‘Drugs as well?’
‘Surprisingly, no. Could be he wasn’t into that, or the school didn’t know about it.’
‘Or they covered it up,’ I suggest. ‘Schools with drug problems get failed by inspectors and Heads get sacked. Did Ashley Crewe have any mates or girlfriends?’
‘Hold on a second, I forgot something.’ She rushes over to the colour printer by the door. ‘I was running this off when my phone went earlier and I forgot to pick it up.’
Nisha comes back and hands me a photograph of a teenage boy in a Man Utd football kit.
‘This is our lad?’ I ask.
‘I got it from his school. It was taken the year he went missing.’
‘Well done. Get the techies to run ageing software on the image and let’s see what he looks like with say another twenty-five years on his face.’ I hold out the picture of Crewe and stare into the brown eyes and sallow complexion of a young man with long, limp brown hair. ‘Do you think he was more handsome in real life?’
‘Yes, I believe so,’ says Nisha. ‘Mrs Hennessy, a former RE teacher, described Ashley as “a tall, good-looking lad, who often had a girl on his arm”.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘She couldn’t remember names. Says she’ll go through old photos and will come back to me. As per Ashley’s mates, they were more hangers-on. Either kids who didn’t want to get beaten up by him, or other bad lads who saw strength in numbers. We’re following up on them as well.’
‘Good. That’s all good. But it doesn’t take us very far.’ I stare at the boards, the pictures, names and the few tenuous connections. ‘All these possible meetings on prison wings and presumed gang associations might lead Charlie to his Mr Big, but I don’t think they’re going to help us find Ashley Crewe’s killer. Or even his body, for that matter. I’ll go see the Crewe brothers and then their dad.’
‘I can see Freddy, if you like? He’s in an old folks’ home, not far from here.’
Nisha’s wanting extra responsibility. A chance to prove herself. And I’m a control freak who finds it hard to delegate. ‘Okay,’ I say reluctantly. ‘But before you go, make sure our little band of helpers focus on Crewe’s schoolfriends. We need to start cleaning off the dust from that part of his life.’
‘Will do.’
‘We must turn something up by the end of the week, or the boss will shut us down.’ I look again at the picture of the teenage boy. He has that pose that lads adopt when they try to look hard. No smile. Head up. Chest out. ‘Bully or not, we owe Ashley the next few days to see if we can bring his killer to justice.’
32
Paula
The pillow pressed to my face is soft and soothing. I don’t want to give it up. My eyes are closed and I am using this brief moment of calm to piece things together in my fuddled mind.
A dull noise penetrates my haven. I work out what it is – the door to the hospital bedroom, opening and closing. I think about pretending to be asleep. Putting off engagement with a new day and old problems.
‘Morning!’ booms the intruder, cheerily determined to wake me.
I turn on my back. Open my eyes. ‘Morning,’ I manage, more sedately.
‘I’m Karen,’ says a dark-haired nurse in her thirties, whom I vaguely recollect from yesterday. She tips her name badge in my direction. ‘Karen Molloy, I’m in charge of this recovery ward. How are you feeling?’
It’s a simple enough question. ‘I don’t know,’ is the best I can answer.
‘Are you hungry? You missed the breakfast trolley.’
‘No, I’m not. Thank you.’ I look to the plastic water jug by my bed. ‘I’ll just have some water.’
I reach out to get it and suddenly my head pounds.
‘Let me,’ she says. ‘You look like you’re still in pain.’
‘Thanks.’
She pours me a glass as I shuffle up into a sitting position.
The water tastes good and I quickly drain the plastic glass.
Molloy tops it up and watches me take another sip before she puts the jug down and takes the glass from me. ‘It’s natural to be a bit dehydrated.’ She produces a thermometer from goodness knows where. ‘Can you open your mouth for me and put this under your tongue, please?’
I comply and close it on the thin tube, while she takes my right wrist, feels for a pulse and watches the second hand on her big silver watch.
After a minute, she retrieves the thermometer, releases my wrist and makes a note on a chart clipped to a board that had been at the end of my bed. ‘Everything pretty much back to normal,’ she says.
