Storm Child (Dangerous Friends Book 3)

by Jennifer Young

  ‘They’re working you hard.’ The slightest frown crossed his face before he hastened to soften what could too easily have been a criticism. ‘I know what it’s like.’

  ‘I’m choosing to work hard. It’s because I’m committed to the job. You know what that’s like, too.’

  It was that, but not only that. Even in the stress-free zone of Marcus’s presence, I was on edge. I was struggling at work, and if it wasn't for Andy’s understanding I wouldn’t be coping at all. He never spoke to me, he left me out of meetings where he could; when he couldn’t avoid it, he communicated directly with me in the friendliest of terms, even as he raged and ranted at those around me. When we met, he always managed a smile. And yet, when I was at work I still struggled to be effective, because too many things, about Andy and about the whole atmosphere at Planet People, reminded me of my uncomfortable, almost-fatal past.

  ‘It isn’t good to overwork.’ Marcus lightened his tone, but the implied criticism lingered.

  ‘I could say the same about you.’ It would be easy to explain to him what troubled me, but if I did that he’d blame himself for his part in what had happened. And all I wanted was for him to be happy so that I could have a chance of happiness, too.

  ‘I’m thriving on it. You look tired.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘You’re making that up. I work better out of the office. There are fewer distractions.’

  We crossed the street and headed up along the Water of Leith towards Inverleith Park. ‘I wonder if it’s possible to be too committed to a cause?’ he mused, as we stepped off the road and into the green shade of the trees.

  ‘I might ask you that.’

  ‘It was a general question. Applying to both of us. Whether it’s possible to care too much about something.’

  He sounded like my mother in my ear when I’d been in my radical phase. She’d always gone on at me for caring too much about people who ought to be able to care for themselves, castigating me for not letting people take responsibility for their own actions. For a lifelong socialist, my mother sometimes came out with extraordinarily conservative remarks, but as my old anarchist friends always used to point out, right wing or left wing, right or wrong, are just social constructs. ‘Then I’ll give you a general answer. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  We walked the next few minutes in silence, as the sun began its decline in the west, promising us a glimpse of sunset before it sank into a bank of grey clouds. ‘You said you’d news,’ I reminded him by way of distraction, when I’d tried and failed to get my family out of my head.

  ‘Yes. I have a feeling we might get another visit from our friend in Perthshire very soon.’

  Marcus was the most reasonable, fair-minded judge of his fellow human beings I’d ever met, but he couldn’t hide his frustration with Nick Riley. ‘Aren’t we the lucky ones?’ I said, dryly. ‘Any particular reason, or does he just enjoy our company?’

  ‘Certainly not that.’ He laughed. ‘They’ve identified the body, that’s all. Of course, he may decide there’s nothing more he needs to ask us. He struck me as that kind of man. Or he may have a few new ideas in the light of what he now knows, and want to follow it up. Either way, if I were him, I think the way things are unfolding I’d quite like to go back and revisit some of my key witnesses.’

  ‘We’re his only witnesses. Aren’t we?’

  ‘Unless there’s something I don’t know. Yes.’

  Something made me shiver — not just the memory of the storm, but the fact that Marcus and I were the only two people who believed in what we’d seen that night, now that the boy was dead. ‘And what did Nick have to tell you?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me anything. He doesn’t have time for the likes of me. But he did speak to Nerissa.’

  I thought of the youth, wrapped in Marcus’s jacket, frozen to death in what was left of a spring snowdrift. I hated the way the police spoke. The body. The victim. They were all people, and all people deserved respect. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s Polish. A migrant worker, apparently. I say “apparently”, because we don’t yet have any record of him having come here permanently.’

  ‘For God’s sake, can’t you give him a name? Do you have to just call him a migrant?’ I caught myself up, too late. I was more on edge that I’d thought. I took a deep breath and prepared to apologise, but changed my mind. I wasn’t sorry, and Marcus would know. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Jan Kowalski.’ He ignored my outburst, but his voice dropped a little, as if he too was looking for an extra measure of control.

