Someone Else's Son (40 page)

Again, nothing. The solicitor struggled to cross her large legs the other way.

‘Did you fatally stab Max Quinell with a kitchen knife?’ Dennis removed an image of the bloodied knife from the file and slid it across the table. Warren Lane glanced at it, whether involuntarily or not, and then continued with pulling the threads on his belt.

‘Did you make obscene phone calls and send malicious text messages to Max Quinell’s mobile phone between October two thousand and eight and March two thousand and nine?’

The youth swallowed and whispered something to his solicitor.

‘Warren would like a glass of water, please.’

‘Jess?’ Dennis nodded at her. She rose and fetched a cup and filled it from the cooler.

‘Do you belong to or are you the leader of a gang called Blade Runnerz?’

Silence.

‘Do you know Owen Driscoll and Blake Samms?’

‘No comment,’ Warren Lane finally said. He sounded as if he had something in his throat. Guilt, Dennis thought.

‘Did you actively recruit members into the gang? Were Driscoll and Samms your newest members?’ Dennis hardly paused for an answer. ‘Were you showing off to the younger members by causing a fight with Max Quinell? Were you showing off when you stabbed him?’

 

Thirty-six hours, Dennis thought, staring at the ceiling. Twelve already used up and here he was lying in bed. He was sweating so took off his pyjama top and flung it across the room. ‘Pyjamas,’ he said into the silence. ‘Bloody pyjamas.’ He stared across at the empty space on the other side of the bed. He’d often fantasised about inviting Carrie back, having her stretched out there, wondering what the celebrity magazines would make of that. It wouldn’t do much for his career, but he could sell his story, he knew. Carrie knew that too. Probably why she finished things, he thought. Or probably because I’m a git.

Dennis got up and opened the window. He heard a siren in the distance and smelt the exhaust air from the kebab shop extractor fan a few doors down the road. It made him hungry so he dressed in jeans and a polo shirt and stepped out into the street. He fancied some grease and meat in his belly.

The light from Ken’s Kebabs spilt out across the damp street. The pavement was lined with cars, double-parked in some places, and the air was warm for an April night. It felt more like June, Dennis thought. There was litter outside the shop despite the bin on the corner. A youth kicked a beer can into the gutter. One of his mates belched as he peeled the paper back further on his kebab.

‘Y’all right, gramps?’ someone from the gang said as he stepped into the shop. The others laughed. Dennis stopped and stared at them. Doleful eyes peered out from beneath hoods. They had mean, chiselled faces, not unlike that of Warren Lane, whose expression would no doubt be all the meaner from being banged up in a cell for a few hours. The plan was to go back to the station at around 3 a.m., wake him up, and pummel him with questions all over again. One of the youths spat on the pavement.

Dennis frowned. ‘All right, lads.’ He went up to the counter and scanned the menu on the wall. He knew it by heart. ‘Lamb shish with extra onions and chips please, Ken.’ He reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He was aware that several of the youths had come back into the shop. They took Cokes from the fridge. They flanked him as he dug through his wallet for some coins.

‘Five pounds thirty to you, Dennis,’ Ken said. He wrapped the chips and put the whole lot in a bag. He set it on the counter. The youths closed in on Dennis, watching him as he delved in his wallet. ‘Call it a fiver,’ Ken finished.

But Dennis never got a chance to reply because the youth to his right suddenly reached deep into his pocket and pulled something out. Dennis swung round, arm already raised to defend. The boy was wide-eyed, probably high on something. Dennis recoiled and his heart thumped. He dropped his wallet and his change spilt everywhere.

‘What the—’

‘Hey,’ the lad said, wiping his nose with the tissue he’d pulled from his pocket. ‘Let me help.’ He bent down and gathered up some of the coins and handed them back to Dennis. ‘I’d better hurry. Me mum’ll kill me if I’m late for me curfew.’ The youth left a few coins of his own money on the counter and nodded at Dennis.

Stunned, Dennis could hardly speak. ‘Thanks,’ he finally managed to say. ‘Thanks a lot.’ The boy had pushed his hood back off his head. His hair stuck up in tufts and Dennis saw that he was about fourteen, slightly younger than Warren Lane.

‘Don’t stay up too late, gramps,’ he rang out with a grin. The youths walked off.

