Catch the Fallen Sparrow

by Priscilla Masters

  Roger stuck the picture of the dead boy in front of his face. ‘Know him, do you?’

  Keithy looked at the picture, quickly at the policeman, then back to the picture again. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I might do ...’ He was flustered now. ‘They all look the same ... same jeans and anoraks, hairdos ...’

  ‘Sports shoes.’ Roger put in gently.

  Keithy’s eyes flickered. ‘Those too,’ he muttered.

  Roger Farthing handed him one of the posters they had had printed. The usual thing – ‘Do You Know This Boy?’ And the artist’s impression below. ‘Would you mind putting one of these up in your shop?’

  He looked irritated. ‘Yes I would,’ he said shortly. ‘I don’t want a picture of a dead kid up in here. This is a sports shop – not Crimewatch.’

  ‘Even if it helped find his killer?’

  Keithy bit his lip. ‘All right then,’ he said reluctantly, cornered into acquiescence. He grabbed the poster, tearing the corner.

  ‘And by the way,’ Farthing said, ‘if I was you I wouldn’t leave them outside. It’s inviting theft.’

  Keithy too readily agreed with him, and PC Farthing found himself disliking him with his slicked hair, tight T-shirt over a bony chest, the affected bounce in his step as though he was wearing some of his own ‘Air step’ shoes.

  ‘You know, you ought to keep a record of what’s gone missing.’ Farthing suggested. ‘If people don’t report crime it cocks up our figures. We think Leek’s more law-abiding than it really is.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Keithy, and Farthing got the distinct impression he was dying to get rid of him. ‘So you’ll stocktake?’

  ‘Right away, officer.’

  ‘And you’ll let us know at the nick?’

  ‘Yeah ... yeah.’

  ‘You’ll ring us up – ask for me?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’ Roger Farthing turned to go. By the way, Mr Latos, where were you on Sunday night?’

  Keithy looked confident. ‘I went to the Buxton opera house,’ he said. ‘To see the D’Oyly Carte singers.’

  ‘And what were they singing?’

  ‘The Mikado.’ He grinned.

  ‘And did anyone see you?’

  ‘Lots of people. I’ve got lots of friends in Buxton. People who like the opera.’

  Farthing found himself shrinking from the man’s tone. ‘Who did you go with?’

  ‘With a – friend.’

  ‘I see,’ Roger Farthing said. ‘Of course we’ll need his name.’

  Keithy giggled. ‘It might have been a lady.’

  ‘His – or her name then.’

  ‘Martin,’ Keithy said coyly, ‘Martin Shane. He lives in Cheddleton, in a little cottage in the High Street. He’ll vouch for me. We were together all evening.’

  ‘What time did you part?’

  Keithy fiddled with the neck of his T-shirt. ‘Well, we didn’t – exactly,’ he said. ‘He’d had a lot to drink. He stayed the night here. There’s no law about it.’

  ‘No.’ Farthing shook his head. He wrote the name down in his black notebook. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘look at the picture again. Are you sure you have never seen this boy before?’

  Keithy put his head to one side, like a thin, scraggy-necked bird. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘So you aren’t one hundred per cent sure?’

  Keithy looked up then. ‘I meet a lot of people working in this line of business,’ he said plaintively. ‘I can’t possibly remember absolutely everyone, you know, officer.’ He fingered the photograph. ‘Pretty little thing, isn’t he?’

  ‘Wasn’t he.’ Farthing found it difficult to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘He was – before someone killed him.’

  Chapter Six

  According to their details only six children were housed at 51 Greystoke Road, a large, terraced Victorian house, almost in the centre of the town. PC Cheryl Smith and DC Alan King had been assigned to make the enquiries here, to try and connect the dead boy with a living home, to find a name, friends, someone who cared.

  Cheryl Smith stared up at the tall house with its wide bay windows, and two small gables at the very top and made a wry face. ‘The Nest.’ She read the sign at the side of the door. ‘Hardly seems appropriate, does it?’

  Alan shook his head. ‘Well, I’d hardly call the kids that come from these places little birds,’ he said, ‘but it’s a home.’

