Quieter Than Killing

by Sarah Hilary

  ‘Only then? He’s been carrying a knife for over a year. Isn’t she worried he might be hurting other people, getting into that sort of trouble?’

  ‘How would she know? If he came home covered in blood?’ Zoe stopped, struggling for the first time with what she was telling Noah. ‘All right. Let’s be honest. Lisa’s more than just a coper. She’s a tiger mum. If Ollie came home covered in blood and none of it was his? She’d clean him up, and shut him up. I know that sounds bad, and so we’re clear – pure speculation on my part. The worst I’ve seen her do is stick up for him when the neighbours said he was bullying younger kids. But she did it fiercely, way beyond protective. I remember thinking she’d stick up for him no matter what. So, no. I don’t think she’d call the police unless she thought he was the one getting hurt. As long as he’s okay, she’ll keep quiet. Maybe she believes he’s still her good little boy underneath it all.’

  ‘But you don’t.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Zoe corrected. ‘I wouldn’t be doing my job if I indulged in that kind of fantasy.’

  Noah saw the steel in her for the first time. She’d looked soft in the woolly hat and red mittens, like a young woman who might volunteer on the weekends, run charity races, talk about going to the jungle in Calais. But she wasn’t soft. She had a runner’s build like Marnie, slim and strong. Even the chestnut curls had a steely quality. ‘Did you report the knife, when he showed it to you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was unblinking. ‘That’s my job.’

  ‘And you’ve not seen him in three weeks?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Tell me about the sports centre,’ Noah said. ‘What exactly was taken, and why wasn’t he arrested?’

  ‘You’d have to ask them for a list. I don’t know why they didn’t press charges. They were sure it was Ollie and his gang, but I suppose they’d no evidence. It was a shame, even they said that. He’d been joining in, helping to organise a little league team.’

  Little league. When Fran suspected a baseball bat was the weapon used to kill Kyle.

  ‘His gang,’ Noah said. ‘How many other kids are involved?’

  ‘From what I’ve seen? Three or four at most. That was a while back. The last few times I saw him, he was on his own. Ollie likes to keep things tight.’

  ‘Anyone he’s especially tight with?’

  ‘It’s hard enough to win these kids’ trust.’ Zoe looked wary. ‘If they think I’m handing out names like pizza flyers . . .’

  ‘All right. But you said you were worried about Ollie. Just him, or any others? In his gang, or on the receiving end of it?’

  She considered Noah for a long moment before saying, ‘You know about gangs. Let me guess – kid brother? Or sister. More and more it’s sisters.’

  Noah smiled. ‘I know about gangs because I’m a detective and this is London.’

  She flushed. ‘Sorry. That wasn’t—’

  Because he was black? Political correctness was a minefield. ‘It’s okay.’ He shook his head. ‘But tell me about Ollie’s gang. If there’s someone he’s especially tight with, we need to know.’

  A new image in his head: Ollie swaggering, swinging a golf club. A friend, off-camera, keeping Stuart Rawling distracted. The assaults were far easier for two people to carry out.

  ‘There were a couple of kids.’ Zoe pushed her hair behind her ears. ‘Younger than Ollie, but full of themselves. A bit of hero worship in the mix from what I saw. Ollie treats them like shit, of course, but that’s how gangs work. These kids would crawl over broken glass for him.’

  What else would they do with broken glass?

  ‘Names?’ Noah asked.

  ‘I’d have to check my notes to be sure. Like I said, the last few times I saw him he was on his own. My information’s out of date.’ She rubbed at her wrist. ‘It’s always out of date. These kids grow up so fast.’

  ‘How about Ollie? Anyone he looks up to? Or anyone he’s got a particular grudge against?’

  ‘You think he’s mixed up in this murder.’ Her stare was shrewd. ‘Is he your only suspect? Because I don’t see it. Not murder, not Ollie.’

  When Noah didn’t speak, she sat back, blowing a breath. ‘Shit, this’s the bit I hate. The kids trust me, that’s why Trident uses me. Betraying their trust is what pays my wages. Of course first I have to win it, and since these kids smell bullshit from a thousand feet that means I have to really win it. No faking allowed. Not that I’d want to fake it.’ She pushed the heel of her hand at the table. ‘You think your job’s a head fuck? Try mine for size—’

  Noah waited, not speaking.

