The Two O'Clock Boy

by Mark Hill

  She’d get shot of him, and who could blame her?

  A little bit of bile slipped up his throat and he swallowed it. He drove home, puffing miserably on the electronic cigarette Rhonda had given him months ago – Elliot still hadn’t got used to it, hated the taste, and desperately wanted a proper fag – thinking about how he had sat on the sofa last night phoning Gavin’s pay-as-you-go again and again. Leaving hopeful messages, angry messages, pleading messages, and drowning his sorrows when what was called for was a clear head.

  His gut told him he would never see Gavin again. All he had was a phone number. That address, the house where he had supposedly lived, was a lie. He didn’t even know if Gavin was his real name.

  Elliot was glad to get out of Harlow, the Essex town where Gavin had taken him to see the empty shop unit in which they were going to start their burger franchise, or so he had been led to believe. Leaving the sprawl behind, he felt a little better. Dozens of new estates were being built along the M11 corridor, tens of thousands of new homes were eating into this beautiful green space, but Elliot loved the increasing isolation as he drove deeper into the countryside, with its fields and trees, flat open spaces and blue sky. He wound down the window and let the breeze dry his clammy forehead.

  He drove into the narrow lane where he lived, beneath the canopy of tree branches folding across the road like clasping hands, and swung the van up the steep, muddy drive, avoiding the crumbling holes, to park up against the dilapidated barn in the barren plot next to his cottage. Cranked the handbrake.

  Rhonda would be at work this morning, thank God, and Dylan was God knows where with his mates. It would give Elliot time to work out the best way to tell her what he’d done.

  I’ve lost your money. I gave it to a man down the pub. He’s gone.

  If it was only about the stolen money he could live with it, just about, but it was the latest in a long succession of dismal Elliot errors of judgement. The thought of losing Rhonda and Dylan made him sick.

  The door of the cottage led straight into the living room, which was a mess from all the clothes, papers, bottles and plates that had accumulated during the week. It was his Saturday-morning routine to clean the house while Rhonda was at work. But Elliot couldn’t face it this morning. Instead, he dropped onto the sofa without even bothering to clear a space and stared into the ashes of last night’s fire.

  He sat like that, an Xbox controller digging into a buttock, for several minutes. Despondent, tired, afraid. And then his phone chirruped in his pocket. A text had arrived.

  Elliot experienced a brief moment of joy – an adrenalin rush of hope – when he saw it was from Gavin. He’d got worked up for nothing. It had all been a terrible mistake. Gavin was away on business, in some inaccessible place without a signal. He had told Elliot he was in the catering trade and travelled a lot, after all. Thanks to his hangover–addled brain, Elliot had gone to completely the wrong address. That was just like him, jumping to conclusions.

  But although the message was simple enough, it took him a few moments to make sense of it:

  TURN ON THE NEWS

  The TV remote was somewhere on the sofa, beneath the slanket, the layers of cushions and women’s mags, Dylan’s discarded drink cartons and wrappers. Impatient, nerves shredded, Elliot tipped everything to the floor.

  Finding the control wedged into the sofa lining, and pressing up and down the TV channels until he found the right one, or thought he had, he watched live footage of police cars and vans in a London street. Yellow tape snapped in the wind. The camera zoomed to an open door, men and women in white paper suits walking in and out.

  The headline threaded across the bottom of the screen: THREE SLAUGHTERED IN NORTH LONDON HOME … THREE SLAUGHTERED IN …

  A reporter’s voice spoke of three bodies found inside the house, believed to be Kenneth and Barbara Overton and their son Phillip, although police had as yet made no official statement.

  Elliot followed the comings and goings, confused about what he was meant to be looking at, then tried the number. The call rang and rang, and when he tried again, it dropped straight to voicemail. He didn’t bother leaving a message. Gavin’s voicemail was already full of his angry pleas.

  Kenneth Overton, thought Elliot.

  Little Kenny from that place?

  Unease building inside him, he picked up his coat and left the cottage. Unable to face the terrible prospect of her telling him that she’d had enough of him, Elliot didn’t want to be there when Rhonda got home.

