Dishonour Page 17

  Maybe he was an eejit not to have called the chief super last night, but it wasn’t as if the senior officer cared less what happened to the girl. He was far more bothered about a whiff of bad publicity.

  He slammed the car door shut and crossed the park. The glue sniffers were in their usual spot.

  ‘Why aren’t you lot in school?’ he growled.

  One of the boys looked up, his jaw slack.

  ‘Have you no self-respect?’ Jack shouted. ‘Now go on, piss off.’

  They stumbled away to find another rock to hide under.

  As for Ryan Sanders, Jack wished he’d never laid eyes on the little shitbag. He was a nothing, a nobody, causing heartache and mayhem until one day he took up his rightful place in Arlington.

  He climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. The place had its habitual stench and was covered in rubbish. He kicked a carton of chips across the stairwell. These people were animals. Chips and ketchup scattered across the concrete. Then Jack realised it wasn’t ketchup, but blood.

  No doubt some kids had been fighting. Would anyone have called the police? Not likely. They’d be in accident and emergency right now, having their heads stitched and swearing they’d had an accident on the swings.

  By the time he reached the Sanders flat, Jack was furious. He would march in there and demand to see Aasha. If Ryan gave him any lip, Jack would slap him in handcuffs and if his face just so happened to scrape against the wall, then so be it.

  He pulled back his fist and hammered as hard as he could on the door.

  When it opened under the pressure Jack was taken aback. No one left their door unlocked on the Clayhill.

  He listened to see if anyone was coming, half expecting Ryan to charge at him.

  Everything was silent.

  He pushed the door fully open and peered inside. The flat looked empty.

  ‘Mrs Sanders,’ he shouted. ‘It’s the police.’

  Still nothing but silence.

  He stepped into the hallway.

  ‘I’m coming in now,’ he shouted. ‘Which room are you in?’

  Maybe they’d gone out? But why would the door be open?

  Jack’s heart began to beat hard in his chest. The kitchen door was shut. What if Ryan was in there waiting? How easy it would be to pick up a knife and take Jack out.

  The sensible thing would be to call backup.

  He patted his pocket and swore. No bloody mobile.

  Jack considered using a pay phone but God only knew where the nearest one was located and if it would work when he got there. Could he spare the time on a wild-goose chase?

  No, Jack had to get in there, show Ryan who was boss and take Aasha home himself.

  ‘Ryan,’ he called. ‘I’m coming into the kitchen.’

  He stretched his fingers towards the door and took a huge breath. He pushed it open slightly and readied himself for the attack.

  Sprung like a coil he kicked it the rest of the way with his boot. It flew across and banged the wall behind. Jack heard a cry and pressed himself to the wall.

  He waited a couple of seconds but no one emerged, only the sound of quiet keening.

  ‘Ryan?’ Jack said.

  The response was more sobs.

  Jack steeled himself again and leaned into the kitchen.

  What he saw winded him like a boxer’s punch.

  The room had been ransacked. Dishes smashed, the table overturned. Among the debris Mrs Sanders was kneeling, tears pouring down her sunken cheeks, snot pooling under her nose. In her arms she cradled Ryan, his face broken and covered in blood.

  The sound of a violin and the smell of cabbage floated down the corridor. Lilly sat outside Mr Latimer’s office and waited to be called in. From time to time Mrs Baraclough looked up from her work to check Lilly was still where she should be or to glare at any passing pupils that dared to giggle with their friends.

  Manor Park had been a bone of contention between Lilly and her ex-husband before Sam had even started at the school. The acres of manicured land, and the Great Hall with its vaulted Tudor ceiling, were enchanting. The children were delightful in their bottle-green blazers and hooped socks. Yet Lilly had never wanted Sam to attend. She had planned for him to go to the village school, where he’d hang out with local children and play on the green after tea. When it came time for him to transfer to secondary school he’d go on the bus with his mates and jostle for a place on the back seat.

  Sitting in the corridor with its hushed whispers and dark wood panelling, Lilly berated herself for ever having given in to David.

