by Steven Dunne
Wilson gazed up at Rifkind, a pearl of wisdom on the end of his tongue. ‘My dad says sarcasm is the lowest form of something.’
‘Ignorance perhaps,’ replied Rifkind, looking at the cover of the DVD with a sinking heart.
‘No, it’s not that,’ answered Wilson, thinking hard.
‘Saw 4 – interesting choice.’
‘It’s brilliant,’ agreed Wilson, as though revealing a great secret to which only he was privy.
‘Is it as brilliant as Saws 1, 2 and 3, dare I ask?’
‘Saw 2 is my best film ever. But Saw 4 is even better.’
Rifkind looked around the room to garner support for his upcoming putdown, but only Kyle Kennedy’s brow furrowed in amusement so he thought better of it.
‘Thank you, Wilson.’
‘Will!’ the teenager retorted, with a touch more aggression.
‘I’m afraid we won’t be watching Saw 4, Will. Rusty has—’
‘What? Why not?’
Rifkind made sure to speak slowly because he didn’t want to repeat it. ‘Because, as you’ll remember, at the start of the academic year, we agreed to have a rota for people to choose the end-of-term film, and I’m afraid you’ve had your turn.’
‘Yeah, my turn is the Saw films. You have to see them all for it to make sense. They’re a series.’
‘I don’t care if it’s a series, Wilson,’ he said, taking pleasure in repeating the boy’s hated name.
‘It’s Will!’ shouted Wilson, this time. ‘And we’re watching Saw 4.’ He turned round to the gathering. ‘Everybody else wants to watch it, don’t you?’ Wilson eyeballed the group. Only Jake and Becky returned eye-contact.
‘It doesn’t matter what everybody wants.’
‘That’s not very democratic.’
Rifkind smiled at him, beginning to enjoy the little power he had over the boy. ‘Nor is bullying people into doing what you want.’
‘I’m not bullying anyone. You want to watch Saw 4, don’t you, Kylie?’ he said to Kyle Kennedy, who bridled at the sudden attention. ‘I’m talking to you, Faggot.’
‘That’s enough of that language,’ said Rifkind.
‘What language? English?’ Wilson sneered. ‘It’s a crime to speak your own language now, is it? I was just asking Faggot—’
‘I said that’s enough,’ countered Rifkind, attempting a show of strength that he knew he couldn’t back up. ‘We’re wasting time. Rusty has chosen today’s film. End of.’
‘Geek Boy wasn’t even here at the start of the year, so how can he be on the rota?’ snarled Wilson.
‘Give it a rest, Will,’ said Becky. ‘I couldn’t be arsed. He’s taking my slot.’
Rifkind grinned at Woodrow’s tubby face. ‘Happy now that democracy has been served?’
Wilson stared angrily at the carpet, urgently searching for another compelling reason to have his way.
‘Rusty?’ Rifkind looked expectantly at Russell’s pale face as he handed over a DVD case.
‘Picnic at Hanging Rock,’ said Rifkind. He beamed approvingly. ‘Interesting choice.’
‘Who’s in it?’ growled Wilson.
Rusty cleared his throat and in a timid voice said, ‘Nobody famous, but it was Peter Weir’s breakthrough film, made in 1975. Weir, you may remember, directed Gallipoli and Witness, starring Harrison Ford.’
There was silence as everyone stared at him. In the six months since he’d been enrolled at Derby College, he’d barely spoken to anyone and certainly hadn’t dared to speak in front of classmates. He seemed to spend most of his time sitting in the refectory drinking Coca Cola and pointing his camcorder at everyone who passed.
‘Nineteen seventy-five?’ howled Wilson. ‘Is it in colour?’
‘Beautiful colour, Will,’ nodded Rusty, warming to his theme. ‘The cameraman was Russell Boyd and his use of vibrant—’
‘Sounds shit. What’s it about?’
‘It’s about an Australian girls’ school in 1900,’ interjected Rifkind, in case Rusty began to buckle under Wilson’s interrogation.
‘You’re shittin’ me. I’m not watching that shit. It sounds shit.’
‘That is your democratic choice, Will,’ replied Rifkind, hopeful that the bully might be about to leave. But instead he waggled his own DVD in Rifkind’s face again.
