“Do you have a warrant?” Philip’s mother crossed her arms.
“No, Mrs Mason. But I will get one if necessary.”
“Then I suggest you do so, Chief Inspector.”
“I hoped we could clear this up without having to resort to warrants. We just want to eliminate your son from our enquiries. If we have to spend unnecessary time and resources doing it, it will harm our chances of catching the killers. I’m sure you don’t want that.”
Siobhan thought she detected a softening in the father’s stance but Mrs Mason’s resolve remained unchanged.
“I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but how you allocate your resources isn’t my problem. Nobody’s taking any of my son’s clothing without a warrant.” Her tone left no room for argument. “If you want to speak to my son again, you will only do so with our solicitor present.”
Siobhan thanked them and rose from the sofa. She could tell Eddy felt as she did. They’d identified their first suspect. A surge of excitement lifted her mood.
Byron checked the time. The train hadn’t moved for twenty minutes and the last announcement, a quarter of an hour earlier, had consisted of an apology for the delay but no explanation. A commotion at the entrance to the carriage presaged the arrival of the guard as he attempted to placate the passengers surrounding him.
“What the hell’s going on?” a middle-aged woman in a tweed suit demanded.
“There’s a problem on the line. The train ahead of us hit a lorry on a level crossing—”
“When will you clear it? I’m visiting my grandchildren and it’s their bed time soon.”
“They’ve removed the lorry but need to check the track before we can run on it. That could take an hour or more.”
A groan passed through the carriage.
“Anyone hurt?” Byron asked.
“Lorry driver killed and our guy is badly injured.” The guard glared at the woman in tweeds who had the grace to look embarrassed.
With a feeling everything was going against him, Byron tried ringing Adam again and getting no answer got hold of the number for his station.
An out of breath Adam came to the phone. “Byron, what’s the panic?”
“You okay?”
“Sure, it’s PT. This better be important, I was just serving for the game.”
“I need a favour. Philip, Samuel’s son, is in trouble. A guy called Ritchie McLaughlin thinks he’s killed his nephew.”
“Shit!”
“You know him?” A chair scraped across a tiled floor and Byron pictured Adam sitting down.
“Of him. You remember Sarah?”
“Uhuh.” Byron and Louisa had both cheered when Sarah had finished with Adam, and he seemed to have finally got over her.
“Her dad, Big Mick, was a mean bastard, but even he was scared of McLaughlin.”
“Yeah, well he sounds like a sensible man.”
A siren sounded then, as it faded, a voice over a speaker. “First! UMIST Sackville Street.”
“Do you have to go?” Byron said.
“Nah, I’m on the second tonight. So, you want me to ride shotgun?”
“I’m on my way up but the train’s delayed. Can you go over to my brother’s place and make sure he’s okay?”
“I’ll see what I can do. We’re riding minimum, so I’ll get someone to come in for me, unless the boss agrees to drop to fours. He’s only gone to the university, probably a student burnt their dinner, so shouldn’t be long.”
“I’d really appreciate it, Adam. If McLaughlin finds out Philip’s my nephew…”
“You got history then?”
“I was at school with him.” The memory of running the gauntlet of Ritchie and his twin Gerry as he travelled to school, still made the skin on Byron’s scalp crinkle. The brothers were third formers when he arrived and every kid in the first three years was their prey. They even picked on older kids. By the time he reached thirteen, Byron began a growth spurt which would take him to his six-foot-five frame. As his strength increased, he resisted and stood up for the younger kids, earning the McLaughlin brothers’ enmity until it came to a head.
The school day had finished and Byron had forgotten his art folder. He explained what he’d done to the member of staff on the gate, a young supply-teacher everyone recognised as NTM — Not Teacher Material — and rushed back inside. He’d seen Ritchie hanging about by the bus stop, throwing his weight about. At fifteen, both he and his brother towered over many of the teachers. Byron collected his folder and rushed back to the exit.
