by Steven Dunne
Noble pulled his coat tighter against the cold and drew on his cigarette again, his frozen hands struggling to obey. Then he walked a few paces back towards the house to check Higginbottom had found his way. Keith Pullin, an emergency worker wearing a bright orange bib, was coming in the opposite direction.
‘Got a spare, John?’ he asked, sidling over to Noble.
Noble inhaled and looked at him, wondering whether to unfurl the banter he’d imagined with Brook a moment ago. Instead he shook out a cigarette and soon Pullin was blowing his own smoke rings into the damp night air.
‘Lucky break, eh?’ said Pullin. Noble raised an inquiring eyebrow. Pullin nodded over to the response car where two uniformed constables, Jacques and Penrose, had finally cajoled their near-comatose handcuffed prisoner into the back seat of the squad car. ‘Beavis and Butthead putting the collar on Rasputin over there,’ he added by way of explanation. ‘They found the boy’s underpants on the mattress where the perv was sleeping. Torn to shreds.’
‘Torn or cut?’ asked Noble.
‘Does it matter?’
Noble pulled a face at Pullin. He could almost hear Brook pontificating. Everything matters until it doesn’t, John. ‘It matters.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it in the report before the lab gets them but I’d say they were cut off,’ conceded Pullin.
‘And did you find a blade?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Pullin.
Noble set off for the patrol car to talk to Jacques and Penrose. When the two PCs had closed the door on the wild-haired vagrant, he’d promptly lost consciousness, his head lolling against the steaming window, oblivious to his surroundings. Neither officer made to get in the front of the car, instead walking towards Noble, eyeing his cigarette.
‘He say anything?’
‘Nothing intelligible, Sarge,’ said Penrose. ‘He’s out of it.’
‘There was gauze and blackened bottles all over his doss,’ continued Penrose. ‘Needles too.’
‘Not surprising,’ added Jacques. ‘They’ll take whatever they can get their hands on, this lot.’
‘Don’t generalise,’ said Noble to the surprise of all three of them. ‘We don’t know for sure it’s his gear,’ he added in an attempt to mollify.
‘Well, he stinks of paraffin too,’ added Penrose, somewhat miffed to have his street smarts questioned.
‘And we couldn’t see any mixers,’ chipped in Jacques, sniggering.
‘At least it covers the stench of shit coming off him.’ Penrose and Jacques now sniggered in harmony.
Beavis and Butthead was right. ‘What about a knife or a blade?’ asked Noble. ‘Is he carrying?’
‘Don’t think so, Sarge.’
‘Should we wait for the van?’ asked Penrose.
Noble’s eyebrow headed north. ‘Why? You put a sheet down, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah, but he stinks like a fresh cowpat,’ complained Jacques.
‘Then get him to the station sharpish and get a tech to process him. We want clothes, fingernails, DNA, the lot. And assuming he’s not carrying a passport and credit cards, get him printed so we can get an ID. Do you two know the routine or do I need to write it down for you?’
‘Yes, Sarge,’ said the pair in unison, dragging themselves back to their vehicle like naughty schoolboys.
‘And do a thorough search for a blade,’ Noble shouted after them.
A yell from the house and Pullin waved an evidence bag at Noble. Before the squad car could leave, Noble held up a hand to prevent departure. ‘Hang on.’ He jogged back to the gutted building.
‘They found the boy’s trainers under a coat in an old shopping trolley,’ said Pullin. ‘Same room as Rasputin’s mattress,’ he added significantly.
Noble took possession and darted back to the squad car. ‘Open the back door,’ he said to Penrose. When the locks clicked, Noble opened the door and, kneeling, leaned into the vehicle, to hold the trainers against the vagrant’s feet. Noble puckered up his nose at the smell coming off the virtually rotted boots on the suspect’s left foot. He could even see the blackened flesh of a heel visible where the sole hung off.
A second later, Noble slammed the door on the bewildered prisoner, banging on the roof for the patrol car to pull away. He returned to Pullin, examining the smart trainers through the bag.
‘Yeah, lucky break,’ muttered Noble.
‘Not for the kid obviously, poor bastard,’ said Pullin. ‘Fancy having that hanging out of your backside. . .’
