Angels and Apostles

by Tony Hutchinson

  Sam’s eyes were as wide as her smile. ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘A bloody window cleaner.’

  Sam burst out laughing. ‘Shut up you old goat.’

  Paul Adams, the newest member of the team, came into the office. ‘You wanted to see me boss?’

  Sam briefed Paul on Jeremy Scott.

  ‘Ring Hampshire and see if they’ve got anything,’ she told him. ‘I know it’s late and Force Intelligence’s probably shut, but see what you can find out. Try the media down there as well. See how you can access the archives.’

  Paul was watching and listening, nodding occasionally.

  ‘I want to know everything there is to know about our Jeremy Scott,’ Sam told him. ‘Always remember the old adage Paul. The more we know about the victim, the more we know about the killer.’

  ‘Leave it with me boss.’ He turned and walked away.

  Sam watched him go then turned to Ed.

  ‘I want to see Curtis Brown again. He had piano lessons off someone in The Avenue. What if his teacher was Jeremy Scott?’

  ‘Hans, this is Adam’, Julius said.

  Hans van Dijk was standing in the doorway of a 1920’s three storey terraced house; the huge front door looking like a fresh coat of black gloss was applied every time someone went out.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Adam fought down a laugh. The guy should have been called Rupert. He followed the bright yellow cords and red jumper and their 60ish owner down the tiled hallway.

  ‘I’ve got some decent Malt,’ van Dijk said.

  There was no trace of an accent, but Adam presumed the university professor look-alike must be Dutch or maybe South African.

  The living room was large, three plugged-in air fresheners locked in battle with stale pipe smoke, the lavender just getting the better of the cherry-flavoured tobacco.

  White floor to ceiling bookshelves, crammed with books, filled every alcove. The carpet was probably older than Hans. The five armchairs, an eclectic mix of fabrics and colours, were around a large wooden coffee table, its thick carved legs drawing the eye to the stronger, less worn colours of the carpet underneath the table. That table hasn’t been moved in years, Adam thought, and there’s no settee. Does that mean he doesn’t like people getting too close, physically or emotionally? That he valued his personal space?

  Hans looked the type of guy, intelligent, studious even, to know the answers to those kind of questions.

  Whisky tumblers filled and passed around, Hans placed an old Johnny Walker pot jug with water in it on the table. ‘Help yourself gentlemen.’

  Adam poured a splash of water into his drink and took in the old TV and video recorder, museum pieces in the flat-screen age.

  ‘Hans’ family originate from Utrecht, but he’s been over here for decades,’ Julius said. ‘Lectures at the university.’

  ‘What’s your specialist subject?’ Hans stared at Adam, one leg crossed over the other, holding the glass which was perched on his knee.

  ‘Tennis, or at least it used to be.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Hans said. ‘Adam would you excuse us a moment. There’s something I need to show Julius in the kitchen.’

  Hans followed Julius from the room and across a short hall and closed the kitchen door behind them.

  ‘Who the hell is he?’ Hans demanded, face burning red, his backside leaning against the wooden bench.

  Julius shook his head in wonderment at the gleaming Belfast sink in the corner, the whole room spotless.

  ‘Something smells nice. What is it? I can definitely smell garlic.’

  ‘Italian,’ Hans muttered. ‘Never mind that. Who is he?’

  ‘Calm down,’ Julius smiled. ‘He’s kosher. He sits in the park every day watching the little lovelies. What do you think he does that for?’

  Hans brought the crystal to his lips and downed the drink, saying nothing.

  ‘You’re paranoid, that’s your trouble,’ Julius said. ‘I approached him. He’s a tennis coach who got arrested but didn’t go to court. Young boys.’

  ‘So you just embrace him do you?’ Hans broke his silence. ‘Bring him into the inner circle so to speak.’

  ‘Just like I did with you all those years ago,’ Julius was still smiling. ‘Now come on, let’s get back to our guest. He’s got a sporting pedigree that could come in useful, especially in the summer. He could teach the boys tennis.’

  Adam was studying the bookshelves when the two men walked back into the room.