‘Here. We’re watching Saw 4. Rusty don’t mind.’ Wilson grinned over at him. ‘Don’t worry, Geek Boy. You’re not going to get battered. Your mum’s a MILF,’ he hissed at him with a leer.
Rifkind shook his head. ‘Well, I mind. We’re watching Picnic at Hanging Rock. In Media Studies, Wilson, we have to open ourselves up to a variety of genres, aimed at different audiences . . .’
‘My name is WILL!’
There was silence for a moment but Rifkind refused to be fazed. He was smarter than Wilson and wasn’t about to back off until he’d proved it. He sniffed coldly. ‘You should enjoy this film, Will. If you’d been born two hundred years ago, Australia is where you would have ended up.’
‘What does that mean?’ A smattering of the students sniggered their understanding and Wilson rounded on them angrily. ‘What the fuck are you laughing at?’ His eye caught Kyle Kennedy smiling and he stood to confront him. ‘Something funny, Gay Boy?’
Kyle’s smile disappeared. ‘I . . . no, I mean—’
‘Wilson. Either sit down or get out!’ shouted Rifkind, finally losing his temper.
‘Gay boys don’t laugh at me,’ bellowed Wilson, wading through chairs towards Kyle.
Jake McKenzie jumped hurriedly between the two. ‘Back off, Wilson,’ he said calmly. He held a hand up to Wilson’s chest, keeping him at bay with ease. ‘You’ve had your say. Sit down or fuck off.’ He flexed his neck. Jake was not just sporty but also a fitness fanatic and built like a middleweight. And as the object of lust for female students, he was naturally well respected by the male students.
Wilson looked him in the eye. A second later the pressure on Jake’s hand eased. Wilson smiled and put his hands peacefully in the air. ‘Sure, Jakey. Whatever you say,’ he said softly. He turned back towards Kyle. ‘We’ll talk later, Faggot,’ he added menacingly.
‘No, you won’t,’ said Jake. ‘You won’t go near him.’
‘Why are you defending the little bumder?’ Wilson leered towards Jake, a further insult bubbling to the surface. ‘Are you his boyfriend, Jake? You potting the brown with that little—’
Jake threw a hand to Wilson’s throat and gripped it hard. ‘What did you say to me, Fatso?’ Wilson was choking and pawing at Jake’s hand as he was pushed back over his chair. ‘What did you say?’
‘Get him off me,’ gasped Wilson, trying to loosen Jake’s grip but to no avail. Rifkind, Kyle, Becky and a few others grabbed Jake’s shoulders and tried to pull him away.
‘He’s not worth it, Jake,’ shouted Kyle, forcing himself into eye-contact. ‘Jake, he’s not worth it.’
Jake glared at Kyle then relaxed his grip on Wilson. He turned away to confirm his pacification and Wilson got to his feet, rubbing his throat.
‘That’s assault, that is!’ Wilson screamed at Rifkind. ‘And you let it happen.’
‘You provoked that situation, Mr Woodrow, despite my asking you repeatedly to avoid confrontation. Now sit down.’
Presented with a direct instruction, Wilson said the only thing he could to regain face. ‘No.’
Rifkind tried not to smile. The teenage God of No. He knew the script from here and Wilson was too stupid to resist.
‘Wilson, I order you to sit down because there’s no way you’re leaving.’
Wilson looked back triumphantly, seeing his path to victory. ‘You wanna bet? Just watch me.’ He turned to leave, throwing an angry look at Kyle, whose eyes were now glued to the floor.
‘You can’t leave and you’d better attend next week or else,’ shouted Rifkind, at the retreating Wilson, laying down his final ace.
‘Or else what? You won’t see me for shit.’
> Rifkind faked a look of annoyance but broke into a big grin as Wilson turned and snatched up his Saw DVD, storming towards the doors.
Wilson looked over at Kyle. ‘Oi, Faggot.’ He stuck his tongue out and pulled a finger across his throat.
Kyle looked up from the floor, gathering his courage. His look of terror gave way to a mocking smile and he blew Wilson a big kiss. The assembled students laughed and jeered as the fuming Wilson kicked open the double doors and stalked away, a couple of sympathetic friends trailing in his wake.
