by DS Butler
Alfie ducked so quickly he fell off his chair. He crawled under the table.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeated the words over and over, clutching his knees to his chest.
“We need to sort the boy out,” his uncle said. “This clumsiness isn’t natural.”
“No, no, no,” Alfie said. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
He saw Uncle Remi’s face appear under the table, just a foot away, and Alfie yelped in fright.
He scooted back as far as he could, out of the big man’s reach.
Uncle Remi stared at Alfie, then said, “There’s evil in you, boy. I won’t have you bringing evil into my house.”
Aunt Erika spoke up. “It’s okay, I’m in control.”
For a moment, he thought she was going to tell Uncle Remi to leave him alone, to tell him that he didn’t mean to knock the glass over.
But she didn’t.
“I’ve spoken to Mr. X,” Aunt Erika said. “He’s going to do a cleansing ritual.”
Alfie felt as though he’d been punched in the chest.
“No, no,” he screamed.
This time Alfie wasn’t scared of his uncle. Nothing scared him as much as the thought of being handed over to Mr. X.
He exploded past them both, barrelling into Uncle Remi.
His uncle reared backwards into the cabinet. There was a crash as one of the glass cabinet doors smashed.
Alfie ran down the hallway. He could hear his uncle shouting after him, but he didn’t stop. He wrenched open the front door and ran outside into the rain.
He didn’t stop running until he’d reached Burdett Road on the other end of the Towers Estate.
He felt dizzy and sick and rested his hand on the rough brick wall, trying to get his breath back as the rain drenched his jumper and trickled down his neck.
He needed to do something. Who could he ask to help him? Someone in school? Mr. Xander?
Just thinking about the teacher sent chills up Alfie’s spine. He couldn’t ask him. He’d think it was all Alfie’s fault.
Maybe he could go to the police. They had come to the school. The policeman Alfie had spoken to didn’t seem too bad. Maybe he would listen.
Alfie shivered. He hadn’t stopped to put on a coat and his jumper was wet through.
He saw a gang of kids he recognised from the year above him at school. They’d made some half-hearted effort to dress up for Halloween, even though it wasn’t until Thursday.
They rushed from doorway to doorway, trying to avoid the rain. One of them wore a witch’s hat. Another had a white sheet over him trying to look like a ghost. They were on their rounds, milking their opportunity to get sweets from the local residents. Halloween once a year obviously didn’t get them enough treats.
Alfie carried on watching them as they moved from house to house. They ran away from one door, giggling when an old man waved his stick at them. Obviously there was one resident who was sick of Halloween already.
Alfie wished he was among the group of kids, messing about and laughing. They didn’t have anything to worry about.
Last year he and Francis had gone around the estate knocking on doors, carrying a little plastic beach bucket to hold their stash of sweets. They’d taken Mickey with them, too.
But now Francis had gone, and Alfie didn’t know if he’d ever see Mickey again.
Alfie swallowed. He didn’t want to think about Francis. He didn’t want to think how his friend had died, and he definitely didn’t want to think how the last thought going through Francis’s mind might have been to wonder why Alfie had left him.
19
MACKINNON WAS STARTING TO feel the effects of his early start that morning. He couldn’t stop yawning as he walked home from the tube station to Derek’s.
He spied a group of kids trick or treating at the end of the road. There were still two days to Halloween, but they’d been at it all week.
He’d called his parents on the way home. They’d moved to a new house in Devon, and he hadn’t made it down there to visit them yet. He felt bad, but with work and Chloe and the girls, time just seemed to slip away.
After he had heard all about his mother’s new book club, she passed the phone over to Mackinnon’s father for a few words.
As he rounded the corner and turned into Derek’s road, he promised to visit them soon and ended the call.
Derek had said he was going to be home tonight, but Mackinnon couldn’t see any lights on. He let himself in and heard the familiar commentary of an American football game.
Since Derek had bought Game Pass from the NFL, he hadn’t missed a game this season.
