Gallowstree Lane Page 4

  When he’d seen the feds at his door, he’d thought it was for Spencer: that they wanted him to help find the boys who’d done it. He didn’t think he’d have talked to them but he wished they’d at least asked.

  Turned out the arrest had been for that other thing, a few days ago. It had come from Shakiel, the instruction to punch the boy. He didn’t really know what it was about but he couldn’t give a shit anyhow. Not a fucking shit. That boy, he was Soldiers. He’d had no business being there, out of his ends. He knew the score.

  His mind cast around like a body rolling sleeplessly in bed.

  Ha! A kind of laughter. Him and Spencer ripping off the boys who came and used the local power league pitches. They were loose-limbed and gangly and called to each other with that drawl of theirs. White mainly, but a couple of Asians too. Spencer, glimpsed in a corner of his memory, asking them to join in, and the boys saying, ‘Yah, bro.’ They thought they were cool playing with black kids, saying bro and fam and all that. And then Spencer dribbling past them and instead of scoring picking up the ball and legging it. It had been hard to run, they’d been laughing so hard. One of the posh boys had been a fast runner. My nigger runs like Usain Bolt, Spencer had said afterwards, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes. They’d both been helpless at that. He’d nearly caught them too, but Ryan had turned and reached to the back of his waistband and clenched his fist to give the right impression and said, ‘How badly do you want the ball, fam?’

  The boy had backed off. ‘We’re cool. We’re cool.’

  ‘You don’t look cool, man.’

  Spence and him had laughed about that too. Ryan had been concealing nothing down the back of his trousers but they reckoned what the white boy had in his must have been pretty brown. They gave the ball to some of the youngsters on the estate. It was a good ball: a Mitre Delta Hyperseam Pro. The ball was better than the boys who had been kicking it. Those boys, they had whatever they wanted before they even knew they wanted it. It was good to see how pleased the kids on the estate were. Fucking Robin Hood, wasn’t it? Thanks, Ryan. Yeah, thanks, mate.

  No problem.

  A sound escaped him, a sort of gasp, like he’d been punched in the stomach. He bent over and folded his arms around his stomach.

  On the screen of his phone before he’d chucked it in the canal. The BBC had had it.

  A teenager has been stabbed to death in north London.

  He rushed to gather up all his memories of Spencer, but then realized that he didn’t know where or how to look. How do you even know you have a memory?

  This was new. He didn’t know what to do with this.

  Spencer and him, they’d been in primary school together. He’d sat on the carpet with him when you had to bring things in and talk about them. Show and tell, that’s what it was called. Him and Spencer, they’d never had anything to show, and what they had to tell they couldn’t.

  He had an urge to bang his head. Instead, he grabbed the blanket and huddled underneath it, pinning the edges under his elbows and knees.

  Lots of things can make you happy. Isn’t that true? New trainers. Seeing your mates on the street. Push-biking is fun. Snatching phones is a laugh. That moment when a phone is in your hand. It’s funny too, that astonishment the guy has when his hand is suddenly empty. If you’re quick enough you can do a wheelie. Just walking sometimes, sometimes you can walk and be happy inside your own head. Sometimes you have to think yourself to a different place. You have to concentrate really hard.

  So he goes to his house. It’s a place he visits from time to time.

  Today it’s a big white house, set back from the road up a drive, but sometimes it’s steel and glass. He pulls up in his blue sports Mercedes and flicks the control he keeps in the well around the gearstick. The gates slide open. He leaves the car outside on the drive. Before he puts it in the garage, the man who works for him will make sure it’s polished up from any mud that’s splashed on it.

  He walks around his house. He’s got a whole room for his stuff. Shelves for the trainers. All the shirts ironed and laid out by the invisible person who keeps it nice. He walks around in there, looking at his threads, taking his time, picking up the odd thing. Whenever he goes there it’s all been put back just like he likes it. Barefoot he pads down the twisting glass staircase to the basement. There’s a gym with full-length mirrors and a Jacuzzi and a sauna. There’s a pool, too, and a big games room with a wooden floor and everything. Xbox, PS4, Nintendo. A snooker table and table football for when you want a laugh with your mates. There’s a big screen with bean bags. The screen is done real nice, set into the wall. Fantastic definition. He can stream anything he wants. Anything. He’s got Amazon, Netflix, Sky. All the box sets. All the big games. Sometimes he invites the boys.

