HE WILL FIND YOU an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist

by Charlie Gallagher

  She got up and walked to the coffee pod where a young man in a black fleece was leaning forward onto a serving hatch. ‘I gave him a muffin earlier and the water. He ate it like he was hungry. Does he want another?’

  ‘I think he does. They must be good muffins.’ Maddie took out some money but the man held up his hands.

  ‘No need. Can I get you a coffee too?’

  ‘That’s very kind. White with one. Thanks.’

  ‘I just hope you sort the lad out. He looks like he’s had a bad night.’

  Maddie peered back over. The boy was staring straight at her, maybe even craning his neck slightly. Maddie couldn’t tell if it was hunger or interest.

  ‘I’ll be right back with you, okay?’ She called out then she looked around. The throng of onlookers was larger still, but at least they were staying back, positioned further up the pavement and under the protection of the canopy. Most were still, some shuffled on the spot while breathing into their hands. Towards the back, a taller man in a dark jacket with a hood up over a woollen hat stood out by his movement. He walked the length of the crowd before turning to retrace his steps. He was half-turned the whole time, his hands thrust deep into jacket pockets.

  ‘Hey, Joe?’ Maddie called out. The sergeant walked over. ‘Can you get the details of the people stood watching the show for me?’

  ‘Okay. Are you thinking they might be witnesses? The CAD said there was nobody here but the woman who called it in and her husband. They’re being spoken to at the nick?’ He sounded unsure.

  ‘I get that. But if we assume this boy is a witness to something that covered him in blood, whoever was responsible might have unfinished business with him.’

  The sergeant turned to the crowd. ‘And you think that someone might be here?’

  ‘We should consider it.’

  ‘I’ll get on it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Maddie turned back to the pod. Her items were on the counter. She walked the few steps back to where she had squatted before. This time she put a white coffee on the ground, marking out her intention to move back there. She stepped over it with the bottle of water and the muffin to hand them to the boy. The hand that snatched out was stained with dry blood. It was a darker tone on the back than the front. Maddie had seen large bloodstains on skin before: the greater the volume of blood, the darker the tone. She lingered long enough to nod and smile, then stepped back to her coffee. As she sipped, a woman approached whom Maddie recognised immediately. She had been unsure who was on shift for CSI when she made the request, but she was always happy to see Charley Mace, no matter what the job. Maddie moved closer to Charley and further from the boy so they could talk freely.

  ‘This is unusual,’ Charley said. Her smile was subtle and quickly hid behind a coffee cup branded with the Lost Sheep logo. Her attention was focussed beyond Maddie to the seated boy.

  ‘Unusual?’

  ‘Are Major Crime branching out into the living? I can’t remember the last time you lot called me to work on someone who could answer back.’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t so far. And I guess the assumption is that there might be someone dead somewhere. There’s certainly a lot of blood.’

  ‘You sound like you’re living in hope!’

  ‘Major Crime will do that to you, even after three months. It’s no problem for you is it? Working with the living, I mean? You certainly don’t need to worry about making small talk.’

  ‘Well, you tell me. I’ve been told no one can get near him and we know nothing. That does make a CSI tasking a little more difficult.’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t ran away yet. We’re taking it slow is all. In an ideal world, what would you need?’

  ‘Depends. What are we trying to achieve here, Maddie?’

  ‘Identity — his and the blood donor’s. Assuming it is blood and that it’s human, of course.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you that quite quickly. The rest depends on a lot of things. What we hold on our databases for comparison for one, having something to compare it against for another.’

  ‘So then . . . ideal world . . . hit me with it.’

  Charley shrugged. ‘I can’t say I’ve seen this too many times, but, seeing as how there’s a lot of claret and he’s not speaking, I’d have to treat him like a dead body. I won’t mention that to him of course. So I’d want photos of him as he is and where he is, then I’d want swabs from his clothes and hands, and scrapings from under his nails as well as swabs from his mouth. I’d take an indent of his teeth, too, and comb his hair while he was lying down on my sheet. I’d want his clothes, obviously — the outer ones will do for a start. I’d also want to measure and photograph any wounds — a full body map. This whole area is a scene, too. Even now he’ll be shedding contact evidence, let alone when we go to move him.’