  ‘Okay, I retract that.’ She lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘My job’s got nothing on yours. If Ollie’s in your sort of trouble I should shut up or put up, I know that. It’s what I tell my team every day. There’s a line.’ She drew it on the table with the heel of her hand. ‘We can walk right up to it, and talk right up to it. But when a kid crosses it? We’re done. That’s your territory, and I respect it.’ She brought her hands together slowly, aligning them at the lip of the table. Lines on her face, bracketing her mouth. She looked around the room before her eyes returned to Noah.

  ‘You asked if he has any special grudges?’

  She bit the inside of her cheek. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  19

  ‘Violence,’ someone had once told Marnie, ‘isn’t what you think it is. It isn’t someone bursting into your home in the middle of the night. It’s a soft knock on the door in daylight. A knock that tells you the person outside has brought the worst possible news. News that’s going to change your life forever. Violence is waiting for a knock on the door, and realising your whole life is that knock.’

  Harry Kennedy had taken the shoebox out of the carrier bag he’d brought into the station. He’d put it on the desk in her office. A battered white box with a black lid and a picture of a boy’s school shoe, size three. She’d never seen the box before but from the gentle way Kennedy lifted it from the carrier bag, she knew— She knew what was inside.

  ‘Tobias Midori,’ Kennedy said. ‘He’s part of the gang we suspect of the break-in at Lancaster Road. His mum found this in his bedroom in the early hours. He wouldn’t say how he came by it, so she called us. She’s worried out of her wits about him.’

  ‘Tobias Midori.’ Marnie was stalling for time. ‘How old?’

  ‘He’s nine. His mum didn’t hear him go out but she heard him come home at three a.m. He was showering. She heard crying. The bathroom door was locked, so she looked in his bedroom and that’s when she found this.’ He moved his hand close to the box, but didn’t touch it.

  A smudge of blood on the lid, under a sticky dusting of fingerprint powder. At some point and for a long time, the box had been crushed, deep creases in its sides. Pushed somewhere, hidden.

  ‘Nothing else from the house?’ Marnie didn’t want this to be it – the only evidence that Tobias Midori had been in Lancaster Road. It wasn’t enough. It was too much.

  ‘Nothing from the house. But his mum found blood on his clothes and trainers. We’re running tests.’ Kennedy was trying to help. ‘He’s on the list Zoe gave us of kids recruited into local gangs, running with the Crasmere Boys. Zoe wasn’t surprised when I told her that Mrs Midori had called. Sad, but not surprised. We’re checking on the rest of the gang. Tobias isn’t talking but I’m hopeful that with Zoe’s help, maybe even a positive ID from Alan or Louise, we can nail this quickly.’

  The taking of the shoebox was nothing in the scheme of things. The real damage had been done to the Kettridges. Aggravated burglary, category one. But the shoebox made it theft. Black leather boy’s shoes. The first pair her parents had bought for Stephen?

  ‘Do I need gloves?’

  DCS Ferguson would have approved of the dryness in her voice. Damned if she was letting Kennedy see how much she hated him bringing the box here, putting it on her desk. Did he even know what he’d done? Or had she impressed him so much last
night, going ahead of him into the house, that he imagined she was invulnerable?

  ‘You don’t need gloves.’

  Violence is a soft knock on the door.

  Marnie removed the lid and set it to one side. Then the light was inside the box, moving over everything, bringing the contents to life, staining it to treasure, ruby and jet and silver—

  Her charm bracelet. She reached for it instinctively.

  How many times had she searched for it? Knowing Stephen had taken it, thinking it lost for good. The bracelet was lighter than she remembered. She counted its charms, each one tarnished by the black air inside the box. The birdcage with its silver chip of a bird, the gypsy caravan with the wheels that turned. The fan with a miniature heart cut into each leaf, the fish with articulated scales. And her favourite, the horseshoe, its curve smooth enough to rub against her six-year-old lips. She pooled the bracelet gently, and placed it inside the upturned lid of the box.

  What else? What other treasure had Stephen stashed in here?

