“It’s very important that I talk to Abdi now. But I wonder if you would prefer to break the news of Noah’s death to him yourselves, before I do that?”
Sofia opens her mouth. How to say it? She’s silently scrabbling for words and for the courage to say them, eyes fixed on Clemo, when Nur arrives home.
A small cry of pain escapes Maryam—she was holding out hope that he would have Abdi with him—and she finally speaks:
“They want to talk to Abdi,” she says to her husband in Somali. “Noah’s dead.”
The translator repeats her words for Clemo.
In the beat of silence that follows, Sofia says, “Abdi’s gone.”
The energy in the room changes instantly.
Clemo fires questions at them, jaw clenched as he barely suppresses his anger that they didn’t phone the police as soon as they discovered Abdi was missing. The detective with him takes a note of everything they say.
By the time they leave, the family are under no illusion that they’re obliged to turn any relevant information about Abdi and/or his whereabouts over to the police or risk consequences to themselves.
“Let me make this as clear to you as possible,” Clemo tells them. “Your son is now a person of interest in what may become a murder investigation.”
Nur speaks up as the detective inspector pulls his coat on. He isn’t cowed. He has a family to protect. “Abdi is an innocent boy. What will you do to find him and bring him home safely?”
Clemo pauses.
Be kind to my father, Sofia thinks, he’s a good man.
“We’ll do everything we can, sir. Of course.”
Woodley, his face as white as mine, jogs to catch up with me as we get back to the car, and doesn’t flinch when I curse.
“I’ve got to call Fraser,” I say.
I slam my palm on the roof of the car. I’m already regretting not putting more pressure on Abdi Mahad to talk earlier, and I’m sure I’ll be regretting it even more after I’ve spoken to her.
The look on Woodley’s face tells me that he feels the same way. It’s the sort of expression you’d make if you’d been invited to pet a venomous snake.
When I make the call, Fraser reacts to my news with silence at first, which is almost worse than a verbal tirade. Then she gives me instructions in curt tones.
“Get over to the witness now, as planned, and make sure she doesn’t breathe another word to the press. I’ll speak to Janie. I don’t want word of Noah Sadler’s death getting out if we can help it. It might make Abdi Mahad even less willing to come home, because I’m assuming he didn’t know about it before he did his disappearing act. I’m afraid we’re going to lose him to the streets if we’re not careful. Once you’ve read the riot act to the witness, and I’ve had a chance to put some things in motion to find this boy, we’ll finalize a plan for what we do going forward.”
“Boss . . .” I want to talk it through with her now, because I’ve got some ideas about what we should do, but she’s not having any of it. It’s out of my hands.
“Not now, Jim. Call me after you’ve spoken to the witness. Though this is not looking too rosy for Abdi Mahad, I’ll tell you that.”
On our way to Clifton Village, Woodley and I get through the city quickly on a string of green lights. As we pass the Children’s Hospital I feel my heart clench at the thought of Noah Sadler’s body: lifeless, machines withdrawn.
We find the witness’s shop easily. In an elaborately looped and curlicued font her name, Janet Pritchard, is all over the lilac signage. As I suspected, the shop is one of the boutiques that line a street in the heart of the village, where the glass shines and the clientele is mostly very well-heeled.
Inside we find a bored shopgirl behind the cash desk. When we ask where we can find the owner, she poses her answers like questions.
“Janet’s at the Albion?” she says. “Having a meeting?”
I know where the Albion is. A short walk takes us down a pedestrian street packed with café seating and a fruit and veg stall. Just in front of a Georgian carriage arch, which gives us a glimpse of an elegant garden square beyond, there’s a cobbled courtyard where the pub’s located.
Janet Pritchard is inside, having coffee with a man who wears a crisp white shirt, a blazer, and jeans with an elaborate metal buckle. He stands when we make our presence known. The place is empty otherwise, apart from a staff member who’s lighting a woodburning stove. A tang of beer is in the air.
“This is a surprise, Detectives,” Janet says. “Don’t you ever phone first?”
I don’t like the edge to her voice. It’s a change from the trying-to-please attitude she had at the scrapyard two days ago. I force a smile.
“We need a quick word with you, if possible.”
“This is my business partner, Ian,” Janet says.
“Nice to meet you.” He has a firm handshake, and the edge of a tattoo emerges from underneath a pristine cuff.
“Alone would be preferable,” I add.
Her partner gets the hint. “I’ll leave you to it. See you later, darling.” It’s said with a wink. Not just a business partner, then. I wonder if he was the man who tried to call while I was interviewing her in the cabin.
Janet clears away paperwork as Woodley and I sit down.
“What can I help you with?” she asks.
“At what point did you feel that it was appropriate to speak to the press about the disturbing incident concerning two teenage boys whose families are distraught?” I ask her.
Woodley sucks in his breath. Careful, I can tell he’s thinking, we need her onside.
Janet Pritchard gives me a level gaze.
“To be fair,” she says, “I didn’t know I was talking to the press. That lady came into my shop. I thought she was a customer at first, but she said she was a support staff person for witnesses and victims of crime. We went for a cup of tea.”
“And you believed her?”
“How was I to know any different?”
“Did you tell her that you witnessed a racially motivated attack?”
“No. I told her what I told you. She made the rest up.”
I’m not sure if I believe her or not, but her pout tells me that this is her story and she’s sticking to it.
“Can you describe her to me?”
“Gorgeous. She had thick dark hair and lovely eyes. Bit of a foreign name, though she didn’t look it. She gave me her card.”
As she roots around in her bag, I already know it was Emma, and when I take the card from her I see that I’m right.
“May I keep this?” I ask.
“Sure. I won’t need it now anyway, will I? Now that I know not to talk to her again.”
She raises her eyebrows in a sarcastic way that I don’t like.
“There could be legal consequences if you do.”
“Understood.”
“One more thing. Was one of the boys wearing a backpack when you saw them?”
“Might have been. Yes, I think he was. The boy who went in the water was.”
“Thank you.”
As we’re about to leave, I remember a detail that bothered me after her first interview.
“When we last spoke, you said you made the 999 call from your car.”
“That’s right.”
“And you said you had to root through your bag to find your phone, which is why you didn’t see exactly what happened as the boy fell into the canal?”