Preacher Boy

by Gwyn GB

  They hadn't gone far before her mobile rang, ‘What now?’ she muttered when she saw who was calling. ‘All we need is a PR issue on top of this.’

  The name read ‘Danny Payne.’ He was an earnest twenty-seven-year-old with impeccable grooming. Unfortunately, he'd inherited his immediate boss's desire to control every possible element of the Met's public persona. As soon as DCI Barker answered her phone, she could tell something had upset him. His voice was taut.

  ‘DCI Barker,’ he said, ‘Have you seen the online news? I've sent you a link via email.’

  ‘No. Hang on,’ she replied, opening her emails and clicking on his name. The link was to a national online news site; right in front of her was the headline ‘Satanic Murder of Seven-year-old Boy’. Alongside Darren's angelic face was a photograph of the dog walker with the caption ‘How I Stumbled Upon the Demonic Murder’.

  ‘The shit,’ Barker swore. ‘I asked the dog walker not to say anything. Jack, get someone to pull him in and tell him he could have compromised our enquiry. Make sure they put the wind up his greedy, money-grabbing arse. Perhaps send Taff. Uniform will work better, and I know how passionate he gets about unreliable witnesses. I hope they paid him enough for his story because he's going to feel like crap once we're done with him.’

  7

  The Fullers walked along the busy street towards the swimming pool. Sally held on to Sophie's hand as she babbled away excitedly about nothing in particular, from swimming to her little friend, Katya, and what they were going to have for lunch. Edward walked a couple of paces in front of them while Alex skipped a couple of feet ahead of him.

  They'd left the house with Alex and Sophie walking together, but he had soon got impatient with her progress. Three-year-olds weren't the fastest walkers, and halfway into their journey, Sally realised why they tended to travel by car. There had been a stop to inspect a dead pigeon, and they'd had to wait while she stared at a bus-stop poster advertising the latest Disney movie. Sophie had entered into a debate with nobody else about the merits of the costume being worn by the main character. Sally's mind had wandered to tomorrow and the list of things she knew needed to be done. There was Alex’s school uniform that had to be washed and dried before Monday, and the house needed a good clean. She'd have to get up and get on with it in the morning and not do what they'd done last Sunday, which was lie in bed and have the kids join them for cuddles that ended up being another hour of snoozing.

  ‘Come on, Sophie,’ Alex shouted back to his sister.

  They were nearing the pool; it was just around the next corner. Sophie didn't know that, but she knew she wanted to be with her big brother, so she wriggled her little hand out of her mother's and tried to run after him. She did okay for a few steps, then went flying, tripping over her own feet, which hadn't yet mastered the speed of her older sibling. A great wail rose up. She'd fallen flat, banging her knees and bumping her chin.

  Sally and Edward stopped and crouched to pick her up and see if she was hurt. People walked past staring, making Sally feel self-conscious. Edward brushed Sophie down, rubbed the dirt from her little pink hands, and kissed them better. It broke Sally's heart to see her little face all crumpled and sad after she'd been so excited about their trip out.

  ‘If you're big and brave, I promise we can go to McDonald's after swimming,’ Edward told her. It achieved the result of subsiding the sobbing.

  She was fine. The tears had been more shock than anything else.

  ‘You know she can't walk that fast, Alex,’ Sally said. ‘It's not fair to expect her to keep up. She’s only three.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Alex.’

  She looked up scowling, expecting to see him standing there.

  There was no sign of him.

  ‘Edward, where's Alex? He’d better not have tried to cross the road on his own,’ she said to her husband as she took Sophie's hand again and they set off.

  Edward hurried around the corner, calling out, ‘Alex! Alex!’

  When Sophie and Sally joined him moments later, there was no sign of Alex. Just his swimming bag in the middle of the pavement. Edward reached down and picked it up. His face said everything Sally felt.

