by Steven Dunne
‘About five minutes. No more.’
‘And did Kyle say anything other than to thank you and invite you to his party?’
‘No.’ Jake decided against mentioning the ten-ton truck.
‘Then what?’
‘Then I went back in.’
‘You went back in? But forty minutes later. .’
‘I listened to the CD and decided I didn’t like it so I went looking for him to give it back. I was on the way to his house. .’ He shrugged as though the rest was obvious.
‘And when you found him, Wilson and his friends were beating him up.’
‘Yes.’
‘This time you didn’t step in.’
‘There was no need. Wilson stopped when he saw me.’
‘And Kyle came over to you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what?’
When Jake spoke his voice was barely audible. ‘I threw it on the ground.’
‘What?’
‘The CD.’
‘What did Kyle say to that?’ No reply but Jake’s lip began to quiver. ‘Was he upset?’
‘Yes.’
Brook nodded. ‘You betrayed me when I needed you most. Is that what the text was referring to?’
Jake looked at Brook. There were tears in his eyes. ‘Looks like it.’
‘Then he walked back over to Wilson.’
‘You’ve seen the film.’
‘Then Wilson knocked him out.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Who?’
‘Wilson.’
Jake laughed bitterly, through the tears. ‘After he hit Kyle, he got all self-righteous. He said Kyle liked the violence and that disgusted him, like the fat fucker and his thick crew were offended by having to smack him around, like Kyle was a pervert and they’d been forced to hit him.’ Jake let out a quivering sigh. ‘Then Wilson left. Said he was going to get laid to get the gayness out of his head.’
‘Wilson said that?’ Brook looked up at Noble. ‘Did he say where?’
‘No. It was just talk anyway. That fat sherm couldn’t get laid if he was a carpet.’
‘Then what?’ said Brook.
‘Then I tried to help Kyle. I went to get water from the stream.’
‘But he ran off into the fields.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘He said he hated me.’
Brook studied Jake. ‘But you know that wasn’t true, don’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A gay young man giving you presents. That tells me quite a lot.’
‘Like what?’
‘His mum told us Kyle was in love,’ chipped in Noble. There was silence for several minutes.
‘Kyle isn’t an active homosexual, according to Mrs Kennedy. He has crushes on people from afar. Do you think he could have been in love with you?’ asked Brook finally.
Jake looked up in confusion then returned his eyes to the bed. He opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it.
‘Okay. Was that the last time you saw Kyle?’ asked Brook. Jake didn’t answer.
‘Well, was it?’
‘To speak to, yes.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I saw him the next night.’
‘Did you!’ exclaimed Brook. ‘What about Wilson? Was that the last time you saw him?’
Jake’s brow furrowed in confusion. ‘Actually, yes.’
‘You didn’t follow Kyle into the fields?’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t go after Wilson?’
‘No, why would I?’
‘To exact revenge for the attack on your friend,’ offered Noble.
‘I picked up the CD and went home. End of.’ Jake finished his water and wiped his mouth.
Brook gazed at Jake. ‘So you did go.’
‘Go where?’
‘To the party.’
Jake looked away. ‘I told you before, no.’
‘But if you saw Kyle, that wasn’t true, was it?’ No reply. ‘You stood at the same lamp-post, the one I first saw you under when we searched Kyle’s room. You were seen.’
Jake looked glassy-eyed into the distance. ‘I went to the house. I stood under the streetlight — that’s true. I wasn’t sure whether to go in. After I’d thrown his gift back in his face. .’
‘Then why go at all?’
‘I’d bought him a present. To say sorry.’
‘Picnic at Hanging Rock?’
‘Yes. We’d seen some of it in Media Studies that day. He watched it all with the others. It blew Kyle away. He wrote a review of it the same day and gave that to me as well.’
‘Where is it?’
‘On my computer.’
‘And the DVD?’
‘I’ve still got it. We were watching it the day you came into Media Studies. Rusty brought it the previous week but he hadn’t turned up.’
‘So what happened? Did Kyle throw your gift back in your face?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
‘I couldn’t go in so I left,’ shouted Jake. There was an edge of hysteria in his voice.
‘You didn’t go in the house?’
‘No.’
‘But you’d bought Kyle a present. You went all the way to his house. Why couldn’t you go in?’
Jake clenched a fist. ‘I tried to go in. I tried but I couldn’t hear anything — no music, no talking — so I went round the side of the house to see what was going on. There was a crack in the curtain, I could see into the living room.’
‘What did you see?’
‘They were playing some weird game.’
Brook looked up at Noble. ‘Game? What game?’
‘Becky and Adele were on the floor. Their faces were white and they were just lying there. They looked like they were dead and Kyle was filming them with Rusty’s camcorder.’
‘Kyle was doing the filming? What about Russell?’
‘I didn’t see Rusty.’
Twenty-Three
Brook read the script of Kyle Kennedy’s film review in grim silence. The entire essay was devoted to the notion that Picnic at Hanging Rock was a rallying call for suicide. The weak, impressionable, unhappy Kyle saw only the attraction and drama of self-destruction. The hunger for that brief inferno of interest in his pathetic life dripped from every word.
