by Sarah Hilary
Spray-on cobwebs stuck to Finn’s hair. Halfway round the ride, a dummy lurched out in a black suit with bolts through its neck, arms glued round another dummy in a white coat, their faces melted together. ‘Frankenstein,’ Dad said. ‘That’s what you get for making monsters.’
When the ride stopped, they climbed out. Dad first, Finn following, lurching like the monster, his balance shot, ears wailing and popping.
‘Mark Maples,’ Dad said. ‘First person to die on a Disneyland ride. Silly fucker stood up on the Matterhorn.’ He was full of facts like that. Dead clever, Finn’s dad.
Back in the caravan, Finn could see the funfair when he shut his eyes, neon pinwheeling through the black. Their clothes stank of onions and candyfloss. That was it. The last time Finn could remember being happy.
Never mind he was a prisoner now, trapped here with Brady.
He’d not been happy since that holiday, the haunted house, Dad winning him the big cat. He’d wanted to bring the cat with him when he ran, but it was too big. So he’d left it with the rest of his stuff in the house that’d been too quiet and empty since Dad went. In here—
Brady’s house was hot, and cold.
Finn couldn’t stop shivering. He didn’t even care if Brady thought it meant he was scared. He felt sick. Sweaty, his head swimming, a dead taste in his mouth. If he wasn’t the one cooking all the food, he’d think Brady had poisoned him. But it wasn’t drugs or poison or anything other than fear; he couldn’t eat or drink without puking it back up because his gut was knotted so tight.
Brady had gone out, the way he always did, but Finn was too sick to try the locks in case this time he’d left the doors open. Brady had two keys for each door, locking the house back and front from the outside. Every day for the last ten weeks, Finn had checked both doors after Brady left, thinking maybe this time he’d forgotten—
Brady never forgot. Perverts were too careful. Finn had tried telling him, in those first few days, that he wasn’t what Brady thought. He looked older than ten, he’d always looked older because he was skinny and tall and he had Dad’s nose. He could pass for thirteen, easy. He’d thought if Brady knew he was just a kid, not even eleven, he’d let him go. Looking back, he didn’t know why he’d thought that. It’s not like perverts were picky. ‘I’m only ten,’ he’d said. ‘I should be home with my mum. She’ll be going spare.’
That was a lie, for starters.
Brady ignored him anyway, let him cry it out. When he stopped crying, Brady sat him down and gave him this set of rules, made him read it aloud to show he understood. Shit like—
If the house isn’t clean, no food.
If I try to leave, the belt.
Twelve rules, all shit like that. Threats. ‘You’re lucky,’ Brady said, ‘I could put you in a fucking cage. I won’t, though, as long as you follow the rules.’
Finn hadn’t believed him until that first time with the belt, kneeling on the floor. Then he’d believed. He made himself repeat the rules under his breath when he was cleaning, and it was like that time Uncle Regan trained his dog until it rubbed its own nose in its piss without Regan having to do anything other than stand and watch. Finn used to cry for that dog, burying his face in the blue cat Dad won him, calling Regan a bastard, crying until the cat’s fur was wet. That was a long time ago. The dog was dead by now. Regan would’ve drowned it. He was always threatening to drown it.
Dad said, ‘Don’t get mad. Get even.’
Whenever shit happened, bullies, threats, Dad said, ‘Get even.’
Finn shivered, pulling his sleeves over his hands. He was behind with the cleaning, with everything. The bath dug in his chest when he leaned over to scrub it, pressing at him like an iron bar. He started shaking and the bath was full of black spots except it wasn’t, it was just his eyes, burning. He opened his mouth and everything slid out, pasta and milk and toast and tea, slopping into the bath and splashing back up, specking his face.
He turned on the taps and watched the puke dilute, washing further into the bath, too far for him to reach without moving and he couldn’t move because of the iron bar in his chest.
Hot water brought it all back to life, like the worst Pot Noodle ever.
He turned off the taps and pulled a towel from the rail to make a pillow on the floor.
His head was spinning, everything squirming.
The heating had clicked off ages ago.
It was cold on the floor, but Finn felt hot. Sick.