  ‘So not much then.’

  ‘That’s assuming there’s nothing that needs further investigation from those initial checks. This is why I prefer working with the dead.’

  Maddie turned back to where the boy was already finishing his second muffin and water like a ravenous animal. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have gone with the muffins so soon. How much of that would you do here?’

  ‘Here?’ Charley scanned her surroundings. She looked less than impressed. ‘The photo of him in situ. Other than that, I would bag up his hands and feet and get him moved as soon as possible. I don’t want to be doing much more out in public and I’m damned sure he doesn’t either.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that. Do me a favour would you and get your suit on. The sooner he sees you in it, the sooner he gets used to the idea.’ Maddie went back to her coffee and squatted to pick it up, she sucked the liquid through the lid. The boy was looking over at her. He looked a little more relaxed, a little less like he was waiting for his opportunity to run at least. He pulled the empty bottle closer.

  ‘I need your help,’ Maddie said to him. ‘I really want to know how I can help you the best. That means I need to know who you are and maybe what happened. I can see you have blood on you. Are you hurt?’

  He hesitated. His eyes were still wide but now he looked upset, like he was holding himself together. The bottle toppled over. His hands snatched back from it like it was scalding hot. His movements were slower as he reached back out to pick it up. Maddie took her time.

  ‘Okay, is it blood?’

  The boy’s nostrils flared; his face shook like he was fighting a sob. He rested his hand on top of the bottle. It didn’t fall. He moved his hand back. Maddie took that as a yes.

  ‘A person’s blood?’

  Again the boy hesitated, but his hand did eventually rest on top of the bottle.

  ‘Do you know this person?’ Maddie’s thigh muscles burned so bad she changed her position to sit with her legs crossed in front of her.

  He tapped the top of the bottle again. This time he was quicker.

  ‘And this person . . . is it a boy?’

  His hand shot out to tap the bottle top.

  ‘And is he okay now?’

  The bottle tipped over. The boy’s head dropped as if he was studying the ground. He sniffed sharply and this caught her out; since he wasn’t talking, she had begun to wonder if he was capable of making any noise. He had pushed out harder this time; the bottle rolled towards her and she stopped it with her hand. She leaned forward to stand it back up, close enough for the boy to reach. His sniffs had become a cry, he was doing his best to conceal it by wrapping his hands around his legs to cuddle them tight and pushing his face down into his chest. His shaking shoulders gave him away.

  There was a rustling behind Maddie. Charley was in full forensic gear and hanging a few steps back. Beyond her was a uniform police officer with a carrier bag branded by one of the local department stores. CSI were ready and the change of clothes she had asked for was here. She turned back to the boy.

  ‘I want to help you and I want to help that boy, okay? Or at least I want to find the bad people that hurt him. Was he a boy like you, or a
grown-up?’

  The boy looked over at her but he made no other movement.

  Maddie tutted. ‘Sorry! Let’s try something you can answer. Was he a grown-up?’

  The boy reached out. Maddie realised she was holding her breath. He rested his palm on the top of the bottle then moved it away again. Maddie finally took a breath. A seriously injured or dead man she could cope with; she wouldn’t have known where to start if the victim had been a child.

  ‘Someone in your family?’ She leant forward, her voice softer. She was holding her breath again.

  The boy’s hand moved slowly towards the bottle but he stopped short, his eyes meeting hers, as if he wasn’t sure what to do next.

  ‘Your dad?’ Maddie chanced, thinking he may need a prompt.

  Now he tapped the top of the bottle. It was a quick but definite movement and then he buried his head between his knees.

  ‘Did someone hurt him?’

  The boy’s movement to tap the bottle was quicker still.

  Maddie felt a surge of anger, enough to make her sit straight. ‘Listen to me . . .’ Her voice carried her emotion and the boy looked up instantly, as if he might have thought her anger directed at him. ‘I want to find the bad people that hurt him, but you need to help me. You don’t need to speak to me, not if you don’t want to, but you need to help me. Can you do that?’

