Cleaver Square

by Sean Campbell

  ***

  Hail pelted Ayala as he dashed from doorway to doorway. Most of the flats in the area were within twenty-storey high-rises built by the council. They afforded some protection from the elements, but Ayala still cursed his misfortune in having to visit them. Few had working lifts.

  Ayala's unhappiness was exacerbated by his aching shoulder. He carried a leather bag with a few hundred greyscale copies of the facial reconstruction, but so far most residents had declined to take a copy. In a nicer neighbourhood, he'd have already garnered an army of supporters to nail them to lampposts and plaster them to walls, but the people of Hackney were jaded. Violence, drugs and crime were a part of life for them.

  In his left hand, Ayala carried his sole colour copy of the reconstruction, which Tina had laminated for him. He made his way to the next flat and thumped on the door. An elderly gentleman answered wearing only a robe and slippers. He leant heavily on a cane and waited for Ayala to speak.

  'Good morning.'

  'Good morning,' the old man at the door echoed. His eyes were dull and his expression vacant.

  'I'm Detective Inspector Ayala. Do you recognise this child?'

  'That could be Billy!' The man became animated, as if a light had been switched on somewhere inside his brain.

  'Billy?'

  'Yes!' With an awkward twist that seemed to favour his left hip, he yelled back into the flat, 'Agnes! Agnes! This detective knows Billy.'

  A woman came into view, and gently touched her husband on the arm.

  'Dear, would you go and put the kettle on please? It's cold out and the nice policeman might need a hot drink.'

  'Ma'am, I'm fine, honestly.' Despite Ayala's protests, Agnes's husband limped off towards the kitchen.

  The woman shook her head, and then whispered to avoid her husband overhearing: 'I'm sorry. We don't know who that is.'

  'Your... husband?'

  When the woman nodded, Ayala continued: 'He seemed to think this child was called Billy.'

  'Billy's been dead for forty years. My husband has Alzheimer's. I'm sorry to have wasted your time, officer.'

  'No problem. If you think of anything, please call me.' Ayala handed over one of the greyscale printouts from his bag. Agnes' hands trembled as she took it, her eyes briefly taking in the number for the police incident line printed in bold type across the top of the photocopy.

  One flat down and one family's tragedy told, Ayala turned his back on Agnes. His steps were a little heavier as he left. There were hundreds more flats to go.

  CHAPTER 9: UNDER FIRE

  'DEAD TEENAGER FOUND IN HACKNEY: POLICE CLUELESS'

  Morton surveyed the newspaper over his reading glasses. As usual, the press had jumped to the wrong conclusions. He'd deliberately avoided calling an early press conference for the simple reason there wasn't much to tell yet, and the idea that a child killer could be on the loose would only incite panic.

  But someone Ayala had spoken to had provided the tabloids with a copy of the reconstruction photo. It wasn't a great surprise, as Ayala handed out hundreds of them. Unfortunately, the press hadn't stopped at simply reporting the facts, and as Morton reread the article yet again he felt his blood begin to boil.

  'A paedophile may be on the loose in Hackney, it was suspected after a child's body turned up encased in ice.[otherwise this is saying he wasn't on the loose before the body was discovered] The body is believed to have been found on the eastern side of Hackney Marshes after the area was closed off to public access by officers from the Metropolitan Police.

  'A local resident who wishes to remain anonymous has this to say, 'They dun know who he is. They been 'round the whole estate with a picture asking if we know 'im.

  'The composite appears to be a forensic reconstruction, commonly used when the body is too badly damaged to be identified. A sadist may be on the loose. Residents are advised to lock their doors, keep their children close and not venture out after dark.'

  'Drivel. Lazy, baseless fear-mongering. The whole article is conjecture at best.'

  'I agree, dear,' his wife replied. Sarah knew better than to disagree with her husband's intense dislike of the press.

  'What do they mean, 'stay in after dark'? It's January – it's always dark!'

