‘A’ right, J?’ He rose. ‘Later, lads.’ His customers melted away. ‘Long time no see. You’ve had your hair done.’
‘A’ right, DD.’
He hadn’t changed much in the last three years, still ‘hench’, as the slang went, powerful shoulders, muscles straining against his V-neck sweater. Bare chest beneath. Black-haired, like Jade, but with pale skin and green eyes. DD had Roma blood. Jade had grown up with him. At fifteen he’d started living on the streets. He sold drugs to the homeless. He sold information, too, for a price. At least, he had to Jade in the past, and that was why she’d come looking for him now.
‘You here on official business?’ DD said.
He sat, and she lowered herself onto a pink plastic stool covered with stickers of cartoon rabbits. ‘Semi-official.’ She’d considered making DD an official community informant but he’d not been interested. Not one for rules and regulations. Or obligation.
‘I’m working the murder,’ Jade said. ‘Allie Kennaway.’
‘Fuckin’ disgrace,’ DD said.
‘We want to talk to this man.’ She showed him Bishaar’s photograph. ‘Failed asylum-seeker. Somali. We think he’s been sleeping rough.’
DD studied the picture. ‘He a suspect?’
‘Not sure. He’s definitely a witness. He made the nine-nine-nine call. He saw it.’
‘You got a name?’
‘Mahmoud Jamal Bishaar.’
‘How much?’ DD said.
‘Fifty,’ Jade said.
‘Another hundred if I find him.’
‘You’re shitting me. What happened to mate’s rates?’
‘Them is mate’s rates.’ He pocketed the cash and began to fill an e-cigarette with herbs from a small tin.
‘That Spice?’ Jade said.
‘You want some?’
‘No way. You got a death wish?’ Legal highs had recently been criminalized, so a whole glut of dodgy new drugs was flooding the market, no ingredients listed, no quality control. People were collapsing, ending up in A and E, or the mortuary.
‘This is the real stuff. I stocked up. And, going forward, I trust my chemist.’ He blew out a stream of smoke. ‘You’d rather have weed?’
‘I’m good,’ she said.
‘You weren’t always that way,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ Jade said. ‘I remember. I was there.’ Not eager to start reminiscing about the bad old days.
‘You doing a’ right, then?’ The jokey tone gone.
‘Yeah, not bad. I’m still on the same number,’ she said, getting ready to leave. ‘Send me yours.’
Someone was coughing their lungs up, the gurgle of phlegm turning her stomach. A train rattled over the bridge nearby, making conversation impossible for a moment. ‘The sooner the better,’ she said.
‘I get a bonus for express service,’ he said.
‘Do one, DD,’ she said, keeping her face straight and walking away.
Donna
Donna had spent half the night dreaming about the case. Nonsense most of it. She’d arrested their window-cleaner in one episode, and in another Jim was the victim and he was now a girl in a prom dress like Allie Kennaway’s.
That had woken her. She’d let the emotions of panic and sadness drain away, then counted her blessings or did a tally of sorts. It was a habit she’d got into years ago, not about material possessions but about her family. A review of each child, the pleasures they brought, the worries too, any crises going on.
Bryony was the most unsettled, these days. At fifteen her eager, open personality had transmuted. Now she was full of sarcasm and derision, everything an effort. As yet there had been no big problems with drugs or drink or sex or online bullying, or any of the other hazards modern teenagers encountered, and for that Donna was truly grateful. If only Bryony could make it through the next three or four years unscathed.
Robin and Lewis, the twins, had each other and that seemed to be all they needed. Thirteen-year-olds, they were changing shape rapidly, limbs lengthening, feet and hands spreading. Keeping them in shoes was costing a small fortune. They were popular and sporty at school, doing just enough to get by in class, and she couldn’t imagine them being apart for any length of time. What would separate them? Romance? University? Work?
