Lost Boys

by Stewart Giles

  He ended the call and walked towards his car. His heart sank when he saw that somebody had written ‘Pig scum’ on his wind screen in what looked like red lipstick.

  “Bloody scrotes,” Chalmers said, “what chance do we have when they start this early?”

  “They’re just kids Sarge,” Bridge said, “we were kids once. Life’s harder these days. They’re just a bit lost, that’s all.”

  “Lost?” Chalmers said, “when I was a kid, we wouldn’t have dreamt of talking to an adult like those two just did. Especially not at school. We’d have got a good hiding for it.”

  He took a cloth out of the glove compartment and started to wipe the lipstick off the windscreen.

  Smith was sitting in interview room four with Liam Fletcher when Chalmers barged in. Chalmers looked like he was in a very bad mood.

  “Sarge,” Smith said, “this is Liam Fletcher. He has something he wants to tell us.”

  “Good,” Chalmers said, “let’s get started then shall we.”

  He sat down next to Smith.

  “Do I need my lawyer?” Fletcher said.

  “Not yet,” Chalmers said, “this is just an informal chat. I believe you and Miss Braithwaite were quite well acquainted?”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Fletcher said.

  “Mr Fletcher,” Chalmers said, “your fingerprints were found on a wine glass in Miss Braithwaite’s kitchen. You were clearly there the night she was killed. How do you explain that?”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Fletcher said again.

  “We’ve got your fingerprints Mr Fletcher. If you didn’t kill her, how do you explain the fingerprints on the wine glass?’

  “I didn’t kill her,” Fletcher said for a third time, “I liked her. I liked her a lot.”

  Chalmers stood up.

  “Fletcher,” he said, “this doesn’t look good at all. Firstly, you have a criminal record.”

  “I robbed a few houses,” Fletcher said, “I could never kill someone.”

  “Secondly,” Chalmers ignored him, “your fingerprints were found at the scene of the murder.”

  “I was there that night,” Fletcher said, “I won’t deny it but Steph was very much alive when I left.”

  “Ok,” Smith said, “let’s start at the beginning. What time did you see Miss Braithwaite on Sunday?”

  “I got there about eight,” Fletcher said, “we had a few glasses of wine and watched a couple of films. I left at around eleven. I promise you, I didn’t kill her.”

  “Can I have a word?” Smith asked Chalmers.

  Chalmers nodded and followed Smith out of the room.

  “I think he’s telling the truth,” Smith said.

  “I don’t like him,” Chalmers said.

  “I don’t like him either,” Smith said, “but I don’t think he’s a killer. He hasn’t got it in him.”

  “You’ll soon learn what people are capable of,” Chalmers said, “I’m not finished with Liam Fletcher just yet. He’s admitted to being there that night. That’s enough to charge him and hold him.”

  “I think you’re making a mistake,” Smith said.

  “I’m going to charge him with the murder of Stephanie Braithwaite,” Chalmers said, “he’ll crack eventually.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Barry Dunn sat on the roundabout in the park down the road from his house. He pushed off with his legs and sent the roundabout spinning even faster. He lay on his back and stared at the clouds spinning round and round. The roundabout came to a sudden halt and Barry had to grab onto the rails tightly to stop himself from being hurled off. The reason for the roundabout’s sudden stop was standing before Barry with a scowl on his face.

  “You’re a bit old for roundabouts aren’t you Dunn?” Charlie Briggs said.

  Standing next to him were Shirley French and her brother Mickey. Barry did not particularly like either of them.

  “What do you want?” Barry got off the roundabout and braced himself for an attack.

  “You weren’t at school today,” Shirley said.

  “I bunked off,” Barry said, “I pretended to be sick.”

  “Nice one,” Mickey smiled.

  “Did you hear what happened to Miss Braithwaite?” Briggs asked.

  “No,” Barry said.

  “She’s dead,” Shirley said, “She was murdered. They say that she had her throat slit open.”