‘We don’t know for certain he was raped, Keith.’ Noble took out another cigarette to avoid another conversation about making assumptions.
‘You saw the body,’ said Pullin. ‘Time was,’ he continued, drawing closer as though imparting some great secret, ‘when a kiddie was raped and murdered, your lot took whoever done it on a little detour and kicked the living shit out of him. After he got sent down he’d have his card marked for the screws and his fellow inmates to keep up the good work.’
‘Happy days, eh?’ replied Noble tersely.
‘Not any more,’ bemoaned Pullin, missing the sarcasm. ‘Now these perverts get three squares a day, soft loo paper and a thirty-two-inch TV for their romper room. Where’s the justice?’
Noble couldn’t think of a suitable answer so he gave voice to his own thoughts. ‘The training shoes were a size nine.’
‘So?’
‘The suspect’s feet looked the same, maybe slightly smaller,’ continued Noble. He shrugged as though the rest was obvious.
‘Then he must have raped and killed the lad and nicked the shoes for himself – fucking obvious.’
Unexpectedly, Noble found himself wincing at Pullin’s profanity. ‘You saw the state of his boots?’
‘Yes,’ replied Pullin, as though spelling it out for a child. ‘That’s why he took the trainers.’
‘Then why didn’t he put them on?’ demanded Noble, using the same patronising tone.
Pullin was quiet for a moment. ‘Maybe he was too out of it.’
‘But not too out of it to hide them,’ rejoined Noble.
Pullin thought it through. ‘You got me there.’ After finishing his cigarette, he marched off to gather his team.
A Volvo pulled up to the rear of the convoy and Detective Inspector Frank Ford hauled himself out. A tall man, with thinning grey hair, pinched mean features and a slight stoop, Ford ducked under the tape and ambled over to Noble, a sour expression distorting his face.
‘Couldn’t this wait till morning, Johnny?’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Noble replied. ‘But you’re on call.’
‘Well, it better be worth it.’
‘It’s a dead child, sir,’ Noble explained. ‘Didn’t I say?’
Ford tried to look interested and made his way into the building, picking his way delicately around the detritus common to the floors of all derelict houses.
Noble followed, his heart sinking. He didn’t know DI Ford that well, except that he was two years away from retirement and didn’t seem overly keen to put himself out. In fact, on the phone, Ford had asked more than once whether his presence at the scene was required.
After a quick inspection, Ford and Noble watched Higginbottom finish up then followed him back to the fresh air.
‘Well?’ said Ford.
‘The boy’s been dead two or three days, I’d suggest. Poor chap. Can’t be much more than twelve or thirteen. . .’
‘Was he raped?’ inquired Ford. Noble shot the doctor a tired glance, fairly certain the question was unanswerable at this stage.
Higginbottom smiled patiently. ‘We can’t determine that here, Inspector. His trousers were pulled down and his underpants are missing, yes—’
‘They were cut off and found on an old mattress in the room above,’ chipped in Noble.
‘Raped then,’ said Ford with a kind of grim satisfaction.
Higginbottom caught Noble’s eye. ‘Like I said, we’ll know soon enough. SOCO are bagging hands and feet, an
d swabbing for other trace,’ he said, ‘but we’ll have to wait for the autopsy. As for CoD, I can say that the boy’s neck is broken and the right side of his face and body are crushed. Lividity shows he died where he fell though I’m fairly certain he didn’t die instantly. There was some limited movement around the landing site. He has internal bleeding and would have choked on his own blood. Eventually. Might have taken twelve hours for the poor lad to go. Maybe longer.’
‘So what are we thinking?’ asked Ford, looking at Noble.
‘We think there was a struggle upstairs and the perpetrator, possibly a vagrant, threw the boy off the upper floor to the ground below.’
‘Vagrant?’
‘On his way to processing,’ said Noble.
Ford nodded with satisfaction. ‘And the lad couldn’t have fallen accidentally?’
‘His body is some distance from the first-floor landing,’ said Noble. ‘If he’d fallen he would have been closer to the wall. There’s no banister. It wouldn’t have been difficult.’
‘I see,’ nodded Ford. ‘Can we rule out suicide?’
‘Suicide?’ exclaimed Noble.
‘Maybe the kid threw himself off after being raped,’ answered Ford. ‘Couldn’t stand the shame of it.’
