CHAPTER EIGHT

‘We’d like a word with your son, Mrs Gibson, is he in?’ They put away their badges.

‘What’s it about?’ Her brow furrowed and she glared at Janine and Richard from the doorway. One arm was wrapped about her waist, the other, elbow propped on it, held the fag close to her mouth.

‘It’s in connection with one of our enquiries,’ Richard explained.

‘What enquiry?’ she said derisively.

‘The murder of Matthew Tulley,’ Janine spoke sharply. ‘Is Ferdinand in?’

‘He’s got nowt to do with that. That’s bloody harassment, that is. That man assaulted Ferdie,’ she shook her cigarette at them, ‘and he was given an official warning by the school. Bleeding disgrace, deputy head and he’s lamming into kids.’

‘And then Ferdie knifed him,’ Janine pointed out.

‘You can’t prove that. That never went to court,’ her mouth worked furiously, spittle gathering in the corners of her lips. ‘Ferdie’s never been near him. Just leave him alone.’

‘We need to talk to him,’ said Richard. ‘Now either we can have a few words with him now, clear things up and hopefully eliminate him from our enquiries or we can come back with a warrant to hold him for questioning at the station.’

‘Go get yer warrant, then,’ she began to shut the door.

Richard stopped it with his hand. ‘Don’t you think you’d better see how Ferdie wants to play this? He might not be best pleased if you have him dragged down to the station, kept for 24 hours.’

She shot him a look of contempt and closed the door.

Janine glanced at Richard, raised her eyes to heaven and back. ‘I still don’t know all the ins and outs,’ Janine resumed their previous conversation, ‘but Michael was pretty shaken up. Got a right shiner.’

They heard Mrs Gibson coming back and bowed to each other: the tactic of sending her to check with Ferdie had worked. The door opened and Ferdie Gibson appeared behind his mother. The close haircut gave him a weasely appearance, his scalp was a greasy white colour beneath the fuzz of hair. Janine noticed the botched tattoo on his neck. He was barefoot with a Nike top, a fancy Rolex-type watch and Adidas pants on, white stripes and rows of buttons all up the legs. Janine wondered about the buttons; did people undo them when they got hot, leave the fabric flapping like chaps?

‘Hello, Ferdie,’ said Richard, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Mayne and this is Detective Chief Inspector Lewis.’

‘What d’ya want?’

‘We’d like a word. Inside if you don’t mind, more private.’

He shrugged and wheeled to face the nearest room; they filed in after him followed by Mrs Gibson. The small room boasted three sofas and a TV and video. The system looked state of the art, the sofas were an ill-matched trio, all had seen better days.

Ferdie flung himself onto the faded pink, over stuffed couch, his mother took the olive green sofa bed and Richard and Janine shared the low slung settee which had sludgy orange and brown cloth and wooden arms.

Janine could feel the supporting elastic ropes through the thin cushions. In a previous era it would have been up-to-the-minute modern design along with fondue sets, convex mirrors and pedestal ashtrays. Like thirty years ago.

Where were Ferdie’s trainers? She glanced at Richard and down at the lad’s feet. Richard acknowledged the query. Janine gave Richard the nod – he should ask the questions.

‘We’re investigating the murder of Matthew Tulley,’ he said.

‘I want a brief then.’

‘Just an informal chat, Ferdie. If you could tell us where you were between nine and eleven yesterday morning.’

Janine detected a change in the boy’s demeanour, subtle and fleeting but there all the same. Did he know something?

‘I was here, in bed,’ he swivelled his head to face his mother, ‘that’s right, innit, Mam?’

‘He never gets up in the morning,’ she said emphatically.

‘You were here all that time?’

‘Had my shopping to do but he was in bed.’

‘Till when?’ Richard asked Ferdie.

‘Dunno. ‘Bout one. Called for my mate, went to the pub.’

‘Your watch not work?’ Richard nodded at the bulky model on the boy’s skinny wrist.

‘Didn’t know it mattered, did I?’

‘When did you last see Mr Tulley, Ferdie?’

‘Months back. Punched me in the head, you know. ‘S affected my concentration, know what I mean. I get these panic attacks.’

Give him an Oscar, Janine thought as she watched him elaborate on his symptoms.

