by Jack Slater
‘Well, whatever you want to call them, we’re talking about a bunch of eight or nine lads, students here, who associate with each other closely enough to trust each other implicitly, in or out of school. Anywhere else, that would be called a gang.’
‘Very well. If you’d like to follow me…’ He held out a hand and headed back the way he’d come.
His office looked out over the wide lawns at the front of the school. It was large, book-lined and neat, with the feel of an old boys’ club room: dark wood, high ceilings, green leather and dry conversation. Pete almost expected Grayson to offer them a glass of port or fine whisky. Instead, he showed them each to a chair and took one opposite them.
‘So, how serious was the assault these boys are being accused of?’
‘The seriousness of the assault itself is not the point, Mr Grayson. The threat was there. The intent was there. It was just the quick thinking and courage of the proposed victim that prevented it going further and these sorts of actions are not going to be tolerated on the streets of Exeter. Not by anybody.’
‘I quite understand, Detective Sergeant. Which boys have been identified?’
‘They’re all year nine. Fourteen-year-olds. The victim is eleven. He read off the names from his notebook.’
Grayson nodded slowly. ‘Yes, they’re all friends, apart from Toby Ronaldson. He doesn’t fit the picture.’
‘So, who else would be in the group?’
‘Maybe Toby’s a friend of a friend,’ Jane suggested.
Grayson hesitated. ‘The other members of that group would include Jonathan Hughes, Matthew Bates, Christopher Mellor… actually, Jonathan’s a friend of Toby Ronaldson.’ He drew a breath. ‘I’m not sure I can think of any others, but with the five you had, that gives you eight. You said there were eight or nine.’
‘Is there anyone else we could ask? Anyone who might have a more precise idea of who they might mix with? Just in case we’ve missed anyone.’
‘They’re all members of either the rugby or boys’ hockey teams for their year. Samuel Fisher would be the one to expand on what I’ve told you, if anyone could. He’s the games master.’
‘OK.’ Pete waited for him to continue.
‘He’s out with a class of year sevens at the moment. Soccer.’
‘Is there someone who can take over from him? We really need to get this tied up as quickly as possible.’
‘Uh, yes. Miss Peterson will be out with the girls and they each have an assistant.’
‘Good. How do we find him then?’
‘I’ll…’ He hesitated again, then seemed to reach a decision. ‘I’ll take you myself, Detective.’
*
‘So, Sam – do you mind if I call you Sam? – what can you tell me about a bunch of lads I’ve been told are close friends, including Jonathan Hughes, Chris Mellor, Matt Bates and Dan Childs?’
Pete leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. They were in the staffroom, which was otherwise unoccupied at this time of the afternoon, the games master, in his purple tracksuit with navy edging, sitting opposite the two detectives.
‘What can I tell you about them? In what sense?’
‘What are they like as a bunch? Who else is part of their group? What interests do they share off the sports field?’ He shrugged. ‘Anything you can think of.’
Fisher drew a breath. ‘OK. They’re a decent enough bunch of lads, as a rule. A bit rowdy when they’re all together, but that’s nothing unusual at that age, is it? I don’t know much about what they get up to off the sports field – outside my purview, I’m afraid – but I know they hang around with a few of the other lads. Roger Hopkins, Adrian Ellis, Hugh Paige, Mickey Hall and, occasionally, Toby Ronaldson – although he’s a bit more on the sidelines, if I’m honest. He’s got a couple of friends in the group so he gets included on that basis, but he’s not a core member, if you know what I mean.’
Pete nodded his understanding. ‘There’s often one like that, isn’t there?’
‘Exactly. So, what’s this about? Why are the police taking an interest in the lads?’
‘We’re conducting enquiries into an incident that some of them have been identified as being present at.’
‘I see.’ He smiled, relaxing.
‘So, how would I find out where they are now?’ Pete asked.
‘There’s an overall timetable on the school server. I can look it up on the computer over there, if you like.’ He nodded towards a desktop machine in the corner, opposite the sink and coffee machine.
‘Thank you. That would be very helpful.’