  7

  Gripped by nerves, Flick Crowley lingered in her office printing and stapling, putting off the inevitable. But just before lunchtime, she conducted her first team briefing with the North London MIT.

  The Incident Room, on the second floor of Tottenham Police Station, was filled with plain-clothed and uniformed officers. She knew many of the people in the room already, and others had been drafted in from the Specialist Crime Directorate.

  Drake had appointed her as the lead investigator on the Overton murders, but when she went to the whiteboard where the location and victim details had been written she saw him sitting on the side of a desk, arms folded, deep in thought, and couldn’t shake the feeling she was on probation.

  ‘Hello, everybody.’ She forced herself to look at the assembled team, not at the floor. ‘Sorry to spoil your weekend.’

  Most of the people present would hardly have had a chance to settle into their Saturday routines before they were obliged to drop everything – kids’ football, shopping trips, lunch and dinner dates – and come into work.

  She picked up a marker pen. ‘You’ll have had time, I hope, to familiarise yourselves with the details. We have three victims, all members of the same family, a stone’s throw from here. I don’t need to tell you we need to get this solved quickly, and we’ve been promised the resources to make that happen.’

  Detective Sergeant Dudley Kendrick jotted something in the incident logbook. All the details of the case would be recorded in there, along with every development, so that lines of inquiry weren’t duplicated.

  ‘The victims have been identified as Kenneth and Barbara Overton, aged forty-eight and fifty-two, and their son Phillip Overton, aged twenty-seven,’ said Flick. ‘Kenneth and Barbara lived off Scales Road. Between the hours of eleven last night and four o’clock this morning they were bound to chairs and stabbed repeatedly in the chest and stomach. The forensic investigation is continuing, and I’m told we’ll get those results in the next day or so, but if you’ve managed to look at the crime-scene photos you’ll know that the attack was brutal and frenzied. It’s important that we find the person, or people, responsible. As far as we can tell, no valuables were stolen from the house, and there’s no sign of forced entry.’

  DC Millie Steiner, a young black officer who had been born and raised in the area, lifted her slight frame in her chair. Flick liked Steiner. She was bright and tenacious and always put in a solid shift, despite attending a bewildering variety of night classes. ‘A neighbour told me Barbara Overton used to smoke in the garden, and the door was always unlocked.’

  ‘The perpetrator entered the house with enough plastic film to tightly bind three adults to chairs,’ Flick continued, ‘and sent texts – purporting to be from their father – to both of the Overtons’ sons, Phillip and Ryan. The three victims were found by a neighbour who saw the door was open; this was at,’ she checked her notes, ‘a quarter to six this morning. The victims were dead by the time paramedics attended the scene.’

  Kendrick held up a finger. A veteran of the MIT, he was the only man left this century, it seemed to Flick, who deemed it acceptable to shave his moustache to a thin strip above the lip. ‘Three people would be a handful for one person to subdue; you think we’re looking for more than one killer?’

  ‘It’s possible, but Kenny went to work at seven thirty that night, leaving Barbara alone in the house for a couple of hours at least. Phil Overton’s text was sent at 9.39 p.m., and his bro
ther Ryan’s around eleven. Kenneth, or Kenny as he was known, didn’t get home till after three. The family could have been subdued one at a time. The chairs were arranged in the bedroom to face each other, so perhaps the intention was for them to watch each other die.’

  The noisy blast of a jackhammer in the street below disturbed the contemplative moment of silence. Upson fiddled with the height lever on his chair.

  ‘So the sons were lured to the house?’ asked Vix Moore sharply.

  The young DC had only been on the team for a couple of months but made no bones about her desire to climb to the top of the Homicide and Serious Crime Command greasy pole. Vix wasn’t to everyone’s taste, but Flick wished she’d had a single ounce of her confidence when she had joined the MIT.

  ‘Kenny Overton’s mobile was used to text them both, so we’re assuming the murders were premeditated.’

  Flick pulled the cap off the marker pen with her teeth and wrote on the whiteboard:

  COME HOME TONIGHT – V URGENT!!!

