by Steven Dunne
Jake made a pathetic attempt to fly his version of events, shaking his head in mock disbelief. ‘I thought they were aspirins.’ He looked up at Brook. ‘I had a headache.’
‘Must have been some headache to take twenty tablets,’ he answered.
‘It’s a good job the squad car called or we wouldn’t be talking,’ chipped in Noble. Jake said nothing.
‘Why would you try to kill yourself, Jake?’
‘Kill myself? Are you tripping?’
‘Don’t waste our time,’ said Noble. ‘We can put you under arrest right here.’
‘I want my mum. Fetch my mum.’
‘You’re eighteen, Jake,’ said Noble. ‘We can speak to you without her permission.’
‘Actually, Sergeant, I don’t mind if Mrs McKenzie sits in while we talk to Jake about his relationship with Kyle.’ Brook rose to fetch her.
‘No!’ retorted Jake sharply, raising his unattached hand. ‘Don’t. It’s okay. I want to help.’
‘Good.’ Brook smiled and read from his notes. ‘I hate you, Jake. I hope you’re ashamed of yourself. You betrayed me when I needed you most.’ Jake looked steadfastly at the sheet. Brook placed the printout from T-mobile in his hands. ‘You received that text this morning. It’s from Kyle Kennedy’s mobile number.’
‘You’ve got my phone?’
‘Your computer too. We have a warrant.’
Jake was silent.
‘This is the first direct contact from one of our missing students since they disappeared eight days ago. And of all the people Kyle could have contacted, he contacted you, Jake. Why?’
‘Can I have a drink of water?’
Brook poured him a cupful from a nearby jug. ‘According to my information, Kyle Kennedy also rang you on his mobile, the night before his eighteenth-birthday party – the night before he disappeared.’
Jake took a sip of water. ‘Sounds right.’
‘What time was it?’
Jake became exasperated. ‘You’ve got my phone. Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Because we need you to get your memory of that night working,’ said Noble.
Jake cast around, thinking. ‘About nine o’clock, I think.’
Brook nodded. ‘Close enough.’
‘Well, then.’
‘Why did he ring you?’
Jake was silent for a moment. ‘He wanted to invite me to his party and to thank me.’
‘Thank you for what?’
‘Somebody at college went for him. I stepped in.’
‘You’re referring to Wilson Woodrow,’ said Brook.
‘Yes. He started picking on Kyle in Media Studies. That smarmy git Rifkind wasn’t going to do anything so I got in between them and broke it up.’
‘That was good of you.’
Jake shrugged. ‘I don’t like bullies.’
‘Really. So you don’t like Wilson Woodrow.’
‘No. He’s a sherm.’
Present tense. Brook and Noble exchanged a glance. ‘Sherm?’
‘A knobhead to you.’
‘So what did Kyle say exactly?’ asked Brook softly.
Jake smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he replied, as though talking to an idiot.
‘And that was it? He thanked you and then less than an hour later – half a mile from your home – you just happened to wander past at the exact time Kyle was being assaulted by Wilson.’ Jake became tight-lipped. ‘You have seen the assault on the internet, I take it?’
‘Who hasn’t?’
Brook waited. Silence was the heaviest pressure. ‘According to Mrs Kennedy, Kyle left her house before nine that night. He was carrying a poster and a CD. He told his mum they were for a friend.’ Still Jake was silent. ‘When we searched Kyle’s room after he disappeared, we discovered what a huge fan of The Smiths he is – posters all over his walls, every CD they ever released.’ Brook paused to look up from his notes. ‘If we searched your room . . .’
‘He came round.’
‘To your house?’
‘Yes. In fact, when he phoned me, he was already outside.’
‘Why didn’t he just knock on the door?’
Jake shrugged. ‘Guess he knew my dad hates faggots.’
Brook nodded and looked into Jake’s eyes. The teenager turned away.
‘What was he wearing?’ asked Noble.
