‘Was Jonas on your radar?’ said O’Mara. There was no mistaking his accusatory tone.
‘Yes.’
‘So why didn’t you do anything?’
‘How do you know I didn’t?’
Liam ignored the question.
‘Christ, what a mess,’ he said. ‘I’m supposed to be opening two new restaurants next month but Saffron won’t let me go to London.’
‘Can’t you take her with you?’
Liam shook his head. ‘She insists on staying here, to support Isobel.’ He flashed a tight smile then reached for his mobile and slowed to a halt. ‘I need to make a call.’
Joe quickened his pace to catch up with the others. Reaching for his mobile, he scrolled through his contacts and tapped a name. The phone was answered on the second ring. Chrissie sounded pleased to hear from him.
‘How’s it going?’
‘The police are questioning Raoul Jonas. I promised I’d let you know.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been doing some digging. His parents were smack addicts. Raoul went into care when he was seven. His childhood makes Oliver Twist look like Little Lord Fauntleroy.’
Joe frowned. ‘We agreed you weren’t going to talk to anyone till I gave the all-clear.’
‘It’s all in the cuttings.’
‘Anything about animal liberation?’
‘Nope,’ said Chrissie. ‘They used to call him “Asbo Jonas”. God knows why Pennefeather gave him a job. Maybe he’s on a mission to save the world.’
‘Nothing so noble,’ said Joe. ‘He felt sorry for him. And he didn’t do a DBS check.’
‘Fact?’ said Chrissie.
‘Fact,’ said Joe.
‘That’s a mistake he’ll regret for the rest of his life,’ said the reporter. ‘Assuming he didn’t put Raoul up to killing Bella in the first place.’
Joe replayed his conversation with Adam in his head.
It’s as though she’s got a grudge against me, waging a vendetta.
‘What have you got against Adam?’
‘Apart from the fact he’s an over-entitled, chauvinistic prick?’ said Chrissie. Then, without pausing for breath, ‘Was that your son last night, in the pub?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice-looking boy. Takes after his mother, I guess.’
‘None taken.’
He heard her smile. ‘Is everything OK between you guys?’
‘Fine,’ said Joe, still watching the panda cubs at play. He had no intention of rising to the reporter’s bait. ‘Tell me more about Raoul Jonas.’
He heard her rifling through papers. ‘He used to live on an estate in Dover. Shared a house with a bloke he was in care with.’
‘Got a name and address?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Nice use of humour.’
‘Glad you noticed,’ said Chrissie. ‘You had a big sense of humour failure last night.’
‘You turned me over.’
He detected steel in the journalist’s retort.
‘I gave you a chance to keep Luke out of the papers. You were smart enough to take it.’
Joe felt his jaw tighten. ‘Tell me about Raoul’s housemate.’
‘I’m going to doorstep him. You’re welcome to tag along.’
Joe said nothing. Thinking.
‘Unless, of course, Citizen Joe is pissed off with Cruella McBride, in which case he can read all about it tomorrow, along with everyone else.’
Joe stifled another sigh. The hack was a ruthless operator but he’d known worse. She had a knack for getting people to open up, through charm or coercion. He was faced with a choice: tell her to get lost or take advantage of her contact.
‘I’ll meet you in Dover,’ he said. ‘What’s the address?’
18
The housing estate clung to the outskirts of town, the slopes overlooking the ferry port. A grid of drab streets reminded Joe of his time as a PC, making door-to-door inquiries. Long days and nights of domestics, burglaries and dangerous dogs.
There were few cars. Local incomes stretched to Sky Sports and Superkings but not much further. Joe found the address that Chrissie had given him and pulled up outside a house on a litter-strewn street. Someone had dumped an old fridge in the front garden. The gate had been wrenched from rusty hinges, doubtless stolen or sold as scrap. As he climbed out of his car, he saw Chrissie’s Fiat approach from the opposite direction. She parked expertly, her front bumper inches from his MGB.
‘A regular Fagin’s den,’ she said, gesturing towards a trio of youths cruising by on BMX bikes. ‘Best lock those shiny wheels.’