  LOVE, DAD XXX

  ‘Phil arrived,’ said Flick. ‘But Ryan didn’t pick up the message. Kenny worked nights at the Co-op in Hornsey.’

  ‘Have we run a check on the phone number?’ someone asked.

  ‘The messages were sent from Kenny’s mobile.’ Kendrick clicked his pen top. ‘Phillip Overton’s phone was found in his pocket when the plastic was cut away from his body. He’d received exactly the same text.’

  Flick went on to allocate responsibilities to the team. Friends and family would be interviewed. Ryan was in the building already, along with Phil Overton’s on-off girlfriend, and work colleagues from both Kenny’s nightshift and Barbara’s part-time job. Phil also had a record for minor drugs offences as a teenager, and had popped up on camera during the riots a few years back. They’d compile a list of his known associates.

  CCTV footage from the surrounding roads and nearby traffic cameras would be sifted through – a painstaking process that could take days. License plates of vehicles parked nearby would be cross-checked; phone calls made by the family tracked; follow-up house-to-house interviews completed. The morning’s sweep of the area had found nothing. No murder weapon, no blood trail or holdall or dumped roll of plastic. Uniformed officers would search again for the weapon and for Kenny’s mobile, but with every hour that passed, the chances of finding them became more unlikely.

  Flick concluded: ‘Kenny Overton has spent his life in and out of prison. Handling stolen goods, shoplifting, dealing, you name it. So let’s talk to his former criminal friends. A charge sheet like that, you pick up enemies along the way.’

  When Drake nodded absently, Flick felt a delicious thrill of validation. After she’d taken more questions from the room, she tucked her clipboard beneath her arm. She didn’t possess a flair for the dramatic, but she would never forget the agonised post-mortem expressions of the Overton family, and felt she had to say something.

  ‘These victims need us to find whoever did this. Because if you’ve visited the crime scene, or have seen the photos, you’ll know that this is an extraordinarily vicious crime, and it is inconceivable that the person, or persons, who committed it be allowed to remain free.’

  After the meeting, everyone turned back to their monitors or headed to the coffee machine. Flick went into her new office and shut the door, her heart still clattering in her chest. The desk was bare except for a computer and a framed photo of her nieces and nephew, the shelves empty save for a couple of reference manuals. There was a rap on the door and Drake leaned in, smiling.

  ‘You had them eating out of your hand.’

  ‘You think? I’m not so sure.’ Outside, Vix Moore was speaking behind her hand to Kendrick.

  ‘People don’t like change, Flick, especially when it upsets the dynamic of a team. But they’re a good bunch, they’ll get used to it.’ He walked to the blinds. ‘And you’ve got a nice view of the car park.’

  ‘You’re welcome to it,’ she said, knowing full well he had the same depressing view in his office on the floor above. ‘Thanks for being there this morning.’

  Drake tapped the window with a finger. It was a wonder the panes didn’t vibrate when he stood near them. He was a man who seemed to throw a crackling energy into the air around him, like a tuning fork.

  She wondered whether something had happened with April. Relations were strained between Drake and his daughter, she knew that much. Flick had met April, along with Myra, Drake’s odd, scary mother, at his wife’s funeral several months back. The girl had clung to her boyfriend’s arm and seemed to go out of her way to avoid her father. Drake was already grieving for his beloved wife. It had saddened Flick to see him so lost.

  Now he turned, leaned against the sill. ‘Because of the proximity of the murders to the station, and the subsequent media heat, Harris has asked me to keep an eye on the investigation.’

  ‘Of course.’ Flick swallowed. ‘You’re the Senior Investigating Officer.’

  ‘But you’re the lead on this. I’m here to help you to run things whichever way you see fit.’

  She mustered a smile. ‘I appreciate that, guv.’

  If she had to pick somebody from upstairs to watch her back, it would be Ray Drake, and she appreciated being able to bounce ideas off him. He was an excellent detective with a wealth of experience, and she owed him her career, no question. In the four years she had worked in the MIT, still an overwhelmingly masculine environment, he’d carefully nurtured her confidence and drive, steadily given her more authority. Yet she couldn’t help but be unnerved by the way he’d hung about in the office all morning, couldn’t shake the feeling that he expected her to screw up. That he was having second thoughts about her promotion.

