Someone Else's Son (10 page)

Dayna thought; narrowed her eyes. ‘All of it?’

Max nodded. He sat beside her on the car seat. He wondered if anyone had made out on it before.

‘Lucky then,’ she said, frowning.

‘Yeah,’ Max replied. ‘I s’pose.’ He was thinking the complete opposite.

Carrie opened her eyes. Everything was white. All white. Dazzling.

‘It’s all right.’

She didn’t recognise her own voice; didn’t recognise the taste in her mouth. Someone was beside her. A dark shadow; a figment of her past. A glimpse of her future. Her head ached. A biting pain from one temple to the other feeding directly through her brain.

‘It’s all right, isn’t it?’ She sat up on her elbows. The sheet was stiff against her skin. She wasn’t at home then. She was in a small room. One window. White. A hospital. It smelt like a hospital.

Had she been in an accident?

The dark figure spoke. No, he said. It’s not all right, Carrie.

Oh, the sorrow. She felt it resonate through her bones, deep in the marrow. She ached, but didn’t know why.

She recognised the voice. She turned. She saw, finally, through the opaque film that coated her eyes. She saw her ex-husband.

‘Brody?’ she whispered.

Something warm took her hand.

You fainted. Hit your head. She couldn’t hear him exactly, but somehow the words were in her head.

She held on to the warmth. Vomit came into her mouth.

She turned her head and it spilled out. A nurse was there.

‘Am I ill?’

No, Carrie. Brody talking again. Why couldn’t she
hear
him? Hear him like her own voice, like the voices that laced the rest of the room?

Because she didn’t
want
to hear him.

‘Brody,’ she said.

His head fell on to the edge of the bed. She felt the weight of him.

The weight of their grief on the small bed.

Carrie allowed her head to push into the foam pillow. In her mind, the bed collapsed under the load of it all and they fell into the centre of the earth.

 

They walked slowly side by side. They weren’t alone. Someone had mentioned a wheelchair. She recalled shaking her head. Until she saw him, she wouldn’t believe it.

Prove it
, she’d screamed. There was a warped vision of the
Reality Check
set. She heard herself yell out the same words, the audience behind her revving and baying in a sympathetic rage. She phoned Leah; tried to explain.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No. No.’ She went on, until a hand on the small of her back indicated she should turn left. There was a door. The mortuary.
No, no, no
. . .

‘In here.’ A voice she didn’t recognise.

No, no, no
. . .

And suddenly she was inside the room, beside a table. A white sheet.

‘Are you ready, Ms Kent?’

No, no, no
. . .

Carrie looked at the man as if she was staring at him through viscous liquid.
Who are you?
Her fingers tingled. She couldn’t feel her legs. Her breath hurt in her chest. She nodded.

Slowly, the doctor pulled back the sheet. The long lump beneath transformed into her son. She was reminded of a stage magician. It was all an act.

Saw him in half . . . the miraculous levitating boy . . . the vanishing teen
.

Bile in her throat again.

His hair was so silky, as if he’d washed it that morning. A couple of spots on his cheeks, still plump.

‘Why’s he wearing that?’ she asked. It was all she could think of to say.

‘We put him in something clean.’

The doctor had probably done this a hundred times before.

‘Were his clothes dirty?’ He didn’t look dead. Just asleep. She’d not noticed the red tint in his hair before. She hadn’t realised he had an ear pierced; a tiny silver skull sitting on his lobe.

‘Carrie, don’t.’ Brody’s voice blanketed the room. ‘Help me see him.’

Instinctively, Carrie took Brody’s hands. The woman standing the other side of him stiffened, watching intently as she placed them on their dead son’s head. Brody kept them there for a moment, then spread them over the boy’s face. He pushed a finger either side of the nose and slightly parted the lips with his thumbs. He let out a single sob.

‘Ms Kent, I’m going to have to ask you about identification. Can you confirm that this is your son, Max Quinell?’

‘It’s him.’ Brody’s voice was deep but empty.

‘Ms Kent?’ The doctor wanted confirmation from her. They couldn’t accept identification from a blind man.

