“Wouldn't dream of it, pet.”
“See you don't.”
* * * * *
Jack Kemp, sat in the cobbled together interview room two doors down from the already buzzing incident room, was, as yet, unaware of Barney's sudden attack of the Big Brother's. He had problems of his own. One, not least of which was facing him over the oblong table.
Andy McKenna, the unofficial head-honcho as of dawn today, entered the room just as Kemp was switching on the tape recorder and informing Jeff Lisker that he was obliged to aid their enquiries in any way he could. Andy closed the door as quietly as the oil-hungry hinges would allow. Not wanting to disturb the questioning before it had a chance to get underway, he ignored the spare seat at the table, and instead went over to the room's only window and perched on its deep-tiled sill. The gentle susurrations of the morning's mild breeze curled lazily through the half open fly-window.
Even without the 1889 date stone for a giveaway, it wouldn't have been too difficult to guess when the Dickensian schoolhouse had been built. The doors were solid timber, with small glass observation panels at head height, and the thick plaster covered walls worked wonders for the air-conditioning.
Andy settled himself on the sill. Beyond the window lay another piss ant country village, with its single street of shops and a population of less than six hundred. On this side of the window, however, the scene was much more his particular kettle of vermin.
The interview room resembled everything he hated from his school days; Parquet floors, plastic backed chairs and wooden desks stacked up against the back wall, lacklustre walls, bare bulb and blackboard. Despite its more recent incarnation as a youth club, the air still held that unforgettable odour Andy put down to a century of semolina and school dinners.
Ring files full of procedure notes were stacked on the table, next to which the tape recorder rolled, Kemp's fingers drummed, and his cigarette dwindled.
Besides the cold semolina and school dinners, the damp, sour smell of disuse lingered.
Andy considered going back through to get himself a coffee, but seeing Kemp set his own aside, decided against it.
“I think you know why you're here,” Kemp spoke slowly and plainly, making sure every word was easily understood by the shabby character across the table. His tousled, sandy mop of hair gave Kemp a mussed, boyish appearance that was only enhanced by his wide, beguiling grin. Andy was struck with the sudden and glaring perception that he was watching a shark polish off the last minnow in the pool. “I want you to tell me everything you told Constable Adams on Thursday night. Take your time, start from the beginning and don't leave anything out. Let me be the judge of what is, and isn't, important. If anything pops into your head, don't be afraid to speak up. It'll be better for everyone concerned if we can get this sorted out quickly.”
It would also be a miracle, especially after the butcher's job in the General, Andy added for his own benefit.
Johnny's father had managed to shave and run a comb through his hair since Thursday, but didn't look any better for it. He blinked, nodding his pudgy, round-face, his sickly eyes darting everywhere. He sniffed, shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world was stacked on them, and when he spoke, there was a slight tremor in his mumbling voice.
Kemp had to ask him to speak up, and did well not to wrinkle his nose at the sour cocktail of sweat, cigarettes and stale beer emanating from his body. Lisker leaned forward on his elbows, figuring he was talking to an idiot.
“Look, like I tol' Charlie, even if'n I knew where the mongrel was, I wouldn't be tellin' no one and certainly not no cop.”
Something close to pride glimmered in the man's sickly eyes. “You can't make me shop me own boy.”
Kemp just shrugged.
“True,” he conceded. He frowned, glanced at Andy, and then continued. “That's up to you, and I'm sorry if you think you're being treated unfairly, Mr Lisker. Please believe me when I say I'm only trying to do what I think is best. You're a grown man, I'm sure you can appreciate my position here. I've got one lad dead and another on the critical list, and a handful of eye witnesses who can place Johnny at the scene, with the knife in his hand. Now, on top of that there's been a vicious attack this morning and your son's not been accounted for. So, I'll ask you once again, have you any idea where Johnny might be?”
Lisker shook his head and sniffed. “Like I says before, no I ain't! He don't tell me where he's goin' no more. He's big enough an' ugly enough to take care o' himself, see.”
