Running Girl (7 page)

DI SINGH:
Who?

MICHAEL DOW:
Ask at the school.

DI SINGH:
Alex Robinson? Was he harassing her?

MICHAEL DOW:
Yes.

DI SINGH:
What was he doing?

MICHAEL DOW:
What wasn't he doing? After she dumped him he went psycho. Phone calls, texts ... he used to follow her around in the street till he started spending all his time getting whacked at that doss in Limekilns.

DI SINGH:
Did you ever see him in your garden?

MICHAEL DOW:
No. He used to keep clear of the house.

DI SINGH:
Any other relationships? Current boyfriend?

[
Silence
]

DI SINGH:
Was there someone?

MICHAEL DOW:
I don't know for sure.

DI SINGH
But you suspect something?

MICHAEL DOW:
She was behaving odd. These last few weeks. She wasn't usually secretive but I think she was keeping something hidden. Like on Thursday night. You know, the night before she was—

DI SINGH:
What happened on Thursday night, Mr Dow?

MICHAEL DOW:
She came in late, about one, and I could hear her crying in her room. That wasn't like her at all.

DI SINGH:
Do you know what had upset her?

MICHAEL DOW:
No.

DI SINGH:
Did you ask her?

MICHAEL DOW:
She wouldn't let me in her room. She told me to eff off.

DI SINGH:
I see.

MICHAEL DOW:
That wasn't like her, either, to be fair.

DI SINGH
[
sound of writing
]
:
Do you know anything else about Thursday night?

MICHAEL DOW:
No.

DI SINGH:
Where she'd been? Who she'd been with?

MICHAEL DOW:
No.

DI SINGH:
You didn't see anyone pick her up? Drop her back home?

MICHAEL DOW
[
silence
]
:
No, but ... I don't know about this, but ... When she came in I was still awake, and I got up and looked out of the bedroom window, and there was this car in the street. I might be wrong but it looked like it was just pulling away.

DI SINGH:
What sort of car?

MICHAEL DOW:
A Porsche. That's why I noticed it.

DI SINGH:
Are you sure?

MICHAEL DOW:
Looked like it to me. And I thought to myself: what's that doing in our street?

DI SINGH:
What colour?

MICHAEL DOW:
Black, I think. Can't be sure. Something dark.

DI SINGH:
You didn't see the driver.

MICHAEL DOW:
No. But I'm guessing it wasn't a school kid.

DI SINGH:
Someone older. You think Chloe was involved with an older man?

MICHAEL DOW:
I don't know. I can't even be sure it was pulling away. Might just have been passing.

DI SINGH:
Had you ever seen the car before? Or since?

MICHAEL DOW:
No, never.

DI SINGH:
Did you talk to Chloe about it?

MICHAEL DOW:
How could I? I didn't have chance. I didn't even bloody see her again. [
Silence
] Jesus. As I said, she was only a kid. She didn't think of the risks. They never do.

DI SINGH:
Thank you, Mr Dow. You've been very helpful. I don't have any more questions.

[
Silence; noise of chairs scraping on the floor
]

DI SINGH:
Actually, there's one more thing. I see you've had an accident of some sort.

MICHAEL DOW:
I fell off a ladder at work. [
Sound of paper rustling
]

DI SINGH:
What's this?

MICHAEL DOW:
Contacts for the chips and sparky I was working with. I wrote them down for you. You need to check everything out, don't you?

DI SINGH:
Yes. Thank you. Mr Dow?

[
Silence
]

DI SINGH:
I know how hard this is for you. I said the same thing to your wife. I want to say how much I commiserate with you. Your stepdaughter had the whole of her life before her. I assure you we won't rest till we bring her killer to justice.

MICHAEL DOW
[
sound of angry snort
]

This time Singh left the tape running; it fizzed emptily in the quietness of the room. He picked up his pen and wrote a single word:

Porsche.

Then he got stiffly to his feet and walked away from the desk into the corner of the room, where he stood facing the wall as if in sudden despair. It was a strange, inexplicable thing to do. Then, after a moment, in a harsh mutter, he began to perform the rehras. It was a little after midnight.