As he passed the janitors stores, the door flew open. Ritchie leapt out and punched him on the cheek. Unwilling to drop his work, he covered up, something he’d learned at the boxing club. Ritchie rained blows on Byron, but he caught most on his arms. The force of the punches pushed him backwards, towards the door. Byron glanced down the corridor but couldn’t see anyone to save him. Ritchie grabbed the folder and threw it to the floor, scattering Byron’s work.
Another punch on his nose made his eyes water. Ritchie seized his shoulder and pushed him into the stores. Byron stumbled over a mop just inside the room but stopped himself falling. Ritchie shoved him into the wall, Byron’s head bounced off and stars danced across his vision. His tormentor shut the door and advanced, a nasty grin on his face.
“I’m going to teach you a lesson you won’t forget, sambo.”
Rage overcame Byron’s fear and as Ritchie neared, he head-butted his tormentor and grabbed the mop. He swung the handle round Ritchie’s neck and pulled. Ritchie, bigger and stronger, resisted, but Byron knew he mustn’t weaken. Now he’d fought back he had to win, otherwise the boy would kill him. His arm muscles strained as he struggled to keep the stick against his opponent’s throat.
Ritchie tried every trick, clawing at his eyes and hair, stamping on his shin, slamming him back into the wall, then he went limp. Byron took it for another trick but then the acrid smell of urine filled the small room. A dark patch appeared at Ritchie’s crotch. Gasping for breath, with arms and shoulders aching, Byron released one side of the mop handle and Ritchie slid to the floor. Had he killed him?
Then a blow slammed into his back. He lurched across the tiled floor but kept hold of the handle. Gerry, Ritchie’s twin, stood between Byron and the door, a rounders bat in his right hand. His brother choked and spluttered on the floor, blood flowing from his nose. Byron should have known Gerry wouldn’t be far, they went nowhere alone. He threw the mop at Gerry and ran past his flailing arm. He raced along the corridor, Gerry on his heels, and burst out of the school. The ashen faced teacher avoided his gaze. Byron ran towards the road and seeing a gap in the traffic, darted across it. A flash of red came from his left. The van missed him, it’s wash tugging at his clothes, but Gerry wasn’t so lucky. Gore from his smashed skull sprayed Byron, making him gag.
Adam didn’t speak for a few moments. “Bloody hell, mate. That’s a sickener. I’ll make sure I get off.”
The siren sounded again.
“Shit! We’ve got a bell.”
“Car fire.” The voice over the speaker announced.
“I must go. I’ll get there as soon—”
Two tone-horns wailed.
“Sorry, those are for me.”
Byron placed the phone on his table and picked up his cup. His hand shook, and he sipped the cold coffee.
CHAPTER 7
Busy with their own tasks, none of the invaders paid The Boy any heed. His fierce countenance and weapon enabled him to pass, at a cursory inspection, for one of them. Weaving through the scenes of carnage, he ignored the cries and screams of the victims, his friends and neighbours. The door to his home lay on its side. The invaders had slashed the leather strips forming its hinges and they now flapped from the doorpost.
He ran into the gloomy interior and paused, letting his vision become accustomed to the darkness. A shape lay on the floor and, as his vision adjusted, it resolved into two bodies. In the gloom, he could make out his twelve-year-old sister’s fe
atures, disfigured by a terrible wound across her cheek.
The man who knelt between her thighs looked up in surprise as he fastened his fly. Eyes already accustomed to the darkness, he saw a boy he didn’t recognise. The shout of alarm died in his throat as The Boy buried the tip of the stolen weapon in his neck. With a wet gurgle the man fell and The Boy dropped to his knees to cradle Sanyu’s head.
“You okay, Adam?” Mal said.
“Sure, why?” Adam braced himself against the side of the cab as the vehicle negotiated a bend. The two-tone horns blasted a warning.
“You’re usually first on the pump. Girlfriend trouble?”
“I wish.” Adam laughed. “That was Byron, a mate from the marines. His nephew’s upset McLaughlin.”
“Ritchie?”