  8

  Harrison throttled down his bike to a slow rumble and eased it along the street where the Phillips family lived. The road looked completely different from this morning. It reminded him of a python he'd seen once, which had swallowed a small sheep. The contents of the road had swollen with a large bulge of activity midway along. Outside the Phillips's house, a pack of reporters, photographers, and two camera crews had gathered, blocking the road and pavements. Along the front garden wall lay a multicoloured row of teddies, flowers, and cards. A small audience of local well-wishers trickled along to pay their respects—or be on the local TV news.

  Harrison revved the bike, causing a female reporter to jump and swear while recording a piece to camera. He’d little time for reporters after the way they'd described his mother after her death. It might have been almost two decades ago, but he'd never forgotten or forgiven. He knew he shouldn't assume every reporter was the enemy, and the young woman he'd just startled would have been a child when his mother was being pilloried in the press; but it was just another part of that time he couldn't and wouldn't let go. At least not until he'd got justice.

  Harrison edged his bike past her and the crew who mumbled some expletives at him, and parked it right outside in the hope it was in as an annoying position as possible for their camera shots. Then he walked up the path, discreetly showed his ID to the guard officer outside, and knocked.

  The family liaison, an Asian woman PC with hair as black and shiny as a raven's feathers, opened the door. She recognised him. She'd been at the briefing earlier and he'd noticed her, thinking how she could moonlight for shampoo commercials. Behind him he heard a flurry of clicks as photographers fired off in case they missed something. It sounded like a swarm of locusts in flight, their wings clicking and clacking as they prepared to devour everything in their path.

  The family liaison showed Harrison into an empty sitting room, the one he'd seen DCI Barker enter earlier that morning. She went off to tell Mrs Phillips about her guest and Harrison was left alone.

  The house had taken on the hushed silence of a home in mourning. No loud noises, no music, no chatting. The energy had been drained from it, sucked into a sinkhole of grief that had opened up at the very heart of their home. All Harrison heard was the occasional loud whisper, sniff, or murmur. The air hung, dust particles suspended, as though afraid to breathe for fear of being sucked into the vortex of grief. The living had been put on hold for the dead.

  Harrison was there for one reason: to find out as much as he could about the family and Darren, hoping to see some connection with his killer. If he worked out why he might have been chosen as the victim, that could lead them to his murderer.

  Although the sitting room was tidy, a thin layer of dust had settled over everything. It had been nearly a week since Darren had been snatched.

  The furniture was all modern, not rock-bottom prices but certainly not luxurious. Louise was a single mum who in more normal times was house proud but broke. Harrison didn't need to meet her to know that. In the hallway, he'd seen two different sizes of boys' shoes side by side. He wondered how long it would be before she could bear to start putting away Darren's things.

  In the sitting room there were the usual photographic memories of a family, Darren's baby smiles, him sitting with his big brother, the family on a beach somewhere. On the bookshelves were a collection of various bestsellers, every day novels interspersed with children's books. The obligatory Harry Potter and Philip Pullman sitting next to Jodi Picout and Liane Moriarty and the black spine of Twilight. There was no copy of the Bible or any sign of religious icons. Nothing to suggest they were regular churchgoers.

  The sound of sniffing heralded the arrival of Louise Phillips. She dragged herself into the living room; her face swollen and blo
tchy from hours of crying.

  ‘They’ve already interviewed me,’ she told Harrison, her voice fragile, as though there was nothing but broken glass left inside her.

  ‘I know, Mrs Phillips, and I apologise for disturbing you again. I won't be long—just a couple of questions.’ His voice was calm, gentle, reassuring.

  Louise half collapsed onto the sofa and gazed up at him. Harrison sat next to her, bringing himself to her level.

  ‘I'm so sorry for your loss,’ he started.