I huff out half a laugh. ‘I wish it was.’
She smiles sympathetically. ‘Did you have no idea about your condition?’
‘None at all.’
A silence grows before she continues. ‘Your husband has been on the phone. Several times. He wanted to know—’
‘I don’t want him to know anything’ I interject, fearfully.
‘He just wanted to know how you were.’
She sits on the chair next to me. ‘Would it help to talk?’
I look at her and feel tearful and confused. Too tearful to answer. If I speak, I’ll sob. I’ll give in to the weakling lurking inside me and I’ll break down. I don’t want that.
Another silence. An even longer one. Molloy shifts awkwardly. ‘I have to ask you this, Paula; did you really slip in the shower, or did your husband attack you?’
‘I slipped. I told you that yesterday.’
‘I know you did.’ She looks for signs of lies. Undoubtedly, she’s treated many battered wives and knows what to look for. I suspect she senses all is not right between Danny and me.
‘Now is the time to speak up,’ she adds. ‘We can help. You don’t have to feel trapped.’
‘There isn’t anything you can do. But thanks. Things aren’t great between us – in fact, we’re getting divorced. But Danny has never hit me. Never will. I am sure of that.’
She seems satisfied with the answer. For a second, she plays absent-mindedly with an imaginary wedding ring, then looks up at me and adds, ‘Would you like me to tell your husband about your diagnosis when he comes back?’
Yes, I want this stranger to do that. I’m not ready to deal with it and talk about it. Especially not with Danny. Not in the midst of our break-up.
‘No, thank you. I think he should hear it all from me.’ My inner weakling skulks back into the shadows. Her time has gone. ‘Do you think there could be a mistake?’
She gives me that sympathetic smile again. ‘No.’
‘Is it worth repeating the tests? Getting another opinion?’
She doesn’t answer. I can see she’s mulling things over in her mind.
‘Please. Before my husband comes. Another scan. Another doctor. Another test. Anything that proves there hasn’t been a mistake. A mix up.’
‘All right,’ she says. ‘Given your circumstances – the difficulty with your husband – I’ll see what we can do. No promises. Give me five minutes.’
And with that she leaves.
But I am not alone in the room. I am left with hope. Doctors sometimes make mistakes. That might be the case with me. I might just be okay after all.
33
Annie
Full Sutton is a large and modern maximum security prison, squatting like a big, ugly Sumo wrestler on the eastern outskirts of York.
Built in the late eighties, it houses about six hundred male inmates, all serving sentences of at least four years. From what I can remember, there are seven wings. More than two hundred prisoners, the kind least likely to attack or be attacked, are on A and E wings. G wing is a protected witness unit, B, C and D wings contain several hundred vulnerable prisoners. And finally, F Wing contains not only general prisoners but also a segregation unit. The unit where Kieran Crewe currently resides.
Right now, he’s sitting opposite me in a secure room that the governor reserves for meetings like this. I have a panic button. Cr
ewe is on a loose chain, attached to the centre of the table that separates us. There’s a panel of toughened glass in the door that allows a prison officer outside to be able to check that I’m okay.
Kieran Crewe has a shaved head and looks for all the world like Vin Diesel. He is more muscle than man. Yet, I can see that in the thick eyebrows, long nose and small mouth there’s a strong resemblance to his football-kitted younger brother. Had he lived, Ashley would most probably have looked like this too.
‘I don’t normally talk to pigs,’ he grunts.
‘Neither do I,’ I reply with a smile. ‘I love my bacon sandwiches, so I don’t want to see those little porkers as anything other than sealed packs of juicy rashers.’ We exchange glares. ‘I’m investigating the murder of your brother, Ashley.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s my job, Kieran. It’s what I do.’
‘You’re a bit fuckin’ late, aren’t you? Our kid went missing back when Noah were learning to sail.’
‘I’m from Historic Crimes.’
‘Oh, I see. Are you like them on the History Channel? You do reconstructions and shit?’
‘You watch a lot of that in here, do you?’
