The Lost

Chapter 20

Jonah stayed a couple of cars back. The silver Vauxhall continued to head north through the outer boroughs of London with no sign of stopping. He wondered where the hell Dylan was going. Apart from anything else, the taxi fare would be costing a small fortune.

After a few more miles, the Vauxhall turned off into a street of large but run-down Victorian and Edwardian villas. A hundred years ago it would have been an affluent, professional neighbourhood. Now the once-grand houses were dilapidated and subdivided into cramped bedsits and flats. If Dylan was intending to buy drugs, this looked the right place to do it. Up ahead, Jonah saw the taxi indicate and pull in to the kerb. He drove past, then pulled in and parked a little further along. Angling the rear-view mirror so he could see the street behind him, Jonah watched as the Vauxhall’s passenger door opened and Dylan got out. The teenager looked around furtively, then turned onto the path of a large house, disappearing behind its overgrown privet hedge.

Jonah climbed out — awkwardly, because his knee had stiffened up — and retrieved his crutches. There was no gate on the path Dylan had taken, but wrought-iron gateposts stood at either side, rusted and crooked. The garden was long, overhung with old sycamores and horse chestnuts that had shed most of their leaves. The path’s uneven paving led past overflowing wheelie bins to a tall, four-storey house that still bore signs of its former grandeur. There were elaborately carved wains-coting and cornices, their timbers now rotting and hanging loose. Bay windows stood either side of the front door, one of them obscured on the inside by a pinned-up sheet in place of a curtain.

He made his way to the scuffed plastic intercom panel, its double row of buttons testament to how many people now lived there. There were no names, only flat numbers running from one to twelve, some of them barely legible. He was about to press one at random, hoping to bluff someone into buzzing him in, when the door abruptly opened.

‘Sorry,’ Jonah said, shuffling aside as a woman came out. She barely gave him a glance as she brushed past, trailing an odour of cigarettes and soup. Catching the door before it could close, he went inside.

The hallway was gloomy. At some long-ago point it had been decorated in various shades of green. Pea-green walls, dark green paintwork, and a swirl-patterned green carpet. With the only light coming from a small window on the stairway, it felt like being at the bottom of a stagnant pond. There were several doors on the ground floor, all of them painted the same dark green and all of them closed. The house was quiet, but as Jonah debated what to do, he heard a distant door open and close from somewhere above him.

It came from one of the higher floors. He considered the steep stairs without enthusiasm, then started up. The threadbare carpet threatened to snag his crutches with every step. On each landing he paused to check for any sign of Dylan. From behind some of the doors came the muted sounds of TVs or music, but all remained resolutely shut. Then, on the third floor, he heard the squeal of hinges behind him. Turning, he saw a single eye peering out at him through a narrow gap in one doorway. It stared at him for a moment, then the door was slowly closed.

He thought the next floor would be the last, but when he reached it there was another, narrower stairwell disappearing up to the attic. There was no guarantee Dylan was up there, but the door Jonah had heard closing had sounded high up, as though it came from the very top of the house.

With a sigh, he started to climb.

There was only a single door here, old and solid. It opened outwards, onto the landing rather than into the room, and two extra locks had been fitted. One above and one below the original mortice, stainless steel and expensive. The door frame had been reinforced as well, he saw, fresh drill holes every few inches showing where it had been screwed into the bricks on either side.

Pausing to catch his breath, he noticed there were black smudges on the door by the lowest lock. Footprints, and large ones at that, as though someone had tried to kick the door in. An attempt had been made to wipe them off, leaving the general shape still distinguishable but no identifiable tread pattern.

Jonah stood outside the door, listening. Soft sounds of movement came from the other side, but no voices. There was no spyhole for anyone inside to look out onto the landing, but he still moved to one side before he knocked. The sounds from inside abruptly stopped. Jonah knocked again.

‘Who is it?’

The voice was Dylan’s. It sounded high-pitched and panicked.

‘Landlord,’ Jonah said.

There was a pause. ‘What do you want?’

‘I need to check the meter.’

Jonah had no idea if there even was a meter in the room, but he guessed Dylan wouldn’t either.

‘Can’t you... can’t you come back later?’

There was a note of desperation now. Jonah almost felt sorry for him.

‘It won’t take long.’ He took his flat keys out and jangled them so Dylan could hear. ‘If you don’t open the door, I’ll let myself in.’

‘No! Wait, just... just give me a minute.’

