JM04 - Deadly Justice

by DS Butler

  Charlotte hoped Robbie Baxter’s mother wasn’t around. Ivy Baxter was a skinny woman with a mouth that never stopped. Her two older sons were inside for armed robbery, not that Ivy would admit they were at fault. According to Ivy, her sons had been set up by the officers who had investigated the case. Ivy Baxter had a deep-seated hatred of police that she had instilled in her sons from a very young age.

  As Dr. Sorensen led Charlotte into Linden Ward, which smelt of boiled vegetables, Charlotte was glad Ivy Baxter was nowhere to be seen.

  They approached Robbie Baxter’s bed, and Charlotte could see immediately he wasn’t doing as well as Vinnie Pearson.

  Robbie was small for his age, but today he looked even smaller. With his eyes closed and his pale cheek resting against the white pillow, he looked very much like the child he was. Who would have believed the police had a list of complaints about him as long as Charlotte’s arm?

  Charlotte heard a beeping sound that she assumed was one of the many machines in the ward. Then she heard a muttered curse from Dr. Sorensen, who was digging around in the pockets of her white coat.

  “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to go and take this.” Dr. Sorensen held up the small black pager.

  “Sure,” Charlotte said. “I’ll just hang around here and wait until Robbie’s mum turns up.”

  To Charlotte’s surprise, Dr. Sorensen didn’t object. She gave a brief wave of her hand and left the ward, leaving Charlotte looking down at Robbie Baxter.

  His eyelids fluttered but he didn’t wake. He had dark circles like bruises beneath his eyes. It was hard to imagine him full of life and mischief. Charlotte would never have put Robbie Baxter down as the type to be involved in a suicide pact. But that was stupid. There was no such thing as ‘a type.’ Robbie had had a hard life, and had as big a reason as anyone to want to end it. Maybe it had been a joint suicide pact… Maybe…

  “Get away from him!” The shrill voice made Charlotte turn.

  Ivy Baxter stood behind Charlotte. She looked faded as if all vitality had been sucked out of her. She may once have been an attractive woman, but the years hadn’t been kind. She had nondescript, mousy hair and wore no make-up to hide her blotchy complexion. Her pale lips quivered with rage.

  “I’m Charlotte Brown. I –”

  “I don’t care who you are, love. Just get away from my boy.” Ivy Baxter’s eyes flashed with anger. She didn’t try to keep her voice down. She didn’t care if she disturbed any of the other patients.

  Charlotte tried again. “I’m Detective Constable Charlotte Brown, City of London police.”

  Ivy Baxter’s face twisted into a sneer, but Charlotte carried on before she could interrupt, “I have reason to believe your son may have been part of a suicide pact.”

  The words seemed to puncture Ivy Baxter. She crumpled. Her shoulders folded inwards as she pressed her hand to her chest. “He wouldn’t…”

  Charlotte looked away from the woman and stared down at Robbie. She’d been way out of line. Ivy Baxter was a first-class bitch, but nothing excused how Charlotte had just delivered that news. She should have taken her somewhere private, given her tea and sympathy first, not just blurted it out like that. What was wrong with her?

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “I know it’s –”

  “What do you know about it? You’re talking bollocks. Why would I believe you? This is your lot trying to cover up a chemical spill. I’ve heard about this kind of thing, and I wouldn’t put it past you bastards to try and lie your way out of it. One of your bosses probably came up with this cock-and-bull story to stop anyone claiming compensation.”

  The idea that a mother could be thinking of compensation, of financial benefit, when her son lay in a hospital bed was repellent, but the tremor in Ivy’s voice and the way she looked at Robbie as she spoke, told Charlotte more than words ever could.

  “He’ll wake up,” Ivy Baxter whispered. “Then he’ll tell me what happened.”

  Charlotte left the ward in an irritable mood. She came here for answers, but got nothing. If anything, she had made matters worse by getting Ivy Baxter all riled up.

  Charlotte left the inpatient area of the hospital and entered ENT outpatients, wondering if the signs really pointed to the exit. It seemed like she had been walking around in circles. She turned right, following another of the little brown exit signs, when she heard someone calling her name.

