JM05 - Deadly Ritual

by DS Butler

  The headmaster nodded. “Yes, of course. The best person to try would be Mr. Xander. He was Francis’s head of year.”

  “That would be helpful,” Mackinnon said. “What about Francis’s form tutor?”

  “Unfortunately, Francis’s form tutor is on maternity leave, and we’ve had a succession of temporary staff in that role. None of them were here very long…”

  “Great,” Tyler said, not hiding his annoyance. “If it’s not too much trouble, we’d also like to speak with the students in Francis’s year.”

  The headmaster blanched. “I’m not sure about that… I’d have to get permission from the parents. I can’t just let you interrogate them.”

  “We are not planning on interrogating anyone, Mr. Hincklin. We just want to find out what happened to Francis,” Mackinnon said.

  Scott Hincklin ran a hand through his fair hair, and then rubbed his eyes.

  “Of course… I didn’t mean… That is to say… It’s just such a horrible thing isn’t it, twelve-years-old.” He stared down at his desk. “I’ll have to arrange counselling sessions for the students. Such a horrible thing to happen…”

  Scott Hincklin took a deep breath and turned to look out of the window.

  After a moment of silence, the headmaster seemed to remember they were there. “Yes, I suppose we can start with you talking to Mr. Xander. I will go through the contact numbers I have for the parents of year eight students. I’ll check and see whether they’ll give permission for their children to speak with you.”

  DI Tyler nodded. “That will be very helpful, thank you. We’d also appreciate having a member of staff there during the questioning, a responsible adult looking after the child’s interest.”

  The headmaster nodded and reached out for the telephone. “Yes, I’ll organise that. I’ll call Mr. Xander.”

  10

  DC COLLINS WASN’T HAVING much luck. He’d questioned twenty students so far, but none of them had been able to give him any case-changing information. But he’d made notes diligently. You could never tell what information would end up being crucial to a case.

  With the last pupil he’d interviewed, Collins really thought he’d been on to something. The kid was twitchy and kept looking at the ground, twisting his hands in his lap.

  Collins had been certain he was hiding something. Unfortunately, the only thing the kid was nervous about was spilling the beans about Francis bringing cigarettes into school and handing them out for a pound each.

  It wasn’t surprising, he supposed. Francis may have only been twelve, but he was a big lad, which was why when his body was pulled from the Thames, the pathologist had thought they were looking at a boy in his mid to late teens.

  It made it worse somehow. The kid hadn’t even reached his teens before he had his life cruelly snatched away.

  Sitting in front of Collins now was a young Asian girl with long, silky black hair called Farzana Patani. She sat in front of Collins with her back straight and her hands clasped in her lap. Unlike most of the children he had interviewed so far, Farzana’s tie was neatly fastened and her shirt was tucked in.

  She was very eager to help. But, unfortunately, she didn’t know anything that could help.

  Collins spent a few minutes asking Farzana about the last time she’d seen Francis, which had been on Friday, at lunchtime. She gave him information he’d already heard from other students: Francis had a skateboard, and most evenings after school, he could be found around the Towers Estate making ramps and doing jumps and tricks.

  One thing all the children mentioned was that Francis had a close friend called Alfie Adebayo.

  Collins thought if anyone knew anything about Francis’s murder and disappearance it should be Alfie Adebayo. The only problem was no one could find him. The headmaster had called his aunt, who was Alfie’s legal guardian, and asked for permission to question him at school. She’d given her permission, but that wasn’t much good when they couldn’t locate Alfie.

  Collins drew a line under his notes on his notepad. “Okay, Farzana, thank you very much for your help.”

  Farzana looked at him. She seemed almost disappointed. “Oh, is that all? Is there nothing else you need to ask me?”

  Collins leaned his elbows heavily on the table and rested his chin against his hand. “I don’t think so. Unless there’s something you can think of that might be important.”

  Farzana’s forehead creased in concentration, as if she really wanted to help, but then she shook her head and said, “Sorry. I can’t think of anything.”

  Collins sighed and leant back in his chair. “Thanks very much for your help,” he said, and the teacher who had been sitting next to Collins during all the interviews led Farzana outside.

  Collins stared down at his notes.

  Nothing.

  Surely one of them must have seen or heard something, but maybe it wasn’t anything to do with his friends at school.

  The techies back in the lab were going over Francis’s home computer. He might have been in contact with someone online. Maybe that would generate some more leads.

  Collins heard heavy footsteps behind him. He turned around and saw a burly man dressed in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and trainers. His biceps bulged beneath a tight, white crew neck t-shirt. He had his hands on the shoulders of a small boy whom he pushed forward.

  “I’m Mr. Xander,” the man said. “I'm the sports teacher, and this is Alfie Adebayo. He was good friends with Francis, so I think he’ll be able to help, won’t you, Alfie?”

  He pushed the little boy forward, and Collins turned his attention to the kid, who was obviously terrified.

  “Thank you,” Collins said. “Come and sit down opposite me, Alfie. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve only got a few questions. Nobody’s going to get in any trouble.”

  Alfie took a few tentative steps forward and looked at the chair in front of Collins as if it were the last place on earth he wanted to be.

