Case One (16 page)

“I don't do church.”

“Why not? What's more important – lying in bed or showing your faith? If your mother was here…”

And so on and so on and so on…

What his father couldn't or wouldn't accept was that Ryan just didn't buy that stuff any more:
Jesus is love; turn the other cheek; the meek shall inherit the earth.
As far as Ryan could see, just living on the Cadogan Estate proved all that was bullshit, and if you thought it didn't you were just conning yourself.

So, even though he was awake, Ryan was still in bed when his phone rang. It was Dav.

“What's up?” Ryan said.

“You seen your car, man?”

“What car?”

“Your dad's. A blue one, right? Least it was.”

“What the fuck you talking about?”

“You need to look, man,” Dav said. “I'm down here now.”

Ryan pulled on his jeans and a sweatshirt and pushed his bare feet into his trainers. Then he left his room and headed for the front door, passing his father in the kitchen, dressed in a suit and a tie.

“Ryan, where're you going?”

“I'll be back in a minute,” Ryan said, opening the door. “I just need to see something.”

Outside the wind was icy. He crossed the landing quickly to lean over the rail and look down. In the parking bay three floors below he saw exactly what Dav had been talking about. His father's dark blue Fiesta looked like something out of a comic book, with a large patch of white paint splashed over the roof and windscreen. Across the bonnet, where the white paint hadn't reached, a hasty, stick-like tag had been sprayed in yellow with no attempt at artistry:
KB
.

Dav was standing beside the car, looking up, and when he saw Ryan he made a pointless gesture towards it.

“Stay there, I'm coming down,” Ryan called, and as he did so he sensed someone arrive next to him. When he turned he saw his father looking down at the same sight.

“Is that— That's
our
car!” Leyton Atkins said, with disbelief in his voice.

By the time Ryan had pulled on a pair of socks and a jacket and jogged down the stairs, Charlie and his father were already at the car. Dav had been joined by a tall, gangly boy called Tree and another called Simmo. All three were standing together, but not too close to the car, as if they wanted to make it clear they'd had nothing to do with the damage.

“Who'd do that?” Mr Atkins said as Ryan came to look more closely at the damage. “Why?”

Ryan said nothing. To him it wasn't a question that needed an answer.

Nearer the car, Charlie reached out and tested the white paint with his finger. The paint was still tacky but had obviously been there for some time. Charlie knew the answer to his father's question too, and it gave him an odd, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach – part guilt and part anger.

“Don't get it on your suit,” Mr Atkins told Charlie sharply. “Come away.” He was taking his mobile from his pocket.

“Who're you calling?” Ryan asked.

“The police,” Mr Atkins said. “Who else? I want to know who did this. I want them arrested.”

Ryan knew from his father's tone that he was winding himself up to shout at someone. He glanced at the KB tag on the bonnet again, then back at his father. “The police won't know who did it.”

“They can find out,” Mr Atkins said with determination. “Decent people shouldn't have to put up with things like this. It's just mindless vandalism. I'm not going to let them get away with it.”

“What about church?” Charlie said. “We'll be late if we don't go now and you can't drive the car like that.”

His father paused, then looked at his watch.

“If you wait for the police it could be ages,” Ryan said, pressing the point.

For a moment Leyton Atkins hesitated, then made up his mind.

“All right then, we'll walk,” he said. “But as soon as service is over I'm calling the police. Whoever did this, they're not getting away with it, whoever they are.” He looked at Ryan. “Are you staying here?”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah.”

For a second it looked as if his father was going to argue about that too, but then he simply nodded and gestured to Charlie. “Come on, we'll need to get a move on.”

As Charlie and his father strode off towards the road Ryan cast another look at the Kaddy Boys' tag on the car bonnet, then he moved to where Dav, Tree and Simmo were standing.

“You know who done that, don't you?” Tree said.

“No, who?” Ryan said sarcastically.

“They had to know it was yours,” Dav said. “I mean, that's gotta be it – cos it's your dad's.”