  Briefly Spencer interrupts, standing in the corner with his trousers soaked in blood. He has to shut him out with determination. Spencer can’t come to his house no more. So these guys, he continues, ignoring Spencer, they’re mainly footballers like him. They come over and hang out. A couple of times he’s had a DJ and a big fridge full of beer and food and a guy who can get you blow. He pays some other guys to keep an eye so things don’t get out of hand. They’re cool. They handle things. Sometimes girls come over too. But he doesn’t like to do that very often because it can be a pain. Somebody always disrespects someone.

  Sometimes he just likes to be alone with his girl. He’d like that now, and he imagines lying in bed with her, not doing nothing, just lying together. But that’s making him sad so he gets rid. Truth is, sometimes she can be a bit clingy. Wants a ring on her finger. So he sends his driver to pick her up and carry her bags, all that. That makes her happy and so he’s happy too. She’s being driven up town in the Lambo, being treated like a princess. He likes her well enough, but he’s not ready to settle down, not just yet. There’s a lot of pussy out there and a guy can’t turn his back on all that too soon. That’s what he tells himself. She looks good on his arm – don’t get me wrong – walking down the street sticking out that great arse of hers, lots of those fancy square paper carrier bags on her arms with those nice plaited cords in different colours. She knows how to work it. He likes how people look at her.

  There’s Spencer again, standing at the edge of that thought. His new trainers are splattered with his own blood.

  Ryan feels sick.

  His eyes are drawn towards Spencer. ‘Please don’t let me die.’ A sob rises up in his chest. There’s a danger he’s losing it. He pulls at the threads of his house, working hard to get back there. Yes, his girl with the nice arse. He doesn’t want to commit and be tied down. That’s right. These fucking sobs keep wanting to overwhelm him. He pinches the skin on the inside of his arm.

  It’s hot under the blanket, the light coming through its grey felty surface like pinpoints. Ryan pushes it off, rolls over and faces the wall, looking through its strange surface embedded with bright little stones like pieces of glass, beyond that to somewhere else.

  The cars, yes. He concentrates on them. The big garage he keeps them in. The electric doors slide open and he walks slowly down the line. Different rides for different days. Sometimes the Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano, sometimes the Lamborghini Aventador LP 700-4. For games he has a guy who drops him at the stadium. Then he takes the BMW M6 with the tinted windows at the back. It’s a great car but it doesn’t announce itself, not like the Bentley Continental GTC or the Maserati GranCabrio. He holds onto those words for a bit. Bentley Continental GTC. Maserati GranCabrio. He doesn’t like to be recognized by the fans because it’s a hassle. He’s always polite, don’t get me wrong, lets them take selfies and all that. He still remembers what it was like to be one of the little guys. He’s never going to forget where he came from.

  He’s getting better at not looking at Spencer, who’s standing in the garage now. He wants to say, ‘Come on, Spence, do me a favour. Don’t stand by the fucking Bentley.’ But he doesn’t want to look at Spencer smiling with all that blood all o
ver him.

  The wicket opens. He doesn’t turn because he doesn’t want whoever it is to see the tears. It’s a female voice. That fit copper who nicked him probably.

  ‘Ryan. You OK?’

  He brushes his hand across his face. ‘Yeah, I’m busy. Thinking.’

  ‘Well, when you’re done, we’re ready to interview.’

  8

  Lizzie looked around the small, windowless interview room. Ryan was sitting beside his legal representative – a thin white guy in his twenties wearing a shiny suit. Loretta was at the end of the table.

  ‘Everyone OK to begin then?’

  When no one protested, Lizzie activated the tape machine and invited everyone in the room to introduce themselves, beginning with herself.

  ‘I’m DC Lizzie Griffiths, attached to the CID here at Caenwood police station.’

  ‘Phillip Strong, legal representative for Ryan. I’m here to advance my client’s interests and protect his rights. I will intervene if I deem your questions to be inappropriate.’

