‘Please, come inside,’ he said, stepping inside.
Bryant cast a cautionary glance up before stepping underneath the neon sign hovering precariously between two ladders.
He followed the reflective figure through the darkness of a building site, weaving around piles of ceramic tiles and timber.
‘In here,’ he said, turning left into the male toilets. This area had been tiled in plain white oversized squares. Four urinals and two toilets had been shoved against the wall in the corner to make room for a desk.
‘Only place I can access right now,’ he explained, perching on the edge of the desk and offering Bryant the chair.
As Dawson took a seat on one of the toilets, Bryant had to wonder at the ridiculousness of this situation.
‘It’s one of those things that I’ll laugh about when it’s over. Just not right now,’ Nigel said.
‘We’re here about Bubba,’ Bryant said.
‘Of course you are; but please don’t call him that. His name was Brandon. Bubba was a name he gave himself, pretty much like everything else.’
Bryant was not surprised to see the lower lip of the good-looking man tremble.
‘What do you mean?’ Dawson asked from the corner.
‘You must know his background. He grew up in foster homes. Even his name was given to him by the vicar on whose doorstep he was left. Brandon had no clue about his parents or background so he made it up himself…’
‘He mentioned his grandmother to me,’ Dawson said.
Nigel shook his head. ‘Someone’s grandmother, officer, but certainly not his.’
‘May I ask how you found out about his death?’ Bryant asked.
‘A call, just ten minutes before it scrolled across the ticker tape of the twenty-four hour news channel. Short-term boyfriends don’t take priority, it seems.’
‘Who called?’ Bryant asked.
‘Frost?’ Dawson added.
‘Does it matter?’ he asked. ‘It doesn’t make him any less dead, does it?’ He swallowed deeply. ‘You must think I’m a complete arse being here the day after…’
‘Actually, I don’t,’ Bryant said. Keeping busy was his way of dealing with grief too. ‘But do you have any idea who might want to hurt Bu— Brandon?’
Nigel shook his head, sadly. ‘You know he was gay?’
‘Of course, but…’
‘No, I mean, really gay.’
Bryant tried to keep up. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t know what you mean.’
Nigel sighed heavily. ‘I’ve known I preferred men since I was eleven years old, officer. I make no apologies for my sexuality but, guess what, I want the same things as your young colleague over there. I want to find someone to love, get married, maybe have children and lead a productive life. Brandon just wanted to be gay.’
‘So what did that mean?’ Bryant asked.
‘He was aggressively homosexual, officer. I am a rainbow-flag flying member of my community too but Brandon wanted to challenge everyone who disagrees with our lifestyle.’
‘And you don’t?’ Dawson asked, leaning forward.
‘I want to live my life too. I refuse to hang on to hate and negativity, but Brandon thrived on it, invited it any opportunity he got. He would grab my hand or kiss me in public to provoke a response and then confront it.’
‘I don’t get how that is wrong,’ Dawson said from the corner. ‘Why isn’t he allowed to express his affection in public? Fair play to him for challenging the bigots.’
Nigel smiled. ‘If only the rest of the world agreed with you, officer.’
‘Did he have any particular enemies that you’re aware of?’ Bryant asked.
‘Oh please, he was a homosexual newspaper reporter. Take your pick.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘I told him,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘I bloody told him that kind of stuff would get him hurt but he was a gay man that liked to be noticed.’
A dozen thoughts began to swirl around Bryant’s head as an unwanted notion screamed in his mind. He pushed the chair back and stood. He needed to get out and think, try and put these thoughts together.
He held out his hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Townsend, and we are deeply sorry for your loss.’
He smiled as the tears finally spilled from his eyes. ‘Thank you, officer. That means a lot.’
Bryant turned to walk away as a feeling of dread began to form in the pit of his stomach.
‘Nice guy,’ Dawson said, catching up with him.
Bryant nodded.
‘What’s up, Bryant? You’ve gone a funny shade of sickly green.’
Bryant leaned against the car and took a breath. ‘Put it together, Dawson and include Aisha Gupta in your thoughts,’ he said, as his colleague shook his head.
‘Look at our victims. I think what we’ve got here is a sudden rush of hate crimes.’
FIFTY-FIVE
Stacey sat back in her chair and admired her work. Aaron Holt was one angry young kid. He was eighteen years old and unable to find work because all the foreigners were taking the jobs.
He had liked every offensive right wing, white supremacy group he could find and had started agreeing and commenting and sharing his own experience.
It sickened Stacey that Aaron Holt had received seventy friend requests in under an hour. The pity was that a post spreading peace and love wouldn’t have attracted anywhere near as much attention.
She’d added a few photos of pretty girls, some music tastes and a couple of games. Aaron Holt was beginning to look like a real person. And she didn’t like him one little bit.
Stacey felt herself moving further and further away from her initial reason for investigating Justin’s suicide. When she’d seen Justin Reynolds lying in a pool of his own blood she had been transported back to her own teens, to the day she’d held a handful of pills in her left hand and a full glass of water in her right.
It was the day after Janie Powers had kissed her. And she’d liked it.
Twenty-four hours had mixed the fear, repulsion, confusion and shame into one boulder that bounced around in her head. She felt permanently changed by the experience, as though it was printed on her face or a gigantic speech bubble above her head.
Her whole day at school had been spent looking around her, staring at anyone who laughed, convinced they were talking about her, and avoiding Janie Powers.
She had returned home to an empty house that had been both a blessing and a curse. At least her mother hadn’t witnessed the panic attack that had seized her and brought her to tears.
Her only thought had been to escape the feelings inside her. Their confinement in her own mind had expanded them to insurmountable proportions. All her life, she’d dealt with being different. Her skin had hardened against many of the insults over time. But this was yet another obstacle between her and anything resembling ‘normal’.
As she opened the packet of tablets she’d realised there was only so much ‘different’ a girl could take.