Blood of the Innocents (7 page)

‘Go on, Emma,’ Millie encouraged.

‘It was the same as usual. We all walked down the road together. Some of us carried on along the main road to get the bus, while Yaz went down the side road towards the station for her train. We could see it coming in as she got there, so she had to run.’

‘Is Yasmin the only one to get the train?’

Another girl spoke up as confidence began to grow. ‘Some other girls in the school do, but none of our crowd.’

‘At that time in the afternoon, most of the girls would have already gone,’ added Mrs Darrow. ‘The only ones left are those who stay for after-school activities. We’ve asked for anyone who might have seen Yasmin on the train to come forward, but they haven’t as yet. It’s quite possible that no one did.’

‘And no one else lives near Yasmin?’

Shakes of the head, but it didn’t come as any surprise. They already knew that.

‘And Yasmin didn’t say anything about doing anything different or going anywhere yesterday evening? Could she have gone into the city, for example?’

‘Suzanne?’ Mrs Darrow prompted.

Suzanne merely shrugged and it was Emma who supplied the answer. ‘We had a piece of English homework that was going to be hard. Yaz was going to phone me later when she got home.’

‘And Yasmin was excited rather than worried about anything. Other than the disagreement about the sleepover, nothing recently upset her?’ Mariner asked Suzanne directly.

‘She was pissed off with her parents, but what’s new?’ She glanced at Mrs Darrow to see if her language would be censured and was satisfied by a disapproving glare. Mariner could imagine Suzanne being pissed off with just about anyone. She behaved like a girl who was used to controlling adults for her own ends, and it was becoming glaringly obvious why Yasmin’s parents didn’t want to encourage the friendship between their daughter and this girl. He wondered what it was that made her so angry. But then he remembered that most teenagers were like that at some point - for no reason at all. He was just out of touch. ‘Yasmin’s old man doesn’t give her an inch. She’s always in trouble with him about something lately. He’s a psycho.’

‘Suzanne, that’s going too far!’ Mrs Darrow was looking not at all happy about the way this was going.

Shooting her a look that would fell an elephant at nine paces, Suzanne’s ‘what would you know?’ remained unspoken, but it reverberated around the room nonetheless. ‘Look at the fuss they made about her staying late for graffiti club.’ It was quoted as evidence, making Mariner wonder if this girl might have a career in law ahead of her.

‘They were unhappy about that?’ said Millie.

‘Her dad was unhappy about anything that wasn’t work. “Go to school, go home, do your homework.” Yaz is expected to be a good little Asian girl.’

‘Does she resent that?’

‘Sure she does, but not enough to do anything about it. She’s not allowed to wear make-up, but instead of standing up to her parents she just puts it on while she’s on the train coming into school and washes it off afterwards. She just gives in to them all the time.’

‘But she comes to graffiti club.’

‘Only because Sir stuck up for her.’

‘Has anyone got anything else to add?’ asked Millie after a respectable pause. More shakes of the head.

‘Well, if there’s anything else you think of, we’ll be giving Mrs Darrow a contact number for us. And please remember, it’s vital that you tell us anything you know, however small or unimportant it may seem.’

The teacher nodded in agreement. ‘I’ll put the number on the common room bulletin board.’ And as there seemed nothing else forthcoming, she dismissed the girls back to their lessons.

‘I’m sorry that wasn’t more helpful,’ said Mrs Darrow when they’d gone. ‘And I would take Suzanne’s last comments with a pinch of salt. Some of the girls at this age do have this “the whole world’s against me” mentality, usually with parents and school at the top of the list. Added to that, their imaginations are fuelled by the constant confrontations they see on TV soaps. Suzanne in particular can be something of a drama queen.’

‘Who runs this graffiti club?’ Mariner wanted to know.

‘The “Sir” Suzanne mentioned: Mr Goodway. He’s the head of D & T.’

Mariner turned to Millie for clarification. ‘Design and Technology,’ she grinned, shaking her head sadly. ‘I expect it was plain old woodwork in your day.’

‘We could do with talking to him. It looks as if he may have been one of the last adults to see Yasmin yesterday afternoon.’