  'Writing on a deadline is never going to lead to literary genius. As for the rest of it, you know they sensationalise everything just to sell copy,' Sarah replied, casually flicking her hair in the hope that her husband would notice her new haircut. Fat chance, she thought as she picked up a pair of yellow marigold gloves, pulled them on and turned towards the mountain of plates beside the sink. She sometimes wondered if David would notice if she dyed her hair pink.

  Morton fumed silently as he worked on his toast, which was piled high with butter and marmalade. Sarah bit her tongue to avoid making a shrill comment about his cholesterol. He was in a bad mood already, and he wouldn't appreciate being chided.

  'I suppose the extra exposure might help identify the body. But I was hoping to have a better grasp of the facts before I called a press conference. I just hope we don't end up with a panic on our hands, or worse, a vigilante.'

  Sarah exhaled patiently, and continued to wash up.'The cat's out of the bag now.'

  Morton stroked his chin thoughtfully. 'Perhaps it is, but there is one silver lining. All the time the press is lampooning me as useless, the killer might not be as careful as he should be. This could turn out to be a blessing in disguise.'

  ***

  The moment Mr and Mrs Lattimer had left for their social engagement, the babysitter hurried in her boyfriend and staked out the main sitting room for the evening. A bottle of merlot pilfered from the wine rack in the kitchen sat beside the couple. They had not thought to let it breathe before beginning to drink.

  James Lattimer and Charlie had been left to their own devices, which suited all concerned. They were in the basement splayed out on a pair of well-worn beanbags with their eyes glued to a projector screen. Life-size cartoon characters were attempting to bash each other to death courtesy of James' games console.

  Charlie erupted with laughter as his character head-butted and slapped his way to victory. For James, who had just suffered his fourth loss in a row, it was less amusing. Enraged, he flung his controller at the wall with all his might. A shower of plastic rained down on the carpet, and a 'Controller Disconnected' error flashed up on the screen.

  James stomped towards the door, then spun on one foot and screamed at Charlie, 'I hate you!'

  James' footsteps could be heard carrying him up two floors to his bedroom. Once he was alone in the quiet of the basement, Charlie shrugged. Love and hate were just words. He mashed a button, and the game switched to one-player mode. He had no problem playing against the machine. He preferred it that way. The one person Charlie could always count on was himself.

  CHAPTER 10: DEAD END

  Morton rested his chin on his palm and stared at his desk. While the Incident Room was an invaluable resource with its huge conference table and easy access, he always found that he did his best thinking in his office. It was three floors up and almost always silent.

  Most of the room was sparse and utilitarian, but the desk was his own. He'd inherited it from his father, and it now sat adorned with various knick-knacks and mementos. On the left-hand side of the desk Morton had a shell casing from his first case, as well as a clock given to him for thirty years' service. On the right-hand side were the cold case files which Morton kept to remind himself to stay vigilant. He knew he'd take some of those cases to his grave, but it didn't stop him flipping through the evidence every so often.

  The biggest knick-knack, which Morton kept front and centre so that he could look at it often, was a digital photo frame. Images of his wedding day faded in and out of existence in a slideshow. Sarah looked so much younger then. Almost three decades had flown by since they had eloped. Of course, they'd had a second ceremony later to avoid the ire of her father. Morton's in-laws still didn't know abou
t the original, and in Morton's mind, real wedding. Every year, Morton took a perverse pleasure in getting all his anniversary cards a month late.

  The real ceremony had been a Valentine's Day wedding. A last-minute cancellation had opened up at St James' in Piccadilly, and Morton had roped in a pair of police constables to act as witnesses. With the anniversary mere weeks away, and thirty years being an auspicious milestone, he knew he'd better come up with something impressive. Pearls were just too obvious, flowers too impersonal. Morton bit his lip as he strained to think of the perfect present for Sarah.

  For what seemed like the hundredth time that week, the buzz of his BlackBerry vibrated against the oak desk and interrupted his thought process.

  'Morton,' he answered.

  'Chief, this is Stuart Purcell from Forensics. We tested the sample you obtained from Mrs Houton against Joe Bloggs Junior. No match. Our Joe Bloggs Junior is not Rick Houton.'

