Scene of Crime

by Jill McGown

  One day he’d have a penthouse flat and she would have a house in the country and no problems at all. His dreams of that coming about were tempered a little by realism; he knew that more often than not he was the cause of his mother’s problems, and he knew that his lifestyle was not one likely to produce penthouse flats and cottages in the country. But deep down he still believed it could all be turned around. One day.

  She looked with deep suspicion at the locked closet door. “What have you got in there?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Why are you locking it, then?”

  “It’s private.” He put the key in the coin pocket of his jeans.

  “Ryan,” she sighed. “Have you been up to something?” She advanced farther into the room. “Have you?”

  “No!” he said, with the same injured innocence that he used in court. It depended on the magistrates whether or not it worked there. It never worked with his mother.

  “You have. Have you been getting Dexter into bother? Where is he?”

  “Why would I be getting him into bother?” Ryan asked, puzzled. “Isn’t this Monday? He’ll be at rehearsal for the panto.”

  All Dex wanted was to be an actor, to be in the movies. He’d joined the amateur dramatic society when he was ten years old, and he loved it. He’d even had publicity photographs done; he did a Saturday job with a photographer, so they hadn’t cost him anything. He sent them out now and then to people who produced TV ads and things, but nothing had come of it yet. It would, though, Ryan thought. He was a good actor, and he could sing. Maybe Dex would get rich and famous and make everything happen.

  “He isn’t at the rehearsal. I saw that Marianne woman when she arrived at the center, and she asked if he would be well enough to get to their next rehearsal. He’d called her to say he couldn’t go because he wasn’t feeling well—she thought he might have this flu. I thought he must be in bed when he wasn’t downstairs.” She regarded Ryan with deep suspicion. “Have you had him out with you on some job? Is that it?”

  Ryan sighed dramatically. She was convinced he was going to corrupt Dex. “He’s not been with me,” he said. “I don’t know where he is.” He frowned. It was a bit odd. But perhaps it wasn’t that inexplicable. “Maybe he felt better and went anyway.”

  His mother picked up his mobile. “How do you use this thing?”

  He told her, and watched as she dialed the number of the Riverside Theatre, listened as she asked if Dexter was there, and didn’t need to hear the answer as she thanked whoever she’d spoken to and handed back the phone to him, so he could terminate the call. The look said everything.

  “You had him with you, didn’t you?”

  Ryan shook his head, baffled. “What makes you think that?”

  “If there’s nothing wrong with him, he wouldn’t miss a rehearsal unless you told him to. Where is he?” She came around the foot of the bed and stood looking down at him as he peeled back the Velcro of his trainers. “Answer me, Ryan Chester! Where is your little brother?”

  Ryan reached past her for his new trainers. “I don’t know where he is!” he said again. “He’s not been with me.”

  “Did you run away and leave him?” Her hand flew to her mouth as a thought struck her. “Oh, my God, has he been arrested?”

  Ryan had laces on the new trainers; he took some time to thread them, then looked up at her. “He’s fourteen—if he’d been arrested they’d have contacted you, wouldn’t they?”

  He should know. He was always being arrested when he was fourteen. His way of life hadn’t changed very much, but he was better at evading arrest than he had been; he hadn’t been caught for over a year. His court appearances used to be constant.

  He remembered the first time he’d been arrested after his seventeenth birthday. When he’d realized that the police weren’t going to get his mum, that he was on his own, it had been a little bit scary. But he’d felt proud, too. He’d grown up, reached the age at which he no longer needed an appropriate adult present. And he’d felt relieved. Now his mum didn’t have to know every time he got into a little bit of bother, and he didn’t have to hear her insisting that he tell the cops the truth. But Dex was still a juvenile. They’d have rung her at work if they picked him up. Besides, Dex didn’t do anything like that.

  “Dex isn’t like me,” he said. “He won’t be in trouble.”