  “There was blood everywhere,” Mickey added.

  Barry had the feeling that something strange was happening. These people had never spoken to him like this before.

  “They were asking about your dad,” Briggs said.

  “My dad’s dead,” Barry said.

  “Your step dad then,” Briggs said, “two coppers came sniffing around the school. They wanted to know about your step dad and Miss Braithwaite. We didn’t tell them nothing though. I hate the pigs.”

  Barry smiled. For the first time in months he felt accepted. He did not like Charlie Briggs but it did not matter; Briggs was a good person to be on the right side of.

  Briggs took out a packet of cigarettes.

  “Smoke?” He offered Barry the packet.

  “Thanks,” Barry took one out, put it in his mouth and lit it.

  He could feel a coughing fit welling up inside him but he managed to control it.

  “We’re off to the pond,” Briggs said, “we stashed a few bottles of white cider there. Do you want to come with us?”

  “Ok,” Barry tried not to sound too eager.

  Barry, Briggs, Shirley and Mickey lay on the grass next to the small duck pond. They stared up at the sky. Three empty bottles of white cider lay next to them.

  “Was your step dad really shagging Miss Braithwaite?” Shirley said.

  “No,” Barry said, “he loves my mam.”

  “Grimes reckons he saw them together in town,” Briggs said.

  “Grimes is a lying bastard,” Barry said.

  “He told one of the coppers,” Briggs lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, “he told them that Miss Braithwaite was having it off with your step dad.”

  “Grimes is dead,” Barry said.

  “I’ll batter him for you if you want,” Briggs said.

  “I feel sick,” Shirley stood up and threw up in the bushes.

  Everybody started to laugh. The sun was slowly going down but Barry realized he did not care. He wanted this moment to last forever. He had finally been accepted.

  “Who do you think killed Miss Braithwaite?” Mickey said.

  “I could kill somebody easily,” Briggs threw his cigarette butt into the pond, “if I had to I could do it.”

  “I don’t think I could,” Mickey said, “I hate the sight of blood.”

  Briggs laughed and punched him on the shoulder.

  “What about you Barry Dunn?” He said, “Do you reckon you could kill someone? Have you got it in you?”

  “No,” Barry said, “I can’t even kill spiders. I hate spiders but I can’t bring myself to kill them.”

  “We have to go,” Shirley had finished being sick, “come on Mickey.”

  Charlie Briggs and Barry Dunn walked back up the path towards the road. They reached Briggs’ house first.

  “Do you want to come in and smoke some weed?” Briggs said, “The olds will be down the pub; they won’t be back until after closing time.”

  “Maybe next time,” Barry said, “I’d better get back home.”

  “Loser,” Briggs walked up the small path to his house.

  Barry watched him as he walked past the rockery in the small front garden. It had obviously been neglected. Dead cacti drooped over the once impressive ornamental stones.

  “See you at school tomorrow,” he said but Briggs had already disappeared inside the house.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Wednesday 13 September 2006

  “Let’s go through this again shall we?” Smith said to Liam Fletcher.

  They sat in Interview room four. Smith turned on the recording
device.

  “Interview with Liam Fletcher,” he said, “eight forty five, Wednesday, September thirteenth, two thousand and six. Present, DC Smith and DC Whitton. Start from the beginning.”

  “I’ve already told you everything,” Fletcher said.

  His eyes were bloodshot and he looked like he had not slept at all.

  “How long had you known Stephanie Braithwaite?” Smith said.

  “A couple of months,” Fletcher said, “I met her at one of Barry’s parent evenings. We hit it off straight away.”

  “How long have you been with Barry’s mother?” Whitton said.

  “Lisa?” Fletcher said, “We’ve been together for a couple of years now.”

  “I see,” Smith said, “but you decided to start a relationship with one of Barry’s teachers anyway?”

  “It just happened,” Fletcher said, “you know how these things go?”