‘Jeans – and he had his G-STAR hoodie on. He never took it off.’
‘What colour?’
‘Blue.’
‘So you went out to speak to him?’
‘Yes, and he gave me the poster and a CD he’d burned as a thank you.’
‘What was it?’
‘The Smiths. Like you said – Kyle was nuts about them.’
‘Was?’ queried Noble. ‘You think he’s dead?’ Jake looked up. ‘I don’t know.’
‘And the poster?’
‘It was the lead singer – Morrissey.’
‘You know Morrissey is a gay icon?’
‘I guess,’ answered Jake.
‘Did you know Kyle was gay?’ asked Noble.
Jake started laughing. It subsided quickly. ‘Yes.’
‘Is that why Wilson bullied him?’
‘That sh— knobhead doesn’t need a reason.’
Brook and Noble exchanged another glance. Jake was either being very clever or he honestly didn’t yet know Wilson’s body had been discovered that morning.
‘These gifts,’ said Brook. ‘Do you still have them?’
Jake nodded.
‘How long were you talking outside your house?’
‘About five minutes. No more.’
‘And did Kyle say anything other than to thank you and invite you to his party?’
‘No.’ Jake decided against mentioning the ten-ton truck.
‘Then what?’
‘Then I went back in.’
‘You went back in? But forty minutes later . . .’
‘I listened to the CD and decided I didn’t like it so I went looking for him to give it back. I was on the way to his house . . .’ He shrugged as though the rest was obvious.
‘And when you found him, Wilson and his friends were beating him up.’
‘Yes.’
‘This time you didn’t step in.’
‘There was no need. Wilson stopped when he saw me.’
‘And Kyle came over to you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what?’
When Jake spoke his voice was barely audible. ‘I threw it on the ground.’
‘What?’
‘The CD.’
‘What did Kyle say to that?’ No reply but Jake’s lip began to quiver. ‘Was he upset?’
‘Yes.’
Brook nodded. ‘You betrayed me when I needed you most. Is that what the text was referring to?’
Jake looked at Brook. There were tears in his eyes. ‘Looks like it.’
‘Then he walked back over to Wilson.’
‘You’ve seen the film.’
‘Then Wilson knocked him out.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Who?’
‘Wilson.’
Jake laughed bitterly, through the tears. ‘After he hit Kyle, he got all self-righteous. He said Kyle liked the violence and that disgusted him, like the fat fucker and his thick crew were offended by having to smack him around, like Kyle was a pervert and they’d been forced to hit him.’ Jake let out a quivering sigh. ‘Then Wilson left. Said he was going to get laid to get the gayness out of his head.’
‘Wilson said that?’ Brook looked up at Noble. ‘Did he say where?’
‘No. It was just talk anyway. That fat sherm couldn’t get laid if he was a carpet.’
‘Then what?’ said Brook.
‘Then I tried to help Kyle. I went to get water from the stream.’
‘But he ran off into the fields.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘He said he hated me.�
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Brook studied Jake. ‘But you know that wasn’t true, don’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A gay young man giving you presents. That tells me quite a lot.’
‘Like what?’
‘His mum told us Kyle was in love,’ chipped in Noble. There was silence for several minutes.
‘Kyle isn’t an active homosexual, according to Mrs Kennedy. He has crushes on people from afar. Do you think he could have been in love with you?’ asked Brook finally.
Jake looked up in confusion then returned his eyes to the bed. He opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it.
‘Okay. Was that the last time you saw Kyle?’ asked Brook. Jake didn’t answer.
‘Well, was it?’
‘To speak to, yes.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I saw him the next night.’
‘Did you!’ exclaimed Brook. ‘What about Wilson? Was that the last time you saw him?’
Jake’s brow furrowed in confusion. ‘Actually, yes.’
‘You didn’t follow Kyle into the fields?’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t go after Wilson?’
‘No, why would I?’
‘To exact revenge for the attack on your friend,’ offered Noble.
