by Simon Mayo
Itch nodded. ‘Would you like to know about Flowerdew now?’ he said. ‘You must—’
Abbott held up a hand and produced another sheet of paper. ‘Wait, please. The fire team have told us that when they returned to their station, they went through the usual checks and discovered something rather odd.’ She looked at Itch now. ‘Their protective gear – their helmets, uniforms and so on – all tested positive for radiation. It wasn’t strong, but it was there. They were radioactive. Do you know why that might be?’
‘Was . . . the bomb radioactive?’ said Nicholas, astonished.
‘No, we don’t think so. Just the usual sort of explosives. The radiation came from somewhere else . . .’
Itch was aware that not only were both police officers staring at him; his father was too.
‘We know something of your, er, adventures, Itch,’ said Abbott. ‘And that you collect the Periodic Table. You’ve got quite a collection, I’m told. Might you have had something that could have been released in the fire?’
Itch looked at the floor. This was a familiar feeling. Of course . . . Of course, it was me.
‘But this was next door to us—’ began Nicholas.
‘Yes,’ said Itch, slightly too loudly. ‘Yes, there was some thorium next door.’
‘There was some what?’ This was the first time Underwood had spoken. He sat down next to DCI Abbott.
‘Itch?’ said Nicholas.
Itch took a deep breath. ‘Thorium, named after the god of war. Atomic number 90, melting point 1750 degrees C. It’s where most of the Earth’s heat comes from. It’s silvery—’
‘Is it radioactive?’ said Abbott flatly.
‘Yes,’ said Itch. ‘It’s weak, but yes.’
‘And this was part of your . . . collection?’ asked Underwood.
‘Yes – it’s not illegal, is it?’
Abbott shrugged. ‘We’ll check. But in general, last time I checked, boys aren’t allowed to have radioactive material.’ That thin smile again.
‘What – you mean, like bananas?’
‘Itch, don’t do this,’ said his father softly. ‘Not now.’
‘Bananas are radioactive,’ said Itch, ignoring his father. ‘It’s the potassium, you see. Your bones are radioactive. Not illegal at all. Radiation is everywhere. If your house is made of granite, it’ll release some radon gas. That’s radioactive.’
‘OK, enough of the science lesson,’ said Abbott. ‘I take your point. Where do you buy thorium, then?’
Itch looked at his father. ‘We’ve just come back from South Africa. We visited a thorium mine and I brought some back.’
‘Is that even allowed?’ said Underwood, busy looking up thorium on his phone.
‘How much did you bring back? Did you tell customs?’ Abbott was looking at Nicholas.
‘I . . . I didn’t know he had it. I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s only a small amount. It was stored safely. Or I thought it was. But the parcel explosion must have—’
Abbott leaned in towards Itch. ‘Do you have anything else that we should know about?’
Before he could answer, Nicholas leaned in too, their faces close. ‘Excuse me . . . this is all wrong. We can come to the thorium and whatever else Itch has in his collection later. But someone tried to kill my son. Have you forgotten again? His teacher was killed, and a bomb was sent to his school. That’s what you should be talking about.’ He sat back and glowered.
‘Ah yes, the package at the school.’ Abbott produced yet another sheet of closely typed paper. ‘Itch, can you explain why you left your lessons – left your school, indeed – moments before the bomb was delivered by the parcel company?’
There was silence in the interview room. Itch looked pale and flushed at the same time.
‘Your teacher said that you felt unwell and asked to be excused. But seconds later you were seen running from the school. Just as the bomb was delivered. Where were you going in such a hurry?’
‘Itch?’ said Nicholas, his brow furrowed. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I can explain!’ said Itch, flushed and rattled. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking! I was going to the library in town . . .’
Underwood frowned. ‘You ran out of school to go to the library? Really? What was the hurry?’
Itch looked from face to disbelieving face. ‘There was this book that Mr Watkins had got out and I was trying find it. He was doing some research into mining accidents or something, and he wouldn’t tell us what it was.’
‘I didn’t know you’d joined the library,’ said his father.
