The Death Collector (2 page)

He became engrossed in watching them, their movement hypnotic. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, heavy soles on the concrete path. He just felt the strong arm reach around his neck and then he gasped as he was pulled down to the ground.

Joe Parker rubbed his eyes and rang the buzzer outside the police station entrance. It was a modern block of concrete and white windows on one of the roads out of Manchester, protected by high blue railings that were littered with take-away wrappers and crisp packets, blown against them by the passing traffic.

Summer was a couple of months away, so the spring nights still held some of the chill of winter. Joe shivered and pulled his jacket up to his chin. Lost sleep was one of the downsides of being a defence lawyer, he knew that, but that knowledge never compensated for the fatigue that he knew would pull at him the following day.

The intercom sparked into life and a bored voice said, ‘Hello, can I help you?’ It was loud along the empty street.

‘It’s Joe Parker from Honeywells,’ he said. ‘You’ve got someone in the cells for me.’

The intercom buzzed and then the door clicked open.

Joe checked his watch before he pushed his way inside: two thirty a.m. He hoped the visit would be quick; he might just grab a couple of hours sleep before he had to collect his thoughts and make some sense in the courtroom.

There had been a time when a visit to a police station was exciting, the fun of seeing the wilder side of life, like living out every police drama he had ever seen, but that was in the early days of his legal career. Ten years on, it was just part of the job, an unpleasant intrusion.

Some of the law firms in Manchester had their own army of clerks and police station runners, wages propped up by overtime, so the qualified lawyers avoided most of the late calls, doing just the duty solicitor roster to stay on the list. Honeywells didn’t have that luxury. It was just Joe with his phone in his apartment, hoping that when he went to sleep the next sound he heard would be his alarm. He was helped out sometimes by Gina Ross, a retired detective who worked his cases, but Gina didn’t like going to the police station. It was too much like her old job but from the other side of the table.

Joe always turned out, because sometimes that unexpected call turned out to be a big case that would keep the department in profit for another year, which was quite an achievement for a criminal defence lawyer.

So it was Joe’s footsteps that echoed as he walked along a short tiled corridor towards another locked door, the buzzer sounding as he got there, the custody sergeant noticing him as he put his face to the reinforced glass pane.

The sergeant gave Joe a bored look as he entered the custody suite, a high-ceilinged space with no windows. Just a desk and the walls lined by noticeboards and pigeonholes, posters pinned to any spare space, informing prisoners of their rights in numerous languages or telling solicitors that phones weren’t allowed. Joe dug into his pocket to hand his over but the sergeant shook his head.

‘You won’t be here long.’

Joe smiled. ‘Good. There are better places to be at two-thirty in the morning.’

The sergeant considered him for a moment, and then said, ‘Do you want a coffee?’

Joe was pleased that he had hit on one of the friendlier sergeants. ‘Yes, thanks. Just milk.’

The sergeant went towards a small room at the back of the custody suite and the air was filled with the rumble of a boiling kettle. Joe didn’t envy the man his job, responsible for every person who gets dragged through the doors, some quiet and compliant, others kicking and screaming – but they all have to be treated the same, the sergeant accountable for every bad thing that can happen. Some kept a quiet distance, sick of hearing every excuse and piece of abuse they got, and others saw themselves as hosts. It was a good sign, coffee in the middle of the night.

There were three custody records mounted on battered wooden clipboards hanging from hooks, each one bearing the scribbled records of a prisoner’s time in the police station. The sergeant came back through, holding two white mugs. Joe pointed to the clipboards. ‘One of those my guy?’

The sergeant put the mugs on the counter and then reached behind. He plucked one of the clipboards from the hook and handed it to Joe. ‘Yes, if you could call him a guy. Just some quiet kid. Something going on though. He didn’t want his mother here, so we’ve got the YOT lady instead.’ And he gestured towards a holding cell, really just a glass box, where those queuing to be booked in sat until their space at the desk came free.

