Manon thinks of the tape that might be wrapped about her house, setting the neighbours muttering over fences and down telephone wires about the boy they already glanced at with suspicion as he curved about their cul-de-sacs on his bike, long-limbed, standing up on the pedals. She wonders how long before his name is leaked, how long before aspersions turn into certainties, backed up by righteous indignation from people who claim they have been at risk.
A tear rolls down her cheek. Where is he now? Curled in a foetal position in his hard cell? The mattress a wipeable gym mat. The blanket scratchy, sliding off his thin body. Is he crying for her? She knows he is frightened, alarmed. Is Davy looking in on him through the square window in the door, then slamming it shut? What possessed her to bring him here, away from everything he knows?
Day 15
29 December
Davy
On Manon’s front lawn, he has an out-of-body moment, as if he is looking down on himself from above.
Normally, he’d be high-fiving his nearest officer or, if no one was to hand, just whispering, ‘Yessss.’ He’d be on the phone to Harriet, saying, ‘Got him.’
Instead he walks over to her, heavy through the flat, shadowless day. Hands in his trouser pockets, he says, ‘There’s a knife block.’
Harriet looks grimly at him. ‘Go on,’ she says.
‘There’s one knife missing from the block – we’ve searched the kitchen for it. The proportions of the missing knife match the blade size given by Derry Mackeith for the murder weapon.’
‘OK, that’s still circumstantial,’ Harriet says. ‘Might be coincidence. The knife might be missing for some other reason.’
‘That’s not all,’ says Davy. ‘The trainer – the print in the blood. It was in Fly’s room. And his hoodie.’
‘The fibre snagged on the bush?’ says Harriet.
Davy nods.
‘Right,’ she says. ‘I don’t think we have a choice now, not with the postmortem and the phone work. We need to put the allegation to him in interview, see what he says, then call the CPS, see what they think about charging him.’
Davy has tried to contain the Bradshaw barrage by ushering her into interview room one and closing the door.
‘I hope you’re looking at all the other kids who would’ve been in the park that day. The park that’s right opposite Hinchingbrooke School? There’s barely an inch of that park that doesn’t have a teenager in it at some time of the day.’
Less a mountain range, he’s thinking (looking down at his case file to avoid Manon’s tirade), more a volcano, molten and spitting.
‘I hope you set up a roadblock to ask for witnesses. Did you, Davy? And house to house, did you do house to house? Because no one came to our house, Davy. Didn’t I teach you anything? What about people who walked up from Huntingdon station? I take it you’ve captured all CCTV off transport.’
‘We’ve got evidence,’ Davy says quietly.
‘What evidence?’ she says.
‘I can’t tell you that, you know I can’t tell you that. You’ll find out when prosecution papers are served on the defence.’
‘That’s weeks! You’re going to let my son rot in custody for weeks, without telling me what you’ve got on him?’
‘Enough for the CPS.’ In interview, accompanied by his brief Mark Talbot, Fly answered no comment to questions about what he was doing in the park at the time Ross was stabbed and whether he did it. ‘I can’t tell you what we’ve got, you know that perfectly well, Manon. I’m not doing this to hurt you, I’m following normal procedure where there’s a case to answer. Same as you would do if it were my son. What d’you want me to do – ignore the evidence?’
‘I’m not asking you to ignore it. I’m asking you to consider that you might be wrong. I’m asking you to look at the whole picture. Maybe, you’ve narrowed your main lines too early, Davy …’
‘Because of the evidence that’s come to light.’
‘No, because you want it to be Fly. You want it tidy. And because you hate me for coming back.’
‘Hate you?’
‘That’s right. I’ve ruffled your feathers and now you want to show your sugar daddy that you’re up to the job. Well, you’re not up to the job, Davy.’ This comes out as a watery shout. ‘You’re not!’
He smarts. Colours up.
Harriet has come into the room. She casts Manon a guilty look.
‘You’ve told her,’ Harriet says to Davy.
‘That you’re charging Fly? Yes, he’s told me. But you wait till I see your evidence. I’m going to knock it down, every shoddy brick of it,’ says Manon.
‘I’m not even supposed to discuss it with you,’ Harriet says, glancing towards the door and going to close it. She turns. ‘Ross gets off the train at 4.13 p.m. right? Takes him ten minutes to walk the Brampton Road, he turns into Hinchingbrooke Road at 4.23 p.m., he collapses and dies at 4.27 p.m. Fly is on the CCTV at 4.32 p.m. He walks over the blood drips that were found on the path. You explain it to me, Manon.’
‘Fly doesn’t dispute going through the park. It’s his route home. Can you see him stabbing Ross on the film? No, I didn’t think so. So, what, you’re wondering how Fly didn’t notice a man dying right next to him? He’s in a bubble, that’s how. Have you ever witnessed how many times I have to say things to get Fly’s attention? It’s like he’s got his own time–space continuum. He’s in a dream world. Santa could fly past on his sleigh and Fly wouldn’t notice. Did he have buds in his ears? Because if he did, there’s even less chance of him noticing. I often wonder if he’s deaf or mentally subnormal but actually, he’s just a boy.’
‘The knife, the murder weapon, fits the dimensions of the knife missing from your knife block.’
Manon is pacing. ‘Jesus, we moved house four months ago. I haven’t located the cheese grater either. Or the garlic press.’
Harriet is silent. She has one knuckle on the table, the other hand on her hip. ‘D’you want to come with us to Fly’s detention room? Be there with him?’ she asks.
They let Manon go first, lumbering in front of them along the corridor to the room that’s closest to the custody sergeant, reserved for the young and the vulnerable. Mark Talbot is already in with Fly.
The atmosphere is like that surrounding a death, silent and grave in the moments before Harriet utters the words. Davy feels like an executioner. All those years he’s spent volunteering at youth centres, mentoring vulnerable teenagers, and here he is with a square of black cloth on his head, sending a child down.
He looks at all the adults standing; dark suits, jowl-heavy grey faces like some sombre oil painting from the past. Davy sees that something irrevocable is about to take place. Just at the moment it wounds Davy most, Fly starts to cry: unashamed, terrified tears, looking at Manon and saying, ‘Mum.’
‘You are charged with the following offence,’ says Harriet. ‘That on the fourteenth of December at Huntingdon, you did murder Jon-Oliver Ross contrary to common law. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now—’
‘Mum,’ Fly says, holding on to her.
‘Don’t do this,’ says Manon.
Davy cannot look at her.
‘—something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Have you any reply …’
The rest passes in a blur, Davy aware only of the cold bubble of guilt travelling up his spine and the desire to get away.