‘I just did. Last night.’ Itch’s head was spinning. He had hoped that the police might be close to finding Flowerdew. Now he was being interrogated as though he was the bomber. ‘I think I need some help,’ he said.
‘You’d like a lawyer?’ said Abbott, her eyes wide.
Itch shook his head and reached for his bag. Finding a small card, he handed it to his father.
‘I think we should call Colonel Fairnie.’
It was dark when Itch and his father left the police station. The wind blew hard off the sea and the freezing rain stung their faces, but neither of them hurried to the car. The cold was a refreshing blast after the stale heat of the interview room, and they stood on the steps, inhaling deeply. Itch knew from Jack’s texts that the journalists were still camped outside her house.
‘How many does she think are there?’ said Nicholas.
‘She says about eight. And a TV crew. And a policeman . . .’
Nicholas sighed. ‘Maybe we could just go back to ours anyway,’ he said.
‘No point. Chloe says they’re there too.’
‘OK. Uncle Jon’s, then.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I should have told you about the thorium.’
‘Yes, you should, but in the greater scheme of things, on a day when someone’s tried to kill you and Dr Dart and actually succeeded in killing John Watkins, it hardly matters.’
They were pulling out of the police station car park when Itch’s phone rang. ‘Hello, Colonel Fairnie,’ he said. ‘I’m putting you on speaker. I’m in the car with Dad.’ Itch put his phone on the dashboard.
‘Good evening to you both. Nice to hear your voice, Itch. I’m shocked by what’s happened today – really shocked. I’m so sorry about Mr Watkins. He was a good man.’
There was a long silence . . . Itch couldn’t think what to say.
‘Yeah, well . . .’
‘Colonel Fairnie, it’s Nicholas Lofte here. What did you say to the police?’
‘What I had to. Explained what, and more specifically who, we are up against.’
‘You mean Flowerdew,’ said Nicholas.
‘Of course. We need to reconsider the threat level again, I’m afraid; he’s clearly still active, and has resources at his disposal. You heard about the fourth package?’
Itch and Nicholas looked at each other, horrified.
‘No . . . Who . . .?’ said Itch, hardly daring to hear the answer.
‘Bill Kent at ISIS. The guy who helped show you round the target station – the guy Flowerdew no doubt blames for helping you to destroy the 126. He’ll be OK. He realized there was something wrong and turned his back on it. It went off, but he only suffered minor burns to his neck. I told your DCI Abbott enough for her to be impressed with you, Itch, instead of suspicious. Given the targets of the bombs, there can be little doubt about the perpetrator.’
‘Thank you,’ said Itch and his father together as they drove past their house.
Then Nicholas added, ‘Any advice on dealing with a media scrum?’
‘Ah. I’d restrict your comments to expressions of sadness about John Watkins. Say nothing of the bombs addressed to Itch and Dr Dart. And get Itch indoors quickly.’
‘Pretty much what I was thinking,’ said Nicholas as he turned into his brother’s road. The gathering of reporters was larger than Jack had reported and they had all spotted the approaching car; two bright T
V lights swung in their direction.
‘Oh, and Itch,’ said Fairnie, ‘keep your head down and get inside. Let’s do this one day at a time. If I were you, I wouldn’t say anything at all.’
As Nicholas parked, the car was surrounded, cameras flashing.
Itch nodded. ‘That’s easy. I never want to say anything to anybody anyway.’
Fairnie laughed. ‘Well, good luck. Call me anytime. I’ll always speak if I can.’
Itch ended the call as his father killed the engine.
‘Ready, Itch?’ he said.
‘No.’
They sat for a second as the car was circled, questions shouted through the steamed-up glass.
‘How is your son, Mr Lofte?’
‘Were they trying to kill him?’
‘How you feeling, Itch?’
Itch looked at his father. ‘Can’t we go somewhere else? This sucks.’
For a moment it looked as though Nicholas was considering it. Then he shook his head. ‘We’d have to get your mum and Chloe out of there first. And then they’ll follow us. So let’s just get this done.’ The front door of the house opened slightly and he saw his brother Jon peering out. ‘Come on, Itch. Let’s go.’