‘I’ll try not to,’ Dennis replied, wanting to laugh but not able to manage it.

He took his bag off the counter and walked slowly out of Ken’s Kebabs. There was a small park opposite. He went and sat on a bench to eat. He stared into the bushes and laughed, shaking his head. A bit of lamb fell on to his jeans. He knew he wouldn’t be going to bed that night. He would eat, shower and go straight back to the station. He would haul Lane out of the cell just when his breathing was at its deepest. He wanted to get it all over with; to prove, really, that there was some good still left in the world – to find out the difference between Warren Lane and the boy in the kebab shop.

‘Aren’t they beautiful, darling?’ Carrie held Max on her hip, but he soon slid down. At six, he was a big boy and, as much as he loved being held by his mother, she couldn’t hold him for very long. Max buried his face in Carrie’s coat. ‘Ah, honey, don’t be scared. Look, they’re so pretty. Do you want a sparkler? Brody, do you have the sparklers?’ She turned to her husband who was staring at his feet. ‘Don’t tell me you’re scared of the fireworks too,’ she said, laughing. It was a good party. She was in high spirits. ‘And why don’t you bring out another couple of drinks while you’re inside fetching sparklers. And one of those marshmallow cake things for Max. He adores them.’

Carrie had wanted to throw a millennium party herself but work commitments had totally undermined that idea. She’d been away the few weeks leading up to Christmas and knew she could never rely on Brody to organise such an event. Besides, their house was hardly up to impressing the kind of guests she was able to invite now that
Reality Check
was taking off. She’d spoken to Brody about moving, upgrading to something more impressive, but he’d shown little interest. In fact, getting him to show interest in anything had been virtually impossible the last few months or so. He seemed so . . . distracted, preoccupied, self-absorbed. Still, Carrie had been too busy with her career to sort everyone else’s lives out. She wasn’t superwoman.

‘Darling. The sparklers?’ Why was Brody just standing there?

So she was very grateful that Nancy and Preston –
the
Preston Sykes off
Newsbox
– had hosted such a grand event and invited everyone who was anyone along, including their families, to their house near High Wycombe.

‘Maxie really wants one, Brody.’ Max buried his face further into his mother’s coat and whimpered. Carrie knew he was tired and cold, but all the other children were enjoying the party and she couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t too. ‘Darling, look!’ She pulled Max by the arm and insisted he look up at the black sky. It rained pink and gold and green and blue and barely one bit of the universe was left without a rainbow of sparkles. ‘Didn’t Preston do a great job with the fireworks?’ she said as a producer she knew from another channel walked past with his family.

He nodded at Carrie and indulged in some chit-chat but he was clearly the worse for champagne. They’d already done the countdown into the new millennium, which had been followed by this splendid display.

‘And so generous with refreshments,’ Carrie said, laughing and raising her glass at the man as he staggered off in search of his wife. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Brody, shall I get the damned sparklers myself?’ Carrie was reluctant to move from the terrace. They had such a fine view of the park-like grounds and she wanted Max to see the display. ‘Do you have to be so bloody morose? It’s New Year.’

‘OK. OK. I’ll fetch the sparklers,’ Brody replied. He turned and walked straight into the huge glass door that separated Nancy’s drawing room from the terrace.

‘And do you have to make such a spectacle of yourself? People will think you’re drunk.’

‘I’m not drunk.’ He turned to his left and felt his way along the glass, squinting every time there was a flash from the sky, until he was swallowed up in the crowd inside.

‘They’re in the reception hall,’ Carrie called out. ‘Nancy put out loads of stuff in a basket for the kids.’ She turned to Max, exasperated. ‘Look, darling, why don’t you run after Daddy and help him? He’s bound to get sidetracked by someone and you don’t want to wait for ages, do you?’

‘All right, Mummy,’ Max said.

Carrie leant down and kissed him on his hat. ‘Hurry after him now, darling.’

Max threaded his way through the bodies and Carrie saw him catch up with Brody, who was talking to someone in the drawing room. He hadn’t even made it to the stack of sparklers. She watched as Max took his father by the hand and pulled him through the guests. Carrie turned to chat with Michelle and Jean, who had come over from Paris.