‘I picked up the CD and went home. End of.’ Jake finished his water and wiped his mouth.
Brook gazed at Jake. ‘So you did go.’
‘Go where?’
‘To the party.’
Jake looked away. ‘I told you before, no.’
‘But if you saw Kyle, that wasn’t true, was it?’ No reply. ‘You stood at the same lamp-post, the one I first saw you under when we searched Kyle’s room. You were seen.’
Jake looked glassy-eyed into the distance. ‘I went to the house. I stood under the streetlight – that’s true. I wasn’t sure whether to go in. After I’d thrown his gift back in his face . . .’
‘Then why go at all?’
‘I’d bought him a present. To say sorry.’
‘Picnic at Hanging Rock?’
‘Yes. We’d seen some of it in Media Studies that day. He watched it all with the others. It blew Kyle away. He wrote a review of it the same day and gave that to me as well.’
‘Where is it?’
‘On my computer.’
‘And the DVD?’
‘I’ve still got it. We were watching it the day you came into Media Studies. Rusty brought it the previous week but he hadn’t turned up.’
‘So what happened? Did Kyle throw your gift back in your face?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
‘I couldn’t go in so I left,’ shouted Jake. There was an edge of hysteria in his voice.
‘You didn’t go in the house?’
‘No.’
‘But you’d bought Kyle a present. You went all the way to his house. Why couldn’t you go in?’
Jake clenched a fist. ‘I tried to go in. I tried but I couldn’t hear anything – no music, no talking – so I went round the side of the house to see what was going on. There was a crack in the curtain, I could see into the living room.’
‘What did you see?’
‘They were playing some weird game.’
Brook looked up at Noble. ‘Game? What game?’
‘Becky and Adele were on the floor. Their faces were white and they were just lying there. They looked like they were dead and Kyle was filming them with Rusty’s camcorder.’
‘Kyle was doing the filming? What about Russell?’
‘I didn’t see Rusty.’
Twenty-Three
BROOK READ THE SCRIPT OF Kyle Kennedy’s film review in grim silence. The entire essay was devoted to the notion that Picnic at Hanging Rock was a rallying call for suicide. The weak, impressionable, unhappy Kyle saw only the attraction and drama of self-destruction. The hunger for that brief inferno of interest in his pathetic life dripped from every word.
They’re dead, you know. . .
Brook turned to the photograph of Kyle on the display board. For the first time he was prepared to accept that Terri might be right. He gazed at the picture of Adele Watson, her dark eyes burning into him. Could she destroy herself ?
No. Brook wouldn’t accept it. Kyle, yes. Becky too. The discovery of their bodies would give them their dearest wish – their names on the lips of the country. But Adele. . . what was in it for her? The sources of her pain, if pain she felt – her father, Rifkind – had already been exposed. What more could be achieved by going to her grave? There had to be something, some reason for her to embrace death. Surely she wanted more. Surely the brief hand-wringing at her funeral couldn’t compensate her for oblivion.
As the press conference drew to a close, Brook took the opportunity to look around the packed media room. Their first briefing had been sparsely populated but then the Deity broadcasts had become an internet sensation and now, with the film of Wilson Woodrow’s suicide to pick over, every national TV, radio and newspaper was represented and hungry for a story for the early evening news or next day’s newspapers.
Brook was next to Charlton as question after question rained down about the death of Wilson Woodrow. Was he on drugs? Was he in love? Was he obsessed with death? Who was filming his suicide? Brook marvelled at how long it took Charlton to answer questions that required only a simple, ‘We don’t know.’
The speculation surrounding the three photographs purporting to show three of the missing students dead, had been batted away by Charlton. Although Brook had convinced him the shots were fake, Charlton stopped short of saying so, merely dismissing them as ‘unsubstantiated and potentially misleading’. The FLOs dispatched to the worried families carried the same message.
Then questions switched to how the suicide of Wilson Woodrow could have been recorded, yet go undetected for over a week. Fortunately Charlton could deflect all such questions in the direction of Derby City Council.