  She had deliberately not told him about the meeting. He would have made excuses, said Sam needed to toughen up. He’d tell her he’d survived public school, that it had been the making of him.

  No doubt Mr Latimer would say the same thing.

  Lilly stiffened her spine. Let him try.

  Mrs Baraclough made an ostentatious show of checking her watch.

  ‘Mr Latimer will be with you shortly.’

  As if on a timer the head teacher appeared and led Lilly into his office. A floor-to-ceiling window afforded him views of the school playing fields and the rolling countryside beyond. In the distance a maintenance man trimmed the boundary hedge.

  ‘I’m glad you could come in,’ said Mr Latimer. ‘Unpleasantness such as this is always difficult to talk about. Much better, I find, in person.’

  ‘I’d say bullying was more than unpleasantness,’ said Lilly.

  ‘As I said on the phone, I’m not keen on the word “bullying”.’

  Lilly raised an eyebrow. ‘Then what would you call it?’

  ‘I don’t find labels helpful,’ Mr Latimer coughed nervously, ‘in dealing with these incidents.’

  ‘What sort of incidents are we talking about?’

  ‘There has been some teasing and name calling, you know the sort of thing.’

  Lilly nodded. She well remembered the sniggers over her scuffed shoes, how the other girls impersonated her and referred to her as the ‘gypo’. It still stung.

  She swallowed hard. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There have been some scuffles in the boys’ changing rooms,’ he said.

  ‘Was anyone hurt?’

  Mr Latimer pursed his lips. ‘I’m afraid there have been some scratches and bruises. A bloody nose on one occasion.’

  Lilly’s eyes opened wide. ‘A punch in the nose and you don’t call that bullying?’

  ‘I don’t like that word.’

  Lilly held up her palm to stop him in his tracks. ‘You’ve made it very clear that you don’t like it. But whatever you choose to call it, I’d like to know what you’re going to do about it.’

  ‘There have been some sanctions already,’ said Mr Latimer. ‘Demerits, lunchtime detentions.’

  ‘But it hasn’t worked, has it?’ said Lilly. ‘Why on earth haven’t you called in the parents?’

  Mr Latimer gestured towards her.

  ‘Not me,’ Lilly snapped.

  ‘Then who?’

  Lilly could barely control herself. Was this the man to whom she was entrusting Sam’s education?

  ‘The parents of the boys doing all this to Sam,’ she said. ‘I know you hate the word, but you need to speak to the bullies and their parents.’

  Mr Latimer’s face fell and when he spoke his tone was cold and calm.

  ‘Miss Valentine, you appear to have missed the point entirely.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘In this instance, it is Sam who is the bully.’

  The end of the Bic biro disintegrated. Mark Cormack spat out the shreds of blue plastic into his palm. He’d been chewing for the best part of an hour, trying not to reach for a fag.

  He’d decided that going cold turkey would never work. He would wean himself off gradually. First cut down to ten a day, then five. Then three. Then knock the whole rotten habit on the head for good.

  A bloke in the pub had given him the tip, together with the name of a nag in the three fift
een at Chepstow.

  Mark counted the ciggies left in the packet. Eleven. That meant he’d already smoked nine. Maybe he should have the last one and fuck off home to bed.

  He was weighing up this option when the buzzer sounded.

  He hit the intercom. ‘Cormack.’

  ‘We need to speak to you.’

  Mark sighed. It was the Pakis. He’d left a message saying he had what they wanted. He should have known they’d be round to the office in a shot.

  He buzzed them up and nodded to the mismatched chairs.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  The big, ugly one looked like he didn’t fancy the sticky plastic but sat down all the same. The smaller one followed his lead.

  Mark slid a manila envelope towards them. ‘It’s all there, photos, addresses, the lot.’

  The big fucker took it and slid it into his pocket without opening it.

  ‘We wondered if you’d be interested in earning some more money.’

  Mark cocked his head to one side, noncommittal. It didn’t do to seem too keen.