  She nodded and dabbed again at her eyes with the crumpled tissue in her hand. Louise was a thin, probably underweight, woman with shoulder-length brown hair. She didn't wear any make-up, but Harrison guessed that was more to do with the situation than habit. Louise had lost one of her children through kidnapping and murder. She was in shock. The likely anger and extreme emotions of losing a child in this way hadn't yet set in. Everyone reacted differently, but Harrison knew Louise could face years of depression and anxiety. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross's five stages of grief were a good framework for those who had lost someone under “normal circumstances,” but murder was a whole extra level of emotion.

  ‘I work in psychology, helping profile offenders for the police,’ Harrison said.

  ‘I'm trying to understand if there are any links between Darren and the man who did this. To do that, I need to understand Darren better. Is that okay?’

  Louise nodded.

  ‘First, I want to ask if you attend a church. Did Darren or his father?’

  ‘No. We've never been religious. His dad certainly isn't.’

  Harrison had already read up on the family. The parents were divorced, and Ralph Phillips had remarried and moved to Liverpool. He'd been contacted, but he’d not even seen Darren in eighteen months. Police up there were checking alibis and doing some digging, but it didn't look like he was in the frame at all.

  ‘The vicar's been round, though,’ Louise continued quietly. ‘I don't know what to do for the funeral...’ She trailed off.

  ‘Do you have any family or friends who are or were regular churchgoers?’

  ‘Not really. My mum goes at Christmas; that's about all. Suppose it will look hypocritical to bury him in the churchyard then, won't it?’ She looked up at him again. A lost woman.

  ‘You put him wherever you want. Don't give a second thought to anyone else. He's your son. And there's no rush. Do it in your own time. Don’t feel pressured.’ Harrison knew that Darren’s body wouldn’t be released for burial just yet, but he wasn’t going to mention that to Louise now. Time would become an illusory concept anyway. One day would replace the next with no meaning while she came to terms with the horror of her loss.

  Louise closed her eyes for a moment and gently nodded. ‘I want him to be at peace. I want to believe I’ll see him again in a heaven where he's safe. I want to, but I can't. Is that wrong?’

  ‘There's no right or wrong,’ Harrison said, ‘and faith is an individual choice. What I do believe is universal love. Each one of us has to find our own way to grieve. You need to allow yourself time to work through your emotions. You'll know what's right when the time comes.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Harrison paused for a few moments, allowing her to gather herself. He felt so sorry for Louise, having to not only deal with these emotions in private but also to have a street full of media and neighbours watching every move she made. He remembered his own grief reaction after his mother's death. Anger had been the dominant feeling, along with self-destruct mode, but he also hadn’t wanted to be around anyone. He'd craved solitude, and having to answer police questions and deal with media intrusion was the last thing he'd been equipped to do. He needed to get his questions done and leave Louise in peace.

  ‘Did Darren go to any clubs or societies?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing but us and school.’

  ‘Friends? Did he play outside often?’

  ‘Just around the road with a couple of mates from school. He never stayed out long.’

  Harrison knew it was at the end of the road, while playing on their bikes, that the killer had snatched him. One minute he'd been there; the next he was gone; and all that was left was his bike, the back wheel still spinning on the ground. His friends had seen nothing, no one. Just that Darren had been laughing and joking with them one minute and not the next.

  ‘What kind of personality was Darren?’ Harrison deliberately left the question open, not wanting to lead her answers.

  ‘Quite, shy, not very confident really.’

  ‘What was his relationship with his father like?’

  Despite the shock she was in, at the mention of her ex-husband, Louise tensed up. She sat up a little taller, balled her right fist around the tissue, and pursed her lips—all subtle signs that most people wouldn't even have noticed. Harrison did.

  ‘He hasn't seen him for over a year, and he was only five when he left, so it's distant.’

  ‘Did Darren ever talk about him or ever seem upset?’

  ‘Not really. No.’

  ‘Did Darren spend time at anyone else's house? A friend’s or neighbour’s?’

  ‘No,’ She looked almost annoyed at the question. ‘He enjoyed being at home. He’d always come straight back from school. Darren's been too young for sleepovers. He must have been so scared being away from us all this time.’ Louise started to cry again, and Harrison gave her time to gather herself.