Then a BBC journalist asked why the website hadn’t been closed down.
‘This is a question that is under constant review,’ said Charlton. ‘But we felt that with the plethora of socialnetworking sites available to carry such material, even for a short time, to close down one particular avenue for Deity broadcasts would not only be pointless but would put our investigation at a disadvantage. We’re sure the individual or group producing these films is aware of this.’
‘Do you know where these uploads are being made?’
‘I can’t comment on that.’
‘But is it true that you’ve interviewed a lecturer at Derby College responsible for setting up the Deity website?’
‘I can confirm that financial details were fraudulently obtained and used to set up Deity.com. The individual to whom you refer is not – I repeat not – a suspect at this time. More than that, I’m not prepared to say.’
‘So he was an unwilling dupe?’
‘No comment.’
Brook tried not to smile imagining Rifkind’s dismay at being so described.
‘We saw a bewildering array of reports of teenage suicides in today’s broadcast,’ said a female journalist. ‘Do you think whoever filmed Wilson’s death was involved in those other suicides?’
Charlton looked across to Brook.
‘It’s extremely doubtful,’ said Brook. ‘Those deaths took place over several years and in different parts of the country. Obviously we can’t rule it out, but I’d be more inclined to think that Deity is trying to claim credit for deaths that were way beyond its influence.’
‘So you won’t be adding those deaths to your inquiry?’
‘Other forces are welcome to reopen those investigations, and if they uncover anything relevant to the death of Wilson Woodrow, we’d be happy to listen. We will only be looking at why some of those cases were selected for broadcast, not looking into the actual deaths, no.’
The questioning moved on and Brook was relieved and a little surprise
d, that no one else had noticed the rogue picture of the unknown hanged boy.
‘Still think we should let that website keep broadcasting?’ asked Charlton when they’d reached the sanctuary of the Incident Room. Noble and Cooper were still there despite their early start that morning. ‘Their output is starting to seriously impact on our ability to get things done.’
‘It’s your call, sir,’ said Brook. ‘But I’d say we’ve only got one or two more broadcasts at the most.’
Charlton looked at his watch. ‘Let’s hope so. Eight o’clock – nineteen hours until the next one. So what the hell are we going to see tomorrow?’
‘You want me to answer that?’
‘If you can.’
Brook considered for a moment. ‘Best guess – more deaths.’
Charlton closed his eyes briefly. ‘Go on.’
‘Every broadcast has been an escalation of the last. Violence, sex and now death – the human experience right there. There’s nowhere to go except more death.’
‘Who?’
‘Maybe Russell. Maybe all of them.’
‘Why Russell?’ said Charlton.
‘He’s the only one we haven’t seen, who hasn’t had his moment in the sun.’
Charlton nodded. ‘Fake deaths?’
‘I would hope so. And we may get a parting message. But it’s important to Deity that nothing is resolved. Like Picnic at Hanging Rock, they want us to be talking about them years from now.’
‘Fame at last,’ said Noble.
‘But if they follow the film to the letter it’s going to end in death,’ put in Cooper.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Brook.
‘Or they pack it in and come home to soak up the attention,’ said Charlton.
‘I hope you’re right,’ replied Brook. ‘But enduring fame without talent sometimes requires extreme measures. Some commit murder like Lee Harvey Oswald or Mark Chapman. Others die young or commit suicide.’
‘And a nobody becomes a somebody,’ muttered Cooper.
‘Adele Watson’s got talent,’ pointed out Noble.
‘Then let’s hope she’s in charge,’ said Charlton.
‘So much for just messing with our heads,’ said Cooper absently.
Brook looked across at him. ‘Unfortunately Wilson’s death changes everything. Someone’s realised that to make it stick you have to make the sacrifice. Sometimes to live forever, you have to die – for my generation Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, JFK. For these kids, it’s. . . well, you know better than me.’