As Joe looked, he saw a young woman in there, the unlucky one from the Youth Offending Team, playing with her phone, in jeans and a big jumper. Hastily thrown on, was Joe’s guess.

‘So what do you know about this kid, then?’ Joe said.

‘Nothing. Never seen him before and he hasn’t said much.’

‘Why’s he here?’

‘He was snooping around a house, staring through a window. Wouldn’t say why he was there but he looks like a peeper. A bit young for it though. If this is how he’s starting out, well…’ And the sergeant let the sentence hang so that they both knew what he meant. Bad habits only ever get worse.

‘Okay, give me ten minutes with him and I’ll get his story,’ Joe said. ‘If he’s got a good excuse, he’ll tell you and then I can go home.’

‘And if he hasn’t?’

Joe groaned. ‘I’ll tell him to keep his mouth shut and I suppose my night will get longer.’

The sergeant smiled. ‘You’ll make someone happy. There’s a young copper on this job who doesn’t fancy going back out into the night. Processing your boy keeps him warm in here until his shift ends.’

Joe pulled a business card from his pocket and slotted it into the clip on the board. He guessed at why he had been called out. Budget cuts had reduced overtime, so most officers went home when their shift ended, the prisoners left to stew on a plastic mattress with only the promise of a breakfast in a plastic tray ahead. The next day, a team of detectives would work their way through those locked up. Joe reckoned that they knew already they didn’t have much of a case this time, so they wanted the prisoner in and out quickly. Just enough to arrest him, but everyone knew the case wasn’t going to amount to much. They wanted him back on the street before they were obliged to feed him.

The details on the custody record were unfamiliar. Carl Jex – not a regular client. Joe flicked the pages and saw that he’d been arrested for voyeurism. Fifteen years old, his list of possessions amounted to a mobile phone, house keys, a bus ticket and some loose change.

Joe thanked him and went over to the holding area. As he went in, the YOT worker looked up. She didn’t smile.

‘How long are we going to be?’ she said.

Joe could hear the tiredness in her voice. ‘As long as it takes,’ he said. It was the only promise he could make.

She sighed and swept her long hair back. She didn’t want to be there any more than Joe did.

As Joe took his seat, he looked to the rear of the custody area. Two officers were loitering near the pigeonholes at the back, where the property bags and police station slippers were kept, just nylon slip-ons in red or blue. They looked like detectives – the suits gave them away – but they were dishevelled, as though they had also been dragged out of bed. The older of the two, beyond fifty and tall, seemed familiar. He had a good tan and hair that was dark and swept back, so that it looked too high and slick. The other man was shorter and greyer, wearing his years less well, in a light blue jacket and white shirt that strained at the buttons.

Joe drank the coffee; he needed it. The day had been long, with a court appearance and a desk-full of correspondence. The one that lay ahead was unlikely to be any different. He couldn’t escape the impression that the two detectives were interested in him but doing their best not to give it away. They kept glancing at the holding cell and didn’t appear to be doing much else.

‘Do you know anything about this lad?’ Joe said.

She looked up from her phone. ‘No. Not one of ours. His mother should be here really, not us.’

‘Well, you’re here now,’ Joe said, as the door opened. A skinny kid with scruffy brown hair was escorted in by a white-shirted civilian gaoler. His eyes darted around as he came in, glancing through the glass wall towards the two suited men. Once they were alone, Joe said, ‘Hi. I’m Joe Parker, from Honeywells, and this is…⁠’

‘Susie, from the Youth Offending Team,’ she said.

The young man kept his eyes on the two men in suits for a few seconds longer before turning to Joe. ‘I’m Carl.’ His voice was quiet and nervous.

‘So tell me your story, Carl,’ Joe said, as he rooted through his folder to find the sheets of paper he was obliged to fill out so that he could get paid for leaving his bed.

Carl sat down and said nothing. His knees turned inwards and he looked down at his feet.