‘Delightful party,’ Carrie said, knowing that Michelle quite fancied herself as the most talked-about hostess, if the gossip magazines were to be believed. While Carrie had never been to any of their events in Paris, she could quite imagine the lack of taste with which Michelle would entertain her guests, judging by her dress sense.

‘Mummy,’ Max said, exhaling and grinning and pulling his father back by the hand. ‘We’ve got the sparklers.’

‘Oh good boy, Maxie, but don’t interrupt while Mummy’s talking.’ Carrie turned back to the French couple, but Brody barged straight into her, causing her drink to slosh all down Michelle’s coat. ‘For heaven’s sake, Brody, be careful. Look what you’ve done.’ She was angry but managed to smile fondly as Max reached for his father’s arm and guided him round to a clear space at her side. Michelle, dabbing at her clothing and pulling a face, moved on with her husband to chat with someone else.

‘See what you’ve done, Brody? We could have had an invite to Paris. I’m convinced your father’s drunk, Maxie. What will we do with him?’ Carrie sighed and glanced around for someone else to chat to. More fireworks rained through the night in a cacophony of bangs and squeals.

Max covered his ears and yelled above the noise, ‘Daddy’s not drunk, he’s blind.’

 

‘So you didn’t think to tell me? You thought that if you just said nothing, did nothing about it, it would all be OK, somehow get better on its own?’

‘Isn’t that how our lives work these days?’ Brody sat stiffly on the chair. The waiting room smelt of lilies. He wondered if, after only four days without sight, his nose was already making up for what his eyes had lost. Would he, he wondered, hear a pin drop in the next room?

‘Oh, don’t be so stupid. You were driving this time last week. I just don’t know how . . .’ Carrie trailed off as someone else came into the waiting room and sat opposite. Brody was, of course, grateful that his wife had instructed her secretary to call the most renowned ophthalmologist in London, but all he wanted was to be assessed by the local hospital, be told that his sight would return in a few more days, that it was all a terrible mistake, that of course he’d see his son grow up and of course he’d see the look on his wife’s face again when they made love. Things like this didn’t happen to him.

Brody sighed and confessed. She hadn’t been around much to notice if his car was in the drive or not. ‘I’ve been taking taxis and the bus when it’s been really bad. It just happened, right? Let’s wait and see what the doctor says.’ Brody scuffed his feet on what he guessed were shiny tiles. There was no vague outline of his shoes today, no silhouette against the floor, no fading impression of the world around him that he’d grown used to over the last few months. He’d thought nothing of it at first – just an annoying feeling that the night was closing in early, that a curtain was being eased shut in the centre of each of his eyes. Add to that a smear of grease – everyone at his age needs glasses, don’t they? – and that was what Brody saw. ‘If this guy doesn’t cut it, I’m going straight to the local hospital.’

‘That’s all very well, Brody, but—’

‘Professor Quinell, please,’ the nurse announced softly.

Brody stood and wobbled. He felt Carrie’s arm on his and he was grateful. She led him across the waiting room faster than he would have liked – it wasn’t easy trusting someone so implicitly, even if they were your wife – and he heard her chatting brightly to the nurse about the clear skies and the snow that was forecast. He wondered if, when it did snow, the world would seem that little bit brighter.

It was two hours later when Mr Cleveland offered a diagnosis following an uncomfortable and lengthy electroretinography test on Brody. Carrie had sat in reception then gone for a coffee along Marylebone High Street. Several fans had asked her for her autograph. She sent them away with a swish of her hand.

‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid,’ Mr Cleveland said, scanning over the results at his desk. ‘We need to run some blood tests, to ascertain the genetic factors involved, but initially the signs are that you have a condition called choroideremia, Professor.’

‘How’s it treated?’ Carrie immediately asked. ‘Drops? Pills? What?’ It was an inconvenience. Until he could see again, they’d need to hire help, have things adapted at home. She had precious little time to be attending to such needs and briefly cursed Brody in her head for letting the condition come this far.

‘There is no treatment, I’m afraid. It’s a progressive disease, which, if I’m right with my diagnosis, will have been hard-wired into you since birth by your mother genetically.’

‘There,’ Carrie continued. ‘If you’d spoken up earlier, then you could have got something done about it.’