‘Tyrone, tell me what happened on Thursday morning.’
He began slowly and quietly, telling a story of two young people who’d partied all night, having sex, smoking drugs, being carefree. Then he described how it all ended, with Keira being held from behind and Jason stabbing her. Kelly had read the autopsy; she knew Keira had been stabbed eleven times in the gut. It sickened her. But these men sitting before her had nothing to gain and everything to lose. Tyrone would never have walked in here if it wasn’t for Jackson. And Jackson would never have walked in here if it wasn’t his last resort. She had to find some way to reward them.
‘Can I take the bag?’
‘The knife’s in an envelope.’
She put on plastic gloves and found the envelope, peering inside at a small knife that looked as though it should be used for peeling potatoes. It matched what Ted had told her about the weapon that had ended Keira’s life.
‘Is there anything else you came to tell me tonight? Do you know where the brothers are?’
‘I know loads of the places they use,’ Jackson said.
‘I’m listening.’
Chapter 38
Thomas Watson looked at the man in front of him. He’d never really considered him a close friend, but he was grateful for his help – or so he’d thought. Neil Ormond had just got off the phone with DI Porter, and Thomas didn’t like the tone he’d used with her. As far as Thomas was concerned, Kelly Porter was a thoroughly decent and genuine person. Millie in particular thought the woman kind and warm. Yet here in his house, under the influence of alcohol, her boss was telling him otherwise.
Thomas hadn’t invited Ormond; he’d just turned up. He’d occasionally shared a pint with the man at the golf club, and they’d been over for Sunday lunch once. As they’d left, Ella had told him that she was unsure of Ormond and not convinced that he was cut out to be a senior policeman: she didn’t get the impression that his morals were sound.
When Thomas had questioned her, she’d said that Neil had come out with a few things that she found inappropriate and frankly disturbing. He’d made a joke about something in the news involving children, and she didn’t like the way he slapped his wife’s rear.
‘Women’s intuition,’ she’d said.
The irony sat heavy on his heart: that the man Ella had harboured distaste for was in her kitchen now, ranting about her possible killers. Thomas couldn’t figure out why Ormond was so crazed over Ella’s case. He’d talked of a young man called Tyrone, and promised that he’d be apprehended and locked up before Christmas; it was wild talk for somebody who represented an institution so tightly regulated and in the spotlight. In the good old days of bobbies on the beat, where crime was settled on the street, perhaps Neil would have fitted in, but now, any tiny mistake made by the police – whether it be racism-related or raiding the wrong house – was scrutinised by the press and the law.
It was plain odd.
‘The other one – you know, the girl the next day – that was his girlfriend; he killed her too. So we have a pattern, Tom. It’ll all be wrapped up soon, don’t worry.’
It was as if Neil was delivering his conclusions before anyone had been arrested or investigated. Even Thomas knew that wasn’t the way to solve a murder.
‘So you must have a lot of forensic evidence then? It’s watertight, is it?’
Neil waved his hand. ‘Don’t you worry about that; it’s all in hand and taken care of.’
Thomas had wanted to ask what exactly that meant, but his shock prevented him from finding the words.
He also found it strange that Ormond hadn’t even used Keira Bradley’s name. He understood how the two murders could be seen as different: one woman had stumbled into the path of two crazed thugs on the wrong afternoon, in the wrong park. The other led a life where, unfortunately, you’d expect to run into trouble. However, it was the casual nature of Neil’s dismissal of her that riled him. He wasn’t about to drive down to the Beacon Estate and make friends with Sharon Bradley, but she’d lost her daughter in the most horrific way, and deserved compassion. And why was Neil so convinced the two murders were linked?
‘Revenge. His girlfriend dumped him and he went looking for a woman to hurt – any woman. Then, when she pieced together what he’d done, he killed her too.’
‘I thought two people attacked Ella.’
‘An accomplice: not hard to get in that area of town.’
‘And he’s confessed?’
‘Not exactly.’
Neil lost his footing at this point and grabbed onto the kitchen counter. Millie was upstairs and Jordan had gone out for a pizza. Thomas’s mother was in the bath. He wished she was down here with him to witness the man’s curious behaviour. A vase came crashing down onto the tiled floor and smashed into pieces.
Thomas helped him up and he announced that he was leaving.
‘You’re not driving, are you, Neil?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘But you…’
‘What?’
‘You seem unsteady. Surely you’ve had a bit too much to drink.’
For a moment, Neil stared at him and Thomas felt as though he was going to strike him, or lose his cool in some other way.
‘I’m on tablets that might appear to make me look that way, but I have not been drinking.’
That was horseshit. Thomas had smelled it when he helped him up. He wasn’t about to get further involved, though, and saw him out, listening to more ranting about lowlifes and what to do with them.
After Neil had gone, he went upstairs and sat for a long time on Ella’s side of their bed. They seemed to have become a splintered family of individuals, with their reason to come together gone. They were floating around, and bumping into one another occasionally, awkward, not knowing what to say. Their family had been slashed apart with two knives in Potton Park.