  She looked at him. ‘You believe they think of these institutions as a home?’ She queried. ‘I rather think they consider them nearer to a prison.’

  ‘Maybe that’s more to do with their attitude,’ he said. ‘The places I know do a bloody good job of making them homely. Besides, perhaps a nest might be right for little birds, but these are something else. More like fierce little rats with sharp teeth, erratic tempers, unpredictable and aggressive behaviour. Perhaps a prison is more appropriate.’

  ‘Now, now,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t do to have these preconceived ideas. They’re just children – like all the others.’

  He made a face. ‘Who are you trying to fool?’ he said. ‘Come on. The trouble is they aren’t anything like the other children, are they? They stick out. From their clothes to their hair to their behaviour. And that’s what makes them even more different.’

  She glared at him as he banged on the door. ‘There’s no need to act the dawn raid, policeman-on-duty bit. Can’t you understand this is half the trouble. You have certain preconceptions about young institutionalized kids and you barge into their home. No wonder they learn to hate us.’

  He turned to her then. ‘Whose side are you on, Constable?’

  ‘There you go again,’ she said. ‘Get it into your thick skull. There aren’t any sides.’

  Alan King opened his mouth to speak but before he could the door was opened by a thin girl of about thirteen still in her check school summer dress and a navy cardigan which had dropped down off her shoulders. Her hostility was thick from the moment her eyes brushed the black and silver uniforms.

  ‘Who’ve you come to moan about now?’ she asked, her green eyes flashing. ‘Can’t you lot leave us alone? What is it now? Someone lost a penny in the supermarket?’

  Cheryl stepped forward. ‘Can we speak to the warden, love?’

  Tell me what it’s about first.’ The girl held her ground, blocked the doorway. ‘He’s out anyway.’

  PC Alan King let out a quiet expletive and Cheryl moved in front of him. ‘Who’s in then, love?’

  The girl glowered at them. ‘Don’t call me love,’ she said waspishly. ‘I’m not your love or bleedin’ anybody else’s love. He’s here. I suppose you’ll have to come in, make your trouble.’

  ‘Just let us have a word with the warden.’ Reluctantly the girl stepped back and opened the door halfway. ‘All right.’

  Cheryl smiled. ‘We haven’t come to get anyone into trouble,’ she said pleasantly.

  The girl shrugged and said nothing.

  She could have been a pretty girl, blessed with tangled dark hair, and a heart-shaped face and the green intelligent eyes of a clever cat. But already her mouth had hardened with all that life had mercilessly hurled at her and it was a thin, mean line that would always find it a struggle to laugh or smile. And her bony shoulders drooped with a faint depressive line. Slowly her life-map was being drawn.

  But instead of familiar irritation Cheryl felt something more like pity. She knew they had come to the right place. It was only afterwards when she filled out her report that she realized why she had known so surely. It was the tattoo on the girl’s knuckles. Not the words ... ‘Love’ and ‘Hate’ were common enough. It was the letters – the ‘A’ done in the same pointed style with a curl at the bottom and the ‘L’ with a loop at the bottom corner. Calligraphy instead of the usual crude square letters. And they were drawn in grey rather than the usual navy ink.

  So they followed the girl along the co
rridor towards a smell of onions. ‘He’s making tea,’ the girl said over her shoulder. ‘Hotpot.’

  The warden was younger than they had expected, with a plump face and heavy glasses. He was bending over the kitchen table, wearing a navy-and-white striped butcher’s apron over jeans, holding a very sharp-looking carving knife. With a quick and expert touch he was busily slicing onions and as they walked in he scraped them into the pot over the pink, raw beef.

  ‘Tea,’ he said, with a wary glance at the overwhelming presence of the two police officers. ‘Don’t tell me one of them’s been up to something again ... I really thought they’d settled down – apart from Dean.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Have you brought him back?’

  ‘No ... There’s no trouble ... Please don’t worry.’ DC Alan King put his hat on the table.

  The warden held out his hand. ‘Mark,’ he said. ‘Mark Riversdale. I’m warden of this madhouse.’ He had brown eyes behind the glasses fringed with long, thick lashes and a frank, friendly smile. ‘So what can I do for you?’ His eyes were still faintly wary.