‘I watch everything, me. Get good value for me two quid a week. That’s what it costs for the telly. Fuckin’ liberty. It should be free.’
‘What can you tell me about when Ashley went missing?’
‘Nothin’. I were workin’ at the time. He went off to school. Didn’t come back. He used to stay out loads, so our mam didn’t get arsed until about the second day. Then she rung school.’ He shrugs. ‘That were it. He just vanished.’
‘What were you busy with – when he just vanished?’
‘Stuff.’
‘Such as?’
‘I can’t remember. I did odd jobs. Helped out. Bit of taxiing. Bit of shop work.’
‘Bit of drug dealing?’
‘I thought you were here to ask questions about our kid, not me?’
‘I am.’
‘Then you should stick to the point, shouldn’t you, Miss Piggy?’
Kieran’s goading me. Trying my patience. Usually, I’d respond in a way that would make him sorry. A sharp put-down. A searing evisceration of his overt and obviously fragile masculinity. It’s not hard to reduce a boxed-up animal to a state where it wants to start banging itself against walls. But not today. Not right now. I remind myself that, as horrible as he may seem, this man is my only link to a young victim, to a murdered child, a dead son and, yes, a dead brother. Kieran’s brother.
‘Did Ashley speak to you about trouble he was in?’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘Any. Girl trouble. Fights with other lads. Teachers picking on him.’
‘No one picked on our Ash. I saw to that.’
‘Girls, then?’
‘Nah. He shagged around a bit. Never got anyone up the duff or nothin’.’
‘No angry dads that might have come looking for him?’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Kind of girls lived round our place didn’t have dads.’
‘Tough mothers, then?’
He laughs. ‘Have you seen pictures of our Ash? He were a big lad. Two years younger than me but he were big enough to nick most of my clothes. Only thing he didn’t pinch were me shoes, and that were only because they were too small for him.’
I smile. Not because it’s funny. But because I’ve made a brief connection with the killer sitting opposite me. Now I have a chance to make this visit worthwhile. ‘Tell me, Kieran, when you think about Ash, and I guess you must sometimes, what would you say were your happiest moments together?’
‘Me what?’
‘Your memories. The two of you grew up together. How do you like to remember your younger brother?’
He shrugs. Looks down. Examines his right hand. Chews at an already non-existent thumbnail.
I press what I’m sure is a tender emotional spot. ‘Did you play football with him? Were you the one who taught him to play?’
‘I don’t want to talk about Ash with you.’
‘I saw him in his Man City kit. Did you go to any games together?’
Kieran Crewe stares at me. It’s a hard man’s gaze. A ‘shut your mouth and get away from me’ gaze.
‘What’s wrong, Kieran? Why is that a difficult question for you?’
‘I want to go now.’ He glances to the door.
‘Then why did you agree to see me?’ I ask gently.
‘Because I thought you’d come to tell me somethin’, not to ask me a lot of daft questions.’ Again, he looks to the door.
‘Do you have somewhere to go, Kieran?’
He gives me his stare again. My eyes take in every centimetre of his face. The coldness in his eyes. The pressed-shut lips. He’s controlling himself. Making himself as blank a canvas as he possibly can.
‘Does the name Andy Ellison mean anything to you?’
My view of him is microscopic now; every sweating pore, every tiny twitch will be noticeable to me.
His lids narrow a fraction. His lips move, almost imperceptibly, but they move. His pupils dilate. He blinks, and asks, ‘Who?’
‘Andrew Ellison.’
‘Don’t know him.’
I smile. ‘I know you know him, Kieran. The pair of you were banged up together.’
He moves now. Shifts in his seat. Turns and shouts to the guard on the other side of the door. ‘Hey! I want out! We’re done in here. Miss Piggy needs to go back to her pen.’
‘What does Andy Ellison know about your Ashley’s death?’
‘Fuck all.’ He smiles at me. ‘Yeah, I knew him in the nick. Slimy, fucking junkie bastard. We shared a cell, that’s all.’
‘You didn’t stay in touch, then?’
