by Michael Wood
‘It’s a long way to come for work.’
‘That’s why I live in.’
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘About three years.’
‘So why Starling House?’
‘There was a job vacancy and I needed one. Simple.’
‘What did you do before coming here?’ Rory asked.
‘Quantity surveyor.’
‘Bit of a difference.’
‘I went on a course after I was made redundant. If you’ve got a degree you’re halfway to being a tutor. It’s not rocket science.’
‘How do you get on with the boys here?’ Sian asked.
Call Me Fred crossed and uncrossed his legs and adjusted himself to be more comfortable. He was too tall for the plastic seat he was perched on. ‘I teach them. That’s it. I don’t have to get on with them.’
‘Are they well behaved?’
‘Some of them.’
‘But not all?’
‘Well, of course not. You know what boys are like.’
‘I don’t, actually,’ Rory said. ‘What are boys like?’
‘Well, some of them want to learn; some of them don’t.’
‘So they misbehave?’
‘Some of them do.’
‘Are you strict?’
‘You have to be, don’t you? If they see you as weak they’ll take the piss and walk all over you.’
‘Is there any inmate in particular who has taken the piss lately?’ Rory asked.
Sian noticed Fred’s hands were twitching.
‘Not to my knowledge. They all try it on at least once.’
‘Did you speak to Ryan Asher on Monday?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about?’
‘We talked about how academic he was, what lessons he enjoyed, what books he liked to read.’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘He was quiet, nervous. They all are when they first arrive. He seemed like a bright kid. He took a numeracy test which he passed with flying colours.’
‘Are they usually so bright?’ Rory asked.
‘Who?’
‘Killers?’
‘I can’t speak for all of them, obviously, but the ones I’ve taught have limited brain power.’
‘So you’re saying they have below-average intelligence?’
‘Yes.’
‘Interesting.’
Sian could see what Rory was doing: compiling more data for his personal investigation. ‘Were you shocked to hear he’d been killed?’ she quickly asked, regaining control of the interview.
‘Of course I was. We don’t have any trouble here which is surprising when you think about it.’
‘Where were you on Monday night?’
‘I was in bed. I had a bit of a headache so I went to bed early and watched a few episodes of Frasier.’
‘No one can verify that I take it.’
‘Nope,’ he smiled, or grinned.
‘OK. Thank you for your time,’ Sian said with a forced smile.
‘What’s it like to work here?’ Rory asked as Fred stood up to leave the room.
‘I like it. The staff are pleasant, and the majority of the boys I’ve taught over the years have been a pleasure to teach.’
They waited until he had left the room and his giant footsteps could no longer be heard before they spoke.
‘The staff aren’t pleasant at all,’ Rory said once he knew Call Me Fred was out of earshot. ‘Have you seen them? They’re all miserable buggers. I don’t think I’ve seen one of them smile yet. Apart from him. I wonder if he’s had that smile stapled on.’
‘What was that all about?’ Sian said quietly.
‘What?’
‘Questioning about the intelligence levels of killers.’
‘I was interested,’ he shrugged.
‘We’re not here to look into brain patterns of killers, Rory. You need to focus on these interviews, understand?’ she said, raising her voice slightly.
‘Sorry,’ he said, head down. ‘So what did you think of Fred?’
‘I didn’t like him. There’s something oily about him.’
‘Probably the stuff he puts on what’s left of his hair,’ Rory sniggered.
‘No it’s not that. He comes across as a touchy-feely kind of bloke.’
‘You think he’s messing with some of the boys?’
‘He probably isn’t, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was.’
‘It’s not like you to make snap judgements, Sian. You’re spending too much time with Aaron.’
‘Hmm,’ she replied, deep in thought. ‘Make a note to run a check on him, Rory. There’s something there and I can’t put my finger on it.’
