by Janet Pywell
‘I phoned them but haven’t seen any of them yet.’
‘And Monika,’ I whisper, ‘how did she take the news about Ali’s death?’
Matt shakes his head. ‘They’re all devastated.’
‘Ali wanted to join the police force and work with you,’ Peter adds. ‘He had a lot of respect for you, Matt.’
‘Why would he have killed himself?’ I ask. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
Matt shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, but I can’t prove that he didn’t.’
‘Can you tell us what happened yesterday?’ Peter’s voice is grave.
Matt pauses then says, ‘We flew into England, got the train, and it was about lunchtime when we got off the tube at Islington. We all went our own ways, but we agreed to meet up on Sunday – for some parkour training. Sandra seemed to think she’d be able to confirm a role for them in another scene by then. Keith is checking the building and permissions, and health and safety, but they seemed optimistic, and the kids are excited—’
‘Was Ali looking forward to it?’
‘Yes. You know Ali. You know what he is – was – like. He was the ring leader.’ Matt rubs his head.
‘Where did he go when you came back?’ I ask.
‘He said he was going to see his foster family in Camden.’
‘He wasn’t going home to his father?’
Matt shakes his head.
‘Did you check with the police that he got there?’ asks Peter.
Matt stretches his shoulders, and his muscles ripple under his white cotton shirt.
‘Presumably, he went back and had tea with them, and he then headed out. He told them he was meeting up with friends.’
‘Who?’
‘They didn’t ask, and he didn’t say.’
‘What about his mother?’ I ask.
Matt shrugs. ‘She’s in pieces. She’s an addict but …’
Peter and I wait, and the silence stretches between us.
‘She’s devastated,’ Matt continues. ‘She accused the stepfather of intimidating him, but he was in the pub. He has a room full of alibis.’
‘What about CCTV?’ asks Peter.
‘The police are checking for other witnesses. There was one guy who said he saw him jump. He was driving across the bridge at the time. He couldn’t stop. He called 999, but then it was too late.’
‘There should be webcams,’ Peter says.
‘Maybe, but I can’t believe he jumped off Tower Bridge.’ Matt grips his hands tightly, and his fingers lock together in a firm grip.
‘What time was it?’
‘About seven o’clock.’
‘Do the police suspect foul play?’ Peter insists.
Matt shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. It just doesn’t make sense.’
I place my arm over Matt’s massive shoulder in a comforting hug; he’s built of solid muscle. I say, ‘If there’s anything we can do …’
* * *
The newspapers and TV news channels are full of the upcoming election. Politicians are canvassing, making speeches and promises in equal measure, and Ali’s death goes almost unnoticed.
‘I won’t see you now,’ complains Josephine when she phones me later that morning.
Peter and I are travelling by taxi to a cafe near to Scotland Yard.
‘That’s fine, Josephine, if you and Simon want to stay on longer in Miami.’
‘I was hoping to have some quality time together shopping. Do you forgive me—’
‘We’ll do it when you get back,’ I reply, secretly relieved. ‘So, tell me, how is everything in Florida?’
‘It’s warm, thankfully.’
‘And your mother?’
‘You mean your grandmother?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘She sends her love.’
‘Thank you. Send it back.’ I wink at Peter, who appears oblivious to my phone conversation and seems happy to gaze out at the London sights.
‘She wants to come over and see you. She wants to meet Marco.’
‘She will.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s sailing and hard to get hold of at the moment.’
‘You need to set a date for your wedding.’
‘Marco will arrange everything.’
‘Not your wedding dress. He can hardly try that on!’ she replies.
‘Of course not, but it won’t be until next year – there’s plenty of time.’
‘What sort of dress would you like – white?’
‘Too virginal, Josephine. Even I wouldn’t get away with that.’
‘Something pretty?’ she insists.
‘I want to show off my body art. Maybe black, muddy brown, or boring grey …’ I tease, raising my arm to look at Edvard Munch’s The Scream tattooed on my skin.