With the assistance of a policewoman who cleared a path for them, Itch sprinted for the door. He heard questions coming from all around but ignored them. As he approached the house, the door swung open and he ran in. A smiling Chloe was waiting with Uncle Jon.
‘Come in, come in!’ he cried, ushering them inside. ‘Your mum’s in the kitchen.’
‘Itch, come and see,’ said Jack from the front room.
He walked in to see Jack and her mother watching TV. It took a moment for him to realize that the twenty-four-hour news channel was showing pictures of Jack’s house; and another to realize that his dad was fielding questions. Itch heard his voice outside the door, then the satellite-delayed version on screen a few seconds later.
‘. . . of course it’s been a terrible day . . . We just want to be left alone now . . . We are all very upset about what happened to John Watkins . . . My son’s fine really, just shaken . . . Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’ They watched as Nicholas, looking tired and tense, turned and pushed his way through the pack. Moments later he was in the hall. The TV picture had switched to a reporter, who was standing next to their car.
‘This is weird,’ said Chloe as her father appeared in the room, her mother and uncle close behind.
‘Can someone turn that down?’ said Jon, pointing at the television. ‘Tell us what happened, Itch. What did the police say?’
Itch slumped onto a large sofa next to Jack and was about to answer when she nudged him. ‘Itch, look.’ She was pointing at the TV. They both sat bolt upright. The Greencorps company logo had appeared, along with pictures of its co-chairmen.
‘Turn it up, turn it up!’ said Itch, and Chloe found the remote. The room fell silent.
The report had cut to footage of a badly lit, grimy basement and what looked like bloodstains in the dirt. The caption across the bottom of the screen said: Oil executives found ‘executed’ in Nigeria.
Chloe came and sat by Jack and Itch.
‘Van Den Hauwe and Revere had been missing since the end of last year,’ said the reporter, ‘and it was believed negotiations for their release were well advanced. But both men were found with a single gunshot wound to the head. Police are saying they believe the execution was the work of a local gang and have issued photos of the women they want to question.’
‘Women?’ said Jude.
‘Women . . .’ whispered Jack as a photo of six women, all in diving gear, appeared on the screen.
Itch felt his flesh creep. ‘Shivvi’s diving gang . . . weren’t they all women?’ he said. Jack nodded.
Suddenly Itch’s phone rang. ‘It’s Lucy,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
The three cousins jumped up and found the kitchen empty.
‘Itch, it’s Lucy. Were you watching the news? When you weren’t on it, I mean?’
‘Yes, we’re all at Jack’s.’
‘Itch, that picture . . . they must be Shivvi’s divers! When I broke into her house, she got a Skype call from someone called Leila. After she left, her screensaver came up. Itch, it was that photo! The version on the news was cropped, but standing behind them was Shivvi Tan Fook.’
11
Itch had never been to a funeral before. When his grandfather died, he had been declared too young to attend, so John Watkins’s was to be his first. He had woken even earlier than usual, when the house was still dark and cold. As he thought about the day ahead, the leaden feeling in his stomach returned as it had every day since the bombs. Maybe he would always feel like this. Maybe it would go after the funeral. He didn’t know. He wondered who would be going – did Mr Watkins have any family? He didn’t think so. He wondered who would speak – presumably Dr Dart would say something. He wondered if he would cry – he didn’t want to but he couldn’t be sure. Was it OK to cry at funerals anyway? Would it look bad if he didn’t cry? He didn’t know that either.
There was a knock on his door and Chloe peered in. ‘You awake?’ she whispered.
‘Yup. As ever.’ He switched on his bedside light. Chloe was already in her school uniform. ‘That what we wear?’ he asked.
Chloe nodded. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying. ‘I’ve been reading the plans on the CA website,’ she said. ‘And school’s opening again.’ She found the relevant pages on Itch’s laptop. ‘Tomorrow. They were obviously waiting for the funeral. Sounds like the whole school is going.’