Mackinnon had watched quite a few of the games too, and was finding it strangely addictive. The Game Pass stream even had the American adverts, which were very different from their English equivalents.
One day last week, in a five minute period, they had seen adverts for Viagra, baldness and a special comb that was supposed to brush hair and cut it at the same time. Mackinnon had no idea how that worked.
Mackinnon opened the front door, took his coat off, chucked it over the banisters and leaned down to greet Molly who seemed very glad he was back.
Derek got out of his chair as Mackinnon walked to the doorway of the living room.
Derek held up his empty bottle of beer. “You want one?”
Mackinnon nodded and followed Derek into the open plan kitchen area. Mackinnon thought this was one of the main reasons Derek had bought the house. He could walk to the kitchen and fix dinner or grab a beer out of the fridge without missing a second of his precious American football.
“Who’s playing?” Mackinnon asked.
“Seahawks vs. the Rams. It’s a re-run of the Monday night game. Seahawks are looking pretty good so far.”
Mackinnon watched as one of the Seahawks snatched the ball and ran up the field like lightning. As he got closer to the goal line, he turned to the defender chasing him, gripped the ball in one hand and waved with the other.
“Did you see that? Was he really waving at the defender?”
Derek watched the replay. “He only just made it, too. I imagine someone will have words with him about that. The NFL doesn’t like taunting.”
“The coach won’t be too happy either. That distraction almost cost them the touchdown.”
“He’ll probably get a fine,” Derek said. “I’ve got tickets to the NFL game at Wembley on Saturday. It’s the 49ers versus the Jaguars, you up for it?”
Mackinnon hesitated, but then he shook his head. “No, I can’t make it, it’s Katy’s birthday. She’s having a party on Wednesday night for her friends, and then we’re meant to be having a family dinner on Saturday.”
Derek handed Mackinnon a beer. “Is she really going to be bothered if you’re not there?”
Mackinnon thought for a moment. Would she? Probably not. It was more Chloe’s idea of a family dinner.
“Maybe not, but I can’t just blow them off,” Mackinnon said. “It wouldn’t be fair. Chloe has planned it all.”
Derek grunted. “All right, your loss.”
They took their beers back into the living room. Derek sat back on his leather recliner and Mackinnon took the sofa.
Molly padded over and curled up by Mackinnon’s feet.
“I notice you don’t have a bag with you tonight,” Derek said.
Mackinnon frowned.“Bag?”
“A supermarket bag. I thought you were on this new healthy eating regime. No more takeaways.”
“Well, I didn’t say no more takeaways,” Mackinnon said. “Just less takeaways.”
Derek raised his beer bottle and grinned. “Indian tonight then?”
Mackinnon leaned back on the sofa, closed his eyes and nodded. “Sounds good to me.”
20
THE FOLLOWING MORNING AFTER the early briefing, Mackinnon and Charlotte headed to Whitechapel, to speak to Adam Jonah’s old boss, Bruno Moretti. If what Kofi Ayensu had told them was true, then Adam’s old boss coul
d be a strong suspect for his murder.
Bruno Moretti owned a small pizza parlour just off Whitechapel Road.
Charlotte and Mackinnon both emerged from the underground station, smothering yawns. It had been a long couple of days.
“So, what do you think of the roommate?” Charlotte asked. “Do you think he’s just spinning us a line on this one, trying to shift suspicion?”
“He’s got no record,” Mackinnon said. “And we haven’t uncovered any motive he could have for wanting to kill Adam.”
Charlotte nodded. “True, but Kofi Ayensu doesn’t have many records anywhere. Nothing at the DVLA, no tax record, no national insurance contributions. He could be living under the radar for a reason.”
Mackinnon nodded. “People do that for all sorts of reasons though, not just because they want to kill someone.”
It was only a short walk from the station to the pizza parlour. It stood between two old red brick buildings in a glaze of bright yellow and pink and had a neon sign protruding over the entrance.
“Tasteful,” Charlotte said, raising her eyebrows. “Makes it hard to miss.”