Richard Grover was next to be interviewed after Call Me Fred. He slumped down in the plastic chair in the staffroom. It creaked under his heavy frame. His breathing was laboured as if he had walked up several flights of stairs, even though they were on the ground floor. In his forties, Richard Grover was grossly overweight. His eyes were almost lost in the rolls of fat on his face, and he didn’t so much as sit on the chair than perch. His pea green uniform strained at the seams.
‘How long have you worked here, Richard?’ Sian asked.
‘Let’s see. I was at Greggs from 2000 until 2003,’ he said to himself, looking up at the ceiling as if the answer was written there. ‘Then I was at Gunstones for a while until my operation. I was off for a while with that. I’d say about four years maybe.’
‘OK. Do you live on the premises?’
‘We all do. I only live in Derby. It’s not far away but I don’t like driving at night – with my eyes – so I stay here on shift days.’
‘What’s your relationship like with the other staff?’
He looked taken aback by that question. ‘It’s fine. We get along OK. Have a chat and a laugh.’
‘Have there ever been any problems with staff?’
‘In what way?’
‘Any disciplinary matters, maybe?’
‘Who’s been talking?’ he asked defensively.
‘Nobody. Why do you ask?’ Sian asked, sitting forward on her chair, suddenly interested.
‘It’s just … no … nothing.’
‘Go on,’ prompted Rory.
‘Look, just because she’s my cousin it doesn’t mean I’m responsible for her, does it?’
‘Sorry, because who’s your cousin?’
‘Elly Caine.’
‘Who’s Elly Caine?’ Sian looked down at her list of all the staff members. There was no mention of an Elly Caine there.
‘She used to work here.’
‘When?’
‘About a year or so ago. She wasn’t here long.’
‘And what happened to her?’
‘She was … told to leave,’ he replied, choosing his words carefully.
‘Why?’
‘Look, it’s got nothing to do with me. I wasn’t even on shift. You should speak to Mrs Moloney.’
‘I’m asking you, Richard,’ Sian raised her voice. ‘You’ve just said you’re family. I’m guessing you discussed it at some point.’
Richard’s eyes travelled around the room. The expression on his face showed he was debating whether to reveal all or act dumb. A sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead and a bead slid down the side of his face.
‘She hit an inmate,’ he blurted out.
Sian and Rory exchanged glances.
‘She was provoked. I believe her. Look, you don’t know what it’s like working in here. It’s like a pressure cooker. They may be young lads but they’re vicious bastards. They’ve got tempers. They’ve vindictive. Once they find your weak spot they’ll press it and press it until you explode. That’s what Elly did.’
‘Who did she hit?’ Rory asked.
‘Jacob Brown.’
‘So, on one hand we’ve got some members of staff saying everyone gets on and everything is happy and normal. Then on the other hand it’s a pressure cooker and people
are on the verge of snapping on a daily basis.’
Matilda was sitting in the boardroom of Starling House listening to the report from Sian and Rory about the staff they interviewed.
‘It sounds to me like the staff are as unreliable as the inmates,’ Rory said.
‘I think you might be right there. I’ve thought Kate Moloney was hiding something from the moment I saw her. She’s obviously keeping this Elly Caine woman to herself. I’m guessing Kate didn’t give you her file?’
‘No,’ Sian replied. ‘She only gave me the files on the current staff. None for the ones who no longer work here.’
‘Right, go back to her and ask for all the files. Every single one of them. And find out where this Elly Caine is.’
‘Will do.’
‘Bloody hell, Sian,’ Matilda sat back in her chair, exasperated. ‘I’m really missing your chocolate drawer.’
TWENTY-FIVE
Pat Campbell was in her element. She rarely got the chance to drive these days. Anton said he didn’t trust her behind the wheel as she was too impatient with other road users. However, on this occasion, Pat was driving while Anton studied the copy of Thomas Hartley’s file that Matilda had given her. They were on their way to Manchester, ostensibly to do a bit of shopping and have a bite to eat (that’s what they’d told their son), but really to track down some people Thomas Hartley knew and find out if he really was capable of butchering his entire family.