‘We can see if he’s free.’

Brian Goodway blinked rapidly at them through dense wire-framed glasses. Although school was in session, he had what Mrs Darrow referred to as a ‘non-contact’ period, and they found him pottering about in the technology room, which Mariner discovered to be the home of wood- and metalwork, textiles and art. Picking him out on the school photo, Mariner wouldn’t have attributed anything artistic to Brian Goodway. He was too tidy, more maths or geography, with his neatly knotted tie and one of those ubiquitous tweed jackets that had gone out of fashion years ago with everyone except a certain generation of teachers, although this one didn’t extend quite as far as leather elbow patches.

The classroom was a different matter entirely: a chaotic arrangement of workbenches topped by the skeletal wire forms of half-finished sculptures and interspersed with spindly easels displaying adolescent creations in various stages of completion. Goodway himself seemed surprisingly unmarked by the fallout; several pairs of overalls hanging on the back of the door took the strain.

Mariner’s eye was caught by a particularly ghoulish design, not unlike those on display in the entrance hall. ‘Body art,’ Goodway volunteered, seeing Mariner’s interest. ‘If you’re going to motivate the kids you have to operate on their level. The days of sketching a vase of flowers or bowls of fruit are long gone. That particular effort was drawn by a young lady in class 9G. She’s been working on it for three weeks now, mainly because of the problems she’s had with the proportions of the eagle’s head just here, getting those feathers to sit properly.’ He ran a finger along the offending area, and Mariner had the impression that whichever of the creations he had picked on, Goodway would have been able to supply exactly the same amount of detail.

Goodway showed them some still life drawings that Yasmin had been working on. One was a pencil drawing of a hand, the veins and skin texture perfect. ‘Yasmin is a very talented young girl,’ he told them. ‘Art is a discipline like any other. Along with creativity you must have an eye for precision.’ He smoothed his sparse sandy hair over his scalp and took his glasses off to wipe them on a tissue. ‘Occupational hazard,’ he explained.

‘I understand that you fought Yasmin’s corner for her when her parents were reluctant to let her stay for the club.’

‘It would have been a criminal waste if she hadn’t been given the opportunity to develop her talents. As it is, she’s been persuaded to give up art in favour of more academic subjects at A level. Graffiti club means that she can pursue both.’

‘Would she make a living at it?’ Mariner asked, wondering if this was the conflict of interests with what her parents had in mind for her.

Flattening his hair again, Goodway let out a sigh. ‘As a freelance artist? Not necessarily. Art is a competitive world.’ He gestured towards a photograph of three teenage children, two boys and a girl, that was pinned to the wall above the corner desk. ‘That’s my daughter Chloe,’ he said. ‘She’s in her twenties now and was gifted enough to get a place at the Slade Art College in London, but she still struggles to make a living as an artist. I try to ensure that the girls here have a realistic view of what they can achieve. Encourage them to get their academic qualifications too, looking at a more structured career within the art world, perhaps within graphic design or illustration.’

‘How did Yasmin seem at your class yesterday afternoon? ’

‘Fine. The girls seem to like the club. It’s a chance to relax and shake off the shackles of prescribed coursework.’ A twinkle gleamed in his eye. Despite appearances, maybe there was a rebellious streak in there after all.

‘She hadn’t fallen out with anyone?’

Goodway shook his head. ‘You know what youngsters are like. Even if she had I doubt that I would know. It may be a more relaxed class, but I don’t fool myself that any of the girls would share much with an old fogey like me.’

Mariner wasn’t so sure. ‘Why do you think Yasmin’s parents weren’t keen on her staying for the graffiti club?’

‘They’re naturally protective of her. The club runs throughout the year and in the winter months it can mean the girls getting home well after dark. Yasmin had a longer journey than most.’

‘What changed their minds?’

Goodway shrugged as if it was no big deal. ‘I had a chat with them and they’re reasonable people.’

Not what Suzanne seemed to be saying, but then the adult perspective would be a different one. ‘Thanks, Mr Goodway.’

They were nearly out of the door when Goodway called after them, uncertainly. ‘Yasmin’s a good kid. I hope she turns up soon.’