  Charley must have recognised her cue, and moved closer. The boy’s eyes lifted to take her in. She was in a full white suit with her hood up, her shoes covered in bright blue plastic, her hands the same colour in forensic gloves. The elastic pocket of material that would cover her mouth was slung around her neck, ready to pull up. A large camera hung down and stuck out from her chest.

  The boy took his time. His eyes moved down Charley until they rested back on Maddie. He reached out for the bottle and tapped it gently.

  Maddie exhaled and gave her best warm smile. ‘Thank you. This is Charley. She isn’t a police officer. She’s just here to get the information we need and she’s going to ask you to help her. Some of it might seem strange, but I promise you it’s all so we can find the bad people. Okay?’

  He tapped the bottle.

  ‘We just need to get a picture of you, that’s all. Then I want to take you to the police station so we can stop all of these people looking at you. Is that okay?’

  The boy pushed the bottle over then backed away from it, pushing himself against the window, using it to get to his feet. His body tensed again and he looked around anxiously. He was looking for a way out, for somewhere to run. She lifted her hands, showed her palms, and took a step back.

  ‘Stay calm, okay? I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to. Just like we said, okay?’ The bottle was too far out of reach. Maddie picked it up, slowly and gently. She stood it back up — not too close; he would just have to take a step. She edged away. ‘Can we at least change your clothes? You look cold and wet?’

  He was still looking around and his gaze fell finally on the bottle. He leaned forward to tap the top.

  ‘Thank you,’ Maddie said. ‘Just a minute . . .’ She turned back to Charley. ‘It’s going to have to be here. All of it.’

  ‘You want me to do a full forensic exam here? A juvenile? In public and with a crowd?’

  ‘I don’t think we have any other choice.’

  ‘He’s a kid. What about appropriate adults? We need permission from someone! And just the thought of stripping off a boy in public! I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘It isn’t. It’s a terrible idea. But it’s also the only option. You can list me as giving you the permission. It will be far worse if he runs. Then my options are to let him go or to wrestle him to the ground in front of all these people and all their camera-phones. If that happens, permission will be the least of my problems. Do you have a forensic tent that we could use maybe?’

  Charley exhaled. ‘Well, I’ve never used it on a live person before. I’m not sure it sends the right message. But I take your point. The thought of you grabbing hold of him — shaking off all the contact evidence. It’s enough to make a CSI officer shudder.’

  Maddie flashed a smile. ‘I wish I’d thought of that! You’d have crumbled immediately.’

  ‘I would have.’

  Maddie stepped back over to the boy. He was lower again now but still pushed up against the window. He looked at her expectantly. She squatted down to his level. ‘I know you don’t want to go to the police station and we can’t leave you here. So I’m going to sort somewhere more comfortable for you to go. Just for a short time. We’ll get you changed first, but we’ll do that here. You don’t want to go anywhere just yet, but we can’t stay here. So we get you changed. My friend’ll do a few bits and pieces to make sure we get the information we need and then we’ll go somewhere else. Is that okay?’

  The boy hesitated but finally he did reach out to tap the bottle.

  ‘Okay then. I’ll need to go and make a phone call. I want somewhere warm and safe ready for you. Is it okay if I walk over there for just a minute?’ Maddie stood up. The boy pushed the bottle so it rolled into her feet. She met Charley’s gaze and he shrugged. ‘Okay then little friend, let’s do this together shall we? I’ll stay right here.’ She did manage one step away as Charley moved in closer. The boy stood up as her CSI colleague stepped in awkwardly. Later, Maddie would tease her about how she might have been doing this job too long — she was definitely more comfortable working with the dead.

  ‘Maddie . . .’ This time it was the uniform sergeant’s voice in her ear. She turned away to speak with him.

  ‘What’s up, Joe?’

  ‘We got details for the onlookers — all except one. I couldn’t get to him in time. The bastard made off after he took a picture on his phone! I was talking to someone else and I heard the click go off. Some people are pretty sick.’

