Catalyst (38 page)

Clarisse's fragile show of cool professionalism evaporated in a little-girly squeal.

“Really?” she said. “Yes, of course.”

She took the keys from Tom and went to retrieve the car. Tom chatted casually with Jez whilst the technician kept his eyes riveted on Mags. Clarisse returned with the car, driving a little more quickly than the 150 yard journey merited.

Tom and Mags shook hands with them both, Clarisse leaning forward inviting a kiss on the cheek – an invitation Tom declined. They drove slowly and quietly past the media crowd at the pub, looking pointedly away to reduce the chance of recognition. They were just past when Jed caught sight of them and Tom put his foot down and gunned the car out of the village. Behind them, Jed ran into the road, followed by a few others, pointing after the car as if he had just seen Tom steal it. They were soon well on their way home. Tom slowed down and they drifted gently along the quiet roads.

“Feel okay, darling?” asked Mags after a while.

“Yes, I do, actually,” said Tom. “Better than I thought I would.”

He paused a few moments.

“Thanks for coming, Mags. I really appreciate it. You're the reason I'm feeling okay. I couldn't have done that on my own.”

Mags smiled at him, and then added, mischievously.

“It doesn't do anything for my peace of mind, you know, seeing that young hussy with the microphone squirming and melting under your gaze. Are you like that all the time? I think I'd better insist you come home every night.”

“Just part of the job,” said Tom. “Actually, it's the part I hate most, but it's got to be done.”

“Oh, yes, I could see it was agonising for you.”

“And anyway,” said Tom, “what about the landlord – and the technician – I could actually
hear
them dribbling. Just try to make yourself a bit less sexy next time we go out, would you?”

“Hey, you've no idea how hard I had to work to look as bad as this,” she said. “Anyway, that landlord got my name wrong. Who the hell's Mrs Brown? Even so, perhaps I shouldn't have fluttered my eyelashes and pouted at him. He was rather good-looking though, don't you think.”

“Absolutely not, and whatever you did, just don't do it again – except for me, of course.”

They both laughed.

“Just one more thing, Mags,” said Tom, becoming serious again. “You know when you spoke to that journalist?”

“Yes,” she said, a little anxiously.

“Thanks for not mentioning the Little Winton by-pass.”

She gave him a very severe frown.

“It's a good job you're driving,” she said.

“I wouldn't have dared say it if I wasn't.”

Jack and Katey retired early that evening, tactfully leaving their parents to themselves. Before going to bed, however, their daughter gave Tom some ‘feedback', as she called it, from one of her friends.

“Joss would like you to sign a pledge saying that if you ever divorce Mum you'll wait until she's old enough and then marry her. What shall I tell her?”

“Tell her fine, but let's try and keep it out of the school newsletter for the time being.”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

“She'll do it, you know,” said Mags, after their daughter had left. “She'll tell her tomorrow.”

“Well that'll teach you not to do all that fluttering and pouting and flirting again.”

They smiled at each other affectionately in silence for a while.

“I hope they both go to sleep before we do tonight, don't you?” said Mags.

“Me too,” said Tom. “Then Sumo to a finish this time.”

CHAPTER 14

At 9.30 on Monday morning, Jo Cottrell watched as DC Murray Davenport passed the two computer-generated images across the desk. The face of the tall black youth who had led the attack had been gruesomely constructed from a photograph of the surviving half of his face. The other, of Jokey, was the product of an abundance of information from eyewitnesses.

Stephen Davies, headmaster of Princes High School, leant forward in his chair and looked at the two pictures. Then he shook his head and turned away.

“Dillon Enderby,” he said. “Fifteen years old. Hasn't been in school for a long time. Eight weeks or so, I believe.”

“Thank you, Mr Davies. Do you recognise the other boy?”

“Not for certain,” he replied, “but I think you'll find that it's his brother, Joaquin.” He pronounced it ‘Wa-keen'. “He attends Gosforth Road Primary School, which shares the same site as us – across the playing field. The head teacher is Mrs Julia Braden. This is all so terrible.”

“Do you know why Dillon hadn't been attending school?”

“No, we've been round to the address in Dewsbury Close a number of times; members of staff – including myself – and community police officers. There appears to be no-one living there at present.” He shook his head again.

Mr Davies was in his mid-fifties, medium height and thin. His face was drawn and pale. What remained of his hair was long and grey and combed straight back, hanging wispily and curling up over the collar of his jacket at the back. He wore a grey suit and white open-necked shirt. The overall impression was of a man who was monochrome and battle-weary.

“What about the other boy who was killed? Do you know who he is yet?” he asked.

“Yes, his parents identified him this morning. I'm afraid he was a pupil here as well – Denzel Jones.”

“Oh, God. Actually he hasn't been in school either.”

“Did you know they were friends, Denzel and Dillon?”

“Yes, I'm afraid they were both part of a particularly violent and disruptive group.”

“And could you provide us with the names of other members of this group, Mr Davies?”

“Yes, I suppose I could.”

