Young, Gifted and Deadly

by William Stafford

  Stevens and Pattimore joined the exodus, catching up with and overtaking a couple of on-duty teachers who seemed in no particular hurry to break up the fray.

  “Leave them a bit,” advised the Science teacher they had met earlier. “That Logan Lawrence deserves a good kicking.”

  Pattimore pointed at the pugilistic pair. “Which one’s Logan Lawrence?”

  The Science teacher winced; the crowd cheered. “That one who’s just landed on his nose.”

  Pattimore bounded to the battling boys.

  “Who’s the other one?” said Stevens with the air of a man about to place a bet on the victor. The Science teacher squinted through his spectacles.

  “My word! I didn’t recognise him without his glasses. The boy giving Logger a pasting is Callum Phillips. Well, well! I never knew he had it in him.”

  “Shit!” Stevens hurried to catch up with Pattimore.

  Logger was back on his feet. He rushed the specky (temporarily spec-less) twat, ramming his head against Callum’s sternum. Callum staggered back and then brought up his knee under Logger’s jaw. The crowd roared in approval.

  Pattimore jogged up. “Boys! Boys! That’s enough of that.”

  Logger froze, distracted. Callum head-butted him on the forehead. Logger dropped onto his backside. Pattimore stood over him; by the time Stevens arrived, Callum had run away, through the bushes and out through the gap in the fence.

  “Shit,” Stevens panted, leaning forward with his hands on his thighs. “You know who that was?”

  “Who?” said Pattimore. He offered a hand to the boy on the ground. Logger scowled, declining assistance. Dogger and Bonk stepped forward, proffering his coat and bag; Logger glowered at them as well.

  “Only Callum whatsit,” said Stevens, staring at the hedges.

  “Shit,” said Pattimore.

  “He fucking started it, sir,” said Logger, stating the case for his own defence.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Pattimore. He showed Logger his i.d. The boy paled. “You can tell me all about it indoors.”

  He and Stevens frogmarched Logger up the concrete steps, through the crowd and into the main building. Someone recognised the supply teacher with the porn-star moustache and within seconds a new chant arose.

  “Mis-ter Cunt! Mis-ter Cunt!”

  Stevens couldn’t get inside fast enough.

  ***

  Brough and Miller were invited to wait on the garden path while the crime scene investigation unit... investigated the scene of the crime. Brough paced, impatient, while Miller was more philosophical.

  “They don’t want us getting under their feet,” she said. “In case we touch something.”

  “I don’t know about you, Miller,” Brough sneered, “but I’m a trained professional. I wasn’t planning on running around the place like a two-year old.”

  “No,” Miller muttered. “You’m just sulking like one.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. Sir.”

  Miller was spared a grilling by the emergence of the SOCO through the patio doors.

  “Well?” Brough rounded on him. The SOCO glanced at Miller, who both shrugged and smiled helplessly.

  “Oh, she’s dead all right,” said the SOCO, “if that’s what you’ve been waiting to hear.”

  “Ha!” said Brough.

  “He’s not in the mood,” said Miller. “Anything else you can tell us?”

  “It looks like death by hanging - I doubt it’s suicide, given the - well - I’ll call it ‘staging’, for want of a better word. The use of a clothes line, and that five-pointed star, of course.”

  “This death is linked to the others, then?” Brough said in even tones, mastering his temper - he was, after all, a trained professional.

  “On the face of it, yes.”

  “You sound doubtful,” Miller observed.

  “It’s the same star, all right,” the SOCO shook his head, “And, again, we’d have to run tests: graphology and the like...”

  “But...” Brough and Miller prompted him in unison.

  “But...” said the SOCO, “I’d be willing to bet this star was not made by the same person who did the other two.”

  ***

  In the absence of the head teacher, Pattimore and Stevens commandeered her office for the purposes of questioning the boy Logan Lawrence, also known as Logger.

  “I can’t believe this,” the youth held a ball of tissues to his bloodied nose. “There’s murders going on and you’m picking on me about mucking about in a supermarket.”

  “Murders?” said Stevens, as though trying out the word for the first time. “What’s a scrote like you know about the murders?”

  “It’s all over the telly, ain’t it?” said Logger. “Or ain’t you got one in your cave?”

  “Cheeky bastard. You won’t be so cheeky in a minute when I charge you with wilful damage.”

  Logger’s smirk did not falter. “You can’t prove nothing.”

  “Oh, no?” said Pattimore, perching a buttock on Beatrice Mooney’s desk. “There’s CCTV. You’ve been identified as one of the youths involved.”

  “Bollocks. Who? Who told you that?”

  “Never you mind. A trustworthy source.”

  “Who?”

  “Listen, Logan - Logger,” Pattimore smiled. “Give us the names of the other boys and things will go easy for you.”

  “I ain’t no grass! Besides, I weren’t even there.”

  “We’ll be talking to your friends,” said Stevens, checking his notebook. “Doggo and... Blink, is that? My handwriting!”

  “Dogger and Bonk!” said Logger.

  “So you admit they were with you!”