‘No problem.’ He stood up and crossed to the small table that held the computer, switched it on and waited for it to boot up. With Pete and Jane looking over his shoulders, he called up a document from an extensive list on the screen and scanned quickly down and across until he found what he was looking for. ‘There we are. Most of them are in 9F. The remaining three are in 9B and C. So, art, English and physics.’
‘You wouldn’t be able to take us to them?’
He shrugged. ‘My current class is only for another ten minutes, so why not?’
‘Excellent. Thank you.’
‘Anything for the man who recovered Rosie Whitlock, Detective.’
Pete tilted his head. That’s not where this conversation was going until you thought we just needed them as witnesses, Sammy Boy. As Fisher led the way towards the door, he raised an eyebrow at Jane, who gave him a slight shrug in return. She’d noticed it too.
*
‘Young Mr Mellor. We meet again. Take a seat.’
Pete leaned back in his chair, indicating the one across the table from him while Jane sat to one side, notebook and pen in hand. Pete had borrowed the room next to Grayson’s office, which he said was often used for meetings with parents. The school nurse sat in the corner near the door, taking the role of responsible adult.
Chris Mellor stood stiffly just inside the room, the door closing slowly behind him. His eyes had flicked to Pete as he entered, then slid away and refused to return. He edged forward.
Pete waited for him to sit, maintaining his relaxed attitude. The kid was terrified, as well he should be. ‘You know why we’re here, don’t you?’ he said when Mellor had finally perched himself on the chair.
‘No.’
‘There are that many possible reasons, are there? Have a guess.’
‘Becky? Her pictures again?’
‘I hope not, for your sake. Who’s the leader of your merry little band?’
Mellor frowned, glancing up at Pete.
‘You’re all out there, waiting in the corridor. Or, I hope you’re all there. With Mr Fisher to keep you entertained while you wait. So, you know which merry band I’m talking about. Who’s the big cheese? The one who calls the shots? The one everybody says “Yes” to?’
Mellor shrugged. ‘Jonathan, I suppose.’
‘And which one’s he? What does he look like?’ Pete already knew the answer, but he wanted to make Mellor talk and a subject he’d already spoken about was the easy route towards that.
‘Tall, dark, ripped.’
‘Tall, dark and handsome, eh?’ Pete glanced at Jane. ‘Just what the girls all say they want. So, why does he take you all off to Whipton, chasing eleven-year-old kids?’
What little colour Mellor had in his face drained away. His eyes closed. He seemed to stop breathing. Then he began to tremble.
‘Yes, Chris. That’s why we’re here. And don’t try to tell me you weren’t there because she’s already picked you out. So, why? Eh? What was it all about? What did I take away your source of?’
Again, as soon as he’d been given Mellor’s name, Pete knew the answer, but he wanted the kid to admit it, to talk to him.
Mellor’s jaw began to tremble. He clamped it shut. Finally, he looked up at Pete and held his gaze. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
‘What was that?’
Mellor flinched as Pete sat forward, arms on the table. He�
�d made sure there would be a table between him and the kids, just in case his rage boiled over and he did something he’d regret. He knew himself well enough to know it was a possibility, faced with the kids who had ganged up on his daughter, aiming to terrify her or worse. ‘Can you repeat that, Mr Mellor? I didn’t quite catch it.’
The boy’s mouth twisted. Pete wasn’t sure if it was a sneer or he was fighting back tears. ‘I said I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry. What are you sorry for, Chris?’ He felt the anger building, a tirade bubbling just under the surface, aching for release, and forced himself to hold it back.
‘For…’ His gaze slid away again. ‘What happened with your daughter.’
‘You’re sorry for what happened with my daughter. Well, thank you for that, Chris. Which part of what happened with my daughter are you sorry for?’
‘Huh?’ He looked up again.
‘What, exactly, are you sorry for? The crowding, pushing, terrifying, or the threats? Or just for getting caught and identified? And you still haven’t answered my previous question. Why Annie? What were you going to make her replace, that I’d taken away? Replace, only better – wasn’t that the phrase used?’