“Good, I'll send an officer to see you as soon as possible. You see when we went round to Denzel's house and searched his room, we found a rather disturbing collection of weapons hidden under the base of his wardrobe.” She checked her notebook. “Three different types of handgun, a quantity of long-bladed knives, and a Mac-10 machine pistol. That last item is capable of delivering over a thousand rounds per minute. You can't even begin to imagine what damage that could do. So it's important we track down these kids, in case they're all keeping a stash like that somewhere.”

“Yes, I'll do what I can, obviously.”

“Thank you, Mr Davies. I'm sorry it's such bad news. Do you have a photograph of Dillon we could have? It might be useful in finding his brother.”

“Yes, of course. It might take me a while to get one.”

“That's okay. I think we're ready to see Mrs Braden now, anyway. If we call back in, say, twenty minutes?”

Jo and Murray walked the short distance across the playing field to the primary school.

“Where do you think the nickname Jokey come from?” asked Murray.

“From the spelling I suppose,” said Jo. “J-o-a-q-u-i-n.”

Murray screwed up his face in thought. “Of course, as in Joaquin Phoenix. Except up to this moment I've always called him Jo-kin Phoenix.”

Mrs Braden could not have been more different from Mr Davies. In her early thirties, vivacious and smiling, she had long blonde hair, streaked with pink highlights, and an eyebrow stud. She wore a short flared black dress with white spots over black leggings. Jo wondered whether she represented the ‘before' and Mr Davies the ‘after' of a career teaching in Cullen Field. She was, however, clearly affected by the events of two days ago, especially when they produced the image of Jokey.

“Oh dear,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “Yes, it's Jokey all right. He is the most lovable kid – when he's here, that is. His big eyes, his smile. He's cheeky, I know, but he's not bad. Very popular with the other children and the staff. But it's always the same with younger siblings; they invariably want to be like their big brothers. And I'm afraid Dillon is a very bad lot… ”

“
Was
a very bad lot,” said Murray. “I'm afraid we've just identified him as one of those killed on Saturday.”

Julia said nothing for a long time as if she was choosing her words carefully. “I guess I should be shocked and saddened,” she said, “but it just might be the only way Jokey will have a chance. Does that sound really bad?”

“We can't help what we feel, Mrs Braden,” said Jo. “Only what we do. And I don't necessarily disagree with you. You just said ‘when he's here'. Has he been absent recently?”

“Yes, for a long time, I'm afraid. Probably a couple of months. People have been round to the house, but no-one seems to be living there.”

“And how old is he?”

“Just eight. We all sang ‘Happy Birthday' to him in assembly just a day or so before he stopped coming in.”

“Thank you, Mrs Braden. Do you think we could have a photograph of Jokey, please?”

“Yes, of course.” She turned to her PC and with a few touches of the keyboard a sheet was emerging from the printer next to it. Another contrast with Mr Davies, Jo thought. She took the A4-size image from the headteacher.

Walking back to the high school gym where the Parkside MIT incident room had been established, Jo's phone sounded.

“DC Cottrell speaking… I see… When?… Thank you.” She ended the call. “Emily Burton just died,” she said. “The lady who got the glass through her throat. Five dead now.”

DC Drury knocked on the door of 16 Dewsbury Close, clutching the photographs of the Enderby brothers. The large man who opened the door was unshaven, unkempt and, seemingly, unwashed. But not unfriendly.

“Detective Constable Drury,” said Geoff, “and this is DC Wheeler.” They held up their badges. “Mr Grainger, isn't it?”

“That's right. Jerry Grainger. Come in.”

The detectives glanced at each other in surprise. They had been preparing for having to talk their way into the house. The man gave the impression he was used to visits from the police. He turned and led the way into a living room which met all the standards of cleanliness and order that Mr Grainger set for himself. “It's about next door, I suppose?” He waved to a couple of chairs at the dining table and sat down opposite them.

“Why do you say that, Mr Grainger?” asked Siobhan

“Jerry, please. Well, when I saw it on the tele yesterday about the village and about the two black kids involved, I started to wonder, like.”

“Are these the two you mean?” Geoff put the photographs on the table.

“That's them. Although we haven't seen them for ages. Probably a couple of months.”

“The whole family or just the boys?”

“The lot of them. The kids weren't always at home anyway, stayed out nights on end. And when they did come back it was sometimes midnight or after. Not right for a seven or eight year-old, is it? Always in trouble as well. Dillon used to have real big fights with his dad – you could hear them through the walls, crashing about, screaming and shouting. Dad was always pissed, mind. Although, the few times I saw him when he wasn't, he seemed like a decent bloke, really. Your lot always round here; sometimes had to nearly break the door down before they'd open up. Made our lives a misery – well, everybody's in the close. Wife's been really bad with the worry and all. We were glad when they left – I can't tell you how much.”

“Have you any idea where they might have gone – the parents, I mean?” said Siobhan.

“None at all, and I doubt if anyone else could help you either. People tended to stay out of their way. Obviously the kids were still around somewhere though.” He shrugged his shoulders and gave a mirthless little laugh. “It's coming to something, isn't it, when the parents run away from home.”