“Fucking Alford,” Ryan said. “No way he's claiming this block. No fucking way. Cloudsley's ours.”

“You reckon that's what he's trying to do?”

“Got to be, innit?” Simmo cut in. “What else?” He looked at Ryan to see if he'd agree.

Ryan thought about it for a moment, then he said: “Anyone seen them today – Alford's lot? Any of them?”

The others shook their heads.

“Okay, so we'll find them. I'm gonna sort this. I want to know what the fuck he thinks he's doing, then we decide how we handle it, okay?”

The others nodded.

“Okay then,” Ryan said, determination hard in his voice, and he started away towards the centre of the estate.

3.

EMERGENCY DEPT
QUEEN VICTORIA HOSPITAL
09:52 HRS

The Emergency Department was already busy but Dr Scobie wasn't hard to find. Between treating a pub league footballer for a twisted ankle and a DIY enthusiast with a gashed hand, Holly caught up with him and took out the forms she needed filling in.

Scobie seemed a bit less offhand than the last time they'd met – perhaps because of Sergeant Stafford's “reminder” about good communications. Whatever the reason, Holly took the opportunity to ask him about Ashleigh while he scrawled on the paperwork.

“When someone's been knocked down like that, is it normal for them to be unconscious this long?”

“There isn't really any ‘normal',” Scobie said without looking up. “I haven't seen her notes since she went upstairs, but I'd probably be expecting her to come round within the next twenty-four hours unless there's been major damage.”

He signed the last form and handed it back to her. “How did the investigation go – did the rape kit show anything?”

Holly hesitated, but given that he seemed better disposed now she said: “She'd had unprotected sex but it's not clear whether it was rape.”

Scobie nodded. “Well, at least she won't be pregnant.”

“Sorry? I mean, how do you know?”

“If there's a suspected rape we ask whether the patient's using oral contraceptive. If not, we can suggest the morning-after pill to be on the safe side. Obviously I couldn't ask Ashleigh, but when I examined her arm I saw she'd a contraceptive implant.” He gave her a significant look. “I'm only telling you that on the basis of good communications. You know what I mean?”

“Yes. Thanks, doctor.”

“Yeah, well, thank your sergeant,” Scobie said dryly. And with that he moved off towards the bay where the DIY man was bleeding.

Holly put the signed papers away and headed off along the corridor which led to the main entrance of the hospital. She wasn't really paying attention, though. Instead, her mind was running around the piece of information Dr Scobie had casually dropped out: Ashleigh Jarvis was using contraception.

It should have – would have – been no big deal, except for one thing:
She isn't like that. I mean she's not into boys yet – not serious: not more than fancying someone in a band or whatever, you know?

That was what Lauren Booth, Ashleigh's best friend, had said. And Taz Powell had intimated the same thing: Ashleigh was still young for her age, not very mature.

So why have a contraceptive implant?

Of course, there could have been medical reasons, but somehow Holly was pretty sure that wasn't the answer. The more she thought about it, the more she believed that Ashleigh was a girl with secrets. The question was whether those secrets related to anything that had happened to her on Friday night. Or was it simply that Ashleigh Jarvis thought and did things that she would never admit – not even to her mother or her best friend?

4

Even though it was still well before opening time there were three cars parked on the rough patch of ground next to the pub and Drew Alford recognised one of them as Tommy Vickers's Merc. The man in the leather coat who stood beside it wasn't Vickers though, and as Alford made his way towards the side door of the red-brick building he knew he was being watched all the way.

The sensation only added to his suspicion that something had changed. It had struck him the moment he'd answered the phone twenty minutes ago and heard Tommy Vickers's voice say, “The Fox and Garter, Wellbeck Street. I want to talk to you.”

“When?” Alford asked. He'd still been in bed and half asleep.

“Now,” Vickers said. “Come in the side.” Then the connection went dead.

That was when Alford knew that whatever the reason for being summoned, he'd better have his wits about him when he arrived.

