Gallowstree Lane

by Kate London

  Sarah pulled the shoe protectors on, took the decision log out of the car, scribbled.

  9 October 2016. 23:22 hours. Gallowstree Lane.

  The forensic team was on its way, bringing a pathologist with them for an initial investigation before the post-mortem. Sarah would wait for them before looking in on the poor boy, cold and lonely in his tent.

  She approached the PC on the cordon and showed her warrant card. He called her ma’am and she smiled and said, ‘Sarah, please.’ Fat Elaine was standing at the far end of the cordon arguing with a uniformed sergeant. While the PC copied her details into the log, Sarah watched Elaine, enjoying her bad manners that leavened this sad road with its familiar procedure, its usual constraints and its teenage death.

  Instead of her usual capacious dress, Elaine was in trousers – a concession perhaps to the practicalities of being part of the night-duty homicide assessment team. Pulled tightly around the vague area of her waist, they were a bit too short in the leg and showed her canvas lace-ups.

  Sarah took back her warrant card and walked towards her, watching with some amusement the sergeant’s protests. He towered above Elaine but his face still brought to mind a carp out of water, gulping for air.

  ‘We’ve got three outstanding I grades on the box,’ Sarah heard him saying. ‘A rape scene and a shooting. I need to free up these officers.’

  Elaine’s hands were on her hips. ‘Well, Sergeant, the Met’s not so fucked that you can’t provide cordon officers for a murder. And while you’re at it, I need you to get the first-on-scene back here so I can debrief them.’

  Sarah interrupted, offering her hand. ‘Sarah Collins, I’m the SIO. Thanks for your help. I can see you’re stretched …’

  Taking a minute to negotiate the difficulties of insisting he stretch his team still further, she moved on to her next priority.

  ‘I’ve got a moment before Forensics get here. Can you point me in the direction of the off-duty paramedic who came across the victim? Owen Pierce, I think that’s his name.’

  Owen Pierce was outside the cordon, sitting on the steps of an ambulance, smoking. A thin black man, late thirties probably, with a buzz cut. His clothes were drenched in blood and he had blood on his face too, where he’d wiped it.

  She offered her hand. ‘Sarah, I’m the detective inspector.’

  He nodded. ‘Owen, yeah.’

  He looked dog tired. She said, ‘Well tried. It can’t have been easy.’

  ‘He asked me not to let him die.’ He managed, just about, to get the next words out. ‘I’ve got one the same age at home.’

  The comment rippled through her. She had no children of her own. Did that disqualify her from the pain he felt? It was a familiar moment of alienation, as though he had unwittingly suggested that she was only really watching life on earth and not participating in it. In any case, she certainly knew how it felt when a job went wrong.

  She said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  He nodded, drew his hand across his face.

  He looked terrible. Off duty, just popping to the shop, the boy’s terror catching him unprepared: clearly it had been a bad one. All the usual expressions crowded in, clamouring to be said out loud – you did your best, nothing would have saved him, at least he was being looked after when he died – but experience told her not to voice them. Such utterances served only to make the speaker feel better. As for Owen, he would have to pull himself together and be polite and say something positive he didn’t feel. Yes, or I suppose so. So she said nothing further but instead caught his eye.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, understanding her expression. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’ Then, after a moment, he added, ‘You needed to ask me something?’

  ‘I’m sorry to ask you right now …’

  ‘No, that’s fine. Do your job. Catch the bastards.’

  That was right. Justice was all she had to offer him, and here on the streets of London, into her mind came the scripture of her childhood. If a slain person is found lying in the open country …

  ‘There was another boy with him?’

  ‘Yes, he stole my phone. Can you believe it?’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘He said he didn’t have one to call the ambulance, so I gave him mine. I was working on his friend, turned around and he’d buggered off with it.’

  Sarah gave that a moment to sink in. So doing a subscriber’s check on the phone wasn’t going to tell her anything about the witness who had called the ambulance and named the victim, because he hadn’t used his own phone to dial 999.