‘No fuckin’ way. Total waster.’
‘Well, I’ve been in touch with him, Kieran.’ I let that sink in. Watch those pupils of his grow big again. A sure sign his brain is working overtime. Then, I add, ‘A few hours ago Andy told me he knew all about Ashley. Said he was going to explain it all to me, everything about him – and the murder.’
Kieran’s brow furrows. Then, a smirk of triumph on his lips, he sneers, ‘He didn’t though, did he? That waster told you fuck all.’
‘Why do you say that?’
He doesn’t answer. Just turns his head to one side. I can’t tell if he’s angry or smug.
‘Look at me, Kieran. I asked you a question. Why did you say that?’
‘Because you’re here, asking me shit about my brother. And then you bring up some crackhead who doesn’t know what day it is and you say he knows how Ash died. Bollocks! You know fuck all. I’m done talking, so it’s time for you to trot off and leave me to go back to the telly.’ He turns again to the door and shouts, ‘Are you fuckin’ listenin' over there? I want out of here!’
An officer presses his face to the window and looks to me for guidance. I give him a nod that says I’m done as well.
The door opens and he enters with another guard.
‘Thank you very much, Kieran.’ I get to my feet. ‘You’ve been very open, very helpful and cooperative. I really appreciate it.’
He scowls at me. Those are the kind of words he doesn’t want a PO repeating back on the wing in front of other hard cases.
‘Fuck off!’ he shouts, in a hail of spittle. ‘I’ve told you nothing.’
I lean towards him and smile. ‘Just the opposite, Kieran. You’ve told me so much more than I ever hoped you would.’
34
Paula
As well as Sister Molloy, there’s a new medic in my room. She’s told me her name but I’ve already forgotten it. She has sparrow eyes and long wiry red hair, plaited in a ponytail that hangs over the shoulder of her trim white uniform as she fusses around my bare stomach.
‘This will feel very cold,’ she says unsympathetically.
And it does.
The nurse with the forgotten name smears gel on my belly and
then rubs a fat, stubby wand over my shiny skin. For a second, I imagine she’s some kind of fairy and her magic will make my latest problem disappear.
‘There,’ she says, pointing at a monitor with all the joy of a long-travelled captain spotting land. ‘That’s where the baby is.’
The screen is zoomed in and is less silver and more black and grey. But I don’t see a baby. Craters of the moon, maybe, but no human life.
An expert finger jabs at the screen. ‘There. Can you see where I mean?’
‘No.’
I can’t.
Or I don’t want to.
I accept there’s a strong possibility my mind has gone into refusal mode. Denial of the obvious is one of my many failings when I am stressed.
‘Look,’ she says patiently, ‘here is your cervix.’ Her right index finger floats over the moonscape like a pink spaceship. ‘And here is the gestational sac.’ She looks pleased with herself. ‘You can clearly see both the outer and inner rings.’
I can’t.
Her eyes catch mine and I see her joy and wonder. She’s young. Early twenties. New to the job. No one has told her, or she’s forgotten a lesson in which she was told, that not all pregnancies warrant a bouncy, happy tone. Almost for her sake, or maybe out of a guilty realisation of what is expected of me, I smile and focus more.
Finally, I see where and what she means.
There is an ominous ‘black hole’ on the moon scan, and now its vast gravitational pull is dragging me in. I’m searching for a small person inside that gestational lunar module. But, of course, that’s unrealistic. Even I, in all my maternal ignorance, know that I must be in the earliest stages of pregnancy. I’m on the pill and have been for years and years, so I didn’t think this was possible. And I’m not showing any signs of extra weight gain. But they say I’m pregnant. They’re sure I am.
The picture on the screen is constantly changing. Shimmering. Pulsing. Swirling. Only now do I fully comprehend that miraculously I am looking at a picture of my own insides.
My womb.
‘That black area, is that where the baby is?’
‘Can you see this dot?’ The spaceship finger orbits the screen again and lands. ‘See this tiny white speck within the blackness?’
Dead and Gone: A Gripping Thriller With a Shocking Twist Page 11