‘Clean? Sir, it’s a little early—’
‘What condition was that down-and-out?’ demanded Ford, glancing surreptitiously towards his car.
‘Not good. It’ll be a while before we get any sense out of him.’
‘Mmmm,’ grunted Ford. ‘I might as well be off then.’ He yawned. ‘We can put the seal on this first thing tomorrow.’ Noble didn’t answer and Ford stole a glance at him. ‘Pity you didn’t keep hold of the bastard. We could have tuned him up a little. Got what we needed.’
‘Sir, if he’s our killer, there’s going to be trace all over him.’
Ford looked down his nose at Noble. ‘But it wouldn’t have hurt to take him somewhere and give him a good hiding.’
‘It might have hurt our case,’ replied Noble.
‘That’s a dead child in there, Johnny. That bastard deserves more than to spend the rest of his days being fed and housed by the state. And I’m sure we could have found a few caring fathers to lend you a hand.’
‘No doubt.’ Ford made to leave but was halted by Noble’s voice. ‘Just for future reference, if I had organised a
tune-up
for the suspect and he’d died as a result, should I have assumed our conversation never took place and shoulder the responsibility myself? Sir.’
Ford turned to sneer at Noble. ‘You know, Johnny, you sound more like that cunt Brook every day.’
Noble smiled frostily. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Six
Friday, 7 December 2012
‘Happy Birthday, Chelsea,’ shouted Adam Kramer, above the hubbub of his classmates, as Chelsea Chaplin blew out the thirteen candles on her cake amidst a round of cheering and whooping. ‘That’s thirteen snogs you owe me, girlfriend,’ he added, to general laughter from the assembled children. Chelsea’s mum suspended her photographic duties to glare at him, her party grin fading for a moment.
When Mrs Chaplin resumed her task, Adam put a hand to his mouth and muttered to his friend standing slightly behind him, ‘Bet Chelsea could pull my train all night long, know what I’m sayin’, blood.’ He giggled suggestively. ‘Choo choo.’
Behind Adam, Scott Wheeler was the only one among the throng of Chelsea’s schoolmates not smiling or laughing. Cherubic of face, he whispered sourly in his friend’s ear, ‘Like she’d look twice at a spongebob like you.’
Oblivious to the insult, Adam ploughed on. He glanced sideways at his friend and winked suggestively. ‘As for Chelsea’s mum,’ he continued, gesturing at Mrs Chaplin’s tight red blouse, ‘she’s one sick MILF.’ He turned to leer at Scott and stuck out his tongue, mock-panting like a dog. ‘I’d tit-fuck her any day.’
‘You mean, you would if you had a dick,’ replied Scott, refusing to look at him.
‘Fuck off!’ mouthed Adam. ‘I don’t get no complaints.’
‘That’s because you’re a virgin,’ sneered Scott. ‘The only pussy you ever seen was down Cats Protection.’
Adam cast around for a sassy comeback but it wouldn’t come and, unable to dispute the facts, he had to take it on the chin.
Dread. Scoot was bang on.
There’d been plenty of tit squeeze and the occasional fish finger but nothing worth sexting about
. Defeated, he glanced at Scott’s impassive features. ‘Why you being dread, man?’
Scott made brief eye contact with his friend for the first time. ‘Like you don’t know.’
‘I know it’s not the best party evs but we can still have a blast,’ muttered Adam, looking round furtively. When certain he was unobserved, he pulled a small Pepsi bottle from his pocket and eagle-eyed Scott to look. ‘Got some vodka into my Coke when Mum wasn’t watching.’ He sniffed self-importantly. ‘Let’s me and you take a trip to the coat room and get wrecked.’
Scott stared at him, coming to a decision. A second later he beckoned Adam to lead the way and followed, looking around to see they weren’t being observed.
‘Don’t hog the lot, bitch,’ complained Adam.
Scott took another pull on the vodka and Coke and handed it back to his friend sitting on the bed. He walked to the window and looked down the two storeys to the dark garden below. He turned back to Adam, his expression severe. ‘I know it was you, Ade. Couldn’t be no one else.’
‘Me what?’ retorted Adam, grinning.
‘Play dumb if you like,’ growled Scott, pulling a Stanley knife from his pocket. As he advanced towards the bed, he slipped his thumb along the stock to expose the blade. ‘You know what I’m on about. Following me around.’ He pressed his face close to Adam. ‘And other stuff.’
