Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  The DI gulped a mouthful of tea.

  “With their grandmother. And yes, the children. Well, that’s why we’re here really. Mason Hibbert to be more precise. We interviewed him this morning. Yesterday the doc ended up giving him a sedative - after what he went through. So, it was a very gentle interview of course – the kid being only eleven.”

  I nibbled a biscuit. I noticed that Les Forsyth was dunking his Party Rings into his tea. Big baby.

  The DI carried on, more of a musing this time;

  “So, Rachael, well - we’ve known each other for quite a few years, haven’t we? And normally I wouldn’t be relaying this kind of information to another witness involved. Not so soon, anyway. But I wanted to gather a bit of background on the lad. And you’re the obvious person to ask.”

  “Fine. Ask away.”

  Here the DI coughed and made eye contact with the other detective. A smidgen of embarrassment seemed to be hovering over the table.

  “You told us, Rachael, that you didn't see who fired what gun. But given that… given that… your er – you seem to be quite friendly with Mr Chiswick, shall we say… given that…”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Dave! This is me, remember? Don’t beat around the bush.”

  Les grinned, eyes cast down into his mug of tea where a Party Ring had fallen foul of too-long a dunk. Dave harrumphed again.

  “Righteo. Given that you two are good pals. I imagine that by now you know what did actually occur in the hall?”

  “You mean that Mason fired the fatal shot – rather than Michael? Yes. I do know that. Now.”

  Then he informed me that Mason's version of events had chimed exactly with what Michael had told the police about the gunshots. And the autopsy had already been carried out on the body – confirming the same; Mason had fired the shot that had killed Vinnie. He went on to ask whether I found this fact to be surprising, or not. I paused before answering. Wanting to play fair by Mason, but also mindful of the fact that I had no idea whether the detectives were privy to information in relation to Michael’s own former gun-wielding career. If I blurted out; ‘Yes, it's certainly quite startling – but what really surprises me is that Michael turned out to be a crack shot and hostage negotiator for the SAS! Wow! I mean - how spectacular is that?’ it might not go down too well with Michael, if he was still not wanting his cover to be blown. So instead I said;

  “Well… in that any child shot an adult. Yes, that does surprise me. But given Mason’s background… given …”

  DI Dave finished my sentence off for me.

  “You mean, given that the kid grew up with an ex-con - a violent bastard as his father-figure– a man who was in and out of Ashworth – given that the kid was born and bred on the shittiest housing estate in Manchester… along with having a mother who would probably never get shortlisted for the Parent Of The Year award? Given that — ”

  “I don't really know, Dave. About Mason. I couldn’t tell you much about his personality, really…”

  But again, my mind wandered back to the day when I had first met the three children at the hostel. I told them about Mason and West - their eyes glued to the TV screen; Scarface. Both clearly knowing the entire dialogue off by heart. That Dawn seemed to be pretty free and easy about the viewing habits of her eight and eleven-year-old boys. That most of their conversation seemed to be a little bit too peppered with references to violent films. But that at the end of the day, tens of thousands of kids get to watch films like that. And they don’t turn around and deliberately shoot someone.

  I moved to a kitchen drawer to fetch a teaspoon for Les. I could tell that he was wanting to scoop out the sludgy biscuit and enjoy the gloop. He seemed the type.

  Les smiled gratefully and I continued;

  “What I think might have been more important factors in all of this, could have been that the kids - the boys – had exposure to guns. When I first met them, I remember them talking about Vinnie having a ‘Glock.’ It took me a second to figure that one out. I’m not exactly a big fan of weaponry myself.”

  “So, I see,” murmured Les, as he eyeballed the 1970s CND poster on my kitchen wall.