  ‘You said he was the victim’s friend. What gave you that impression?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. They were together, of course. But it was also his manner. He was so … anxious. He was black, but he was still white as a sheet, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Did he give you his name?’

  ‘No. I asked but he didn’t say.’

  4

  As if he was a stranger in his own streets Ryan walked, seeing what had happened in flashes: the boys taking his stash; Spencer stepping forward to try to stop them; the silver flash of the knife in the street light, clearer and colder about what it was up to than any of the boys.

  Spencer moving back, suddenly afraid. ‘Please, don’t.’

  And the tall, thin boy with the tattoo had stepped forward, as if in reply, as if Spencer and he were partnering each other in one of those funky line dances from the seventies. Then it was a one-two movement – very quick – the knife darting forward with a jabbing life of its own. A gasp: breath expelled like a punch. Haah. Almost like Spence was agreeing to something. Then he had sort of staggered backwards and put his hand to his thigh, the blood spurting from between his fingers. Who would have thought we had such fountains inside us? Spencer had looked at him, terrified and puzzled.

  ‘Ry, what’s happening to me?’

  The two other boys turned and ran. They probably had wheels nearby, because Ryan heard a squeal of tyres and the grinding roar of a car being driven too fast in a low gear. As he watched his friend’s growing confusion, he thought: Fuck, man. They planned this. They must have planned this.

  He realized he had stopped walking. His thoughts had overpowered him. He opened his eyes and, through a wave of dizziness, saw the present. The street was cobbled. Low houses, nice cars. A Porsche and an old red sports Mercedes. Rich people. He squatted, his back against a wall. There was a sticky wetness on his hands and on the sleeves of his jacket. Had he been cut too? He pulled his hoody over his head, lifted his T-shirt – his torso bare, reassuringly healthy in the night. But as he checked his chest, he hand-printed the shine of his skin with sticky darkness. Spencer’s blood: he realized now that that was what it was. When he’d moved forward and held his friend, he’d covered himself in his blood. His head was spinning with it. He wasn’t coping. He looked up and saw a face staring down at him from one of the houses opposite. The man pulled up the window and shouted across at him.

  ‘What are you doing here? Clear off!’

  Ryan got up and pulled his hoody back on over his head, then began to walk quickly away down the cobbles. That guy was the kind who’d probably call the feds just because he’d seen a brother in his street. The blood on his clothing: any fed who saw him would stop him. It would be a quick chat on the radio before he got nicked. He didn’t know what to do but he knew he had to work that out. He drew the strings of his hoody tight. A beat of blades above him, thumping the air. He looked up. It wasn’t the good guys’ oversized red dragonfly. No, it was the blue and yellow watcher, hovering high, swinging round and scanning the streets.

  Ryan dreaded the secret power of those police eyes in the sky and their radios telling the ants on the ground where to go. An invisible net was being thrown over the streets. He resisted the impulse to run. That would be sure to draw attention. Instead he weaved on through the back streets. He’d take the cut-through down to the canal. There were no cameras down there and there was a bridge he could s
helter under away from the helicopter.

  His heart was racing. He wished he had his bike. Bloody Spence. His had had a puncture. On foot Ryan felt slow, out of his element. The route wasn’t direct. There was a railway line parallel to the canal and the streets kept ending in high walls. He was fenced in, trapped in the streets of the comfortable people. Little brick terraces. Front gardens. One with big stones in it and tall grasses. Through the window of another a flat piano with its massive lid lifted up.

  Any cop car doing a drive-around would be sure to be interested in him. But he had an advantage because these were his ends. The feds would never know the twists and turns like he did.

  At last he was there: barely a gap in the wall just before a little hump-backed bridge. It was a slipway down to the towpath, confined and damp-smelling. As he turned down towards the dark, oily water, a brief picture came to him of those flat-capped folk of hundreds of years ago on their own errands. No different then, he reckoned. Cutthroughs and hideaways and knives. A young man sped past him on a racer but barely clocked him. Bright lights, fluorescent jacket, the cyclist was locked into a different game and had all the gear: the wrap-around glasses, the stretch Lycra, the computer measuring his speed and heart rate. The helicopter was circling overhead. The cloth-capped guys of a hundred years ago hadn’t had to contend with that. Ryan felt utterly alone. He didn’t dare go home with his bloodstained clothes. What if the feds were waiting for him?