  ‘So Adam,’ Hans said pouring another whisky. ‘Julius tells me you’re into young boys.’

  Adam stood motionless, not even a flicker from his eyes.

  He watched as Hans walked to the TV unit, opened the rosewood drawer and selected a tape.

  He looked over his shoulder and waved the cassette.

  ‘Home movie,’ Hans said. ‘Nothing too heavy, just a guy with a young boy. Ancient now, but still watchable.’

  He put the tape in the player, turned on the TV, and watched the snow blizzard static quickly replaced by a grainy film.

  ‘Thought we might get to know each other a bit better,’ Hans said. ‘As we are all friends together it seems...’

  ‘Bloody hell Hans,’ Julius shook his head.

  Hans stepped away from the screen and unfastened his belt.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Adam said, ‘I understand. You can’t be too careful. I’d love to, really, but I’m at that age when some of us have problems and I haven’t got any, err, assistance with me right now. Sorry.’

  ‘Pity,’ Hans grunted, stomping to the video player and turning the film off.

  Ed pulled the steering wheel to the right, veered across the road and came to a screeching halt outside a general dealer’s store. He pressed the button for the electric windows, damp evening air filling the car.

  ‘Get in Curtis.’

  Curtis Brown, cigarette gripped between his lips, bent down and peered into the car.

  Ed returned the stare. If the eyes were the gateway to the soul, Curtis’ were the doors to nowhere.

  ‘It’s DS Whelan,’ Ed said. ‘We spoke at the police station this morning.’

  Bloody hell was that just this morning?

  A flicker of recognition; Curtis opened the back door and climbed inside.

  Ed left his window open despite the chill. Sam opened hers all the way but a diffuser the size of a phone box and a gallon of Chanel No5 wouldn’t have won a fight with the ripe aroma.

  Ed pulled away.

  ‘Where we going?’ Curtis said.

  ‘I just need to ask a couple of questions Curtis,’ Ed told him. ‘We were on the way to your squat when we spotted you at the shop.’

  Ed glanced in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘By the way I saw your mam. She sends her love. I didn’t realise you played the piano.’

  Sam looked over her shoulder and watched Curtis sit bolt upright, his knees squeezed together and body stiff. Ed had hit a nerve.

  ‘Who were you going to be? Elton John or Billy Joel?’ Ed said.

  Curtis turned his head and looked out of the window.

  ‘I don’t even know who that last bloke is.’

  ‘You don’t know Billy Joel?’ Ed grinned. ‘The Piano Man?’

  He started to sing the first couple of lines of the song.

  ‘I hope he sounded better than that,’ Curtis said.

  Ed made a mock-hurt face into the mirror.

  ‘Nothing wrong with my singing.’

  All three were laughing as Ed pulled into the yard at Seaton St George Police Station.

  Curtis eyed the yard gloomily. ‘I’m not going to be here all night am I?’

  ‘Hopefully not,’ Sam told him. ‘Let’s just get out of the car, stand here, and you and I can have a cigarette. Don’t let anybody see you though. You’re not supposed to smoke here.’

  Curtis offered Sam one of his cigarettes, the box trembling in front of her.

  ‘Thanks Curtis but I
prefer these.’

  She lit a Marlboro Gold.

  ‘Curtis,’ Sam said, inhaling smoke. ‘Your mum told Ed you went for piano lessons somewhere on The Avenue.’

  She studied him, waiting for a response, a once good-looking lad now in his mid 20s, 6 feet tall and probably weighing less than 8 stones.

  Curtis’ whole body shook as he blew smoke upwards.

  ‘Long time ago. I didn’t like it but my mam kept pushing me. I used to think she was doing it just to get rid of me for an hour.’

  ‘Can you remember what they called the teacher?’ Sam pushed.

  Curtis looked down and allowed smoke to drift from his mouth and nostrils.

  ‘I thought you wanted to talk to me about the body, not some piano teacher from years ago.’

  ‘Humour me Curtis,’ Sam said. ‘You never know, I might be thinking of taking up the piano myself.’

  Curtis looked at her.