  “I hope not,” she said. “But he’s been a bit funny lately, Ryan. Secretive. He doesn’t talk about what he’s been up to, like he used to. It’s not like him to be like that.”

  Ryan smiled. “He’s fourteen, Mum,” he said again. “He’s not going to come and tell you everything that happens to him anymore.”

  “But haven’t you noticed?” she said.

  Ryan couldn’t say he had, but then he was very rarely home. “He’s okay,” he said. “I don’t think he’s sniffing glue or anything, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “He’s doing something,” she said. “Something he doesn’t want me to know about.”

  Ryan smiled. “What’s the matter?” he said. “Do you think he’ll go blind?”

  “I wish I could believe that’s all it is,” she said. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if he was taking drugs or anything like that?”

  “He’s not taking drugs,” said Ryan. “He’s just growing up, Mum.”

  “Maybe. But I keep remembering you at his age. I was never out of the police station. And Barry takes drugs. He’ll probably be spending Christmas in prison because of it.”

  “He smokes pot, Mum. It’s not the same thing. And Dex isn’t into any of that.”

  She frowned. “What did you put in the closet?” she asked.

  Ryan had bought the lock after he’d found her going through the closet and then questioned him about what she’d found. He still had to put up with the questions, but at least she couldn’t go into it anymore. “Nothing,” he said as he finished lacing his shoes and stood up. “Nothing to do with you. Or Dexter.”

  “It had better not have anything to do with Dexter.” She looked from the closet to him, and walked toward the bedroom door. “Why hasn’t he come home? Is he scared to? If you’ve been getting him into trouble, you can just pack your bags now.”

  She didn’t mean it, even if he had gotten Dexter into trouble—Ryan knew that, and so did she. And, as it turned out, her threat didn’t have to be put to the test, as they heard the front door open and slam shut.

  “Dexter? Is that you?”

  Ryan shook his head. Who did she think it was, for God’s sake?

  “Mum?”

  Ryan shrugged. “See?” he said. “He’s not been arrested.”

  She turned to call through the open door. “I’ll be right down, love,” she said. “And I’ll be going to the chip shop in a minute, so think about what you want.” She turned back to Ryan. “I don’t know about him,” she said, “but you’ve been up to something. And if I have the police round here again, you can find somewhere else to live, because I’m not putting up with it anymore.”

  Ryan shook his head and walked past her to rattle downstairs with his mother following him at a more sedate pace. He stopped dead when he saw Dex. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked.

  Dex looked away. “I fell,” he said.

  “You fell?” said Ryan. Dex’s eye was almost closed; blood from his nose was drying on his face, and he had a bruised mouth. He gently held Dex’s chin between his fingers, turning his head left and right, checking the extent of the damage. He had taken a beating from someone. “You fell on to someone’s fists,” he said. “Who did that to you?”

  “Dexter?” His mother ran down to him. “Are you all right? Oh, dear God. Do you need a doctor? Who’s been hitting you?”

  “No one,” Dex said, pulling his head away. “I fell down some stairs. I’m all right. I don’t need a doctor.”

  “Why didn’t you go to rehearsal?” she asked.

  “I didn’t feel well. Then I felt a bi
t better and I went out for a walk.”

  “A walk?” said Ryan. “It’s chucking it down out there!”

  “It wasn’t. Not when I went out.”

  “Since when have you gone for walks?”

  “I just wanted some fresh air.”

  “Leave him alone, Ryan,” said his mother, putting a protective arm around Dex. “Oh, you’re all wet.” She unzipped his bomber jacket and began to take it off, as if he were a child.

  Dexter caught his breath with the movement, then impatiently shrugged off her assistance and took the jacket off himself. Very carefully.

  Ryan took the jacket from him.

  “I was at the shops!” Dex said defensively, though Ryan hadn’t said a word. “The pavement was wet and I slipped and fell down those steps by the hairdresser’s.”

