Patchwork Man: What would you do if your past could kill you? A mystery and suspense thriller. (Patchwork People series Book 1)

by D. B. Martin

  My monologue concluded with the plea options – guilty unless he opened up and talked. ‘So?’ I waited, casting another glance at the social worker to see how she was reacting. She had brown eyes – deep and rich, like dark chocolate. She flicked a glance at me when she caught me watching her. We both looked away too quickly.

  ‘Danny?’ she prompted.

  ‘Shut up will yer? I’m thinking.’

  It was a fortnight since the accident and the social requirement to be supportive of the bereaved was beginning to fade. Already the obsequious mourners were forgetting to patronisingly ask how I was and I guessed that once the funeral was over, the invitations to dinner or drinks to cheer you up would also diminish from a flow, to a trickle and ultimately to a dry river bed. Not that I accepted so I didn’t mind. They had been Margaret’s friends, not mine, but the sensation of being wholly on my own again, as I had been as a child, was disconcerting; bewildering even. I’d dug myself into work to dispel it. After the initial horror at the boy’s case, its strange similarity to my past had woven a kind of appalled fascination. Tricky to plead without antagonising the social hordes baying for blood at the death of an innocent – his victim – but also difficult to side-step because of my fascination for a certain member of the press. The careful side-stepping of my past it required, of course, was another consideration. The red and ermine of the High Court were almost within my grasp. I just had to get the little bastard to co-operate and not be dragged into the swamp of emotional turmoil that had begun to swill around me because of him. And still he was thinking ...

  I sighed audibly. ‘Danny, I haven’t got all day. You need to get past thinking and start talking now.’ The boy didn’t answer me, just scowled as I would have liked to have done. I tried another tack, remembering the way Margaret had shown me how to take my irritations and ball them into a fist before mentally flinging them away. I clamped my fingers into a claw shape and put the annoyance with him inside it. Control returned. I sensed rather than saw my clerk watching me curiously. I tried again. ‘Danny, I really can’t help you unless you help me. The police have you nailed at the crime scene so it isn’t helping either of us if you insist on lying. One of the most important things we need to agree on is that you tell me the truth as you know it.’

  I paused, hoping that the unsaid rest of the rule might dawn on him without me having to ram it home – that was of course if he ever decided to start to tell me anything. Judging by the mulish expression, I doubted his brain would engage before his defiance or his mouth, but I’d briefly thought I’d sensed a canny sharpness in the narrowed blue eyes. I continued carefully, trying to transfer the understanding of how it was in the world of criminal defence from me to him without putting it into words.

  ‘So what you tell me I will know. What you don’t tell me, I won’t know, so whatever you tell me must be the truth ...’ I left the obviousness of the omission unsaid. ‘And maybe now you can tell me what you know?’

  A small smile spread across his face and I thought the penny had dropped. I relaxed. Here we go – and then I could hand it over to the clerk to push on with until the actual hearing. Maybe it would be easier than I’d anticipated after all.

  ‘Oh, I get it. You want me to land meself in it so you can get rid of me sharpish and go back to your golf or whatever you toffee-nosed fuckers do.’

  ‘Danny!’ The social worker was horrified. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Juste.’ I waved away her apology – the second of the day. The faintest flush of pink tint stained her cheeks and made the white of her eyes even whiter against the dark of her skin and pupils – dilated pupils. Margaret had told me that meant something.

  The adult language sounded wrong from him, yet I knew the harsher kind of world he was learning it from would soon be the only one he’d know unless he backed down and talked. You had to be seen to be hard at all times to survive in the world he was entering. It was simply another form of defence.

  ‘No,’ I spoke slowly and clearly as if he was hard of hearing – or more likely, an imbecile. ‘I want you to tell me enough true facts to enable me to get you as far off the hook as I can.’ He looked at me as if I was flicking a knife at him. I waited. His lips twitched and half-opened then reverted back to their grim line.

  ‘Weren’t there. Didn’t do it,’ was all he said at length. I sighed and looked across at his social worker. She grimaced back. She had an expressive mouth too. I resisted the inclination to sigh again.

  ‘You were there, and you did do something. The police have it on record. Maybe you mean you didn’t mean to do anything?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ He beamed at me and I was taken aback by the transformation. With the grin in place of the sneer, the thin-faced thug became simply a child – a child just like the carefree one who had played shooting practice with a home-made catapult in the back yard of our flats, or tumbled noisily down the hill at the front with his small back street gang of best friends and siblings. Briefly the image of Win asserting leadership over Georgie, Jim, Pip and me in battle – fighting imaginary dragons in the thin strip of trees beyond the yard – almost fazed me. This boy could be me.

  I wondered if he would have joined in as enthusiastically as I had, recklessly liberating the bag of gobstoppers Jonno and his gang had stolen from old Sal’s, and then scrambling up into the tree branches to hide when they came to raid us back. We were the Juss kids – snotty-nosed, scabby-kneed but basically all right, and happy. I guessed he probably would. I knew from the notes that he had siblings too – three brothers and two sisters. As that disarming beam momentarily softened my heart he became Danny, not merely the kid I had to defend, and I imagined him playing ragamuffin.