They’re dead, you know. .
Brook turned to the photograph of Kyle on the display board. For the first time he was prepared to accept that Terri might be right. He gazed at the picture of Adele Watson, her dark eyes burning into him. Could she destroy herself?
No. Brook wouldn’t accept it. Kyle, yes. Becky too. The discovery of their bodies would give them their dearest wish — their names on the lips of the country. But Adele. . what was in it for her? The sources of her pain, if pain she felt — her father, Rifkind — had already been exposed. What more could be achieved by going to her grave? There had to be something, some reason for her to embrace death. Surely she wanted more. Surely the brief hand-wringing at her funeral couldn’t compensate her for oblivion.
As the press conference drew to a close, Brook took the opportunity to look around the packed media room. Their first briefing had been sparsely populated but then the Deity broadcasts had become an internet sensation and now, with the film of Wilson Woodrow’s suicide to pick over, every national TV, radio and newspaper was represented and hungry for a story for the early evening news or next day’s newspapers.
Brook was next to Charlton as question after question rained down about the death of Wilson Woodrow. Was he on drugs? Was he in love? Was he obsessed with death? Who was filming his suicide? Brook marvelled at how long it took Charlton to answer questions that required only a simple, ‘We don’t know.’
The speculation surrounding the three photographs purporting to show three of the missing students dead, had been batted away by Charlton. Although Br
ook had convinced him the shots were fake, Charlton stopped short of saying so, merely dismissing them as ‘unsubstantiated and potentially misleading’. The FLOs dispatched to the worried families carried the same message.
Then questions switched to how the suicide of Wilson Woodrow could have been recorded, yet go undetected for over a week. Fortunately Charlton could deflect all such questions in the direction of Derby City Council.
Then a BBC journalist asked why the website hadn’t been closed down.
‘This is a question that is under constant review,’ said Charlton. ‘But we felt that with the plethora of socialnetworking sites available to carry such material, even for a short time, to close down one particular avenue for Deity broadcasts would not only be pointless but would put our investigation at a disadvantage. We’re sure the individual or group producing these films is aware of this.’
‘Do you know where these uploads are being made?’
‘I can’t comment on that.’
‘But is it true that you’ve interviewed a lecturer at Derby College responsible for setting up the Deity website?’
‘I can confirm that financial details were fraudulently obtained and used to set up Deity.com. The individual to whom you refer is not — I repeat not — a suspect at this time. More than that, I’m not prepared to say.’
‘So he was an unwilling dupe?’
‘No comment.’
Brook tried not to smile imagining Rifkind’s dismay at being so described.
‘We saw a bewildering array of reports of teenage suicides in today’s broadcast,’ said a female journalist. ‘Do you think whoever filmed Wilson’s death was involved in those other suicides?’
Charlton looked across to Brook.
‘It’s extremely doubtful,’ said Brook. ‘Those deaths took place over several years and in different parts of the country. Obviously we can’t rule it out, but I’d be more inclined to think that Deity is trying to claim credit for deaths that were way beyond its influence.’
‘So you won’t be adding those deaths to your inquiry?’
‘Other forces are welcome to reopen those investigations, and if they uncover anything relevant to the death of Wilson Woodrow, we’d be happy to listen. We will only be looking at why some of those cases were selected for broadcast, not looking into the actual deaths, no.’
The questioning moved on and Brook was relieved and a little surprised, that no one else had noticed the rogue picture of the unknown hanged boy.
‘Still think we should let that website keep broadcasting?’ asked Charlton when they’d reached the sanctuary of the Incident Room. Noble and Cooper were still there despite their early start that morning. ‘Their output is starting to seriously impact on our ability to get things done.’
‘It’s your call, sir,’ said Brook. ‘But I’d say we’ve only got one or two more broadcasts at the most.’
Charlton looked at his watch. ‘Let’s hope so. Eight o’clock — nineteen hours until the next one. So what the hell are we going to see tomorrow?’
‘You want me to answer that?’
‘If you can.’
Brook considered for a moment. ‘Best guess — more deaths.’
Charlton closed his eyes briefly. ‘Go on.’
‘Every broadcast has been an escalation of the last. Violence, sex and now death — the human experience right there. There’s nowhere to go except more death.’
‘Who?’
‘Maybe Russell. Maybe all of them.’
‘Why Russell?’ said Charlton.
‘He’s the only one we haven’t seen, who hasn’t had his moment in the sun.’
Charlton nodded. ‘Fake deaths?’
‘I would hope so. And we may get a parting message. But it’s important to Deity that nothing is resolved. Like Picnic at Hanging Rock, they want us to be talking about them years from now.’
‘Fame at last,’ said Noble.
‘But if they follow the film to the letter it’s going to end in death,’ put in Cooper.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Brook.
‘Or they pack it in and come home to soak up the attention,’ said Charlton.
‘I hope you’re right,’ replied Brook. ‘But enduring fame without talent sometimes requires extreme measures. Some commit murder like Lee Harvey Oswald or Mark Chapman. Others die young or commit suicide.’
‘And a nobody becomes a somebody,’ muttered Cooper.