Adam paused in mid-drink, his eyes glued to the blade. ‘Are you joking me?’
‘I look like I’m joking you?’ retorted Scott.
Adam shifted uncomfortably as the blade was held in front of his eyes. His voice began to tremble. ‘Scooter, I don’t know what you’re chatting. Swear down.’
Scott gazed at Adam’s drained face, the first doubt softening his own expression. A moment later, he lowered the blade. ‘You didn’t send me no note?’
‘A note?’ said Adam, blowing out a breath in relief. ‘Why would I send you a note when I can BBM you? Old people send notes, you div.’
Scott’s eyes dropped to the floor. Fear and confusion invaded his features. He returned to look out of the window, face hidden from his friend. Couldn’t show fear to his mate. Fear was death. Fear was for victims. Scott Wheeler was a G.
‘Someone sent me a note,’ breathed Scott on to the glass. When Adam didn’t react he continued, ‘Pretending to be Josh.’
‘Josh. You mean Josh Stapleton?’ exclaimed Adam. ‘He’s dead, Scoot.’
Now Scott gurned back at his friend and threw his arms in the air. ‘Think I’m a mong? I know he’s dead, shithead. That’s what I’m on about. Someone’s fucking with me and whoever’s sending me notes knows he’s dead and it’s not fucking funny.’
Adam stood up in case Scott lost his cool and produced the Stanley knife again. ‘Chill, man. I’m your bredrin.’ When Scott seemed calmer he asked, ‘What did the note say?’
Scott exhaled. ‘Saying it was Josh, asking me to meet him.’
‘Where?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said with a covert glance towards Adam, unable to meet his eyes.
‘Anything else?’
Scott took a deep breath. ‘Josh said I should be careful because he wants me next.’
‘Who wants you next? You mean that tramp what merked Josh?’
‘Maybe. Dunno. It just said I’m next.’
‘But that don’t make no sense. The feds caught the skell and banged him up. How can he be after you?’
Scott shook his head. ‘Dunno.’
‘The note, where is it?’
‘Home. Why?’
‘Maybe we can trace the handwriting like they do in
Criminal Minds
?’
‘OMG – stop being a div. We’re kids, you knob. ’Sides, it weren’t written by hand. It were bits of newspaper stuck together.’
Adam’s mouth fell open. ‘Just like in the movies. Creepy.’
Scott turned back to the window, ‘Creepy if you’re a girl.’ He stared blankly at the Stygian gloom below, only a rectangle of light falling on one corner of the overgrown lawn, itself corrupted by the moving silhouettes of partygoers, dancing to some gay music. Poker Face.
A movement caught Scott’s eye and his head turned like a frightened bird. A figure in a hoodie stepped out of the bushes and stood in the shadow of the largest tree. The fat lettering across the chest reading LEGEND, the baggy tracksuit held up by the thighs and the white trainers all caught the eye in the millisecond it took to process the information.
‘Josh!’ exclaimed Scott, gripping the sash window as though trying to pull his face through the glass for a closer look. Though hidden in the shadow of the hood, Scott felt certain the figure was looking up at him. When the figure raised an arm to touch one finger against his head, Scott turned, ashen-faced, to Adam and let out a whimper.
Our salute
.
‘What you say, Scoot?’
Scott turned back to the window, his legs buckling, his fingers gripping the frame to stay upright. The figure had gone.
Adam moved towards Scott who was mumbling incoherently. He peered down over Scott’s shoulder to the garden.
‘What is it? What did you see?’
Scott gathered himself and wrestled his way past Adam, brandishing his Stanley knife again. He hurtled out of the room and down the stairs.
‘Scoot!’ shouted Adam. He ran to look out of the window again but, seeing nothing, followed his friend down the stairs at a safer lick. ‘Scoot! Wait up.’
Seven
Tuesday, 11 December 2012
Detective Inspector Damen Brook woke from a familiar dream with a violent shudder. After running his hands over his face, he sat up to get his bearings, staring at the splayed palm of his right hand. Unlike Lady Macbeth he was unable to find any blood and after a moment’s contemplation, Brook let his hand fall.
It was gone midnight. The TV was on and the trailer for the DVD was playing over and over. He felt for the warm remote under his body and switched off both machines.