“And you're certain your son's not been back home since then?” Kemp pressed, resting the tips of his fingers together, circling his thumbs hypnotically. He didn't believe one word of it, and made sure everyone in the room knew as much with the solitary shake of the head as he finished speaking.
“Like I said.”
“Of course, like you said. Okay, what say you tell us something about Johnny. Give me a dad's eye view, if you like. Who does he knock about with? Where does he hang out? That sort of stuff.”'
Jeff Lisker looked uncomfortable for a moment, the cogs slowly ratchetting over as he reassessed his position and straightened up in his chair. “Ain't much to tell. I'm sure you know pretty much everythin' anyway, so I can't see what you got to gain from me tellin' you that sort of stuff. . .” He seemed immensely pleased with his manoeuvring. One point scored, the moral victory his.
“Point noted, Mr Lisker, but, as I said, let me be the judge. Thursday night, Johnny went, with friends, to The Railway House on the High Street, yes?”
“If'n you say so.”
“You're not being very helpful, Mr Lisker. Take it from me, Thursday night, your son was in The Railway House with some of his friends.' Jack checked the list of names off against those in his notes. 'Dave Lockley, Alex Slater and Eddie McMahon. No one's seen hide nor hair of either Johnny or Alex since then, and as you already know, Eddie is still in intensive care. Now, rather than ask you a lot of questions you've probably been asked a dozen times over, let me offer a you few suggestions and we'll see where we go from there. Okay?”
“Yeah. . . well, whatever you say.”
“Okay, then, Mr Lisker,” Kemp said neutrally. “According to your original statement, your son, Johnny, left the house just after eight, to meet some of his friends for a drink, and you haven't seen him since then?”
“Yeah, that's what I said.”
Kemp sighed wearily, as though unconvinced. “Look, Jeff, I'll be straight with you. I've met some very good liars in my time but you're not one of them. Now, either you tell me where your son is, or I'll have you charged with withholding evidence, complicity to murder, harbouring a wanted criminal, and whatever else I can think up.” He sat back, and, smiling slowly, spread his arms wide. “Your choice?”
Lisker stared at him, opening and closing his mouth, lost and looking very much like a befuddled goldfish at the same time. Sweat was beading on his brow like a rash of pimples, but he looked too dazed to wipe it away.
On the window ledge, Andy tensed and leaned forward, enjoying the battle of wills taking place across the table. Score one for the good guys.
Finally, Lisker mumbled, “All right, all right. Yeah, he did come home. About four o’clock Friday morning. But he ain’t been back since an’ I don't know where he’s gone,” he shook his head, his face assuming a number of conflicting emotions. “Satisfied?”
Jack Kemp gave him a slight smile of encouragement.
“You want to tell me about it?”
Lisker managed a watery smile. He closed his eyes; licked his cracked lips. At last, and in a halting voice, he said, “It was after Charlie came round, so I weren’t lyin’ to ‘im. I hadn't seen Johnny for a couple of days, when he comes in lookin’ mighty pleased with ‘imself. I told ‘'im Charlie’d been round seekin’ ‘im, but he reckoned it were jus’ the Pigs makin’ a fuss o'er nothin’.” Jeff Lisker put his fingertips to his temples, massaging the spot lightly and still wincing, as if merely recounting the events surro
unding his last, brief encounter with his wayward son had given him the makings of an excruciating headache.
Something cold, implacable, had surfaced in Kemp’s clear, blue eyes. Doodling disconcertingly on the top sheet of a yellow reporter's note pad, as if his attention was only half on the confession, he said, “Much better. Now, I don't think your son has gone far, and I'm not convinced that you don't know where he is. What I want to know is this, are you still holding out on me, Jeff? Because I swear to God if you are, your life won't be worth the price of a piss when I've finished with you. Understand me?”
Lisker bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hand. “Yes,” he whispered.
“So, you don't have any idea where he might be hiding?” Kemp asked again.
