The Two O'Clock Boy

by Mark Hill

  So when she came back into the room, instead of telling her the truth, what he said was: ‘I can get it back.’

  ‘What?’ she asked warily. ‘What can you get back?’

  ‘The money. I can get it back.’

  And it was a lie, another one to add to all the other lies he had told in his lifetime. Elliot was good with lies, always had been. He wasn’t good at much, but he was a natural born liar.

  She sipped the water. ‘You said this man, this Gavin, has gone.’

  ‘I think … I think I know where I can find him.’ He held her gaze. ‘It just occurred to me. Tell you what, why don’t you and Dylan get away for a few days, and let me get everything sorted?’

  ‘What’s going on, Elliot? Why are you so keen for us to go away?’

  There’s this man, he’s a psychopath and he’s killed before. Kenny, Jason, Karen, so many others. He’s trying to kill me – and you, too. But, oh yeah, I can’t tell you about that, can’t tell you the truth, because I’m gutless, I’m a coward.

  And if you … oh God, if you leave me …

  ‘Nothing’s going on.’ He sounded unconvincing, even to himself. ‘It was just, you know, a suggestion. You haven’t seen your mum for – how long is it now, nearly a year?’

  ‘We’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘I can get the money, and then when you come back—’

  ‘I work,’ she snapped. ‘I bring in money so that you can give it away to complete strangers. Dylan is at school. We can’t just drop everything.’

  His face burned with shame at her words. ‘Right.’

  Rhonda put on her coat. ‘I’ve got one child, Elliot, and I really don’t need another one. There’s something you’re not telling me, and I want to know what it is. I thought we had got past this kind of behaviour.’

  ‘We have, but—’

  ‘I’m late for work; we’ll talk when I get home.’ She picked up her bag. ‘I don’t know, I’m going to have to think about a few things.’

  ‘What things?’ he asked, in alarm.

  ‘But, Elliot …’ She opened the front door. ‘Get that money back.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said quickly.

  As soon as she drove off in her Ford Focus, he took out the business card he still had in his jeans pocket with a heavy heart, and pressed a number into his phone.

  ‘It’s Elliot Juniper,’ he said, when Owen Veazey answered.

  ‘Elliot, how nice.’ That damned fruit machine hooted and bleeped in the background. Owen was at his usual table.

  ‘That job … is the offer still open?’

  ‘It is, as a matter of fact. You’ve left it a bit late, but … why not?’

  ‘And the money—’

  ‘Will be paid into your account as soon as it’s done. Interest free, for as long as you need it.’ Owen paused. ‘Within reason, of course.’

  Elliot closed his eyes. ‘When?’

  ‘Perry will pick you up later,’ said Owen.

  Lies upon lies upon lies.

  33

  1984

  Screams and shouts and the sound of crashing furniture came from behind the door to Gordon’s office. The children melted into the furthest parts of the house. Ricky and Cliff pulled up weeds in the garden and flung them at each other. Amelia disappeared into the eaves. Some of the others, Kenny and Jason among them, flew from room to room, playing tag.

  Elliot was warned by Connor to stay away from Toby, who sat against a tree, head bowed, knees pulled up to his face. Elliot resented being told what to do by Connor, but knew he’d gone too far. Since the cockroach incident several days ago, and since Gordon had started taking him into the small room behind his office of a night, Toby had become withdrawn, distant. He stayed as far from the other children as he could. It was wrong that he was here in the first place. His parents were idiots for not seeing the kind of man Gordon was.

  ‘He got what was coming to him,’ Elliot insisted, as they stood looking down the garden at him. ‘He deserves everything he gets.’

  Connor didn’t care what happened to any of them. ‘I’m out of here.’

  Elliot turned to Connor, incredulous. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘You don’t tell me what I can do.’

  But then he saw Elliot thinking about what would happen next. Things would go back to the way they used to be. He would get his delivery job back, be at Gordon’s side again. Good luck to him. Connor had stayed for too long, for no good reason. Everybody was scared of him, they’d be happy to see him go. Anyway, Gordon was losing the plot. Something bad was going to happen, Connor sensed that very clearly.