“We get to go to all the great places,” Mackinnon said. “Still, we shouldn’t knock it until we’ve tried it. They might have great pizza.”
Charlotte looked doubtfully through the glass window that formed the shop’s frontage. “Maybe.”
This early in the morning, the pizza parlour was still closed, but according to Evie Charlesworth’s research, the owner had a flat above.
“Do you think this is the entrance to the flat, too?” Charlotte asked, peering in the window, shading her eyes and leaning so close to the glass that her breath left a steamy circle.
Mackinnon took a step back and looked up at the windows on the second floor, above the pizza parlour. A light was on.
“Let’s just try and ring the bell,” Mackinnon said. “If we don’t get an answer, we can try around the back. The entrance to the flat might be at the back of the building.”
He rang the bell, and they waited almost a minute.
Charlotte shook her head. “I can’t hear anything. I’m not even sure if the bell is working.”
Mackinnon leaned down to rattle the letterbox.
They waited.
“We’ll give him another minute,” Mackinnon said. “Then we’ll head round the back.”
A few seconds later, a bleary-eyed man appeared inside the pizza parlour, scratching his head and frowning at them through the glass.
Mackinnon took out his ID and held it up, pressing it against the glass window.
The man hesitated, his eyes flickered back to the door behind him.
Mackinnon braced himself. Perhaps one of them should have waited by the back entrance in case he made a run for it.
It was that split second, before a suspect put his or her guard up, that was the most telling. The surprise of realising that he was a police officer, made people react differently.
Almost everyone was guarded so you couldn’t read too much into that. Police often delivered bad news.
But it was the desire to run that Mackinnon sensed from Bruno Moretti.
Eventually, Bruno decided better of it. His shoulders slumped, and he opened the door.
He wore an old, stained white T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts.
“Sorry for getting you out of bed, sir. We would like a few words with you. We are hoping you can help us with an enquiry.”
Mackinnon looked down at the man’s knobbly knees and hairy legs and said pointedly, “We can wait while you put your trousers on.”
“Well, that is kind of you,” Bruno Moretti said in an East London accent, tinged with sarcasm.
He had all the appearance of an Italian pizza parlour owner, with his dark hair and tanned skin, but by his accent, it was clear he’d lived in and around London all his life.
“What’s the bloody urgency?” Moretti asked. “I’ve only just got out of bed. Could you not have phoned and given me a bit of warning? I would have put my trousers on at least.”
He gave a nod in Charlotte’s direction. “Sorry love.”
“Cup of coffee might help wake you up a bit,” Mackinnon said.
The man gave an annoyed look and left the door wide open for Mackinnon and Charlotte as he staggered back towards the counter, scratching his belly.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup of coffee, too?” Bruno asked as he switched on a large coffee machine.
Everywhere seemed to have those coffee machines these days, not only coffee shops. There was obviously a fortune in it. It wasn’t a surprise they made so much when places were charging over two quid for a little cup of coffee.
“It’ll heat up in a couple of minutes,” Bruno said. “I’m going to go and put my trousers on.”
As he left, he gave them a look over his shoulder, as if he wasn’t sure they could be trusted to be left alone in the empty pizza parlour.
At the doorway, he raised a finger. “Don’t touch anything.”
Mackinnon pulled out a plastic chair and sat down at a Formica covered table. He plucked idly at one of the plastic-laminated menus. It was all standard stuff: margaritas, Hawaiian and pepperoni pizzas.
Charlotte walked slowly round the room, as if she was expecting to find something.
“What do you think of him?” Charlotte asked in a low voice. “Don’t you think it’s weird he didn’t ask us what we are here for? He didn’t seem the least bit interested in asking what the enquiry was about. Maybe because he already knows.”
“Maybe,” Mackinnon said. “But the man has just woken up. I don’t think we can read too much into it.”
Charlotte pulled out a chair, inspecting it before sitting down.
Only a minute later, Bruno trundled back downstairs and strode into the kitchen area.
