by Helen Black
Bell’s lips formed a slight smile. ‘I can’t go into the evidence at this time.’
‘Because you don’t have any,’ said Raffy.
Lilly could see that Raffy was pushing it too far. She might be able to excuse an angry grieving young man but DI Bell would not. If she didn’t defuse the situation he might get himself arrested for threatening behaviour.
‘Do you have a suspect?’ she asked.
The inspector turned to her with unconcealed satisfaction. ‘Indeed I do.’
‘Who?’ demanded Raffy.
DI Bell licked his lips, the proverbial cat who had got the cream.
‘Raffique Khan, I am arresting you for the murder of Yasmeen Khan. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court…’
Jack parked outside Denleigh Secondary School. He drained a bottle of Evian and threw the empty plastic bottle over his shoulder. It landed on the back seat of his car amid fourteen others. Lilly kept nagging him to recycle them.
He snorted. Lilly recycled everything. Bottles, tins, cereal packets—you couldn’t get into the cottage for bags and boxes of the stuff piled up in the hallway.
‘It’s like one of those strikes in the seventies,’ he’d complained one evening when he’d nearly broken his ankle trying to leap over a month’s worth of newspapers.
‘I’m just trying to make sure this baby has a planet left to live on,’ she’d said, pointing at her swelling belly.
He’d laughed, like he always did. Said she was right, like he always did.
He thought about all those Coke cans, milk cartons and unwanted Christmas cards being collected, crushed, cleaned and used again. Maybe more than once, maybe lots of times. Maybe the same tin got used again and again and again, each time filled with something different, last time beans, this time peas, next time, who knows? But it was the same tin going round and round.
He knew how it felt. He’d been doing the same job for over ten years, living in the same flat, drinking in the same pubs. It was like Groundhog Day.
He had tried so hard to change things and thought Lilly’s pregnancy might be just the catalyst. A fresh start for them both, a proper relationship. But no. He and Lilly were dancing the same dance they had always done.
He’d met her years ago, when one of her clients had been caught nicking tins of sweets in Woolies. He’d thought she was gorgeous and had impressed her by giving the lad a fiver and letting him go. Her smile had been worth the bollocking he’d got from the shop manager and it had kept him warm throughout a Christmas dinner of beans on toast. Lilly’s admiration of Jack seemed to have gone the same way as Woolworths since then.
She did what she felt she had to do, regardless of the consequences to him or his career. He wasn’t so stupid to think that if it wasn’t for Lilly he’d be in the murder team now, but she hadn’t helped.
During his last review, which had taken place, unhelpfully, a week after he and Lilly had ‘lost’ one of her clients on the way to the immigration authorities, the chief super had confirmed what Jack already knew.
‘Your choice of girlfriend is not especially helpful.’
And here they were again.
Jack scratched his scalp and tried to remind himself that Lilly’s commitment to her work was one of the things that he had always admired. The children she represented had no one else. Often she was all that stood between them and Armageddon. A lone voice in the chaos. Had he really thought she’d stay quiet just because she was pregnant?
He looked up at the sign at the school gate.
No man is an Island.
Together we are strong
‘Try telling that to Lilly bloody Valentine,’ he said aloud.
The secretary’s hair was cropped so short, Jack could see patches of pink scalp peeping through. In fact, the hairs on her chin were longer.
‘Sign, here, here and here.’ She pointed at three spidery crosses.
‘Jesus,’ said Jack, ‘you’ve more security than the nick.’
‘We had a lot of trouble a year ago.’
‘Oh, aye?’
She leaned towards Jack so that her beard was inches from his nose. ‘Some of the Asian pupils have difficult family members.’
‘Difficult how?’
‘Storming into the classrooms, dragging the girls out of their lessons,’ said the secretary.
Jack scratched his signature across the form. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’
A voice came from behind. ‘Ancient history.’
The secretary blushed and filed her paperwork.
Jack turned and got to his feet.