  I told them that it seemed to me - that the biggest element in what happened might well be the fact that Vinnie wasn’t Mason’s real dad. And that the lad had been witness to countless beatings of his mother over the years; that he must have been feeling totally defenceless and utterly ineffective – when faced with a bastard like Vinnie, kicking his mum about every few days. And then suddenly there he was, trapped in that little side room with me and his siblings – and to the four of us crouching there, it had very much been looking like - and sounding like - Vinnie had killed their mother.

  “So, maybe,” I offered. “It isn’t too surprising that he wanted to get back into the hall, to throw Vinnie off his guard. To have a try at shooting him.”

  “Hum. I tend to agree.” The DI considered this, stroking his chin. “And when we interviewed Mason he did display a disturbingly good knowledge of gun technology… of terminology.”

  Les took his seventh Party Ring (Lydia would be hopping mad to find an empty packet later) and chipped in;

  “Sorry though, Rachael – but I do think you're being a bit generous here. And not just with the biscuits.”

  “How do you mean?”

  He bit into it, crunching the pink, marbled icing.

  “A lot of people will look at it like that, of course. Be thinking about Mason, saying ‘Poor kid – what he must have gone through! Who can blame him for shooting that bastard and wanting to protect his mum?' But let's go back to the fire engine incident.”

  “Oh yes. I needed to tell you about that. It wasn't my two. Lydia told me that it was Mason who caused the damned thing to start rolling away! And…”

  Les took his glasses off and started wiping them with a handkerchief;

  “Well, it livened up a not-so-dull-already day. That was for sure. Nearly running DI Garratt over here… along with several other of our finest members of the force.”

  The DI nodded and muttered to himself,

  “That reminds me. The wife keeps nagging. Must get the wills sorted.”

  Les pointed his spectacles at me and continued,

  “Well – yes, your daughter was right about all of that. Mason admitted that he wanted to get the police out of the way so that he could get back into the building. And that he tried to enlist the help of the kid in the fire engine – your little lad - to do it. For me… that is a big cause for concern. He wasn’t bothered about putting the lives of others at risk. See?”

  We were all quiet for a moment.

  “You’re right,” I said. “And I think that – if you haven’t already done this – that the police should be asking social services to carry out a full psychological assessment of Mason. And of West too.”

  Dave nodded. “Good one. Be handy for the IPCC too. Covering ourselves. The inevitable inquiry,”

  “Woah,” I said. “Why on earth is an inquiry needed?”

  “Chief Constable wants it all nipping in the bud, before someone accuses the force of putting innocent members of the public at risk. There's already been consternation over whether there were misunderstandings between Mr Chiswick's security team and our lot. Allegations that between us, we didn't communicate effectively beforehand.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Les offered, with a sigh;

  “Yes, transparency is the order of the day at our place. So, that was another reason as to why we wanted to get ourselves over here, pronto - to check out a few things with you – before we have the IPCC lot crawling all over our offices. We needed to check out all lines of enquiry.”

  “We know, of course,” said the DI. “We know, of course – a little bit of the background to the er… 'relationships' involved. That Mr Chiswick met Vinnie Murray previously. When he was on Brindleford… erm assisting an elderly lady. In the company of erm, you… And then Dawn Hibbert and her lot arrived at the hostel. And you a
ll ended up helping her and her family. With photographs er… later appearing in the national press of…”

  I fixed him with a steely glare. Daring him to accuse me of being The Blonde In the Photographs. He took the hint and continued with;

  “So… do you think that Vinnie turned up at Sisters’ Space to try and threaten you? You personally, I mean. For helping Dawn out? For assisting her to get away from him?”

  I pursed my lip before I answered decisively, with a “No.”

  “What makes you so sure, Rachael?”

  “Because when we were all lying on the floor – he definitely knew who I was. But he didn’t single me out for anything. His anger was directed at Dawn. Sure – he had a go at the journalist and clearly, he didn’t feel any remorse for shooting Kath Casey. But he wasn’t interested in me. Called me an ‘interfering bitch’ or something or other. But that was as far as it went.”

