by Isaac, Jane;
Helen took a moment to think about this. Had Sinead involved herself in some scheme, or borrowed the money from a less discerning source in the meantime?
‘Did you manage to reach the carer?’ she asked.
‘Not yet. Her mobile goes to voicemail. I do have some other news. We’ve had a call from a woman in Weston. Believes her son was one of the kids seen running from the factory on Wednesday. She’s bringing him down to the station now.’
CHAPTER 20
Connor gnawed on his thumbnail and watched the detective in front of him look down at her notes. When he’d seen police interviews on television dramas, they’d sat in small windowless rooms with plain white walls, facing each other across a thin-topped table. This was more like a doctor’s waiting room, with comfy chairs, a coffee table to the side, a bland painting of a vase of flowers on the wall. He’d been offered a drink when he arrived, his mother given a coffee.
He was still in a police station though, being questioned in connection with a murder inquiry, and the soft surroundings and gentle treatment did nothing to calm his nerves.
‘Let’s go through this in detail, shall we?’ The woman eased forward as she spoke, a biro wobbling between her fingers. She was younger than his mum, with impish features, and in that lilac fitted shirt and tailored trousers, she looked more like a teacher from his school than a police detective. ‘I’m Detective Constable Rosa Dark,’ she’d said when they arrived and she’d led them into this room, ‘you can call me Rosa.’ That was forty minutes ago. Before she’d showered him with questions about his presence in the factory on Wednesday evening.
The sofa cushions shifted as his mother wriggled beside him.
He’d had the shock of his life when he sneaked in from the park earlier. He was pulling his phone out of his pocket, about to ring his mum to tell her he’d come home sick from holiday club, when he walked through the back door and found her at the kitchen table, a lit cigarette resting in the ashtray beside her.
She never smoked in the house. And when she didn’t greet him, instead coldly commanding him to sit down beside her, terror had crept its spidery legs down his back.
She knew.
He’d slipped into the seat, his gaze resting on the smoke swirling into the air from the ashtray. The laptop open in front of her. Freeze-framed on the news footage of two children crossing the road in the semi-darkness. He’d said nothing. Watched as she pressed play. The screen changed to a fresh-faced reporter, repeating the police appeal for two kids seen at a crossing near Cross Keys roundabout. The photo he’d seen that morning flashed up.
For a split second, he wondered if he was wrong. Perhaps she was fishing, checking to make sure it wasn’t him. He’d been out on Wednesday evening. Billings factory was only a fifteen-minute walk from their home, only ten minutes from the park. It was only natural she’d confront him when she saw the news and ask him if he’d seen anything. He was about to deny all knowledge, say he knew nothing about it, he was at the park playing football, when another still graced the screen, a close-up of one of the boys, showing the edge of a floppy ginger fringe. And his stomach had plummeted.
For months, his mother had pestered him to cut his hair. ‘You’re too old to have hair that long,’ she’d said. Connor had refused. He liked it touching his shoulders, didn’t want to look like the nerdy boys from school. Now he wished he’d taken her advice.
‘You say you went into the factory alone,’ the detective said, pulling him back to the present.
Connor pushed his fringe aside, cursing it again. He’d played down what he’d seen. Said he’d wandered through the factory, taken a look around. Didn’t mention he’d gone upstairs to the offices and saw the woman. How could he? The very image of her made his guts twist. He wasn’t about to answer questions about her.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘We have a witness who spotted two boys leaving the factory together.’
He looked away. Felt his cheeks heat up.
The detective stared at him. ‘If that’s the case, then who is the other person in the photo?’ She passed a still across of them both, standing at the curb, about to cross. Rhys’s shoulders were hunched. His hands in his pockets.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know him—’
‘Yes, you do!’
His mother’s words made him wince.
‘It’s Rhys Evans,’ Fiona said, her voice chipping. ‘It’s bloody obvious, he always walks with his shoulders hunched like that.’
