Blue Murder (10 page)

Butchers shoved the clipboard at him. ‘I’m off to the shop.’

‘Get us a bar then.’

Butchers flipped him a v-sign without looking back.

*****

Ferdie Gibson was on his mobile to Colin as soon as the door had closed behind DI Mayne. The rozzers had already paid Colin a visit. Must have planned it. How’d they known Colin was going to be his alibi though? Then he got it. That’s why the woman had slipped out, to check it out.

‘I think they know something,’ Colin was freaking out.

‘They can’t,’ said Ferdie. ‘Not unless you put ideas in their heads.’

‘I didn’t, I swear. All they asked me was where I was yesterday morning and whether I went out or if anyone called. I told them I was in bed and then you

come round at dinner time.’

‘They ask you what time?’

‘Yeah, I said about one.’

‘Stick to that.’

‘You think they’ll come back?’ Alarm filled Colin’s voice.

‘How do I know. But if they do, say exactly the same stuff. Off by heart.’

‘What if they don’t ask the same things.’

Sweet effin’ Jesus, thought Ferdie. ‘Make it fit, don’t change anything.’

‘I nearly filled me kecks,’ said Colin, ‘open the door, copper there. Thought he was going to arrest me.’

Ferdie could imagine it. Colin with his frozen rabbit look. Guilt all over his face. Miracle he hadn’t gone down on his knees and made a full confession. Tosser. He should never have let Colin in on it.

‘Colin,’ Ferdie said, ‘just stick to the story and it’ll be cool.’

‘Right.’

‘They don’t know nothin’, right?’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘See ya later,’ Ferdie broke the connection and flicked on the sound for the TV, leaning forward with interest as the official photograph of Matthew Tulley segued into a shot of the secured scene of crime. He watched the report with interest, a smile on his face, his head bobbing like a hairless nodding dog.

*****

Richard was eating violently coloured corn snacks. How could he look so healthy, not to mention slim, when he ate such junk? An appalling smell filled the car. Janine looked askance and turned the fan on.

‘Ferdie Gibson, what d’you reckon?’ Richard asked.

‘I don’t know. He was edgy. Alibi’s a bit flaky, to say the least.’

‘If it was planned he’d have come up with something better.’

‘Then again, not the brightest button in the box, is he?’ she said. ‘So maybe it was opportunistic. Runs into Tulley, sees his chance, flips. Ropes his mate Colin in to try and give him some cover.’

Janine pulled the car into the gates at the entrance to St Columbus RC High. The school where Matthew Tulley had taught. The school was deserted, pupils and staff at home for the weekend. They were met at the front steps by Mr Deaking, the headmaster, who was expecting them.

‘A terrible business,’ he said. He was a short, balding man with a furrowed face. He looked disturbed, pale and pinched as though the blood had been drained from him.

Janine shook his hand.

‘Arthritis,’ he made an apology for the crabbed handshake. ‘Comes to us all if we’re around long enough.’

‘My father’s got it,’ Janine told him, ‘the bracelet do any good?’ She nodded at the copper bangle he wore. Maybe she could persuade her dad to try one.

He shrugged, turned the bangle this way and that. ‘Hard to say. Do come in. How is Mrs Tulley? Silly question, I suppose. Poor woman.’ He took them across the foyer past displays of artwork, charcoal portraits, a series of brashly coloured still life painting and a number of suspended sculptures made from rubbish as far as Janine could tell.

A few more pleasantries were exchanged and then Janine got down to the matter in hand. ‘What can you tell us about Matthew?’

‘Bright, articulate, efficient. He was an excellent organiser, dependable. Had to be, we’ve over a thousand pupils here, a long tradition to maintain. The position of deputy carries a great deal of responsibility.’

‘Any problems?’

‘Ferdie Gibson … terrible business. I never dreamt … you’ve interviewed Gibson?’

Janine nodded. ‘Mr Tulley was disciplined?’

‘Oh, yes, we nearly lost him. Governors saw sense, thank goodness. Then the boy returned – he was no longer a pupil at the time – and attacked Matthew.’

‘But that never came to court?’

‘Matthew was exhausted. He’d spent the best part of a year being hauled through the disciplinary process. Then this assault … he refused point blank to report it, wouldn’t press charges, wouldn’t even go to the hospital. Simply wanted to get back to normal and put it behind him.’

‘Were there any other incidents like the one with Ferdie Gibson, times when Mr Tulley lost his temper?’