  She turned to see Dr. Sorensen.

  “I’m sorry I had to leave you,” Dr. Sorensen said. “Did you have any luck?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Unfortunately not. Robbie Baxter’s mother didn’t have any information, or at least, she didn’t have anything she was willing to share.”

  “Have you got time for a coffee?” Dr. Sorensen asked. She pushed up the sleeve of her white coat and looked at her wristwatch.

  Charlotte smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid not. I really need to get back to the station.”

  “Maybe the next time you’re here? I’m sure Vinnie Pearson will be up to answering your questions soon.”

  Charlotte sighed. “He looks well enough to me already. I’m pretty sure he’s taking advantage of the situation.”

  Dr. Sorensen smiled politely as two nurses passed them in the corridor. She said, “He isn’t my patient. But…”

  Charlotte frowned and waited for Dr. Sorensen to continue. Maybe she would get some information after all. Maybe Vinnie had spoken to his doctor, told him what happened.

  Dr. Sorensen shoved her hands in the pockets of her white coat and lowered her voice. “I think he’s scared of something, or someone.”

  “Has he said anything? Told you who he’s scared of?”

  Dr. Sorensen shook her head and bit her lip. “Not to me, but the nurses have noticed he is very anxious, and he keeps asking about security. It’s probably nothing… But I thought it was worth mentioning.”

  Charlotte thanked Dr. Sorensen then continued on her way to the exit, through the winding corridors, following the little brown exit signs.

  Her mind was completely occupied with one question: just who was it Vinnie was scared of?

  20

  KATHY WALKER KEPT HER smile fixed in position as she secured the last of Mrs. Cutler’s rollers. The smile took a huge effort. She’d felt bad all day. Of course, that was what she deserved for drinking half a box of cheap white wine last night.

  “There, all done, Mrs. Cutler,” she said, beaming at the old lady in the mirror. “We’ll leave those rollers in for twenty minutes. Can I get you a drink while you wait? Or something to read?”

  Mrs. Cutler asked for a cup of tea, white, one sugar, and a magazine.

  Kathy handed her a dog-eared copy of Marie Claire then headed out back to the little kitchenette to make the drink. She got two mugs out of the cupboard, put a tea bag in the pretty blue one for Mrs. Cutler and put two heaped spoonfuls of instant coffee in her own chipped mug. Heaven knows she needed the caffeine.

  Kathy glanced up at the clock on the wall as the kettle boiled. She’d have to spend ten minutes with Mrs. Cutler after the rollers came out, but then she’d have half an hour free before her next appointment.

  As Kathy reached for the kettle, she noticed her red and chapped hands. She looked down at them in surprise. How did those wrinkly, red fingers belong to her? She was getting age spots, too. Forty, single and still living in the area where she grew up. What would her sixteen-year-old self say if she could see her now?

  She’d been full of ideas when she left school. Hairdressing was going to be a stepping stone. She planned on getting trained then going off on a cruise ship and seeing the world.

  So much for dreams.

  She didn’t even get to do much exciting stuff in the way of hair styling these days. Most of the women who came to the salon had kept the same style for years, and had no intention of changing.

  Still, Kathy thought, looking on the bright side, at least her next client was under sixty. She might be up for somethin
g a little bit more exciting than a shampoo and set.

  As Kathy poured boiling water into the mugs, she tried to ignore the fact her hands were shaking. Why on earth did she drink so much last night? But she knew the answer to that already: Because she was alone. So she’d sat there on the sofa, drinking glass after glass of wine and getting more and more pissed until she’d been singing along to Whitney Houston. She flushed at the memory. God, she was like Bridget bloody Jones, except older and fatter and with no sign of Colin Firth on the horizon.

  Not that she hadn’t had any chances with men. But with all of them she’d managed to push them away, telling herself she didn’t want to settle down and have kids. After her crap childhood, she worried she’d be a terrible mother, and she wasn’t prepared to take the risk. There was no way she wanted to screw up another generation. She was pretty sure her brother felt the same way.