There were several crates of empty bottles beside the side door and a couple of torn bin bags. For a moment Alford hesitated, then twisted the door handle and pushed it open.

Inside it was gloomy. There was a short corridor passing the toilets, then an inner door with square glass panes. When Alford opened this he stepped into the pub lounge, with a dozen tables and closed curtains at the windows. Grey light came from a few wall lamps and the ceiling lights behind the bar.

A second man – older than the one outside but just as much a minder – was sitting at a table with a cigarette burning in an ashtray and a Sunday newspaper spread in front of him. He looked up as Alford came into the room. “Who're you?” he said, taking his cigarette from the ashtray.

“Drew Alford,” Alford said. “Tommy called me.”

The man looked him over for a second, then nodded and stood up. “Wait there.” He moved off towards a door by the bar, disappearing through it.

Alford waited a moment. He could hear voices and an occasional bark of laughter from the other side of the pub – the saloon bar – but what was being said was too indistinct to make out. It sounded like there were several people in there, but even when he moved closer to the bar he couldn't see anything of the other room and after a moment he went back to where he'd been told to wait.

A minute or so later the door by the bar opened again and the man with the cigarette came back.

“He'll be here,” he said.

Alford gestured towards the door. “What's going on?”

The man looked at him. “Poker,” he said simply, then sat down and returned to his newspaper.

There was another burst of laughter mixed with a couple of catcalls from the other bar and a few seconds later Tommy Vickers pushed the dividing door open. He was dressed in jeans and an open-neck shirt, the sleeves pushed up his arms. From his expression it was impossible to tell if he'd won or lost on the last hand.

“What were you doing yesterday?” Vickers said without preamble, crossing the square-patterned carpet to where Alford was standing.

“Yesterday?” Alford frowned, as if the question didn't seem to have an obvious answer.

“The police,” Vickers said. “They took you in. Why?”

“Oh, yeah,” Alford said, making out that he finally understood. “It's okay, it wasn't anything to do with—”

“I didn't ask you that,” Vickers cut him off. “I said
why
?”

Alford took it and nodded. “There was a girl, Friday night. She was attacked or some shit. I'd seen her – before it happened – and one of her mates tried to make out it was me.”

“Was it?”

“No. No way.”

Vickers eyed him suspiciously but Alford held his ground.

“It couldn't've been, could it?” he said. “You know where I was when it happened – the minimart, yeah?” He glanced at the guy reading the newspaper, as if he wasn't sure whether he should say more in front of anyone else.

“So what
did
you tell them?” Vickers said.

“Nothing. I mean, I told 'em I was over the other side of the estate with some mates. I knew they'd back me up. Got to, cos they were the ones with me at the minimart.”

“The police say anything about that – the shop?”

“Nah, not a thing,” Alford said. “Just this girl. Then they let me go. It's just coppers, yeah? Load of bollocks.”

For a moment Vickers still looked distrustful, but then he shifted and Alford knew he'd sold the lie.

“As long as it is,” Vickers said, then he dismissed the subject. “Okay, I've got something else for you. Cloudsley House, that's your patch, right?”

Alford thought about it quickly. Cloudsley House wasn't his turf because there'd never been any reason to claim it. Now though…

“Sure,” he said. “It's ours.”

“So no one's gonna give you a problem if you come and go?”

“Not if they've got any sense.”

Vickers nodded, as if that was the correct answer. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a key ring with two keys hanging from it.

“Flat 407. It's empty – least, it's supposed to be. I need someone to keep an eye on it – go up once a day and make sure it's secure: no one hanging around.”

“I can do that,” Alford said. “No sweat.”

“Hold on, I haven't finished yet. – Time to time you'll get a call from Malc.” He gestured to the man with the newspaper. “That's Malc. When he tells you, you go up and wait inside the place till someone comes, then you let them in. Either they'll be leaving something or taking something. Whichever it is, you wait till they've finished then lock up behind them. The rest of the time, stay away – you don't use it for a shag pad or parties, nothing like that, and it's only you who goes in there, understood?”