  ‘No doubt your people will be linking him to every unsolved crime in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘They aren’t my people. They’re the police investigating an unexplained death, and they have a duty to be objective and unemotional about it.’

  ‘And what about him? Why was no-one supporting him?’

  ‘You’re making an unfounded assumption based on no evidence.’ A bike bell rang behind us, and we stepped to one side to let a family wobble past in the spring sunshine. ‘As it happens, it’s correct. Maybe that’s luck, maybe it’s judgement. Some people might say you’d make an excellent detective.’ He smiled at me encouragingly.

  I wasn’t mollified. ‘You mean, they’re blaming him for break-ins that are probably committed—’

  ‘You’re jumping to conclusions again. They’re investigating whether he might, in any way, be connected with a number of break-ins, and possibly a murder.’

  ‘A murder!’ Yet again, Jan Kowalski’s face flashed across my memory, pale and plain in its youthful innocence. I’d known a murderer, looked into his eyes as he tried to kill me, and he hadn’t been like that. Murderers were vibrant, violent, powerful men, consumed by driving ambition, with much to gain and everything to lose. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether you believe it or not. Let’s not judge. These are the facts, as I understand them. An elderly woman was found in her garden up near Alyth a couple of weeks ago. She had a head injury and died later in hospital. Her house had been broken into, but nothing was stolen. It appears that she interrupted an intruder, or intruders.’

  ‘There’s no possible way you can claim that was Jan.’

  ‘I’m not claiming anything.’ He shook his head in mute dissatisfaction, the way he always did when he knew something he couldn’t tell me. The shadow of the secrets he kept darkened between us once more. ‘It’s an early stage in the investigation, and I haven’t seen the evidence.’

  ‘Did they find any of the goods on him?’

  ‘I don’t know if they found anything on him or not. Though I wish I’d asked them if they found my keys.’ He frowned.

  ‘Never mind your keys. What about poor Jan?’

  ‘What indeed?’ He sighed, and allowed a fretful expression to cross his face. ‘You’re correct to assume he was vulnerable. He came from a disturbed background. He may have been living rough, though I’d be surprised. He seems to have been in reasonable physical condition.’

  ‘So, why was no-one helping him?’ I was channelling my inner Andy Watt and I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t help myself. In the end, I believed what Andy believed, not what Marcus did. You have to be true to yourself, and being true to yourself in every way could be conflicting. ‘Honestly. It’s so unfair. People just assume that anyone who comes into this country just wants to sponge off the State. Alice is afraid of anyone who doesn’t speak English. It’s ridiculous. And now you find this poor kid, and you just assume that he’s responsible for every minor crime in the neighbourhood. Well, you’re wrong. He’s a victim.’

  ‘Murder isn’t a minor crime,’ he said, with a hard edge to his voice, ‘and I’m not making that assumption.’

  ‘’All right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you. But other people—’

  ‘Some other people certainly do. Yes.’

  ‘We shouldn’t be persecuting these people. We should b
e helping them. He’s Polish. He has a perfect right to be here. I hate the police attitude to people like him. And to other people. Asylum seekers. People of colour. Anyone who doesn’t fit the stereotype of the good citizen.’

  On another day, he might have backed away from the argument, for the sake of peace. Today, something must have provoked him, and he turned to confront me, ready for another round in the argument we couldn’t stop having, the irreconcilable difference between his view of justice and mine.

  ‘That’s absolute garbage. The job of the police is to investigate crimes and bring the people who commit them to justice. Whatever you think, we aren’t out to pin them on people who some other people might consider undesirable, just for the sake of a prosecution. The police make mistakes,’ a flick of his eyebrows paid ironic homage to Nick Riley, ‘but that’s because they’re human. And sometimes, Bronte — just sometimes — migrants and asylum seekers do commit crimes. Just like the rest of us.’