  He lived over on the Isle of Dogs, but he often popped in to check up on her. He’d been popping in even more frequently recently, which Kathy knew was due to whatever was going on between her brother and Mitch Horrocks, the owner of the cafe down the street.

  Not that her brother would admit there was anything going on. Stuart hadn’t even told her he was gay. Although she’d have to be bloody blind not to notice. Still, it wasn’t any of her business. She just wished he’d pick someone nicer than Mitch Horrocks.

  Kathy took the tea through to Mrs. Cutler and did a quick check on the rollers, asking if she was comfortable. Mrs. Cutler said she was fine, gave Kathy a quick smile, then returned to her engrossing magazine article on celebrity cellulite.

  Kathy looked up as she heard the door open. Crap. She hoped that wasn’t her next client. She’d been banking on twenty minutes between clients to get her head straight.

  Kathy let out a sigh of relief when she realised it was only Stuart.

  Mrs. Cutler peered at Stuart over the pages of her magazine. Clearly, Mrs. Cutler didn’t find celebrity cellulite as interesting as potential gossip. Kathy waved to her brother and gestured for him to follow her out of the back of the salon.

  Stuart entered the kitchen. His floppy, fair hair fell down over his eyes.

  “You need a trim,” Kathy said.

  He pushed his hair back and gave her a grin. Kathy was closer to Stuart than anyone in the world. She supposed their shared, crappy childhood had forged the strong bond. It wasn’t possible to live through something like that without consequences.

  She narrowed her eyes as she noticed Stuart’s hunched shoulders. There was definitely something bothering him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Stuart scowled. His forehead creased just like it used to do when he’d been a little boy. “Nothing.”

  Kathy should’ve known better than to pry further. But it wasn’t in her nature to leave things alone. There was definitely something bothering him, and he must want to confide in her, otherwise why would he be here in the middle of the day?

  “Tea?” Kathy offered, reaching for the kettle.

  Stuart shook his head. “No, thanks. I haven’t got time. I just wanted to see if you’re all right.”

  Kathy put down the kettle. “Of course, I am. It’s not that busy today.” She flushed. Could Stuart tell she was hungover? Did he think she had a problem?

  “After what happened to Syed, I thought you might still be a bit shaken up.”

  “Oh, I’m all right,” Kathy said. “But it’s horrible to think he was just one door along feeling so depressed that he…”

  Stuart put a hand on her arm and squeezed.

  “Are you sure you don’t want that tea?” Kathy asked, blinking rapidly and turning her back so Stuart wouldn’t see the tears brimming in her eyes.

  “No, thanks. I’m going to pop along the road and see how Mitch is doing. It can’t have been nice for him either, especially with his mum.” Stuart hunched his shoulders again. It was almost as if he were trying to make himself smaller, unnoticed.

  Kathy supposed she should be glad Stuart had taken an interest in someone. She wanted him to be happy, of course she did. But why did he have to pick Mitch?

  That bloody man was always in a bad mood about something and never had a nice word to say to anybody.

  Kathy folded her arms across her chest. “I’m quite sure Mitch is fine.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Kathy shook her head. “He isn’t exactly the sensitive type, is he? I can’t imagine he was bothered by what happened to poor old Syed.”

  Kathy was pretty sure Mitch wouldn’t be bothered by anything that didn’t directly affect him.

  “Don’t be like that, Kathy. Of course he’ll be bothered. His old mum was up there. He was so worried she was going to get hurt.”

  Kathy only just managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Everyone in the street knew that Mrs. Horrocks was as tough as old boots and as mean as a snake.

  She decided to take a chance, while Stuart had his guard down. “I know you… like Mitch… But you could do better, Stuart.” She saw the dark look on his face and continued quickly, “You deserve better.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Stuart’s voice was cold. “I’m just going to check on an old friend and his elderly mother.”

  Mitch Horrocks had gone to the same school as Kathy and Stuart, but they’d never exactly been friendly. In the ten years that Kathy had run the salon, she’d seen Mitch Horrocks nearly every day, and every day he looked meaner and grumpier than before.