If Brady came home to a bath full of puke, he’d kill him. Then how would he ever get even?
17
‘Ollie Tomlinson hasn’t been to school in eight weeks,’ Ron said. ‘He’s not home, no one’s home. We’re trying to reach his mum at work, and we’ve let the community support units know we’re looking for him. So far no sightings since this one at Carole’s last Saturday.’
‘The neighbours who saw him hanging around there,’ Noah said. ‘How reliable are they?’
‘I’d call it a hundred per cent.’ Ron rapped a knuckle to Ollie’s photo. ‘That nose is distinctive. They didn’t know who he was, of course. We’ve kept names out of it.’
Fifteen-year-old Ollie stared back at them from the board. At nearly six feet tall and broad-shouldered, by any physical standard he was an adult. Marnie studied his eyes, the contempt in his stare. It’d taken Stephen until the age of twenty to bulk up the way Ollie had, but his eyes were the same, had been for years. God knows what was going on inside Ollie’s head. If he’d found the woman responsible for humiliating him eleven years ago, training him the way you’d train a dog—
‘Let’s find him,’ she told the team. ‘Speak with his mum, see if he has an alibi for last night. And the other attacks. Even if he’s tracked down Carole, it doesn’t follow that he’s involved in the other assaults. We have a murder investigation on our hands. Let’s not get too distracted too soon.’
‘Well said.’ A woman was standing in the doorway, her head cocked. Fifties, silver-blonde, in a black trouser suit over a red shirt that matched her lipstick. ‘DCS Ferguson.’ Northern accent but she clipped it back. ‘I’ll be standing in for Commander Welland.’ She came into the room. ‘Carry on. I’ll catch up.’
Noah glanced at Marnie. Was Welland sick? He’d looked dog-tired when he’d given Noah the news about her tenants. Marnie had pinned a polite smile in place, but he knew her too well to mistake the brief flare of hostility – or was it fear? – in her eyes.
‘You were talking about our murder investigation. Kyle Stratton.’ Ferguson was half a head shorter than Marnie but solidly built, carrying her age like an advantage. ‘How’s that looking?’
‘We’ve recovered a number of phones, and correspondence which we’re checking for evidence to suggest he was in contact with his killer, or engaged in anything likely to have provoked an attack. We have the initial post-mortem findings, and will have a full tox screen soon. His colleagues describe him as someone who liked a good time but kept it within limits. Never late for work, never less than reliable.’ Marnie’s dry tone said she hadn’t taken this version of Kyle at face value.
Noah shared her scepticism. The management consultants had all hit the same note, between fun guy and fast-tracker. Kyle the careerist didn’t ring true, given what else they knew.
‘These are the colleagues who were drinking with him?’ DCS Ferguson nodded at the pictures of Kyle’s shattered face. ‘Did none of them leave with him?’ She swung her eyes towards Noah. ‘DS Jake, perhaps you could field that one?’
‘They went their separate ways, ma’am. Kyle wasn’t the first to leave, or the last. He was headed home, that’s what they all believed. They saw him walking in the direction of Victoria Station. The last train to Reigate was eleven-forty p.m. The pub closed at eleven and he’d left five minutes earlier, in plenty of time to make that train if he’d wanted to. Page Street was a detour.’
‘What’s door-to-door throwing up?’ Pivoting to the right. ‘DS Carling?’
/> ‘We’ve got a team at it, ma’am, in Page Street. So far, nothing.’
Ferguson considered the photos on the incident board. ‘Beaten with a blunt instrument brutally enough to cause fatal injury, and yet no one saw or heard anything?’
‘Not until the cabbie,’ Ron said. ‘And he didn’t see anyone running off.’
‘So what theories do we have, aside from the vigilante?’ Curling her lips on the last word.
‘It could’ve been a random attack.’ Ron straightened. ‘That time of night, that part of London . . . It could’ve been kids, even.’
‘But he wasn’t robbed. Kids would’ve robbed him, unless you have nicer ones round here than we do in Manchester.’ A smile like a footnote on her face. ‘Do you?’