  Cheryl Smith found herself wondering just how many times the police had visited The Nest.

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘We hope not.’

  Mark looked questioningly at Cheryl and smiled at her. ‘Well, then?’

  ‘How many young people live here?’ she began.

  Mark Riversdale blinked. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know two police officers don’t simply turn up at children’s homes and make polite conversation. I don’t want to appear unfriendly or over-suspicious but what’s going on?’

  ‘How many?’ Cheryl asked gently.

  Mark gave a loud sigh. ‘Three boys,’ he said, ‘and three girls. At the moment Sonya is the youngest. She’s four and Jason is the oldest. A couple of boys left about four months ago,’ he explained. ‘They have to leave care at sixteen.’

  ‘Have you seen the papers?’

  Mark Riversdale gave a quick glance from one to the other. ‘Hardly have time to look at them,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you have a boy aged about ten – eleven,’ Cheryl asked, ‘with blond hair and an ear-ring?’

  Mark laughed. ‘They all have ear-rings,’ he said, and tattoos. Jason fancies himself as a bit of an artist. I have asked him not to but the kids, they beg him.’ His eyes looked suddenly weary. ‘I have more important things to worry about than a bit of skin-art.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘That’s what they call it. It seems a fanciful name for those crude love/hate things but – as I say – they like them. For the record,’ he looked serious now, ‘we do have a boy who answers that description but he isn’t here at the moment. He’s absconded,’ he said apologetically. ‘I usually leave it a day or two. He often goes. Always gets back safe and sound. Keeps him out of trouble, you see, if I don’t make too big an issue of it.’

  ‘So you haven’t informed the police?’ Alan King failed to keep the accusation out of his voice and the warden picked it up.

  ‘We’d never get any other work done if we reported every single absconder from a home to you and expected you to find him or her. As I’ve said, I usually wait – up to a week. If they come back, no harm’s done. If not then I inform you lot. Dean can look after himself.’ He stared at the table. ‘He absconds on average twice to three times a month, usually for two to three days – much less frequently in the last year. February it was a fortnight. He always comes back, you know, clean and well fed. Sometimes even with money in his pocket. He is a survivor that one.’ Sudden alarm crossed his face. ‘What is all this about?’

  Cheryl pulled out the photograph of the dead boy, placed it on the table and studied Mark Riversdale’s face, knowing Alan King was doing exactly the same.

  ‘Is this Dean?’ she asked.

  Mark stared at it disbelievingly. One hand reached out slowly, picked it up and held it nearer his face. ‘It can’t be,’ he said. ‘Surely this boy ...?’ Then he looked up at the two police officers.

  ‘Yes,’ Alan said quiedy, ‘the boy is dead.’

  Cheryl leaned across the table. ‘Take your time, Mr Riversdale. Be sure. Is this boy Dean?’

  Mark Riversdale studied the photograph again, then he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘at least I think so.’ He looked again at the photograph then nodded slowly, deeper and more definite. ‘Yes, it is him.’ He bit his lip, gnawed at a nail, drummed one index finger on the table. ‘How did he die?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘We’re not absolutely sure,’ Alan said, ‘but it looks as though he was murdered. You will have to formally identify him, of course.’

  Mark Riversdale looked again at the picture, brushed away a tear and muttered something about the onions. ‘He could almost be asleep,’ he said. ‘He looks so peaceful.’

  ‘He isn’t asleep,’ Cheryl said brutally. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Who-where?’

  ‘He was found dead on the moors early yesterday morning,’ Alan King said.

  Mark, looked up. ‘So he was the lad. I heard something about a body being found on the moors. Wasn’t it burning?’

  ‘And you still didn’t report it?’

  Mark Riversdale sank down into one of the kitchen chairs. ‘I just didn’t connect it,’ he said, pulling off his glasses and setting them down on the table. ‘I never thought for a minute it was Dean ...’ He passed his hand over his brow in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘But he was a survivor. He was always going. But he came back – every time. Not only came back but was clean and well fed.’

  ‘Not this time,’ Cheryl said quietly.

  ‘It wasn’t exposure?’

  ‘No.’