A tall blonde with long tanned legs strode towards him.
‘Mara Blake,’ she smiled. ‘Head Teacher.’ Her accent was South African, clipped.
Jack smiled back. Jesus, teachers had never looked this good when he was at school.
‘Sergeant Jack McNally,’ he said. ‘I made an appointment to discuss race relations.’
‘Indeed you did. Shall we walk while we talk?’ She had already set off, leaving Jack to trot after her firm thighs.
The corridors were strewn with rucksacks and footballs but Mara picked her way through in dangerously high heels without a second’s pause.
‘We pride ourselves on discipline,’ she said. ‘You get caught with drugs, you’re out. The same goes for weapons.’
Jack stifled a laugh. Zero tolerance or not, he would bet that a random spot check of the students’ pockets would furnish enough flick knives and bags of weed to send the Daily Mail into meltdown.
‘The children are here to learn and they know it,’ she said.
Again Jack smiled. Denleigh Secondary School had one of the worst academic records in the country. In the League Tables the government insisted on publishing each year it usually came somewhere between West Brom and Sunderland.
Mara gave him a hard look. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘You do?’
‘That our results are terrible.’
Jack shrugged. He could scarcely deny it.
‘Just bear in mind that some of these children are incredibly disadvantaged. Over a quarter don’t have English as their first language, the rate of divorce within families is high, as is unemployment,’ she said.
He passed through to the art rooms and was hit by the familiar smell of acrylic paint. He scanned the walls covered in batik prints of Chinese dragons.
‘We try to incorporate as many cultures as possible into the curriculum,’ said Mara. ‘Art is a great way to express mutual respect.’
Jack hovered next to a particularly well-crafted design. The dragon’s eyes narrowed menacingly, his teeth appeared ready to bite.
‘Over half the kids here are Muslim, right?’
Mara joined him with a smile. ‘At least.’
‘Is there any racial tension?’ Jack asked.
She rattled her answer like a gun. ‘We don’t tolerate any form of discrimination.’
Jack put up his hand. ‘I know the policy. What I’m asking is if there’s an undercurrent. Your secretary mentioned some problems with parents.’
Mara sighed, her breath escaping in a minty rush. ‘Not parents so much,’ she said. ‘Older brothers.’
Jack raised an eyebrow for her to continue.
‘We tried to put on a musical last year, Grease.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Jack, ‘there were riots over who was going to play Sandy.’
Mara laughed and put her hand on his arm. ‘I wish. To begin with none of the Asian pupils would take part and we knew we couldn’t go ahead with half the school unrepresented in the cast.’
‘So what did you do?’ asked Jack.
‘We had a chat with some of the more integrated students, made them see how great it would be.’
‘Something tells me it didn’t end up being that great.’
Mara removed her hand from his arm. It immediately felt co
ld.
‘Two of the girls involved didn’t tell their families and when they found out they were not happy,’ she said. ‘Certain brothers and uncles arrived en masse and made a scene.’
‘Did you call the police?’
Mara shook her head. ‘To be honest, I felt we’d caused the girls involved enough stress without making matters official.’
‘And no more musicals?’
Mara laughed again. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Something funny, miss?’ A boy had entered the studio. He was in his mid-teens, his trainers muddy.
Mara nodded at the batik dragon. ‘We were just admiring your work, Ryan.’
Ryan bounced back and forth on his heels. ‘It’s alright, innit?’
Jack traced the dragon’s tail with his finger. ‘It’s excellent.’
‘You can buy it for a tenner,’ said Ryan.
‘Don’t you need it for your assessment?’ asked Mara.
Ryan shrugged. ‘I’d rather have the tenner.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Jack, ‘do me another just like it and you can have the cash.’
Ryan watched Jack, his slits of eyes mirroring his dragon. ‘You’re on,’ he said, and headed for the door.
‘Don’t you want to know where to find Mr McNally?’ asked Mara.
Ryan gave her a pitying look. ‘Down the nick, innit?’