‘We all lose our tempers. A room full of moody adolescents can be very trying on a wet day. But no.’

‘Was he well-liked?’

‘I couldn’t say he was one of the most popular teachers. As deputy there’s a lot of discipline to dish out but he was a fair man and I don’t think anyone bore him ill-will. Apart from Ferdie Gibson. Will you be arresting Gibson?’

‘It’s early days, as yet.’ Janine trotted out the standard response. ‘What about friends, acquaintances, anyone he was particularly close to on the staff?’

‘Not really,’ he sighed. ‘Awful blow.’

‘Mr Deaking,’ Richard said, ‘perhaps I could address the school on behalf of the enquiry? Let them know we’re doing all we can, who they can contact if there’s anything they think we should know, that sort of thing?’

‘Yes, of course.’

*****

Sunday lunchtime and Dean and Douggie had finished off a plateful of bacon sandwiches swilled down with mugs of coffee. Eminem on the sound system, Douggie mouthing the words. Housemate Gary was browsing his way through his second massive bowl full of cereal; mixing together Sugar Puffs, Frosties and Weetos. He ate like someone was going to snatch it away, shovelling it up in an unbroken rhythm, the spoon flying between the bowl and his mouth. He didn’t appear to chew at all, just crammed it in and swallowed.

‘Could get out?’ Dean suggested as Douggie laid the makings on the table and began licking Rizlas.

‘Cool by me,’ nodded Douggie. ‘There’s a park up the road. Have a kick about. Gary?’

Gary stopped for a fraction, spoon halfway to his lips, eyes wary. He grunted.

‘Fancy the park,’ said Douggie, ‘play some footie?’

Gary shook his head and resumed feeding. Dean wondered if he was all right. He never said much and seemed to keep well to himself. Had a wild feel about him, like he wasn’t tame yet, not used to human company.

They shared the spliff and Dean used the bathroom first. He shaved and wondered what he would look like with a ‘tache or beard. He wouldn’t mind a little beard, just along the jaw, cropped short. Couple of times he’d stopped shaving but he got sick of waiting for it to look like anything halfway decent.

Paula didn’t fancy it. She liked him clean-shaven. Would send him for a shave if he was too rough. Think I’ll let you in any of my soft places feeling like sandpaper? She liked his hair. She’d pull her fingers through it, over and over. He loved that.

Maybe his mum had done that when he was small. Sort of thing a mother would do. He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember hardly anything of her. Just a few moments, memories faded and smudged, crumbling at the edges like something left out in the rain or pulled from a fire. He hadn’t actually tried to recall any more. He reckoned there was more there and places he could go, people he could look up who would help stir his memories but no rush. Not ready for that yet.

While Dean rolled a couple of smokes for the picnic, Douggie cut a couple of lines of coke, chopping the powder this way and that with the razor blade, scraping it into shape. He snorted one and passed the mirror over to Dean. Dean leant forward and put the rolled-up note to his nose, pressed his right nostril shut with his finger and inhaled steadily along the line, sniffing it clear. It felt cold, like sucking frost up his nose. Then the familiar bitter taste at the back of his throat and a rush of mucous. He sniffed and swallowed, cleared his throat. They did another line each. Dean felt the rush begin. Happy. Sun was shining. Douggie smiled at him. Good mate Douggie.

Dean winked.

Douggie picked up the football. ‘Shall we go?’ In his Donald Duck voice.

Dean nodded. They stopped at the corner shop to get some beer and fags.

*****

Shap got no reply at Dean Hendrix’s home, he asked the next-door neighbour, who was lurking on her front step, if she’d seen him about.

‘No, but we’re not the sort for peering through the nets all the time like some. He doesn’t keep regular hours, you could never say when he’d be there. That’s his car.’ She gestured to the red Datsun.

Shap raised his eyebrows. ‘Anywhere he might be staying?’

‘He’s got a girlfriend, black girl, she’s round a bit but I think they mainly go to her place. She’ll know Mr Tulley, she was at the school.’

‘Know where she lives?’

‘No. But she works in town, one of those bars, our Kelly saw her serving. ‘Ang on.’ She leaned back into the house, cocked her head and yelled. ‘Kelly … Kelly

what’s the name of that bar where you saw Dean’s girlfriend? The bar … Dean next door. Right.’ She straightened up. ‘Steel, they call it.’