‘Still carry a knife, Ferdie?’

‘S illegal, innit?’

‘But you used one on Mr Tulley.’

‘They never charged us.’

Janine wondered why there’d been no crime report. Why hadn’t Matthew Tulley pressed charges?

‘This mate you called for, what’s his name?’

‘Colin.’

‘And where does Colin live?’

He gave them the address. Janine stood. ‘I’ll leave you to finish off, Inspector.’ Ferdie glanced at her, suspecting something but unsure of what. ‘I’ll let myself out.’


*****

Mam was crying. Jade hated it when she cried, it was worse than her shouting and being all stressed out. Jade was on the top step. Mam was in the lounge, on the settee making a horrible moany noise and Jade knew her face’d be all red and lumpy from crying. Jade didn’t want to see her but she wanted some breakfast. What she’d really like was Coco-Pops but Mam said they cost a bleeding fortune and she had to have corn flakes or Weetabix.

Her Nana got her Coco-Pops when she stayed there but she only let Jade eat them in the morning not whenever she got hungry. The best bit was how the milk turned to chocolate milk, all swirly and sweet. Jade reckoned she could eat a whole packet and not get sick of them.

Jade hated Sunday. Everything was horrible. She couldn’t even watch the cartoons till Mam stopped crying. It wasn’t fair. When Mam was going with Alan they went to Wacky Warehouse on a Sunday and Alan’d buy her sweets and she could play while Mam and Alan had a drink and then they’d get a bar meal. Chicken nugget and chips, she always had, and a Coke with ice cubes and two straws. But Alan was going with someone else now.

‘Jade,’ her mam called ‘Jade, come here.’

She ran downstairs and into the lounge. Mam was still in her nightie and there was a pile of squashed up bits of toilet paper on the settee from her blowing her nose. Her face was all shiny and big and red. She looked ugly.

Jade saw the police car drive past the window and slow down. Her belly started to hurt.

‘Jade, come here,’ Mam sounded like a little girl as she patted the seat beside her. Jade went over and slid onto the settee. Her mother put an arm round her and pulled her close. Mam’s breath stank horrible. Jade tried not to breathe.

‘You know I love you, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Mam.’

‘Even when I’m not happy, I still care about you. I do my best. You’re all I’ve got Jade. If anything ever happened to you…’ her voice squeaked.

Jade thought of the tent on the allotments. The bad men who waited there. Nonono, not that. She felt sick.

‘I’d like to do more for you, Jade. Get you nice things and that.’

A big bowl of Coco-Pops.

‘But we’ve just not got the money,’ a catch in her throat like she’d swallowed a toffee.

Jade squeezed her eyes tight shut. Waited. Mam shivered. ‘If I had it, Jade, I’d get you such lovely things.’

‘Mam, can we go to Nana’s?’ Sausages and fluffy mashed potato and onion gravy.

‘I don’t think so,’ Mam whispered.

Jade wanted to hit her. ‘Please? Can I go then? Please? I can go on my own.’

‘Yer not going on yer own. It’s not safe.’

‘You could put me on the bus.’

‘I don’t think we’ve even got the bus fare, Jade.’

‘We could walk. Please, Mam, please?’ In the wait Jade smelt hope.

‘She might not be in.’

Of course Nana would be in. She was always in except when she went to the doctors. Her knee was bad and her chest all wheezy. ‘Like puffin’ Billy, I am,’ she always joked.

‘I’ll go ring,’ Jade clamoured. Mam hesitated then went for her purse in the kitchen. She fished out 10p and gave it to Jade who ran out of the house to the phone box before her mam could change her mind.


*****

In the car Janine radioed through and sent Butchers to check out Ferdie’s version of events with Colin.

‘Pronto,’ she said, ‘I want him checked out before anyone gets on their sweaty little mobile to warn him.’

‘Spitting distance, boss. Five minutes.’

‘Ring me when you’re done.’


*****

Butchers found the static van and surveyed it from the outside. There was no noise and only the one car nearby so it didn’t look like Colin had company. Butchers stepped up to the door and knocked. He heard clattering from inside and then the door was jerked open. The young bloke stared at him for a moment, then his eyes darted away.

‘Colin? DS Butchers. Got a moment?’