‘Am I that transparent?’ asked Jack.
Ryan laughed and closed the door behind him.
Jack took a last look at the print. The fire and rage seemed even stronger now he had met the artist.
‘The boy has a real talent.’
Mara smiled but there was a sadness to it.
‘Problem?’ asked Jack.
‘He’s easily our most talented student,’ she said. ‘He should apply for a scholarship to art school.’
‘But he won’t?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s often absent, always scruffy. His attitude will let him down.’
‘Teenagers, eh? They’re all cocky little so-and-sos.’
‘It’s more than that,’ she said. ‘He’s a very angry young man.’
‘What’s the family like?’
‘They’ve never set foot in the place, not even for parents’ evening,’ she sighed. ‘I fear it’s going to end badly for Ryan.’
‘What a waste.’
‘I don’t know what else to do,’ said Mara.
‘If you’re worried, I could make a few enquiries,’ said Jack, ‘discreetly, of course.’
Mara’s face lit up. ‘That’s very, very kind of you.’
Jack nodded. It was totally beyond his remit, but what was the good of being a copper if you could only stick to the script? Jesus, you may as well work for the Inland Revenue.
DI Bell’s office was extraordinarily tidy. Lilly wondered how people did that—put things away, kept papers in files. Every office she had ever worked in ended up like a homeless person’s squat. Her old boss, Rupinder, had occasionally ordered a clear-up on the grounds of health and safety.
Lilly looked down at her scribbled notes. ‘Is that it?’
DI Bell showed his open palms. ‘What more do you need?’
‘How about some evidence?’ she said.
‘You’ll find plenty of evidence in what I’ve told you,’ he said.
She threw her notebook on the table in disgust. ‘You say Yasmeen died from an overdose of OxyContin and Perocet.’
Bell nodded. ‘The pills were ground down and placed in a can of Coke to hide the taste. The can was found by Yasmeen’s bed. The dregs showed traces of both drugs.’
‘Enough to kill her?’
Bell nodded. ‘Even small amounts can prove fatal. Perocet should never be taken with other drugs and OxyContin should never be ground down.’
‘Because?’
‘They’re designed for slow release; crushing them makes the effects far too strong.’
‘Maybe she did that herself.’
DI Bell folded his arms. ‘Why on earth would she do that?’
‘Maybe she didn’t like the taste. Who knows what goes on in someone’s mind before they take their own life?’
‘There was no suicide note and no suggestion that anything was wrong.’ He eyed Lilly coolly. ‘She didn’t kill herself.’
Lilly waved him away with her hand. ‘Perhaps it was an accident.’
‘There’s no evidence she had either drug in her possession,’ said Bell. ‘She wasn’t in receipt of a prescription.’
‘I’ll bet you can buy them on the net,’ said Lilly.
‘Indeed you can. But there’s no record that Yasmeen ever did that and no packaging was found in her room.’
Lilly had to admit it didn’t sound like suicide.
‘That still doesn’t mean that Raffy had anything to do with it,’ she said.
‘There were two sets of prints on that can. Yasmeen’s and your client’s.’
‘That only means he touched the can, not that he put the drugs inside it.’
DI Bell licked his lips. ‘We obtained a warrant to search your client’s school locker and guess what we found?’
Lilly watched Bell open his drawer and pull out a clear evidence bag. Inside were two small boxes. Even before Bell put them on the table between them, Lilly could read the word ‘OxyContin’. Her heart sank.
‘When were you going to tell me about this?’ she asked. ‘Or were you going to spring it on us in the interview?’
DI Bell dazzled Lilly with the whiteness of his smile. ‘I’m telling you now.’
‘Because I’m warning you,’ Lilly pointed at him, ‘I will bring a halt to it if you try any more tricks like this.’
Bell narrowed his eyes but didn’t reply.
‘And think about it,’ said Lilly. ‘If Raffy was guilty, why wouldn’t he cover his tracks, throw the packets away? Why on earth would he put them in his locker?’
