by DS Butler
Mackinnon and every other officer in the vicinity turned in the direction of the noise. A uniformed PC stood in the shadow of Victoria House, pointing upwards to the fourth floor.
Mackinnon looked up and saw Kwame Okoro, gripping an oversize knife standing on the balcony.
Kwame looped one leg over the black railing, and then lifted himself over. He stood perilously close to the edge of the balcony.
Was he going to jump? Mackinnon remembered how only a few short months ago he’d been standing on the ledge of a second floor window, trying to escape poison gas. He had plummeted to the ground and ended up in hospital. Just looking at Kwame Okoro balanced on the edge of the balcony made him break out in a sweat.
An officer with a loudspeaker called out, telling Kwame not to resist arrest and commanding him to hand himself in.
“I don’t think so,” Kwame shouted to the officer.
Mackinnon held his breath as a burly officer appeared behind Kwame on the balcony. He made a grab for him. But Kwame Okoro was too quick. Then everything seemed to happen in slow motion as Kwame leapt from the balcony.
Kwame somehow managed to grab the railings of the balcony of the flat below and swung there for a moment, before dropping again to the next balcony.
He was almost at ground level.
But he couldn’t get away. He was surrounded.
Kwame swung again, and this time he landed on the ground. The jolt from landing, pulled him off balance, so although he’d landed on his feet, he quickly fell back and landed on his backside.
Immediately, two officers were on top of him.
But he slashed his knife only inches away from their faces.
One of the officers aimed a Taser, but somehow Kwame moved out of reach.
“Looks as if the spirits are looking after me,” Kwame yelled. “My father was wrong. I would have made a perfect Oracle.”
And then he was running. Mackinnon didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone run so fast.
“Shit,” Mackinnon said.
“It’s all right one of the officers said. We’ve got all the exits to the estate blocked off now. He can’t get away.”
But Mackinnon was worried. The Towers Estate had a network of interlinking alleyways, and if the residents saw a boatload of officers charging after a lone black male, no doubt someone would call it police brutality.
If some naive resident took pity on Kwame and hid him from the police, that would mean a door-to-door manhunt.
If they weren’t careful, they could have a riot on their hands.
***
Brian Taylor looked in his rearview mirror, studying the teenager in the back of his cab.
He’d known it had been a mistake to pick him up. Why hadn’t he trusted his instinct?
He knew why. His daughter’s wedding was fast approaching, and the costs were escalating at an atrocious rate. He couldn’t afford to turn down a fare.
The kid looked nervous. He didn’t sit back in the seat like a normal passenger. Instead he perched on the edge, leaning forward.
He was going to do a runner, Brian thought. No doubt about it.
Brian had his first clue from the clothes the kid was wearing. Baggy jeans falling off his arse, and one of those ridiculous baseball caps. Brian had been asking for trouble picking him up.
And if the kid’s clothes weren’t enough, he’d asked to be taken to the Towers Estate. That had bells ringing loudly.
The taxi doors were locked, to stop runaways, but that didn’t mean anything if the kid pulled a knife.
Those baggy jeans could be hiding anything.
“We’re nearly there,” Brian said to the boy. “It’s going to be about fifteen quid.”
The boy nodded, but made no effort to pull out his wallet and get the money ready.
Yep, definitely a runaway fare.
Brian would report him of course, but they hardly ever got caught.
Brian turned the cab into the Towers Estate and had to make an abrupt stop. A couple of uniformed officers stood in the road, controlling traffic.
Brian wound down his window. “What’s the problem, officer?”
The tallest officer approached the cab. He paid more attention to the kid in the back than to Brian.
“No problem, sir. Carry on,” he said eventually and waved Brian on.
Brian drove further into the Towers Estate. He didn’t like coming here. Rain or shine, it always seemed gloomy. That was probably to do with the monstrous tower blocks blocking out the sun.
“You can stop here,” the teenager said.
Brian pulled over to the curb.
“Fifteen pounds, please,” Brian said, looking at the boy in his rearview mirror.
When the kid pulled out a switchblade instead of cash, Brian only felt a frisson of fear for a moment. His overwhelming emotion was anger. The little fucker. Going through life on the take and screwing over honest people trying to make a living.
Brian pressed the door release. “Bugger off,” he said.
The kid looked almost disappointed that Brian hadn’t put up more of an argument. But after a moment’s hesitation, he climbed out of the cab.
Adding insult to injury, when he was a few feet away, the teenager turned and flipped Brian the bird.
And that’s what did it. That’s what made Brian lose it.
He stamped on the accelerator, driving right for the little bastard.
Brian felt a warm glow of satisfaction when the kid turned, panic plastered all over his face.
The kid ran towards an alleyway. He obviously hoped to escape that way, but he was out of luck. The little alleyway was just wide enough for Brian’s cab.
He sped after the kid. The brickwork on either side of the alleyway made an awful screeching noise as it scraped along the cab, but Brian paid no attention. He was focused solely on catching the kid.
He was almost on top of him, when the alleyway ended and they were back on a street. Brian didn’t know which one and he didn’t care. All he cared about was catching the little sod.
