“Talk to me, Fi.”
“It’s nothing. I am grateful. I can’t believe he’s even made it back to school.”
“He’s made a friend on his first day. That’s got to be a good sign. I loved Medes College. I know he’s going to.”
“I just want something to work out for him.”
“It will. I promise you, it will.”
I put a cushion over my head. Ears muffled, I imagined myself in a small airplane, high in the sky above the Skeleton Coast, flying into the sun until I was so close I couldn’t see anything at all.
The next day when I got to school, Abdi was talking to another boy, but I tapped him on the shoulder and asked him if he could help me find the maths staff room. I could have found it myself, obviously, but I wanted him to come with me.
On the way, I told him all about my dad’s trip to Namibia, and the sand dunes that rose out of the sky like cliff faces.
I talked so much that I got out of breath, and Abdi helped me to a bench, where we sat and rested for a few minutes.
The bench was in the marble corridor, and I showed Abdi where Dad’s name was printed in gold letters on a big wooden board because he was a house captain.
It was nice.
Noah’s Bucket List Item No. 2: Visit the Skeleton Coast (this one’s a long shot, I know).
In addition to the recording of the emergency call, I request public CCTV footage from the city center, along any routes that the boys might have been likely to take from Clifton to Feeder Canal. I want footage from the scrapyard and surrounding area, too, but that’s going to have to be requested from any local businesses who might have private cameras, so I ask Woodley to get on that.
Woodley and I sign out a pool car and make the short drive over to Easton. He agrees to keep a low profile during the interview. I want him to observe while I question. Some members of the Somali community have a reputation for keeping to themselves. I don’t know how fair that is, but it makes me wary of behaving in any way that might alienate this family.
The Mahad family lives on an estate that’s sandwiched between Stapleton Road and the motorway. It’s not the ugliest estate in the area, nor does it have the worst reputation, but it’s probably somewhere you’d be plotting to get away from if you had anything about you.
There’s a small grassy area that sits between the buildings in the middle of the estate, and I park alongside it. It looks muddy and unkempt, and I don’t think the swing set could pass a health and safety inspection even if it bribed somebody.
We’ve had no detailed briefing about the family, so I’m not sure what to expect as we approach their building. In the middle of a short row of buzzers that are broken or just identifiable by number, theirs has a neat card inserted into a space beside the button with their name carefully printed in ballpoint pen.
Inside, there’s no elevator, and the stairwell’s badly lit, though not so much that you can’t see the blistered paintwork. The family lives on the third floor. We’re greeted with a handshake by a tall man who’s wearing round gold-rimmed glasses, a white shirt, gray trousers, and an expression of deep concern.
“Nur Mahad,” he says, and we introduce ourselves.
Inside, seated on one end of an L-shaped sofa, are two women, both dressed in hijabs. The younger woman’s headscarf is deep ruby red and draped stylishly over a soft, oatmeal-colored sweater. She also wears slim dark jeans. She’s rolling a gold bracelet around her wrist. She’s slightly on the chubby side, but also strikingly pretty.
Her mother’s clothing is much more conservative: a black headscarf worn over a long, deep brown gown that covers her feet. She wears a pale blue cardigan over the top of her gown as well, but it doesn’t stop her looking as if she’s cold. There’s no spare flesh on her face. Her cheeks are almost concave.
I nod in the direction of the women, remembering that it might not be the right thing to do to offer my hand if this family is very devout.
“My wife, my daughter,” Nur Mahad tells me. “Maryam and Sofia.” His voice is heavily accented.
“Is Abdi here?” I ask. “I’d like to have a word with him if possible.”
Five paces bring us to the door of a bedroom containing a single bed and a modest-sized desk. Curtains are drawn across a small window. Abdi lies with his back to us, almost completely covered by his duvet.
“Abdi!” his father says. “The detective is here to talk to you!”
He opens the curtains and shakes his son gently by the shoulder. Grayish light filters in, but not much of it, because the view from the window is mostly of a wall opposite. Abdi’s body moves as he’s being shaken but falls still as soon as his dad lets go. He looks much taller than Noah Sadler, from what I can tell. He’s skinny, with long limbs: the shape of an adolescent boy having his big growth spurt. His hair’s cut neatly, and short. He’s very much a schoolboy.
Nur Mahad shrugs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “He’s been like this since he got home. We don’t know what to do.”
He goes to shake the boy again.
“Sir,” I say. “That’s okay. May I speak to him myself?”
He steps away and I squat beside the bed, but I keep a respectful distance. If the kid’s suffering, I don’t want an accusation of harassment.
“Abdi,” I say to the back of his head, “I’m Detective Inspector Jim Clemo.” I think the rise and fall of his shoulders accelerates slightly. He’s listening.
“I’m investigating what went on at the canal last night. Are you feeling up to talking to me about what happened?”
No change. My gut tells me that he’s not putting this on. He’s afraid. He’s either seen something or done something that’s terrified him into silence. It’s got me interested.
“You’re not in trouble, son,” I say, even though I’m not a hundred percent sure of that. “I’m here to listen to you.”
Nothing. I consider my options and settle on the only one that’s realistically available.
“Abdi, I’m going to leave my card here.” I take one from my wallet. There’s no bedside table, so I pin it on the corner of a corkboard that hangs beside his bed. The board’s covered in school certificates and commendation letters. There’s also a photograph of two boys, about twelve or thirteen years old, I guess, arms slung around each other’s necks and holding a trophy between them. It’s shaped like a chess piece.
The caption reads: It’s a county win for Abdi and Noah!
The happy, smiling boys celebrating their victory in the photograph couldn’t be more different from the inert, silent body in the bed in front of me.
“You can contact me at any time, Abdi. I’d really like to hear from you about what happened last night.”