‘Mum!’
‘Mrs Wilson, I have to ask you to calm down,’ the detective said. ‘This is Connor’s opportunity to tell us what happened.’
Fiona crossed her arms.
Connor ignored her eyes burning into his temple. She’d started on about Rhys as soon as she’d switched off the footage at home earlier. What a bad influence he was. ‘You wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for him,’ she’d said. She’d been happy Connor had made a friend when he first took Rhys home. Given him one of the special eclairs she kept for treats, talked to him about the Premier League. But the moment she heard his father was in prison, his sister on bail for a drugs charge, she’d flipped. Didn’t want him in the house.
She didn’t give him a chance.
Connor’s chest tightened. She had no idea how difficult it was to make friends when you joined a school in the middle of the autumn term. As soon as she’d separated from her boyfriend last year, she’d applied for a transfer at work and put their Sheffield home on the market. ‘We’ll get a nice house in the country,’ she’d said. ‘Be much better for you to grow up out of the city. There’ll be loads of parks and grassy areas for you to play football.’
So, boyfriend number four was left behind and they moved on. It was the same every time, although they usually moved to different areas of Sheffield; this was the first time they’d left the city. Connor had no idea who his own father was. When he’d questioned his mother about it, she’d said, ‘You’re better off without him,’ and ‘Don’t we have each other? What more could we want?’ It was becoming more and more difficult to fit in and, at twelve years old, all Connor faced on his first day at school were hooded glares and cold shoulders. He was the new boy in a new area. There wasn’t even space for him on the football team.
They teased him for his floppy ginger hair. Called him carrot-top. Not even original. He’d spent several days hanging around the bike sheds during break, willing the time to pass, until Rhys shouted across from the field one lunchtime and invited him to join their football match. Well, it wasn’t really a match, more a makeshift game using bunched-up sweaters as goalposts. They were a man down, needed him to even the teams, and as soon as Connor started, his skills were admired.
They’d walked home together that day, Rhys and him. Discussing their favourite soccer teams. He supported Chelsea, Rhys Manchester City. The next morning, Rhys was waiting for him at the top of his road. It was good to have company on the way to school.
‘Is it Rhys Evans?’ the detective asked.
Connor shrugged. He recalled Rhys’s words: ‘We tell no one.’ Rhys had been kind to him. Offered friendship when everyone else ignored him. He wasn’t about to get him into trouble. ‘I told you, I don’t know who it is.’
‘We will find out,’ the detective said.
He shrugged again.
***
From the first-floor window, Helen watched the boy and his mother walk away from the station. He was tall for his age, but skinny. And he looked like a deer caught in headlights. Not at all the cocky youth she’d expect to find creeping around factories on a summer’s evening.
She turned to face Pemberton, who’d been standing behind her, watching over her shoulder. ‘What do we know about him?’ she asked.
‘Connor Wilson. Twelve years old. Moved here from Sheffield seven months ago. Lives on the Station Road. No intelligence; he’s not known to us.’
‘Wha
t about his movements earlier on Wednesday?’
‘Claims he was at holiday club until 4 p.m. We’ll get that checked of course. His mother works at Mitchell Levy insurance brokers in town. She said she got home shortly after 4 p.m., they had dinner together and then Connor went out at seven.’
‘Seems late for a youngster to be going out.’
‘I suppose with these light evenings.’ Pemberton lifted a single shoulder, let it fall. ‘He goes over the park most evenings. Has to be in by nine, according to her.’
‘And was he home by nine?’
‘His mother said he came in and went straight to bed. She checked on him after the ten o’clock news and he was asleep.’
Helen worked through the timings in her mind. No one had contact with Sinead after her phone call to Blane at 10.23 a.m. on Wednesday. ‘Charles estimated time of death between 2.30 p.m. and 6.30 p.m.,’ she said.
‘When he was at home with his mother.’
