by Simon Mason
There was silence.
‘What about the paint job he was meant to be finishing?’
‘He went back on Sunday to finish it while Mrs Dow was sedated with sleeping tablets.’ He paused. ‘He was a good liar: he stuck close to the truth. He explained the marks on his face by a fall from his ladder which had been witnessed by his workmates. He guessed that someone might have spotted his van up at Pike Pond while he was dumping Chloe’s body so he told us straight away he’d driven there that evening looking for her. It fitted.’
Aunt Maxie said, ‘How could he think so clearly? How could he think at all after what he’d done?’
‘He thought fast too. He didn’t have much time. The idea with the note, for instance. And when he couldn’t find her running shoes, he didn’t panic. He just left the body in the garage and went out to buy a new pair.’
‘Right under the nose of his wife,’ Aunt Maxie said.
Uncle Len nodded. ‘And dumping the body in the pond, that was smart. Water destroys so much forensic evidence. It made people think she’d been attacked up there.’
‘He remembered to throw her phone in too,’ Singh said. ‘Some of the calls he’d made to her over the previous weeks were probably threatening. We know now that he’d been pestering her for some time. Mrs Dow reported arguments between him and Chloe: she thought they were motivated by Chloe’s jealousy. The truth is, he’s a sexual predator who was waiting only for the right moment. I think he knew that Chloe was being intimidated by other men. He knew about Alex, he’d seen the Porsche once before, perhaps he even guessed what was going on at school with the caretaker. That afternoon he must have sensed she was particularly vulnerable. He was a decisive man, and ruthless, and he didn’t make mistakes.’
‘He made three mistakes,’ Garvie said, and they all turned to look at him. ‘Three obvious mistakes a child of six could have spotted.’
There was an uncomfortable silence.
‘Those shoes,’ Garvie said. ‘Orange and lime green. Basically, Chloe wouldn’t have been seen alive in them.’
‘All right. What was his second mistake?’
‘Filing the receipt. That’s colossal. Being neat makes you stupid. Everyone should remember that. But his third mistake was the worst.’
‘What was that?’
‘The gambling chip. He must have been worrying about how stupid the police were being. That’s understandable. He’d already supplied them with the clue about Winder’s Porsche but they didn’t follow it up as he hoped. So he took a risk to make the connection stronger, and slipped an Imperium chip into her jacket pocket. Dense. I’d tried on that jacket at the Dows’ a couple of days after her death and there was nothing in the pocket.’
They all looked at him.
His mother said, ‘You tried on her jacket?’
‘Yeah.’ He looked at them all looking at him. ‘It went pretty well with her grey jeggings and pink T-shirt. Felix thought so.’
There was a disapproving silence.
Aunt Maxie said, ‘It’s strange to think about Chloe now. Don’t you think? We didn’t know her. She had so many secrets. There were so many people trying to use her, and nobody knew.’
Garvie’s mother said, ‘If only she’d told somebody. If only there’d been someone she could tell.’
‘She was too young,’ Uncle Len said. ‘Fifteen’s no age. You can imagine. She didn’t know what to do, the poor girl.’
There was a sharp crack of furniture as Garvie abruptly got to his feet and made for the door.
His mother frowned. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘Out?’
‘Felix’s.’
‘You’ve still got your exams to do, you know that. Next month.’
‘Said I’d pick up those maths books from him.’
Their eyes met.
‘OK,’ she said quietly. ‘Be careful.’
He nodded.
Singh caught Garvie’s eye and they looked at each other for a moment. ‘I have to go now,’ the inspector said. ‘I can give him a lift.’
They drove slowly out of Eastwick Gardens and down Pilkington Driftway, Singh peering through windscreen wipers, Garvie slouched in the passenger seat, staring out of the streaming window at the blurred haze of rain lit up in ragged patches of streetlamps that were just coming on, his face a mask of inscrutability.
Singh glanced over at him and cleared his throat. ‘Finally,’ he said, ‘it is the end.’
Garvie made no reply and Singh went on, ‘Don’t take it the wrong way if I say I hope there won’t be much opportunity for us to see each other again.’
A snort implied that this was not high up on Garvie’s list of griefs. Singh clicked in exasperation, and they drove on in awkward silence to the end of the Driftway and into Old Ditch Road.
Garvie tapped on the side window. ‘This’ll do.’
‘Here?’ Singh pulled up. ‘This is where your friend lives?’ Looking through the rain, he saw that they were parked alongside the Old Ditch Road play area. In the blurry darkness he could see the outlines of figures sitting on the roundabout and swings.
‘Near enough,’ Garvie said.
Singh watched him haul his bag out from under his feet with his one good hand. ‘What’s in the bag?’ he asked.