  ‘I didn’t mean to do nothing so I didn’t do nothing.’ The smile faded and he was sly-faced and wary again. The little bubble burst. I could deal with cold-blooded murderers, greedy embezzlers and unprincipled blackmailers, but how did you deal with recalcitrant kids? I knew nothing about them and nor did I intend to. The boy’s lips remained in the thin white line and I knew from the social worker’s report that it meant he was likely to clam up for the rest of the session. Quixotic – and deadlocked. I hadn’t the patience or the will to be perspicacious today.

  ‘OK, I think we’re done for today. Maybe you’ll be more co-operative another time.’ I looked at his set face. ‘Or maybe not. Your choice.’ I shrugged and sat back in my chair, feeling it give in the rickety way all interview room chairs seem to. The social worker looked as if she was about to say something but bit her lip instead. Soft lips.

  I watched them leave, irritated with the boy, the social worker, Margaret and myself. I shuffled the papers together and flipped the case cover shut. Pointless handing it over to my clerk to gather the rest of the information. If I’d got nowhere, he’d get even less. It was going to be a royal pain in the ass after all. Maybe Margaret’s little list of facts was irrelevant to it, or could be tucked away. If no-one came asking, who was there to answer to? In extreme circumstances we all take on things we don’t intend completing. This would be one of mine. The vicious little bastard probably deserved to go down, anyway. The old woman had been nearly ninety and half blind. It hadn’t been the attack that had carried her off but the complications from the broken hip following the resulting fall. It was a fairly common cause of death amongst the elderly, so the medical report concluded. Manslaughter, not murder; but enough to put this young thug away until his twenties. I tied up the bundle of notes and handed it to my clerk to put in his briefcase.

  A sad statistic of life.

  Yet unaccountably, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the boy who’d created the statistic because his life was probably the more hopeless overall. The old woman had lived a long life – and apparently full, judging by the hordes of children and grandchildren she’d spawned. He was still merely a child, with no-one to care other than those charged with the clinical ministrations of the state, and already a lifetime of bad role models to follow. Difficult that; to
empathise more with the killer than the victim and their grieving family. I sympathised with them but couldn’t feel the emotions they felt because I hadn’t been close to anyone – including Margaret – since I was a child. The boy, though, I understood – more intimately than I cared to admit, no matter how much I’d determinedly sequestered my childhood life from my current one. And that way lay the madness I’d escaped a long time ago.

  My clerk had packed the papers away and was waiting quietly by the door, face shining with perspiration. I’d forgotten he was there in my immersion in myself. I was jolted out of my reverie by the social worker returning. Ignoring niceties and the clerk, she plopped down across the table from me, serious faced; a typical do-gooder in ethnic form. Her mouth was still tempting though.

  ‘Can I make a suggestion?’ My prejudices fired at her temerity. I had a suggestion for her too, but it would have demeaned me to have voiced it, and to be fair she wasn’t responsible for the situation, just the manipulation of it. She was simply another cog in the nanny-state wheel that drove the machinery supporting the Danny’s and hit and run drivers of this world. I made do with a dry rejoinder.

  ‘You can make it but I won’t necessarily act on it.’

  ‘Well, you need to earn his trust. I think you’d get more out of him if you did. I don’t think he was responsible, even though he was there. I think at the least, he’s being used by the other kids in the gang he joined – or worse, by someone who runs them – but he’s too afraid to tell anyone in case they get to him. I think there’s more to it than hooliganism – that’s why he’s scared, Mr Juste. He needs someone to look up to and trust. You could be that person.’

  ‘I should earn his trust?’ l snorted, ‘Miss?’

  ‘Roumelia.’ It sounded familiar even though it was unusual. The rounded cheeks of her earnest brown face made her seem too young to be doing this kind of job. I could smell her perfume even across the table. Too strong and too tart. She needed something headier – exotic to complement the wide sensuous mouth and Rubenesque curves contained within the regulation bow-necked work blouse and black pencil skirt. Sinner in a social worker’s body. I wanted to laugh at the incongruous ideas forming in my mind. They said pressure got to you in unusual ways. I sternly reeled my imagination in.

  ‘Miss Roumelia, I am doing this child a favour – not the other way round. He’s accused of manslaughter. I’m trying to get him off the hook and away from a nasty long spell in the University of Crime. He needs to earn my trust, not I his!’

  ‘But he won’t confide in you if he thinks you don’t believe him. You need to make a connection with him – something you have in common.’ I laughed caustically, insulted that this outspoken young woman should think there could be such a thing and even more so that she had the cheek to suggest it. Yet there was.

  ‘Us have something in common?’ The thinly disguised sarcasm of earlier came out full-force this time. She looked embarrassed.

  ‘I didn’t mean you were alike, but he’s only a kid and you are a figure of authority that’s actually trying to help him, not shut him down. He’s already had a tough life and he’s barely ten. He was only in care because of an administrative hitch they don’t seem to be able to get sorted out. By the time they do, he could be trapped there altogether. He feels rejected and abandoned – all on his own. He has five siblings you see. He’s used to being part of a group so I guess that’s why he joined the gang. He probably thought it would be like family, and now he has to appear loyal to them or there will be more trouble for him. Haven’t you ever felt lonely or lost?’ She paused whilst I battled remembered vulnerabilities, unprepared for her final shot. ‘Your wife said you’d understand when I told her Danny’s story. She said you’d appreciate what this meant for him.’