  Loretta caught Lizzie’s eye and raised her eyebrows in mockery. Clearly she didn’t think much of the legal rep and his fancy ways.

  ‘I’m Loretta Swift, Ryan’s mum.’

  Lizzie added. ‘And you’re acting as his appropriate adult.’

  Loretta nodded.

  ‘And you understand the role?’

  Loretta shrugged. ‘God knows I’ve done it often enough.’

  Lizzie said, ‘Well, any issues, I want you to feel free to speak up.’

  Everyone looked at Ryan. He said, ‘My name’s Ryan Kennedy and I’m the criminal.’

  The legal rep shook his head in despair, but Loretta and Lizzie, exchanging another glance, laughed out loud. Loretta might be a worn-out old ex-junkie but she was all right. But then Lizzie, turning back to Ryan, noticed how quickly he himself had lost any pleasure in his own joke. His face had fallen. His mouth was slightly open. She remembered her glimpse of him sitting in the cell, facing the wall. She remembered him standing on the stairs, something she couldn’t pinpoint passing across his face.

  She told herself not to be sentimental. The guy in the CCTV – Robert Nelson – had had fractures.

  ‘Where were you on the night of Friday the seventh of October?’

  Ryan’s response to all of Lizzie’s questions was ‘No comment’. He said it politely but without hesitation, and always with the same intonation, like a shy boy at the back of the class. The formula seemed to come easily to him, as if it never crossed his mind to answer her questions. On she went. The questions had to be asked.

  ‘Is this you in this CCTV?’

  ‘Do you own a Superdry jacket of this type?’

  ‘Do you know the man standing beneath the escalator?’

  ‘Is that you walking over to him? Why do you punch him?’

  She leant back in her chair. ‘No comment’ could be useful but only when you had other convincing evidence to put in front of a court. When you had nothing, the real knack was to persuade the interviewee to talk.

  ‘I can’t understand, if you didn’t do it, why you wouldn’t tell me. If you weren’t there you should tell me where you were. Then we can verify your story and you’ll be in the clear.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘When people make no comment, Ryan, it’s generally because they’re guilty.’

  The rep intervened. ‘I’ll have to stop you there, Officer.’

  Blah, blah, blah, Lizzie thought. The rep went on. And on. ‘My client’s legal right to remain silent …’ It wasn’t that he was wrong; it was the overenthusiasm that irritated. Lizzie was as bored by her own comment as by the rep’s. She had only said it in an unimaginative attempt to get Ryan to talk, and she could see that it was pointless. He wouldn’t be drawn out by such a tired approach. She needed something fresh, an angle perhaps, but she couldn’t think of anything. She had a pressing sensation that Ryan’s thoughts were elsewhere too. He puzzled her. He seemed so up and down. Why had he punched that boy with no provocation? It was a mystery. Perhaps she should ask the custody sergeant to have him drug-tested.

  She wound up the interview and put Ryan back in his cell, brass-necking it in front of the rep, trying to pretend that she had more on his client than she actually did to get a bit of help from him. She had no doubt that it was Ryan in the CCTV, but apart from the identification by the officer, she had nothing. The Superdry hoody hadn’t been in the flat. She had no motive for the attack, no link between victim and suspect. They didn’t even have a phone to place Ryan at the gig on the night of the assault.

  She called Ash to come down to help her get Ryan to the identification suite. A couple of bystanders in the mall had given descriptions of the mixed-race youth – as they called him in their statements – who had thrown the first punch. The hope was that one of them would be able to ID Ryan. That would be something.

  Lizzie glanced at the custody clock and felt a sudden pang of anxiety. Time had run away with her. She should have known the moment she arrested Ryan that she was never going to get off in time to pick Connor up from the nursery. What had she been thinking? She called the childminder, but it went straight to voicemail. She left a message and tried to not to worry.

  The ID suite was a good thirty minutes away. They crawled through thick traffic with no warning lights or siren to speed their journey. Lizzie, wishing she could try the childminder again, was driving. Loretta was in the seat beside her. Ash in the back, next to Ryan. The car had a pervasive acrid smell. It always did. That was why Ash had been able to find a vehicle at two o’clock in the afternoon – no one wanted to drive the 15-reg Ford.

