  ‘Or maybe it’s me,’ she continued, ignoring his expression. ‘I can’t concentrate on anything, knowing Tommy’s just a few hundred yards away now, and I can’t go to him.’

  Pete sighed, nodding. ‘I know. But tomorrow’s not far off. Then you can ring them and set up a visit.’

  ‘It’s just so hard. It’s almost worse, having him so close, than it was not knowing where he was. The need to see him, hold him, talk to him, be a mother to him is…’ She shook her head, unable to put her feelings into words.

  Pete reached for her hand. ‘Come on,’ he said, trying to pull her away from the brink. ‘We’ll do what we can out there, then a drink and bed.’

  She blinked. ‘Bed? I don’t know as I want to share a bed with you after you’ve spent the evening consorting with prostitutes.’

  ‘Huh. None of them even wanted to talk to me, never mind consort.’

  She stood up and took a step towards him. ‘Ah. Baby losing his touch?’ One hand cupping his jaw, she placed a quick kiss on his lips then squealed as he grabbed her around the waist.

  *

  Tommy went from breakfast, which he ate alone, to the common room, where he grabbed a bunch of felt-tip pens – pencils weren’t permitted as they were considered sharp objects – and a pad of drawing paper.

  He was trying to put an image of Rosie Whitlock onto the paper when his chair was jarred abruptly from behind and a pair of hands clamped down on his shoulders, pressing him down into the seat.

  ‘Watcha, Titch. What you in here for then, eh? That your girlfriend, is it? Ahh. Pretty, ain’t she? I’ll do her for you when I get out of here, you being too small and all.’

  Tommy went completely still. He almost felt relaxed. ‘Which order do you want me to answer all those questions in? Forwards or backwards?’

  ‘Smart arse, are you?’ The hands left his shoulders and a slap rocked his head. ‘Think you’re clever, do you?’

  Tommy heard several sniggers. There was a bunch of them. Without even thinking about it, he turned the felt-tipped pen in his hand, gripping it tightly. A shiver ran through him as fingers ran through the hair up the back of his head. Then they gripped painfully and began to lift. He rose with them, but his chair got in the way. He pushed it back with his knees, felt it snag on the carpet and begin to tip. Rising further, the chair reaching a steeper angle, he gently, carefully raised one foot off the floor, bringing his knee up until it touched the underside of the table in front of him.

  Waited an instant longer…

  Then slammed his foot up and back so that it hit the underside of the chair, driving it back into his tormentor’s stomach. The boy grunted. His fingers disappeared from Tommy’s hair. Tommy spun around fast. Several boys were surrounding him, all of them bigger than he was. Their leader was just beginning to recover and straighten up, his pockmarked face twisting into a snarl of rage.

  Tommy didn’t hesitate. He used the chair again, this time as a step-up, launching himself off its upturned front edge, his other knee driving at the older boy’s chest. The impact sent him staggering backwards, the group splitting to let him through. Tommy’s free hand grabbed his hair and held on tight, his momentum carrying him over the bigger lad, who stumbled and fell back. Tommy landed on top of him, his knee driving once more into his chest before slipping sideways to leave Tommy straddling him, one hand gripping his hair while he leaned down over him, the other hand holding the felt-tip pen just a couple of millimetres from his left eyeball.

  The bigger lad was wheezing beneath him, trying to get his breath.

  ‘Don’t blink. You’ll have a yellow eyelash,’ Tommy said. ‘I’m in here for rape and murder. The girl in the picture was one of my victims, but she’s going to help get me out of here shortly. It’s up to you whether you see that or not. These pens might be soft, but they’ll still burst your eyeball if they’re pressed hard enough.’

  The other boy swallowed. Tommy saw his throat working as he struggled not to cough.

  ‘Now, I’m not interested in joining your gang or any other. I don’t need them. See, the difference between you and me is that you’re a bully. You want status, attention or whatever. I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, so I don’t care what I do to anyone. I don’t have any boundaries. I could happily blind you. I could rape you. I could bite your ugly nose off. Or I could kill you.’ He shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference to me.’

  He grinned suddenly. ‘Get it? Blind bit of difference?’ He chuckled. ‘I could do any of those things without even blinking. Without batting an eye.’ He laughed again. ‘I’ve got loads more where they came from. Good, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ the other boy said hoarsely.

  ‘So, you stay out of my way and I won’t have to hurt you. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ Tommy sprang up off him and spun around to look down at him, upside-down. ‘And don’t try sneaking up on me. I don’t give second chances.’

  The boy blinked and launched into a coughing fit. Tommy stared into the eyes of the lanky blond kid standing in front of him. The confident grin was gone from his lean face. He looked a lot less sure of the situation now. And, to be fair, it could go either of two ways from here, Tommy thought. He could be left alone, or the kid coughing his guts up on the floor could make a play to reassert his dominance. Which would no doubt bring trouble and pain to Tommy’s door, but he was used to both of them. They were almost old friends. ‘Out the way,’ he said. ‘Unless you want some of the same.’

  *

  Tommy looked up from the book he was reading as the door of his room was opened and one of the wardens leaned in and gave a jerk of his head. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Gayle. Come on.’

  Tommy didn’t move. ‘Who is it?’

&nb
sp; ‘Your solicitor.’

  Inwardly relaxing, Tommy closed his book and set it aside, swung his feet off the side of the bed and stood up.

  He’d finished his drawing half an hour ago, but it hadn’t done Rosie justice, so he’d screwed it up in a tight ball and thrown it in the bin, stalking out of the common room and heading back here. Now he followed the warder, a large, heavily muscled coloured guy called Adam, back down the corridor, past the common room to one of the small rooms that were used for visiting.

  He tried not to show his hesitation as Adam opened the door and stood aside. He hoped the warden had told him the truth about who it was. The last thing he wanted was some surprise, like his dad sitting there, waiting for him.

  He stepped forward nonchalantly.

  The chair on the far side of the central table was occupied by a man he’d never seen before. Somewhere between his dad and Uncle Colin in age, he was slim with greying dark hair and a three-piece suit.

  ‘Who are you?’ Tommy asked bluntly.

  The man tilted his head. ‘I’m Clive Davis. I’m your solicitor.’

  ‘Why?’

  Davis pursed his lips. ‘You’ve been charged with carrying an offensive weapon. A knife, I understand. We’re going to have to attend court. It’s a charge that can carry a term of confinement.’

  ‘Prison?’

  Tommy heard the door close behind him.

  Davis tilted his head again. ‘More like where we are here. You’re only – what – fourteen? You wouldn’t be sent to a conventional prison.’

  I’ve lived worse, Tommy thought. This past winter. ‘How long for?’ he asked.

  ‘It depends on the circumstances. It can be up to four months. Or you could get an official caution or anything between the two.’

  ‘So, they might just tell me off and let me go?’

  Davis pursed his lips. ‘That’s not the way to look at it, but in essence, from a practical point of view, yes. However, it goes on your record, so that if you’re charged again it’ll be taken into account and you will serve time.’