  The shock of the statement battled with outrage at her gall in making it. Neither she, nor the boy were invited into my private life, whatever Margaret might have thought. The present and future might be lonely but my past had been desolate, and I wasn’t sharing any of myself with anyone again. Only Margaret had achieved a modicum of understanding of me over the years I’d known her but it seemed even she’d been planning on using it against me. My vulnerabilities would remain mine alone now she was gone. A bolt of misery shot through me – whether for the past, the boy, Margaret or for myself, I wasn’t sure. It made me angry with the plump brown Madonna who’d prompted it.

  ‘My wife’s not here anymore, so she’s somewhat irrelevant, whatever she may have said.’ It sounded colder than it was meant. She looked quizzically at me. Had she not noticed the news that had graced the inside pages of the newspapers over the last few weeks?

  Understanding dawned and she blushed furiously. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean ...’ I waved away her sympathy. I’d managed this far without it, but it did decide me. The hurt child reverted to invulnerable adult. I don’t know what my face said but my words were carefully chosen.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m the right person to help him, after all. I will see who else can take the case.’

  ‘But he needs you,’ she pleaded. ‘And he’s a smart kid really – give him a chance.’ I shook my head. The room felt oppressive, and not just from the early summer heat wave. The old miseries reared up and threatened to stifle me. The echoing hall where we lined up for inspection, Miss Liddell’s bony fingers twisting my ear until I thought it would snap off, the harsh rasp of the horsehair blankets on shivering skin at night, and the whispered threats that accompanied the burning pain and knowing it was going to happen all over again ... No, I wasn’t the right person to help him. Somewhere buried deep inside I still needed to help myself. Her eyes reminded me of something too – or someone. ‘Please?’ I couldn’t place them.

  The mêlée of emotions were too confusing. I just wanted to get out of there – out of the heat and the pressure and people watching me and her pleading and everyone always expecting me to perform miracles for them without ever wondering how I was feeling. I wanted to be left alone to be the boy under the bedclothes, sobbing his soul into their unyielding depths, letting the misery of the moment be all that there was to feel until it faded enough to bear. I agreed to think about it just to make her leave. She and her soft pink mouth suddenly upset me more than anything else.

  *

  I set the case notes aside for the rest of the week, reluctant to stir the hornet’s nest again. Margaret’s manoeuvring felt like betrayal as surely as being left in the children’s home had felt forty years beforehand and I didn’t want to feel angry with her. That felt wrong. After all, she was dead. Don’t speak ill of the dead, and don’t think it either. I was sure it was something my mother would have said to me if she’d been around for longer in my childhood. Eventually I re-opened the folder out of necessity the evening before I was due to interview the boy again. The facts were strikingly similar to mine in some ways, but jarringly different in others.

  The suddenness of being taken into care and the isolation from the rest of our family were much the same, but his background was one of dishonesty and parental mismanagement whereas mine had been of haphazard poverty ending in loss of control. His father was in and out of jail, and his mother convicted of at least two counts of prostitution with a further one pending. Mine had been upright but inept – or maybe simply too poor. The boy and his siblings seemed to run as wild as we had though, and already appeared to be youthful representatives of the criminal fraternity of the future – apart from the boy, who until taken into care had been doing well at school and mainly stayed out of trouble. Why had he – of all of them – been trapped by red tape? Then it occurred to me that maybe, far from being trapped, he’d been saved; saved from being returned to a foregone conclusion of failure – until the mugging incident. Was this boy a potential murderer? The social worker hadn’t thought so – Miss Roumelia of the brown velvet eyes and inviting mouth. I thought for a long time about both of them; her faith in the boy’s innocence and the boy’s insistence on his innocence
. Everything had involuntarily turned on its head in my life recently. Maybe I should deliberately do the same with this case.

  I went without an accompanying clerk the next day, and the social worker’s suggestion lingered at the back of my mind so I asked a different kind of question to the one I usually asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why are you so angry with everyone?’

  ‘Cos I been stuffed.’

  ‘Who by, the other gang members?’

  ‘No, me mum and dad. They let them take me away – only me, not the other kids. They’re all right. Me; I’m shoved out. Stuffed.’

  ‘I think you’ll find all your brothers and sisters were shoved out too, as you put it.’

  ‘No, they weren’t. They went to that place in Putney for just a coupla nights until me mum was back, then they went home again. She,’ he jabbed a thumb in the direction of Miss Roumelia, ‘told me. They weren’t shoved out. They’re all right, Jack. I’m not. Ain’t fair.’ I looked askance at her. It hadn’t helped to fire up his sense of inequality. She tossed her head and stuck out her chin, as if challenging me, and I found myself admiring her spunk. It was a refreshing change in a world of measured words and sycophantic flattery. Even Margaret had been too sugary sweet and polite for me at times.