  “Yes! No! You’m trying to trick me!” Logger wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs. “They was with me, all right. But not at Costbosters. Nowhere near.”

  “We never mentioned the name of the supermarket.” It was Stevens’s turn to smirk.

  “Shit,” said Logger.

  “So, who was the fourth one?” said Pattimore. “Was it your friend? Callum?”

  Logger sneered. “That wanker.”

  “What was that fight about?”

  “What fight?”

  “The one you just had with Callum Phillips.”

  “Nothing,” Logger shrugged.

  “I’d hate to see it when you fall out over something!” said Pattimore.

  “I’d love to see it,” said Stevens. “I’d bring popcorn.”

  “He’s a weirdo,” Logger folded his arms. “Proper fucking nerd. And he rocks up and tries to take over. Like he’s the one in charge. Well, he ain’t. I’m the one in charge. What I say goes.”

  “He looked to be in charge to me,” said Stevens. “He knocked seven shades of shit out of you.”

  “I was just getting warmed up, wasn’t I?” said Logger, defensively. “I was going to kill him-” he caught himself, “-Well, not actually kill him kill him - but you know. Show him who’s boss.”

  “Fine way to carry on,” Stevens tutted. “When that poor lad’s going through terrible tragedy-”

  “Ben!” Pattimore warned.

  “What?” said Logger.

  “His poor old mother,” said Stevens. “Terrible.”

  “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

  “That’s enough!” Pattimore bundled Stevens from the room. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

  Stevens laughed. “Did you see his face? He hasn’t a clue about the murders.”

  “Nobody said he would have. Wheeler wants him done for the supermarket vandalism.”

  “Well, at least we can rule him out of the murders.”

  “Fuck sake, Ben.”

  “Is
there a problem, gentlemen?”

  The detectives turned to find Deputy Head Alfred Abbott regarding them with annoyance. “For how much longer are you going to cause disruption in my school?”

  Stevens drew himself up to his full height. “Long as it takes, sunshine.”

  “I am sure the Head will have something to say when she finds you using her office.”

  “You’re right, Alfred,” said Beatrice Mooney, her high heels clicking as she approached. Harry Henry lumbered along behind her, carrying her bags.

  “All right, Harry!” Stevens grinned, raising his hand for a high-five that he didn’t get. “Come to join the party?”

  “Um...” said Harry Henry, his glasses askew.

  “There’s the man I was telling you about,” Beatrice Mooney extended a manicured finger in Mr Abbott’s direction. “Take him away!”

  “Um,” said Harry.

  The three detectives looked at each other and from head teacher to deputy and back again.

  “Go on!” Beatrice Mooney flapped her hand. “There’s your murderer!”

  “Oh, well, in that case...” Stevens pulled handcuffs from his jacket.

  “You would not dare,” said Mr Abbott.

  Stevens dared.

  ***

  Callum ran from the school field to the ruined priory. He loitered among the crumbling walls, desperate to learn what his next move should be.

  Where are you, he agonised? Where the bloody hell are you?

  He addressed the question to the great arch window as if expecting the Goat Man to appear.

  He didn’t.

  Perhaps it was too early. Too light.

  On the previous occasions, it had been dark. The middle of the night. In the garden.

  And the first time - the first time, out on the field, crouching in those bushes, while those three idiots giggled on the steps, Callum hadn’t seen anything at all.

  But he had heard.

  Don’t turn around!

  Callum had heard that all right.

  Don’t turn around, Callum Phillips.

  “Who are you?”

  I am your master. You will do my bidding and those who cross me shall perish.

  “Oh?” said Callum. “Who’s that, then?”

  You shall know. And soon. First, I must have your allegiance.

  “Um...”

  Do you not wish to be strong? To conquer those who torment you?

  “Well, I...”

  I shall show you the way.

  “I don’t know...”

  Serve me and you shall never be bullied again.

  “Well, I - oh, all right then. I’m in. But-”

  Do not turn around. Your neighbour.

  “Mr Barker?”

  Yes. He.

  And so it had happened. Callum had enticed his neighbour to the park. Mr Barker had lain on the bandstand disturbingly readily, paying no attention to the five-pointed star - perhaps he’d thought it was just graffiti.

  “Kinky, eh?” he had chuckled when Callum had produced the washing-line.

  They were Paul Barker’s last words.

  11.

  With the body removed and the forensic team packed up and gone, Brough and Miller had the whole house to go over.

  “What am we looking for, exactly?” said Miller, following Brough up the stairs to the bedrooms.

  “Clues, Miller. You might have heard of such things. Essential in our profession.”

  He moved along the landing but Miller remained at the top of the stairs. “All right,” she said. “What’s this all in aid of?”

  “Solving a murder. Three murders.”

  “Not this. That,” she pointed at his head and her finger described a circle. “Your mardy face. You’ve been in a right old grump for days.”

  “I have not!”

  “You have! You’ve got a face like a bulldog’s arsehole.”

  “I don’t think that’s the expression, Miller.”

  “I don’t give a monkey’s toss. Something’s crawled up your bum and died. You can talk to me, you know.”

