“Let’s take Jenna Young first,” Siobhan replied. “There’s a possibility she’s been in touch with Philip and can help us find him. Do we have an update on the fingerprints we got from the items we recovered from Philip Mason’s bedroom?”
“We got some good prints off a glass from his bedside and a photo frame. They’re comparing them now.”
“Right, let’s get Miss Young and see what she has to say for herself.”
Siobhan led the way to the canteen where the pupils waited. When she walked into the room, she sensed something wrong. The girl sat with the welfare officer but the four boys clustered round a table away from everyone else.
Matthew Walcott spoke in a vehement undertone, fixing each of the others with his gaze as they listened. Conscious of her watching him, he looked over and, for a second, his eyes blazed with a fierce anger. Unease made her insides flutter as the youth’s expression changed and he looked at her with amusement. This unsettled her more and she glanced at Eddy, receiving confirmation he’d seen the same transformation.
Where were the officers who’d collected the students? A group of them loitered at the counter chatting and waiting to get served. Despite the urge to wade in and tear a strip off them, she kept her temper under control.
“Find out who’s in charge,” she hissed at Eddy and taking a deep breath, she approached the students. “Thank you for coming in to help us with our enquiries. Mr Walcott, can you follow me?”
At least she now knew for certain who pulled the strings.
Mugisa sat across from the two police officers in the interview room. Alongside him sat a solicitor and the welfare officer from the college. The airless room felt crowded.
The Chief Inspector studied Mugisa and he gave her a friendly smile, to no effect. Realising he’d made a mistake in the canteen, he believed he could recover the situation. He studied her sidekick, who’d changed from the friendly figure he’d spoken to at college.
Nobody said anything for a long period. The solicitor looked bored and gazed around the room, doodling on the pad in front of him. The welfare officer cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable with her role.
“Mr Walcott, you realise you’re not under arrest and you may leave whenever you want?” the sergeant said.
Mugisa nodded. “Yes, sir, I understand.”
“We need to clarify what happened on Sunday evening. Last time, you told us you spent the evening with four people.” He read out the names.
“Yes, sir.”
The policeman asked him the same questions as yesterday, wanting to know where he went and who he saw. Mugisa gave his answers enough attention to make them convincing, while at the same time trying to work out how he could get to Philip.
“What happened once Philip left?” the sergeant continued.
“What do you mean, sir?” This new question made Mugisa uneasy, but he’d covered the whole evening with the others, so it shouldn’t be a problem.
“Philip left about eight — what did you do then?”
“Oh, right.” Mugisa smiled at them. “We hung around Dimitri’s for a bit and then to the amusement arcade and the park.” Because they were in there so often, the staff wouldn’t remember if they’d seen them Saturday or Sunday.
“So the four of you stayed together?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time did you go home?”
“Eleven or later, I’m not sure.” Mugisa showed them a bare wrist.
“The others didn’t have a watch?”
“No, sir. Sorry.”
“So if we speak to your parents, they’ll confirm your story.”
“Mr and Mrs Walcott were in bed, but you can ask them.” They would have no idea what time he’d came home. Mugisa glanced at the woman officer who hadn’t spoken since they sat down. She’d just stared at him, but he recognised her tactics and smiled at her.
“Do you own a bike, Matthew?” she asked.
Thrown by the question, he replied without thinking. “Sorry, sir?”
“There’s no need to call me sir, Matthew. Chief Inspector will do.” Her smile didn’t touch her eyes. “Well, do you?”
“Yes, Chief Inspector.” Puzzled, Mugisa tried to work out what she wanted.
“Do you mind if we examine it?”
Mugisa’s thoughts raced. He couldn’t remember what had happened to his bike. He’d left it at the side of the alley, away from Liam, but he hadn’t checked it for blood. Had he wheeled it through any?
“No.” He forced himself to hold her gaze, knowing he needed to concentrate.