She zapped her fob. Joe followed suit. They approached the front door. The faded blue paint was peeling and blistered. Chrissie rang the doorbell.
‘His name’s Duwayne Speed. Any reason to think he’ll know what’s happened to Raoul?’
‘Not unless Raoul called him,’ said Joe. ‘He was only taken in for questioning an hour ago.’
‘Perfect,’ said Chrissie switching on a smile as the door was opened by a man in his late twenties. He wore a Manchester United top, frayed at the collar, and grey tracksuit trousers. In his hand was a bucket of carrots and oats.
‘Mr Speed?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Chrissie McBride, Kent Today.’ She showed her press card. ‘This is my photographer, Joe.’
Caught off guard, Joe nodded a greeting. The woman was taking a risk. Joe’s photo had been in all the papers but he guessed the man wasn’t much of a reader. ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s about your pal Raoul,’ said Chrissie. ‘I assumed you’ve heard?’
The man scratched his belly. ‘Heard what?’
‘The police took him in for questioning.’
A frown. ‘About what?’
Chrissie increased the wattage of her smile. ‘Mind if we come in for five minutes?’
‘I don’t talk to the press,’ said Duwayne, as though the world’s media queued at his door every day.
‘Don’t blame you,’ said Chrissie. ‘We’re just a local paper so I can’t offer more than thirty quid.’
The non sequitur took the man by surprise. His hesitation lasted long enough for the journalist to press home her advantage. She flourished a fifty-pound note, like a magician conjuring the ace of spades.
‘Call it fifty, but the extra will have to come out of my own pocket.’
Joe could see the man’s mind working overtime.
‘Photos will cost more.’
Chrissie gave a nod. ‘Probably won’t do photos today. And we’d need the editor to sign off on anything over five hundred quid.’
The man struggled to disguise his eagerness. ‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘Clock’s ticking.’
They followed him across a strip of lino, through the damp-smelling hall, into a galley kitchen. Joe followed Chrissie into the small garden. Two goats were tethered to the door of a chicken run in which six bantam hens were competing for specks of grain. Chrissie stooped to pet a goat.
‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’ she said.
‘They’re not permanent,’ said Duwayne. ‘I’m looking after them till the sanctuary sends a van. Bloke next door thought they’d make good pets. But he got sent down for six months. His missus needs me to get rid of them.’ He sighed. ‘Malnutrition, lice, worms – the lot.’
‘The goats or the wife?’ said Chrissie.
The man didn’t return her smile.
‘What’s this about Raoul?’
He scooped oats and carrots from his bucket, scattering food for the goats. Joe let Chrissie take the lead.
‘There was an incident at Pennefeather’s yesterday,’ she said. ‘The police think Raoul had something to do with it.’
Duwayne stiffened, his face turned towards the goats. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’
Joe and Chrissie exchanged a surreptitious look.
‘How long have you known each other?�
� said the reporter.
‘Since we were kids.’
‘Were you in care together?’
‘If you can call it “care”.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Chrissie. ‘I call it “couldn’t-care-less”.’
Joe gave the reporter a sideways look. Her smile had disappeared. Duwayne seemed to be reappraising her, too.
‘You were in care?’
She nodded, her face grave. ‘From nine until sixteen. Might write a book about it. Misery memoir.’
Duwayne nodded. ‘Raoul says we should write a book. About the bad old days.’
‘I bet it’d sell a million,’ said Chrissie. The smile was back. ‘My throat’s as dry as a witch’s tit. I’ve got cold beers in the car. OK to bring them in?’
The man threw back his head and laughed. ‘“Dry as a witch’s tit”,’ he said. ‘I like that.’
Twenty minutes later, sitting next to Chrissie on an old orange sofa, Joe watched Duwayne nursing his second beer with one hand while stroking a large white cat with the other.
‘Raoul says I’m like the baddie from a Bond movie,’ said Duwayne, settling into his Barcalounger. ‘But I’m like, “screw the baddie, I want to be the first black Bond”.’
Joe returned his smile. Chrissie’s beer was having the desired effect.
