When Emma puts the phone down, she’s irritated but not surprised. There’s no dilemma for her here, though. She’s been working hard on the material and it’s nearly ready for publication. It’s a terrific story, and there’s no way she’s going to drop it.
Fiona Sadler’s call has piqued her interest, rather than dampened it. She wonders if there’s more to this. She can’t call Jim, but there’s somebody else who might be able to give her the inside story. If there’s a lot more to this story than she first thought, she could act on her idea to develop it into something that could be published in a few parts. A state-of-the-nation piece on the racial situation in Bristol perhaps, anchored by a gripping personal story. Surely the editor would bite her own arm off for that.
She leaves a message on the voice mail of an officer she used to work with, giving the name that they’ve agreed on. It’s not her own. She wonders how long it will take for him to call her back.
While she waits for him to return her call—it doesn’t usually take long—she returns to the document on her laptop. It’s a work in progress, a report of the botched police shooting from yesterday, specifically an in-depth commentary from an ex-insider on how something like this could happen. When that’s written, she’s going to continue her work on the main story, of the boys, but also follow up on any other angles she can think of: the witness, Janet Pritchard, for one.
She brings up a search engine and looks her up. Emma thought she’d seemed familiar when they met, but didn’t put the pieces together until she’d done an Internet search and found the woman’s Facebook page.
There, deep down in the photographs, was the link: Ian Shawcross. He’s associated by a previous marriage with a fairly well-known Bristol crime family that Emma encountered when she was working her first ever case, right after joining CID. She thinks she must have met or seen a photograph of Ian at some point in the course of that investigation, though she doesn’t remember exactly when.
On her notepad she writes down his name beside that of Janet Pritchard, and circles them both.
Days pass before Fiona and Ed Sadler are able to talk to each other properly.
When the news comes that Noah’s body has been released for burial by the coroner, Ed says very carefully, not wanting to push his luck, “We could invite Abdi and his family to the funeral.”
“Yes,” Fiona says. “And we could ask Abdi to do a reading, but only if he wants to.”
Her words sound strange to both of them. They’re so reasonable. She’s unsure whether she means them or not.
When I wake up on the morning after we find Abdi Mahad, my alarm clock tells me that I’ve slept for a six-hour stretch. It’s the first time for as long as I can remember.
Abdi Mahad is safe, but there are many details of the case that still need my attention, not least whether we’ll be charging him with anything. I head to HQ.
Sunday morning in the office is deadly quiet. Only a couple of us are in. Otherwise it’s like the Mary Celeste.
Some new evidence has arrived: Noah Sadler’s backpack, pulled from the canal yesterday afternoon. It’s in the evidence room, not yet fully dried out. It contains two large bottles of beer, a sodden pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a full set of kitchen weights, the type you’d use on old-fashioned scales.
The DC on duty and I are coming to our own conclusions about what that means when we get a call from Ed Sadler telling us about a suicide note that Noah left and, a little bit later, one from the hospital saying that Abdi Mahad is ready to talk, and that he’s in possession of a letter from Noah, too.
On the way to the hospital I think through the case. I don’t like loose ends, but I’m aware we have one in Janet Pritchard. I’m in agreement with Woodley that there’s probably more going on there than meets the eye. Jason Wright, the security guard, came in as arranged yesterday morning and gave a statement that varied significantly from Janet Pritchard’s. Apparently he asked if helping us out might make us look more leniently on his benefit cheating habit.
Between him and Pritchard I don’t know who’s telling the truth, but I will unpick it. I make a note to speak to Fraser about it first thing on Monday morning. With her permission, I plan to dig a little more deeply.
When I arrive at the hospital, I find Abdi in a small room that the nurses have cleared for us. He’s with Nur Mahad, who sits close to him and lays a reassuring hand on Abdi’s arm as we talk.
The boy looks drawn and tearful.
I sit down on a chair that’s set at a right angle to his. I want this conversation to feel informal.
“I didn’t know he meant to kill himself,” Abdi says. “I thought going out was just another crazy Noah idea, because he was always trying to prove himself. The cancer made him feel like a freak. It gave him a massive inferiority complex. I didn’t even know he was dying.”
We wait while he mops up his tears.
“We can do this another time,” I say.
“No! I want to now. I want to say it all.”
He talks. The tale he tells is of a night where he found out a devastating truth about his own origins. It continues with a journey through the city center where he felt vulnerable and confused about what he and Noah were doing at first, and then increasingly frightened. Everything he says fits with the CCTV images we have, and with the evidence: the sodden backpack, the letters. He’s extremely articulate, but I’m continually reminded by words he uses and gestures he makes that he’s just a boy, and that all of this is far too big for him to have to carry on his shoulders alone.
“It’s my fault he’s dead,” he says when he’s finished talking us through it all.
“It’s not your fault, Abdi. Noah intended to take his life.”
“None of it’s your fault,” says his father.
“I didn’t believe him. I just thought he was lying when he said he was dying. If I’d believed him, maybe I could have stopped him.”
“It was always Noah’s intention to take his own life on Monday night. Even if you’d tried, I’m not sure you could have prevented him. And if you’d stopped him then, he would probably have found another way on another day.”
“But I pushed him. He shoved me first, but I shouldn’t have pushed him back. I had so much going on in my head, though, I couldn’t deal with his stuff. So I didn’t think, I just did it.”
“Did you intend to push him into the water?”
“No. He tripped, and then it was like he let himself fall. He spread his arms out before he hit the water, and it covered him up so quickly. But I should have tried to save him.”
“No,” I say. “You shouldn’t. Not if you can’t swim. You would have risked your own life.”
“I thought that my own life was over that night. It was doing my head in.”
“It’s not over,” Nur says. He cups the boy’s face in his hands gently and looks into his eyes. “Your life’s not over, Abdi. It’s only just beginning.”