From somewhere within his own private darkness, Jeff Lisker seemed to dredge up the words of a memory. “I don't. . . He took off with the sleepin' bags. . . said somethin’ t’Alex about layin’ low someplace where they used to play. . .”
“Go on.”
“If’n he were ‘ere, I'd ‘ave said for you to ask Alex. Him’n Johnny were always gettin’ into trouble together, even when they were nippers. Terrible twins, y’know.”
“He's not here though, is he?”
“Nope, I guess he ain’t.”
“And you have no idea where this place might be?” Kemp pressed.
“Nope. They used to hang round down by the lake, y’know, playin’ footie in the park, like most kids their age. Used to knock about up by the peaks in summer, too.”
“The peaks?”
“Just up past the Hill,” Lisker pointed away in what he assumed was the direction of Moses Hill. “Can't miss ‘em. Like a big wall surroundin’ the village. Natural amphitheatre's what they call it, I think. Y’know, like a bowl shape.”
“Thank you, Mr Lisker.” Kemp concluded, noting down both of the areas as possibles for the grid search.
This peaks idea sounded promising. Plenty of places to lose yourself up there, that was for sure.
“He's not a bad lad, y'know. Not really.”
“I'm afraid I'll have to take your word for that,” Jack Kemp commented, recapping the biro he had been twiddling with throughout the interview.
“He's just been a bit messed up since he had that fall out with his lass before Christmas.”
“Girlfriend?” Andy put in, speaking for the first time. He and Kemp exchanged a look that seemed to say: Okay, how come nobody thought to mention this little gem before? A tic in Kemp's right cheek made half his face twitch. His blue eyes looked hard and cool. Steel blue, nearer to grey. The muscles in his jaw clenched and unclenched. The cords of muscle in his neck were stretched taut. He looked like he wanted to break something in half. Anything. Andy was struck by a second, weirder insight; if Kemp had been a Warner Brothers cartoon character, steam would have been pouring from his ears. He didn't laugh.
“Yeah,” Lisker repeated. 'What was her name again? Allie somethin’ or other, I think, but I wouldn't like ‘'put me life on it.”
“You wouldn't still have her address at home would you?” AndyMcKenna prompted, coming down off his perch.
“Not do you much good even if’n I had, seein’ as how she got herself killed in a car crash just after her an’ our Johnny's fall out. Don't think he's ever forgiven himself. . . Still, the way he treated that lass it was a wonder she didn't walk out sooner. Most of ‘em young ‘uns wouldn't have put up with his schemin’ shenanigans all the time. . .”
* * * * *
“Send the helicopter up first. Cover the area here, between Devils Water and the peaks. I want to get that grid search co-ordinated and off the ground next.”
“Search and cordon the area around Moses Hill?”
“Yep. Get the local boys to round up a posse from the willing residents. Let them feel like they're doing something useful.”
“No problem, Skip.”
“Good, because if those two are anywhere, they're up there.”
“Two needles in one enormous fucking haystack though, Skip.”
“I prefer to think of those two as rats on a shit heap, Jack.”
“Same difference. Speaking of rats, where's Devlin?”
“The PNC's number crunching came up with a Corbridge townhouse after the balls up at the health farm.”
“If Richards has gone to Brussels my arse is a monkey's knob rest.”
“Quite. Devlin's pulled two units of Specials.”
“Going for overkill, huh?”
“That's the way he wants to play it, so who am I to argue. In the meantime he's in serious danger of chasing the doctor up his own dark and slimy orifice.”
“What the hell do you make of all this, Skip?”
“I haven't got a sodding clue, Jack lad. But keep that to yourself.”
- 47 -
No lights on and no signs of anyone being at home.
Surprise, surprise.
Devlin checked his watch, counting off seven seconds. The three marksmen were in place and had been for six minutes now, two out front, their scopes aiming down from perches above the home bakery and the family butchers two doors down, the other out back, in place in a now vacated child's nursery. Probably hunkered down between mobiles of Thomas The Bloody Tank Engine and cutesie Care Bears.
Three snipers and seventeen Special Patrolmen for one screwed up head doctor who, by the looks of things, wasn't even home.