‘Adele Watson’s got talent,’ pointed out Noble.
‘Then let’s hope she’s in charge,’ said Charlton.
‘So much for just messing with our heads,’ said Cooper absently.
Brook looked across at him. ‘Unfortunately Wilson’s death changes everything. Someone’s realised that to make it stick you have to make the sacrifice. Sometimes to live forever, you have to die — for my generation Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, JFK. For these kids, it’s. . well, you know better than me.’
‘And this isn’t off the cuff,’ said Noble.
‘No.’
‘Because the website was set up six months ago.’ Charlton nodded.
‘It’s longer than that,’ said Brook.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The newspaper reports of the suicides we saw in today’s broadcast. They go back years,’ said Brook.
‘You told the press conference there was no connection,’ said Charlton.
‘There is and there isn’t,’ said Brook. ‘But we think there’s a suicide in Denbigh three years ago that may be linked to Wilson’s. We’re waiting for a call back.’
‘To tell us what?’ asked Charlton.
‘Sir, someone’s got a hold on these vulnerable kids, someone who doesn’t belong, who’s twisting what they want to his or her ends, someone who enjoys manipulating people to kill themselves, but not by bullying, by being a friend, by telling them they’re doing the right thing. Telling them they’ll be famous, that they’ll live forever, telling them they’re giants because they’re taking control. That’s what the website’s for — to reach as many vulnerable people as possible and encourage them to do the same. It’s a project, sir. A game, almost.’
‘And the night of Kyle’s party was D-Day,’ said Noble.
‘I think so. That’s when it started. Jake McKenzie saw them that night. Kyle was filming. Adele and Becky were on the floor, their faces white, playing dead, practising their death masks.’
‘I thought they were faking it for the broadcasts.’
‘They were, John. And maybe they also thought it was a game and don’t know what Deity’s got in store for them.’ Brook looked at the dark-eyed Adele Watson glaring at him from the display board. ‘At least, some of them don’t.’
DS Gadd burst into the room and hurried over to Charlton. ‘Sir, we’ve got a lead on The Embalmer.’
‘You’ve found the ambulance?’
‘No, but we’ve got the same name three times in response to our facial composite. One of the sources works in the chandler’s shop on site at Shardlow Marina. Lee Smethwick,’ she read. ‘Forty-four years old. He lives on a canal boat at the Marina. He works in catering for Derby Education, was formerly in the Merchant Marine and spent three years in Egypt in the nineties working as an engineer — model employee apparently. Nothing flagged up from Interpol and there’s no criminal record here. We’re trying to rouse someone at the council to get a photo.’
‘Sounds promising,’ said Charlton. ‘Let’s go and get him. God knows, we need a result.’
‘Derby Education?’ echoed Brook. He spun round to look at the artist’s impression of The Embalmer, picked up a sheet of A4 paper from the printer and held it across the forehead of the portrait. He smiled. ‘A chef. That’s why his face was wrong — his forehead was under a chef’s hat.’
‘You’ve seen him?’ said Charlton.
‘He works at Derby College — in the refectory. I was there with Yvette Thomson.’
‘Small world,’ said Charlton.
‘We were all over that place yesterday morning.’ Cooper sighed. ‘He was right under our noses.’
‘He wasn’t there,’ said Noble. ‘The refectory was closed, remember.’
‘Let’s go get him,’ said Charlton.
‘Good hunting,’ said Brook.
Charlton eyed him suspiciously. ‘You’re not coming?’
Brook glanced at the picture of Adele Watson and back at Charlton. ‘It’s not my case any more.’
‘You’ve changed your tune.’
‘My team have had a very long day, sir, and we’re not finished yet. DS Gadd’s in charge. If Smethwick’s there, she’ll bring him in.’
Charlton paused for a second longer. He’d never understand Brook. He walked out ahead of Gadd, who lingered briefly to nod her appreciation.
Brook slumped on to a chair and put his head in his hands to rub his eyes. Noble sat down and began to look over some papers. He yawned.
‘Go home, John. Get some rest,’ Brook told him. ‘You too, Dave.’
The two detectives left and for something to do, Brook turned on his laptop to play around with more combinations for Russell’s film poster.
The phone rang. It was a DI Gareth Edwards from North Wales Police.
‘Is DS Noble there?’
‘I’m DI Brook, his superior.’ Brook quickly typed Denbigh into Google maps.
‘Your Sergeant put in a call to ask about a suicide three years ago.’
‘The unknown boy in Denbigh. You worked the case?’
‘I did. I was only a DS at the time but it certainly made an impression. He was just a kid.’
‘Well, his picture popped up on a website we’ve been monitoring.’
‘Deity. You don’t need to tell us. I think the whole country’s picked up on it. We were going to call you anyway as soon as we saw it. Your Sergeant was right. The local paper didn’t carry a photograph because we couldn’t find any of him alive. We figured releasing a picture of his corpse was a step too far.’
‘Especially at the end of a rope.’
‘That’s just it. The picture from the website couldn’t have been circulated to the public because we didn’t take it.’
‘It wasn’t one of your crime-scene shots?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Why so sure?’