  “Right. So, any further thoughts on why he chose the launch day – of your chocolate shop thing – to turn up like the O.K. Corral?”

  I shrugged.

  “The only thing I can think of, is that he got wind of the fact that Michael Chiswick was going to be there. After their first little encounter - when he mistook Michael for a vicar – Vinnie soon realised who he really was, after the photos in the papers. Maybe he wanted to re-establish a connection with him. Celeb culture stuff going on there? There were a few things that he said that made me think that he had … respect for Michael. Probably the ‘all lads together in the army’ thing going on for him. And he even turned up to Sisters' Space the other day, asking for Michael's number so he could talk to him about his carburettor problems.” Dave shook his head in disbelief at me. I carried on, “But either way, if your lot had taken a bit more of an interest in the kind of things that Vinnie was doing to Dawn - then maybe it wouldn’t have ended up like…”

  The DI held his hands up;

  “Now, now, Rachael, love –you know how bloody difficult it is. Did she ever get an injunction out against him I mean? No. And sure - the guy had done time in Ashworth for some pretty serious stuff that I won’t go into now. But at the end of the day. If a woman doesn’t report it – what can we do? It’s like the…”

  I interrupted him.

  “Okay. Alright. Let’s not go there right now. We’ve both been around the block enough times on this one. Let’s save it for another day.”

  And no matter how much I could try and accuse the police of neglecting their duties with regards to women being beaten by their partners, no matter how crap the current legal system was for a woman wanting to flee from domestic violence, it still rankled deeply with me; it pissed me off good and proper - that even if I had managed to get Dawn to enact an injunction against Vinnie - the whole damned disaster would probably have happened anyway.

  ‘Cause life can be like that.

  Both detectives stood up, ready to leave. Les snaffled the last Party Ring (greedy-guts) and I walked them to the front door. As they strolled down to their car, the DI turned round to me and said;

  “And just so that you’re aware, Rachael, it’s best for you to be prepared for having to answer yet more questions before the whole thing has had a line drawn under it. The IPCC are buggers for going over stuff a million times.”

  “Yup.”

  “But whatever, I’ll be keeping any… unnecessary information about your personal life out of the picture … so far as I can.”

  Les was pretending not to listen and, instead, was examining the wrought iron work on my garden gate. Polite chap. Dave gave me a wink as he opened the driver-side door;

  “And actually… I do hope that things work out with your minister bloke. He’s alright. And that’s more than I can say for the rest of his lot. Bunch of tossers.”

  I smirked, almost feeling obliged to try and stick up for ‘Michael’s lot’ but I wasn’t really a party-political animal these days. Dave and I went back a long way, so I didn’t think twice about calling out to him;

  “Oh, forget about the politics, Dave. I’m just with him for the sex!”

  But I hadn’t banked on my next-door neighbour putting her milk bottles out on her front doorstep at that particular moment in time. Poor old Mrs Finnigan very nearly had a nasty accident.

  After the boys in blue had departed over Holme Moss, I carried on with allowing the children to engage in back-to-back viewing of kiddy films. Hell, all normal rules and modicums of behaviour had flown out of the window this weekend, after all. I decided to check the telephone answering machine. My home landline had barely stopped ringing since we had arrived back, but as per usual, what with running around after the children, I hadn’t bothered to answer it. It turned out that there were a dozen or so messages left by various newspapers – all of them wanting an exclusive interview with me, thanks to my credentials as manager of Sisters’ Space and Gun Hostage Lady. And then there were plenty more from friends who were worried about me, along with the inevitable distressed call from Adam’s parents, who my mother had eventually been able to reassure. The penultimate message came from Jake Bamber;

  “Rach! I just saw some footage of you on the TV – you were leaving the centre with the police! So, you must be okay! Ooh... stop shouting at yourself, Jakey… remember the hangover. Got the worst hangover of my life! Again. But oh, dear Lord, Rachael! The things you get involved with! Anyway. You were looking quite glamorous considering. New frock? I do hope that you’ve washed your hair though by now. It was looking a bit icky. So… call me. I need to know why the hell all of this happened. Although working class alienation theory will no doubt be at the root of it all.”