  ‘See ya, then.’ Elliot poked a finger into Connor’s chest. ‘Shame you won’t be around to see that fart get what’s coming to him.’

  ‘Think about it.’ Connor resisted the urge to snap off Elliot’s finger. ‘Toby ain’t like us, he’s got family. What do you think he’s going to say when he gets out of this place? What do you think he’s going to say about what happened?’

  Brain cranking into gear, Elliot’s eyes snapped wide.

  ‘That’s right.’ Connor lowered his voice as Karen squeezed past them. ‘And then they’re gonna look at what else goes on here. They’ll find out about your deliveries for Gordon.’

  ‘And yours!’

  ‘I ain’t going to be here.’ He would just disappear. It was the one thing he had learned to do in his short life. Vanish into the world; keep moving from place to place. Nobody would see him; nobody would know him. ‘I’ll be gone, and they’ll never find me.’

  Elliot swallowed. ‘And then what’ll happen?’

  ‘They’ll close this place down and you’ll get sent to prison or borstal. You ain’t gonna live the good life there, not from what I’ve heard. You got to make sure Gordon stays away from the kid.’

  ‘How am I gonna do that?’ said Elliot, panicking. ‘I don’t want to go to those places. I definitely don’t.’

  Now he’d made the decision, Connor just wanted to go. ‘Not my problem.’

  Down the hallway, the front door opened. Ronnie Dent came in carrying a bag clinking with bottles and knocked on the office door, disappearing inside.

  ‘Gordon ain’t gonna listen to me, he never does.’ Elliot stared. ‘But he’ll listen to you.’

  Connor shook his head. ‘I’m out of here.’

  If Elliot or those other kids wanted help they could get that do-gooding Ray kid to come and give them a big hug. Good riddance to the lot of them.

  ‘If you tell him, he’ll leave the kid alone.’ When Connor turned to go, Elliot grabbed him. ‘You gotta help me out. Tell him what you told me. Make him realise, get him to apologise.’

  Connor remembered the trouble Elliot had made for him, and for Toby, and angrily slapped his hand away. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  ‘You’re a mate.’ Elliot’s voice cracked. ‘The only one I got.’

  When Connor thought about it, he realised he had nothing to lose. He’d made up his mind to go. He would speak to Gordon, and if the manager lost his temper he’d walk out the door and never look back.

  ‘All right,’ he said finally, ‘I’ll do it. But you’re coming with me.’

  Gordon barked something when they knocked on the door of the office. On his way out, Ronnie Dent stepped aside to let them into the gloomy room. The curtains in the bay window were closed. A sickly stench hung in the air. Slumped on the sofa, Sally barely lifted her head when they walked in, but Gordon jumped up from behind his desk.

  ‘What can I do for you, lads?’

  Elliot nudged Connor forward. ‘We wanted … a word.’

  ‘Have a many as you like.’

  Connor said: ‘You gotta leave the kid alone.’

  Gordon frowned. ‘Sorry, son. I’m not with you.’

  ‘Toby.’

  ‘Ah, young Master Turrell.’

  ‘The kid’s parents …’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They ain’t gonna like it if you …’
r />   ‘If I what, Connor?’

  Gordon’s voice was calm, reasonable, but Connor knew to tread carefully. Behind him, Elliot stared at the floor.

  ‘You’ve got to leave him alone.’

  The manager leaned against the desk, feet crossed at the ankles.

  ‘And what do I care about those people? They handed their precious boy to me without considering the consequences.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him.’ Sally slurred from the sofa. ‘He’s a drunken fool. He’s losing his mind.’

  ‘Be quiet, dear Sal, this doesn’t concern you.’

  Hauling herself off the sofa, Sally jabbed a dirty fingernail at Gordon. ‘Just you be careful, or I’ll go – and then you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘How will I be sorry, exactly?’ Gordon laughed. ‘Will I be sorry that you’re not here to use all my merchandise? Will I be sorry that you’re not sucking me dry?’

  Sally shot him a ghastly smile. ‘You’ll be surprised.’

  Gordon’s hand shot out to grab her neck. ‘So surprise me, Sal.’