Mariner turned back. ‘So do we, Mr Goodway. So do we.’

 

‘He seems like a very committed teacher,’ Mariner remarked, as Mrs Darrow walked them back through the school.

‘He’s inspirational, a real Mr Chips. We don’t get many of those any more. I think having had his own teenage children helps him to stay in tune with the girls.’ She was full of admiration. ‘We’ll be sorry when he goes.’

‘Goes? He seems a little young for retirement.’

‘Mr Goodway wants to spend more time with his family,’ was all Mrs Darrow would say.

From the art department Mrs Darrow took them to Yasmin’s locker, opening it with a master key. It revealed little. The inside of the door was lined with the ubiquitous teen posters of pop stars and TV presenters, none of whom Mariner recognised. A wad of drawings or a sketchpad fell out and scattered on the floor. The drawings were good. Some of the same ‘body art’ that they had seen in the classroom. On the face of it they’d learned little to progress their search, except perhaps to learn that Mr and Mrs Akram hadn’t been entirely candid with them.

They were standing directly underneath the bell when it rang deafeningly, signalling the end of the day. Through the open door of the classroom opposite, they watched girls filing out, dipping into a bright red plastic crate on the way.

‘Retrieving their mobile phones,’ Mrs Darrow explained. ‘The things are a nightmare. We tried banning them completely at first, but it was hopeless as practically all the girls have them. Parents complained too that they needed to know that their daughters were safe. Ironic, given this current situation. So, instead, most teachers collect them in at the beginning of each lesson, to remove any temptation to use them.’

‘Couldn’t the girls just switch them off?’

‘Not with text messaging. The girls can be holding lengthy conversations without staff even knowing. It’s a distraction we can do without.’

‘Do any ever get left behind?’

Mrs Darrow knew what he was getting at. She shook her head. ‘Very rarely. It’s amazing. These girls might lose everything else: clothing, books, jewellery, you name it, but their phones seem to be surgically attached. The few that are get put in lost property. You’re welcome to have a look.’ They did, but of the couple of outdated units that were there, neither could be identified as Yasmin’s.

‘Well, thank you for your time.’

‘Not at all, Inspector. Whatever we can do to help.’

 

‘I don’t get it,’ said Millie as they drove from the school.

‘How can someone just disappear?’

‘If she wants to, it’s easy.’ Millie had guessed right. Mariner spoke from personal experience. He’d done it himself when he couldn’t face another night of coming home to the Spanish Inquisition. His mother had taken his popularity with girls particularly hard. Although he had vague memories of the occasional short-term ‘uncle’ early on, latterly it had just been the two of them and, as Mariner grew, the dynamics of dependency had shifted as his mother had discarded the other facets of her life to concentrate on him. Her whole life became dedicated to her only child and, at the time when other parents were letting go, Mariner’s mother clutched on with increasing desperation, until finally he had to take the initiative and break away completely. So instead of getting the bus to school one day, on an impulse he’d caught the train to Birmingham and gone to look for a job. Except for brief visits he’d never gone back.

‘If what Suzanne told us is right though, it sounds as if everything wasn’t as rosy in the Akram household as we were led to believe,’ he said now.

‘You think she was telling us the truth?’

‘It would account for the tension between Mr and Mrs Akram, wouldn’t it? I thought he was just annoyed that his wife had contacted us before telling him. And having left her in charge it may be natural to hold her responsible. But if she’d gone against his wishes as well . . . Let’s go and see what we can pick up at home.’

 

The two uniformed officers who were to help with the preliminary search met them at the Akrams’ house, which turned out to be a detached red-brick, large and imposing, built at around the turn of the last century. It was the home of successful people. With the shrinking of the nuclear family, these houses were normally too big to fulfil a useful purpose as a family home and several of the properties on this street displayed boards to indicate their conversion to business hotels and retirement residences. The Akrams’ property was set back from the road behind a five-foot high decorative wall; the entire front of the house shaded by a dark umbrella of chestnut trees, creating a cool oasis of relief from the heat. Grandma, an elderly woman in white
mengha
, came to the door, her eyes watery, whether from age or from weeping it was hard to say.