  ‘It was Scott...Jeremy fucking Scott,’ he said at last. ‘And I hope you play better than he sings.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Adam leaned against the wall of the floodlit five-a-side pitch and scanned the blank membership form Julius had given him. He noted the parental permission dotted line and wondered if they knew what they were agreeing to.

  The form did specify that no child would ever be left alone with one adult. That sounded good in principle and looked reassuring on paper but when everyone involved had a taste for young boys it meant nothing.

  The only people protected were the perpetrators themselves; the word of two adults against one child, a child that probably already had issues at school and with the law.

  Earlier Julius had given him the tour...a glassed reception area where a young woman in a yellow polo shirt bearing the centre logo sat at a computer screen; CCTV coverage in the corridors; a couple of vending machines selling energy drinks and bars; changing rooms with showers but understandably no cameras and so the obvious place for the ‘sexual assault zone’.

  Upstairs was a bar with sliding patio doors to a balcony overlooking the ten five-a-side pitches and at the end of the corridor, the manager’s office.

  Adam considered the potent combination: alcohol, vulnerable young boys and predators.

  He was on the balcony, watching the youngsters on the pitches below, when Julius tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘What do you think then?’

  ‘Seems well organised.’

  Julius looked upwards, smiled, and shook his head.

  ‘It’s that alright, but I meant the latest crop?’

  Adam stared back to the noise and movement on the busy pitches.

  ‘They seem nice kids.’

  Julius puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘Adam, we each know what we are. Let’s cut the bullshit. Anyone caught your eye yet?’

  Adam looked straight head and didn’t answer.

  ‘Look there’s a party next Friday night after the football,’ Julius told him. ‘A couple of the older boys are coming, you know, drink and cigarettes, a little cocaine. Hans has organised it. Are you up for it?’

  ‘You sure Hans won’t mind?’ Adam sounded doubtful. ‘He didn’t look too happy when I couldn’t join in the synchronised wank.’

  Julius’s laugh this time was genuine and throaty, a nod to his ambivalence towards tobacco health warnings.

  ‘Quality…synchronised indeed.’

  He laughed again. ‘Are you up for it then?’

  ‘Yeah okay,’ Adam couldn’t stop his own small smile. ‘What time and where?’

  ‘We’ll meet here then we’ll walk,’ Julius said. ‘Hans will transport the boys. He’ll text me the location as we walk.’

  ‘All a bit cloak and dagger,’ Adam looked back to the boys below. ‘Doesn’t he trust you?’

  ‘It’s called being careful,’ Julius said quietly. ‘That way we keep out of prison.’

  ‘Feeling better than you were this morning?’ Harry Pullman asked as John Elgin walked to the bar.

  He glanced around. The place was busier but not packed, the customers a mix of older couples in winter coats and a younger crowd dressed for summer. Typical north east.

  ‘How’s Oscar?’ Harry asked as he pulled a pint of Peroni.

  Elgin watched the glass turning golden.

  ‘Withdrawn, upset, hurt,’ he told Harry. ‘Everything you’d expect him to be. He doesn’t want to report it though and his parents don’t want to force him. Meanwhile, the two fuckers responsible walk around without a care in the world.’

  Harry put the pint in front of Elgin. ‘People like that always get what’s coming. How did anyone find out?’

  ‘He just blurted it, poor kid,’ Elgin reached into his pocket for change.

  Harry shook his head. ‘On the house.’

  ‘Cheers.’ He drank the crisp lager, froth attaching itself to his moustache. ‘He only went to the football because his parents thought it might get him off the iPad for five minutes. Always been a bit of a loner our Oscar.’

  He drank some more and had another look around.

  ‘But he’s never liked football,’ Elgin went on. ‘Why they sent him there I’ll never know. The bastards who abused him are called Julius and Hans. If I could get my hands on them.’

  He swallowed three mouthfuls of Peroni, enjoying the cold rush in his throat.

  ‘A man in your position is better keeping his hands clean,’ Harry told him. ‘Leave dirty work to dirty hands. What about his dad?’

  Elgin put his glass on the bar top and wiped his mouth.