He picked up the empty case for
Don’t Look Now
, one of the hundred favourite films his daughter Terri had sent him at the start of his suspension, her misguided apology for almost losing him his job. Brook tossed the case on to the top of the DVD player. It was a good film – atmospheric and chilling.
Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie played a married couple living in Venice, trying to work through the numbing grief that followed the loss of their daughter, drowned in a pond as a young girl. Then the husband begins to see her – in slides he’s shot for his work, in glimpses out of the corner of his eye – and suddenly the couple can believe that their daughter is with them again to comfort them, if only from the afterlife.
Brook had fallen asleep at that point, certain that the couple’s new-found sense of contentment and purpose would end badly. He smiled groggily.
Or maybe that’s just personal experience kicking in
.
He clambered unsteadily to his feet and rustled around in his tiny kitchen, readying the tea things for morning. Tomorrow would be his first day on duty for five months. ‘Today,’ he croaked in a voice unused to conversation. For the first time in his career, the prospect filled him with dread and he thought of his resignation letter, sitting on the printer in his office. The same internal debate that had disturbed his sleep for the last week rose in him again.
Maybe it’s time to get out of the force and get on with life
.
And he’d made a good start. He’d finally given up smoking, for one thing. And having spent the entirety of his suspension hiking around the Derbyshire Peaks by day and sitting on his garden bench by night, whisky and water in hand, examining the stars, Brook wanted more. Five months of rest and recuperation from his injuries. Five months of isolation in his Hartington cottage – easily his longest absence from the job since his breakdown over twenty years ago.
The irony, not lost on Brook, was that only three of those months covered his suspension for gross misconduct; the other two months had been taken up by his recovery from the burns sustained to his hand on his last case, hunting the Deity killer.
Were he ever to break the habit of a lifetime and engage colleagues in conversation, Brook was certain many would tell him he got off lightly, that he should have lost his rank and maybe even his job. It was hard for Brook not to agree with them, not that he felt his offence deserved to end in dismissal, more that such an outcome would at least have simplified everything, made his life easier, his future choices clearer.
And losing his job would have cauterised the seeping loss of his moral authority at a stroke. It would have lanced the sense of shame he had experienced, that for the first time in his career, encompassing all his brushes with superior and junior officers, he’d never been so clearly in the wrong. And with the ringing endorsement of the disciplinary panel, his detractors would be able to look down their noses at him for a long time to come.
Brook padded wearily upstairs to bed, expecting no sleep, settled in his decision. Again.
Early that morning Brook tossed his smartcard on the passenger seat, relieved to see the barrier swing up. He hadn’t been to the car park of Derby Division’s headquarters at St Mary’s Wharf in many months, and he’d got it into his head that his parking privileges might have been withdrawn as part of his suspension.
Brook drove under the barrier to park his elderly BMW in the nearest empty bay, aware that, sooner or later, he’d have to run the gauntlet of derisive remarks from local officers. He killed the engine, at least content that the first wave had been postponed; he was hours early for his reinduction meeting. He poured tea from his flask and reclined, eyes closed, on to the cracked leather, listening to the Radio Derby news bulletin in the dark.
The search for Derby schoolboy, Scott Wheeler, continues and, four days after his disappearance on December the seventh, police are no closer to finding out what happened to the thirteen year old.
Scott, who is five feet eight inches tall with striking blond hair and blue eyes, was last seen by school friends at a party in St Chad’s Road, Normanton, last Friday evening at around eight o’clock. He was wearing black jeans, black Nike training shoes, a camouflage T-shirt with matching baseball cap and a blue hoodie with the words RIP CURL on the front.
A pupil at Derby Community School, Scott disappeared during a birthday celebration at the house of classmate Chelsea Chaplin. The party finished at nine p.m. and Scott’s mother, Beverley Wheeler, who lives in nearby Stone Hill Road, went to collect her son but when she arrived at the Chaplin house, Scott had vanished.
According to witnesses, Scott left the party of his own accord, apparently in an agitated state, though police have yet to verify this. So far, there have been no sightings of Scott after he left the house.
Mrs Wheeler said she was unaware of any problems her son might have been having or why he might have been agitated. She told Radio Derby that Scott is a popular young man and there is no suggestion that he was a victim of bullies. However, gang involvement has not been ruled out because Scott is the younger brother of Callum Wheeler, who was convicted last year of racially aggravated assault and wounding in a fight between rival Normanton gangs.