‘Respeck, Kylie,’ said Becky, holding her hand up for Kyle to high five. ‘That asshole butt-munch got well and truly parred and merked.’
Kyle basked in a couple of backslaps until the worry reinfected his face. I shouldn’t have done that. He looked gratefully up at his saviour but Jake looked away at once.
‘Why do those with the fewest brain cells always have the loudest voices?’ said Adele Watson to no one in particular.
Becky turned and poured her body back into her chair, looking over at Russell who had his camcorder in front of his face. ‘Look at Steven Spielberg here. I hope that’s going on YouTube, Geek Boy,’ she said, striking a pose for him.
‘Maybe.’ Thomson pointed his camcorder in her direction. He lowered the camera and smiled at her briefly but her stony expression killed his pleasure and he blushed.
‘Just start the film, Geek,’ ordered Becky.
Nearly two hours later, the credits rolled in the darkness. Rifkind and most of the other students had gone to lunch an hour ago but Adele, Becky, Fern, Kyle and Russell had continued watching through the bulk of the lunchbreak and even sat in silence as the cast of characters scrolled down the screen.
‘Wow,’ said Kyle, standing and stretching his slender frame in the gloom. ‘Sick film.’
‘Hard to believe a film about a girls’ school could be that good,’ agreed Becky.
When the inert screen ensured total blackness, Becky edged towards the large curtain and pulled it aside. Bright sunshine streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Media Suite and she and Fern immediately bent to check their phones. Adele remained seated, unable to move. She stared straight ahead. There were tears on her cheeks.
Back in his office at St Mary’s Wharf, Brook got his mouth around his second cup of tea and closed his eyes to savour its soothing heat while his computer loaded. He logged on then registered his dismay at the volume of internal emails in his inbox.
‘Thirty-six emails – in one day,’ he sighed. ‘The tyranny of faceless communication.’ Brook scrolled down the list checking for his personal buzzwords. Any email containing the words Committee, Budget, Target or Liaison in the subject line was deleted without being opened. Happily this was most of them and Brook was left with five relevant messages about open cases and upcoming trials.
After dealing with them, he rifled through the drawers of his desk for an A–Z he knew he had somewhere. He was both pleased and appalled to find his desk bereft of cigarettes. He remembered wistfully the pack in his locker given to Noble earlier that morning, as a demonstration of his willpower.
Brook flicked through the pages of the A-Z and stared at the sparse countryside to the south and east of Borrowash, taking in the minor roads accessing Elvaston Castle and Thulston. He didn’t know the area well but it seemed very flat and he knew from his trips along the A50 to the M1 or East Midlands Airport, that the land on either side of the carriageway was prone to flooding. Indeed, even without flooding there was sufficient water around the confluence of the Rivers Trent and Derwent to merit a marina at Shardlow for the nautically minded.
Brook pulled the Yellow Pages from another drawer. His eye glimpsed a mangled, half-smoked cigarette butt behind some old papers, covered in dust and fluff. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked it out of the drawer and brushed it clean like an old soldier polishing his campaign medals. He stared lovingly at the butt for longer than necessary then threw it resolutely in the bin, chuckling noiselessly at the absurd sense of achievement that followed.
Noble walked in, holding papers. ‘We’ve got more uniform searching up and down the river, just to be thorough. Nothing yet. On the plus side, DS Gadd’s organised a door-to-door on Station Road and, apparently, someone leaving early for London on Tuesday did see the road was closed. Every other resident says the road was open later that morning so it looks like you were right. Our perpetrator faked the closure while he dumped the body.’
‘When was this?’
‘Two days ago.’ Noble consulted a scribbled note. ‘A Mr Hargreaves left his house at three thirty in the morning to drive to London. He couldn’t cross the bridges and had to take the A52 instead.’
‘Three thirty,’ Brook said thoughtfully. ‘So we’re unlikely to get witnesses walking the dog.’
‘What about anglers? They get up at all hours to bag the best spots.’
‘Get uniform to speak to every angler on that stretch. And maybe run off some notices to post near the bridges. Any chance of decent forensics?’ ventured Brook, though he already knew the answer.
Noble shook his head. ‘SOCO weren’t confident, not at the scene anyway.’
Brook nodded. ‘Water washes away many sins, John – though I prefer malt.’