“Where is it?” she asked. “At college?”
“No, it’s at home.” He thought of a perfect solution and relaxed. He would let them take Mr Walcott’s bike.
“We’ll get someone to pick it up once we’ve finished here. Would you mind letting us have your fingerprints and a DNA sample?”
The solicitor paid attention and opened his mouth but Mugisa stilled him with a gesture. “Chief Inspector, I have nothing to hide.” They couldn’t think he was stupid enough to have left fingerprints.
“Where were you born, Matthew?” the policewoman asked.
Thrown by this change of tack, he hesitated. He didn’t want to discuss his past with anyone, least of all this woman.
“It’s not a secret,” she continued in a gentle voice, “I can easily find out, I’m just interested.”
“Kampala,” he replied. Nobody, even people from Uganda, had ever heard of his actual village.
“I don’t think I’ve met anyone from there before.” Her smile seemed genuine. “So, the Walcotts, they’re not your real parents?”
Mugisa shook his head and studied his hands, thinking back ten years to when he’d last seen his mother. Despite the surroundings, he imagined he could feel empathy from this woman but he caught her exchange a look with the sergeant and cold anger surged through him.
She saw him and blushed. “Now, you said you didn’t see Liam at all on Sunday.”
“No, I didn’t.” He needed to control his anger. It was just a game, and she had almost tricked him.
“You said in your statement you hadn’t seen him since Friday. Do you want to change it now?” She picked up a sheet of paper in front of her.
“No, I meant I didn’t see Liam.” He glared at her. Is she laughing at me?
She dropped the paper. “A witness told us Liam was with you on Sunday night.”
“Philip?” He saw he’d guessed right. “Sometimes Philip lies to make himself seem important.”
“He’s not the only one,” she snapped.
“Sorry, Chief Inspector?” He concentrated, waiting for the next trick.
“You told your mother you were at Philip’s on Monday night. Where did you go?”
“I went to Philip’s house.” He took a gamble. “But I saw you and left. I didn’t want to get involved.” Mugisa read her disappointment and realised he would be all right.
Byron sat in a greasy spoon he used to frequent after his boxing lessons a lifetime ago and sipped his coffee. It tasted as bad as he remembered. He’d hoped someone here would direct him towards friends he used to come with but the owner had died a few months ago, leaving the place to a nephew from Bradford. The man wanted to help and suggested Byron returned later when one of the old waitresses he remembered came in for her lunch.
Thoughts of how to keep his nephew safe from Mugisa whirled round Byron’s head. He didn’t have a handle on what motivated the young ex-child-soldier. And he still had to deal with McLaughlin. His phone rang, but he didn’t recognise the number. It could be about work — he’d neglected his business since arriving in Manchester.
“Hello, Byron Mason. How may I help you?”
“Well, Mr Mason. It’s more a matter of how I may help you.”
It sounded like a sales call, but the American twang intrigued him. “Go on?” he said.
“I understand you’ve had a few problems with some…” the caller hesitated, se
arching for a description. “Bad people.”
Byron didn’t respond. It wasn’t a sales call, but what the hell did he want?
The caller continued, “How much to find out what they’re planning?”
Byron still didn’t reply and heard the caller breathing.
“Mr Mason?”
“How would you know what McLaughlin’s planning?”
“Call me a disgruntled employee. The guy’s an unprofessional psycho. I’m not into settling personal vendettas.”
“You’re not scared of what he’ll do if he finds out you’ve spoken to me?”
“Petrified, but I’m going stateside ASAP and could do with a bit more capital to start again.”
“Okay, why don’t you just tell me how much you want?”
“Five thousand.”
Byron laughed. “Sling your hook.”
“You wouldn’t want anything to happen to Cecily or Lucy, would you?”
The mention of his nieces made Byron want to rip the man’s head off. “What do I get for the money?”
“Don’t worry, it will be worth it.”