‘Thanks,’ Shap wrote it down. ‘Look, if you see Dean, will you ask him to give us a bell, DS Shap, this is the number, we just need to see if he saw anything yesterday.’

She nodded, took the card from him. ‘Have you got any leads then?’ Interest lit her eyes.

‘Too early to say.’

‘Terrible thing,’ she lowered her voice, ‘they say his insides were all spread out like some voodoo thing.’

Shap smiled, enigmatic, he reckoned, that was the word. He said nothing, enjoying the lurid speculation. He tipped his head, cocked his index finger, a little farewell gesture that he practised in the mirror.

Butchers returned, his face full of something.

‘Where’s mine?’

Butchers ignored him. Shap shot him a look. Lardy boy had about as much charisma as a garden snail. Why couldn’t he have been paired with Chen? Nice bit of eye candy. That’d brighten the daily grind.

‘Dean Hendrix,’ Shap told him. ‘Not home. Got his girlfriend’s details, though. Pay her a call later then we’ve cleared all the houses on Denholme Avenue.’

*****

While Douggie was paying, Dean saw the newspaper;
Allotment Murder Hunt
. Felt his belly flip round. Turned and went outside. Shaken, and wishing he’d never seen it. Spoiling his day like that.

The park wasn’t far. They passed the bowling green which was deserted, the grass lumpy and discoloured. Coming towards them was a little kid, a right shrimp on a massive battery operated tank.

‘Look at him,’ Dean said.

‘Neat.’

‘He could crawl faster. Look at his face.’

The kid was whining, his mouth turned down, close to tears. Dean clocked his parents, trundling along behind. Looked like they weren’t speaking to each other.

Douggie giggled. ‘This way.’

They parked themselves on a bench by some trees at the edge of a playing field. A crowd of Asian lads were playing footie, kicking a lightweight ball about using carrier bags and coats for goal posts. Dean leaned back, hands behind his head, looked up at the trees, watched the branches frame the sky.

‘If you had two grand,’ Douggie said, ‘and you had to buy one thing …’

It was a game they’d played inside. If you had … ? A way of spinning fantasies, of daydreaming. They would add more and more conditions: it had to be red and only made in the US … it had to fit in a drawer, it had to make music. They became increasingly surreal until the game transformed to a puzzle. Trying to figure out what on earth could possibly fit the list of qualities the other guy had come up with.

‘A suit,’ said Dean.

‘A suit?’ Douggie looked at Dean. ‘What the hell do you need a suit for?’

‘Don’t need,’ said Dean. ‘Want. Some of us have style, could have style.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Douggie laughed. The kids’ football smacked him full on the back of his head. ‘Oy,’ he jumped to his feet.

‘Sorry mister,’ one of the lads yelled. Douggie kicked the ball back.

‘D’you wanna game?’ another lad shouted.

‘Yeah,’ Douggie stood up. ‘We’ll slaughter you.’

They raced about for half-an-hour. Douggie was a dream with a ball, bouncing it from knee to knee and then flipping it over his shoulder and onto his heel. Scoring goals from ridiculous angles. He’d clown about in-between bowing to imaginary audiences, pretending to weep with joy. It creased Dean up. The kids obviously thought he was a total nutter but allowed it because of his skill.

Dean was fast but couldn’t do much to control the ball. When the umpteenth goal had been scored, Dean held his hands up. Enough. He was covered in sweat, his hair limp from it, his windpipe was burning from rushing about, his knees felt weak. The lads protested but Dean and Douggie quit. They went back to the bench. Douggie lit one of the joints. Dean took a hit. Man that was strong. Made him cough. Then he went dizzy, lovely and dizzy and he felt lazy, hazy, like his blood was full of sherbet.

‘If you could change one thing, just one, in the last year …’ Douggie began.

Yesterday
. Dean’s mood shrivelled and soured. Stupid bloody question. Yesterday. Oh, man, yesterday would never have happened.

Janine got a text message, from Michael: pls gt donuts ck chocsprd chili cola pudn. She read it aloud.

Richard looked bemused.

‘Michael, he doesn’t speak anymore – just texts us.’ Janine told him.

She started the car and took the road back towards the station. She noticed her petrol gauge was on red, reminded herself to top up soon.

Richard broke open a pack of Eccles Cakes and started munching.

She stared at him for a moment. ‘Where d’you put it all?’

‘Big brain. What was that diet you all went on – the grapefruit one?’