Noble managed to hide his surprise. ‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘But we can’t rule it out,’ Ford persisted.
‘Child suicide is still rare,’ observed Noble. ‘But when kids do top themselves, they try and do it quickly and painlessly. Hanging and pills are favourites. And if hiding his shame was the reason, don’t you think the lad would have pulled his tracksuit back up?’
Ford grunted in agreement.
‘Noble’s right,’ said Higginbottom. ‘And people rarely dive to their deaths head first. It’s always feet first and from a greater height.’ He excused himself, promising his report at the earliest opportunity and headed for the entrance. Members of the SOCO unit swarmed back towards the body.
‘This vagrant was living in the house?’ inquired Ford.
‘Looks like it.’
‘Sounds like our perp.’
Noble stifled a smile, remembering Brook’s stock reply to anyone who referred to a perp in his presence. Have you got indigestion?
‘Pity you didn’t tell me you’d made an arrest before I dragged myself from a warm bed,’ grumbled Ford. ‘On his way, you say?’
‘A few minutes ago.’
‘Also a pity,’ replied Ford.
‘Sir?’
Ford looked Noble up and down, sizing him up. ‘You got kids, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I’ve got two boys. Grown up, thank God.’
‘Very nice for you, sir,’ said Noble in a monotone. He knew a retread of Keith Pullin’s sentiments was on its way.
‘And this is every parent’s nightmare,’ continued Ford, gesturing back towards the house.
Noble didn’t know how to react to what was hardly news, even for a single man. ‘Of course.’
‘And when some homeless paedo pulls a kiddie off the streets and does that. . .’ Ford nodded back towards the corpse. ‘Probably a blessing he did kill him after that.’
Noble’s answering smile was thin-lipped. Tell that to his parents.
‘Do we have an ID?’
‘We’ve got a likely victim from Missing Persons,’ answered Noble. ‘Joshua Stapleton, local lad, twelve years of age. He was out trick or treating with a friend three nights ago. . .’
‘Halloween,’ exclaimed Ford shaking his head. ‘I might have guessed. All those kids wandering around on their own. It’s a fucking finger buffet for these creeps. When will parents learn? Go on.’
‘Joshua didn’t return home that night and his parents thought he’d slept over at his friend’s but when they rang the next morning he wasn’t there. Dad reported him missing the same day. According to Joshua’s friend,’ Noble referred to his notebook, ‘Scott Wheeler, they were supposed to stay together but obviously that didn’t happen. Scott said they separated not far from here and he last saw Joshua walking along Carlton Road in this direction. That would be around nine-thirty p.m. on the thirty-first.’
‘No one else saw him?’
‘Cold night, sir.’
‘And so uniform finally got off their arses and had a poke around here,’ finished Ford. ‘Well, at least it’s a clean result.’
‘Clean? Sir, it’s a little early—’
‘What condition was that down-and-out?’ demanded Ford, glancing surreptitiously towards his car.
‘Not good. It’ll be a while before we get any sense out of him.’
‘Mmmm,’ grunted Ford. ‘I might as well be off then.’ He yawned. ‘We can put the seal on this first thing tomorrow.’ Noble didn’t answer and Ford stole a glance at him. ‘Pity you didn’t keep hold of the bastard. We could have tuned him up a little. Got what we needed.’
‘Sir, if he’s our killer, there’s going to be trace all over him.’
Ford looked down his nose at Noble. ‘But it wouldn’t have hurt to take him somewhere and give him a good hiding.’
‘It might have hurt our case,’ replied Noble.
‘That’s a dead child in there, Johnny. That bastard deserves more than to spend the rest of his days being fed and housed by the state. And I’m sure we could have found a few caring fathers to lend you a hand.’
‘No doubt.’ Ford made to leave but was halted by Noble’s voice. ‘Just for future reference, if I had organised a tune-up for the suspect and he’d died as a result, should I have assumed our conversation never took place and shoulder the responsibility myself? Sir.’
Ford turned to sneer at Noble. ‘You know, Johnny, you sound more like that cunt Brook every day.’