  He sheltered beneath the bridge, blinded by the image of Spencer lying there in the street, his blood seeping down the drain. Then a sudden flash of a different memory: running down the wing waiting for Spence to pass to him. Always went on about how he’d had a trial for Tottenham, but he was a rubbish footballer. Never passed the ball. He couldn’t die, could he? Course not. Christ, Ryan’d give him some shit about this when it was all over! He heard his friend’s words again, just before it happened. It was nothing like the videos on YouTube. Please, he’d said. It had sounded like forever. Please. How long was that damn word? But also like every childish thing that had ever happened to you. Please. Like every moment you had felt small and alone and not man enough. Please. And then just the other word: don’t. Don’t: one word somehow able to hold within itself the seriousness of what was about to happen.

  The helicopter was above. His hand hovered over the phone he had taken from the paramedic. He could remember Shakiel’s number. He wouldn’t be happy but he was just about the only person who would know what to do, who wouldn’t be a bullshitter, who wouldn’t be out of his depth.

  Shakiel picked up after two rings. ‘Wagwan?’

  ‘It’s Ryan, Shaks. Spencer. He’s been stabbed.’

  A brief, thinking silence on the other end of the phone. Then Shak’s voice. ‘He all right?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Ryan had to swallow back a flood of tears that fought to break out. ‘I had to leave him. There was medics, the helicopter, everything.’

  ‘How’d he look?’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘There was blood everywhere. He was, like, completely flat out. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to …’

  Die.

  The word loomed at him and he stopped himself saying it out loud just in time. If he said it then it would happen. And he wasn’t going to die because that wouldn’t be possible. Not Spence.

  Panic had poured uncontrollably into his voice too. He could hear it, like he’d inhaled helium from a stupid balloon, for fuck’s sake. He had to just stop saying so much, wait for Shakiel to tell him what to do.

  There was a pause.

  Shakiel spoke again. ‘How’d it happen?’

  ‘It was Lexi. She didn’t show. Soon as I saw them I knew it was Soldiers.’

  Another silence. It seemed to last an eternity.

  Then Shakiel said, ‘Neither of you had phones on you, like I told you?’

  ‘I didn’t have no phone. Don’t know about Spence.’

  ‘What phone you using now?’

  ‘I nicked it.’

  ‘Who you nick it off?’

  ‘The paramedic.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Ryan. What you thinking? You’re calling me on a phone stolen from the fucking paramedic.’

  Ryan waited. Tears were threatening again. When Shakiel didn’t speak, he said, ‘I’m really sorry about that, Shaks. I didn’t know what to do. I daren’t go home. I’m covered in blood and I got nothing to change into.’

  ‘Where you now?’

  ‘The canal.’

  There was a pause. Then – at last! – Shakiel took charge.

  ‘Take the SIM out the phone and split it. Throw it in the canal. Chuck the phone too while you’re at it. Do it under a bridge. Take your hoody off and throw that in. I’ll get someone to the slip, up by the Deakin, against the wall. I’ll get a change to you. Wait on the canal until it gets there, however long it takes. Put the top on at least before you leave the canal. You wanna look different on the cameras. You got cash?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK, go to a pound shop. Get nail scissors, shampoo. Go to the gym. Have a wash, a good one. Cut your nails in the shower. Scrub underneath. Throw the scissors away. When you get home, throw your own phone. Don’t turn it on, nothing. Just get rid, properly, mind. Don’t talk to no one. I’ll have to chuck this burner, but I’ll be in touch.’