  The jacket was wet, as his mother had said, but there were no smears of dirt on the shiny green material. No scratches, no indication of a fall. There was some blood, and stains down the front. “Were you sick?” he asked, handing the jacket to his mother.

  “A little bit,” said Dex. “But I want chips,” he added, anxiously.

  Ryan wondered briefly if his mother was right—kids gathered at the shops to sniff glue. But his mother didn’t seem to have thought of that, and he wasn’t about to put the idea back into her head.

  “You weren’t well,” his mother scolded him. “You shouldn’t have gone out. Come and let me get you cleaned up. Are you sure you want to eat? Maybe you should just go to bed with a hot drink and aspirin.”

  Ryan watched as she shepherded Dex into the living room, and shook his head. Whatever he’d been up to, Dex had not fallen down any stairs. He followed them into the room, sitting down beside Dex on the sofa as his mother bathed his injuries and glared at Ryan as though it was his fault. If his mother went out again, he would have the opportunity to interview his little brother in circumstances in which he might find it easier to talk. Not that Dex was going to find it easy to talk at all with that swollen lip.

  “Are you sure you want food?” his mother asked Dexter again. “You must be shaken up.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” said Dex, his eyes widening, alarmed that he might find himself going without his supper. “Burger and chips.”

  “Well, all right. Do you want anything?” she asked Ryan.

  “No,” he said. “I’m going out. I’ll get something at the club.”

  “You’re not going anywhere until I get back. You’ll stay and keep an eye on your brother. He could have a concussion.”

  He could, thought Ryan. He’d been hit hard enough. “Did you get knocked out, Dex?”

  Dex shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  Ryan performed perfunctory ringside tests; he passed a finger in front of him, and Dex’s eyes followed it; he held up three fingers, and Dex didn’t see six. “He’ll be okay,” he said, and ran a hand over his brother’s short, tightly curled hair. “Won’t you, champ?”

  Dex nodded.

  “Even so. He’s not well. You just wait here until I get back.” His mother picked up her coat, then put it down again. “On second thought, you can go,” she said. “You’ll be quicker than me.” She opened her bag, taking out her purse, and selected exactly the right money. “Cod, beefburger, and a large bag of chips. Straight there and straight back,” she said.

  Ryan smiled. She used to say that when he was ten. “Cod, beefburger, and a large bag of chips,” he repeated. “Are you sure you don’t want to give me a note for the man in case I forget what I’ve gone for?”

  “Less cheek. Just hurry up.”

  Ryan was back in ten minutes with the fish and chips, and helped his mother put them on plates, something only mothers ever did. “Keep an eye on him, Mum,” he said. “If he looks drowsy or he’s sick again, you should get the doctor.” He saw his mother’s face, the worried frown deeper than ever. “But I think he’s okay,” he added reassuringly. “Honest.”

  He went up to his room and retrieved the carrier bag from the closet, then rattled down again, popping his head around the door to say cheerio. He glanced at Dex as he went out, and Dex looked away immediately. But there would be another opportunity to talk to him.

  “I told the officers who came earlier.”

  Tom nodded. “I know, sir, but I’d just like you to go over it again with me, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  He was with Geoffrey Jones, the neighbor who had called the police. Everything about him, from the hair he’d combed over his bald patch and his horn-rimmed glasses, through his cardigan and slacks, right down to his nylon socks and polished shoes, instantly irritated Tom.

  Mr. Jones gave a short sigh of resignation. “You’d better come in, then,” he said.

  Tom closed the front door and followed Mr. Jones into the immaculately tidy sitting room, where his wife, wearing a sculpted hairdo and a fussy blouse and skirt that quarreled with one another, was hovering anxiously as Mr. Jones moaned about the intrusion. Her face was pale and drawn, and her eyes red; Tom doubted that she had received much in the way of sympathy.

  “I don’t see why the other chap can’t tell you what I told him. Why should I have to go through it all again?”

  “Geoffrey,” said his wife. “Estelle’s dead.”