  “No,” Smith said.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Fletcher said, “I love Lisa and I love the boy but things at home had been getting a bit rough. Lisa started to moan all the time. She never used to nag like that. I’ve been out of work for months now; my record doesn’t exactly help be to find a job. I didn’t kill Steph.”

  “Ok,” Smith said, “you said you arrived at the house at around eight? Then what?”

  “Like I said,” Fletcher said, “we had a few glasses of wine and watched a couple of films. I left around eleven. I’ve already told you this a million times.”

  DS Chalmers entered the room. He switched off the recording device and threw a file on the table in front of Fletcher.

  “Open it,” Chalmers said.

  Fletcher carefully opened the file. Inside were a pile of photographs.

  “Look at them,” Chalmers said.

  Fletcher gasped.

  “What…” he looked like he was going to be sick.

  In one of the photographs, Stephanie Braithwaite was still lying on the bed. Her hair was matted with dried blood.

  “Look at the others,” Chalmers said.

  Fletcher turned the photographs over one by one.

  “Not a pretty sight,” Chalmers said, “one minute we have a pretty Geography teacher in the prime of her life and then we have that. Do you want me to tell you what I think happened?”

  Fletcher did not say a word. He just sat staring with his mouth wide open.

  “I think you went there that night,” Chalmers said, “I think you went there with the intention to kill Stephanie Braithwaite.”

  “No,” Fletcher said, “I swear I didn’t touch her.”

  “I don’t believe you Fletcher,” Chalmers said, “I think you had a few glasses of wine for a bit of Dutch courage and then you smashed her head in with the rock.”

  “That’s not true,” Fletcher said.

  Smith did not know what to say.

  “Why did you leave the rock on her stomach?” Chalmers was not finished yet, “You wiped the prints off it but you left fingerprints on the wine glass in the kitchen. That was a bit stupid wasn’t it?”

  “I’ve already admitted I was there,” Fletcher said, “I don’t know nothing about any rock.”

  “Can I have a word outside?” Smith said to Chalmers.

  Chalmers nodded and left the room. Smith followed after him.

  “What was that all about?” Smith said in the corridor.

  “Fletcher did it,” Chalmers said, “he’s wasting our time. I thought I’d do it the old fashioned way.”

  “Why don’t you just beat a confession out of him?” Smith said.

  “We’re not allowed to do that anymore,” Chalmers said.

  “I was joking,” Smith said, “I don’t think he did it. I’ve dealt with him before. He’s a terrible liar. I think he was telling the truth in there.”

  “He’ll crack eventually,” Chalmers said.

  “Let me have another stab at him,” Smith said, “with respect, I don’t think your bully tactics are going to work on him and they certainly won’t hold up in court.”

  “You’re obsessed with this legal crap aren’t you?” Chalmers said.

  “I have my reasons,” Smith said, “let’s just say I know how a slimy lawyer can undo all the work we’ve done with a petty technicality.”

  “Technicality?”

  “Scaring the shit out of a suspect to get a confession is more than a technicality Sarge,” Smith said.

  “Fair enough,” Chalmers said, “but be careful. He’s not as stupid as he looks.”

  “Interview with Liam Fletcher recommenced at nine forty five,” Smith said, “Liam?”

  He looked Fletcher directly in the eyes.

  “You say you’ve been with Lisa Dunn for a couple of years?”

  “That’s right?” Fletcher seemed confused.

  “Did you get on with her son Barry?”

  “Great,” Fletcher said, “he’s a good kid. He idolizes me. I don’t know why but he does. He told me I’m the best one yet.”

  “Best one yet?” Smith said.

  “Barry’s dad died when he was very young,” Fletcher said, “since then Lisa has been through a string of men and some of them haven’t exactly been very nice to the kid if you know what I mean.”

  “What do you mean?” Whitton said.

  “Come on,” Fletcher said, “you know what it’s like? Single mother, kid gets in the way. That sort of thing. Barry has been used as a punching bag for as long as he can remember. I’m surprised he’s turned out like he is. Anyway, I could never hit a kid and I certainly couldn’t kill anybody.”