Colin stood back and let him in. Butchers eased himself through the narrow doorway and into the kitchenette. He saw steam from the kettle, general clutter.

‘Kettle on?’ Butchers asked him.

‘Only got coffee.’

‘Two sugars, ta.’ While Colin fussed with cups and jars, Butchers made a small tour of the place. Fish tank that had seen better days, he thought he could make out a couple of corpses in the slimy water, cartons of fags – duty free or black market – and a copy of the evening paper on the table. Allotment Slaying.

‘You on your own here?’

Colin nodded, brought the drinks over to the table. Butchers sat carefully on a stool and skimmed the paper. Colin watched his every move, the pulse in his neck visible.

‘Yesterday morning?’

‘What?’

‘Where were you, Colin?’

‘Here.’ He kept swallowing as though the lie was caught in his throat.

Butchers put the paper down. ‘Really?’

Colin stared at him.

‘Ferdie Gibson. Your mate, or so he says…’

‘What?’

‘What do you know about Ferdie Gibson and that school teacher that’s been killed?’ Butchers regarded him, neutral expression, open face. Waited.

Sweat broke out on Colin’s upper lip. ‘Well Ferdie had a go at him but that was ages back.’

‘Good friend is he, Ferdie?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Only at the moment he seems to be relying on you to back up his story. See him, yesterday, did you?’

‘No. Yes.’ Colin said, panic mixing him up. ‘I mean-’

‘Or d’you need Ferdie to remind you what’s what?’ Butchers leaned a little closer, spoke softly. ‘You’re not cut out for this, are you? Stress. It’s a killer, you know.’

Colin was shaking.

‘We can deal with Ferdie. You help us out.’

‘Don’t know what you’re on about,’ Colin said quickly and grabbed his drink.


*****

Janine added to her supermarket shopping list while she waited. Ten minutes later Detective Sergeant Butchers reported that Colin had been in bed till one when Ferdie called. They’d sent out for pizza then gone to the pub, The Parkway, and watched the match.

‘Thanks.’

‘Something else, boss.’

‘Go on.’

‘He was scared witless, nearly did a runner when he opened the door and saw me, like he was expecting a visit. Maybe no connection to the case but he was guilty of something, shaking like a leaf.’

‘Worth putting a bit of pressure on?’

‘I should say so.’

‘Get someone to check out his form, I’ll put Chen on obbos for Ferdie Gibson – see where he goes once we’ve left here.’

She broke the connection and sat back in the seat. What had rattled Colin’s cage then? Having to give a false alibi for Ferdie? Though she wondered if Ferdie would have been quite so cocky if he was the guilty party. Then he’d have toned his act down a bit, surely? Whatever it was she’d do her best to ferret it out. And Colin, the weaker link, might be the best place to start.


*****

Butchers, after calling on Colin, returned to his stint on house-to-house, covering the terraced properties along the two streets that skirted the allotments. More ticks were appearing on his list, each indicating that all residents at an address had been seen. There were now only three households where as yet they had failed to talk to anyone. Pensioner Eddie Vincent and the Smiths on Gorton Avenue, and Dean Hendrix on Denholme Avenue.

He would start with the Smiths, number three, near the main road end of Gorton. Woman and her young daughter lived there. Sunday morning he hoped would be a good time but again there was no reply when he knocked. The bell didn’t appear to work. He gazed at the dirty white door. The frame was in need of paint, bare wood showing through. Butchers was a keen DIYer, though he preferred the term craftsman. This weekend he should have been building his barbecue, at the side of the patio. He’d got a great design, simple lines with some nice edging, brick supports, place to keep the plates and the utensils, cover for bad weather.

‘You’ve missed ‘em, love,’ Mrs Across-the-Road called to him. ‘They’ve gone out.’

‘Any idea when they’ll be back?’

‘No, sorry love.’

‘Thanks.’

DS Shap strolled up then.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Butchers glowered at him.

‘Church,’ Shap said sarcastically, ‘Sunday, isn’t it?’ He glanced at Butchers’ list. ‘Thought you’d have cracked it, by now.’

‘You’ve had a bloody haircut,’ Butchers was disgusted.

Shap waggled his hand like a puppet. ‘Nag, nag nag.’