‘
SHE HAD HER
whole life before her,' Mr Winthrop, the head teacher, said.

Leading a special lunch-time assembly devoted to Chloe Dow, he stood on the stage of Main Hall, flanked by the head of year and Chloe's form tutor, addressing Year Eleven, and Year Eleven sat in silence, listening.

Mr Winthrop was not by nature an emotional man, but as he spoke of Chloe's talents and achievements, and of the contribution she had made to school life over the last five years, he twice came close to breaking down. His voice was both wavering and uptight. After he had finished speaking, Miss Bell, Chloe's English teacher, read a poem, and she too showed signs of distress. Finally Miss Perkins, the head of year, a woman who usually never gave the slightest hint of emotion, made several announcements of a purely practical nature, and these too were delivered in a strange tone, hushed and angry.

Year Eleven were reminded that Chloe's death, nearly a week earlier, was different. Not an ordinary tragedy. Not an illness or an accident. Murder.

They were reminded too that the police were on site conducting interviews with both staff and pupils. Interviewees would be notified. Other pupils should not offer statements unless they had something of vital importance to say. Conversations with the media were strongly discouraged.

Chloe's funeral would be by invitation only. The privacy of her family was to be respected at all times. Cards of condolence should be sent through the postal system, not pushed through the letterbox. Unannounced visits to the Dows' home were
absolutely forbidden
.

This atmosphere of almost religious strangeness persisted, and Year Eleven remained subdued until at last the special assembly ended and they left the hall; it was only then, as they went out of the building into the brisk April light, slowly fanning out in twos and threes along the concrete paths to their next lessons, that normality returned and people began to talk as usual.

‘She was still a cow,' Smudge said. ‘I mean, it's crap getting done in, but still. Chloe Dow, “extinguished hope of the future”. What's that about?'

Felix said, ‘What do you want them to say? “Chloe Dow got throttled but let's face it no one liked her”?'

‘But they were really choking up. Even Queen Bitch, and she hated Chloe's guts.'

Jessica Walker came past. ‘Hi, Garvie.'

‘Hey, Jess.'

They all stopped to watch Jessica Walker slink across the yard towards Upper School and round the corner of C Block.

As she disappeared two policemen came round the corner the other way, heading towards the office.

‘Here already,' Smudge said as they watched them. ‘They don't usually move so quick. When my brother got that stuff nicked out of his van they were four months just logging his statement.'

Felix shrugged. ‘Yeah, well. This is a national murder inquiry, Smudge. And it turned out your brother had nicked that stuff in the first place.'

‘That's not the point.'

‘What's the point, Smudge?'

‘Point is, Dow's still getting people to jump for her even though she's dead. Typical bloody Dow. When I'm interviewed I might just tell them what people really thought about her.'

‘No one's going to interview you, Smudge – you don't know anything.'

‘Don't know anything about Chloe Dow?'

‘Don't know anything about anything.'

After a brief but passionate assertion of his all-round knowledge, Smudge shambled off to science (though it wasn't where he was meant to be), and Felix and Garvie sauntered on, across Bottom Pitch and up the grassy slope to Top Pitch. It was quiet up there. Beyond the touchlines the hawthorn trees were full of early May, thick and white as cheese, and when they got to the top they could see all the way across the city, vast and grey and ugly.

They lit up.

‘Smudge is right,' Felix said. ‘No one liked her.'

‘Alex liked her.'

Felix exhaled smoke, squinted. ‘I know it's not like she was
always
horrible, but even when she was being nice there was something not-nice about her. Like last week. It was MacAttack's birthday, right, and she brought in these chocolate brownies she'd made, and when he was doing the register she goes up and does this presentation to him as if it's on behalf of the whole class – she even kissed him on the cheek – and somehow it was all about her, not about him at all.'

‘Pushy,' Garvie said. It was one of Chloe's nicknames.

‘The brass girl.'

They sat looking across the city.

Garvie looked at his watch and said, ‘Where should you be?'