  ‘They are. That will be on his social media by now. Nothing we can do about that.’

  ‘I know. I’ve never understood that. Is there anything else you need from us here?’

  Maddie considered this for a second. ‘I don’t think so. I need to start making some calls for somewhere to go. There are emergency foster placements that Social Services can sometimes sort.

  ‘There are. I never have too much luck with Social Services.’

  ‘They’re just strapped — like everyone else, really. I hope they can help. I’m not sure what I can do with him if they don’t.’

  Joe nodded. ‘They have to help. I reckon that lad’s been through enough for one day.’

  Chapter 3

  Harry Blaker’s daughter, Melissa, pulled her coat tighter and folded her arms over her lap. She knew he had noticed, too. She caught his eye and smiled awkwardly. It was a cold morning. Harry didn’t normally feel it, but even he was aware of the cold wood of the park bench seeping through the back of his waxed coat. The early morning rain had now stopped but the trees lining the banks still shed droplets that made dimples in the slow-moving river.

  ‘We should have gone to a coffee shop,’ he said.

  ‘I know you don’t like them.’

  Harry was stuck for a reply. Stuck for anything to say if he was honest. He didn’t mind cafés; it was other people he didn’t like and he would usually spend his rest days as far away from them as he could. His daughter hadn’t wanted to come up to his house. He could understand that. The last time she had been there they had argued, almost to the point of no return. Maybe that was why she had suggested a park bench. There were still people around, a few runners and dog-walkers mostly, but they would be noticed if they made a scene. As it was, nobody was paying any attention to them, and Harry had no intention of making a scene today. Today was about building bridges, not fanning embers.

  ‘You would be warm at least,’ Harry said.

  ‘But you would be uncomfortable. Not that you look massively relaxed out here.’ Melissa wrapped herself up tighter.

  He smiled and waited for her to turn
and notice.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘I fancy a coffee.’ He stood up. A large drip bounced off his closely shaven head and he flinched.

  His daughter giggled.

  ‘You need a hat, Dad.’

  ‘Not in a nice warm coffee shop I don’t!’

  There was a coffee shop a short walk across a footbridge. Melissa led the way. It was one of the major chains and clung to the side of a superstore like an afterthought. It was busy. He could tell his daughter was conscious of him as they joined the back of a lengthy queue.

  ‘How about you grab that table, Dad? I’ll sort this.’ She pointed at a table that was being vacated by a couple with a young family. The surface was a mess of dirty coffee cups and empty crisp packets. It was close enough for him to put his jacket over the chair. He tried to pass her a ten-pound note. She refused, firmly enough for him to know not to try again. She was so like her mother.

  Harry picked at a discarded newspaper. There was a time when he read them every day — he’d even had them delivered for a spell. He never read them anymore and didn’t watch the news either. What wasn’t depressing was either entirely sensationalised or entirely made-up. The problem with twenty-four-hour news channels was the need to fill twenty-four hours. Melissa returned. They waited for a spotty youth with an ill-fitting uniform to clear the mess from their table.

  ‘Coffee, black, two shots,’ she said.

  He scowled. ‘Shots?’

  ‘That’s what you get when you ask for strong.’ She sat down, still with her coat on. It was warm. The tall windows were condensed, highlighting the contrasting warmth with outside. Either she didn’t plan to stay long or she’d been chilled to the bone. He reckoned on the first one.

  ‘How have you been?’ he said.

  ‘Good.’ She sipped at her coffee. It looked like it was far too hot for her. It dawned on him that she was rushing, like she didn’t want to be there at all. With the grief and desperation of losing his wife, Melissa’s mother, had come some stark realisations. The first was that he now faced the world alone, that the retirement they had planned, that was within sight, had been taken away. But one he hadn’t seen coming was just how important his wife had been in managing his relationship with his daughters. Suddenly he didn’t have her around to soften his questions, to communicate on his behalf, to explain that sometimes he said things that could be misconstrued, that could come across as harsh.