A mouth ulcer Devlin didn't remember having when he woke up twenty seven hours ago, had inflamed and finally ruptured in the last twenty minutes and was now stinging like antiseptic being splashed copiously on an open wound every time saliva got anywhere near the weeping blister.
He would have felt a whole lot happier if Kristy had let him take her back to her flat, rather than fussed about having to spend time alone in the Chapel. Sure it was one hell of a shock, seeing a friend laid out like a slab of meat on a butchers block, but even so, Kristy French was one headstrong lady he definitely wouldn't have put down as a religious fruitcake, but each to his or her own particular brand of poison.
He was busy biting the ulcer out of his cheek when a radio crackled. Someone answered. Devlin checked the points of access and escape off mentally: Two ground floor windows front, three back, none to either side, and two doors, one front and one back.
All points covered by at least one gun. No retreat, no surrender. He gave the word, echoed on the ring of radios, counted to five before dropping into a loose crouch and following the two men at his side, forward. Fire axes slammed into the solid oak door, splitting first the centre panel, then the brass bedding holding the lock. Two officers shoulder charged through.
Break in, three seconds.
They fanned off to right and left, the rearguard taking the stairs three and four at a time.
The downstairs fairly reeked with the astringent smells of disinfectant and other cleaning agents.
Officers shouldered open the back door. The kitchen, empty. Lounge, empty. Devlin dropped his shoulder and kicked open the study door, a move no academy had taught him, but virtually every cops and robbers movie on the box had drummed in for all their sins.
Shelves full of imposing manuals. Desk, neatly segregated, Pen, capped and in the centre of the deer hide blotter. A photo, between diplomas, of an inanely grinning property developer and Brent Richards drooling over the then run down Pilgrim's Hall.
Sounds of a scuffle upstairs, heavy feet, floorboards complaining. A door slamming.
Another photograph mounted on the wall, Richards and an army sergeant Devlin recognised from the folders of case notes as Monk Sanders, the woodland suicide. Now there was one nasty looking bugger. Mean. Hard.
Muffled voices. Another door slammed followed by footsteps on the stairs.
Devlin backed out of the study to see Sam Ash frog-marching Richards down the stairs. The smile had slipped. He looked stunned. Shell-shocked. Behind him, two officers shoved a naked Mediterranean kid of seventeen, tops, down the sta
irs. Richards looked like shit. He hadn't shaved, dark circles ringed his eyes. Hair dishevelled. Skin greasy and sallow. He looked unhealthily like a corpse. The kid spat at the back of his head, muttered a curse in Portuguese, and got a cuffing around his own head for his pleasure. Richards stumbled on the step, and to his credit, Sam didn't let him fall.
The door at the top of the stairs opened again.
“No. . . No. . . .” Richards was mewling, over and over.
Scott Jordan, the youngest of the squad to come out with Devlin, came down the stairs holding a child, naked, ribs heaving, to his chest. Scott was crying, stroking the bairn's head with his big, solid hand. Comforting. Telling her everything was going to be all right. She didn't look any older than six.
Devlin felt sick.
- 48-
Ben Shelton folded back the paper on the tragic story of Samira, the little girl from Rwanda with big brown eyes and a ponytail. Born in 1998, the doctor's report, reprinted in the two page article, detailed her difficulty urinating and defecating alongside the one line that said she had been sexually violated.
When the girl's mother found her, she was unconscious, foaming at the mouth, her underwear missing and blood streaming from between her legs.
The bare bones report was simply more horrible than any vein Ben's recent oasis of creativity could hope to tap. After three hours spent toying with the affections of an embittered, elemental lover Ben had opted out of page one hundred and nine's almost obligatory sex scene, choosing instead to take Joe Cruze, his luckless hero into a poker game, one step further from the arms and eyes they would adore given half the chance. Poker gave somebody's Mr Wrong a flawless alibi for a murder that no matter how graphically he chose to portray it could never live alongside the real life horrors of that poor little girl in Rwanda.
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