‘Have you always been into animals?’ he said.
Duwayne nodded. ‘You know where you stand with animals. Look after them, they’ll look after you.’
‘Does Raoul feel the same?’
Duwayne took a swig of beer and smiled.
‘I call him a fan-imal,’ he said. ‘We kept mice in the home. Beetles, moths, frogs, butterflies, birds. Us and them against the world.’ He took a pack of cigarettes from his tracksuit pocket. ‘He was Superman. I was Batman. We had a Spiderman too but God knows what happened to him.’
‘What was Spiderman’s real name?’ said Joe.
Duwayne gave a beery burp.
‘No idea. We called him Spiderman when we were little, then we got older and he became “Spider”.’ He grinned, enjoying a private joke. ‘Worst temper you ever saw but a good laugh. We used to mess around, nicking cars and stuff.’
He struck a match and lit a cigarette, exhaling twin plumes of smoke. Joe felt the familiar craving but pushed it away.
‘I’ll bet you saw some tough times,’ he said. A leading question.
Duwayne nodded, dragging on his cigarette. ‘You can say that again.’ He blew a smoke ring then pierced the hole with his finger, warming to his theme. ‘One night the three of us nearly got done for having a go at Muxworthy.’ He stood to empty an overflowing ashtray into a bowl encrusted with cornflakes. As the man resumed his seat, Joe noticed Chrissie crossing her legs and repositioning her arms, mirroring Duwayne’s body language.
‘Who was Muxworthy?’ she said.
‘The bastard in charge of the home,’ said Duwayne. ‘Nice as pie when anyone else was around – probation officers, social services – but as soon as the coast was clear he had his mates over for “Happy Families”. If we said no, he tied us up and…’
He tailed off then rolled up a sleeve and bared his arm. The latticework of small scars was faded but visible.
‘The “uncles” gave him money but we never saw much. Just a few quid if it looked like we were about to kick off.’
‘Most of it went to Muxworthy?’ said Joe.
A nod. ‘Ninety-nine per cent.’
‘What were the “uncles” paying for?’ said Chrissie.
The man squinted against the smoke from his cigarette. ‘What do you think?’
Chrissie’s voice betrayed no emotion. ‘If it’s anything like the place I was in, it was so men could take you upstairs.’
Duwayne said nothing.
‘Or into a cupboard.’ Chrissie’s voice was flat. ‘Or a basement, or a toilet, or, if you were really lucky, for what they called “a nice run in the car”. An ice cream afterwards to get the taste out of your mouth.’ She stared at the swirly carpet. ‘People ask why you don’t tell someone. They don’t get it.’
Duwayne shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They don’t get it.’
Joe let the seconds tick by then turned to Duwayne.
‘What happened to Muxworthy?’
‘We’d had enough,’ said Duwayne. ‘Me, Raoul and Spider. One Saturday night – Raoul’s fourteenth birthday – we barricaded ourselves in the kitchen, tied Muxworthy up and beat the shit out of him.’ His eyes glinted at the memory. ‘Me and Raoul were riled up – we’d been smoking weed all day – but we were like Mary Poppins compared to Spider. He went apeshit – knives, forks, rolling pins. He made Muxworthy take off his trousers and got to work with a cheese grater.’
He shook his head at the memory then blew another smoke ring. ‘The staff broke down the door. They wanted to call the police but Muxworthy ordered them not to. He never went to hospital. And no one laid a finger on me or Raoul, ever again.’
‘What about Spider?’ said Joe.
Duwayne cupped his cigarette in his hand, eking out one final drag.
‘Last I heard he was a rent boy. London. Making serious money.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘That was five years ago. He’s probably dead now.’
Another silence fell, broken by the doorbell.
‘Bloke from the sanctuary,’ said Duwayne, getting to his feet.
Chrissie stood up. ‘Thanks for your time.’
She handed Duwayne the fifty-pound note then fished in her pocket and found two more twenties.
‘Have a night out on me.’
The man stuffed the money into his pocket.
‘Let me know about the photos.’
Chrissie nodded and cleared her throat.