  Kathy chucked her remaining coffee down the sink. She wasn’t going to get anywhere with Stuart now. The shutters had come down.

  “I know you, Stuart.” Kathy shrugged. “I just want you to be happy.”

  Stuart jerked his chin and zipped up his jacket even though it wasn’t cold outside. “I’ll give them your regards.”

  21

  1982

  THERE WERE SNIGGERS behind him. But Junior didn’t turn around.

  Mr. Lockwood stalked between the desks. The English teacher walked with a slight limp because his left leg was an inch shorter than his right. He wore a stacked heel on his shoe, but it didn’t seem to help. It would have earned any other teacher a rude nickname, but Mr. Lockwood put the fear of God into every child in the class.

  He paused at the front of the classroom, next to the blackboard, and stared out at his pupils until they all stopped fidgeting.

  “Open your books, page fifty-two,” Mr. Lockwood said.

  Junior flipped through the pages of his copy of Lord of the Flies until he reached page fifty-two. His fingers felt thick and clumsy. He could feel Mr. Lockwood’s eyes on him, and he felt the flush of blood rise to his cheeks.

  “You can start us off, boy,” Mr. Lockwood said.

  Junior peered up at the teacher through his overlong fringe. He shook his head slightly. Mr. Lockwood couldn’t mean him. He knew Junior was no good at reading aloud. He got flustered and mixed up his words.

  But it was no good. Mr. Lockwood was staring directly at him. For a fraction of a second, Junior considered slamming the book closed and running out of the classroom, but the teacher’s eyes scared him. Junior said a silent prayer. Please let him pick someone else.

  “What are you waiting for, boy?” Mr. Lockwood’s voice boomed around the classroom.

  There was no point delaying the inevitable. Junior lowered his head and licked his lips. He pointed his index finger at the line of text, hoping it would help to keep the words in order.

  Junior’s voice shook as he began to read.

  There were some titters of laughter from the boys who sat in the back row, but Junior tried to ignore them.

  Junior managed to get to the end of the paragraph, but he had to repeat himself three times to get the final sentence right.

  His old English teacher, Mrs. O’Brien, had told Junior it wasn’t his fault. She said he had dyslexia, which made it hard for him to read, but it didn’t make him stupid. His mother said Mrs. O’Brien was a silly old wom
an who didn’t know her arse from her elbow.

  When Junior stumbled over the start of the next paragraph, Mr. Lockwood interrupted. “That’s enough. We will give someone else a chance to read now. Good effort.”

  Junior smiled. He heard somebody hiss, “swot.” But he didn’t care. He didn’t like those children anyway. They teased him about his clothes and the way he talked. They never let him join in any of their games at break time. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need friends. He was learning now and doing well in school. It finally made sense. He might not have friends but Junior understood how to make his teachers happy, and that made his life much easier.

  Everything was better now that Junior knew that he had to obey rules. Rules were very important and terrible things happened when they weren’t followed. Just like in this story. He wished the other children would shut up. He liked this book, and he wanted to know what happened at the end.

  Junior was thinking about the rules he would set if he were on the island and in charge, when Mr. Lockwood dropped his copy of Lord of the Flies onto his desk and slapped his hand on the cover, sending a cloud of chalk dust into the air.

  “Homework,” Mr. Lockwood said. “Man has a capacity for evil. Moral integrity must be upheld to control this evil and maintain a civilised society. Discuss.”

  Mr. Lockwood didn’t look at Junior as he spoke, but that didn’t matter. Junior knew those words were a direct message for him.

  22

  PRESENT DAY

  FIONA EVANS straightened the neck of her blouse and looked at herself in the mirror.

  Christ, she was nervous.

  It was ridiculous. Surely it was supposed to be the other way around. The interviewee should be nervous, not her. She glanced at her watch and then walked through into the sitting room, peering out of the window. No sign of him yet.

  She perched on the edge of the sofa and turned at the sound of Anna’s light footsteps. She said nothing, but sat down beside Fiona’s feet and began brushing her doll’s hair.