Later Brian would say, he didn’t see the man at all. How could he? One moment, it was just Brian’s cab and the runaway kid on the street. The next, some crazy guy was running towards him.
Brian had slammed on the brakes, but it was too late.
Two thousand kilos of metal ploughed into the man with a sickening crunch.
***
Mackinnon heard the sound of screeching rubber against tarmac, and he held his breath. Jesus. That hadn’t sounded good.
They caught up with the wreck two streets away. A black cab stood in the middle of the road.
In front of it, Kwame Okoro lay on the pavement. Deep red blood oozed from a head wound.
The cab driver, a short man of around fifty, wearing a buttoned cardigan, had climbed out of the cab to inspect the damage.
His hands flew up to his mouth. “Oh, God. It wasn’t my fault. He came out of nowhere.”
“Ambulance is on its way,” Collins said. “But I think he’s past help.”
Mackinnon kneeled beside Kwame Okoro’s body and felt for a pulse. Nothing.
He shook his head at Collins.
Mackinnon could hear the distant wail of a siren. The ambulance might be too late for Kwame Okoro, but he hoped it wasn’t too late for Lisa Stratton.
“Do we know what happened to the woman?” Mackinnon asked. “Lisa Stratton?”
One of the uniforms heard Mackinnon’s question and stepped forward. “She’s all right. He’s cut her up a bit, but it looks like she’ll pull through.”
Mackinnon waited for the wave of relief to wash over him, but it didn’t come.
This case was such a mess. Kwame Okoro might be dead, but how were they going to prove the case against all the others who had been involved?
Kwame had basically been acting as a hit man for hire. How would they get justice for Francis Eze, Adam Jonah and Mark Fleming?
Their enemies had signed their death warrants and it was starting to loo
k like they would get away with it.
43
MACKINNON’S JOURNEY BACK TO Wood Street station was subdued.
Lisa Stratton had been rushed straight to hospital in an ambulance, and an hour later Tyler received feedback from the doctor in charge of Lisa Stratton’s treatment. Thankfully her injuries were not life-threatening.
The cuts to her back were deep and would result in nasty scars. Hundreds of sutures had been needed to hold the wounds together. Later Lisa Stratton would need plastic surgery, too, in an effort to minimise scarring.
After they’d cracked an investigation, the team’s mood was normally buoyant and lighthearted, but now everyone was sitting quietly at their own desks, trying to process what had happened.
Collins wandered up to Mackinnon’s desk. He’d taken off his tie and stuffed it in his pocket.
“Do you fancy a drink after work?” he asked.
Mackinnon nodded. He could do with something to help him unwind. He was planning to stay at Derek’s tonight, and Derek would be out on another date with Julie, the last thing Mackinnon wanted was to go home alone and brood.
Collins glanced at his watch. “Hell of a lot of paperwork,” he said. “But I could be ready in an hour or so.”
“Sounds good,” Mackinnon said, then stared down at the pile of forms on his desk.
DC Webb wandered into the major incident room, cracking his fingers.
“I’ll give Okoro credit for one thing,” he said. “He made the paperwork easier. Shame all our criminals don’t jump in front of taxis.”
No one in the room looked up or reacted to DC Webb. Black humour often lightened the mood as a way of giving off steam, but in this case, it wasn’t working.
And it wouldn’t make the paperwork easier really. There’d be another investigation into Kwame Okoro’s death, and one way or another it would end up being the police’s fault.
Mackinnon looked across at Charlotte. She was sitting in front of her computer, with her hands raised to press the keys, but she wasn’t actually doing anything. She was staring blankly at the screen.
DC Webb walked across to her desk and tapped her on the shoulder. “There’s someone downstairs who wants to see you,” he said.
Charlotte frowned. “Who?”
“The teacher from Poplar Comprehensive, Mr. Xander. He’s got the boy with him, too.”
Charlotte scrambled out of her chair.
“Alfie? They found him? Fantastic.”
“Yes,” DC Webb said. “And he wants to talk to you.”
44
CHARLOTTE HURRIED DOWN THE steps. Her heart was pounding.
Thank God. Thank God. Thank God.
The words kept running through her head.
Alfie Adebayo’s aunt had been charged, but his Uncle Remi was still missing. Charlotte had feared he’d taken the boy off somewhere.
She got to the front desk, and the duty sergeant, Frank Dobson, tilted his head. “They’re waiting for you,” he said.
Mr. William Xander and Alfie were sitting in the orange plastic chairs in reception.
When he saw her, Mr. Xander stood up. His huge frame dwarfed the chair he’d been sitting in and he towered over Alfie and Charlotte.
Alfie stood up beside him. He’d taken his coat off, and for the first time, Charlotte noticed just how skinny his arms and legs were. Was he malnourished? Or was he in the middle of a growth spurt? She hoped it was the latter.
Alfie’s skinny arms and legs just made Mr. Xander look even bigger.
The teacher put a meaty hand on Alfie’s shoulder.
“He’s come to talk to you,” he said. “He wants to tell you everything that has happened.”
Charlotte looked at Alfie, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. He was chewing his lip and looking down at his shoes.
“That’s great,” Charlotte said. “But because he is a minor, we will have to organise a special interview.”
