“That
ain’t….”
“Just
cool your jets, Kevin. I’m not accusing you and I’m not asking you. Yet. I’m
trying to help you to say the right thing. Like I was saying, my boss wants to
clear his desk and dump it all on you. Now, I think you’ve got a few things to
answer for. Your old man. A certain teenage girl. Some class ‘A’ merchandise. A
burglary. Some other odds and sods. But I don’t think you did all of it. I just
don’t think you’re a child-killer.
“So
this is where you should pay attention. Like I said, I can hand you to the bad
cop and bad things will happen to you, or you can cooperate with me and maybe
you’ll be out on probation while you’re still young enough to stack shelves.
But if you’re not straight with me about the things you’ve done, I’ll just have
to assume you’re lying about everything and my boss was right all along. You’ll
just look like a liar and you’ll get convicted as a liar.”
“I
ain’t a liar and I ain’t afraid of your bullshit. You got nowt but what you
saw. What I let you see.”
“Shut
your mouth and engage your brain. Look at my face. Remember me? Friars’ Vaults
car park? You wore black and I ended up black and blue? Course you do.”
“Prove
it,” said Braxton, eyes wandering.
“Want
a peek at my cards, do you?” Slowey produced a sheaf of papers from a binder
and fanned them out. “Read ‘em and weep. First, there’s this lab report. Your
DNA from the blood you left under my fingernails when I tried to nick you at
the pub. Before your dad sparked me out. Want more?”
“You
was out of order. He were defending me.” Braxton shrugged. Slowey swallowed his
elation and restrained himself from picking up his pen and adding to his tally.
He wants to argue, wants to put me right, he thought. Wants to shut me up so
badly he can’t think beyond this conversation.
“Think
about how you’ll explain that to the judge, Kevin. Nowhere to
hide
up
there
in the dock,
all alone.
Where was I? Second. Transcript of
a video interview with a charming young lady, name of Kelly Somerby. Speaks
very highly of you and I bet you can guess what she said, you mucky pup.”
Braxton’s
mouth split into a histrionic yawn.
“Get
used to being tired. You won’t get much sleep on the nonce wing when it’s time
to play
hide and seek.
Third….”
“She’s
well into me, man. Loves me, innit? Ain’t rape or kiddy-fiddling. You’ve got
nowt.”
“Third.
Forensic examination form for the hard-drive CCTV recorder seized in your
bedroom, today. Want to guess what we’ll find on that?”
“That
were the old man’s blag. Made me go along. Go on, ask him!” Braxton tried to
laugh.
Slowey
brandished a thick wedge of paperwork. “It goes on and on, Kevin. I’m not going
to give all my juicy secrets away. But I’ll throw the lot at you if you jerk me
about. And we’re not finished. The dogs are having a good sniff around your
allotment right now. Something funny?”
“Not
my allotment. An’ they’ll get a fucking good sniff of something.”
“That’s
it. That’s all I want. Let’s get the truth on the record. Simplify your life.
Do what your
old man
wasn’t
brave enough
to do.”
“It
was all him. Always about him. You don’t give a fuck about me. It’s still about
him.”
Braxton
studied the calloused skin crowning his fingers, the dirt riming his nails,
flecked with copper that could have been his dad’s flesh, half of his own
flesh. Maybe it was time to grow up; to play the game before the game played
him. This copper seemed harmless enough.
“You
want me to get it right? Tell me. You really want to be free of your old man?
You want to be better than him? Get it all out. Take your punishment. Have your
own life. Come on, Kevin, tell me about your life.”
“He’s
been working with you way too long. He used to be a model detective.” Brennan
slurped from the outsize thermal coffee cup as he stared into the widescreen TV
on which the interview played out.
“Yet
you’re happy to let him run with it, boss.” Harkness leaned against the door of
the custody viewing suite, a cramped afterthought of a room tucked between the
cleaner’s cupboard and the galley kitchen.
“Do I
look happy to you, Rob?”
“He’s
talking. He looks like he’s going to pop and give us everything we need. Even
if we run into….procedural issues, we’ve still got two or three big offences in
the bag.”
“Procedural
issues, Rob? You mean the fact that we’re brazenly exploiting a deranged and
suggestible suspect, even if he is an odious guttersnipe?”
“Doctor
cleared it.”
“I
wouldn’t trust that doctor to clear up a simple dose of clap.” Brennan found
the lever that allowed his seat to recline and crossed his feet on the desk.
“Slowey
hasn’t raised his voice once, boss.”
“But
he is playing this idiot like a cheap piano. What happens when some lawyer
cries coercion?”
“He
doesn’t want a lawyer.”
“He’ll
get one, sooner or later.”
“Want
me to pause it for a powwow?”
“No, Rob.”
“I
don’t think this kid’s that fragile, boss. He’s unhinged, giddy, unpredictable,
disorientated. I think it’s too early for grief, assuming he ever gets to that
point.”
“I
knew you were a pain the arse, Rob, but I didn’t know you were an agony aunt
too.”
“I
think he’s, well, exhilarated. Patricide is a pretty meaningful offence,
psychologically speaking. He’s freed himself from a father who was a hard man
on the street and might have been a hard man in the home too. Not only is the
old bastard dead and gone, but he killed him face to face, eyeball to eyeball.
He’s settled a score, proved he’s a bigger man than he thought he was. If he
plays it right on the inside, he’ll be known as a real hard case. Could be he
sees career prospects in this situation. Particularly if he keeps his stash
hidden.”
“Are
you seriously suggesting pre-meditation?”
“No,
but I think he’s waking up to what it all meant. He might crumble and start to
look human when the shock finally penetrates. But I’m not a psychologist, so
what do I know?”
“You
said it.”