DI Bell’s eyes were two dark slits. ‘Who knows what goes on in someone’s mind after they’ve murdered their sister?’
Raffy sat upright in his chair and stared at the wall. Lilly wondered if he was frightened. He certainly was not prepared to show it.
‘The police believe you killed Yasmeen,’ she said.
He didn’t look at her. ‘I’d worked that out myself.’
Lilly glanced at Anwar, who had agreed to attend as his brother’s appropriate adult. Anwar seemed much more frightened than his younger brother and chewed his bottom lip.
Lilly took a deep breath. ‘They say you put Perocet and OxyContin in her drink.’
‘Is that right?’ said Raffy, his eyes locked on the wall behind her.
‘Do you know anything about those drugs?’
‘Nope.’
‘The police searched your school locker,’ she said.
Raffy’s eyes darted to Lilly, then returned to their spot behind her. ‘And?’
‘And they found packets of those drugs.’
Raffy shrugged. ‘Planted.’
Lilly nodded. It was not unheard of for the police conveniently to find evidence, but it was not as common as her clients would have her believe.
‘Right then, let’s do it.’ Lilly stood to let herself out.
‘Is that it?’ asked Raffy. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘What were you expecting?’ Lilly’s hand hovered on the door handle. ‘A preprepared statement?’
Raffy grimaced. ‘Some advice might be helpful.’
‘You don’t seem to want my help, Raffy.’
The boy gave a low snort in his throat.
‘Just keep your answers short, say as little as possible.’ She opened the door. ‘Don’t give them any ammunition.’
The interview room was silent as DI Bell ensured the video equipment was working. He was deliberately checking and rechecking the plug, the leads, the angle of the camera, letting the tension ratchet. Certainly Lilly could feel the terror emanating from Anwar but the old police tactic wasn’t
working on Raffy, whose every pore radiated unalloyed resentment.
‘OK then,’ said DI Bell, and took his seat.
Raffy lifted his chin and stared at the ceiling.
DI Bell placed his suit jacket on the back of his chair. In just his shirt Lilly could see how slight the man was, his frame almost boyish. Still he puffed out his chest like a robin, enjoying his position.
He cleared his throat. ‘For the sake of the tape let me introduce myself as DI Bell. Also present is Miss Valentine, the suspect’s solicitor.’
‘Correct,’ Lilly nodded.
‘We also have Anwar Khan, the suspect’s brother, acting as his appropriate adult,’ said DI Bell.
Anwar mumbled something.
‘I’m sorry,’ said DI Bell, ‘you’ll have to speak up.’
‘Sorry,’ Anwar coughed, ‘sorry.’
Lilly passed him a glass of water, which he gulped loudly.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘It’s just that I’ve never been in a police station before and I’m very nervous.’
‘That’s perfectly understandable,’ said DI Bell. ‘Take your time.’
Anwar set the empty glass down carefully in front of him.
‘I just wanted to confirm that I’m Raffy’s brother.’
DI Bell was a study in calm. ‘Excellent. Now everyone’s been introduced I want to remind Raffique that he’s still under caution. Do you know what that means?’
‘I’m not stupid,’ said Raffy.
Lilly cringed. The last thing anyone should be in an interview was cocky. Frightened, yes. Angry, possibly. Cocky, never. While Lilly understood that bravado was often the refuge of the terrified child, juries imagined only those with lots of experience of the criminal justice system would have the temerity to be cocky.
DI Bell smiled. Lilly wasn’t the only one in the room who knew how juries thought.
She put her hand on Raffy’s thigh hoping to remind him of her advice to say as little as possible; not to give them any ammunition.
‘Do you know why you’re here?’ asked DI Bell.
‘Like I said, I’m not stupid.’
Lilly sighed. Her client was doing nothing except harming his own chances of getting out of here.
‘Then humour me,’ said DI Bell. ‘Tell me in your own words why you’ve been arrested.’