They agreed to meet in a bistro near his brother’s house in an hour. Byron ended the call and drained his mug, grimacing as the bitter liquid assaulted his taste buds.
He arrived early and checked that the layout of the restaurant hadn’t changed since he’d last visited. He took a table in a corner, facing the window. The gloomy interior meant passers-by couldn’t see him, but he had a good view of anyone arriving.
A man approached the front door and Byron paid attention. He’d built up a mental picture of the mysterious caller and this man fitted. The man did a double take before he spun on his heel and hurried away. Byron stepped towards the window and scanned the road. Outside the bakers across the road a hard-looking man sat in the front of a dark SUV. A second man, carrying a paper bag, joined him. He opened the passenger door and stared straight at Byron.
I should get out of here. Then the man threw his bag into the car and said something to the driver. Byron didn’t wait and rushed through to the back room. Two doors on the left wall displayed the silhouettes of a man and a woman. A door on the opposite side led to a fire-exit which he remembered came out near the front of an alleyway by the side of the building. He ran towards a doorway in the back wall, leading to the kitchen.
As he reached it, a waitress carrying a tray of plates came out and just missing her, he charged through the opening. Steamy air, laden with the odour of rosemary and garlic, enveloped him. Four people stopped chopping food and cooking to stare at him.
“Staff only.” A bulky man wearing a stained apron said.
“Can I get out this way?” Byron started for a doorway in the far corner.
“You no hear me?” The man picked up a large knife and stepped towards Byron. A scar from below his right ear disappeared down his thick neck into the mass of black curly hair sprouting out of the top of his shirt.
“I just want to—”
A scream from the restaurant distracted him and Byron ran for the back door. It opened outwards and, barely slowing, he charged through it, smashing it against the side wall. It led into a courtyard enclosed on two sides by buildings. To the front, a padlocked gate led to the alleyway where the fire-exit opened. The back wall consisted of concrete panels topped with three strands of barbed wire supported on metal poles. Behind him a pan clanged to the floor and angry voices shouted.
Two wheelie bins stood in front of the back wall and running at the nearest one, Byron vaulted onto the lid. It bowed under his weight but held. He peered over the barbed wire. Thick holly bushes grew at the base of the wall and the ground fell away towards a disused railway line.
A figure appeared in the doorway and levelled an arm at Byron. Metal glinted. He grabbed the top of the nearest pole and leapt over the barbed wire. The top strand caught his jacket but with a ripping sound he was over. The ground rushed up to meet him. He ploughed through branches and wet leaves, landing on the rubble-strewn ground. His left ankle gave and he crashed to the earth, landing on a lump of concrete.
Dazed, he lay still for a moment. Feet landed on the lid of the bin with a hollow clang. He searched for a weapon and picked up a half brick, then glanced at the top of the wall, waiting for the gunman to appear.
CHAPTER 15
One morning the girl appeared, covered in bruises. A surge of anger seized The Boy, but he did not remark on it within the guards’ hearing. At lunch, he sat near her in the shade of an acacia tree.
“Are you alright?”
She stared at him, wide-eyed, before nodding and finishing her meal.
“Who did that?” He indicated her bruises. “Did he do it?”
She checked nobody could overhear before answering. “Yes,” she replied in a whisper.
“I will kill him,” The Boy announced.
Despite her obvious pain, she laughed. The Boy, now eight, was less than half the size of the officer who’d beaten her.
She covered her mouth with her hand. “I am sorry to laugh at you.” She reached out and gripped his shoulder. “Thank you, but please don’t get into trouble. It was my fault he hit me.” She lowered her head and continued to eat.
The Boy meant what he said and from that day forward they became friends, eating together and sitting near each other in the classes. His natural athleticism, revived by his better diet, allowed him to thrive in this new environment. His captors gave him more freedom, allowing him to wander further afield.
Siobhan and Eddy followed Walcott out and watched him walk away.