  IMMEDIATE RESPONSE

  MONDAY 10 OCTOBER

  5

  Lizzie was running through woodland. The ground fell and rose. Her breathing stabilized to the point where she could enjoy the light streaming through the trees and the action of her strong feet flexing and pronating, adjusting to the dips and rises. It was so good to run. The elation of it. The power of her body. Indefatigable. It was a lifetime since she had been free to run like this. But there was a noise distracting her, something on the periphery of her vision. She turned towards a leaf-strewn bank and climbed, pushing harder, losing herself in the movement. But the insistent noise continued, calling her to the surface of consciousness. She opened her eyes, reached out and hit the alarm.

  DC Lizzie Griffiths pulled the covers over her head. It was too hard to abandon the warmth and comfort of the duvet. She felt she had become both donkey and master, constantly having to beat herself to keep turning the millstone.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing unconsciously for a moment the raised scar down the back of her left ribs. More than two years later, the ache from the stab wound had faded but the shock of the violence and the sense of her own vulnerability still lingered.

  Lizzie roused herself, pulled on tracksuit pants and a T-shirt. Her mother was in the kitchen already, brusquely tidying, wiping down worktops. Her trolley bag was by the door, packed and ready to go. Connor’s high chair stood empty, its plastic tray smeared with breakfast – yoghurt and something orange. Connor himself was playing on the rug in the sitting area. He was – absurdly for such a small person – wearing worker’s denim dungarees over a soft stripy top. On his feet were soft grey leather baby shoes, perfect for someone who was mastering walking. He played with concentration, arranging his elephants with great solemnity, some in lines, some raised on painted wooden bricks. Lizzie watched the turn of his ankle, the supple softness of his body, the placing of his foot as he spiralled thoughtfully, moving between all fours and a sitting that was as perfect and poised as Buddha.

  Lizzie’s mother passed her a coffee. ‘I’ve done the best I can, but I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my train.’

  Connor, perhaps sensing the change of energy in the room, reached his arms to be picked up. ‘Mummy.’ Lizzie lifted him and he placed his hand on her mouth with the softest pressure. She put her hand on Connor’s tiny one and curled her fingers round it. He smiled.

  Her mother’s hands were clasped tightly together. ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be fine. Thanks, Mum.’

  It wasn’t exactly the truth. It would be easier if her
mum stayed and helped her sort things out, but she had no right to ask her. She’d been very supportive: more supportive than Lizzie had had a right to expect. It was her own bed; she’d made it, she’d have to lie in it. Connor’s father, Detective Inspector Kieran Shaw, hadn’t exactly been keen on her having the baby. He was married, already had a child, a girl, Samantha. Lizzie had known the score.

  Her mother smoothed her hair. ‘Well then.’

  ‘I’ll see you out.’

  Still holding Connor, she followed her mum down the hall, kissed her on the cheek at the front door.

  ‘Bye, Mum. Thanks.’

  ‘Bye, darling. You take care.’

  Connor leaned out of Lizzie’s arms – Grammy – and Lizzie’s mum smiled and kissed him.

  ‘See you soon, sweetheart.’

  Lizzie watched her mum, the irreproachable widow, as she moved quickly down the drive. She walked briskly, then turned for an instant and waved. She had the look nailed – the wedding ring on the right hand, the slightly short navy linen trousers, the spotless pumps, the cotton shirt, the big shell necklace. She was trim, young for her age but not trying too hard for that; she had made what she would consider to be the appropriate concessions to the fading of oestrogen. Lizzie had seen the men extending their courtesies to her – offering help with her bags at the station, opening a door – and seen her mother’s responses too: amiable, good-humoured, something knowing but not conceding in her smile.

  She shut the door filled with sensations of her own childhood: her mother and father’s seething but outwardly correct marriage. She tried to dismiss the annoyance she felt, reminded herself that she had long since ceded the right to judge her mother. She popped Connor back by his elephants and tried quickly to clear the breakfast into the dishwasher. But Connor wasn’t having any of it. The haven had been disturbed and he cried out to be held. Time was hurrying Lizzie on. She picked him up and grabbed her phone for him to play with. She put him on the floor of the bathroom while she showered quickly and brushed her teeth.