“Yes. Who is that?”
“Ah. It’s Angie Thompson here.”
“Who?”
The voice repeated the name, but seemed to be talking to someone else. I wondered whether she had the phone upside down or something.
“Can you speak towards the phone, Angie? I can’t hardly hear you.”
The next minute I was deafened by a bellow from the earpiece.
“Is that better? I’m not used to these things. That is Stones, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Angie, it’s Stones. What’s the problem?”
“They’ve taken Lloyd.”
“What? What? Who’s taken who?”
“It’s Lloyd. They’ve been and taken him. That is Stones, isn’t it? He said to ring Stones.”
My brain must have been affected by too much tequila or too much Nuala, but at last it was starting to click into place. It was just that Lloyd was never a name we thought to use for Mrs Thompson’s little boy.
“Slow Kid? Are you talking about Slow Kid?”
“Yes, that’s what you call him, isn’t it? But they didn’t — they called him Lloyd, very polite.”
“Who did?”
“The police. Didn’t I say? The police have been and taken him away.”
“Tell me what happened, Angie.”
“They came to the house, two of them. Not uniforms, the others, you know. Detectives. And they asked for Lloyd Thompson. Then they took him away.”
“Did you get their names? Did they say what they were taking him in for? Was he arrested?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. So many questions, Stones. They were asking questions too. But I’m sure Lloyd didn’t know the answers.” She paused. “I think that’s why they took him away.”
“Is that what they said — they were taking him for questioning?”
“That’s right.”
“They didn’t arrest him? Did they read him his rights and all that?”
“No, they didn’t. That’s right. They can’t have arrested him, can they, Stones?”
Angie Thompson knew about arrests. Her middle son had only recently spent a spell in Lincoln Prison, after all. And then there was Slow Kid’s father. He hadn’t been seen around for quite a few years, and it wasn’t because he was shy.
“These police. What were they like?”
“Oh, now. The one who did the talking had glasses. Very polite, he was. A nice man. The other was fatter, not so nice.”
A poor judge of character, Angie Thompson. But then she’d married Slow’s father, so it was too late to expect anything better.
“Was it Inspector Moxon?”
“Maybe.” she sounded doubtful. “Can you get him back, Stones?”
“I don’t know,” I said, honestly. “What were they asking questions about?”
“I can’t remember. They took me by surprise, you know, otherwise I would’ve got him out the back. I don’t know what they were saying. But Lloyd didn’t do it, whatever it was. I could tell.”
At least she didn’t claim, like so many mothers, that her little Johnny wouldn’t do anything like that and never got into any trouble. A mother’s love is blind sometimes. Even Jack the Ripper was probably a poor misunderstood boy as far as his mum was concerned.
“I’ll see what I can do, Angie. Is it Lloyd’s mobile you’re using? Will you hang on to it? If it rings, tell people to phone me?”
“I’ll try. Get him back, won’t you, Stones?”
I closed the call without promising anything. I don’t like to promise things I might not be able to do, and this came into the category. And so, unfortunately, did what Nuala wanted me just now. You can’t concentrate when you’re worried.
“I have to make a few calls.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Tough. There’s things I’ve got to do.”
“Does that mean I’ve got to get dressed?”
“Not if you don’t want.” Well, there’s nothing wrong with a decent view while you’re working.
The first call was to Ralph Catchlock. Ralph is a defence solicitor, and if Ralph can’t get you to walk you haven’t got legs. Slow Kid wouldn’t be on his own down the station for long. Then I made a few more calls, putting feelers out, calling in a few favours, even where I didn’t have any owing. I needed to know what was going on. It made me mad to think of Moxon sneaking round to knock on the Thompsons’ door, while me and Dave had actually been down the nick doing our duty voluntarily.
Picturing Frank Moxon completely ruined the effect of Nuala lounging around the house in her knickers. She must have noticed my expression, because she got dressed and started to talk to the picture of my mum and dad over the fireplace while I was still on the phone. One of the lads I’d rung thought it might be worth mentioning a bit of action that was supposed to be going on up the top end of the estate. He didn’t know if it was relevant. But, relevant or not, I was clutching at straws just now.
11
An hour or two later, and I was left feeling strangely dissatisfied. The calls I needed to make about Slow Kid had already been made, and now all I could do was wait for results. So far, I didn’t even know what the coppers were questioning him about, or whether they might charge him. What did they think they could prove?
But there were other causes for anxiety. Some of them made themselves obvious as soon as I started to take the afternoon’s calls on the mobile. There were two abort messages, jobs that had been called off or gone wrong. A trailer load of computer parts parked up near Worksop had already been nicked by somebody else when we got there. A delivery of watches and jewellery from Birmingham had failed to arrive for no apparent reason.
The occasional abort does happen. Sometimes people turn out to be not quite so stupid as they seem. Sometimes the coppers stumble across something by accident and we have to back off. Two aborts in one day seemed like bad luck. An omen, if you like. I rang up one or two of the boys, but they didn’t seem too bothered. They mostly wanted to ask about Slow Kid. But their talk didn’t make me feel any better. Time to clutch at those straws.
“Nuala, I have to go out for a bit.”
“Oh, where are we going?”
“I said I was going out for a bit.” Nuala’s a bit slow sometimes, and I have to repeat things.
“If you think I’m stopping in this place on my own, you’ve got another think coming. I’ve got better things to do.”
“Look, you’d only be bored. Anyway, it’s business.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’m going up Top Forest. Just to see some people.”
“Wonderful. I’d like to meet some of your friends.”
“Who said anything about friends?”
“Will I need my coat?”
“Only a bullet-proof vest.”
“Just let me tidy my make-up.”
“Nuala, you’re not coming.”
“Won’t be a sec.”
Naturally, I walked straight out of the door, pulling on my leather jacket as I went. You can’t let women argue with you like that.
But when I got the door of the Impreza open, somehow Nuala was already sitting in the passenger seat doing her lipstick. Her skirt was up round her bum as usual and she looked like she was ready for a Saturday night disco.
“Out of the car,” I said.
“What do you think of this colour?” she said, dabbing at her lips. “It’s a bit darker than what I normally use.”
“Look, you’re not coming.”
“You don’t like it, do you?”
“It’s fine, but—”
“I got it to match my hair.”
“Nuala—”
“I suppose you don’t like my hair either.”
I turned on the engine and pulled away from the kerb. I recognised the horrible whine in a woman’s voice that warns you she’s about to cry or sulk unless you do exactly what she wants. It was better to take her up Top Forest than tolerate that. There’s only so much I can bear in one day.