He flicked on the TV to calm his nerves and was assaulted by visions of crowds of people shouting and chanting on the Beacon Estate. They waved banners: JUSTICE FOR KEIRA! STOP LYING TO US! STOP OUR KIDS DYING!
Thomas watched with his mouth open. It was like watching something from Beirut in the eighties. Could this be twenty minutes down the pretty road winding along Ullswater’s south shore? Surely not? There’d been a mistake. He turned up the volume. It wasn’t all yobs either; there were families down there, women and children, there was dancing, singing, speeches and interviews with so-called experts. It was being televised as a whole goddam social movement and his wife was not mentioned once. It was all about the Bradley girl.
Was it all a horrible coincidence? Was Neil trying to pander to him and deliver something counterfeit for the sake of a quick arrest? In his heart, Ella stirred. She agreed.
‘Oh Neil, what the hell are you doing?’ he said to nobody.
A loud roar went up over the crowd and he watched, transfixed. He went to turn to his wife to tell her about the incredible scenes on their doorstep, but stopped when he realised she wasn’t there. He turned back to the TV.
‘Dad?’
He looked at the door; it was Millie.
‘Darling!’ He held open his arms and she came to him. He kissed her head. It was a thing they’d done for as far back as he could remember: she bent her head and he kissed the top of it. She sat on the bed and looked around the room. It broke his heart.
‘I’ll turn this off,’ he said.
‘No, I want to watch. It’s amazing. Even politicians are waking up and getting involved. We need to stop knife crime. I want to go down there and get Mum on those banners too.’
‘What? You can’t go down there! I forbid it. It’s too dangerous!’
‘Dangerous? Jesus, Dad, listen to yourself. Mum got murdered jogging! There are people down there who are making a real difference. They’re calling for penal change and social justice. They’re demanding rehabilitation of gang members and giving young people a reason to live rather than die.’
‘Oh Millie, it’s your age. You’re alt
ruistic and naïve—’
‘Don’t you dare!’ She stood up and looked at him angrily. He didn’t know what to say; he’d never seen his daughter like this. ‘Your generation is responsible for what is happening now; you’re the naïve ones. You can’t shove people into housing estates while you sit in your ivory tower and expect them to behave. You have to look after society as a whole for everyone to feel included.’
‘Oh Millie, don’t give me that socialist crap. You’re too young to understand—’
‘God, Dad, I’m ashamed of you. I had no idea you were such a diehard Victorian. I’m sorry that poor people annoy you, because you know that knife crime stats and penal failure stats are mirror images of economic status, right? You really think it’s their fault and not circumstances? Shame on you. I don’t care for your politics. I’m going to bed.’
‘Darling, I’m sorry! There are a thousand and one sides to this and many of them you’ll only learn when you become a parent.’
‘Good night, Dad. We can talk about it when I’m old enough.’ She strode out of the room and he stared at the door.
He heard more doors bang and wished Ella was here. It was the type of conversation he dreaded. He suddenly realised that for the rest of their lives, Jordan and Millie would only have him. Ella wasn’t there to be their mentor and guide any more. He was terrified, and he’d already screwed up.
He’d also thrown away a chance to watch TV with his daughter, albeit under unfavourable conditions. Ella had hated the kids spending so much time in their rooms, isolated and on social media, giving in to God knows what influences, and he’d let her down. He felt wretched. Maybe he’d give Millie an hour or so to calm down and then go and apologise. He turned his attention back to the TV.
A smart gentleman with an educated southern accent was being interviewed about youth crime statistics. It caught Thomas’s attention because it echoed what his fourteen-year-old daughter had just been scolding him for. The figures were real. The man was a lecturer in criminology at the University of Newcastle. He spoke about how money was ploughed into prisons and yet reoffending rates were alarmingly high: the system was broken. Prison wasn’t working. He said that one year in detention for a young male aged between fifteen and seventeen cost the taxpayer over sixty thousand pounds. He argued that the money could be better spent on rehabilitation and community programmes.
Thomas rolled his eyes.
The stats showed not only that the system was expensive, but that inmates were reoffending at a disturbing rate upon release. The professor went on to say that conditions inside prisons were partly to blame and that self-harm rates among prisoners had risen almost one hundred per cent since 2013, while serious assaults on fellow inmates and staff had tripled in five years. The system was haemorrhaging employees and drowning in a sea of incarcerations.
On the screen behind the man, a bunch of youths could be seen by the barricade. As Thomas peered at the image, his blood went cold and he felt his whole body begin to tremble. His breath echoed in his head and the furniture in the room seemed to move around in slow motion as his eyes grew bulging in his head, transfixed on the image.
On the screen, behind the professor, talking to a bunch of youths, dressed as a down and out, he saw his son, Jordan, with the protesters, looking as though he’d been raised there. He shot off the bed and headed to Millie’s room to tell her that he had to go out urgently. He crashed through her door and was about to apologise for scaring her when he saw that the room was empty. Her bed was made, her computer and TV off, and her window wide open.
Her room had a pretty ironwork fire escape that led to the ground. He raced down the steps and towards the garage. The door was open, and he saw straight away that Millie’s new road bike was missing.
He knew exactly where she’d gone.