  “Well?” he said. “Telling umpteen policemen what I saw isn’t going to bring her back to life, is it?”

  Mrs. Jones looked hurt and shocked. Tom cleared his throat. “Detective Sergeant Finch, Stansfield CID,” he told her, since her husband was clearly dispensing with introductions, and turned to Mr. Jones again. “I’m sorry we’re taking up so much of your time,” he said. “But if you could just tell me in your own words what—”

  “In my own words? Whose words do you suppose I’m going to use?”

  Tom produced something approaching a friendly smile, for which he felt he deserved a medal. “Well, perhaps you could just tell me what made you call us,” he said.

  “Sit down, Sergeant Finch,” said Mrs. Jones. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, woman! We’re not running a café! We might have to have policemen all over the place, but you don’t have to make them all tea in the bargain!”

  “It’s only polite.”

  Tom took a deep breath. “No, thank you, Mrs. Jones,” he said, but he did sit down as invited. “Now, Mr. Jones, if you could tell me what happened tonight—it is quite urgent.”

  “I know it’s urgent! How many break-ins have there been round here? And what have you done about them? Nothing, that’s what!”

  The evening paper had been running a campaign about the rise in the burglary statistics, complaining about police performance. Last year it had been street crime, and the Chief Constable had decided that street crime must be targeted. If you took resources away from one thing to deal with another, this was what happened. Next year it would be burglary they were targeting. And thefts from vehicles would go up.

  “I can assure you we have been working on them, Mr. Jones, but if we could just get back to tonight …”

  “Tonight, a young woman has died because of these … these animals! And it’s all very well you and your colleagues coming here now—now that it’s finally happened. The place is crawling with policemen when it’s too late! Why didn’t you try harder to catch these people in the first place? And why aren’t you looking for that black lad instead of making me tell you all about him again?”

  Tom was used to getting the blame for all the ills that befell mankind; it didn’t bother him. In a way, it made him feel more comfortable with Mr. Jones; until now, he had seemed to regard the death of his next door neighbor as more of an irritation than anything else. But under all that bluster was someone shocked and frightened, and Tom knew if he didn’t calm Mr. Jones down, he’d get nothing useful out of him. This wasn’t his strong point; he would be much more at home with the burglar. He understood how to talk to lawbreakers and those suspected of having broken the law. Witnesses w
ere different.

  “Believe me, Mr. Jones, my colleagues are looking for him. But it would make a big difference if we had a little more to go on. And we find that if we ask people to go over what they saw, they sometimes remember a little bit more than they did originally. So, perhaps you could start at the beginning? I believe you were coming home from work?”

  “From my place of business,” said Mr. Jones, bridling once more.

  Tom, with a slight movement of his hand, apologized for calling it something so lowly as work, and correctly guessed that Mr. Jones didn’t work for anyone else. “You’re in business for yourself?”

  “I have a shop in the High Street. Toys and games. I was open late tonight, so I didn’t get home until about ten past eight. I drove into the garage—”

  “That’s at the rear of the house?”

  “Yes. There’s a service road running along the back of these properties. The garages are at the rear, of course.”

  Tom nodded.

  “And as I came back out I could hear an argument.”

  “Did you recognize the voices?”

  “No. He was angry, and she was crying—it could have been anyone, really. He wasn’t shouting—if anything, he was keeping his voice down. But he was very angry.”

  “Did you hear what was being said?”

  “Just the odd word—mostly swearing. From him. And I heard noises. A scuffle or something, and what might have been blows. I heard her cry out.”

  “You should have gone next door, then,” said Mrs. Jones. “If you thought someone was assaulting her.”

  “I thought it was her husband.”

  “And that would have made it all right, would it?”

  “No, but—” Mr. Jones looked helplessly at Tom, appealing for some male support. “I would have done something,” he said, “said something, if it had gone on for any length of time. But it didn’t. It lasted a few seconds, that was all. Then it went quiet, and I thought it had calmed down. That’s when I came into the house.”