He didn’t say anything as he stood behind the counter. He pressed a few buttons on the huge coffee machine, and the contraption began to make an awful wheezing noise.
He waited until the machine stopped gurgling, and then carried three little cups of espresso over to the Formica table. Placing one in front of Mackinnon and one beside Charlotte, he sat down opposite them.
He took a sip of his coffee.
“Ah, that’s better,” he said. “These late nights and early mornings. It gets harder as you get older. I can’t do the late nights like I used to.”
He blinked as if the coffee was slowly clearing his head. “What’s this all about then?”
“It’s about an old employee of yours.”
Bruno grunted. “Well, I’ve had a few of those. Maybe you could narrow it down for me and tell me which one?”
“Adam Jonah,” Mackinnon said.
“Adam?” The man nodded. “Well, I’m not likely to forget him. What has he done this time?”
Charlotte and Mackinnon didn’t answer.
Charlotte leaned forward and took a sip of her coffee. She paused as though she was slowly savouring the taste, then she said, “We’ve heard you had an argument with him last week.”
Bruno snorted. “I did more than had an argument. I sacked his lazy arse.”
“Why was that?” Charlotte asked.
Bruno waved a hand. “Oh, I don’t want to go into it all again. It just winds me up. It’s no good for my blood pressure.”
His face was looking a little pink.
“Well, we would like you to talk about it,” Charlotte said.
Bruno frowned. “Why? Why are you interested? Look, if it’s about tax and all that stuff…” Bruno held up his hands. “I just took him on for a trial. If he passed the trial, I was going to set it up properly. All above board and sign him on the books.”
“It’s not about your books,” Mackinnon said. “Adam Jonah has been murdered.”
Charlotte and Mackinnon both studied Bruno Moretti’s face. The man seemed to go pale beneath his tanned skin.
Bruno licked his lips. “Adam? Are you sure?”
Mackinnon in
clined his head. “We’re sure. Now we’d like to know about this argument you had with him.”
Bruno ran a hand through his thinning hair, pushed his coffee cup away and shook his head.
“You think his murder has something to do with me. Well, it hasn’t. Look, I admit that we had an argument. A major bust up, but the little bastard was stealing from me. I had to sack him, didn’t I?”
Bruno looked at Charlotte, appealing for her agreement.
Charlotte said nothing.
“I’ve done nothing wrong! All I’m doing is trying to earn an honest living, and I just can’t get the staff. He was the last straw. I was going to come to the police and report him. But I didn’t as I’m too bloody soft.”
Charlotte and Mackinnon said nothing, waiting for Bruno to continue. He was clearly feeling uncomfortable and uncomfortable people tended to babble, revealing more than they intended to.
“I know what you’re thinking. I can see it in the way you’re looking at me. All right, I was mad at him. He stole from me and that pissed me off. But I wouldn’t have killed him over it. It was only two hundred nicker. Hardly worth killing someone over.”
“Look, I didn’t even report it to you lot. I just let him off. To tell you the truth, I felt sorry for him.”
“Sorry for him? Why?” Mackinnon asked.
“Because he fed me a sob story. He told me he needed the money and that he was planning on hiring a solicitor.
“He wanted to see his son, and his nasty ex was stopping him. In fact…” Bruno leaned forward over the Formica table top. “You probably wanna have a chat with her. From what Adam said, she was a right nasty piece of work.”
“Adam’s ex. Ex what? Ex-wife? Ex-Girlfriend?”
Bruno paused and frowned. “Well, I don’t think he ever told me that. I don’t know if they married. But if they did, she didn’t take his name.”
Bruno pulled his coffee cup towards him, studying the brown dregs in the bottom of the cup.
“No, I don’t think they were married,” Bruno said, looking up. “Nah, pretty sure they weren’t. Apparently, she’s gone and got married to this old, rich plastic surgeon. They’ve got a massive house and live near Kensington, I think. I don’t know the exact address. But she’s rolling in it now. And she doesn’t want anything to do with Adam anymore.”