Chapter 39
The sun was climbing into the sky. No one in Penrith could see it because it was shrouded in cloud, but it was there, penetrating the dawn and announcing a new day.
Sleeping in makeshift shelters, uncomfortable and cold, most of the overnight dwellers in the growing camp on the Beacon Estate woke early. Dogs milled round looking for food, and stoves were lit ready for tea and coffee. Most of the media people had booked into hotels overnight. The attention that the demonstrations had attracted had prompted editors to sign off budgets for a longer stay: something was brewing and every editor in the country knew it. The powers-that-be could not let this disruption continue indefinitely. It had to come to an end, peacefully or otherwise. Some of the big names in news had begun to arrive the previous evening. They could smell trouble.
Sharon Bradley was the mouthpiece for the movement. Any questions were directed to her, and she made decisions on everything from banner slogans to what to say to the press. What had started out as justice for Keira had become something much bigger and now that Thomas Watson had offered two hundred thousand pounds for information about both murders, it had attracted more attention. Momentum was growing and Sharon walked around like a site manager, checking on volunteers and asking for updates on information given to the police. She had seen for herself the difference between the coppers working for Kelly Porter and the ones who’d acted like twats on Thursday afternoon. Sure, they’d made some arrests and taken some bad boys into custody – some of them had even been charged – but it was Sharon’s work with the community that was getting answers.
‘You not tired, Shaz?’
‘Nah, this is the only thing I wanna do.’ It was true: the protests and gatherings had given her a purpose. It was only a matter of time before someone cracked. The Cotton brothers hadn’t been seen anywhere on the estate since the release of their photos. Someone must know where they were. DI Porter was on her way here to hear the updates for herself. She was all right, that one, Sharon thought. She could talk to her without feeling as though she was talking to a copper who’d already made up their mind about the victim.
Sharon believed Kelly when she said she was working on both killings equally. She wasn’t stupid; she knew that the Watson woman had been rich, beautiful and respectable, while Keira’s life had been small and difficult. But they’d both loved, laughed, eaten and slept the same, no matter what anyone said. Millie Watson understood, and that was why she’d turned up here late last night, wanting to meet Sharon.
Her dad had arrived soon afterwards. He was a looker, but shy. Millie had spunk, and Sharon guessed she got it from her mother. Thomas Watson was well dressed and equally nicely mannered. At first he’d wanted to take his daughter straight home, but she’d refused point blank. They’d gone back to Sharon’s flat and talked until the small hours, falling asleep as the sun came up. Sharon had put blankets over them and left the house, but now Millie and her dad joined her, and they walked around the camp together.
‘You’ve done all of this, Sharon.’ Thomas sounded overwhelmed. ‘All I can see is people together, enjoying being connected, singing, planning and working as a team. I’ve never seen anything like it. What was the estate like before? Did all these people know each other?’
‘No. No one ever talked. Everyone was too busy trying to stay away from the Cotton brothers. Now the boot’s on the other foot: they’re staying away from us!’
‘It’s truly incredible.’
‘We’d like it to be more permanent. It could be so many things: like a centre to bring people together and support each other. There’s a lot of problems here.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.’
‘Don’t you worry, love, you’re here now.’ She squeezed his hand.
* * *
Thomas and Millie were sitting on camping chairs drinking tea. Bacon sandwiches were handed out and they tucked in gratefully.
‘No one has mentioned seeing Jordan,’ Sharon said. Thomas had explained about seeing him on TV last night and why he knew he’d come here, and his theory about what he was likely up to. He wasn’t about to accuse his son of plotting murder, but he knew that was what
Jordan wanted. He hadn’t come down here to help Sharon, or share his anguish with the community; he’d come to hunt down those responsible. Thomas had to admire his grit, but at the same time, he also knew that it was stupid. Somebody like Jordan, with his privileges and his cosseted life, couldn’t possibly hope to dupe two hardened criminals supported by a whole gang of violent thugs.
‘I have to find him.’
‘Dad, don’t leave me,’ Millie said.
‘Your mother would never forgive me if I lost both of you. And I don’t think Jordan will be found unless he wants to be.’
‘Will you report him missing?’ Sharon asked.
‘That could make it worse for him. If he’s trying to immerse himself in the world of the gangs around here, which I suspect he is, then putting his face all over the news could be like signing a death warrant.’
‘I can’t believe he’s done this.’ Millie was angry with her brother, but also terrified.
Sharon put her arm around her. ‘We haven’t got enough room for everyone turning up here.’ She looked around. ‘Some residents have offered their own homes to house a mixture of homeless kids and strays who’ve come looking for a meal, or just someone who cares.’
‘It’s astounding, Sharon.’ Thomas couldn’t praise the woman enough. While he’d been wallowing in self-pity in his mansion by the lake, she had been mobilising people to do something that might make a difference. He felt ashamed.
‘Mum would think you’re wonderful,’ Millie said, and Sharon smiled and patted her hand.
‘You know we’ve got young lads turning up who are gang members?’
‘Christ, be careful!’ Thomas looked wary.
‘I know what you’re thinking, but that’s the whole point of this. These young kids don’t want that life; they want what everyone wants, a place to call home.’
Little Doubt Page 20