  Morton exhaled. It was no surprise really. It didn't seem likely that the skinny child found in the Marshes could have been related to the morbidly obese man that Morton had met in Bournemouth.

  'How certain are you?'

  'Almost 100 per cent.'

  'Only almost?'

  'There's always the chance a mistake could be made. Sometimes you find what we call chimaeras. These are people who have two sets of DNA, so the sample won't match.'

  'How's that happen?' Morton asked. His eyes flicked to the calendar to make sure it wasn't somehow April first already.

  'Basically, it's when an egg is fertilised by two sperm, but for some reason doesn't split into twins.'

  Morton rolled his eyes. The new kid was a show-off. 'Sounds pretty rare,' he said politely.

  'About one in a million.'

  'So, you're pretty sure then. Thanks very much.' Morton rang off with a click.

  Morton made a snap decision; he'd let local police inform the Houtons that it wasn't their son. He crossed his fingers that the hope it would give them that Rick was alive wouldn't turn out to be false.

  ***

  Ayala tapped his foot restlessly against the synthetic flooring as he waited for the lab tech to pronounce the acid etching complete. The Chief had ordered that the Joe Bloggs watch be stripped down by forensics, and they were in the process of trying to restore the inscription. That meant grinding the back plate down so it became smooth, then applying a mix of hydrochloric acid, copper, chloride, ethyl alcohol and water known as Fry's reagent. The forensics team was more accustomed to using the method to recover serial numbers from guns, but it worked for both ferrous and non-ferrous metals.

  A tech had been in several times to check on progress. Working with acid meant wearing down layers of metal. Too little, and the etching wouldn't reappear. Too much, and it was gone for good. Little and often was the order of the day; every fifteen minutes the tech meandered over to brush a minuscule quantity of acid onto the surface, taking his time to ensure an even application.

  As a small safeguard, Ayala had set up a webcam pointed at the work surface. Not only would this be ample procedural documentation for any eventual court proceedings, but it would capture the serial number on video if the acid began to damage the etching. Acid was prone to carry on reacting long after any etching reappeared, and the procedure could never be repeated, unlike the many forensic tests that didn't destroy or degrade the sample.

  As the tech leant in to check on the sample he turned towards Ayala. 'It's going to be a few hours yet, Detective. You might want to come back later.'

  Ayala didn't move. He had his orders, and he had every intention of staying there until he had his answers.

  ***

  The perfect anniversary gift leapt into Morton's mind as he drove home from work. It was so simple that Morton was shocked he hadn't thought of it before. He made a mental note to double-check Sarah's passport was in date when he had half a chance. Their first trip abroad together had been their honeymoon.

  With no kids to care for, and no rent to pay as they were living with his parents at the time, they had decided to drive across Europe to Venice in a rented Aston Martin. Their route had seen them jump on a then-fairly-new roll on, roll off ferry from Dover to Calais, then coast on down to drive through the Alps via the Mont Blanc tunnel. From there on out, it had been plain sailing straight across Italy. The drive had knocked four days off either end of the holiday, but they were so wrapped up in each other's company that the pit stops didn't bother them.

  Morton's fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel, and he hummed along to the radio. Not even the legendary traffic jams on the City Road could dent his mood as he dreamed of recreating those two perfect weeks.

  It wouldn't be cheap to do it all over again. Hotels along the route would be heaving with couples celebrating St Valentine's Day, but perhaps recreating the trip would help rekindle the old flame. Then it would be worth every penny.

  CHAPTER 11: WATCH THIS

  As Morton sat at his desk typing up a draft itinerary for his romantic Valentine's Day getaway, Ayala bounded into his office without so much as a cursory tap on the door.

  'Detective, did we swap offices when I wasn't paying attention, or did you just come into my office without knocking?' Morton set his jaw in mock anger, careful to keep his tone playful, but his eyes flashed darkly at the intrusion.