‘Depends on the editor,’ she said, her smile reappearing. ‘He’s a tight bastard so don’t hold your breath.’
Joe followed Duwayne to the door.
‘Did Raoul mention a girl called Bella Pennefeather?’
Duwayne turned. The frown was back. ‘The one who was killed?’
Joe nodded. ‘Did he ever talk about her?’
Duwayne shook his head. ‘Never mentioned her. I never heard of her till I saw her on TV.’
Outside, Joe and Chrissie joined the BMX boys on the pavement, watching as Duwayne and the man from the sanctuary tried to herd two bleating goats up a ramp and into the back of a van.
‘A cheese grater,’ said Joe. ‘Jesus.’
‘Sounds like he got off lightly,’ said Chrissie, taking her key from her pocket.
Joe studied her face. ‘Mind if I ask how you came to be in care?’
A shrug, feigned nonchalance.
‘My folks died in a car crash. I was nine.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Joe.
Another shrug. ‘What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.’
Joe walked towards his car then turned.
‘All that stuff about the “uncles”? Was it to get Duwayne talking?’
Chrissie said nothing, keeping her gaze on the two men struggling to get the goats under control. When she spoke Joe detected a catch in her voice.
‘I could use a drink.’
Joe’s mobile rang. Katie’s photo flashed up on the screen.
‘Where are you?’ she said.
‘Dover,’ said Joe.
‘You need to go to the cafe on the cliffs,’ said Katie. ‘I’m stuck in a meeting, Luke’s due in court at three. He’s on the verge of getting arrested.’
Joe turned his back to Chrissie and lowered his voice.
‘For what?’
‘They say he vandalized Felix Goodchild’s car,’ said Katie. ‘Graffiti. Homophobic, obscene.’
‘What graffiti?’
‘Just get there. Now. I’ll come as soon as I can.’
Joe drew breath to speak but she had hung up.
‘Everything OK?’ said Chrissie.
He pocketed his phone. ‘We’ll have to have that drink another time.’
/> The journalist gave him a sideways look.
‘If this is to do with the case, you owe me. For the introduction to Duwayne.’
Joe stifled his impatience. ‘Let’s call it quits.’
Chrissie thought for a moment. ‘OK,’ she said as he got into his car. ‘I’ll see you in court. Three o’clock.’
Joe didn’t ask how the reporter knew the details of Luke’s appearance in front of the magistrate. He started the engine and drove away, watching in the mirror as Duwayne Speed and the man from the sanctuary wrestled with the goats.
19
The Bentley was parked outside the isolated cafe, high up on the white cliffs, overlooking the Channel. The car still had its showroom sheen, its appearance disfigured only by graffiti daubed on its black bonnet in red paint, the colour of a postbox. Vermilion. Joe could see why Katie hadn’t been keen to say the words aloud in a room full of colleagues.
I love cock.
He circled the car, feeling the mid-afternoon sun on his shoulders. He raised an eyebrow at his son.
‘I assume this is nothing to do with you.’
He tried to make it sound like a statement not a question.
Luke shook his head. ‘It was like that when I got here.’ He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘I told them but they wouldn’t listen.’
Joe turned to survey the men outside the cafe. Wearing shorts, Tom Lycett was standing alongside Felix Goodchild. The lawyer had his arms folded. Detective Sergeant Hugh Duffy was in his shirtsleeves, lighting a roll-up. Joe hoped Luke and Duffy weren’t going to find themselves standing side by side any time soon. This was not the moment to be searching for signs of resemblance.
‘Can we get this over with?’ Goodchild took off his jacket loosened his tie. ‘A tow-truck’s coming.’
‘Is the engine not working?’ said Joe.
‘The engine is fine,’ said Felix. ‘But I can hardly drive the car in this state. I need it cleaned up.’
‘I bet you bloody do,’ muttered Duffy under his breath.
Joe pretended not to hear. He checked his watch. Nearly one thirty. They could still make the court appearance, as long as the situation was resolved quickly. He turned to his son.
‘Talk me through what happened.’
Luke’s sing-song tone suggested he was talking to a dim-witted child.
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