  ‘They need to be helped, and integrated into society.’ I turned and stormed off down the path, slowing as I turned towards Raeburn Place so that he could catch up with me and we could reach the warmth and comfort of a pub together and in harmony. ‘We should be looking after these people.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, catching up with me as I’d intended him to, and recapturing my hand. The row, such as it had been, was already over, even if the gap in our philosophies remained unbridgeable. ‘We should. But it would help if we knew who they were and where, and what help they need. And if other people didn’t go out of their way to keep them away from us, for whatever reason.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Maybe it’s useful to some people to have others who’ll do their work for them. especially ones who aren’t identifiable and can’t be traced. Slavery isn’t dead, you know. I only wish it was.’

  Chapter 25

  I did see Nick Riley again, sooner and in rather different circumstances than I had expected. The first hint of what lay in wait came in a scribbled note from Andy, mysteriously appearing on an aggressively pink Post-it on my desk in the few moments I’d stepped away to make myself and Mariam a cup of coffee. Meeting re migrant media coverage. Main office. 4.30pm. Can you attend pls.

  Putting down the two mugs, I picked up the Post-it and held it between finger and thumb, then turned to Mariam. ‘Any idea what this is about?’

  ‘It’s the complaint Andy had Samira put in to the police up in Tayside,’ she said, looking over my shoulder. ‘It must have worked. There’s a press officer coming in from Tayside Police. To grovel, I imagine.’

  Thank God, I hadn’t had anything to do with the complaint itself. The situation was something I’d have struggled to explain to Andy, even if he’d needed to know about it. ‘Just a press officer?’ I could handle that.

  ‘Yes. Andy would have had the Chief Constable here if he could, but at least they’ve sent someone. They can’t be allowed to get away with the sort of comment that detective was coming out with.’

  ‘They certainly can’t.’ Guilt tickled the back of my conscience as I thought of Marcus defending the entrenched police position. In my heart I knew that most of them were more like him than Nick Riley, or I hoped so. ‘I’ll be ready for it. Who else will be there?’

  ‘Just you, me, and Andy. I don’t imagine it’ll take long. He’s in one of his fighting moods. He’ll swat the poor girl aside in two minutes. It’ll be no contest. We’ll only be there to make up the numbers.’

  Andy in a fighting mood — just what I didn’t need. I glanced at the clock. It was almost half four. In an hour, I would be out of the office, and until then all I had to do was keep breathing, and keep the panic at bay. In the few seconds I had to prepare, I flicked open my phone and took strength from my favourite photo of Marcus, laughing in the snow on the day after the storm. Somehow, the very sight of him persuaded me that everything would be all right.

  ‘Okay. Let’s go and watch the fun.’

  Side by side, we descended the stairs to the ground floor boardroom. Andy must have decided that it was time to be hierarchical and had set the meeting up so that he was at the head of the table, with Mariam and me to his right, side-by-side, leaving the unfortunate press officer to sit with the sun streaming into her face, making it impossible to read the expressions on our faces.

  ‘Ah.’ Andy turned towards the door, his face all fake geniality. ‘Here they come. My colleagues, Mariam Khan, our Communications Secretary. And Bronte O’Hara, our social media guru.’

  Nick Riley, in full uniform, turned his pink-cheeked choirboy’s face towards us. He’d been standing looking out of the window, while Andy had frozen him out, pretending to deal with something more important on his phone.

  ‘Ms. Khan,’ he said, shaking Mariam’s hand, and then reached out a hand to me. ‘Ms. O’Hara. What a pleasant surprise. Nice to meet you again.’

  Andy, his expression set to one of careful neutrality, raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Chief Inspector,’ I rustled up, after a moment’s awkward silence.

  The eyebrow remained raised as Andy looked from me to Nick Riley and back again, waiting for one of us to explain.

  ‘I met Ms. O’Hara a while ago.’ Riley took up the gauntlet, turning to Andy with a conciliatory smile. ‘In circumstances not unconnected with this matter, in fact. Didn’t she mention it?’