‘Don’t be ashamed of anything,’ Joe said, his voice low. ‘Whatever you were doing, I’ve heard worse.’

Carl didn’t look like a typical criminal, casually dressed in a checked shirt, jeans and blue trainers, although Joe reminded himself that the boy had been arrested for voyeurism. Sex offenders were hard to spot, driven by whatever lurks deep inside rather than by the kicks given them by life, even more so when they were this young. Carl’s skin was pale, with a dark shadow on his top lip, his features awkward, part-man, part-boy.

‘If you’ve called me out, you’ve got to talk to me,’ Joe said.

Carl leaned forward, his arms on his knees. He spoke quietly. ‘Is this room bugged?’ he said. ‘Why are we in here, in this room?’

Joe looked around and then back towards the custody sergeant, who was reading a newspaper, just filling time between his regular checks on his prisoners. ‘They want you out quickly is my guess.’

When Carl didn’t respond, Joe tried to stop his irritation building. He could do without this. It was too late.

‘Okay, I’ll humour you,’ Joe said. ‘Why do you think it might be bugged?’

‘Because they chose this room to put us in.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘These places have interview rooms, but they’ve put us in here. Why?’

Joe looked at his new client. He was used to dealing with people whose wires just didn’t connect right, but there was nothing about Carl that stood out. Just some kid, looking a bit tired and like he would rather be somewhere else.

‘Like I said, I get the impression they aren’t planning on keeping you long,’ Joe said. ‘So talk to me.’

‘Not in here, if you can’t guarantee there are no microphones,’ Carl said, his voice sulky.

Joe looked out of the room. The sergeant had stopped reading and was talking in whispers to the two detectives who had been hanging around at the back of the suite. No one seemed particularly interested in the holding area.

But he couldn’t offer Carl any guarantees. He had heard of cases where the interview rooms were miked up, to pick up on conversations between crooks waiting for interview. It couldn’t be used in court, but it might help to steer an investigation.

Joe sighed. ‘Okay, I can’t promise there are no microphones.’

‘So we don’t talk until later.’

‘How can I advise you in your interview if you aren’t going to tell me anything?’

‘You don’t have to,’ Carl said. ‘I was going to stay quiet anyway.’

All of Joe’s fatigue rushed back at him. He could taste it in the staleness of his breath and feel it in the slow drag of his skin.

‘If you’re going to stay silent anyway and not tell me anything, why the hell have you dragged me out of bed?’

‘I needed someone from Honeywells to be here. I didn’t know it was going to be you. I’m sorry.’

Joe frowned. ‘You could have just called the office if you wanted a chat.’

‘I was going to at some point, but…⁠’ He shrugged. ‘I can tell you all about it outside, but not in here.’

‘Why is it so bad in here?’

‘It’s too dangerous,’ Carl said.

Joe was too tired for games, but when he looked at Carl he saw a determination in his eyes that said that he wasn’t playing. Whatever was on his mind, he was deadly serious.

And Joe couldn’t deny that he was curious to know what it was all about. He smiled wearily. ‘Okay, let’s get this done and get out of here.’

Carl returned the smile. ‘Thank you.’

It was the comedown he hated.

The fire had maintained him through the night, kept loaded with coal to keep their heat and make it intimate, the flames casting moving shadows as they lay together. One last time.

His head was against her breast, his arm across her, keeping her close. He remembered their times together, those nights in his car in secluded lanes, or reaching for her hand in quiet restaurants far away from home so that no one would see them. Their secret, close and intense.

He opened his eyes and the scene had altered somehow. Gone was the warmth of before. The flames were dying down and the mood was different. Now, it felt empty.

Things had changed. The police had been outside earlier and someone had been at his window. That changed everything. It could be the end. How did he feel about that? He searched his mind for that gentle flicker of fear, but there was nothing. Just an acceptance. He had always known it was coming. The end.