Mellor’s jaw was clenching and relaxing as Pete spoke, clenching and relaxing as he fought with his emotions. He glanced up. ‘I didn’t…’ He stopped himself.
‘You didn’t what?’
Nothing. Eyes closed, jaw clenched, Mellor sat there, breathing deeply.
‘You didn’t what, Chris? You know your parents are going to be told about this, don’t you? And that’s the least of it. Expulsion. A trial. And never mind a young offenders’ institute. This is an adult crime, Chris. You’ll be tried for it as an adult. Adult prison time with blokes two and three times your size who’ve seen nothing but big, hairy apes with tattoos and stubble for months or years. Imagine that, Chris. Not enough warders to protect you. What do you think’ll happen to a fresh young lad like you?’
‘Sergeant…’ the nurse started.
‘I didn’t touch her,’ Mellor shouted. ‘I didn’t touch her, OK? I never intended to. It wasn’t my idea. It was just…’
‘Just what, Chris? What were you going to do? Take…?’ Pete stopped, turning away in his chair, his throat clogging with emotion. This was his little girl, who he loved so dearly, he couldn’t bring himself to say or even imagine what their intentions might have been.
He took a deep breath.
‘Answer the question, please, Chris,’ Jane said. ‘What was the plan? And whose was it?’
‘We were just going to scare her. Make sure it got back to…’ He glanced guiltily at Pete as he turned back to the table, resting his elbows on it, face in his hands. ‘But then, somebody suggested we go further. That we… Then other people started chiming in and it all got out of hand. I’d have… I wouldn’t have let them… I swear.’
‘So, what was it all about?’ Jane asked. ‘What triggered the whole idea?’
He sighed. ‘We had those pictures of Becky and Rosie last year. Then they were found and… got rid of. It was…’ He drew a long, shuddering breath. ‘Some of the lads wanted more of the same.’
Pete’s fists slammed on the table. Mellor jumped in his chair. Jane put a hand on Pete’s arm. ‘Boss. Maybe you should step out for a minute? Get some fresh air?’
His first instinct was to snap back at her, deny the need, reach over the table and grab hold of Mellor’s lapels, drag him forward and plant a headbutt straight on his nose. He could almost feel the words in his throat and Mellor’s jacket in his fists. But his brief satisfaction wouldn’t give Annie the justice she deserved, or ensure the safety of the other young girls in the city. He closed his eyes, pulled in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then stepped away from her and around the table.
The whimper of terror from Mellor was almost drowned by the scrape of the nurse’s chair and the gasp from Jane. Pete ignored them all, strode purposefully towards the door, snatched it open and stalked away down the corridor.
When he turned into the main reception, it was crowded with a milling throng of kids, shoes clattering on the bare wooden floor, but they seemed to part before him like the sea before the prow of a ship as he marched purposefully through. He stepped out of the dark and oppressive interior, into the afternoon sunshine, took out his phone and hit a speed-dial number.
‘DC Miles, Exeter CID.’
‘Dave. Get yourself down here to Risingbrook. Pronto.’
Jane was right. He’d thought he could do this, but he’d been wrong. It was too close. He’d end up hurting someone if he stayed. And protocol dictated, responsible adult or not, Jane could not do the interviews alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘Mum. Annie.’
‘How are you, darling?’ Louise asked as she took a seat across the small, round table from her son, who was already waiting for them, Annie moving to one side and pulling out a chair between them.
‘OK, considering. Had a nice chat with Brian earlier. The psychiatrist. It is true that you and dad had to sign to give him permission to talk to me, right?’
‘Well, technically, yes. It was part of the package. Giving them the right to deal with you as they see the need.’
‘So, you think I’m a psycho.’
‘No!’ she protested. ‘Not at all. Like I said – it’s just part of the process, that’s all.’
‘I’ve seen the file. There’s no point trying to sugarcoat it when it’s already half-chewed. You think I’m dangerous.’
‘No, we don’t. We know you’ve got problems and we accept that they may be at least partly our fault, but dangerous? No. We’ve never thought that.’