  That was ridiculous, she told herself, she’d been in the job barely five seconds.

  ‘The killer will be one of Kenny’s criminal mates, I’d bet my life on it.’ Chances were he was right, but it was an odd thing for Drake to state so early in the investigation. For years, he’d taught her to maintain an objective distance, even when one line of inquiry showed potential. ‘I’ve come across plenty of Kenny Overtons, and they don’t change.’

  ‘We’ll chase it down,’ said Flick.

  ‘He’s got himself involved in some illegal enterprise and it’s gone sour.’ Drake sounded almost indignant. ‘Find out what it is and you’re home and dry. That’s your line of inquiry.’

  ‘Okay.’ That thought again: He doesn’t trust me. ‘I’d better go see Ryan.’

  To her surprise, he stood. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  He thinks I’m going to mess it up.

  The interview suite was where the traumatised relatives of the victims of crime were taken. It was decorated in sympathetic pastel colours and filled with soft furnishings. A watercolour hung on the wall. Plastic flowers were arranged on a low table.

  Ryan Overton was pacing when they walked in. A family liaison officer, an eternally cheerful detective constable called Sandra Danson, stood at the door.

  ‘Hello again, Ryan, sorry to keep you waiting,’ said Flick.

  His arms clapped his sides. ‘Where am I gonna go on a day like this?’

  ‘Would you like a coffee, Ryan?’ Danson was a broad woman who was always experimenting with a new diet. Flick would often get caught behind her in the canteen queue as she interrogated bemused staff about the calories, saturated fats and carbs in each and every dish. She’d often see her again later, raiding the vending machine for chocolate.

  ‘Me and the ex split up a few weeks back.’ Ryan slumped in a chair. ‘She was always good in situations like this.’

  ‘Would you like us to contact her?’ asked Danson.

  ‘She’s gone to Tyneside. The relationship didn’t end well.’

  ‘Ryan, this is Detective Inspector Drake,’ said Flick, and Ryan nodded grimly. ‘Can you tell him what you told me about the message you received from your father?’

  ‘From his phone.’ Ryan’s eyes darted to Drake, lean
ing against the wall. ‘He told me to come round – or someone did – said it was urgent.’

  ‘Ryan was out last night,’ Flick told Drake.

  ‘Down the pub.’

  ‘He left his mobile at home.’

  ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I always have it with me. Always. But just this once I left it in the bog when I went out. I didn’t see it till I got home at, I dunno, six?’

  ‘Six this morning?’ said Drake.

  ‘My local has a lock-in. It can get messy.’ Ryan rubbed his eyes with the heel of a hand. ‘The landlord won’t thank me for telling you.’

  Ryan smothered a wince, his emotions still battened down. Sooner or later that anguish would have to come out. Flick had met close relatives of murder victims who buried their feelings in the aftermath. Many of them succumbed to heart attacks or strokes, depression, even suicide.

  You had to let the grief out. Get it out, or it would kill you.

  ‘It weren’t from the old man. He never, ever texts, you get me?’ Ryan’s eyes flashed. ‘Dad could barely use his phone to make a call, let alone send a message. Besides, he weren’t the kind of bloke who’d put loads of kisses.’ He grimaced. ‘And he ain’t going to start now, is he?’

  ‘Is that why you didn’t go to the house when you received the text?’ asked Flick. ‘Because you didn’t believe it was your dad?’

  ‘I was off my face; I just wanted some shut-eye. But I couldn’t sleep. It was like that message was in my head.’ Ryan snorted bitterly. ‘And if I went round last night, I would have been dead, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Ryan, I know this is difficult for you, but do you know of anyone who held a grudge towards your parents, bore them any ill will?’

  ‘Ill will?’ he snapped. ‘I don’t know anyone who’d want to slaughter my whole family! Look, the old man weren’t no angel. He was into all sorts of dodgy stuff back in the day.’