  ‘This would be something a little more hands-on,’ said the smaller man.

  Alarm bells began to ring.

  ‘I don’t ever hurt women,’ said Mark.

  He might be a sad a old git with debts up to his arsehole but his dad had taught him that only cowards hit women.

  The big one put up his hand. ‘We just want you to intervene, let her know she’s being followed.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mark.

  ‘It’s worth another five hundred.’ The Pakis got up to leave. ‘Think about it.’

  As soon as they left, Mark lit up a fag. He mulled it over, in a cloud of grey smoke. Five hundred would pay off a good part of what he owed. Or he could stick it on a tasty-looking mare called Fly by Night. If it came in at ten to one he could pay off all his debts.

  He blew a smoke ring and decided how best to do it.

  Lilly melted a bar of plain chocolate until it was viscous and glossy, then folded in a bowl of whipped double cream.

  The cake she had baked already contained three hundred grams of Belgium’s finest and did not strictly need a thick layer of topping but Lilly was in no mood for necessity. She smothered it over the sponge with a spatula until it was as high as the cake itself, then she licked each finger in turn.

  Triple bypass on a plate.

  She had no idea why she was making it. She had sent Sam to his dad’s for the night, fearful of what she might say or do. She needed to process what Mr Latimer had told her before she tackled her son, or told David.

  She couldn’t quite believe it. Sam: a bully.

  After the years she had spent trying to protect the vulnerable, she could hardly accept that he would do something so vile.

  She reached into the fridge for a Flake and crumbled it over the cake like confetti.

  Was it the school that had turned her son into a monster? The chamber choirs and lacrosse teams were all very nice but the arrogance on display by some of the pupils and their parents was astonishing. Some of Sam’s friends considered swimming pools and holiday homes in Tuscany de rigueur. Had this made Sam jealous and spiteful?

  Lilly shook her head sadly. She knew full well that the blame lay with one person only. And that person was her. She had brought Sam up as best she could but he had had to take his place alongside her work. He had never liked it. No matter how many times she explained that the children she worked for really needed her help, that they had no one else, he didn’t want to share her. As he got older, he had stopped complaining about it, but Lilly knew he hated it all the same.

  She checked her watch. It was seven o’clock and she hadn’t heard from Jack all day. His mobile was where he had left it that morning—but there were phones in the station, weren’t there?

  She needed to speak to him, for him to give her a slow smile and tell her everything would be all right.

  She opened the door to the dishwasher and spread her legs two feet apart. This was the only way she could bend forward to fill it. Not a pretty sight, she conceded. Her back and neck ached and she just couldn’t reach.

  She pulled out her mobile and scrolled for the number to the station. She had never called there except on work business and didn’t feel comfortable about doing it now. For one thing, she didn’t want him being teased for being on a tight leash, and for another she was known by a lot of the coppers as being ‘on the other side’. She put her phone down. He was probably busy.

  She decided to distract herself, and considered a bath. It was new, with one of those fancy whirlpools that turned a squirt of bubble bath into a cappuccino. The trouble was, she couldn’t get in and out easily.

  Lilly sighed and decided upon an indecently huge piece of cake and some reality television. For if there was one thing sure to take your mind off yourself it was an overload of cholesterol and the sight of a disgraced MP doing the chicken dance. She might even throw caution to the wind and have half a glass of wine.

  Jack had a missionary zeal about limiting Lilly’s alcohol intake but he wasn’t here, was he?

  She picked the most expensive bottle of Shiraz off the rack with a wicked cackle. Penny had given it to her as a thank you present, tied with an exquisite aquamarine bow and a hand-pressed card written in italics. God, that woman had style.

  Lilly watched the blackcurrant liquid fill up to the halfway mark and was about to add a slug more when she saw a light in the garden.

  ‘Shit.’ She flinched and knocked the glass over, spilling it over the counter.

  As she reached for a cloth she saw it again. Definitely a torch. Her hand was shaking as she wiped up the wine.