  Ash, winding down his window, said, ‘Anyone want to play I Spy. Take our minds off the traffic.’

  Ryan gave a half-smile but made no reply.

  ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with—’

  Ryan interrupted. ‘No, man. You’re all right.’

  Ash smiled, evidently amused by Ryan’s annoyance at being treated like a child. Of course it made even more of a boy of him. ‘Suit yourself.’

  There was a long silence. The car filled with traffic fumes. Ash wound up his window.

  ‘No, man, leave it open. This car stinks!’ Ryan said, settling back in his seat.

  Ash said, ‘Yes. It’s TCH STUI. Always stinks.’

  ‘Tch Stui? What’s that then?’

  Ash didn’t reply.

  Lizzie, guessing, said, ‘It’s a police acronym.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘You know. The police love acronyms. LOB – load of bollocks. ALF – annoying little fucker. RALF?’

  Ryan shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Really annoying little fucker.’

  ‘What’s TCH STUI then?’

  Ash looked towards the ceiling. ‘The car Henry Shaw threw up in.’

  Ryan arched his back away from the seat. ‘You’re fucking joking!’

  Lizzie smiled at his squeamishness. ‘Don’t worry. It was in the front. He got it in the footwell.’

  Loretta, more sanguine, looked down at her feet. ‘Charming.’

  ‘It’s been cleaned, but no one can get the smell out. It’s the only car you can ever lay your hands on.’

  Lizzie had got herself in the wrong lane and the driver on her left – a white woman in her thirties with a child sitting beside her in the passenger seat – was being hard-line about not letting her out.

  Ryan said, ‘Wind my window down.’ He caught her eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘Don’t worry, coz. I’m going to get us quicker through this jam and out of … What did you call this stink machine?’

  Ash spoke with the voice of a patient teacher. ‘TCH STUI.’

  Lizzie glanced back for Ash’s opinion. He said, ‘I don’t mind.’ After all, the child locks were on. What could Ryan do? She pressed the window control and Ryan leant out, offering his hands to the car to the left of them like a suppliant. A look of alarm passed across the driver’s face. She braked. Ever
yone in the car laughed and Lizzie sped down the clearer lane and took the turn to the ID suite.

  Ash went to get the key. When he got back, she said, ‘You take Loretta through to the front for a coffee.’

  Ash caught her eye. He knew what she was up to.

  The gate closed behind the car. Lizzie drove round to the yard and parked up. She paused and glanced at Ryan in the rear-view mirror. He seemed miles away, looking out of the window but seeing nothing. He was a joker, certainly, but she couldn’t put that together with the other Ryan she glimpsed now: the boy who had been staring at his cell wall and hadn’t even heard her speak when she first called him through the wicket to come to interview.

  She put her bag on her shoulder, got out of the car and opened the passenger door.

  ‘I’m going to have a quick fag before we go in. Do you mind?’

  He offered her his hands. ‘Can I have the cuffs off at least?’

  She glanced at the gate. It was tall and metal. Taking the cuffs off was safe enough and a gesture towards breaking down barriers.

  She stuffed the cuffs in her harness. Ryan rubbed his wrists. He leant his back against the wall and tilted his face up towards the sun. Lizzie fumbled in her bag for the cigarettes and lighter. The truth was, she loathed smoking; this was just a game, the only excuse she could think of to find time to pause alone with Ryan in the yard and chat. It wasn’t exactly kosher, but how else were they ever supposed to get anyone to talk? Maybe she would at least be able to find out what the fight had been about.

  She put the Silk Cut in her mouth and flicked the lighter. She’d wanted to offer Ryan a fag instead – let him do the smoking – but she didn’t dare in case he grassed her up. He was only fifteen: too young to smoke legally. Never put yourself on offer: she’d learned that the hard way. It was all a bit ridiculous really. He was old enough to rob, to fight, to smoke cannabis, but here – in police custody – he was what he was: a child.

  The first inhale made her head swim and she leaned against the wall and didn’t speak. The knack was to work your way round to the subject, not come at it directly. Music, football … But she didn’t follow football and she knew nothing of the kind of music he would be listening to.