Butchers shoved the clipboard at him. ‘I’m off to the shop.’

‘Get us a bar then.’

Butchers flipped him a v-sign without looking back.


*****

Ferdie Gibson was on his mobile to Colin as soon as the door had closed behind DI Mayne. The rozzers had already paid Colin a visit. Must have planned it. How’d they known Colin was going to be his alibi though? Then he got it. That’s why the woman had slipped out, to check it out.

‘I think they know something,’ Colin was freaking out.

‘They can’t,’ said Ferdie. ‘Not unless you put ideas in their heads.’

‘I didn’t, I swear. All they asked me was where I was yesterday morning and whether I went out or if anyone called. I told them I was in bed and then you

come round at dinner time.’

‘They ask you what time?’

‘Yeah, I said about one.’

‘Stick to that.’

‘You think they’ll come back?’ Alarm filled Colin’s voice.

‘How do I know. But if they do, say exactly the same stuff. Off by heart.’

‘What if they don’t ask the same things.’

Sweet effin’ Jesus, thought Ferdie. ‘Make it fit, don’t change anything.’

‘I nearly filled me kecks,’ said Colin, ‘open the door, copper there. Thought he was going to arrest me.’

Ferdie could imagine it. Colin with his frozen rabbit look. Guilt all over his face. Miracle he hadn’t gone down on his knees and made a full confession. Tosser. He should never have let Colin in on it.

‘Colin,’ Ferdie said, ‘just stick to the story and it’ll be cool.’

‘Right.’

‘They don’t know nothin’, right?’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘See ya later,’ Ferdie broke the connection and flicked on the sound for the TV, leaning forward with interest as the official photograph of Matthew Tulley segued into a shot of the secured scene of crime. He watched the report with interest, a smile on his face, his head bobbing like a hairless nodding dog.


*****

Richard was eating violently coloured corn snacks. How could he look so healthy, not to mention slim, when he ate such junk? An appalling smell filled the car. Janine looked askance and turned the fan on.

‘Ferdie Gibson, what d’you reckon?’ Richard asked.

‘I don’t know. He was edgy. Alibi’s a bit flaky, to say the least.’

‘If it was planned he’d have come up with something better.’

‘Then again, not the brightest button in the box, is he?’ she said. ‘So maybe it was opportunistic. Runs into Tulley, sees his chance, flips. Ropes his mate Colin in to try and give him some cover.’

Janine pulled the car into the gates at the entrance to St Columbus RC High. The school where Matthew Tulley had taught. The school was deserted, pupils and staff at home for the weekend. They were met at the front steps by Mr Deaking, the headmaster, who was expecting them.

‘A terrible business,’ he said. He was a short, balding man with a furrowed face. He looked disturbed, pale and pinched as though the blood had been drained from him.

Janine shook his hand.

‘Arthritis,’ he made an apology for the crabbed handshake. ‘Comes to us all if we’re around long enough.’

‘My father’s got it,’ Janine told him, ‘the bracelet do any good?’ She nodded at the copper bangle he wore. Maybe she could persuade her dad to try one.

He shrugged, turned the bangle this way and that. ‘Hard to say. Do come in. How is Mrs Tulley? Silly question, I suppose. Poor woman.’ He took them across the foyer past displays of artwork, charcoal portraits, a series of brashly coloured still life painting and a number of suspended sculptures made from rubbish as far as Janine could tell.

A few more pleasantries were exchanged and then Janine got down to the matter in hand. ‘What can you tell us about Matthew?’

‘Bright, articulate, efficient. He was an excellent organiser, dependable. Had to be, we’ve over a thousand pupils here, a long tradition to maintain. The position of deputy carries a great deal of responsibility.’

‘Any problems?’

‘Ferdie Gibson… terrible business. I never dreamt… you’ve interviewed Gibson?’

Janine nodded. ‘Mr Tulley was disciplined?’

‘Oh, yes, we nearly lost him. Governors saw sense, thank goodness. Then the boy returned – he was no longer a pupil at the time – and attacked Matthew.’

‘But that never came to court?’

‘Matthew was exhausted. He’d spent the best part of a year being hauled through the disciplinary process. Then this assault… he refused point blank to report it, wouldn’t press charges, wouldn’t even go to the hospital. Simply wanted to get back to normal and put it behind him.’