Ten-year-old Kirsten had always been hard work. Needy in ways that Donna, when she was being ruthlessly honest, found tiresome. Quick to anger and to tears, Kirsten always saw herself as hard done by, endlessly falling out with friends and classmates. Donna dreaded her move up to high school. Where would she find the resilience to deal with the demands and treacheries of the new social environment? Kirsten’s one solace was her music. She played the piano with a talent that had come out of the blue. And Donna and Jim did all they could to encourage her.
And baby Matt, already eight, a peaceful, dreamy child, who needed chivvying every other minute but who had sudden dramatic fears that paralysed him. Nightmares of monsters and zombies, a lifelong fear of spiders (which Donna suspected Kirsten had schooled him in), of flying insects, of cats and thunder.
Jim started snoring, revving up louder with each breath. Donna shoved him and he turned over without waking, mumbled, ‘Pen,’ and fell quiet. For how long? What chance did she have of getting back to sleep when he was roaring like a bloody steam engine? She rolled onto her back, tried to relax her shoulders.
Were any of their kids gay? Lewis, perhaps – he had more of a feminine side to him, was more talkative, more sociable than Rob. But wouldn’t it be clearer by now, if he did like boys? And if one of them, Kirsten, say, came out as transgender what might that be like?
Would she and Jim handle it as well as the Kennaways seemed to have? It would be a hell of a shock, she was sure of that, and a source of worry. But if Kirsten wanted to change gender, have surgery . . . Donna couldn’t imagine it, the complexity of it, the emotional upheaval for the whole family.
Jim went to the toilet. Donna was aware of him coming back but he didn’t get into bed, just sat on the edge in the dark.
‘Jim?’
‘It’s OK,’ he said, but his voice sounded strained.
She put the light on and sat up. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. Indigestion, I think.’ Had he been calling ‘pain’ not ‘pen’?
‘Do you want some heartburn stuff?’ Donna had some at her bedside.
‘OK.’
He was whey-faced, covered with a sheen of sweat. Heart attack? She felt her own heart contract in response.
‘Where does it hurt?’ she said.
He rubbed at the centre of his chest.
‘What about your arm?’ She’d learnt some first aid as part of her job.
‘Don’t,’ he said, giving her a look.
‘What?’
‘Jump on the nuclear option.’
‘I’m ruling it out, not ruling it in,’ she said. ‘Here.’
He took the bottle from her.
‘Wait. Maybe aspirin would be better,’ she said.
‘Do we have any?’
‘Not sure. Are you hot?’ She put a hand to his forehead, then the back of his neck. Felt him tense. He was cold, cold and wet. She didn’t like it. ‘Stay there.’
Downstairs she went to the medicine cupboard but they had no aspirin, only ibuprofen and paracetamol.
‘It’s easing off,’ he said, when she got back upstairs.
‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think you should ring the doctor in the morning.’
‘I’ll see how I feel,’ he said.
‘It can’t hurt to get it checked out.’
‘It’s indigestion,’ he said. ‘I’m sure of it.’
His reluctance to see the GP about anything, ever, drove her round the bend. ‘Promise you’ll tell me if it happens again.’
‘I’ll tell you if it happens again,’ he parroted, but there was a sharp undercurrent in his tone that stung.
It was ten to four when she turned the light off
. Two hours and forty minutes until her alarm would ring.
Jade pounced on her as soon as she came into the incident room. Only the two of them there as yet.
‘Boss, I’ve got Bishaar.’
‘What?’
‘He’s downstairs waiting for interview.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Last night. Well, early this morning. He was holed up in an abandoned warehouse on Sherborne Street.’ Jade could barely keep still. Dancing on the spot like a runner waiting for starter’s orders. Eyes glittering.
‘Tell me you’ve not arrested him.’ Please.
‘No, boss. I invited him to come and talk to us as a witness.’
‘And he followed you like a little lamb, did he?’
Jade gave a tip of the head – trying to avoid the question, perhaps.
‘Well?’
‘Mention of Visas and Immigration might have helped,’ Jade said.