‘Half-finished bottle of Glen’s, some tobacco, cigarette papers and a five-spot from Alex.’
‘Really?’
‘No. I’m just messing with you.’
He sat there staring back at Singh, who shifted stiffly in his seat, and there was a pause between them that went on and on.
‘I know you don’t want to talk about Chloe ...’ Singh began.
Garvie said, ‘I heard it all back there, man. Poor Chloe Dow. Poor pretty little fifteen-year-old Chloe Dow. If only she hadn’t got mixed up with the wrong people, if only she’d hadn’t had so many secrets, if only she’d told someone. Yeah, well, you know what? I’m not going to think of her like that. Maybe I didn’t like her. Four weeks going out with her was enough for me. But I respected her, right. Why else do you think I let her give everyone the impression she’d dumped me? She was the brass girl. She was a gambler, she played the cards she’d been dealt. Girls like that’ – he shook his head fiercely – ‘they get hit on, they get harassed, and they have babies and have to work for some scumbag in a casino somewhere, and they tough it out. They’re not perfect, but they’re not victims. They live their lives. It’s not because they’re victims they get the fuzzy end of a bad deal.’
He came to an end then, panting slightly, and Singh bit his lip.
‘I know you think about Hannah too,’ he said quietly.
For a while they sat listening to the small rain crackle softly on the car roof. Then Singh said, ‘I’ve got something for you.’
‘Oh yeah? A summons?’
The policeman took a package out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Garvie, who stared at it suspiciously.
‘I haven’t got anything to give you back.’
‘That’s OK.’
Inside the package was a plain steel bracelet, grooved at the edges.
‘A kara,’ Singh said. ‘One of the five kakars, symbols of the Sikh faith.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of converting.’
‘Non-Sikhs are encouraged to wear the kara. It symbolizes the need for righteousness.’ He hesitated. ‘Also it can be used as a knuckle-duster in loh mushti, iron-fist fighting. Though naturally I do not recommend that,’ he said stiffly. ‘It will remind you,’ he added. ‘If you can bear to be reminded.’
Garvie shifted uncomfortably.
‘It’s an odd thing to say,’ Singh continued, ‘but perhaps it will remind you of this country when you’ve gone.’
‘Gone? Gone where?’
‘To Barbados. I know you don’t want to. But I’m sure your mother knows what’s best for you.’
Garvie shook his head and pushed open the car door. ‘Just so you know, man. We’re
not going to Barbados. I don’t know what gave you that idea. Mum got a promotion at City Central. We’re moving to be near my aunt and uncle.’
‘Oh. Then you must be glad. At least, a little.’
Garvie said nothing. He didn’t look as if he ever expected to be glad again. He pushed himself away from the car, pulled up his hood, and there was a clink of bottle glass inside his bag as he swung it up onto his good shoulder. Through the rain-streaked window of his car Singh watched him cross the road towards the playground, a boy in slouch skinny jeans and baggy hoodie, so alone and slender his figure seemed to waver in the vertical drizzle as he disappeared into the gloom beyond the streetlamps, to be swallowed up in the quiet and darkness of the playground, and, faintly, Singh heard a boy’s voice call out, ‘Hey, Sherlock! Got a mystery for you.’
He heard nothing else. He put his car in gear and drove away.
Acknowledgements
The writing of a book is a collaborative effort. Warm and comradely thanks to David Fickling and Bella Pearson, whose characteristically expert advice made this book a better thing, and to Hannah Featherstone, Matilda Johnson and Hannah Leigh for their acute reading and invaluable comments. Thanks also to Mariana Casement Moreira for her sharp eyes. More thanks to Sophie Nelson for her judicious copy-editing and to my friend Ted Walker for his review of the maths. Special thanks to my agent of twenty-five years, Anthony Goff, whose belief in this book will remain a talking point between us for years to come. Ultimate thanks, though, to Eleri and Gwilym, who told me why I was getting it wrong, and to Eluned, who told me I would get it right in the end.
About the Author
Simon Mason is an author of children’s and adult books. His first adult novel, a black comedy entitled The Great English Nude, won the Betty Trask first novel award and his children’s book Moon Pie was shortlisted for the Guardian Children’s Fiction prize. Running Girl is his first story starring Garvie Smith.
Simon lives in Oxford with his wife and their two children.
Also by Simon Mason
Moon Pie
The Quigleys
The Quigleys at Large
The Quigleys Not for Sale
The Quigleys in a Spin
Running Girl
First published in Great Britain by
The Random House Group in 2014
This ebook edition first published in 2015
by David Fickling Books, 31 Beaumont Street
Oxford, OX1 2NP
All rights reserved © Simon Mason, 2014
Cover illustration © Alice Todd, 2015
The right of Simon Mason to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 978-1-910200-76-6