  Why was the boy so scared? Did he know something?

  Collins leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees so he could be on eye level with Alfie.

  Alfie perched on the edge of the chair and looked nervously behind him at Mr. Xander.

  “You won’t get in trouble,” Mr. Xander said in a deep rolling voice. “But you need to tell the truth Alfie, do you understand?”

  To Collins’s ears the voice seemed to hold the promise of a threat. He looked up sharply, but William Xander was smiling.

  “Alfie,” Collins said, trying to get the boy’s attention on him and not the PE teacher. “I’ve heard you were good friends with Francis. Did you see him after school sometimes?”

  Alfie waited a moment before answering, as if he were considering his response, then he gave a little nod.

  “Speak up, boy.” The PE teacher strode forward and prodded Alfie on the shoulder.

  Collins looked up, annoyed. “Please,” he said and held up a hand. “I’m sure Alfie is quite able to answer the questions.”

  “What sort of things did you used to do with Francis, Alfie?”

  Alfie gave a shrug. “Just stuff. Hanging around, riding on skateboards, mostly.”

  Collins smiled. “You have a skateboard?”

  It seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Alfie’s face clouded over.

  “No, we used to play with Francis’s board.” He sniffed. “He had a new one. A good board.”

  “And what about on Friday? Did you see Francis then?”

  Alfie looked behind him at Mr. Xander again. “It’s all right Alfie you can just look at me and answer the questions,” Collins said, getting annoyed and wishing he could dismiss the PE teacher.

  “I saw him for a little while on Friday,” Alfie said.

  “Okay, and what time did you see him?” Collins picked up his pen to make a note of the time.

  “We played on the skateboard after school for a bit,” Alfie said. “Then we both went home.”

  “What time did you go hom
e, Alfie?”

  Alfie shrugged.

  “Answer the question, Alfie,” Mr. Xander said, interrupting again.

  “Dunno exactly, but I was back home before half-five.”

  “And do you know whether Francis was worried about anything? Anything bothering him? You can tell me. You won’t get in any trouble, Alfie. We just want to find out who did this to him.”

  Alfie swallowed, and he was silent for so long that Collins thought he wouldn’t reply. Eventually, Alfie licked his lips and then said something that Collins wasn’t expecting.

  “Are you sure it was Francis? Could it have been a mistake?”

  Collins shook his head slowly. “No, Alfie. It wasn’t a mistake.”

  “What happened to him? People have been saying stuff, but…”

  “We’re trying to find out exactly what happened to him. We need to find out who hurt him. Is there anything you can tell me that might help?”

  Alfie vigorously shook his head. “No. I don’t know anything.”

  “Maybe it’s something you don’t think is important. Perhaps Francis said something to you, or told you he was scared of someone.”

  Alfie bit down on his lip, then said, “No, Francis wasn’t scared of anyone.”

  Collins tried to weigh up his next question. However he tried to sugarcoat it, it didn’t sound any better.

  “Alfie, can you tell me if Francis was happy at home?”

  “I guess so.”

  “He wasn’t having arguments with his mum and dad, or having any problems?”

  Alfie shook his head. “No.”

  Collins felt bad for asking the question, but he had to do it. In the majority of murder cases, the murder wasn’t carried out by a stranger. It usually involved somebody in the immediate family. Of course, the wooden disc in the boy’s mouth and the wounds on his back didn’t suggest family involvement. But Collins had heard of cases where familial killers had covered their tracks well, trying to divert attention.

  After a few more questions, Collins nodded. “Thanks, Alfie. You’ve been a great help. If you think of anything else later, you can tell Mr. Xander here, or your aunt and they’ll get in touch with me. And don’t worry. You won’t get into trouble if you’ve forgotten something. We just want to find out who did this to Francis. Do you understand?”

  But Alfie was already out of the chair and reaching for his rucksack.

  “Can I go now?”

  Collins nodded, and Alfie Adebayo darted from the room.

  11

  MACKINNON HEADED BACK TO Derek’s house. He left half of the team working late into the night. He’d be among those that had to get to the station early tomorrow, so he needed to get home and get some much needed sleep.

  Just two months ago, Derek had moved into a small three-bedroom house. It was just around the corner from his old place, but the rooms were bigger, and it meant Mackinnon didn’t have to share his bedroom with boxes of old junk Derek was trying to sell.

  Mackinnon got off the tube a stop early and decided to walk the rest of the way. He made a quick detour to the supermarket. He couldn’t have curry again.

  After grabbing a few things for dinner, he queued in the ‘ten items or less lane,’ which somehow seemed to take longer than the regular checkouts. There were a few of those new self-service tills, but Mackinnon didn’t trust them. Every time he’d tried them, something had gone wrong.

  After finally handing over cash for the groceries, Mackinnon pulled out his mobile and called Chloe, listening to her describe her day as he walked the rest of the way. There was something nice about listening to her describe her day. A nice normal day with no murders.

  But Chloe’s day wasn’t without stress. Chloe was in a panic trying to arrange a birthday party for her youngest daughter, Katy. Apparently Katy had informed Chloe, at the last minute, that she wanted a Halloween-themed party, complete with fancy dress, fake spiders and cobwebs.