  Cheryl felt suddenly sick and angry. All she could think of was the fact that the dead boy now had a name. Dean.

  ‘Dean what?’ she asked.

  ‘Dean Tunstall. He was ten years old.’

  And her mind toyed with another idea. He had been a victim of long-term sexual abuse. She looked carefully at Mark Riversdale and wondered.

  ‘When did you say he was found?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Yesterday, very early in the morning.’

  He passed his hand across his brow. ‘All the time I thought he’d be back.’ He stared again at the photograph.

  ‘Mr Riversdale,’ DC King’s voice was toneless, ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to come down to the mortuary for a formal identification. Also we shall want to speak to the other occupants of the home.’ He hesitated. ‘We’ll have to report back to the station. I think it’s best if you tell the other children.’

  Mark nodded.

  ‘Do you know what’s puzzling me?’ Cheryl said as they were driving back to the station.

  Alan King shook his head. ‘Come on, brain-box,’ he said, ‘what is it?’

  ‘Clean and well fed.’ She looked at her colleague. ‘Does that sound like a boy who’s been sleeping rough?’

  Joanna held the briefing early that afternoon. She faced the team allocated to her. ‘Thanks to some legwork by DC Alan King and PC Cheryl Smith we have a name for our burning boy. I just want to say that they may have been to the right place but all of you have helped to identify this child. You are all equally important. It’s just luck who happens to visit the right place. My thanks extend to every one of you. I don’t need to tell you that finding out who he is was the first step to finding out who killed him.’ She smiled. ‘The boy’s name is Dean, Dean Tunstall. He was resident at the children’s home just off the Ashbourne road, known as The Nest.’ She ignored the titters at the name that rippled around the room. Sometimes in a murder case – especially the murder of a child – it was only the light relief that kept morale from dipping into depression. ‘He was ten years old and a frequent absconder from the home – we’d returned him there ourselves once or twice. He had apparently lived there for most his life.’ She glanced at Cheryl Smith who was sitting in the front row, her dark eyes fixed on Joanna’s face with rapt attention. ‘PC Smith’ she said, ‘as you have already been to The Nest I would li
ke you to go back there. Find out as much as possible about Dean’s life ... his origins ... parents, friends, relatives, etc. I’d like you to begin as soon as formal identification has taken place later on this afternoon.’

  She looked back at the workforce. ‘It’s early days yet,’ she said, ‘but already we know a few details. The warden at the home is twenty-seven-year-old Mark Riversdale. As far as we know, he’s clean with no previous convictions. However, please remember, Dean had been abused over a number of years. Obviously any male who came into contact with the boy is under suspicion. Broach the subject carefully. At the moment he has to be on our suspect list. PC Smith ...’ she glanced at Cheryl, ‘go gently, but we will need statements from the children at the home, in the presence of social workers. Also we’ll interview Mark Riversdale. Get an alibi if possible.’ She paused. ‘There is another avenue which we would be negligent not to explore. Dean was as we know a frequent absconder. I want a couple of you to speak to the homeless in Leek and find out if they knew him. Although we know that when he returned ...’ she glanced at the notes she had made, ‘in mid-February last year following a disappearance of a fortnight he returned clean and well fed.’ She looked up. ‘I don’t know whether any of you remember that particular fortnight, but according to the Met Office it snowed and the temperatures remained well below zero for most of that period. So where was Dean? Who looked after him? Who kept him?’ She nodded.

  ‘I want to make another point. The Press will be on our heels wanting an early arrest but our forensic evidence is, quite frankly, so far disappointing. It is important we arrest the right man for the right reasons. I am not in a hurry but I am determined. No mistakes and play it all by the board. We can video the children’s evidence and it will be admissible in the courts. According to our latest guidelines children do not lie.’ The ripple that swept through the room was louder this time and one or two laughed. She held up her hand. ‘I know, I know,’ she said, ‘but they are our guidelines. We can sift through their statements carefully and see where it leads us. Also, I have spoken to the coroner. The inquest can go ahead and Dean buried just as soon as we’ve contacted his next of kin.’ She stopped briefly before saying quietly, ‘I believe there is a mother – somewhere.’ Then she added, ‘The verdict will almost certainly be murder.’