‘It’s not a funeral. It should be the happiest day of your life,’ Josephine admonishes me, and I imagine her frowning.
‘Well, it won’t be, Josephine – that was the day that you walked into my life – my darling mother.’ I smile.
‘I’m not taking any notice of you. You’re being facetious.’
‘I’m really not. Sorry, Josephine, but it’s been a difficult few days.’
‘I know, and I’m sorry one of those children have killed themselves. I really am, but you haven’t got too involved with them, have you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, your life can move forward, can’t it? It’s over now, isn’t it?’
The taxi pulls to a screeching halt.
‘Of course.’ I glance at Peter, but he’s focused on the red traffic lights.
‘And Marco, when will he come home?’
‘He should be back in England in a couple of weeks … Look, we will have a lovely spring or summer wedding next year, and you can make all the arrangements and invite all the guests you like. We have plenty of time. Stay in Miami as long as you want.’
‘Then let’s go shopping when I get back. We can—’
‘Pop into John Lewis?’ I suggest.
‘No, I was thinking about my friend Jemma. She makes dresses. She often made mine when I was on stage.’
‘But you were an opera singer, Josephine – or did she make your wedding dress?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mikky! It was far too long ago. I lived in Ireland then. But she did make the pretty turquoise one I wore for Glorietta’s private charity concert with Prince Charles and Camilla, at the palace, a few years ago.’
I yawn.
‘I’m thinking off-white, cream, and perhaps long … with a lace ruffle at the collar.’
I explode laughing. ‘And, if I have a choice, I’ll wear my biker boots and a golden Cinderella dress.’
* * *
Our meeting with Chief Inspector Mulhoon is brief. He’s agitated and clearly busy, fielding calls and interruptions as we sit in his office.
I take ten minutes bringing him up to date with our trip to Morocco, and how the Parks were enthusiastic, happy, and engaging.
‘Did Ali seem worried about anything?’ he asks.
‘No, he was very animated and spoke more than anyone.’
The chief inspector shakes his head. ‘And you found out nothing about a sword or a talisman?’
‘It’s early days yet,’ I lie. ‘These kids are damaged. They don’t speak easily. They’ve been hurt, let down, and abused by just about every adult they’ve met, so they are hardly likely to trust me or Peter that quickly.’
‘But we did make some progress,’ Peter adds, giving me a hard stare. ‘They liked us. I’m sure of that.’ He smiles.
The chief inspector rises from his desk to stand and stare out of the window.
‘You think this will take much longer? I don’t – didn’t – want you to be involved in anything here in England.’
‘We’re not, but we went to see Matt at Dixon House this morning, and he seems to think that continuing with the documentary is a g
ood idea.’
I observe Mulhoon, waiting for him to explode.
‘But there is no documentary. There never was!’ Mulhoon replies angrily, turning from the window. He bangs the table with his fist. ‘One of these boys has died!’
‘I know,’ I say softly. ‘We got to know Ali and the other Parks.’
‘I don’t want you getting involved, Mikky. Or you, Peter. Go back to Spain or wherever it is that you live …’
‘It sounds as if you’re angry with us.’ Peter holds my arm to keep me seated and calm, and continues speaking. ‘Ali showed no signs of wanting to kill himself. He told us he wanted to join the police force and work with Matt. He had everything to live for …’
The chief inspector sits down, tugging his jacket over his ample waist. ‘I told Joachin, a few days in Morocco, that’s all you would need and—’
‘You also told Joachin that the prime minister would be grateful for any help – especially with the election coming up in a few weeks.’ I lean forward across the desk and push Peter’s hand off my arm. ‘It’s not our fault that we didn’t find anything out, and it’s not our fault Ali killed himself. We’ve offered to help you, but quite frankly, I can make a documentary with or without your help. These kids need support, and even Sandra Worthington agrees with us. It’s a good opportunity for them to tell their side of the story – and besides, you never know, it might flush out the real criminals.’