Ron shook his head. ‘They might’ve got scared, run off—’
‘Scared of what? If someone saw something, why hasn’t door-to-door winkled them out?’ She clicked her tongue. ‘No recent texts to suggest he might’ve been on his way to meet someone? I know you’re having fun with the older texts.’
If Marnie’s tone was occasionally dry, Ferguson’s was arid. Noah wondered if this was her way of making a forceful first impression. Had Marnie known she was being drafted in? Welland would have wanted her forewarned, surely. After the break-in at Lancaster Road this was the worst time for her to be without her chief ally. DCS Ferguson didn’t look like anyone’s ally.
‘No recent texts,’ Marnie said. ‘But we’d like to question his parents about why they threw out the phones and destroyed the correspondence.’
‘If he courted this trouble,’ Ferguson put her brows up, giving herself a temporary facelift, ‘how does that hang with your vigilante theory?’
Before Marnie could answer, she said, ‘Come and update me later. I’ll be in my office.’
Welland’s office, she meant.
‘I’d like to see some names on the board by the end of the day.’ She turned on her heels, red-soled Louboutins with silver toe-studs, and made an exit that left Noah’s teeth aching in his head.
All the eyes in the room moved to Marnie.
‘Commander Welland is taking four months away from work for health reasons. DCS Ferguson is standing in.’ She gave her steadiest smile. ‘DS Carling, I’d like you to check in with the house-to-house unit, see where they’re up to. DS Jake, let’s ask some more questions in Reigate.’
‘What about Carole, boss?’ Debbie shook her head. ‘If she’s missing—’
‘Let’s establish that. From what the neighbours said she’s often away from home. I don’t want to jump to conclusions given our limited resources. Find out what Ollie’s been up to. See if you can get hold of Lisa Tomlinson. But the murder takes priority.’
She nodded at Colin. ‘Work through the rest of whatever’s on the phones, and do what you can with the letters. I’ll ask Fran to fast-track the full tox screen. DS Jake?’
They were headed out when they were stopped by a couple coming into the station.
‘I was hoping to catch you,’ the man told Marnie. Tall and dark in a navy peacoat, his collar turned up against the cold. Carrying a plastic bag, its contents box-shaped. ‘This’s Zoe Marshall.’
Zoe held out her hand then said, ‘Sorry,’ pulling off a red mitten and offering the hand again. Her face was half hidden by a woolly hat, but she looked about Noah’s age. An inch over five feet tall and slight, wearing a khaki parka and black biker boots.
‘You must be DS Jake.’ The man shook down the collar of his coat. ‘Harry Kennedy, Trident.’
More handshaking. Harry had long fingers that went with the rest of him, lean and hard. He swapped the carrier bag to his left hand, holding it the way you held evidence, carefully.
Cold came off the pair of them.
Marnie said, ‘I’m afraid we’re on our way out.’
Noah heard the resistance in her voice and wondered if Harry knew her well enough to hear it too. She was good at compartmentalising, but it was impossible to do that when someone was standing between you and the exit holding what looked like evidence and with reinforcements, albeit in the small form of Zoe Marshall.
‘Two things,’ Harry said. ‘Zoe’s working with kids over in Islington.’ He nodded at her.
‘You’re looking for one of them.’ Her accent was north London. ‘Ollie Tomlinson? Community Support asked if I’d seen him. I’m working with the kids at Jonas House. I’ve been worried about Ollie for a while.’
‘When did you last see him?’ Marnie asked.
‘Three weeks ago, and he’d been in a fight. Cut knuckles and that . . . swagger, you know?’ Zoe rubbed her nose. ‘I knew he’d been up to something from the way he was strutting around, taking a swing at stuff. He’d nowhere to go after he got banned from the sports centre, which’s a shame because he was letting off steam there. That’s half the fight with these kids.’
‘Why was he banned?’ Noah asked.
‘Stuff went missing. Footballs, golf clubs, gym kit.’ She put her hands in her pockets. ‘Basically anything not nailed down, and saleable. His mum always said if he’d got money he’d be up West spending it, but I don’t know. He’s one of those kids who likes to stay on his own patch. I’m worried no one’s seen him in a while.’
‘When was he banned from the sports club?’
‘A couple of months ago? Maybe a bit longer. Around the time he started skipping school.’