Adam nodded. He needed speak to the station officer on the first pump if he was to get the night off.
“Poor lad. What’s he—”
“It’s a goer,” the driver said.
Adam twisted out of his backward facing seat and glanced through the windscreen at an orange glow, then focussed on fastening his tunic and putting his gloves on.
Mention of Sarah and her father brought back unwelcome memories. He’d convinced himself he’d got over her, but…
“Okay, just a reel and watch out for the suspension,” the sub officer instructed as the pump slewed to a stop.
Forty metres away, a car, recognisable as a Citroën saloon, sat in the car park of what looked like a disused factory. Flame exploded out of the car’s window openings and licked out from under the bonnet, illuminating the car park and building behind it. Thick smoke from the tyres and upholstery flowed out into a plume, darkening the night sky. The stench of burning rubber filled Adam’s nostrils and clung to the back of his throat.
Gravel crunched under his boots and he opened the hose-reel locker. The pump note changed as the power take off engaged and, pulling off a length of reel, he operated the gun to test the jet.
“Off you go, mate, remember what the sub said.” Mal pulled a bight of hose off the reel and Adam dragged it towards the burning car.
He recalled the first time he’d heard McLaughlin’s name. How worried Sarah had been when her dad came up against him when they’d both bid for the same club. She’d convinced herself Big Mick would get killed, but confounding expectations, he’d backed down.
The heat from the flames boiling out of the broken windows made the skin on Adam’s cheeks stretch. He blasted water into the car, generating a cloud of steam and drastically reducing the light available, then he started on the tyres. The sub circled the vehicle at a distance, shining his torch at the building a few metres away. Scorch marks disfigured the roller shutter covering an opening and the adjacent brickwork.
Adam worked his way round to the back of the car, pouring water through the rear windscreen, keen to put the fire out and return to station so he could get off duty. The humiliating memory of Big Mick and two of his men breaking into Adam’s house and dragging him out of bed returned. The heat reduced as the flames died and he advanced. A shout from Mal made him jump. Then with a low ‘thunk’ the hydro-gas suspension exploded. A lump of metal shot past him, missing him by less than a metre. Adam leapt to one side and spots of hot wet ash splattered his skin.
“Bloody hell, mate. You okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” Shaken, he focussed on the task in hand, hoping the sub hadn’t seen his near miss.
The sound of water dripping replaced the noise of burning. A torch beam from behind him shone on what remained of the number plate.
“Hang fire, young Adam,” the sub said and Adam turned the jet off.
Mal walked past and popped the boot with a crowbar, releasing damp smoke. Adam advanced and sprayed the inside.
“You almost done, Adam? I’m on a quarter,” the driver said.
“See if you can get the key-holder.” The sub shone his torch at the scorched shutter. A stencilled sign warned intruders to keep away and gave the name and number of a security company. “I want to make sure it’s not spread inside.”
Adam’s insides shrunk, that’s all he needed. They could be here an hour or more. “Can’t we break in, Sub?”
The sub examined the front of the building. “If you can find another way in. I’m not breaking through a roller shutter.”
Mal fetched torches and a radio and the two of them set off round the side of the building. They’d passed three openings, each as well protected as the front, when Mal said, “You know what this place was?”
Adam shook his head, wondering who he could get to come in for him if the station officer wouldn’t agree to drop a crew member.
“A rope factory. This is the rope walk.” He shone his torch at the building. “It’s over two hundred metres long.”
Adam’s steps faltered, they’d covered less than a quarter of the distance. Resigned to having to wait, he said, “Okay, let’s go back.”
They returned to the front and headlights appeared. A large, dark SUV crunched across the car park before stopping in a shower of gravel. Two bulky figures got out and approached the sub who waited at the entrance to the factory.
“Evening gentlemen. We need to see inside to check the fire’s not spread.” The sub shone his torch at the scorched metalwork.
“Wait here,” a sharp-faced man with an overdeveloped upper body and high-pitched voice said.
“We need to have a look.”