‘It says here that Daniel Hartley was very vociferous about migrants coming to live in Manchester … ’
‘Does it actually say vociferous?’ Pat interrupted.
‘No it says vocal.’
‘Then say vocal then. Don’t be so bloody pretentious.’
‘Either way he was very outspoken when it came to foreigners entering the country. He attended rallies and protests and was arrested twice. Maybe that got him killed.’
Anton Campbell was a retired university lecturer. He had spent the majority of his career teaching physics at the University of Sheffield. As much as he enjoyed his job, the constant budget cuts, red tape, and bureaucracy sucked out all his love for the profession, and he took early retirement when Pat did. He was a tall man in his mid-sixties with a full head of brown wavy hair with just a hint of silver. He was active and went swimming most days. He loved a puzzle and was often engrossed in a crossword. When Pat had told him about the Thomas Hartley mystery, he jumped at the chance to become an amateur sleuth.
‘Was he a racist?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Anton said, scanning the various statements in the folder. ‘He’s quoted in the Manchester Evening News as saying he doesn’t mind foreigners coming into England, providing they come here to work, speak English, and not sponge off our NHS and benefits. Is that racist?’
‘Who knows today? It sounds like he’s standing up for his beliefs.’
‘People do get killed for their beliefs.’
‘Yes, but they’re usually political leaders and heads of state – not … what was it Daniel did for a living?’
‘He was a rep for a confectionery company.’
‘There you are then.’
‘We all have to start somewhere. Do you think Saddam Hussein left college and applied for a job as a dictator?’
‘So what are you saying: Daniel Hartley sold fun-size bags of Maltesers by day and was a Nazi sympathizer by night?’
Anton thought for a second. ‘It’s possible.’
‘No. If someone killed him because of his beliefs he would have been shot in his car or beaten to death on his way home at night. He, his wife, and his eight-year-old daughter were literally hacked to death. The killer knew them and wanted them all to suffer. He, for arguments sake let’s call the killer a he, hated the Hartleys so much that he wanted to obliterate them.’
‘So it’s a personal crime then?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So why not kill Thomas too?’
‘I’m not sure. Hang on, doesn’t it say in the file that Ruby used to go to her parents’ bed when she couldn’t sleep?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe the parents were just the target. The killer got into the house, went to kill Daniel and Laura, found Ruby in bed with them and killed her too.’
‘Again, why not Thomas?’
‘Because their argument wasn’t with the children.’
‘But if you’ve just killed an eight-year-old girl you’re not going to have any qualms over killing a fourteen-year-old boy.’
‘Anton, look … oh we’re here.’ Pat was pleased they had arrived at their destination as she had no idea how she was going to finish that sentence.
Anton had raised an interesting question: when you’re killing an entire family, why leave one person behind? If the killer was known to the Hartleys then he would have known how many people were in the house. It wouldn’t have taken long to find Thomas and kill him like he just killed his father, mother, and sister. Another question: how had Thomas managed to sleep through an entire massacre? She knew teenagers enjoyed their sleep, but a mass murder would wake them up, surely.
Pat was beginning to have doubts about Matilda’s theory. Yes, she saw a timid and frightened young boy in Starling House, but maybe he was finally sorry for what he had done. Or, maybe he was a very talented actor.
TWENTY-SIX
Faith and Scott were sitting in a coffee shop close to Norwich Crown Court at Bishopgate. As usual, Scott was hungry. The large latte, panini, and double chocolate chip muffin would keep him going until lunchtime – and that was only two hours away.
‘How do you manage to stay so slim when you’re eating all that?’ Faith said as she gave her green tea and mini biscotti a pathetic glance.
‘I have a high metabolism,’ he said, tearing a huge chunk off his tomato and mozzarella panini. ‘Also, I go to the gym with Rory four times a week and I go running at the weekends.’