  Of course, as it was only a couple of days to Halloween the fancy dress shops had only a short supply of costumes and decorations.

  He promised Chloe he’d do his best to get back on Wednesday for Katy’s party. But it really all depended on how this case went. It was possible they might have a breakthrough before Wednesday. You never knew where or when a lead would turn up.

  Mackinnon climbed the steps to Derek’s front door and let himself in with his key.

  “Derek,” he called out.

  There was no noise in the house. When Derek was home, the television was normally on.

  No Derek yet, only Molly, bounding towards him.

  He reached down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, Molly.”

  Mackinnon straightened up and started to walk towards the kitchen. “Let’s see if Derek’s left me a note.”

  Derek had indeed left a note. He was going to be staying at Julie’s again tonight, and asked if Mackinnon would mind feeding Molly. Her dinner, apparently, was in the fridge.

  Mackinnon glanced at the clock. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said to the dog. “You’ve had to wait a long time for your dinner tonight. I guess Derek didn’t expect me to be home so late.”

  Inside the refrigerator, he found Molly’s dinner complete with another note from Derek, which gave a detailed list of instructions.

  Number one on the list was a request for Mackinnon to get Molly’s food out of the fridge at least one hour before she ate. According to Derek, Molly didn’t like eating cold food. It had to be room temperature.

  Mackinnon glanced at Molly and then back at the note. “He can’t be serious. I can’t make you wait another hour for dinner.”

  He ignored Derek’s note and unwrapped the food, peeling back the cling film that had been covering Molly’s bowl.

  He put it on the kitchen floor, and Molly tucked in straight away. She didn’t seem to notice the temperature.

  Mackinnon washed his hands and reached for the supermarket bag he’d left on the counter.

  By the time he had finished pulling out the sliced chicken and the packet of stir-fry vegetables, Molly had finished her dinner.

  She wandered over to the wall where her lead hung on a hook. She sat there patiently gazing back at him.

  Mackinnon shook his head. “I’m not going out tonight. No curry.”

  Was it bad that Molly always expected him to take her for a walk, ending at the Indian takeaway down the street?

  He turned his attention back to the plastic carrier bag and pulled out soy sauce, an onion, garlic and ginger.

  As he rustled around in the cupboards, trying to locate a frying pan or wok, Molly stared at him with her big brown eyes, seemingly confused.

  “I know this is different, but I have to make an effort to be a bit healthier. No more Indian takeaways. At least, not as many takeaways.”

  Mackinnon poured a little oil into the pan and quickly chopped up some onions followed by the chicken.

  He dumped them into the sizzling pan, and tried to smother a yawn with the back of his hand. He didn’t want to think about having to get up so early tomorrow morning.

  The commuting was taking its toll. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if he didn’t have Derek’s place to crash in during the week.

  As Mackinnon cooked, Molly wandered back over to him and sat by his heels, gazing upwards, seemingly more and more confused.

  Mackinnon supposed it was because she had never actually seen him cook before.

  After he finished dinner, Mackinnon took Molly down into the garden, and let her run around for a bit.

  After ten minutes of playing catch with Molly’s red rubber ball, Mackinnon sat down on the back steps and watched his breath as it produced steamy white puffs. He felt a familiar burning in his chest. That would teach him to play with Molly so soon after eating.

  He thought about what the team would be doing tonight, and how they would methodically be going through the background of Francis Eze’s parents. The techies wou
ld be combing through Francis’s computer, trying to find something that might indicate who killed the boy.

  It was possible that Mackinnon could turn up tomorrow and find that the team had unearthed a wealth of new information. They could be hot on the heels of Francis Eze’s killer.

  He hoped so.

  12

  ALFIE SAT HUDDLED UP in one corner of the sofa. He would have preferred to have been in his bedroom, but his aunt said she wanted him where she could see him, so he didn’t get up to any mischief.

  It wouldn’t be long now before his uncle came home, and Alfie was dreading it.

  His aunt had noticed the time as well. She’d removed her great big, dangly, gold earrings and was sitting on the sofa next to Alfie with a makeup remover wipe, scrubbing lipstick and eye makeup off her face.

  Alfie’s uncle didn’t like makeup.

  He called it the Devil’s paint. His aunt seemed to like it, though. During the day, she always wore lashings of mascara and the brightest pink lipstick. But every night before Alfie’s uncle was due home from work, she would wipe it all off and leave her face shiny and bare.

  They were supposed to be watching TV together. The TV was droning on and pictures were flashing on the screen, but Alfie wasn’t really paying attention. He was still thinking about Francis and Mr. X.

  But no matter how long Alfie thought about it and tried to work it out, he couldn’t see a way out of this mess.

  He wasn’t even safe at home. If his aunt knew what had happened she would be quick to hand him over to Mr. X.

  Alfie wished he’d never come here. He sat forward on the sofa and turned to his aunt. “Think I’ll go to bed,” he said.

  His aunt turned to him with narrowed eyes and said, “You haven’t had any dinner yet.”

  Alfie put a hand against his stomach. “I’m not feeling very well.”

  Aunt Erika grunted and nodded.