  ‘How about his brother? Were they close?’ he asked.

  Louise looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for the motivation behind the question. ‘Yeah, they were good. Noel's devastated,’ she replied. Harrison saw the tiger mother preparing to defend her remaining son. He moved quickly to explain.

  ‘Would I be able to have a few minutes with him, with you present of course? As his brother, he might have a different perspective on anything that was bothering Darren, something he'd been doing or someone he'd been seeing… but perhaps was afraid to tell you about it.’

  Louise looked away again with tears welling up. Swallowing hard, she scrubbed at her right knee with the palm of her hand. Harrison knew the thought her son might have kept something from her was hard.

  ‘I'm not sure. Like I said, he's very upset.’

  ‘It would just be two minutes, and I promise to stop if you think it's distressing him,’ he replied softly.

  She thought a moment longer, then nodded. ‘I'll go get him, he’d want to help,’ she said, heaving herself from the sofa.

  Harrison heard her footsteps tread heavily up the stairs before returning in stereo a couple of minutes later. A young teenager followed her into the sitting room. There was no mistaking he was the boy in the photographs with Darren, but since that time he'd started to morph into the young man he would be. His face had lost its puppy fat; the eyebrows thickened; his hair was styled; and he was now taller than his mother. But he hadn't just physically aged from the printed version on the shelf; he looked as though he'd had the energy of youth drained from him overnight, leaving just a ghost of the boy. Harrison's heart went out to him.

  ‘This is Noel, Darren's brother,’ Louise said.

  Noel barely looked at Harrison. He guessed that at the best of times—like most teenagers—his social skills were underdeveloped, and he lacked the confidence to engage in direct eye contact. Now it was a hundred times worse. Noel just couldn't stand allowing another human being to see the raw emotions his eyes betrayed.

  ‘Hi, Noel,’ Harrison said. ‘I’m Dr Harrison Lane, how you holding up?’

  Noel shrugged and still didn't look up.

  ‘I won't keep you long because I know this is a tough time. I’m a psychologist working with the police to catch the man who took your brother, and you might be able to help. I wanted to ask if there was anything different you'd noticed about Darren's behaviour. Anything he'd said to you in the days or weeks before he went missing.’

  Noel shook his head.

  ‘It might be something really sma
ll, or it could be something he asked you not to tell your mum, but you know it's important now to share anything at all that might help us catch who did this to him, right?’

  Noel lifted his head and looked at Harrison. ‘Yeah, I know,’ he said, his voice a broken whisper, the combination of emotion, lack of use, and hormones.

  The house phone rang, making Louise jump at the noise and halting their conversation. She let it go to the answering machine, and all of them stopped and listened to Louise's cheerful recorded voice telling whoever that she couldn't come to the phone right now. It was a woman from another time, a woman who bore no resemblance to the one she was today. There was a beep and then a pause before they all heard, ‘Louise, it's Mum. We're packed and just getting ready to leave.’ Louise jumped up and grabbed the phone off the charger.

  ‘Mum, I'm here,’ she said, and walked to the other end of the sitting room to carry on the conversation.

  Harrison took his chance to ask some more questions—questions Noel might answer differently without his mother listening.

  ‘Did the two of you hang out much?’

  Noel shrugged, ‘Yeah, you know, at home and stuff. He's quite a bit younger than me, so we didn't really do much outside, like.’

  ‘What kind of things did Darren like to do?’

  ‘Ride his bike, play Minecraft, usual stuff,’ Noel replied.

  Harrison was aware of Louise watching them from a few feet away, but she was still talking on the phone.

  ‘Was there anything bothering him? Did he mention someone in particular?’

  Noel shook his head repeatedly. ‘No. No, there was nothing.’

  ‘How would you describe your brother's personality?’ He'd already asked their mother that question, but he needed to know if Noel agreed.