‘Were there any other incidents like the one with Ferdie Gibson, times when Mr Tulley lost his temper?’

‘We all lose our tempers. A room full of moody adolescents can be very trying on a wet day. But no.’

‘Was he well-liked?’

‘I couldn’t say he was one of the most popular teachers. As deputy there’s a lot of discipline to dish out but he was a fair man and I don’t think anyone bore him ill-will. Apart from Ferdie Gibson. Will you be arresting Gibson?’

‘It’s early days, as yet.’ Janine trotted out the standard response. ‘What about friends, acquaintances, anyone he was particularly close to on the staff?’

‘Not really,’ he sighed. ‘Awful blow.’

‘Mr Deaking,’ Richard said, ‘perhaps I could address the school on behalf of the enquiry? Let them know we’re doing all we can, who they can contact if there’s anything they think we should know, that sort of thing?’

‘Yes, of course.’


*****

Sunday lunchtime and Dean and Douggie had finished off a plateful of bacon sandwiches swilled down with mugs of coffee. Eminem on the sound system, Douggie mouthing the words. Housemate Gary was browsing his way through his second massive bowl full of cereal; mixing together Sugar Puffs, Frosties and Weetos. He ate like someone was going to snatch it away, shovelling it up in an unbroken rhythm, the spoon flying between the bowl and his mouth. He didn’t appear to chew at all, just crammed it in and swallowed.

‘Could get out?’ Dean suggested as Douggie laid the makings on the table and began licking Rizlas.

‘Cool by me,’ nodded Douggie. ‘There’s a park up the road. Have a kick about. Gary?’

Gary stopped for a fraction, spoon halfway to his lips, eyes wary. He grunted.

‘Fancy the park,’ said Douggie, ‘play some footie?’

Gary shook his head and resumed feeding. Dean wondered if he was all right. He never said much and seemed to keep well to himself. Had a wild feel about him, like he wasn’t tame yet, not used to human company.

They shared the spliff and Dean used the bathroom first. He shaved and wondered what he would look like with a ‘tache or beard. He wouldn’t mind a little beard, just along the jaw, cropped short. Couple of times he’d stopped shaving but he got sick of waiting for it to look like anything halfway decent.

Paula didn’t fancy it. She liked him clean-shaven. Would send him for a shave if he was too rough. Think I’ll let you in any of my soft places feeling like sandpaper? She liked his hair. She’d pull her fingers through it, over and over. He loved that.

Maybe his mum had done that when he was small. Sort of thing a mother would do. He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember hardly anything of her. Just a few moments, memories faded and smudged, crumbling at the edges like something left out in the rain or pulled from a fire. He hadn’t actually tried to recall any more. He reckoned there was more there and places he could go, people he could look up who would help stir his memories but no rush. Not ready for that yet.

While Dean rolled a couple of smokes for the picnic, Douggie cut a couple of lines of coke, chopping the powder this way and that with the razor blade, scraping it into shape. He snorted one and passed the mirror over to Dean. Dean leant forward and put the rolled-up note to his nose, pressed his right nostril shut with his finger and inhaled steadily along the line, sniffing it clear. It felt cold, like sucking frost up his nose. Then the familiar bitter taste at the back of his throat and a rush of mucous. He sniffed and swallowed, cleared his throat. They did another line each. Dean felt the rush begin. Happy. Sun was shining. Douggie smiled at him. Good mate Douggie.

Dean winked.

Douggie picked up the football. ‘Shall we go?’ In his Donald Duck voice.

Dean nodded. They stopped at the corner shop to get some beer and fags.


*****

Shap got no reply at Dean Hendrix’s home, he asked the next-door neighbour, who was lurking on her front step, if she’d seen him about.

‘No, but we’re not the sort for peering through the nets all the time like some. He doesn’t keep regular hours, you could never say when he’d be there. That’s his car.’ She gestured to the red Datsun.

Shap raised his eyebrows. ‘Anywhere he might be staying?’

‘He’s got a girlfriend, black girl, she’s round a bit but I think they mainly go to her place. She’ll know Mr Tulley, she was at the school.’

‘Know where she lives?’