  ‘Iain?’ he said sourly. ‘Don’t be daft. Not everyone from Glasgow wants to fight. Drink maybe, but not fight. Iain couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag.’

  Harry stepped away to serve a couple further down the bar and picked up Elgin’s empty glass when he returned. He swapped it for a fresh one and held it under the Peroni tap without asking.

  ‘As I said, they’ll get what’s coming to them.’

  ‘You believe that Harry?’ Elgin nodded his thanks for the new pint and put a £5 note on the bar. ‘I think they’ll get away with it and while I say nothing, the next kid’s getting lined up.’

  Harry took the money.

  ‘You can’t say anything. Oscar and his parents would never speak to you again. They’ve trusted you with the information. They don’t expect you to spout off about it.’

  Harry let his words sink in before continuing. ‘Something will turn up. Trust me. Down the Astroturf you said?

  Elgin nodded, hunched over the bar and stared into the pint glass. It was becoming a habit, the pint and the staring.

  ‘Now about these licences,’ Harry was saying now. ‘We’ll need more info.’

  ‘What do you need to know?’ Elgin said without looking up. ‘I just want Skinner off my back.’

  Harry spoke to the top of his head. ‘John, it’s not that simple. It’s not going to happen overnight.’

  Elgin dragged his eyes from the glass, told him the applications didn’t start to kick in until January, that there was time enough.

  ‘That’s good, but we need to know the premises he’s eyeing up,’ Harry said. ‘We’ll need to sort out some backers. He’s got more cash than us. It won’t be easy.’

  ‘I never said it would be, but it’ll make you rich Harry.’

  ‘And for that we’ll always be grateful,’ Harry said. ‘Goes without saying if this comes off, drink, food, girls...always on the house.’

  This time Elgin met his eyes.

  ‘On the house is what got me into trouble with Skinner.’

  ‘But he uses people,’ Harry said. ‘Forgets what side his bread’s buttered. We’re not like that.’

  Elgin dropped his gaze back to the glass and the gently bubbling lager.

  You’re all like that. Out of the frying pan…

  ‘Jeremy Scott’s dead,’ Sam said.

  Curtis Brown stubbed out the cigarette with his left foot and pulled another from the packet.


  ‘Fucking great,’ he lit up. ‘No good ever came from his life.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ed joined in.

  Curtis shook his head and spoke as he let out smoke. ‘Nothing mate.’

  ‘Curtis we know what Jeremy Scott used to do with young boys. The body you found.’ Sam stopped and fixed her eyes on his. ‘The body was Jeremy Scott.’

  Curtis’ cigarette hand started shaking. ‘What are you saying?’

  Sam studied him. ‘I’m saying the body was your old piano teacher.’

  ‘No, what are you saying?’ Curtis demanded. ‘I did it?’

  ‘Did you?’ Ed’s voice was neutral.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Sam stepped in front of him. ‘Look at it from our point of view Curtis. We know what Scott was.’

  ‘Do you? Do you?’ He shouted. ‘You have no idea. Every week my mother dropped me off there.’

  He flicked the cigarette away and immediately lit another. His eyes filled and his cracked voice fell to a whisper.

  ‘Every week. She may as well have wrapped me in fucking Christmas paper.’

  He inhaled and stared at the ground.

  ‘Shall we get a cup of tea?’ Sam said, touching his forearm.

  Curtis was still shaking his head when Sam’s mobile rang in her pocket.

  She took out the phone and saw Bev’s name on the screen. She answered, listened, and typed a quick text to Ed before returning the mobile to her pocket.

  Ed read the message.

  Neighbour of Jayne’s saw Scott walking towards a white van. No reg.

  ‘Sure you don’t want to get that cuppa Curtis?’ Ed said.

  ‘No. Once I’m in there you’ll try and stick this on me.’

  ‘Curtis...’Sam said.

  ‘I knew it was him,’ the voice loud and raw. ‘Knew it was that bastard when I saw him.’

  ‘Calm down Curtis,’ Sam said, voice soothing, melodic. ‘How?’

  Curtis looked at her.

  ‘I saw them taking him in,’ he said. ‘I recognised him when they dragged him out of the van.’