Killing a Stranger (5 page)

Straightening, Alec surveyed the room again, trying to get a feel for the boy who had inhabited this untidy, restricted space.

Clothes next. Two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts, a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of socks. Alec riffled through the pockets and lay the clothes on the already checked out bed. A survey of the drawers revealed more clothes, a couple of magazines his mother probably wouldn't want to know about, but not much else.

The boxes from beneath the bed were a little more promising being full of old schoolbooks and other assorted scraps and bits of paper. Alec took them out on to the landing ready to be taken away. They'd take time and, preferably, a couple of pairs of eyes. To his surprise, the computer didn't seem to be password protected and Alec accessed the files, skimming through essays and notes.

‘I've brought you some tea,' Clara stood in the doorway.

‘Thanks. Clara, do you have an internet connection?'

‘Only dial up. I was always on at him not to stay on too long.' Her gaze strayed about the room, noting the stack of magazines, the clothes laid out on the bed. ‘The boxes?'

‘Full of school work, I think, but we need to go through carefully.'

She nodded. ‘So you'll be taking them away.'

He nodded. ‘The computer too. He might have recorded something. Did he have an email account?'

She nodded, taking a step into the room and holding out the bright blue mug of strong tea. ‘He had two. One was a college one. They give all the kids the option of submitting essays online. They can use the internet or they've got an … intranet, is that right? In the college, between departments and tutors and such.'

The college could probably give him access to that one, Alec thought.

‘Then he had his own email. I've got the address written down somewhere but I never used it.'

‘Could you find it for me?'

‘Yes, but you'll still need the password.'

‘I'm hoping that one of his friends might know it,' Alec told her. ‘Or they might be able to make a guess. Clara, why didn't you want him to know his father?'

The slight flush that touched her cheek gave him his answer. ‘Clara, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable but, is it possible there was more than one candidate?'

She scowled angrily, but couldn't keep it up. Nodding sadly she told him, ‘I had a boyfriend but I started seeing someone else before … before we split properly. It was a mistake, a stupid mistake. And I was almost certain … almost certain it wasn't my boyfriend that got me pregnant. He … We … we were always so careful and, when he knew I'd been two-timing him, there was one hell of a row and …' She gestured helplessly. ‘It was all such a bloody mess. I was seventeen. Rob's age. Seems it runs in the family, doesn't it? Making a bloody mess of things?'

Rob's mess was somewhat bigger and more complicated, Alec thought. Then he wondered if it was. Did starting a new life bring with it as much fall-out in its own way as ending one? Then it seemed somehow stupid to be making such a comparison, especially as that once new life had been ended so prematurely too.

‘So, you managed on your own,' Alec said.

‘So I managed on my own. My sister was the only one wanted to know me after that. I got a place in a hostel for single mothers, fended off the social workers that wanted me to adopt, and carried on at school. I got my exams and got a job, found a child minder close by, lived in a horrid little flat, then a slightly better one and finally ended up here ten years ago. This was nice, this was home. This was where Rob did most of his growing up. This is …' She raised a clenched fist to her mouth, pressed it hard against her lips as though that would prevent the tears, closed her eyes.

Alec waited. Finally as she seemed to have recovered some measure of control he pursued his initial question again. ‘You had no contact with either of them? Did either of the men know they might have fathered a child?'

She shrugged. ‘I suppose they both knew, but I never
told
either of them they were the father. I took a mental step back and looked at them both and to be honest I suddenly could not understand what I'd seen in either. They weren't men, they were boys, not much older than me but much
much
younger in the way they acted. Though I suppose I was as bad. It was only … only when I had to face up to the real stuff, having a baby, being on my own, having no one to back me up and this little thing screaming for attention twenty-four hours a day. I thought about them and I thought, do I want either one of them around? And the answer was hell no. Neither was worth a damn.'