  'Sorry, boss,' Ayala replied, 'but I had to give you this.' He triumphantly threw two close-up photographs on the desk. Both showed the watch found with Joe Bloggs Junior.

  'E M + J C 18J 1971?' Morton read the recovered inscription from the first photograph aloud.

  'Yep. Sounds like a wedding date to me, boss.'

  'Nah. It's more likely to be an engagement; they've got different initials for the surname.'

  'Could be, boss, but the information from the other photo is the really important thing.'

  'UNQAC1979CBMTL. What's the significance?'

  'These high-end watches are handmade. Every single piece gets a unique serial number. The manufacturer is bound to know who bought it. We can track it down from there and ID our kid.' Ayala beamed proudly.

  'Great work. Get on it then.' Morton leant back in his chair. They were finally getting somewhere.

  ***

  Red ink dominated the page when Charlie had his marked Romeo and Juliet essay returned. English was the last class of the day, and class 8M were packing their bags when the bell rang.

  'Not you two – stay behind.' Mr Neil pointed at Charlie and the kid sitting next to him. The two pupils exchanged curious glances, but obediently sat back down on the chairs nearest the door, and watched their classmates escape.

  When the rest of the class were gone, Mr Neil gently shut the door then perched on a table in front of the duo.

  'Liam. Your work wasn't good enough. I asked for five hundred words minimum. You turned in less than two hundred.'

  'Sorry, sir.'

  'Do it again. Tonight. I want to see it on my desk first thing in the morning. Is that clear? Otherwise it's detention on Friday.'

  'But sir! Friday is the game against Redwood!'

  'It doesn't matter. I want to see the football team lift the trophy as much as you do, but I also want you to do your homework properly. No excuses. If you want to play then do the essay tonight. Do I make myself clear?'

  'Yes sir.'

  'Good. Then off you go. Don't forget to close the door on your way out.'

  Once Liam was gone, Mr Neil turned his attention to Charlie's essay.

  'This,' he held the essay up in front of him as he spoke, 'is not acceptable. Did you write it yourself?'

  Charlie nodded. His hands were resting on the desk, but they were shaking uncontrollably.

  'It's the right length, but it's compete nonsense. It looks like you've put it through Google Translate! 'Romeo and Juliet is a play written by Shakespeare, who has two star crossed lovers'. Genders have been mixed up, and don't get me started on your use of tenses.' Mr Neil scowled down at Charlie, personally a
ffronted.

  'Look, I know you've got an appointment booked with the school psychologist for next week, so I'm not going to ask you to redo it before then. But I have to ask, do you need any extra help from me, Charlie?'

  Charlie shrugged, his shoulders rolling back in their sockets, and his hands upturned in an 'I don't know' gesture.

  'I'm putting you in detention this week.'

  Charlie looked indignant as Mr Neil pulled out the blue slips used to notify parents that their children would be kept behind.

  'Yes, again. I expect a bit more effort from you, Charlie. If you can't do something, then ask for help. That's what I'm here for. We'll redo the whole essay together, so bring your copy of the play.'

  Charlie reluctantly took the detention slip, folded it twice and pocketed it.

  Mr Neil glanced at the clock. 'It's getting on a bit. You'd better go. I don't want you being late home. But if you need to talk, come find me tomorrow during lunch.'

  ***

  Verifying that the watch was a real, original Keppler Oechslan had been easy. A quick visit to the manufacturer's website allowed Ayala to punch in the serial number that he had recovered. The tricky bit was going from there to the purchaser details. On screen, it only confirmed that the warranty was expired.

  A telephone number for Keppler Oechslan proved elusive. The company website provided an online contact form, but trying to find someone Ayala could actually talk to drew a blank.

  Ayala was about to email when he had a brainwave. He pulled up the database of UK companies from Companies House and searched for the UK subsidiary of Keppler Oechslan SARL. That gave him the names and addresses of all their directors. From there, it was a short jump to getting their phone numbers. Snatching up the wireless handset from the Incident Room's conference table, Ayala deftly punched in the number of the first director on his list. It was answered after only two rings.