Itch stared at the ceiling. ‘Won’t fit. It might be the biggest church in town, but it won’t take 1,200 pupils. Maybe just those he taught will go.’
‘Well, I’m going,’ said Chloe quietly, ‘even if he never taught me.’
‘I’m sure that’ll be fine.’
‘Have you seen this page?’ She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and held the computer up to Itch. ‘It’s for messages about Mr Watkins. So sorry you’ve gone, we’ll always remember you. Thanks, Mr Watkins, you were the best. Sam Jennings left that. We’ll miss your stories – RIP. That’s from Natalie.’ She looked at her brother. ‘Should we leave one?’
He shrugged. ‘Not bothered.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘Not going to make a difference to anyone, is it? So what’s the point?’
‘Just a way of leaving a message, that’s all. Sure there’s nothing you want to say?’
‘To him, yes. To a website? What’s the point?’
Chloe was still holding out the laptop.
‘OK, OK,’ he said irritably, and sat up to read the comments. ‘They’re all so lame, Chloe. It’s like their pet hamster died or something.’
‘No one knows what to say, Itch, that’s all.’
He sighed. ‘I’m not going to write anything.’ His voice was thin and he swallowed hard. He closed the laptop. ‘But if I did, it would be something like: You were the . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘You were the greatest. You were funny, you were kind. You had the worst dress sense ever, even worse than mine. You would always listen. You made geography interesting. When my dad disappeared, you didn’t. When Mum didn’t smile very much, or talk to me much, you did both.’
‘Itch, don’t . . .’ said Chloe quietly.
‘And when Darcy Campbell and James Potts were in my face and being foul, you spotted it and stopped it. When Flowerdew needed standing up to, it was you who had the guts to do it. And that’s what got you killed and I’m sorry . . .’ Itch’s voice cracked, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘I’d say something like that, Chloe. But I’d like to say it to him. Not leave a dumb message on a dumb website.’
‘Shall we just leave it, then?’ she said.
Itch nodded. ‘I’ll get dressed.’
Itch sat on the hard wooden pew staring at the floor. It was easier that way. He didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, even acknowledge anyone. He thought if h
e kept still enough, maybe no one would notice that he was there. He could hear the sounds of the church filling up: shuffling feet, creaking pews and whispered, respectful conversations; he just didn’t feel the need to watch.
The Loftes had arrived early; they sat together – his mother and father at one end of the pew, Jack’s parents at the other. Lucy arrived soon afterwards and joined Jack and Chloe and Itch. They had all tried to say a few words to him, but he just nodded, said nothing and counted the hymn books. The heaviness in his gut was almost overpowering now; a physical pressure that was making him feel sick. He dreaded the service starting but at the same time couldn’t wait for it to be over.
He heard Jack say, ‘Everyone seems very nervous.’
‘There’s loads of police outside now,’ said Lucy. ‘Everyone’s walked past them. It’s set everyone on edge. And we haven’t been together since the bombs, so . . . hell, I’m nervous too.’
‘Fairnie’s here!’ said Jack, and now Itch did look up. She pointed back at the door, and he craned his neck to see the MI5 man standing by the ornate, carved oak entrance, dressed in a black coat with a black tie. He nodded at Itch and Jack.
‘Are any of the rest of the team here?’ whispered Jack.
Itch scanned the congregation. The front pews were full of staff from the CA. It looked like everyone was here. By the curtained-off side entrance, Jim Littlewood sat talking with Gordon Carter; Sunil Masoor and Jimmy Logan, the maths teachers, were both deep in conversation with Craig Harris, who for once was not wearing his Scotland tracksuit; and a tense-looking Dr Dart sat reading the order of service and checking through her notes.
Itch could see most of his class, some sitting together, others with their parents. In front of him, Sam Jennings, handkerchief in hand, sat with her eyes shut. Natalie Hussain had her head on Debbie Price’s shoulder. Tom Westgate, arriving late, nodded at Itch and squeezed into a pew in front, Ian Steele shuffling everyone along to make room for him. The two policemen who had interviewed Itch sat stony-faced in one of the back pews. He looked away before they noticed him.