Ten weeks ago Stuart Rawling’s jaw had been broken by a golf club.
‘And the other thing?’ Marnie looked at Harry Kennedy. ‘You said two things.’
He held up the carrier bag, its contents shaped like a shoebox. ‘From Lancaster Road. I’m sorry, but you need to see this.’
18
In the interview room, Zoe pulled off her woolly hat and stuffed it into the pocket of her parka. Chestnut-brown curls, cut short, frizzed around her face. She pushed the curls behind her ears, wrapping both hands around the cup of coffee Noah had made. ‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t thank me until you’ve tasted it. Station blend.’
They exchanged a smile.
‘It’s hot, that’s all I care about.’
No rings on her fingers. Her ears were pierced but she wasn’t wearing earrings, or any other jewellery. Her clothes were like Marnie’s, gender-neutral, a long-sleeved grey jumper over black jeans and a white T-shirt that looked like it might be thermal underwear. Nothing showy, nothing for kids to grab at. If she was working at Jonas House, grabby came with the territory.
Noah said, ‘Tell me about Ollie.’
She drank a mouthful of coffee before she answered. ‘I’m supposed to say he’s not a bad kid. That’s how these statements usually start, and it’s my job to see the good in them. But since Harry said you’re handling a murder investigation, I don’t want to waste your time.’
‘You work with him a lot? DS Kennedy.’
‘All the time. Ground Up’s a mediation service but really it’s about finding a way round the barriers these kids put up.’ Her green eyes lighted a little. ‘Not just kids, but that’s the way it’s been headed for a while now. Younger and younger. Ollie’s one of the older boys. Fifteen’s almost retirement age in gang terms.’
‘How long’s he been in a gang?’
‘As long as I’ve known him. So nearly three years.’ She drew the cuffs of her jumper over her hands. ‘Okay, he was a good kid back then. A bit lost, you know? Looking for a place to fit in. His dad’s gone, Mum’s working hard.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Two kinds of mums. Those who cope, and those who cop out. Let the kids come and go while they get on with their own lives. Ollie’s mum is a coper. Keeps the fridge full, cooks his favourite food, rolls with the punches.’
‘Literal punches, or figurative?’
‘Figurative as far as I know, but copers are good at covering up.’ She sipped at the coffee. ‘Three years ago, Lisa was tearing her hair out trying to keep Ollie on the rails. He was her go
od little boy and she didn’t want to lose him to a gang.’
‘Her good little boy,’ Noah repeated.
Did Zoe know what’d happened to Ollie eleven years ago? How Carole took Lisa’s child and trained him like a dog to be obedient? How long had the effect of that lesson lasted? Until he was twelve and running with a gang? How had it felt to see her kid turn kicky again? Was there a moment when Lisa was glad to have her rough little boy restored to her?
‘He was an angel according to Lisa.’ Zoe hooked her thumb at the lip of the mug. ‘Never any trouble, always at her side. A shy boy, sensitive. I never saw that version of him. By the time I met Ollie, he was already kitting up. Scoping out the street, looking for a way in with the hardest gangs, carrying a knife—’ She stopped. ‘No, I’m wrong. The knife came later.’
‘When did he start carrying a knife?’
‘A year ago? He showed me. “Look, Miss. I got this for my birthday.” He was pleased, had an ear-wide grin. I remember thinking, “You’re lost,” but I expect he didn’t feel lost. He felt found.’
Talking about the knife had brought a grimness to her face. ‘That’s what it’s like for these kids. A gang feels like family. They don’t see the damage that’s done, the broken ties, sometimes broken bones. They feel whole, for the first time. Trying to get them out when they’re like that? Well, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to take a clingy child from its mum, but . . .’ She shook her head.
Carole took Ollie from Lisa’s car, silencing his shouts with a hand across his mouth.
‘Lisa hasn’t reported him missing,’ Noah said.
‘Possibly because she knows he isn’t. If he’s going home to be fed, or to wash . . . He might not be living there in any proper sense, but as long as she sees him often enough to be sure he’s in one piece that might be enough. Copers hate involving other people. Lisa wouldn’t go to the police unless she was scared something had happened to Ollie.’