“Cool bugger isn’t he?” observed Eddy. “You think he’s got anything to do with it?”
“I’m not sure. Philip must have had help, so why not the cyclists?”
“But they were going the wrong way.”
“Maybe, but if they were searching for Liam…” She didn’t need to finish. “I thought we had him when I asked about the bike.” Siobhan recalled his momentary panic. “Make sure someone takes him home and collects it.”
“I’ll get them to take him in a van; they can bag it and shove it in the back, although he didn’t seem too worried about the fingerprinting or DNA.”
“Probably wore gloves, but it’s worth a try.”
Eddy nodded. “Shall we do the other boys now or the girl?”
“The girl. Let the others sweat.”
Jenna Wilson sat in the seat between the solicitor and welfare officer and smiled at Siobhan but she didn’t return it. Nonplussed, the girl’s gaze flicked to the solicitor who’d stopped doodling and was studying his new client with interest.
“Jenna, do you know why you’re here?” Siobhan asked.
“You want to ask me about Liam?” The mention of the dead youth seemed to upset her.
Siobhan studied her, trying to gauge her sincerity. “We’re not happy with your account of what happened on Sunday the twenty second: the evening you spent with Philip Mason. You do realise lying to the police is a serious matter?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t… I haven’t lied.” The girl blinked, looking less assured.
“So you don’t want to change anything you told us yesterday?” Eddy used a grave tone.
“No,” she whispered and glanced towards the solicitor who looked like he wanted to intervene to save her, if he could only think of a reason for doing so. “No, I don’t want to change anything,” she said with more conviction.
Siobhan detected fear behind the confidence. “What would you say if I told you we have evidence Philip was in Ancoats at the time you said he was with you?”
The girl examined her immaculate fingernails.
“That’s near where the firefighters found Liam’s body, as you no doubt know.”
Tears created two tracks down her cheekbones and she sniffed. The solicitor produced a handkerchief, handing it to the girl as he favoured Siobhan with a look of censure. Jenna whispered something to him.
“Chief Inspector, can I have a private wo
rd with my client?”
Siobhan concealed a smile of triumph and gathered her notes. “We’ll wait outside.”
A key clicked in the lock of his front door and for an instant Adam imagined Sarah walking back into his life. He’d not thought of her for months but now she seemed to be haunting him.
“I’m just going to get changed, Adam,” Byron called from the hallway.
Adam strolled out of the kitchen. A bedraggled Byron stood inside the front door. Dead leaves clung to his stained trousers and the insulated padding poked out through a rip in his jacket. A small twig with three holly leaves on it stuck out of his hair. “Bloody hell, what happened to you?”
“Long story. I’ll get changed first.” Byron limped to the stairs.
“What have you done?”
“Turned it, but I don’t think it’s too bad.”
“Sit, let’s have a look.”
Byron sat on the third step and stretched his left leg out, rolling up the mud-spattered cuff of his trousers. His sock left a deep indentation in the flesh.
Adam prodded the swollen flesh. “Can you flex it?”
Byron moved his ankle, grimacing as he did so. “It feels like a strain.”
Adam hoped so and bandaged the joint then put the kettle on while Byron changed into clean clothes. He returned to the kitchen with a less pronounced limp.
“Go on then, what happened?” Adam plonked a mug of tea on the table in front of him.
Byron pulled the mug towards him. “I got a call from someone with information about McLaughlin and agreed to meet him.” He related what he’d done. “When he turned up, he saw two of McLaughlin’s heavies and did a runner. They saw me. I had to make a quick exit. At least one was carrying.”
“What?” Adam’s mind flew back to a car fire where they’d found the driver with a bullet hole in his head. That had only been three miles away.
“A handgun. One of them took aim at me but I jumped over a wall and did this.” He gestured at his ankle. “I was waiting for him to poke his head over but his mate shouted him and he ran off. Then I heard the staff saying he had a gun.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have come as backup.”
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