The chief inspector glares at me. ‘This isn’t sanctioned by the Metropolitan Police or me. I can’t have you getting involved. It could be dangerous. I’m going to speak to Joachin. You can’t make a documentary – not now.’
I stand up and stare down at him.
‘Speak to who you like. You won’t stop me from making this film. And if I don’t owe it to Ali to finish it, then I certainly owe it to the Parks and other kids who are managing to survive out there.’
* * *
‘Joachin isn’t going to be happy.’ Peter limps beside me, and as I walk quickly along the embankment, he tucks his arm through mine. I slow my pace, and my breathing calms as I gaze out across the river, watching a small craft negotiating the strong current.
‘Why not? It’s no longer a police business. It’s a private documentary project.’ I take a deep breath before replying, ‘Mulhoon had no right to involve us and then tell us to back off.’
‘He’s doing his job, Mikky. He’s already lost two police officers.’
I stop and turn to look at Peter.
‘You know I have to make the documentary, right?’
Peter shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure, Mikky …’
‘What? Oh, don’t tell me you’re bottling out.’
I turn on my heel and walk quickly away, but Peter catches me and spins me around to look at him.
‘Listen, Mikky, wait! You saved me. You barged into my apartment eighteen months ago, and you gave me a good reason to live again. I love Aniela, and our daughter Zofia is the most precious thing in the world, but I also love you – I’d never abandon you. I will be here to help.’
‘I don’t need you here.’
‘I promised Joachin and Josephine – we work as a team, and if you’re making the film, then I’ll do it with you. But I just wish you’d shown the chief inspector the dagger you had made in Morocco. You should have told him about Monika’s tattoo. You must share that information with him.’
‘But if I do, then he might want to know how I knew about it. I can’t put Monika’s life at risk. She’s already devastated about Ali.’
‘I know.’ Peter places his arm around my shoulder, and we walk companionably in the cold mid-November drizzle.
‘Give me a couple of days, Peter. Let me speak to Monika and the Parks and make sure they’re all okay, and then we’ll go back to Mulhoon and tell him. What do you say?’
* * *
It’s late afternoon by the time we return to Dixon House.
One of the volunteers, Claudia, is of African descent – third generation from Ghana.
‘But I’ve never been there,’ she says, smiling happily. She’s dressed in a pretty, flowing multicoloured dress and matching yellow and gold turban. Her high cheekbones, red-painted lips, and dark eyes make me think she wouldn’t be out of place as an African princess in a Disney film.
Matt explains, ‘Claudia has been incredible; she talks to all the kids. They confide in her, and they have done since the beginning.’
‘They trust me,’ Claudia says, her voice as deep as her cleavage, and I risk a smile. ‘Even the boys,’ she adds smartly, and winks at me.
‘So, what did this girl say to you?’
‘Her name is Kiki. She is a friend of Ali’s. She said she saw him yesterday after he came back from Morocco at about six o’clock. He was full of their trip, and about the filming, and how he was going to spend the money – a few days shoot, maybe a couple of hundred pounds. Kiki said he was happy and excited. She also said there was no way he’d kill himself.’
‘Did she tell the police?’ asks Peter.
Matt sighs and grips his hands in a tight lock.
‘This is the problem. Kiki made a statement, but it takes the police ages to get witness statements and all the facts together, and to then process the information. They’re still waiting for the CCTV from Tower Bridge.’
I glance at Peter, knowing what a whizz he is with technology, but he won’t meet my hard stare.
‘The police are more concerned with protecting the politicians in their silly election,’ Claudia says. ‘The police don’t have time, and they don’t care about the gangs, the drugs, or the Asian.’
‘The Asian?’ I sit up with interest. ‘Who’s he?’
‘He’s no good. There’s always trouble when he’s around, isn’t there, Matt?’
‘What do you know about the Asian?’ I turn to look at Matt.
The sorrowful and emotional countenance that he had when we met this morning has now changed to one of frustration, and he frowns as he speaks.