  ‘Let her go.’ Connor moved forward, the hairs on his arms standing on end, his skin crackling. Part of him was thinking: it doesn’t matter, just go. But part of him had wanted this moment for a long time. Gordon needed teaching a lesson, needed taking down a peg, and nobody else was going to do it.

  ‘So, finally, the wee man makes his big move.’ Gordon pushed Sally away. ‘You know, Connor, I’ve been waiting for this moment. We’ve been doing this dance for too long now, you and me.’ He clicked his fingers, swayed his hips. ‘And what about you, Elliot, care to join in? Perhaps together you’ll give old Gordon a hiding. Let’s find out. Come on, lad, the more the merrier.’

  Sally slapped him hard across the face. ‘I know people.’

  Gordon blinked in surprise. Touching at his cheek, he spoke softly: ‘And who is it, you know, Sal, to make me scared? That weakling cousin of yours?’

  ‘His father, he’s a judge. I’m going to tell him.’

  ‘Tell him what?’

  ‘Things.’

  Gordon’s voice lifted angrily. ‘Tell him what? Be clear, woman!’

  ‘I’ll tell him everything.’

  ‘What’s everything?’

  ‘About this place, about what goes on here.’

  ‘I forget sometimes how far you have fallen in life, Sal.’ Gordon picked up the glass paperweight from the desk and tossed it from one hand to the other. ‘You have to watch Sally, boys. Watch her carefully or she’ll sting you like a scorpion.’

  She threw an imploring look at Connor: get out, and he turned. He’d done what he came to do, he’d done his best for Elliot, and for the Toby kid, but when he left none of this would mean anything to him. He was going somewhere far away – he wasn’t the kind of person, he decided, who was going to spend his life in one place – he’d keep moving, to different cities, different countries, where he didn’t have to answer to anybody.

  As he stepped to the door, Elliot looked stricken.

  ‘Bye then, lad,’ called Gordon.

  All Connor had to do was fling open the door and he’d be gone, but his hand froze on the handle. Before he left he wanted more than anything to pound Gordon into the dust, to make him suffer. When he turned back to the room, Gordon smirked.

  ‘Now look, he’s staying. He fancies his chances against me. What do we think? Connor’s a strong lad, but how far is he willing to go?’ He looked at Sally, at Elliot. ‘What are his limits, I wonder? I fancy myself a great judge of character.’

  Gordon propped his hands on his knees to look deeply into Connor’s eyes, as if he was gazing into his very soul. ‘I see anger and resentment and confusion, and so much pain … and yes, there it is … I see the potential for great cruelty.’

  He walked away, smacking the paperweight between his palms. ‘But what do you think, Connor? Do you think you can match me?’

  Connor’s nerves, his muscles, screamed. Wanting to leap at Gordon and smash his fists into him. Destroy him.

  ‘Do you think, for example,’ he asked, ‘that you could kill someone? I have, lad, and I’m comfortable with the fact.’

  Sally stepped forward. ‘Gordon—’

  ‘Are you willing to kill? I want to hear it.’

  But Connor didn’t answer, couldn’t think straight. An unbearable pressure built in his head, and he stood on the balls of his feet, ready to fly at Gordon.

  The manager leered. ‘Do you think, boy, that you could do this?’

  Then Gordon lifted the paperweight high above his head, and in a swift motion, he dashed it down onto the crown of Sally’s head. Her legs crumpled like pipe cleaners and she collapsed onto the rug.

  Connor and Elliot stared, stunned. Sally laid face down, hair fanned around her head.

  ‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ Gordon said, with a sick smile.

  Get on your feet, thought Connor. That’s enough, now.

  But Sally didn’t move. Gordon retreated behind his desk to pour a drink with a shaking hand. Liquid spilled down his chin when he drank. The paperweight slid from his grip, rolled across the desk and off the edge.

  ‘Come on, Sal,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘You’ve made your point.’

  But Sally didn’t move. Gordon squatted beside her, lifted one of her wrists to feel for a pulse.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Elliot’s face was drenched in sweat. ‘Is she gonna be all right?’

  ‘No, she isn’t going to be all right.’ Gordon climbed to his feet, smiling bitterly. ‘She very much isn’t going to be all right.’