  Notebooks. She recognised her handwriting. Red, and black. Her skin cringed with memory, imagining the secrets Harry Kennedy had read when he’d opened the covers. A camera—

  Dad’s camera that went missing the winter before the murders. She lifted it out, heavy in her hands, a brick by modern standards. He hadn’t wanted to upgrade to a digital model, loved his old Nikon. The frame counter said 24. She clicked it open and found the finished film inside the case, wound tight on its reel. What would she uncover if she queued one lunchtime at a counter for a paper wallet full of shiny prints? Photos of Stephen and her parents or older ones, of her?

  A photo was tucked under the notebooks at the very bottom of the box. She slid her thumb under its stiffly curling corner to lift it out into the light.

  A boy of eight in blue jeans and a green T-shirt, bare feet on bleached grass. A garden swing in the background. The boy was standing in front of a young woman with red curls in a crisp new police uniform. Her arms were around his neck, held there by his hands as if she was a scarf he was trying to knot into place. The sun had wiped their faces blank, but the boy was smiling and so was she. Behind them, the swing’s cross-beam stood as solid as a gallows.

  Violence isn’t what you think it is. And punishment isn’t prison. It’s waiting for that soft knock on the door. It’s never being free.

  Marnie put the photo down. Wanting Kennedy out of her office and her station. ‘Thank you, this is all mine. Do you need me to sign for it?’

  When she looked up, he glanced away, shaking his head. ‘No need. I kept it wide of the record. I’m sorry—’

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  He met her eyes. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Keep things wide of the record imagining you’re doing me a favour. It’s a crime scene. Write it down. I don’t want anything left off on my account.’ She put the lid back on the box and set it to one side. ‘Alan and Louise. How are they doing?’

  ‘Getting better.’ Kennedy smiled, too brightly. ‘We might be able to interview them later today.’ He wiped the smile, taking a step back from her desk. ‘Look, this was out of line. I needn’t have brought it here. I could’ve texted, or asked you to come to my station. I’m sorry.’ He stood with his eyes dark on her face. ‘That’s a professional apology. I’m not usually an arsehole. Zoe wanted to tell you about Ollie, and I had the shoebox in my car. I should’ve left it there.’

  She nodded an acceptance of his apology. ‘That’s good news about the Kettridges. Hopefully they’ll be able to give you a description of the other kids. Assuming Tobias doesn’t get there first. You said Zoe knows him. Does she know his standing in the gang?’

  ‘We haven’t spoken at any length yet. I told her your investigation takes priority.’ He rolled his neck. ‘She doesn’t think Ollie’s in that league – murder – but I told her to give you what she’d got. I hope it helps. We’ll be interviewing Tobias together.’

  Marnie nodded. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘The notebooks,’ he said suddenly. ‘I didn’t read them. I wouldn’t – I saw they were private, and I made sure no one read them.’

  As far as she could tell, he was speaking the truth.

  ‘One thing.’ She touched the shoebox. ‘This was well hidden. I searched that house six years ago.’ She hadn’t intended to say it, but his apology looked sincere and she needed to make peace between them for what lay ahead. ‘It’s the reason I didn’t sell, because I was afraid there might be clues – things he’d left behind. This was too well hidden for Tobias to have found it by accident.’

  ‘So then . . . Someone told him where to look? This was burglary-to-order?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Not yet. ‘But I thought you should know. When I say I searched the house six years ago, I mean it. Fingertip search, every room.’

  Kennedy nodded, a frown marking the bridge of his nose.

  She opened a drawer in her desk, shutting the shoebox inside. ‘Let me know how the interviews go.’ She straightened, aware that he’d kept his eyes on her. ‘If you’re able to do that.’

  ‘It’s your house. They’re your tenants.’

  ‘Your investigation.’ She moved towards the door, prompting him to do the same. ‘Have you met DCS Ferguson? She joined us this morning.’

  ‘Not had that pleasure.’ He used a neutral tone which told Marnie he’d heard how much of a pleasure lay in store for him.

  ‘I’d introduce you, but I’m running late. She’s working out of Welland’s office.’

  ‘How is he?’ Kennedy asked.

  ‘Bored, I imagine. He hates being dry-docked.’

  In the corridor, they said goodbye. She watched him walk in the direction of the office that DCS Ferguson had commandeered for the next four months. He moved like a swimmer, hard lines under the dark coat, hands empty at his sides. Marnie turned the other way, towards the incident room.