‘Well, that’s big of you – accepting part of the blame. Maybe. I am your son, after all. You brought me up to be what I am.’
‘What are you doing, Tommy?’ Annie broke in. ‘Why are you being like this? We’ve come to see you, to show you we care about you. Mum doesn’t deserve this.’
‘What, it’s just Dad, is it?’ He turned on her. ‘She’s an adult. She makes her own decisions. Signs her own name. They both think I “need help”.’ He wiggled his fingers in the air to form quotation marks. ‘And what about you? What do you think? Do you think I need help, little sis? Am I like those kids who came after you in the alley? Or worse?’
She sat back, horrified. ‘You’re my brother, Tommy. Why would you even bring that up? Of course you’re not like them!’
‘Aren’t I? What were they after, eh? What did they want with you? The same as I had with Rosie and Lauren?’
‘Tommy!’ Louise broke in as Annie burst into tears. ‘How could you? How could you say that to your own sister?’
He turned back to her, his eyes glittering. ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘I’m a psycho. That means I don’t give a shit.’
Louise’s face crumpled. ‘I can’t deal with you when you’re like this.’ She grabbed Annie’s hand and stood up, heading for the door.
‘That’s it,’ he called after them. ‘Walk away. Easy now, isn’t it?’ He leaned back, crossing his legs under the table, hands clasped in his lap as he watched them go.
Step three to building the reputation he wanted in this place. By the time he was finished, they wouldn’t have a clue what to make of him.
*
‘We’ve had two more of Ranjeet Singh’s victims phone in, boss,’ Jill said as he dropped his jacket over the back of his chair. ‘One was raped in the back of his cab after a night in Mamma Stone’s. She’d asked him to take her out to Woodwater Lane. He went past where she wanted and up onto Pyne’s Hill. Stopped along Ludwell Lane and climbed in the back with her. Used the child locks to stop her getting away. This was last November, while we were working the Rosie Whitlock case. She didn’t report it because of all the press coverage of the attacks on young girls – thought that was more important. Then, when that was all over, she figured it would be too late.’
Pete sat down at last. ‘Did you tell her we’d have
made the time anyway – that that’s what we’re here for?’
Jill shrugged. ‘Yeah, but what can you do? Can’t charge him now, can we?’
‘What about the other one?’
‘Last July, while you were off. She asked him to take her out along Pinhoe Road. Lives up Venny Bridge way. He pulled into a side road by the old playing field. Assaulted her and dumped her out there, half a mile from home with no purse, no phone and not a stitch on. She was so traumatised by the time she got home, she couldn’t bring herself to report it and have to talk through it – relive it – with anyone, never mind in court. Still doesn’t go out after dark, she said, or on her own.’
‘So, how the hell did she get home?’ Ben asked.
‘Walked until a woman stopped to offer her a lift.’
‘Naked? Up Pinhoe Road? I bet she got plenty of attention, didn’t she?’
‘That was part of the problem,’ Jill said.
‘I expect it was,’ Pete agreed. ‘But it supports our theory of why he was killed.’
‘Doesn’t tell us who by, though,’ Dick put in.
It wouldn’t encourage most people to find out either, Pete knew. But he also knew his team. They might not be too politically correct at times, but they were thorough and they all believed, as he did, that the law was the law, regardless of the circumstances.
‘What about those pictures? Have we heard back from Middlemoor yet?’
‘Nothing yet,’ Dick told him.
‘Right. I’ll give them a chase.’ He picked up his phone and dialled Headquarters’ switchboard. ‘DS Gayle, Heavitree Road,’ he said when it was answered. ‘I need to talk to the forensic artists.’
‘Hold one moment.’
‘Forensic art and photography.’
‘DS Gayle, Heavitree Road. One of my team sent you some pictures of a suspect with the aim of getting a composite done, including the hairstyle from a distant shot and the face from one of the closer ones. Any joy yet?’
‘It’s coming along. Just tidying it up, then we’ll send it across. Ten, twenty minutes. No more than that.’
‘OK. Thanks.’ He put the phone down. ‘Is Fast-track in his den?’
