No Way Home

‘Yeah, but so am I. A minor, I mean. So, they shouldn’t keep me in any longer than necessary, surely? For my long-term wellbeing. Mental scarring and all that.’

Colin’s eyebrows rose. ‘Have you been reading law books in here or something?’

Tommy shook his head. ‘They explained it all when I came here.’

‘OK. Well, the juvenile court’s separate from the adult one, so there doesn’t need to be a delay in one because of what’s going on in the other. But, I don’t know how soon they’ll get to your case. What I do know is that you’ll be held on remand until they do.’

‘How’s that fair?’

Colin shook his head. ‘I’m just telling it like it is, son. It can’t be any other way in the circumstances.’

Tommy grimaced. ‘So, at the end of the day, you want my help but you’re not going to help me.’

Again, Colin looked like he was about to reach across the table, but held back. ‘I’m sorry, son. If I could, I would. You know that.’

*

When Colin had gone, Tommy went back to his room. He kicked the door shut behind him and flopped down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. That hadn’t gone too badly, he thought. He’d steered the conversation in the directions he wanted without making it obvious. Had said enough to promote his own case without incriminating himself. And he thought he’d managed to come across as a victim – a regretful and unwilling participant in Malcolm Burton’s crimes rather than a co-conspirator.

Now, he had just seven weeks to maintain that impression and make sure he could do the same in court with Burton’s solicitor badgering him. His story would have to be solid and flawless and he would have to know it backwards, forwards and sideways, to the extent that even he believed every word. He would have to be the little boy lost, the hapless victim, the innocent caught up in things he didn’t understand and couldn’t control.

Could he do it?

He smiled. The smile turned into a chuckle. He’d been doing it for years. There was nothing new here.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_b59da56f-12f2-543a-b478-809c2ed16ba3)

‘Talk to me here, now – it’ll take two minutes and you won’t lose anything by it. Or we can take it down the station. You’ll lose a couple of hours. Maybe a couple of punters.’ Pete shrugged. ‘I’m not out to spoil anyone’s business. I’m just trying to find out who killed a man here in the city last night.’

The girl couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, but she looked ten or fifteen years older with the harsh make-up and sneering attitude. Her dark hair was tied back in a high ponytail, her skirt couldn’t have been a half-inch shorter without drawing an arrest warrant for indecent exposure, and her naked shoulder-blades above the low-cut vest top were decorated with tattoos that he’d glimpsed when he first saw her a couple of minutes ago on the corner of Queen’s Square, one hand on her hip while the other held a cigarette that she was dragging on like it was going out of fashion.

As soon as she’d turned around and seen him, she’d pulled an attitude. She didn’t want to talk to him, but she knew he could haul her in if he wanted to.

‘All right,’ she said heavily. ‘What d’you wanna know?’

It was ten o’clock. Trade would be picking up for her any time now. She didn’t have time for Pete and his questions and he knew it. He hoped that the fact she was in a hurry would force her to tell him the truth. ‘First, were you here last night?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you know a taxi driver by the name of Ranjeet Singh? Drives a grey Mondeo.’

She shook her head with a grimace. ‘Nope.’

‘Have you seen a grey Mondeo taxi around here lately?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘Positive. Is that it?’ She threw down her cigarette stub and screwed it into the pavement with the sole of her high-heeled shoe.

‘No. Is anyone missing from here tonight that was here yesterday? Or anyone here both nights but acting different tonight? Agitated? Nervous?’

‘People get agitated when they’re coming down off the gear. Or when they’ve got things to do and some bloke’s holding them up.’

‘True. We’re not picking on you girls because of what you do for a living. We’re looking for witnesses, that’s all.’

‘What, so, if I was a waitress in that hotel over there, you wouldn’t be asking me all these questions?’

‘Yes, we would. In fact, we already have.’

‘And had any of them seen anything?’

Pete smiled. ‘The more witnesses we can gather, the clearer the picture we can build up and the more likely we are to get a killer off these streets you’re walking.’

‘Yeah, well – if they’re killing taxi drivers, I’m safe anyway, aren’t I? I don’t even drive, never mind taxis.’

‘So, you don’t give a shit.’

She shrugged. ‘Like I said, I didn’t know the bloke.’

Pete sighed. ‘All right. On you go.’

His last hour and a half had been spent in similar conversations with mostly similar girls. A few had been older, a few significantly younger, but all had about the same attitude. It wasn’t their problem and they didn’t want to get involved in it.

Yet, if something happened to one of them, they’d be up in arms, wanting protection and all sorts. There was no winning with some people. He lifted his radio and keyed the mike. ‘If we’re all done, let’s call it a night. We can scratch one possible pickup location off the list, at least.’

‘OK with me, boss,’ Dave replied from the far side of the hotel the hooker had mentioned.

‘I can’t see anyone I haven’t already spoken to,’ said Jane.

‘Nor me,’ Dick added.

‘Right. Nightcap’s on me.’

*

Forty-three minutes later, Pete turned into his drive for the second time that evening and stopped the car.

‘What the f…?’ He sat stock-still, staring at his white up-and-over garage door. Nearly three feet high, right in the middle of it, caught squarely in the beam of his headlights, was a drawing – a cartoon, really – in pink spray paint that, in places, had trickled into runs. A pig’s face stared out at him, underneath it the words ‘More bacon, Guv’nor?’

‘Who the bloody hell…?’

He switched off the headlights and the engine, got out of the car and went up to the garage door. He could still see the image clearly in the light of the streetlamp across the road. He reached out a finger, although, even before he touched it, he could smell that the paint was still wet. Sure enough, his fingertip came away smeared with colour.

‘Bastards,’ he muttered and marched towards the front door. Letting himself in, he dropped his briefcase in the hall and stepped into the sitting room where Louise was curled up on the sofa, watching TV.

An image flashed into his mind from a few short months ago, when all she seemed to want to do was just that. She’d barely been able to acknowledge either him or Annie. But now she looked up, a smile forming on her lips. ‘Hiya. Have you…?’ She stopped mid-sentence when she saw his expression. ‘What is it?’