‘Christ, you didn’t promise anything, did you?’ Donna could imagine a whole horror-show unfolding, accusations of coercion or bribery.
‘No, boss. I simply gave him the option. Talk to us or talk to them.’ Her legs still working. Was she high? Buzzing with the kick of the collar or on something else?
‘He’ll have to talk to them anyway, eventually,’ Donna said. ‘You know that? Well, I doubt there’ll be much talking. They’ll stick him in a detention centre and then on the first plane back home.’
‘Unless he’s actually involved in the murder,’ Jade said.
That again. They couldn’t rule it out. He had been at the scene and three different footwear marks were found on Allie’s body. But what the hell had Jade been thinking, tripping off like some bounty hunter with no word to anyone on the team?
‘What happened to communication, Jade?’
The girl’s face closed down. ‘I’m telling you now, soon as you got here,’ she said.
‘I have a phone,’ Donna said.
‘It was late.’
‘Christ! I’m a big girl,’ Donna said. ‘I’m senior investigating officer. I’m not going to throw a tantrum if one of my officers wakes me in the night with breaking news about a critical development. “Take the initiative,” I said, and it seems you did. But the other part of the message was sharing information, not sitting on something, not keeping it to yourself, or for yourself. I’m very happy for you to show initiative but not at the expense of being a team player. We clear?’
‘Yes, boss,’ she said tonelessly.
‘Hand over the details to DS Harris when he gets in. He can run the interview.’
‘Boss.’ Jade’s brown eyes flashed.
‘Yes?’
‘I brought him in. I should—’
‘This isn’t High Noon, Jade. What was I just saying about team work?’
Jade’s chin was up, hands in her pockets. Donna could see how hungry she was for it. She considered sticking with her choice of Martin, denying Jade the interview in order to teach her a lesson. For all of ten seconds. Passive-aggressive wasn’t her style of management.
‘Any other bright ideas, you tell me. Have you got that?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘You do not go off flying solo. You understand?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘You lead the interview, then. You in with DC Thwaite. Do we need an interpreter?’
‘No, boss.’ Face alight again, energy back in her voice. ‘He speaks English and I checked he’s no medical problems that need immediate attention.’
‘How did you find him?’ Donna said.
‘Asked around – it seemed likely he was sleeping rough. Took his photo.’
‘You were lucky.’
Jade glanced down. Embarrassed, perhaps, by the compliment. Or was she hiding something? ‘Case like this, people want to help,’ she said.
Martin arrived then, phone in hand, obviously reading something. ‘The cab,’ he said, his face alive with interest, electric blue eyes blazing. ‘The blood traces on the floor in the back. It’s Allie Kennaway’s.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Steve
He’d woken in the night, gasping, flooded with terror. Something crushing his chest, squatting on him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Finally something broke and he gulped in air, shifted up onto his elbows, the green digital display of the alarm clock a niche of light in the blackness.
Then he remembered, the truth slamming into him so violently he lost his breath again.
Downstairs he made tea and listened to the blackbird sing, clear and cool in the dark.
His eyes moved over the photographs on the kitchen wall. They had become so familiar he didn’t really see them any more. But now he took his time with each one, trying to recapture more of the times they represented. To stretch beyond the snapshot and recall the different rhythms and textures of their family life, of his working life, in various periods. The exhaustion after Teagan was born when she was awake several times a night. He’d escaped some of that, working away, travelling to France and Germany in his job as patent adviser. The picture of Allie and Teagan, taken in his parents’ back garden – that was the summer they’d moved. Allie was piggy-backing Teagan, both of them laughing. Teagan, barefoot with shorts and a sun hat, was about two years old. She had her head flung back. A sprinkler was on and the spray created a wide rainbow behind them. That was the day Teagan had been stung by a wasp and the gathering had broken up early, her arm swelling like a balloon.
And the one of Allie holding the dog dated from around the time she’d told them she was transgender. Not just that she liked wearing female clothes but that she felt like a girl inside.
