Good as Dead

FOURTEEN

She hadn’t stopped thinking about Alfie of course, not for one second, but there had been practicalities to consider. A relationship to establish with Javed Akhtar and the worrying condition of the man sitting next to her.

A situation to try and get on top of.

Now, as Helen looked at her watch, the image of her son’s face knocked the breath from her, and she pictured the childminder trying to get him to sleep for half an hour after his lunch. Janine, holding him and shushing while she rubbed his back. The way Helen had shown her – small circles, low down on his back – even though Janine had three kids of her own and knew perfectly well what to do.

The way he liked.

Panic-stricken suddenly, she tried to reassure herself that she had packed the soft toy he liked to clutch when he was sleeping. The raggedy, greenish-brown thing that might have been a frog and might have been a bear.

Yes, she had packed it. She had packed everything.

The same chaotic routine every morning, struggling to get herself and Alfie ready and out of the flat. Snatching bites of toast while she got dressed and made up and Alfie crawled unerringly towards every sharp corner he could find or reached up for any heavy object he might just be able to pull down on top of himself. Stuffing things into her own bag, and into his. Court reports and photographs of bruised and bleeding children. Nappies, toys and teething gel.

Then the struggle with the pushchair on those sodding stairs. Ten minutes’ walk to Janine’s and that last cuddle, then on towards the station. Chewing gum and chocolate.

That last cuddle…

She thought about the catch in his voice that killed her when he cried and the way he gummed at her chin, fastening on like a limpet as he tangled his fingers in her hair.

The smell when she nuzzled at the back of his neck.

Akhtar was next door in the shop. Helen could hear him moving things around and the noise of glass being swept. She guessed that he was trying to clear away the mess he had made earlier.

That was a good sign, she thought. A desire for order.

Stephen Mitchell sat bolt upright at her side, running with sweat and scratching at himself. His eyes were closed and he was mouthing words she could not make out clearly.

Alfie would need picking up in a couple of hours’ time. Janine was always strict about that, with a school run to take care of and a husband coming home from work. Helen would always call, even if she was going to be just a few minutes past pick-up time…

Sweating, as she ran from the station.

They would have organised something, she was sure about that. Maybe Janine had already heard about it, seen something on the news. Helen hoped it would not be a uniformed officer knocking on Janine’s door. Some big awkward oaf scooping Alfie up and carrying him out to a squad car. No, they would have told Jenny, surely… which was probably the best thing.

Good in a crisis, her younger sister. Organised. Cold.

She rolled her wrist around inside the metal cuff.

Proof positive, of course, that Jenny had been right all along. Had known best, as usual. Hard enough to cope on your own, never mind going back to a job like that. Not so quickly anyway. Think about the baby.

Now look where you’ve got your bloody self!

She wondered if they were outside. Jenny and her dad. The old man nagging every copper he could get hold of, demanding to be told what was being done, with Jenny trying to keep him calm. Taking charge and finding out where the tea and biscuits were.

Being Mum.

She tried not to think about it, but it was like trying not to breathe.

At least Jenny knew the best way to get Alfie off. Helen had shown her plenty of times, enjoyed showing her.

Small circles, low down on his back-

‘It’s going to be OK, isn’t it?’ Mitchell asked suddenly. ‘You said so before. I mean, you’re not just saying it, are you?’

She looked at him. He was blinking quickly and trying to smile. He looked like a little boy.

Her phone rang.

She stared at it – the vibration causing the handset to inch across the floor between her legs – until Akhtar came hurrying back in.

‘Is it Thorne?’

Helen shook her head. She did not recognise the number. She pointed towards the front of the shop. ‘Probably them,’ she said. ‘They’ll want to talk to you.’

Akhtar sat down and picked up the gun. He let the phone ring for another few seconds, then nodded.

‘Answer it.’

On his way back towards the library, Thorne slipped into one of the prison officers’ tea rooms to call Holland. He walked into the corner and took out his phone, smiling at the two occupants, despite stares only marginally less aggressive than those he’d received out on the landing.

‘Any joy?’

‘Slater’s old man was as much of an arsehole as you’d expect,’ Holland said. ‘But he was surprised enough to hear that Amin was dead.’

Thorne wasn’t surprised to hear it. A result that fast was way too much to hope for. ‘What about Lee Slater’s mates?’

‘Clarkson wasn’t in and we’re just on our way to see Armstrong.’

‘OK. Quick as you can, Dave.’ Thorne heard Kitson in the background, saying she couldn’t find a place to park. ‘Just park anywhere,’ he shouted.

Holland said something, but Thorne lost it in the blare of a passing siren.

‘Dave?’

‘I said, what about you?’

‘What?’

‘Any joy?’

Thorne was still struggling to process everything he’d heard and seen since he’d arrived at Barndale. The reactions to Amin Akhtar’s death from Bracewell and McCarthy. The psychological analysis from Shakir. He looked at his watch, then glanced across at the two POs cradling mugs of tea and looking as though they could not wait for the day to end.

‘Precious little in here,’ Thorne said.