“You’re not coming in. Don’t worry, I can recognise a fire.” He showed yellowing teeth. A stink of stale sweat wafted off him and his hooded top displayed damp patches under his armpits.
The shutter over the front door rattled, and he disappeared inside, leaving his sidekick guarding the opening. Lights flickered on behind him and Adam recognised a figure from the doors of a club in town.
The sweaty man returned. “It’s all clear.”
“Can I have your name?” The sub wrote it down, and they remounted the pump.
Adam checked the time. Eight o’clock. They’d been there fifty minutes. He’d be back in the station in twenty. Was Byron still stuck? He put his head into the gap between the rear and front cab. “Sub, I need the night off. Family problems.”
“Sure, we’ll sort it—”
“FT, Echo five two one.” The radio burst into life.
“Go ahead.”
“Proceed to chemical incident…”
Adam cursed and sat down, hoping Byron was mistaken about the danger his nephew faced.
Siobhan shivered as she waited outside Jenna Young’s house, determined to test Philip’s alibi. She shouldn’t let personal feelings intrude but the boy’s mother had got right up her nose. The light came on and a figure moved behind the stained glass in the top half of the door. A short plump man with curly brown hair, a high forehead and a welcoming smile opened the door.
The dog collar made Siobhan hesitate. “Mr Young?”
“Hello, please call me Geoff,” he said in a strong well-modulated voice, and she had no trouble picturing him in a pulpit. “Come in out of the cold.”
He ushered them into a tiled hallway with a wooden staircase on the right side, the bright red runner in the centre clashing with the burgundy walls. The aroma of mushroom soup pervaded the air.
“I’m Chief Inspector Quinn, Mr Young.” She introduced Eddy, and both showed their IDs. “Can we speak to Jenna?”
“Jenna?” His eyebrows shot up. “She’s not in trouble?” He laughed at the idea.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Mr Young. We just need to speak to her about one of her friends from college.”
He looked relieved. “I’ll just fetch her. She was on the phone. Do you want to take a seat in there?” He pointed to a door on their left. “Can I offer you tea or coffee?”
Both declined and entered through the doorway. Siobhan fumbled for a switch and clicked on the overhead light. A large reproduction Chippendale dining table with matching chairs stood on a carpet of yet anothe
r shade of red. A glass-fronted dresser stood against the wall facing the window. They took two seats facing the door. Siobhan couldn’t account for a vague sense of unease.
The door opened and a tall, good-looking girl, with waist-length blond hair entered. Siobhan remembered, as an awkward teenager, craving the approval of girls like her.
“Chief Inspector, my daughter, Jenna,” Geoff announced.
Jenna smiled at both of them, seeming unfazed by a visit from two detectives.
“Hello, Jenna. I’m Chief Inspector Quinn and this is Sergeant Arkwright. Can you both please sit?” She indicated the two chairs opposite her.
Siobhan explained the reason for their visit. She studied Jenna as she told them about Liam’s death. Their shock at the news seemed genuine. Siobhan began the questioning by establishing Jenna’s identity and confirming she knew Philip. Jenna answered her questions in a pleasant voice, at ease with authority figures.
“What time did Philip arrive at your house?” Siobhan asked.
Jenna hesitated for a moment and sucked the tip of her left thumb before replying, “About eight thirty.”
“And what time did he leave?”
For the first time she became uneasy. “About one.” She blushed and looked towards her father. “Actually, it was nearer two.”
“Are you sure?” If Philip left Jenna’s at one, he couldn’t account for an hour. She smiled at the girl who nodded uncertainly.
“You realise lying to the police is a serious matter.” Eddy spoke for the first time. “This is a murder investigation. If you’re not sure what time he left, say so.”
The girl’s eyelids fluttered and her confident air slipped. “You can’t believe Philip had anything to do with it.”
Neither of them responded.
“I’m sure it was two o’clock.” She appealed to her father, licking her lips.
“Chief Inspector, my daughter wouldn’t lie to you.”
Brotherhood Page 6