‘Is he gay?’ Steve had asked Sarah, shortly after.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘I’ve sometimes wondered if Teagan might be,’ Steve said, ‘but never Aled.’
‘We’ll ask him.’
And they had. And he wasn’t. Or she wasn’t. It had taken Steve some time to understand it all. Time to begin thinking of Aled as Allie. Of his son as his daughter. The name change was the hardest point for Steve.
Aled, as he was then, had broached it on the way back from holiday. ‘I’ve been choosing a new name,’ he said. ‘A girl’s name.’
‘OK,’ Sarah said.
Steve’s hands tightened on the steering-wheel.
‘You could be Savannah or Cassidy,’ Teagan said.
‘I don’t think so.’ Aled laughed. Teagan was seven. Savannah and Cassidy were the names she’d given her guinea pigs.
‘Everyone at school calls me Teapot,’ Teagan said. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘Have you picked one, then?’ Sarah said to Aled.
‘I quite like Allie.’ He spelt it out. ‘It’s similar and I’d still have the same initials.’
‘What about Sally?’ Teagan said.
‘No,’ Aled said. ‘Definitely Allie. I want you to call me Allie. And “her” and “she”.’
‘Even when you’re in boys’ clothes?’ Teagan said.
‘Yes. All the time.’
‘We’ll have to practise,’ Sarah said.
Once they were home, with the first load of washing on and the kids’ uniforms sorted out for the following day, Steve had joined Sarah to watch some television but he couldn’t concentrate on the drama unfolding onscreen. It seemed trite, irrelevant.
‘I’ll walk Dix,’ he said.
‘Again?’
‘Just round the block.’
Sarah was still up when he got back. She said something about the shopping. Then, ‘What is it?’
‘Aled, Allie. It feels so permanent. Like there’s no going back.’ He tried to explain. ‘It probably sounds daft but I feel like we’re losing him, Sarah, our son. We won’t have a son any more. It’s sinking in and I’m not sure how I feel about it . . . Our boy.’ His eyes stung.
‘Yes, I know,’ Sarah said.
Huge relief that she understood and wasn’t belittling his fears.
/> ‘We won’t have a son any more. We’ll have another daughter,’ she added. ‘But it’s the same person for all the changes. It’s still our child. And this is what he wants. She.’
It had never mattered greatly to Steve, the sex of their children. They’d never chosen to find out whether they were having a boy or a girl in advance of the birth so it was a surprise and a joy each time. He knew some parents were desperate to have a son first, or to have one of each, or any other combination, and he hadn’t understood any of those impulses. But now?
Sarah came closer and put her arms around his neck. ‘It’s her life, Steve. Her happiness. It’s not about us. If he—’ She pulled away. ‘God. Maybe we should have a pronoun box. Fifty pence for every mistake.’
He hugged her again. He felt shaken, weak.
He kissed her. Then some more. He wanted her. Wanted to stop thinking. Wanted the comfort and escape of sex.
‘How tired are you?’ she said, a gleam in her eyes.
How he loved her. ‘Not too tired,’ he said. ‘Never too tired for you.’ And he took her hand and led her upstairs.
Sonia
‘Oliver.’ Sonia knocked on his bedroom door again. ‘You’ll be late.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘You can’t just not go.’
‘I’m ill,’ he shouted. He didn’t sound ill. No wheezing or sneezing.
‘With what?’
‘Flu. I don’t know. I can’t go.’
She could hardly drag him out of bed and force him. ‘Have you rung them?’ She felt stupid calling through the door but she never barged in any more. He was entitled to some privacy. ‘Can I come in?’
A grunt, which she took as a yes.
The room was dark and smelt of vinegar. She put the lights on and Oliver pulled his pillow over his head. A jumbo bag of crisps sat open on the side.
‘Have you got a temperature?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Let me see.’
He flung the pillow away, a churlish five-year-old.
She reached over. He did feel hot but nothing extreme. ‘Are you shivery?’
The Girl in the Green Dress Page 10