‘I should hate you. You’re so bloody perfect. You’ve even got great skin.’
‘Yeah, I’m a real catch,’ he said with a mouthful.
‘You are. Look at you, tall, good-looking, great hair – why aren’t the girls flocking around you?’
Scott blushed slightly. ‘If you didn’t have a boyfriend, I’d think you were flirting with me, Miss Easter.’ He gave a nervous smile. He hated personal conversations. Fortunately, a barista dropped a tray full of mugs and their attention was drawn in his direction. Once the laughter and applause had died down, the subject changed to safer territory – like a killer on the loose in Starling House.
‘There are some court cases that stay with you. The Ryan Asher case is one of them.’
The court usher, Gerald McCarthy, was getting ready to attend another case that had been delayed due to the judge being stuck in traffic. He was in his black gown but had not yet put on his wig, which was sitting next to him like a faithful cat. He was a tall man with bug-like eyes and a prominent Adam’s apple. The broken capillaries on his face were evidence he enjoyed a liquid lunch. His shaking hands were a clear sign he lived on his nerves.
‘It was standing room only most of the time,’ he continued. ‘We had to turn people away.’
‘Was that just because it was a high profile case, or supporters of Ryan Asher and his family?’ Scott asked.
‘If memory serves me correctly, there weren’t many of his family there. His mum and dad and maybe one or two others. It’s usually old women and gawkers.’
‘We read online that there was an incident. One guy had to be removed from the public gallery or something?’ Scott asked, not wanting to prompt Gerald, or lead him into giving a false statement.
‘That’s right, I forgot about him,’ Gerald replied, pausing while tying his shoelaces to look up. ‘Funny looking guy. Big moustache. Tall and thin. He turned up every day in the beginning. Then he just suddenly burst into this tirade about how it was all the parent’s fault, that they didn’t bring him up properly. He really laid into them.’
‘Who was he?’ Faith asked.
‘I’ve no idea. It took three security personnel to drag him out of the court room. We called the police and they took him away – probably just gave him a caution because we didn’t see him again after that.’
‘Did the Asher family know who he was?’
‘No. I asked – can’t remember her name – a woman; she was always comforting Mrs Asher. I took her to be her sister or something. Anyway, I apologized for the disturbance, like you do, and asked her if she knew who he was. I mean, it was a family case, wasn’t it? He killed his grandparents. The only people who should be baying for blood should be the family. But she said she’d never seen him before in her life.’
Scott and Faith exchanged a frowned expression.
‘And you’ve never seen him since?’
‘Nope. And I’m good with faces. Names I forget as soon as I’ve heard them. But I never forget a face.’
‘Would there be CCTV footage of him being escorted out of court?’
‘Not after all this time.’
The door opened and a small woman popped her head through. ‘Gerald, the judge has arrived.’ She disappeared just as quickly.
‘Right, that’s me. Time to wig up and get to it.’
‘What’s the case today?’ Scott asked as all three of them left the room.
‘Start of a new trial. A teenage boy killed his twin sister,’ he shook his head. ‘It makes you wonder what this world’s coming to doesn’t it?’
‘What’s he pleading?’
‘Not guilty. He’ll probably end up at your Starling House.’ He let out a huge belly laugh that ricocheted around the open reception then he disappeared among the throng of visitors in the direction of the courts. With his maniacal laugh and flowing black cape he looked like a superhero heading into battle.
‘A tall man with a big moustache. It doesn’t give us much to go on, does it?’ Faith sighed.
‘No. It doesn’t,’ Scott said, not paying any attention to Faith.
‘Come on, we’d better go and book into the hotel before they give our reservation away.’
Faith stood up to leave but noticed Scott sitting on the bench. He looked pensive.
‘What’s wrong?’ She asked.
‘Nothing. I just had a thought: why would you attend a trial if you had nothing to do with the case?’