‘Exactly. Look at him, lanky thing. There’s no way he could get Sinead to the factory or manoeuvre her around. Not on his own.’
‘I agree.’
‘What about the clothes he was wearing?’
‘Laundered. Trainers too.’
Helen said nothing.
‘He was scared. We’ve reached out to the other kid his mother mentioned, Rhys Evans.’
Helen sat back in her chair. ‘I know the Evans family. I was their community officer when Old Man Evans used to go on a bender on payday and spend his month’s wages. He’d come home and knock seven bells out of Lynn, his wife. It was my charge that put the father away in the end for ABH. He broke her cheekbone, three ribs, then threw her down the stairs. It’s amazing she lived.’
‘Her daughter was caught with twenty grams of cocaine a couple of months ago,’ Pemberton said. ‘Charged with possession with intent to supply. She’s currently on bail.’
‘Where’s Rhys now?’
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Spencer’s head appeared around the door frame. ‘We’ve got Rhys Evans downstairs and his mother’s doing her nut. I’m surprised you can’t hear her up here.’ He nodded at Helen. ‘She’s asking for you by name, ma’am. Won’t speak to anyone else.’
CHAPTER 21
Helen could hear Lynn Evans’s thick Welsh accent bellowing expletives as she navigated the stairs towards the front office. She gave the counter staff a knowing look and let herself into the front reception.
‘I’m not talking to you and neither is my son. I told you—’
Helen strode into the foyer to find Lynn on her feet, her forefinger in an officer’s face.
She broke off mid-sentence. ‘Finally,’ she said to Helen. ‘How long does it take to get anything done around here?’
Helen snorted. She nodded for the officer to go. ‘I’ll take over here.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s fine. Mrs Evans and I are old acquaintances.’
The Welsh woman straightened her back and shot him a defiant look.
He rolled his eyes and moved away.
‘Shall we?’ Helen said, manoeuvring Lynn and her son into an adjacent interview room.
‘How are you, Lynn?’ she asked. ‘It’s been a while.’ She recollected Lynn’s bloody body laid out on a stretcher, the night they were called. The scared, sleepy faces of her young children as social services lifted them from their beds. ‘He’s gone too far this time,’ she’d said. Eight months later, it was a very different Lynn Evans that appeared in court. Pressing charges had given her strength and she looked taller, stronger, although the scars remained for all to see. Helen remembered visiting her after the conviction, a woman desperately trying to rebuild her life after a history of abuse. She’d signed up to do a healthcare course, was planning a better future for her and the children.
‘Fine,’ Lynn said. ‘Well, I was until your lot came knocking at my door.’
‘How’s Eddie?’
‘Out in nine months. I’ve told him, he needn’t come knocking at our door. We don’t want him.’
Her staunchness was impressive. Few domestic violence victims ever reached this level of confidence. She’d listened to the advice, taken on board the counselling and pulled her life back together. It was heartening to see.
‘How’s Bronwen doing?’ Helen asked. There was no point in pretending she didn’t know about Lynn’s daughter’s charge.
‘Keeping her nose clean. If she doesn’t get off, best we can hope for is a suspended sentence. She needs to keep her job at the supermarket. You do know she’s expecting?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Yup. Little one due in October. Prison’s the last thing she needs.’ She looked away, her face bleak. ‘Prison’s the last thing any of us need.’
Helen gave an empathetic smile. Whereas Rhys had been of nursery age, Bronwen was ten when her father was convicted. As much as Lynn tried to do her best and carve out a better life for them, she wondered what effect watching her father beating her mother, living on the scraps of a dysfunctional family, must have on a youngster growing up.
Her gaze wandered to the young boy with her. Rhys Evans looked even smaller than he did on the footage, almost as if he’d shrunk over the past twenty-four hours.
‘Why don’t we sit down?’ she said to Lynn, pointing at the chairs. She’d taken no papers in with her, no notebook. Like Connor, Rhys had refused a formal witness interview. But Helen still needed an account of what he’d seen and didn’t want to put them off by looking official.