Noble smiled frostily. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Six
Friday, 7 December 2012
‘Happy Birthday, Chelsea,’ shouted Adam Kramer, above the hubbub of his classmates, as Chelsea Chaplin blew out the thirteen candles on her cake amidst a round of cheering and whooping. ‘That’s thirteen snogs you owe me, girlfriend,’ he added, to general laughter from the assembled children. Chelsea’s mum suspended her photographic duties to glare at him, her party grin fading for a moment.
When Mrs Chaplin resumed her task, Adam put a hand to his mouth and muttered to his friend standing slightly behind him, ‘Bet Chelsea could pull my train all night long, know what I’m sayin’, blood.’ He giggled suggestively. ‘Choo choo.’
Behind Adam, Scott Wheeler was the only one among the throng of Chelsea’s schoolmates not smiling or laughing. Cherubic of face, he whispered sourly in his friend’s ear, ‘Like she’d look twice at a spongebob like you.’
Oblivious to the insult, Adam ploughed on. He glanced sideways at his friend and winked suggestively. ‘As for Chelsea’s mum,’ he continued, gesturing at Mrs Chaplin’s tight red blouse, ‘she’s one sick MILF.’ He turned to leer at Scott and stuck out his tongue, mock-panting like a dog. ‘I’d tit-fuck her any day.’
‘You mean, you would if you had a dick,’ replied Scott, refusing to look at him.
‘Fuck off!’ mouthed Adam. ‘I don’t get no complaints.’
‘That’s because you’re a virgin,’ sneered Scott. ‘The only pussy you ever seen was down Cats Protection.’
Adam cast around for a sassy comeback but it wouldn’t come and, unable to dispute the facts, he had to take it on the chin. Dread. Scoot was bang on. There’d been plenty of tit squeeze and the occasional fish finger but nothing worth sexting about. Defeated, he glanced at Scott’s impassive features. ‘Why you being dread, man?’
Scott made brief eye contact with his friend for the first time. ‘Like you don’t know.’
‘I know it’s not the best party evs but we can still have a blast,’ muttered Adam, looking round furtively. When certain he was unobserved, he pulled a small Pepsi bottle from his pocket and eagle-eyed Scott to look. ‘Got some vodka into my Coke when Mum wasn’t watching.�
�� He sniffed self-importantly. ‘Let’s me and you take a trip to the coat room and get wrecked.’
Scott stared at him, coming to a decision. A second later he beckoned Adam to lead the way and followed, looking around to see they weren’t being observed.
‘Don’t hog the lot, bitch,’ complained Adam.
Scott took another pull on the vodka and Coke and handed it back to his friend sitting on the bed. He walked to the window and looked down the two storeys to the dark garden below. He turned back to Adam, his expression severe. ‘I know it was you, Ade. Couldn’t be no one else.’
‘Me what?’ retorted Adam, grinning.
‘Play dumb if you like,’ growled Scott, pulling a Stanley knife from his pocket. As he advanced towards the bed, he slipped his thumb along the stock to expose the blade. ‘You know what I’m on about. Following me around.’ He pressed his face close to Adam. ‘And other stuff.’
Adam paused in mid-drink, his eyes glued to the blade. ‘Are you joking me?’
‘I look like I’m joking you?’ retorted Scott.
Adam shifted uncomfortably as the blade was held in front of his eyes. His voice began to tremble. ‘Scooter, I don’t know what you’re chatting. Swear down.’
Scott gazed at Adam’s drained face, the first doubt softening his own expression. A moment later, he lowered the blade. ‘You didn’t send me no note?’
‘A note?’ said Adam, blowing out a breath in relief. ‘Why would I send you a note when I can BBM you? Old people send notes, you div.’
Scott’s eyes dropped to the floor. Fear and confusion invaded his features. He returned to look out of the window, face hidden from his friend. Couldn’t show fear to his mate. Fear was death. Fear was for victims. Scott Wheeler was a G.
‘Someone sent me a note,’ breathed Scott on to the glass. When Adam didn’t react he continued, ‘Pretending to be Josh.’
‘Josh. You mean Josh Stapleton?’ exclaimed Adam. ‘He’s dead, Scoot.’
Now Scott gurned back at his friend and threw his arms in the air. ‘Think I’m a mong? I know he’s dead, shithead. That’s what I’m on about. Someone’s fucking with me and whoever’s sending me notes knows he’s dead and it’s not fucking funny.’