‘Yes,’ she said, suddenly feeling as if the spotlight was on her, as if she were on her own stage set, heart pounding, taking a grilling from that woman . . . the famous Carrie Kent; as if the audience were holding their breath for her reply, as if what she said would make a real difference – life or death.

No, no, no
. . .

‘Yes. This is my son.’

 

Detective Chief Inspector Dennis Masters had just returned from his curtailed meeting with Leah when the news broke. He sat before his team. Just a hunch, but he didn’t believe it was going to be a good day. He sipped coffee from the polystyrene cup. It was too hot, but he desperately needed the caffeine. He’d commandeered the largest incident room for this one, hardly able to believe that another stabbing had happened on his patch. The public wanted answers, they wanted security, and they wanted, most of all, for it to stop.

He rubbed his eyes. Three a.m. he’d got to sleep. The Scotch hadn’t helped; made it worse, if anything. Earlier in the evening, Estelle had called, egged on by her mother, no doubt. She’d cancelled their plans for the weekend.
Something
, her sorrowful voice confirmed,
has come up
,
Daddy
.

Masters put his glasses back on and refocused. All he could see as he glanced around the team were angry protesters marching through Harlesden, led by grief-stricken parents of dead kids; banners screaming out that enough was enough, the violence had to stop. Then he envisaged his resignation. The Brent Met had been his home for the last fifteen years and, in all his career, he’d never had to deal with as much knife crime. Carrying a weapon was a way of life for these local kids nowadays. They were too scared not to.

Dennis had already ordered his best detectives to switch cases. He didn’t care who he upset in doing so. He would face the superintendent later, when word got back, but for now he needed to know he was doing whatever he could.

‘What have we got then?’ he said dismally to the woman beside him. Was this one for Carrie? he wondered. Would he be commended for taking action to publicise the crime or slated for glamorising it? He would call her later, see what she thought about putting it on the show.

‘Little.’ DI Jess Britton had two slim files set between them. A dozen other detectives were perched on the tables around the dreary room, waiting for their brief, impatient to get on. ‘There’s one possible witness according to a member of staff at the school. The security camera was broken so there’s nothing much else yet. No weapon.’

‘Who’s the potential witness?’ Dennis glanced at the clock above the whiteboard. Time was not to be wasted.

‘Another pupil from the school. A girl called Dayna Ray.’ Britton blew on her coffee.

‘Has she been interviewed yet?’

‘Nope.’ She sipped and winced.

‘Organise the usual set-up here, Jess,’ Masters replied. ‘Send a team out to the school immediately. Talk to everyone. Staff, pupils, caretakers, the lot. And I want the CCTV footage on all cameras within a three-mile radius of the school, and make sure I have a post-mortem report on my desk when I get back.’

‘Where are you going?’ Jess Britton abandoned her coffee.

‘To speak to this Dayna Ray girl.’ Masters slid the file across the table and nodded when he read her address.

‘What about the parents?’ Jess sighed, assuming that unsavoury task would fall to her.

‘Sort it with Chris and Al.’ DCI Masters bent his neck back. He heard something crack beneath his collar. He wanted the best to handle the key players in this one. He needed an arrest and quick.

Jess shrugged. She didn’t want to go out anyway. It was pissing down. She kicked her boots against the chair leg. ‘Talk later then, Chief.’

Masters nodded, stood and addressed the room. From behind, Jess Britton pulled a face, the exact same one that she made five years ago when she learnt the promotion had gone to him, not her.

 

Dennis knew what to expect. Council estate half a mile from the school with the usual area of wasteland disguised as a park housing a couple of burnt-out cars. With the racks of ugly pebble-dashed properties, it provided a fitting battleground for the local youth. ‘Local youth,’ he repeated out loud. God, it made him feel old.

He parked up outside number twelve and got out of the car. He pushed his radio and phone into the inside pocket of his leather bomber jacket and hitched up his jeans. There was loud music as a throaty car sped by; a dog barked; a woman with a chain of small kids walked through the rain. She stared at Dennis, no doubt sensing he was a cop.

Someone had made an effort to tend the front garden of the Ray household. Masters knew this only because there were no rusty washing machines, no piles of dog mess and no bags of split-open rubbish. He knocked on the green front door. He could smell food cooking. He was about to knock again when the door opened.