The sound of hurried movement came from inside, the click of something being closed followed by the heavy scrape of furniture. Jonah knocked again.

‘Come on, hurry up.’

‘All right, I’m coming!’

A key turned first in the middle lock then the ones top and bottom. When the door swung open Jonah quickly moved into the gap, blocking it with his body so it couldn’t be slammed. The teenager was alone. Confusion warred with shock as he saw who it was. Jonah stepped inside and gave him a smile.

‘How you doing, Dylan?’

The room was a small studio, a little better than a bedsit, though not much. The only natural light came from a small and grubby roof window. There was an ancient nylon carpet, ridged and stained, and a grease-caked mini-oven on top of a fridge. A sagging two-seater sofa faced a small gas fire and behind that was a straight-backed chair and a single bed with rumpled sheets. On a chipped wooden coffee table in front of the sofa was a twist of tin foil and a packet of cigarette papers. A half-smoked joint had been mashed out in a cracked saucer, a filigree tail of smoke still rising from it.

The teenager stared at him, white-faced. ‘What do you want?’

‘Believe it or not, I’m trying to help you,’ he said, going to a small wardrobe by the bed. It was barely big enough for anyone to be hiding in, but he checked anyway. A few shirts and jeans were hung up inside, though not the sort of thing a teenager would wear.

‘What are you doing?’ Dylan asked.

‘Making sure you haven’t got any friends hidden away.’

‘I haven’t!’

‘Then you won’t mind me taking a look.’

There was only one other door, at the other side of the room. It was a cramped cubicle containing a stained toilet and washbasin, and a shower behind a mildewed plastic curtain. The curled husks of dead spiders lay in the dry shower tray.

Dylan was getting over his shock, blustering to bolster his confidence. ‘I told you, there’s no one here! And it’s none of your business anyway.’

‘Maybe not. But I’m a police officer and I’m betting you aren’t the legal tenant, so there’s that.’ Jonah let the curtain drop back and turned to face Dylan. ‘And I’m pretty sure that roll-up over there isn’t just tobacco.’

Dylan’s face fell as he saw what was on the coffee table. He started to lunge towards it.

‘Leave it,’ Jonah told him. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?’

‘Nothing.’

He wouldn’t look Jonah in the eye.

‘Whose flat is this?’

‘It’s a friend’s. He lets me use it.’

‘What’s his name?’

Dylan’s eyes darted around the room, as though for inspiration. ‘Why should I tell you?’

Jonah sighed. ‘It’s your dad’s, isn’t it?’

The teenager seemed to consider denying it, then gave a grudging nod. When Jonah had seen the bedsit door’s extra locks and reinforced frame, for a second or two he’d thought he might have been wrong about Dylan rushing off to buy drugs. But a drug dealer would have installed a spyhole as well, to see who was outside. The bedsit didn’t have one, which suggested its tenant didn’t expect many callers. And even though Dylan had a key, the clothes in the wardrobe obviously weren’t his. They looked like they belonged to someone older.

According to both Fletcher and Wilkes, Gavin had moved into a flat in Ealing after he’d split up with Marie. There had been no mention of anywhere else, and Jonah was sure the DI would have quizzed him if he’d known about it.

So why had Gavin rented this place and then kept it secret?

‘You need to tell me what you’re doing here,’ he said.

‘Nothing.’ The shrug was forced. ‘I just come here sometimes. To get away, smoke a bit of blow.’

The posturing rang hollow. The teenager was scared but trying hard not to show it.

‘Did your dad know?’

‘No, ’course not.’ His expression became guilty. ‘I only started coming... you know. After.’

‘Then how do you know about this place?’

The teenager hitched a shoulder in a gesture that was painfully reminiscent of his father. ‘I saw Dad come here one night. I was on my way to see a mate and he got out of a car in front of me. He didn’t see me, but I saw him let himself in downstairs, then after a bit the light came on in the attic window. I hung around waiting for him to come out again, but he didn’t.’

‘Do you know what he was doing?’

‘Why would I?’ There was an evasiveness now. Dylan began to fidget as Jonah stared at him, saying nothing. ‘I thought he might be coming to see someone, OK?’

‘You mean a woman?’

‘No, Father Christmas, who do you think I mean?’ Dylan coloured again, realising he was pushing it. He went on, grudgingly. ‘Wouldn’t have been the first time. And I knew he’d got the other flat, so it wasn’t as though he was living here.’

Except, apparently, he was. Or at least he was spending enough time here to merit having a change of clothes.

