‘You recognized one of the e-fits in the paper?’ The detective drew out a copy of the newspaper from the file at her elbow.
‘That one.’ Declan pointed to one of the faces. ‘Tom Garrington.’
‘How do you know him?’
Louise waited while Declan told his story, listening for any deviation from what he’d said earlier. DC Illingworth interrupted a couple of times to ask questions, and each time Declan had to gear himself up to find his thread again. Louise stiffened with impatience. Her legs ached and she realized that she had them twisted and was pressing the top of one foot against the other calf, cutting off her blood supply.
To her credit, the police officer was very patient with the lad and didn’t try rushing him. When Declan got to the end – their swift departure from the party in the empty house and Luke sending the clip round – she turned to Louise. ‘This is what Declan told you?’
‘Yes,’ Louise turned to Declan, ‘but you missed out the drugs.’
Spots reddened on his cheeks and he gave a little twist of his head, sliding his eyes sideways like she was a fool for bringing it up.
‘We need you to be completely honest, Declan, completely open; don’t leave anything out,’ the officer said.
‘’Kay.’ He nodded, bit at a fingernail.
‘So tell me about the drugs.’
‘Just there was a lot there, all sorts. Everyone was high, you know.’
DC Illingworth sat forward. ‘Do you still have a copy of the video Luke took?’
Declan nodded. Louise felt sick. She didn’t want to watch it. She folded her arms and looked down as Declan found the file and passed his phone to the detective.
As DC Illingworth played the clip, Louise could hear the mess of chatter and music, then Luke’s voice clear and close, bubbling with laughter, ‘Say cheese.’
Oh you bloody idiot, Luke. You sweet, stupid idiot. When would he wake up? When would she hear him talk again? Would he be able to talk? Were those to be his last ever recorded words, ‘Say cheese’?
‘I need to make a copy of this,’ the woman told Declan, ‘but it is very helpful to have it.’
Louise understood that it would back up Declan’s story. Declan wasn’t exactly a straight-up guy who you’d buy a used car from, but this was proof.
‘You’ll arrest him?’ She gestured to the phone still in Illingworth’s hand.
‘If our enquiries…’ The detective was hedging her bets.
‘But that’s proof!’ Louise objected.
‘It’s proof of this specific incident.’
‘But that’s why!’ Louise heard her own voice high and tight. Too loud in the small space. ‘That’s why they attacked him.’
‘You’re probably right, but we have to follow procedures. We have to be methodical, meticulous-’
Louise snorted and shook her head, wired with exasperation.
‘If we don’t stick to the procedures, gather sound evidence and build a watertight case, then no one gets justice. And that’s what we’re all here for.’ Illingworth held Louise’s stare.
‘How long?’
The detective shook her head. ‘It’s an impossible question.’
It’s an impossible bloody situation, Louise thought. ‘I need a break.’ She stood up so abruptly that she had to reach out and catch the chair to stop it falling. ‘Is there anywhere I can smoke?’
‘I’ll take you outside. You can stay here, Declan.’ The boy was halfway to his feet. Probably gagging himself. Well he can wait, Louise thought, and then hated the meanness in her.
The detective left her in a small courtyard where a shelter covered a metal bench. Her hand was shaking as she lit her cigarette. Rage. At the delays, at the plod-plod way of dealing with it all. At the whole bloody world. She closed her eyes and smoked.
You’ll give yourself a heart attack. Her grandma’s words to her grandad when the miners’ strike was on and he’d be yelling at the television: ‘I was there; it wasn’t like that, pack of lies!’ The news covered running battles between the police and the pickets who travelled to support the strikers. ‘They were beating us up!’ He’d throw his arms up, his face deep red. ‘A load of southerners working for the Tories, no idea about mining, about what this means, about those communities.’
‘Sit down before you fall down,’ Grandma had said. ‘Why are you so surprised? We all know whose side the press are on, most of them.’
He had fallen down eventually. Louise had found him on the kitchen floor, coffee spilt. Only five weeks after he was made redundant. There’d been a terrible split in the union ranks in the run-up to the firm’s closure. Militants, ‘bloody Trots’ as he called them, dividing the membership, running dirty-tricks campaigns and smears, accusing some of the moderates of being moles or spies, in bed with management,
‘Divide and rule,’ he sighed one night when Louise was helping him fit new vinyl flooring in the bathroom. ‘Oldest trick in the book, and now we’re doing it to ourselves.’
His anger had turned sour and dirty in those last few months, and after he was out of a job he became bitter. Like the fight had gone and all he could do was brood.
Now Louise realized he was probably depressed. Even with all his learning and reading, all his political analysis, the job had defined him. He was a docker, his comrades were dockers, and when that was taken from him, he was a hollow man. His wife and Louise and Luke weren’t enough to complete him.
Her cigarette finished, Louise took a moment gazing upwards, where the shreds of white and pink cloud trapped the sunset against the deep blue of the sky. There was a gap in the rumble of traffic and no other sound broke the silence. No drill or dog or music or voice. As if the city held its breath. Then the drone recommenced, and bone-weary, she went back to join Declan.
She was calmer by the time they were through. Her anger had settled to a slow, smouldering burn deep in her belly rather than the roar and crackle of flames in her head. She asked to speak to DC Illingworth on her own.
‘I need to know what’s going on,’ she said, keeping her voice level. ‘No one’s telling me anything. I didn’t know those pictures would be in the paper. No one said Luke had been on the bus. I should be told these things, not have to read about it in the papers.’
She sensed a reserve creep into the police officer’s manner, a shutter coming down. ‘You have a family liaison officer?’
‘You tell me,’ said Louise. ‘I was given a name and number but I’ve never been able to reach them. They’ve not phoned me back.’
‘Has anybody been to the house?’
‘No. Look, I don’t need babysitting, but I shouldn’t be the last to know.’
‘I agree.’ The detective gave a thin smile. ‘Let me check this out. You don’t mind waiting?’
‘No.’ Waiting was her new way of life. Maybe she should have brought her patchwork with her.
She texted Ruby to tell her she was running late and to call at Angie’s if she needed anything.
After ten minutes, Illingworth bustled back in, all efficiency. ‘Right. I think there’s been some crossed wires at our end, probably the result of the holidays: officers on leave and so on. So, I’ve had a word with DI Brigg, the senior investigating officer, and he’s happy for me to be your designated point of contact. It makes sense, as we’ve met already. Any developments that we are able to make public, I’ll let you know. You understand there will be times when we are made aware of new evidence or information but need to keep it confidential.’
‘Okay.’ She could hardly argue otherwise.