  Right at that moment the door opened and Toby Turrell came in, hands pressed to his face, which was wet with tears. He had barely begun to beg to be able to call his parents, to be allowed to go home, when he saw the pale, shocked expressions of the two boys in the room, and of Gordon.

  Only then did he see Sally’s body at his feet, blood pumping from the hole in her shattered skull and sliding down her long hair, to curve around the sole of his sandal.

  34

  Eddie Upson’s car was a pigsty. The back seat was a shelf for old tabloids and tossed chocolate wrappers and coffee cups. The atmosphere was a smelly funk of soured milk, and Flick felt queasy all the way to Islington. She cracked the passenger window, while Upson complained to her about Vix Moore.

  ‘I ask her to do something, I ask nicely, and she huffs and puffs.’

  ‘All I’m saying—’

  ‘I’m on eggshells around her. She treats me like a bad smell.’

  Sometimes, when Eddie had dodged the deodorant in the morning, there was a bad smell in the room. She wound the window lower. ‘Apologise and that’ll be the end of it.’

  Eddie lifted his hands from the wheel in exasperation. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong!’

  ‘Pull over here,’ she said.

  ‘Fine, I’ll apologise, but it won’t do any good.’ He swung the car to the kerb in the Islington Square. ‘What are we doing here?’

  ‘Never you mind. I’ll be five minutes.’

  The wind was picking up, shivering the spindly, leafless trees on the pavement, as she climbed the steps to Ray Drake’s door. She’d rather not have brought Upson, but she didn’t want Drake to think she was pursuing her own investigations again.

  Flick had encountered many vicious criminals in her job, had sat in rooms with people who would tear your ears off if you glanced away, but she was terrified at the prospect of speaking to this one old lady. Laura Drake’s funeral was a heartfelt occasion, held at a pretty church packed with flowers and wreaths. Every pew was crammed with musician friends of Laura’s – a string quartet played – but Flick had found Myra Drake a cold and forbidding woman who sat with her nose in the air as her granddaughter fell to pieces and Ray Drake stared, ashen-faced, at the coffin. She had seemed a chilling and ambivalent presence.

  And right now she was the only person who could provide Flick with any information about the Longacre. The consequences of this v
isit would be severe when Drake found out. But if the DI was, as she suspected, tampering with evidence – it was possible a remorseless killer was at large, and yet Drake was seemingly covering the murderer’s tracks – she wanted to know why.

  Myra Drake opened the door as soon as Flick rang the bell. Even in her eighties, she was still a tall and imposing figure, with a crook in her spine that made her look like a vulture in a cardigan.

  ‘Mrs Drake, we met briefly at—’

  ‘I know who you are.’ The old woman’s gaze was steady. ‘My son isn’t here.’

  ‘I’m not here to see DI Drake; I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘That won’t be possible,’ she said, and was about to close the door, but Flick placed her hand on the frame.

  ‘It’s about the Longacre. You and your husband visited the home in—’

  ‘I’m perfectly aware of what I have and haven’t done. Does my son know you’re here, Miss …?’

  ‘Crowley. No, he doesn’t.’ Flick sensed her opportunity slipping away. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Please remove your hand.’

  She said quickly: ‘Do you remember a boy at the home called Connor Laird?’

  Flick saw surprise, and something else – something like fear – drop momentarily down the old woman’s face, like a glitch on a television screen.

  ‘Connor Laird,’ she repeated. ‘A boy called Connor Laird?’

  Myra Drake tugged at a locket around her neck with a gnarled hand. ‘My son will sack you when he discovers you are here.’

  ‘He can’t sack me, Myra.’ She didn’t care for the way the old woman had behaved in the church, refusing to comfort her son or granddaughter. She didn’t care if she was reprimanded or even dismissed, because for the first time in a long time Flick felt the excitement of police work coursing through her veins, and annoying this condescending old woman was the icing on the cake. ‘You remember him, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t care for your attitude or your questions about that boy.’

  ‘Did you know him? Connor Laird.’ Every time she said his name, Myra seemed to shrink a little bit more.

  ‘Take your hand off my door.’

  ‘Connor Laird, Myra.’