‘Their families,' Alec asked. ‘Did neither of the families try to get in touch? Rob must have had grandparents …'

Fiercely, she shook her head. ‘Once,' she said. ‘Once, my boyfriend's mother phoned me and she called me a slag. Mum defended me, but I knew she felt the same way. She told the woman it probably wasn't her son's anyway so what was she so bothered about and then she swore at her.' She laughed at the memory, laughter that choked and hurt in the throat. ‘I never ever heard my mum swear before or since for that matter. It sounded so strange …'

‘And you never told Rob either of their names? Did Rob know? Did Rob know there were two possibilities?'

Clara sat down again on Rob's bed. She fingered the shirt Alec had laid there, fingers running along the button band, then, absently, fastening the small blue buttons. ‘He asked me,' she said. ‘I told him his dad had gone away and I didn't know where.'

‘And did you give him a name?'

‘I gave him a name. I told him his dad's name was Andrew.'

‘And was it? Clara, you have to tell me who they might have been.'

She shook her head. ‘I don't
have
to tell you anything,' she said. ‘The man who died, he was a stranger to us. To Rob, to me. He had nothing to do with anything in our past.'

‘You don't know that, Clara.'

‘And you don't know any different,' she told him pointedly. ‘Look, Inspector Friedman. I know you have a job to do and I appreciate that you're trying to be as gentle with me as you can, but I didn't tell Rob about his father, far as I know I told him the truth and he
has
gone away. He certainly talked about it. Why dredge up the past now?'

‘Because,' Alec said patiently, ‘we have to follow every lead and Rob's friends …'

‘Rob's friends. You place a lot of store by Rob's friends. Does their word count for more than mine? I'm telling you, this has nothing to do with Rob's father.'

Alec pulled the folding chair from beneath Rob's desk and brought it close to the bed. He sat down opposite Clara. ‘I know it hurts,' he said, ‘and, before you say anything more, I can't begin to comprehend how much. Frankly, I hope I'm never in the position to know how much. I don't know how I'd cope. How I'd want to go on.'

He held her gaze, that analytical, challenging look from the flecked hazel eyes. She looked for deceit, for a sign that, despite his words, he somehow diminished the full extent of her pain. ‘Clara, I need to have their names. If Rob's friends are right and he went looking for his father, who knows what he might have found, or thought he found and, if he started with false information …'

She swallowed convulsively and then, the briefest of nods. ‘I don't know where either of them is,' she said softly. ‘And that's the truth. Aiden, Aiden Ryan was the boy … man … I two-timed with. My boyfriend was in my class at school. His name was Jamie. Jamie Scott. There now you know and I'd be grateful if you'd all drink your tea, take whatever you have to take and get the hell out of here.'

C
harlie and Becky were already standing on the corner near the bus stop when Patrick got there.

‘What do you think she wants?' he hadn't meant to sound so nervous.

Charlie shrugged.

‘
They
were out, thank God,' she said, meaning her parents. ‘I didn't expect her to phone me like that. It was … Do we have to do this?'

Patrick refrained from stating the obvious; that, evidently Becky herself thought they did seeing as she was here.

Charlie shrugged again, then turned and started to walk towards Rob's house. ‘Better hear her out,' he said uncomfortably.

‘What can we tell her?'

‘I don't know,' Patrick said. ‘What
do
we know?'

Clara must have been watching for them because she opened the door as they set foot on the front path. She stood aside to let them through and the four of them crowded into the hall, reluctant to go through the open kitchen door.

‘Go into the living room,' Clara told them. ‘I've got the kettle on and some biscuits and …' She paused and took a deep, steadying breath. ‘Thank you,' she said. ‘Thank you for coming. I really don't know what I was thinking of, phoning Becky like that, I must have sounded like some kind of mad woman …'

From what Becky had told them, Patrick thought, that was exactly what she had sounded like, but he joined the reassuring, if half-hearted murmurs of the others in their attempt to reassure, though, Patrick knew, the others felt no better equipped to do this than did he.

‘Clara, you go and sit down,' Becky said. ‘I'll make some coffee, I know where everything is.'