Helen surveyed Rhys. ‘Do you know why we’ve asked you to speak to us today?’ she said in her gentlest of voices.
A muscle flexed in Rhys’s cheek.
Lynn dug an elbow in her son’s side. ‘I’ve told him he’s to talk to you,’ she said. ‘Tell you what he knows.’
Rhys raised his head, exposing a waxy, taut face. ‘I don’t know nothin’.’
If he corroborated Connor’s account, the likelihood of his involvement in the murder was thin. It was always possible he’d spotted someone nearby though, and the pressing need for information weighed heavily. She wasn’t prepared to give up without a fight.
‘Rhys, you’re not in any trouble,’ she assured. ‘We’re talking to anyone that was close to Keys Trading Estate on Wednesday.’
A hint of suspicion flickered across his face. ‘I wasn’t there.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Oakwall Park.’
‘Was anyone with you?’
He looked away.
Rhys hadn’t been arrested. He’d been invited in as a witness, she had no right to take his prints. But… he didn’t know that. ‘Of course, we are examining Billings factory for fingerprints and forensic evidence,’ Helen said. ‘So, we will know who was present.’
His eyes widened.
‘I’m not interested in the fact that you were in the factory,’ she said. ‘But I’d like to understand why, and what you saw there.’
***
Back in her office, Helen rested back into her chair and looked out of the window at the car park below. The sun was sinking, the sky still a beautiful cornflower blue. Rhys’s account, when she finally prised it out of him, was short and curt. He’d clearly thought Connor had mentioned his involvement and, when she neither confirmed nor denied it, he’d admitted being there. He said they’d been messing about on the industrial estate, tried the doors to Billings, found the faulty lock and accessed the factory. He also claimed he hadn’t seen or heard anyone else nearby.
What troubled her was their accounts differed: Rhys admitted they’d wandered upstairs to the offices and stumbled across Sinead’s body. He described the scene, said they didn’t know what to do and scarpered. Connor claimed they hadn’t ventured upstairs. Hadn’t seen Sinead. Why?
And they’d both laundered their clothes.
Rhys was small for his age and self-assured. He made up for any shortfall in his height with attitude. According to Dark, Connor was more r
eserved. Just over a year younger than Robert, in many ways her recollection of him reminded Helen of her youngest son. How would Robert react to seeing something like that? Would he deny all knowledge? Blank it out? Sinead’s broken body at Billings was certainly a sight no child should ever see. He’d be scared witless, no doubt, and fear made you do and say things you wouldn’t normally.
The door clicked open behind her. She turned to find Jenkins entering.
‘Helen, I hear you’ve got suspects in custody?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You’ve traced the boys.’
‘Ah. They’re witnesses, not suspects, and reluctant ones at that. I’ve released them. They were two kids messing about on the industrial estate when they happened upon a body.’
‘Why didn’t they call it in?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe they were traumatised at the time.’
‘How do you know they weren’t involved in some way, or lookouts?’
‘If they were lookouts, or had gone to check on the body, why did they suddenly leave the factory? As far as we are aware, there was no one else around. They were both accounted for during the day. Connor was at holiday club and then home with his mother. Rhys’s mother took him to a dentist appointment in the morning and confirmed he was at home with her for the rest of the day. Sinead disappeared in the morning, we believe she was killed between 2.30 and 6.30 p.m. It couldn’t have been them.’
Jenkin’s face hardened. ‘Did they see anything at the factory?’
‘They’re saying not.’
‘Oh, for the love of God.’
‘We’ve advised them to see their GP if they feel any adverse effects from what they saw, sent them home to rest. I’ll get Rosa to visit them, try again tomorrow. They’re twelve-year-old boys. There’s no way they could have lured Sinead there alone or inflicted those injuries themselves.’