‘How did you get the keys?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes. How did you get them?’

‘How do you think? I took them, all right?’ He seemed close to tears. ‘We fell out the last time he was home, and I was pissed off with him and went through his coat pockets.’

Marie had said her son had argued with Gavin over money to buy new trainers. Yet Dylan had complained that a pair he’d just bought had been stolen in the break-in, and he’d obviously been able to replace those. The ones he wore now looked both new and expensive.

‘Why did you take the keys?’ he asked.

‘Because I wanted to get back at him!’ Dylan was shouting, tears flowing freely. ‘He’d fucked off and left us, and I thought he was shagging someone else, so I thought it’d serve him right to get locked out of his — his fuck flat! I didn’t know that he wouldn’t... that he’d get...’

That he’d get murdered that same day. Jonah felt sorry for him, but he couldn’t ease up just yet.

‘What about rent?’

Angrily, Dylan brushed at his eyes. ‘What about it?’

‘Whose been paying it?’

‘How do I know?’

Gavin could either have paid in advance or set up a regular payment that was continuing, but that was one for Fletcher. Jonah nodded down at the new-looking trainers Dylan was wearing.

‘Where’d you get the money for those?’

‘What?’

‘Your mum said you fell out with your dad because he wouldn’t buy you any trainers. But you had a new pair stolen the other day, and the ones you’re wearing now look pretty new as well. Where’d you get the money from?’

‘Mum gave it me.’

He was a bad liar. ‘Try again. What did you sell?’

‘Who says I sold anything?’

‘You got money from somewhere, so don’t piss me about. What did you find here?’

‘Nothing!’ The teenager suddenly seemed nervous. ‘OK, there was a laptop. I didn’t know the password, so I... I sold it.’

That was bad. There was no telling what information might have been on the laptop Gavin had kept here. And no way of finding out, unless it could be recovered.

‘Who did you sell it to?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘You’re going to have to, because the police are going to want to know. Who was it?’

‘A mate.’

‘What’s his name? And don’t give me some made-up bollocks this time.’

‘Barry.’

‘Barry who?’

‘I don’t know, he’s the friend of a mate! I get my gear from him, OK?’

Shit. Jonah could try and get the laptop back himself, but even if it hadn’t already been sold on, he didn’t have the resources to crack the password himself. Much as he wanted to know what was on it, that was better left to Fletcher as well.

‘What else did you sell?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Look at me.’ Jonah waited until the teenager raised his head to give him a sullen stare. ‘You didn’t only buy the trainers, there was all the computer and game stuff that was stolen from your room. You said it was new and a laptop couldn’t pay for it all. Or the taxi over here, so where did you get the money from?’

‘Look around, does it look like there was anything worth selling?’

‘Then why did you rush over here?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘I was there, I saw you. Were you worried that whoever broke into your house might come here as well?’

‘No.’ The denial was unconvincing. Dylan gave another Gavin-like shrug. ‘I just wanted to get out, that’s all.’

Fine, Jonah thought, resigned. If Dylan didn’t want to tell him then he’d have to see how well his attitude went down with Fletcher.

‘Where are the keys?’ he asked.

‘Why?’

‘Just give them to me, OK?’

‘Fuck that, I don’t have to!’

‘Yes, you do. Either that or I’ll have to take you in.’

It was a bluff, but Jonah hoped the teenager wouldn’t realise that. Dylan glared at him, his face red and his fists clenched, but then looked away. He shoved his hand into his pocket for the keys.

‘This is shit,’ Dylan muttered.

‘Leave them on the bed and go home,’ Jonah told him.

The teenager tossed them onto the mattress, then went to pick up the twist of foil and cigarette papers from the coffee table. Jonah shook his head.

‘That stays here.’

‘Oh, what...?’

‘If that’s yours, then you could be looking at up to five years for possession.’ It would be more likely a fine or reprimand. On the scale of things, Dylan could have been doing a lot worse than smoking resin. But Jonah had promised Marie, and a scare might do the teenager good. ‘And do you really want your mother to know what you’ve been doing here?’

‘What... what are you going to tell her?’

Jonah sighed. ‘Just go home, Dylan.’

He waited on the landing until the sound of the front door slamming came from downstairs, then went back into the bedsit. There would have to be an awkward conversation with Marie, and an even more uncomfortable one with Fletcher. But they’d have to wait. Closing the door behind him, he made sure it was locked.

Then he went to search for whatever Dylan hadn’t wanted him to find.