  ‘We don’t do surnames here.’ Andy had taken against Nick on sight, something I’d have bet money on. There might be people who found his blustering arrogance irresistible, but they’d surely be few and far between. ‘Formality builds barriers which reinforce inequality and injustice. And barriers aren’t part of our ethos.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Nick turned back to Mariam, addressing himself to her and excluding me. ‘I’m Nick Riley. DCI Nick Riley.’

  ‘We don’t do titles, either.’ Andy had given up even any pretence at politeness.

  ‘Of course. Then you must call me Nick.’

  ‘Let’s get on.’ Andy, forbearing from giving me anything more than a frosty glare, pulled his chair out from under the table with visible impatience, but our visitor didn’t follow suit. Instead, he remained standing, looking down on us with a faint and deliberate smile.

  ‘Andy, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise Bronte would be here. I’m afraid I don’t think it entirely appropriate that she should be in this meeting. Under the circumstances.’

  Andy bounced to his feet again. His face promised black rage, but he kept his temper. ‘Under what circumstances?’

  Nick turned back to me and managed, for the first time, to make his smile convincing. ‘The reason I came here today, rather than my colleague — apart, of course, from the fact that Andy expressed a wish to speak to someone senior — is that I was in town anyway.’

  He paused, and Andy let the pause tick on and on, as if daring me to break it.

  ‘I was just up at police HQ, Bronte, talking to your boyfriend about this very matter.’ Undermining my credibility with the sort of smile he might give a close friend, he carried on. ‘I think I understand now, why he takes the attitude he did. So, I’m sorry. I don’t think this meeting can go ahead with you here.’

  ‘One moment.’ Andy, steelily polite, stepped to the door and nodded to me. I followed, leaving Mariam to deal, politely or otherwise, with our visitor.

  Safely down the corridor and out of Nick’s hearing, he turned on me. ‘Bronte. What the hell—?’

  ‘This is absolute nonsense.’ Andy’s anger, once again, struck me with the fear of the past not the present, but this time I was so angry with Nick Riley that I was prepared to defend myself. ‘He’s causing trouble. That’s all.’

  ‘Then you do know him.’

  ‘Only in passing. He’s the investigating officer for the poor dead man they found up in Perthshire.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. It’s why he’s here. So, exactly what does that have to do with you?’

  ‘Nothing,
directly. I was one of the people who found the body. That’s all.’

  He glowered at me for a moment longer before turning on his heel, and returned to the boardroom. ‘Sorry about that, Nick,’ I heard him say, in a dangerously even tone. ‘My own view is that Bronte has every right to be in this meeting and would make a valid contribution to this matter. But if it eases the discussion we’re about to have, I’m prepared to compromise and let it go on without her.’ He closed the door behind him, shutting me out.

  I went back to my desk, taking a deep breath to calm my racing heart. I didn’t know if I could cope with another dose of Andy on a crusade. I got out my phone, and looked at the picture of Marcus again. The temptation to call him almost overwhelmed me, but I didn’t know what I would say to him, and if he’d just had a session with Nick, he’d surely be as wound up as I was.

  I stared at my computer screen, unable to concentrate. Marcus’s thoughts on what had happened to Jan Kowalski were surely closer to the truth than anything Riley had come up with. Thinking again of Jan’s face — the first time tortured, the second at peace — I felt sick. There were too many injustices in the world. It was impossible to keep track of them all, though at Planet People there wasn’t a crime against humanity that we didn’t have an expert on.

  I had a multitude of things to do, but I wouldn’t get any of them finished until I knew what had passed between Andy and his antagonistic visitor. If necessary, I’d sacrifice yet another evening to catching up.

  Slavery. Of course I knew it existed, but I’d never thought I’d see its cruel face so clearly in my own life. I went down to the next floor and slid into a spare seat. ‘Samira, have you got a minute to talk to me about modern slavery?’

  She turned round and looked at me, wide-eyed. A good twenty years older than me, she’d seen a lot of life and found much of it trying. Weary of the world’s evils though she was, she still kept doing whatever she could to stamp them out. ‘A minute? It’ll take a lot longer than that.’