  This time she wasn’t overreacting. Someone was out there.

  The image of Mohamed, frightened and defeated, flashed through her consciousness. The PTF were dangerous, no doubt about it. If Lilly was right, then they’d killed Yasmeen.

  She peered through the window but everything was now black. She couldn’t decide if that was worse than the torchlight. At least with that, she knew where her tormentor was. Right now he could be anywhere. Maybe he was circling the house now, getting closer and closer.

  Lilly grabbed her phone. She needed to speak to Jack.

  ‘Child protection,’ said a WPC.

  Lilly tried to force the panic from her voice. ‘Can I speak to Jack McNally?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s here.’

  Lilly swallowed. ‘Are you sure? It’s his partner and I really need to speak to him.’

  ‘Just a mo,’ said the WPC, and by the muffled scrapes Lilly assumed she had put her hand over the mouthpiece while she checked with colleagues.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘he’s been out all day and there’s nothing in his diary.’

  Lilly hung up and checked outside once more.

  Where the hell was Jack?

  She glanced along the purple stain left by the wine towards his phone.

  It was not in her nature to invade the privacy of others. She didn’t even like people looking at the newspaper over her shoulder and she afforded others the same respect. She had once found a journal kept by Sam, his spidery handwriting ordering any interloper to ‘Keep Out’. She’d been desperate to know who he had a crush on and what he thought about his mother but she’d done exactly as asked and kept out.

  Something scratched at the window. An overhanging branch?

  There it was again.

  Sorry, Jack. She grabbed the mobile and was met with a request for the password.

  ‘Damnit.’

  She typed in LILLY.

  ‘Password incorrect.’

  She typed in SAM.

  ‘Password incorrect.’

  Lilly thought furiously. What do men use as their passwords? Football teams? Penis sizes? What mattered to them?

  She snapped her fingers and typed in FRANK.

  ‘Welcome to network 3000.’

  Now all she needed was some clue as to the case he was working on and where h
e might be.

  She dialled instant messaging and listened to the chief super demanding Jack’s immediate whereabouts.

  ‘You and me both, mate,’ she said.

  She checked his last dialled numbers but didn’t recognise any of them. MB was a regular, but that meant nothing to Lilly.

  Why on earth did she think this would work?

  As a last resort she went into text. There were plenty from the station and from voicemail but nothing that helped.

  ‘Come on, Jack,’ she shouted, and scrolled frantically. At last she found one from MB and pressed ‘Read’.

  When the words popped onto the screen Lilly had to lean against the fridge to steady herself. Her stomach felt as if it was lodged in the back of her throat.

  I ENJOYED LAST NIGHT. U?

  She read it. Reread it. Then she read it again.

  A burning anger started low in her pelvis and snaked up to her face like a lighted fuse.

  Bastard. Fucking bastard. He’d been out last night pretending to work when all the time he was…

  When the fury reached her brain she exploded. With a scream she smashed her fist into the cake. She threw handful after handful at the wall. It slid down, leaving a slimy brown trail.

  When Jack got home she would kill him.

  An hour later Lilly was still in the kitchen. Every inch of her body ached and moaned. The realisation of what Jack had done was like a physical pain.

  When she heard Jack’s key in the lock she could barely move.

  The first thing she noticed when he entered the room was how terrible he looked. His eyes were empty, his cheeks hollow. No doubt her own appearance was similar.

  He glanced at the cake splattered across the wall but didn’t say a word.

  Instead he pulled out a chair and sank into it as if he had never felt so tired. He put his head in his hands.

  ‘Lilly,’ he whispered, ‘I’ve done a terrible thing.’

  Lilly couldn’t speak. It was as if her brain had split in two, the connections lost.

  ‘You’re going to hate me,’ he said.

  She had an urge to run away, to avoid hearing the words, but her feet wouldn’t move.

  ‘You know the case I’ve been working on,’ he said.

  Oh God, he’d been having an affair with another copper. Lilly almost laughed at the cliché.