“The
oedipal complex might be in play here. Supplant the father to possess the
mother. Come to think of it, I’ve met his mother…”
“Rob,
shut up.” Brennan slurped more coffee and sluiced the bitter syrup around his
gums before swallowing nosily. ““I trust Slowey. You’ve almost ruined him, but
he’s still a smart copper. Let this pillock spill his guts and we’ll mop the
decks down later.”
“Right,
I’ll go back in then.”
“Don’t
get carried away though. You know what I mean.”
“I’m
not sure I do.”
“You
seem a bit calm about all of this, Rob. Considering what a hard-on you had for
opening up the case again. Back in the day, I reckon you’d have been in there
bouncing him off the walls. You know, looking for some closure.”
“I’m
drinking less coffee, boss, and avoiding sugary snacks. I haven’t maimed anyone
for days now.”
“Just
try to limit the confessions to things you actually think he’s done.”
“I
thought you were old school, boss.”
Harkness
supplied Braxton with coffee while Slowey slipped him increments of pride,
gradually restoring whatever he thought he’d lost when he’d broken the chair,
lost control and shed tears on tape, on camera and in enemy territory.
“I
treated her with maximum respect, you can ask anybody,” he’d said repeatedly
during his account of his relationship with Kelly Somerby. “Of course I shagged
her, I ain’t a nonce.”
Slowey
commended him for his gallantry and assured him that Kelly still thought fondly
of him and didn’t allege any kind of violence or perversion. Braxton had just
enough gumption to deny knowing her age. He knew, of course, that she’d only
just started studying for her GCSE mock examinations; he cared about her and
listened to her.
“Look,
I carried the stuff and sold a bit and smoked a bit, ‘cause I was labouring for
the old man and drinking with him an’ that,” Braxton said during his account of
the family’s drug dealing. “But it weren’t my choice and I didn’t make that
screw bent.”
Slowey
remarked on his courage in being so open, repeatedly assuring him that his
menial role in the business would be noted. It would in fact lend great
credence to his account if he could describe specific transactions he’d been
involved in. Obviously, he couldn’t be expected to remember everything, but
names, places, dates, substances, weights and sums of money would suffice.
Braxton obliged dutifully and at times gleefully. Was he warming to his role as
a player, a villain, a pukka criminal?
“You’re
quite the businessman,” offered Slowey once or twice, seemingly impressed by
Braxton’s grasp of commerce.
“We all
got to make a living, innit?” he replied, perhaps flattered that he was being
treated with the respect due to a fellow professional, perhaps grateful that it
spared him from having to face what he really was.
Once
the youth’s meagre understanding of his father’s business had been tapped,
Slowey reminded Braxton that the footage from the Friars’ Vaults would shortly
be available to compare with his account.
“So
tell me. What were you and your dad and Murphy and Firth talking about that
night? As a businessman, what’s your take on it?”
“Dad
had spent twenty grand of his own dosh on more gear for Murphy to shift inside,
yeah. Murphy had lost his bottle or lost his job or something. Thing is, he
wouldn’t accept the gear and wouldn’t pay for it either. Dad got right in his
face. He called him a bitch and a pussy. Just a bent screw, no use to anyone,
hated by everyone. Said he wanted compensation.
“Dad
gave him a little dig in the ribs. Murphy told us we were all on camera. Dad
said fuck right off it ain’t ever worked. Murphy said there was lots of
witnesses there and anyway he’d make sure the law knew all about dad’s business
if anything happened to him or his kids. Murphy went a bit psycho, saying all
that. He was twitching, you could see in his eyes. Like a cornered rat. I
thought he were going to kick off there and then. We all just stared at each
other. Thinking and staring.”
“So
how come it all kicked off with Firth?”
“Firth
was nothing. Came in to buy grass off me. Wrong time, wrong place, innit. He
must have known Murphy. Said some words, pushed his buttons. Murphy went off on
one, knocking down tables and smashing shit up. Landlord says something about
camera working after all. He’s bought himself a system now so Murphy should
fuck right off before he gets nicked.
“So
then Firth’s gone and so’s Murphy. And my dad thinks we’re on camera now and
won’t stand for that. We’ve got to have the tape or machine or whatever it is. Stupid
bastard Murphy fucked it all up, didn’t he? Him and Firth.”
Slowey
nodded and chuckled, as if acknowledging the gruelling path a hard-working man
has to tread.
“I
mean, if they hadn’t fucked up, I wouldn’t be here, would I? Not like your lot
are interested in a little bit of blow or ganj or smack. Not that I let Firth off
with it though. Gave that piss-weasel a pasting.”
“Well,
we know you came to blows with Nigel Firth,” said Slowey confidently. “We have
his version. In the interests of fairness, we should have yours too.”
“With
him being dead and crispy, yeah, you can’t charge me over smacking him, yeah?”
“Your
knowledge of the law does your immense credit,” replied Slowey, nodding
fervently. “Pray continue.”
Braxton
had left the pub a few minutes after Murphy, keen to escape his father’s
clutches for an hour or two and teach a troublesome punter a lesson in manners.
He’d been under strict instructions to come home when he’d had his fun; there
was work to be done, work that didn’t involve jailbait.
He’d
caught up with Firth on the estate, knocked him about the head a few times,
said his piece and didn’t feel like chasing when he ran. He hadn’t come across
Murphy and hadn’t been anywhere near the bridge over the bypass.
He’d
been to Kelly’s house to kill time and get his oats, crouching in the bushes
near the back of her posh house. But she’d ignored his texts and he couldn’t
have knocked on the door as that risked attention and a leathering from his dad
if he got pinched. By the time he got home, the street was crawling with cops
and firemen. Naturally enough, the burglary at the Friars’ Vaults had been
Keith’s idea; while Kevin had protested, he couldn’t refuse for fear of
violence.