‘Geog.'

‘Are you going?'

‘Haven't decided yet.'

‘I really think we should go and see Mrs Dow.'

Felix looked at him. ‘What, now?'

‘I think so.'

‘OK.'

They flicked away their butts and set off down the slope.

Felix said, ‘What are we going to see her for?'

‘To pay our respects, of course, Felix.'

‘Are you sure? She's a bit insane, Garv. Specially now.'

‘Don't worry. We'll catch a ride in Abdul's limo and I'll tell you what to do on the way.'

Felix looked at him sideways. ‘You all right about all this, Garv? I know you and Chloe—'

‘Forget it.' Garvie's face was a blank. ‘It's a puzzle, Felix. A problem. Something to be solved, that's all.'

‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Sex or money, right? Though I guess it's pretty obvious in this case.'

Garvie said nothing more, and together they walked down from Top Pitch, back through the main school, out of the front gate and, without a backward glance, headed for the taxi rank at the shops.

Abdul was from Morocco. He had cropped black hair, a narrow, stubbly face and the gentlest smile in Five Mile. When he arrived in the country he'd spent his first three months in hospital with a kidney infection, and Garvie's mother had befriended him; she'd even helped him sort out some of his paperwork for Immigration. Ever since, he'd been a grateful friend of the family.

Garvie tapped the window. ‘Hey, Abdul.'

Abdul's whole face beamed. ‘My Garvie man, how is, how is?'

He came out of his cab grinning, shook Garvie's hand, kissed him on both cheeks and finally pressed his fingertips to his heart in a gesture both tender and daft.

‘How is?' he said.

‘Is good, thanks. Any chance of a lift up to Fox Walk?'

‘For you, Garvie man, is
plaisir
.' Abdul glanced at Felix. ‘You bad man,' he said sternly. ‘But Garvie friend. Is welcome.'

‘Cheers,' Felix said. ‘I promise not to nick your back seat.'

They drove up Town Road past the DIY superstores and electronics warehouses.

Abdul kept glancing nervously at Garvie in his rear-view mirror. ‘Fox Walk,' he said at last. ‘Is home Miss Dow.' He touched his forehead with his fingertips. ‘Miss Dow decease.'

‘That's it,' Garvie said.

‘We're going to pay our respects,' Felix added helpfully.

Abdul's reflection scowled at him.

They drove onto Pollard Way past the business park.

‘Miss Dow nice nice girl,' Abdul said.

‘Yeah, well. Nice-looking, anyway.'

Abdul nodded.

‘Did you know her, Abdul?'

‘No no. Never.' He shook his head violently. ‘People say bad bad things.'

‘What bad things?'

‘They say black man do this. Police come ask question.'

‘Have they asked you?'

‘They come soon,' he said. ‘Quick quick.'

‘Don't hold your breath. They've got about a thousand kids to get through first at the Academy.'

They turned into Bulwarks Lane and pulled up by the corner of Fox Walk. Abdul refused payment. His jitters had got worse and he seemed anxious to be away.

‘Don't panic, man,' Garvie said. ‘Her killer's going to get caught soon.'

Abdul nodded. ‘Police catch him.'

‘Doubtful. But there are others on his trail.'

Garvie patted him on the shoulder. ‘You've got nothing to be worried about,' he said. And Abdul managed to look even more fearful.

TWO MILES AWAY
, in an ugly building located at the edge of the business district, Detective Inspector Singh stood in front of the large operational chart fixed on the wall and addressed his team leaders. They were two days into the investigation and this was the third time he had addressed them. In his careful, cold way, he was stressing the importance of the case, the urgent need for a speedy resolution. There was tremendous public pressure to solve it. There was unremitting media interest in it. There was the close, personal attention of the chief constable. Need he say more? There was silence in the room. He would say more, anyway. They had a duty, a moral imperative, to bring the perpetrator to justice. This was the rape and murder of a fifteen-year-old girl that they were investigating. Moreover, he had given the chief constable his personal guarantee that the operation would fulfil all criteria for success.