Mr. Xander put a hand up and took two steps toward Charlotte.
“I know there is a procedure,” he said in a low voice as he leaned close to her ear. “But he wants to talk now, and he wants to talk to you.”
“Me specifically?” Charlotte asked.
“Yeah. He said he wanted to talk to Charlotte, the short police officer with the dark hair.”
Charlotte took another look at Alfie who was looking even more uncomfortable.
She nodded. “All right.”
She turned to face the desk and told Frank they’d be using the family room.
“We’ll be more comfortable in here,” she said, leading the way along the corridor and then opening the door to the family room.
Inside, she gestured for them both to sit down on the comfy, bright-green sofas.
“I have to say,” Charlotte began. “That none of this is going to be recorded. This is just a chat. Okay, Alfie?”
Alfie looked terrified, but he managed to nod.
Charlotte thought she should start by explaining to the boy what had happened to his aunt.
His aunt may have been partly responsible for the death of Alfie’s friend, Francis, and many others, but most abused children didn’t stop loving their family because they treated them badly.
“Your aunt has been charged,” Charlotte said carefully. “There’ll be a trial, and this won’t be over very quickly.”
There was no point sugarcoating the truth. At twelve-years old, Alfie was old enough to hear this.
Alfie nodded.
“Tell her about the baths, Alfie,” Mr. Xander said, putting his large hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Alfie rested his forearms on his knees, staring down at the ground. He began to speak in a very quiet voice.
He told her about the ablutions and the exorcism to get rid of the evil that lived within him. He described how they used to try and wash the spirit away by submerging him underwater until he was gasping, desperate to take a breath.
Charlotte listened in horror to the abuse this boy had suffered.
Mr. Xander gave the boy’s shoulder another squeeze.
“Carry on Alfie,” he said. “Tell her about the people who came to the flat to ask your aunt for Mr. X’s help.”
Charlotte held her breath. They’d been expecting this. Alfie would be a key witness. If he had seen Joy Barter and the others meeting with his aunt, this could be the evidence they needed. At the same time, for Alfie’s sake, she wished he hadn’t seen them. The next few months could be hell for the boy.
Alfie’s voice trembled as he described the people who had come to his aunt for help.
“Thank you, Alfie,” Charlotte said. “I know this isn’t easy.”
Later when Alfie was officially interviewed, they would show him photographs of all the suspects and let him identify them.
“There’s more,” Mr. Xander said, turning his intense brown eyes onto Alfie.
Alfie blinked a couple of times, looked up at Mr. Xander then took a deep breath.
Charlotte thought she’d have to remind the teacher not to interrupt or prompt the boy if he was present when they did the official interview.
But his presence did seem to reassure Alfie.
There were officers who had special training for dealing with minors. They went on courses and learned how to talk about things like this. They learned the right questions to ask, without making the child feel pressured. But Charlotte hadn’t taken any of those courses. She felt desperately out of her depth.
Charlotte leaned forward.
“It’s all right, Alfie,” she said. “If you want to stop here, that’s okay,”
Alfie bit down on his lip and shook his head, then he looked up.
His deep brown eyes fixed on Charlotte and he said, “I know why he killed Francis.”
“We saw a murder.”
***
Back in the incident room, Mackinnon picked up his mobile phone. There were still piles of paperwork to get through, but he’d almost finished writing up his account of what had
happened that afternoon.
But there was something else preying on his mind. He was worried about Katy. He decided to go outside, take a breath of fresh air and give Chloe a call to see how they were getting on.
He hoped Chloe would tell him that it had been something and nothing, and the children had buried the hatchet. Kids argued all the time. It might not be as serious as Mackinnon thought.
But when Chloe answered the phone, Mackinnon could tell straight away that the situation hadn’t resolved itself.
“I’m at my wits’ end, Jack,” she said. “Katy’s refusing to go back to school now. I really think she’s scared of them.”
It was funny how you could live with someone and never notice something was wrong.
He’d heard of kids a bit older than Katy committing suicide because of bullying and their parents had been totally unaware anything was the matter.
Mackinnon had always found that hard to accept before. How could you not notice?
“I’m really worried about her, Jack,” Chloe said.
Mackinnon walked a little further away from the station entrance. His breath produced white clouds as he exhaled.
He looked out at the squad cars in the car park. “Have you spoken to anyone at the school?” he asked.
He heard Chloe sigh on the other end of the line. “Yes, I’ve made an appointment for tomorrow to see the headmaster and Katy’s head of year. Do you think I should make her go back to school tomorrow?”
Mackinnon put his hand against the rough brick exterior wall, propping himself up. He suddenly felt bone weary.
“A day off won’t make a difference,” he said. “It might help. Maybe you could keep her off school until you’ve spoken to the headmaster.”
Chloe hesitated, then said, “You’re probably right, but what if she refuses to ever go back to school?”
“There are other schools,” Mackinnon said.
“Not as good as this one. It could ruin her future.”
So could being bullied for the next three years, Mackinnon thought.
45
INSIDE THE FAMILY ROOM, Charlotte tucked her hands under her knees so Alfie couldn’t see that her hands were shaking.