  Ron was on the phone. ‘That’s great, mate, if you can.’ He caught her eye and gave a thumbs up. ‘Yeah, ask for DS Carling at the front desk. I’ll pop down. Cheers.’ He hung up, swinging his chair back from his desk. ‘Eyewitness. At effing last!’

  ‘From Page Street?’

  ‘One of the flats at the front, eight floors up, but he caught the start of the assault. Didn’t stop to watch the whole thing, assumed it was the usual kicking-out-time crowd. Then he saw the crime scene tape this morning. He’s been slow off the starting blocks, but I reckon he’s on the level. Pat Hammond. He’s coming in to make a statement.’ Ron reached for a marker pen. ‘Best part?’

  He wrote on the board, stepping back to let Marnie see what he’d added.

  ‘Two attackers. One a lot bigger than the other. Add that to what Zoe Marshall just told Noah – I’d say we’re looking at Ollie and one of the youngsters who thinks the sun shines out of him.’

  ‘Where is DS Jake?’

  Debbie answered, ‘Front desk called. Someone asking for you, boss. Noah took it.’

  ‘Let me know when Mr Hammond gets here. Any luck getting hold of Lisa Tomlinson?’

  ‘She does a lot of shift work, service stations, that sort of thing. We’re trying to find out where exactly she’s working today.’ Debbie pulled a face. ‘None of the places her neighbours suggested have her down on a rota this week. Her phone’s switched off, too.’

  ‘Keep trying. Where’s Colin up to?’

  ‘He’s locked himself away with the phones and letters. Trying to piece it all together.’

  ‘All right. Keep me posted on that.’

  Her phone thwapped: a text from Noah.

  Stuart Rawling, interview room 3. Bring body armour.

  20

  Rawling had resented Marnie’s presence at his hospital bedside ten weeks ago, and he didn’t like her any better in the police station now: ‘Thought I’d be fobbed off with your boy here all morning.’

  Noah’s hands were folded on the metal table, his shoulders set, all the tension tucked away at the back of
his neck where Marnie could see it but Rawling couldn’t.

  ‘Mr Rawling.’ She drew out a chair, sitting at Noah’s side. ‘How can we help?’

  ‘You can start by telling me why the maniac who broke my jaw isn’t behind bars yet.’ He moved his face into the light, showcasing the handiwork of his surgeon. Jowls the colour of corned beef, eyes like milk-blue marbles. Fleshy lobes to his ears, the helix too deeply curved to see whether the vigilante’s piercing had left a scar. Wearing a blue pin-striped shirt under a navy mohair suit, gold clip across a plush purple tie. Smelling of something spicy that might have been last night’s curry or this morning’s aftershave. He curled his shoulders as he sat, letting the light find his bald patch, an aggressive oval of scalp. A big man in a foul mood. Marnie’s least favourite type.

  ‘Our investigation is ongoing,’ she said. ‘We’re happy to keep you updated on our progress, but I’m guessing you have a specific reason for visiting the station this morning?’

  ‘I read the papers.’ He let her see his hands, the knuckleduster on his ring finger. ‘Is that specific enough for you?’

  Did his ex-wife still wear her wedding ring? Valerie was a marketing manager, living in Lincoln now. How long had it taken her torn earlobes to heal?

  ‘Kyle Stratton. Broken face, broken bones. Now he’s dead.’ Rawling stroked the gold tie clip, managing by luck or talent to make the light strike off it into Marnie’s eyes. ‘I hope you’re not about to tell me to count my blessings.’

  His blessings? That would be a long list, beginning and ending with the short prison sentence his lawyer had negotiated a decade ago; they’d be here all morning.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask you to do that. Do you have information about Mr Stratton’s murder?’

  ‘That’s your job, isn’t it?’ Nodding his head at Noah. ‘Or your boy’s. I’m here to ask when you intended telling me this maniac is targeting ex-cons.’

  The ceiling hissed with light, dust spitting inside fluorescent tubing.

  ‘What’s this, police blockade?’ Rawling looked from Marnie to Noah, and back again. ‘If some freelance journo can figure it out, I’m sure you two can manage it.’ He fingered his right ear. ‘Three assaults in two months. You’re waiting for him to hit his stride, is that it?’