  “As ever, Miller, your sensitivity is overwhelming. But let’s keep our minds on the job, shall we?”

  He opened a door. The master bedroom. All floral prints and wicker.

  “Ugh,” said Brough in the doorway.

  “Bed’s not made,” said Miller, peering around him.

  “Well, I think we can forgive a little slovenliness, Miller, since the woman’s been murdered.”

  “Not what I mean,” Miller pushed past him. “Do you see? Only one side has been slept in. Where was the husband last night?”

  “He works away.”

  “Or plays away? Eh? Think about it.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Hubby says he’s working away. Perfect alibi. Nips back, hangs the wife in the style of murders that are currently the fad. Leaves him free to be with his bit on the side.”

  Miller looked exceedingly pleased with herself. Brough scowled.

  “You should write shit novels for the internet, Miller. Clog up people’s kindles with your nonsense; I don’t want to hear it. We need to contact Mr Phillips. Contrary to your hypothesis, he may not be aware of his wife’s death.”

  Miller pouted, crestfallen. “And the son? We need to tell him as well.”

  Brough hummed in agreement. “I doubt Jason and that wanker Stevens will have tracked him down at the school. Someone will have to wait here in case he shows up.”

  “As long as that someone’s not me,” said Miller. “I need to get home. Darren’s moving in tonight.”

  “Moving in?” Brough shuddered at the thought. “Spare me the details, please.”

  “To the flat, I mean. Makes sense. Financially. Silly to keep toothbrushes in two different places.”

  “Well, if you put it like that. But are you sure, Mel?”

  Miller frowned. “I know my track record with men is worse than the bubonic plague’s, but Darren’s a good one. The best. It makes sense to take our relationship to the next level.”

  “You make it sound like a video game. Anyway, remember when I said we should keep our minds on the job?”

  He tried another door.

  “Poo,” Miller cried. “It stinks.”

  Callum’s bedroom bore all the hallmarks of the teenager’s lair. Posters of footballers and pop starlets vied for prominence. A desk groaned under the weight of school books. A model aeroplane, dusty and neglected, hung from the ceiling. The floor was covered with discarded clothes and abandoned and forgotten dinner plates.

  “Sweaty socks and mouldy pizza crusts,” Miller fanned her nose with her hand. “And I dread to think what else besides! Teenage boys! You must remember what that was like.”

  “What?”

  “I assume you were one once. A teenage boy.”

  “What are you on about, Miller?”

  “Of course, that was a long time ago,” she shrugged. “A long, long time ago.”

  Brough glowered at her, Caesar betrayed by Brutus.

  “Focus, Miller. Any clues - where might he go? After-school clubs? Friends’ names? Anything at all.”

  “Well, I’m not looking under the bed,” said Miller. “You can go through the crusty tissues; I’ll have a look over here.”

  She busied herself with Callum’s desk, his school books and set texts. Brough steeled himself and lifted a corner of the duvet.

  “Well, well!” cried Miller, making him jump. “I don’t think he’s doing this for GCSE, do you?”

  She held up a book so Brough could read the title.

  “A History of the Occult in the Black Country...” Brough took it from her and thumbed t
hrough it. “Look, Miller. Those five-pointed stars.”

  “That ain’t the half of it,” said Miller, pointing at the spine. “Look who wrote it.”

  Brough turned the book over and read the author’s name. “Donald Phillips...”

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Miller grinned, smugly. “The husband!”

  ***

  “This really is a most egregious mistake.”

  Stevens folded his arms and looked across the table at the red-faced deputy head. “That’s what they all fucking say. Granted, most of them don’t use big words like - what was it, gregarious? - but the gist is the same.”

  Alfred Abbott’s cheeks reddened. He folded his arms too but his posture lacked Stevens’s slouch.

  Pattimore slid a sheet of paper toward the interviewee. “Do you recognise this?”

  Abbott barely glanced at it. “It’s a sheet of paper. Like countless others.”

  “Are you able to identify it?”

  “White, A4. Standard photocopier fodder.”

  Stevens grunted. “Smart arse.”

  “Not the paper, Mr Abbott; what’s on it.”

  “You really should be more precise in your questioning,” Abbott smirked. He pulled the paper toward him and glanced at the image on it. “It’s a five-pointed star. A pentagram or pentacle.”

  The detectives looked at each other.

  “Come across many of these in your line of work?” Stevens scoffed.

  “Not on a daily basis, no.”

  “But you were able to identify it right away,” said Pattimore.

  “My dear sir, I can identify many things. It is one of the benefits of a good education.”

  “And does that education involve dabbling in the occult?”

  Abbott laughed. “Is that a serious question, Detective Constable?”

  “This is a serious investigation,” said Stevens. “Two men are dead.”

  “And a woman,” added Pattimore. “Designs like this were found at each scene.”

  “And so you think, because I can put a name to it, I must be responsible. That’s something of a stretch, don’t you think?”

  The detectives looked at each other again: an unspoken handing over of the reins. Stevens sat up.

  “Where’d you go to school? Somewhere posh?”