‘We try and avoid him. I tell the kids. I try and warn them. He’s evil. You see, he controls everything – all the drugs gangs. They work independently, but he’s like the main cog in the wheel, and he keeps it all together.’
‘Do the police know this?’
‘I suppose they do,’ replies Claudia.
Matt continues, ‘The Bics are disposable – that’s what the drug runners call the children. They use Burners – disposable phones – to set up a line of drug users.’
‘They have their own language,’ Claudia explains. ‘Clean skins or tinys are children with no police record, and they use them as Runners and Shooters—’
Matt interrupts her. ‘They make friends with the kids, and they’re normally between twelve and fifteen years old, and they get them to move the drugs around and sell them.’
He cracks his knuckles, and they crunch loudly in his small office. ‘They use trap houses, that’s where they keep the kids – where they prepare bags of crack or coke, and then they send them out to sell the drugs. When they go outside of London, they call it going country, going lunch, or OT – Out There!’
‘My goodness,’ I say with a sigh. ‘That’s no life for these kids.’
‘Plugging is worse.’ Matt’s voice is low, and his tone measured. ‘That’s when they have to conceal the drugs inside themselves; either in the vagina or the rectum. Sometimes they hold wrapped drugs in their mouth just in case they get stopped by the police, and sometimes they swallow them. The results can be catastrophic.’
Claudia nods her head in agreement. Her shining eyes now seem dull, and her eyes are troubled. ‘But it’s the capping – the shooting – or the cheffing that’s worse.’
‘Cheffing?’ I whisper.
‘That’s when they stab someone with a long knife or a machete.’ Matt exhales loudly. ‘It’s called splashing – when they stab someone repeatedly until they’re bleeding heavily. They make the kids do it to prove themselves, and it makes
them fearless. The danger of getting killed or going to prison is nothing to them. They’re more frightened of the Asian.’
‘They’re so young, sometimes fourteen or fifteen.’ Claudia toys with the large decorative rings on her fingers. ‘Knife crime is on the increase, and it’s all drug-related – and it all comes back to the Asian.’
‘And it’s getting worse,’ adds Matt.
‘Do you think Ali was involved in his gang?’
‘He was involved, but I got him away. But now I’ve got a feeling that they caught up with him last night.’
‘Who? The Asian?’ asks Peter.
Matt replies, ‘He’s the most vicious. They brainwash these kids. They make them believe they are invincible, but it’s all false bravado …’
‘Until they kill someone,’ adds Claudia.
‘Do the police know about the Asian?’ I ask.
‘They can’t find anything about him. There’s no evidence. Nothing to link back to him. He’s very clever.’
‘And you think the Asian killed Ali?’
Matt looks at Claudia and then at Peter and I. ‘Yes, somehow he did. But I don’t know how to prove it,’ he whispers, cracking his knuckles and making me shudder.
* * *
‘You know they’re asking for our help,’ I say to Peter. ‘They need us.’
We’re driving Peter’s white van that he uses when he travels across Europe.
Joachin had told me Peter was flying to England when he came to Morocco with me, but Peter must have a sixth sense. He drove overnight from his home in Wrocław, leaving behind his beautiful wife – my friend – and their baby daughter Zofia, who I have yet to meet.
We’ve left Dixon House, and we decide to stop for dinner, south of the river, near Tower Bridge.
I have a morbid feeling of wanting to see where Ali killed himself.
‘We’ll park near London Bridge or Borough Market and then walk to the Ivy Brasserie on the Embankment,’ Peter replies.
I don’t tell him that’s where I met Chief Inspector Mulhoon and Joachim for the first time, last Monday, just five days ago. It barely seems possible, so much has happened since.
Peter continues speaking as he reverses into a parking space in the basement. ‘There was a brief mention of it on the local news, an eyewitness saw Ali; he said he jumped into the river, yet there’s no reason why he would do that or, perhaps, more importantly, no note or anything at all to substantiate that it was suicide.’