Clara nodded; she seemed at the end of her strength. Charlie shot Becky a horrified look. You're leaving us to look after her? it said. Becky scowled at him and nudged Clara forward into the living room. It was Patrick that took her arm, all the time wishing he too could escape into the kitchen and telling himself that this was a bad idea. Not just bad, stupid, out of their depth idea. Glancing at Charlie he could see the same emotions writ large in the pale, pinched face and the darting eyes. Charlie wanted to turn and run and it was only loyalty to his dead friend that had brought him to see Rob's mother and that pinned him now, like an insect on a display board.

They sat in silence until Becky appeared with the laden tray.

It was strange, Patrick thought, how having something to do with your hands kind of allowed the brain to slow down and the thoughts to get in some kind of order. Surprisingly, it was Charlie that broke the silence.

‘I don't know what to tell you,' he said, though so far Clara had asked nothing. ‘I can't believe he threw himself off that bridge. I mean, why would he? I mean, he was all right when he left the party. He'd had a bit of a spat with Becky – sorry, Becks, but everyone could see that – I mean, he just stormed off but we all figured he'd be back to himself the next day and he'd probably not even mention it unless Becks made him and …'

‘They think he might have killed a man.' Clara said.

Patrick stared.

‘You what?' Charlie was gazing at the woman as though she really had gone mad. He stood up suddenly as though about to make a run for it, mug of coffee slipping from his hand and crashing to the floor.

Becky, mouth open, face drained of colour, placed her own mug down on the coffee table. ‘Clara?'

‘What the hell are you on about?' Charlie demanded.

For Patrick, more familiar with police procedure, everything suddenly made sense: the scale of the investigation; far greater than required for a simple suicide. Horrifying as it was, it seemed suddenly obvious. ‘Um, did they say who?' he blurted.

‘Are you mad!' Charlie was outraged anyone could even consider the idea. ‘Rob wouldn't kill anyone. I mean, fuck it, he'd go off on one occasionally, blow up and … and say stuff, then storm off. But he'd never …'

Clara replied to Patrick as though Charlie had not spoken. ‘A man called Adam Hensel,' she said quietly. ‘He was stabbed. When Rob came home, he was covered in blood. Adam Hensel's blood. Rob told me he had killed a man.'

‘And you believe them?' Charlie still couldn't get to grips with it. ‘They'll say anything. Blame anyone just so they look good. Rob wouldn't … Rob couldn't …' He sat down suddenly and for the first time seemed to be aware of the mug he had dropped. ‘I'm sorry,' he said, looking at the smashed crockery and wet carpet at his feet. ‘I dropped it … I …'

Charlie never cried, Patrick thought, watching as his friend finally broke down and allowed the tears to come. Charlie doesn't cry and neither do I.

It was another hour before they got around to clearing up the broken mug and spilt coffee. ‘I think it's going to stain,' Becky fretted.

Clara smiled wanly. ‘I'll stick a rug over it,' she said. ‘That carpet's been down since we moved in anyway, it's probably time I got another one and that's nothing to the stuff Rob's …' She waved away the rest of the sentence.

Patrick and Charlie came through from the kitchen with fresh mugs and biscuits. Glancing at the clock above the fireplace, Patrick noted that it was after ten. He really should be heading for home. He sat back down and looked across at Clara.

‘You've really never heard of him?'

Clara shook her head. ‘I've racked my brains,' she said. ‘And Rob's never mentioned anyone of that name to you?'

Charlie opened the biscuits. ‘We'd remember a name like that,' he said. He helped himself to three chocolate digestives, then paused. ‘Is it OK,' he said. ‘I'm starving.'

Clara's smile was genuine this time. ‘Maybe I could make sandwiches?'

They exchanged glances. What was it about grief, Patrick wondered, that made you not want to eat and then suddenly ravenous.

‘Um, no, it's all right,' Charlie began.

‘Look, I'd like to. It would be kind of … normal.'

Patrick picked up the tray again. ‘We'll all help,' he said. ‘What else did the police take away?'

It felt strange, he thought, to be talking about ‘police' in the abstract, when he now knew it had been Alec that had carried out the search.