She understood what he meant. The area was moving towards urban chic with apartment blocks, cafés and bistros where there had once been craftsmen and artists.
The building they were here for was a new development a stone’s throw from the leafy oasis of St Paul’s Square, the last remaining Georgian square in Birmingham. It housed eight high specification apartments, with the penthouse being a cool 3,300 square feet worth more than a million pounds. And that was the one they were here to visit.
‘How the hell are we going to tell them how their son died, guv?’ Bryant asked as she hit the button on the intercom.
‘All we’ve got is the truth,’ she replied before introducing herself and Bryant to the male voice on the other end. The electronic buzzing signalled their acceptance into a hallway that boasted a very different kind of art to what they were used to seeing in apartment buildings. No crudely drawn genitalia and swastika motifs here.
Kim spotted the camera in the elevator as she stepped in and pressed the button market ‘P’. No number, no floor, just a ‘P’. Kim only knew the elevator was moving once it landed silently on the top floor and the doors opened with little more than a welcoming whoosh.
‘Just like Hollytree,’ Bryant observed, sarcastically.
The lift deposited them in a small hallway with one apartment door and a fire exit escape to the right.
Before she had chance to knock, the door was opened by a man she recognised from the local television news.
Anthony Coffee-Todd struck her immediately as a man fighting his mid-forties. The depth of brown of his hair contradicted the smattering of grey in his stubble. The slightly receding hairline was not fooled by the forward combing of the hair.
She understood that being in the public eye added pressure to maintaining youthful good looks when your face was being broadcast to millions of viewers, but in the stark daylight in his own home without the assistance of clever lighting and a professional make-up person, his age was staring him in the face.
Unlike Louise Coffee-Todd, whose youthful skin matched her thirty-four years.
She understood that this was Anthony’s second family. His other son had moved to Australia with his mother when the family had broken up fifteen years earlier. Right around the time Louise had started at the television studios as a runner.
‘Please, come in,’ he said, standing back for them to enter.
She stepped right into a vast open space with stark white walls holding a selection of black and white art. The furniture was placed at the centre of the room on the largest rug she had ever seen. Three sets of double doors stretched across the space that led out onto the roof terrace. Somewhere in the distance Kim spotted an arch that led into a kitchen.
She tried to stop her biker boots from sounding on the wooden floor as she approached the island of carpet in the middle where Mrs Coffee-Todd stood waiting for them.
‘Please sit,’ she said, pointing to one of the four sofas.
Kim did so, and Bryant followed.
‘We are so sorry for your loss,’ Bryant said, as Mr Coffee-Todd joined them.
The couple sat on separate sofas.
‘We understand this is a difficult time,’ Kim said. ‘But we need to ask you some questions about Shaun.’
‘Of course but surely it was just some kind of accident…’
‘This was no accident, sir,’ she said.
‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, frowning. ‘We’ve been told it was a reaction to something he ate. He has a nut allergy,’ he said, as though this explained everything.
‘We’re aware of that, but there are other—’
‘But Principal Thorpe said—’
‘Principal Thorpe is not a pathologist, sir, and has not carried out the post-mortem on your child.’ Kim hadn’t meant to sound so brutal, but she could only indulge them for so long.
A penny dropped somewhere behind Louise’s eyes.
‘Sadie Winters too?’ she asked.
‘It’s fair to say we are investigating the deaths of both children,’ she offered.
‘So, you’re saying that both of our children were murdered?’ Anthony asked, with disbelief.
Kim nodded, understanding they would be suitably shocked.
The horror shone from Louise’s eyes. ‘But why? I mean… who would want to hurt our…’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Anthony said. ‘It’s some kind of accident. They both are. No one would want to hurt Sadie either. She was a lovely girl. I’m sure there’s some kind of—’
‘You know Sadie well?’ Kim asked.
‘Of course. Our families have been friends for years. Saffie and Sadie are like cousins to our…’ His words trailed away as he realised that two of the three children he’d just mentioned were now dead.
‘I’m sorry but I think you’ve made a mistake…’
‘Mr Coffee-Todd,’ she said, firmly, having wished to spare them the details. ‘Your son had two peanuts wedged in his throat.’
Louise’s head whipped around. ‘Shaun would never have—’
‘Precisely,’ Kim said. ‘We understand he managed his condition very well and would never have chosen to eat nuts.’
‘But murder?’ Anthony asked, running his fingers through his hair. ‘Surely an accident or some kind of prank that went—’
‘“A prank”?’ Kim asked, interrupting him and remembering some of the things Dawson had talked about. ‘Did Shaun belong to any of those secret clubs?’
There was not a second’s hesitation as Mr Coffee-Todd nodded his head proudly. ‘Yes, officer, Shaun was Six of Spades.’
Forty-Six
Geoffrey Piggott hurtled into his dorm room and aimed for his bed in the corner. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead from the sprint from his history class as well as the knowledge that he could have sworn his essay on the French Revolution had been folded inside the pocket of his backpack.
When called to produce it he had searched and searched, feeling his face redden and his armpits grow moist as the attention of the whole classroom had been focused on him. He’d found himself wishing that nice policeman would walk in and rescue him from humiliation as he had the other day. But he hadn’t, and Mrs Tennison had ordered him to go and find it. He had ignored the sighs and jeering and the missile that had caught the back of his head as he’d left the classroom.
As he rushed back he tried to remember the events of the night before.
His three roommates had returned from social time and taken residency on the bed opposite his own. He’d heard them chuckling at something on one of their mobile phones. His own phone had dinged a notification. With his back to the three figures on the bed he had checked his Facebook page, to see he’d been tagged in a video by one of his roommates.
The video was a near-naked overweight woman dancing around a silver pole, her cellulite-covered skin wobbling and jiggling all over the place. Roddy had commented with: ‘Piggott’s future wife.’
He had placed the phone back on the desk and offered no response. He had learned years ago that any reaction at all fed their amusement.
He had continued to work on his essay but had been aware of their presence the whole time. In many ways he had hardened himself to the insults. Although the names still hurt him, they were not at the root of his fear. His anxieties came from the constant thought of what was to come. How would they torture him next? When the lights went out would something come flying across the room and land on his head?
Only when he heard the sound of their deep rhythmic breathing would he allow himself to fully relax.
His watch alarm was set for five thirty each morning so he could be awake before they were. Alert and ready.
He stopped to think – when he’d woken he’d been thinking about his lessons.
‘Aah,’ he said aloud as he reached across his bed to the small bookcase.
He opened his biology book, and the essay fell out.
Relieved that it had not been taken this time he reached for it and headed towards the door but paused before he got there. A sick feeling began to build in his stomach as his brain caught up with something his eyes had already noted. Maybe he was wrong, he thought, hopefully, as he turned back towards the bed.