‘They did find a large piece of cloth in the river nearby. They’ve bagged it for tests but we don’t even know if it connects with our John Doe.’
‘What about the bridge?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Let’s hope the body gives us an ID. What’s that?’ asked Brook, looking at the sheaf of papers.
‘Statement taken from the lads who spotted the victim in the river.’ Noble handed the report to Brook, who skimmed it briefly.
‘Let’s call him the deceased until we’re told it’s murder, John.’ Brook yawned heavily and tossed the papers on to the desk. ‘Decent lads?’
‘Solid kids from good families. No juvey—juvenile cautions,’ Noble corrected himself before Brook caught his eye. ‘And those CCTV cameras near the bridge were dummies.’
‘Any other cameras locally?’ asked Brook.
‘In Borrowash? Hardly. The only excitement round there seems to be the odd broken wing mirror.’
Brook put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘All this careful planning suggests our man’s a murderer.’
‘Man? So you’ve definitely ruled out multiple suspects.’
‘I think so. Statistically we’re looking for a male, especially as our John Doe may have needed lifting. And, whether he has accomplices or not, he was on his own when he dumped the body.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The traffic cones,’ replied Brook, looking up at Noble to see if he wanted to take the reins.
Noble lifted his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. ‘What about them?’
‘He couldn’t carry the cones as well as a Road Closed sign. Two people could have done it. After he dumps the body, he’s in a hurry so he picks up his sign . . .’
‘. . . and leaves the cones stacked on the pavement thinking no one would notice,’ finished Noble. ‘Presumably he blocked off the road from the other side as well – somewhere out of sight of the bridges.’
‘I think so.’
‘We should—’
‘I already looked, John. There’s nothing to see though I’ve got a picture of an impression in the road that could have been from a line of cones – all fairly pointless.’
‘We might get a fingerprint from the cones he left behind.’
Brook wrinkled up his nose. ‘Doubtful.’
‘At least we know he must have driven off south, towards Elvaston Castle, because if he parked on the river bridge to dump the body, he must have run the hundred yards back up to Station Road for his sign.’ Noble looked at the ceiling, thinking it through. ‘But when he drove away, he pulled up to his other road-block so it was easier to put the sign and the cones in his car.’
Brook smiled approvingly at his DS. ‘The
re you go. Though if he’s transporting a body, some kind of van is more likely.’ He pushed the A–Z towards Noble. ‘All of which gets us to here, the junction of the B5010, where he turns right towards the A6 and A50, maybe heading for the M1 or back into Derby.’
‘Or left towards Shardlow – assuming he’s not from Thulston.’
Brook sighed. ‘You’re right. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s wait for Forensics and the post mortem to find out exactly what we’re dealing with.’
The middle-aged man in a crumpled white chef’s uniform stared in disbelief as Rusty spoke to him. He then turned and glared over at Kyle and the others, giving them a lingering look up and down. Finally he shrugged and a moment later followed Rusty to their table and set a tray of soft drinks down, before distributing them to the students. He wore an ID badge with the name Lee and the archaic title Refectory Manager.
Adele smiled for the first time that day. The uniform and the title seemed incongruous to her, since the pinnacle of culinary sophistication in the college café was cheese on toast. Nevertheless she added the word ‘Refectory’ to her mental list of arcane words for future use. Just in case.
Rusty smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said, talking to the table.
‘Aye. Well, don’t get used to it,’ said Lee. ‘I’m not a fucking waiter.’
Rusty placed a pound coin on to the empty tray without looking up.
The Refectory Manager looked down at it in surprise, if not gratitude. ‘Blimey. Think I’ll have it framed.’ He nodded his appreciation before trudging back to his till.
‘Waiter service, eh?’ teased Kyle.
‘Hark at Simon Cowell over here,’ added Becky.
Rusty was embarrassed. ‘My mum was a waitress for a while, and they earn a pittance, so I try to leave a tip if I can.’
Adele beamed at him. He squirmed under her gaze. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Rusty.’
‘Yeah, thanks for the drink, bruv,’ said Kyle, taking a swig of Coke.
Rusty examined the camcorder strapped to his right wrist. ‘No probs.’
‘I can’t imagine your mum as a waitress, Rusty,’ said Adele. ‘She’s so pretty.’