  Bless him. Daft swine.

  But the last message caused me to take a sharp breath, to sit down. It was Big Jim. Adam’s best mate. Jim who had been on the back of the bike with Adam and had been with him in the last few minutes of his life. Jim who still blamed himself for Adam’s death. His voice was muffled, was cracking with;

  “Thank Christ, oh thank Christ, Rachael - that you’re alright!”

  I allowed a trickle of a tear, over that one.

  And then I spent half an hour catching up on the TV coverage of the previous day’s events. The media focussed on statements from Downing Street, from various police personnel and from Shaun’s boss, the Chief Executive of Medlock Council. Roger Dawson stood on the steps of the Town Hall as he answered the press’ questions. He expressed his ‘profound shock and distress’ at the death of Kathleen Casey, who he described as a ‘woman of integrity, drive and compassion’. Which wasn’t exactly how I remembered her, but there you go. He explained that Medlock Council had been supporting the Sisters’ Space service financially, outlined the reasons behind the day’s celebrations and emphasised that Shaun Elliot was expected to make a full recovery. He went on to say that he couldn’t answer any questions in relation to the gunman and when pressed by reporters to comment as to why the siege might have taken place, he replied;

  “Well, I’m afraid that your guess is as good as mine at this early stage. But we have to remember that centres like this will always attract women who are involved in abusive relationships with unstable men”.

  I was gobsmacked. And then I was incandescent. He might as well have said that the women’s centre had been deliberately breeding a pack of women who ‘bring it on themselves’. Yep – sieges, guns, hostages and real-life death. We’re up for it, ain’t we sisters?

  Shaun had been wrong after all. Roger was not as thick as pigshit. He was simply a total and utter dick.

  Thinking about Shaun again, I called Manchester Royal Infirmary, to see if I could find out anything further about his condition, but the phone seemed to be constantly engaged. I decided to try later.

  Turning back to the TV, I flipped from the BBC and over to the twenty-four-hour news channel. I was more than a little bit taken aback to see Dee’s chunky form on the screen. Yes – our very own Dee; wildcard extraordinaire. On my parents’ telly, the day before, I had caught a fla
sh of her being interviewed outside the centre by the TV stations. Dee had been more than happy to find her fifteen minutes of fame; she was someone who couldn’t care less about her anonymity and who wasn’t worried about her violent partner seeing her mug plastered up there on the plasma - given that he was safely behind bars, after all. And today it looked as though the national media were trying to milk the last dregs of yesterday’s news, tracking down the previous day’s interviewees who lived on the estate closest to Sisters’ Space. The coverage was ‘Live’ and Dee was slouching back up her front garden path, accompanied by three of her children. They had just been to the supermarket, if the number of carrier bags were anything to go by, and a male reporter called to her from over the dilapidated wooden fence;

  “Denise - the police haven’t yet identified the identity of the gunman. So – following your interview with us yesterday - could you tell us who it was? Was it one of the partners of the women who use the centre?”

  She didn’t even bother to look around as she unlocked the front door. Just swung her arm behind her and gave them the finger - already fed up with the media hoo-hah by the looks of it. Or perhaps she did feel a smidgen of loyalty towards Dawn and the kids after all – because let’s face it, anyone who had anything to do with Sisters’ Space would know who the gunman had been by now. Either way, she wasn’t the only person wanting to get rid of the journalists because there was a sudden yell from one of her kids, sounding something like;

  “Piss off - you scumbags!”

  And something that looked suspiciously like an open can of lager hurtled itself towards the camera. The ‘Live’ footage disappeared into a black fuzz. Nice.

  I switched the TV off and went to see what my own children were up to.