  Smith thought hard for a while.

  “Did you know that Barry had found out about you and Miss Braithwaite?” He said.

  “Barry didn’t know,” Fletcher said, “how could he?”

  “The rumours were flying around at the school Mr Fletcher,” Smith said, “everybody knew about it.”

  “Shit,” Fletcher said.

  “Interview ended at ten fifteen,” Smith switched off the machine.

  “Can I go now?” Fletcher said.

  “Unfortunately not,” Smith said, “you’ve been charged with murder and you’re our only suspect for the time being.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Fletcher said.

  “We have enough to hold you,” Smith stood up, “you’ll be taken back to the holding cells.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “What do you think?” Whitton asked Smith in the canteen.

  “I don’t know,” Smith said, “either he didn’t do it or he’s pulling the wool over my eyes and I should start thinking about doing something else for a living.”

  “You think he’s innocent don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Smith said, “something doesn’t add up.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Motive Whitton,” Smith walked over to the coffee machine and got two cups of strong coffee.

  “Motive?” Whitton said.

  Smith put the cups on the table in front of them.

  “Motive,” Smith said, “what’s the first thing that drives a person to murder? Motive. This wasn’t some argument that got out of hand; the rock was chosen carefully beforehand for the sole purpose of killing someone. Fletcher had no reason to kill Stephanie Braithwaite.”

  “Maybe she threatened to blab about their affair,”

  “I don’t buy it,” Smith said, “that’s still no reason to kill her. Fletcher didn’t seem to know that the relationship was common knowledge. No, we need to start looking elsewhere for answers.”

  “So what now?”

  “Let’s go back to school,” Smith said.

  “This is most unorthodox,” Duncan Carter said after hearing what Smith had suggested.

  Smith, Whitton and Carter were sitting in Carter’s small office at Cotton Comprehensive.

  “You can’t expect me to allow you to question the pupils here?”

  “Mr Carter,” Smith said, “I’m afraid I’m not asking you; I’m here out of
common courtesy. I’m suggesting the least traumatizing way to go about this for the pupil’s sakes.”

  “As opposed to what?” Carter said.

  “As opposed to dragging them down to the station,” Smith said, “as opposed to inconveniencing their parents who, seeing as though the people in question are all minors would have to, by law, be present when we speak to them. What I’m suggesting is more of an informal chat here at the school.”

  Carter scratched his head.

  “Ok,” he said, “I suppose you do have a point but I don’t see how you can talk to all of the children here in one sitting.”

  “That’s where you come in Mr Carter,” Smith said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’d like to speak to Barry Dunn of course,” Smith said, “and this Briggs character seemed to have a lot to say for himself yesterday.”

  “I suppose Briggs ought to get a bit of practice in speaking to the police,” Carter sighed.

  “We’ll start with him first then,” Smith said.

  “I’m afraid he didn’t show up for school this morning,” Carter said, “I’m sorry to say that in all my years of teaching, Charlie Briggs is the biggest lost cause I’ve ever come across.”

  “Then we’ll need his address,” Smith said, “In the meantime, we’ll need a list of all the pupils you think might be able to help us the most.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Troublemakers,” Smith said, “in my experience, they’re usually the best informed.”

  “Then you’ll have to interview the whole of ten G,” Carter said, “the worst class I’ve ever come across.”

  Smith and Whitton sat in the detention room. Carter had given them a list of names. He had managed to narrow it down to eight of the most unruly children in the school.

  “I never got detention when I was at school,” Whitton said.

  “I spent half my school life in a room like this one,” Smith said.

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Whitton said.

  The door opened and Duncan Carter walked in. Next to him was a stocky youth with shaved black hair.

  “This is Mickey French,” Carter said, “good luck.”

  French looked Smith and Whitton up and down. His eyes lingered on Whitton for so long that she started to feel uncomfortable.