‘No. But she works in town, one of those bars, our Kelly saw her serving. ‘Ang on.’ She leaned back into the house, cocked her head and yelled. ‘Kelly… Kelly

what’s the name of that bar where you saw Dean’s girlfriend? The bar… Dean next door. Right.’ She straightened up. ‘Steel, they call it.’

‘Thanks,’ Shap wrote it down. ‘Look, if you see Dean, will you ask him to give us a bell, DS Shap, this is the number, we just need to see if he saw anything yesterday.’

She nodded, took the card from him. ‘Have you got any leads then?’ Interest lit her eyes.

‘Too early to say.’

‘Terrible thing,’ she lowered her voice, ‘they say his insides were all spread out like some voodoo thing.’

Shap smiled, enigmatic, he reckoned, that was the word. He said nothing, enjoying the lurid speculation. He tipped his head, cocked his index finger, a little farewell gesture that he practised in the mirror.

Butchers returned, his face full of something.

‘Where’s mine?’

Butchers ignored him. Shap shot him a look. Lardy boy had about as much charisma as a garden snail. Why couldn’t he have been paired with Chen? Nice bit of eye candy. That’d brighten the daily grind.

‘Dean Hendrix,’ Shap told him. ‘Not home. Got his girlfriend’s details, though. Pay her a call later then we’ve cleared all the houses on Denholme Avenue.’


*****

While Douggie was paying, Dean saw the newspaper; Allotment Murder Hunt. Felt his belly flip round. Turned and went outside. Shaken, and wishing he’d never seen it. Spoiling his day like that.

The park wasn’t far. They passed the bowling green which was deserted, the grass lumpy and discoloured. Coming towards them was a little kid, a right shrimp on a massive battery operated tank.

‘Look at him,’ Dean said.

‘Neat.’

‘He could crawl faster. Look at his face.’

The kid was whining, his mouth turned down, close to tears. Dean clocked his parents, trundling along behind. Looked like they weren’t speaking to each other.

Douggie giggled. ‘This way.’

They parked themselves on a bench by some trees at the edge of a playing field. A crowd of Asian lads were playing footie, kicking a lightweight ball about using carrier bags and coats for goal posts. Dean leaned back, hands behind his head, looked up at the trees, watched the branches frame the sky.

‘If you had two grand,’ Douggie said, ‘and you had to buy one thing…’

It was a game they’d played inside. If you had…? A way of spinning fantasies, of daydreaming. They would add more and more conditions: it had to be red and only made in the US… it had to fit in a drawer, it had to make music. They became increasingly surreal until the game transformed to a puzzle. Trying to figure out what on earth could possibly fit the list of qualities the other guy had come up with.

‘A suit,’ said Dean.

‘A suit?’ Douggie looked at Dean. ‘What the hell do you need a suit for?’

‘Don’t need,’ said Dean. ‘Want. Some of us have style, could have style.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Douggie laughed. The kids’ football smacked him full on the back of his head. ‘Oy,’ he jumped to his feet.

‘Sorry mister,’ one of the lads yelled. Douggie kicked the ball back.

‘D’you wanna game?’ another lad shouted.

‘Yeah,’ Douggie stood up. ‘We’ll slaughter you.’

They raced about for half-an-hour. Douggie was a dream with a ball, bouncing it from knee to knee and then flipping it over his shoulder and onto his heel. Scoring goals from ridiculous angles. He’d clown about in-between bowing to imaginary audiences, pretending to weep with joy. It creased Dean up. The kids obviously thought he was a total nutter but allowed it because of his skill.

Dean was fast but couldn’t do much to control the ball. When the umpteenth goal had been scored, Dean held his hands up. Enough. He was covered in sweat, his hair limp from it, his windpipe was burning from rushing about, his knees felt weak. The lads protested but Dean and Douggie quit. They went back to the bench. Douggie lit one of the joints. Dean took a hit. Man that was strong. Made him cough. Then he went dizzy, lovely and dizzy and he felt lazy, hazy, like his blood was full of sherbet.

‘If you could change one thing, just one, in the last year…’ Douggie began.

Yesterday. Dean’s mood shrivelled and soured. Stupid bloody question. Yesterday. Oh, man, yesterday would never have happened.

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