‘Yes?’ A small woman with pulled-back hair answered. She was mean-eyed, as if she’d just been shouting.

‘Mrs Ray?’ At the same time, Dennis flashed his ID. The woman’s gaze flicked to it and then back to his face. ‘Is your daughter home? I’d like to speak to her.’

Without hesitation, Mrs Ray nodded and stepped aside to allow him in. She slammed the door. ‘What’s she bloody done now?’ She turned to the stairs. ‘Day-na?’ The yell was louder than someone so small should be able to produce. ‘Stupid girl. She told me she came home from school ill. Just go up. The door to the right.’ Mrs Ray went off into the kitchen with a dog bothering her ankles.

The tiny landing was littered with clothes and general mess, including toys, indicating there was a much younger child living in the house too. Dennis stepped over them and tapped on Dayna’s door. He scanned the stickers and magazine cut-outs taped to the chipped paintwork. He hoped the younger child couldn’t read yet.

‘What?’ a girl’s voice finally answered.

Dennis put his mouth close to the wood. ‘Dayna, your mother sent me up. My name is Dennis Masters. I’m a detective. You’re not in any trouble, but I’d like to speak to you about what you saw at school today.’ Silence. ‘Is that OK?’ Nothing. ‘Dayna, it’s really important that you help me. So we can catch the person who killed Max Quinell.’

After another few seconds the door pulled back slowly. A slim girl stood in the darkness of the doorway, her face ashen, her lips parted, her eyes filled with absolute fear. ‘Max is
dead
?’ Her words were sewn together with a tenuous thread; that if she spoke too loud, it would make it real.

‘I’m so sorry. Yes.’ Dennis waited a moment. He had assumed she knew.

The girl didn’t cry. She swallowed and stared at the wall behind him. Then she swung the door wide open and went back into the dim room to fold herself on to her unmade bed. Dennis followed. When she said nothing, he shifted a pile of clothes and sat down on a wooden stool.

‘I know this is hard for you, but I was hoping you’d be able to talk to me about what happened, while it’s still fresh in your mind.’

Dayna lifted her head and dragged her gaze around as if it weighed a ton. ‘But I loved him.’ A sigh escaped.

Dennis sensed they were virgin words; a declaration, fuelled by loss, that – at what? Fifteen? – she had finally found the courage to say. Except it was now too late.

‘I’m sure Max knew that.’

‘No. No, he didn’t.’ She stared askew at Dennis.

‘Were you his girlfriend?’ He would have to work his way gently. If he could have removed his notepad and pen without her noticing, he would have done. As it was, her eyes flicked to his hands. He rested the pad on his knee.

‘Yeah, kind of.’ Dayna’s eyes suddenly glistened and rounded with tears. ‘Are you sure he’s dead? The . . . the ambulance came.’ She smudged her sleeve across her eyes. ‘They were meant to help him.’

‘I’m sure.’ Dennis sighed. He couldn’t see a damn thing with the curtains closed. ‘Were you close friends?’

Dayna nodded.

‘Before we go much further, love, I want to ask you if you know who did this to Max. Who stabbed him? Who was holding the knife?’

Dayna focused on the detective. Her face slowly puckered into a gradual implosion of grief. ‘No,’ she whispered. The single syllable shattered into a thousand pieces. ‘No, I didn’t see.’ She fell forward and cried fiercely into the duvet. Her fingers kneaded the wadding. She pushed her head deeper and deeper into sorrow, into the softness. Dennis Masters sat and watched, waiting until she was able to speak again.

She sat up. ‘It was all over so quickly. One minute all normal. And then . . .’ She squinted, as if reliving the scene in her mind. ‘And then there was just so much blood. All that shouting. The panic.’ Dayna wrapped her thin arms around her body, hugging herself. Dennis concluded that there was probably no one else going to do it.

‘Are these . . .’ Dennis glanced at a blood-smeared carrier bag lying on the floor.

‘My dirty clothes. Covered in blood,’ Dayna replied, blushing.

‘I’ll have to take them.’

Dayna nodded.

He heard the woman downstairs yell and then a young child’s indignant wail.

‘Little brother?’ he asked.

Dayna offered a glimmer of a smile. ‘Sister. Well, half-sister. Kev’s not my dad.’