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Date Posted: 19:22:47 10/24/02 Thu
By the time Graeme arrived at his desk the next morning, there was already a stack of pink messages waiting for him. Three of them were from Mrs. Sheffield; with only a slight twinge of guilt Martin moved them to the bottom of the stack. He’d need to call her, but not right now.
There was also a sticky note from the desk lieutenant: Stapleton. See me. Martin deposited his coffee cup on his desk and crossed the room with the yellow Post-It in his hand.
“Sir?”
“Martin, I need all files you have on the Stapleton mugging.” The lieutenant gave him an uncompromising glare from under heavy black eyebrows.
“That’s my case, sir. May I ask –“
“It’s being reassigned, Martin,” the lieutenant interrupted, his face mirroring the irritation that Martin knew was written over his own. “The file’s being sent out. This order came from above, neither you nor I can do anything about it. Pull the paperwork together and put the file on my desk in the next hour.”
Hopeless or not, Graeme wasn’t going to give up his case without an argument. He opened his mouth to respond and the lieutenant [stopped] him with a slashing hand movement. “I don’t want to hear it, Martin. Do what you’re instructed [told?]; then I have a case for you that needs immediate attention.” That caught Martin’s attention. “A missing boy, disappeared last night. The parents are here waiting to talk to someone. It’s yours.”
The Stapleton file was pathetically thin; only the transcript of Martin’s interview with the witness and the coroner’s report on the cause of death. Martin scribbled a quick note that Rene Dian had disappeared from the Salvation Army shelter overnight - let’s see what MI6 makes of that! - and was back at the lieutenant’s desk in minutes.
“That’s it?” The lieutenant gave him a sharp look.
Martin raised his eyebrows innocently. “I didn’t have a lot of time to work it, did I? The woman only died late yesterday.”
“That’s true.” Neither man mentioned the notebook in Martin’s overcoat, now draped over the back of his desk chair. The lieutenant wasn’t any happier than Martin about having cases pulled from their jurisdiction by Vauxhall. [POV?] “Here’s your file. Parents are…” he flipped open the manila folder by his right hand, “John and Frances [Parsons]. Here’s the preliminary paperwork, they’re in Interview Two.”
Interviewing grieving frightened parents is one of the nastier aspects of policework. It took Graeme more than an hour to get a description of Colin Parsons, a list of friends to contact and an idea of the boy’s daily routine. Mrs. Parsons sat pale and red-eyed, stammering over her words as she fought back tears. Her narrow hands were never still; they coiled in her lap, twisted locks of faded blonde hair or fumbled with her purse as she pulled out a list of names, the school directory, a Kleenex to wipe her eyes. Mr. Parsons barely spoke; only smoked cigarette after cigarette, lighting one from the previous with large calloused hands that trembled uncontrollably. Another hour was spent doing basic research on the family. John [Parsons] was a welder in a local factory with a good work history and no police record. His wife Frances was the secretary at the local comprehensive school Colin attended. There were no indications of unusual family stress, no history of domestic violence or running away; Colin was, for all he could see, an average teenage boy with middling grades and no police record. He had simply disappeared overnight.
As the boy was sixteen and in no apparent danger, Martin’s request for an assisting bobby was denied. Before leaving the [precinct/district], he took a few seconds to call the Crawley library and reserve a public-access computer in the name of Pierre Bonnière. In the bright light of morning they had determined it safest to do the next stage of hacking away from Horley. How Michael was going to get himself the ten kilometers to the neighboring town and prove himself to be Bonnière was not his problem; Martin put the Stapleton matter aside and concentrated on the [Parsons] disappearance.
The first interview was with Andrew []. The [] house was an older 18th Century home on the outside of town, set on beautifully manicured lawns. He was met at the door by Mrs. [], a tall, overly-slender woman dressed in pearls and (from what he could tell) designer clothing even on a Thursday afternoon.
“Mrs. {}? I’m PC Martin. I contacted you this morning about the disappearance of Colin [Parsons].”
Donica [] fluttered her hands nervously as she gestured him in. “May I offer you tea? Something to eat?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but no. Is your son Andrew at home?”
He was answered by the appearance of the young man in the doorway. Andrew [] was a hulking, broody sort of teenager with broad shoulders and heavy brows. Made for rugby rather than Eton, Graeme thought, and wondered what Colin had had in common with him.
“Why are you here?” Andrew’s voice was low and grating, as if speaking was painful.
“Have you seen your friend Colin in the past few days? It seems he’s gone missing.”
“No.” Andrew turned around and walked away. Graeme followed him into a comfortable, well-appointed library. The telly was blasting some rock video at full volume; the teen dropped ungracefully into a large overstuffed chair and picked up his game boy.
“Andrew,” Mrs. [] twittered ineffectually, “please talk to the Constable. This is important.”
Graeme could read the contempt in Andrew’s eyes. “I realize that, Mother. I haven’t seen Colin.”
“Was he at school yesterday?”
“I’m not his truant officer. Ask the school.”
“Was Colin in trouble at school often?”
“You mean, would he run away? Nah. He’s too much a coward. Under his mummy’s and daddy’s thumb.” Mrs. [] wrung her hands and dropped her eyes at the [loathing glare] her son directed at her.
“If he did run away, where would you suppose he would go? Did he have a girl?”
Andrew sneered. “Not hardly.”
You think you’re such a tough guy. “So, what’s your take on this? Where do you think Colin is?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Andrew grabbed the remote control and raised the volume on the TV, effectively ending the interview.
Next on the list was Lionel Weekes. The Weekes’ residence was across town, in a housing development on The Ridgeway, under the shadow of Gatwick Airport. Landing planes flew low enough to read the serial numbers stenciled on their metal bellies and the roar of the jet engines overhead was deafening. Rather than try to speak over the noise, Graeme simply held his badge up when the door was answered and was quickly ushered inside.
Sitting between his parents on the worn davenport, Lionel looked small, thin and substantially younger than his true age. His mother sat on his left, clinging tightly to his hand, her face ashen-lipped and drawn. Lionel Sr. sat rigidly on his son’s other side, hands clasped so tightly that the knuckles showed white. The boy himself was red-eyed and definitely green around the gills. And Graeme knew what had happened before he asked a single question.
“Where’s Colin, Lionel?” He pitched his voice low and gentle.
The boy shook his head wordlessly; his eyes lowered and fixed on his linked hands.
“Lionel.” Graeme hardened his tone. “You stink of stale whiskey, I can smell you from here. You were drinking last night with Andrew and Colin and now Colin hasn’t come home. What happened? You need to tell me.”
Lionel opened his mouth, paused and remained silent.
Impulsively, Graeme crossed to him and crouched at the boy’s knees. “Look at me,” he ordered quietly. Lionel raised tear-filled blue eyes. “His parents need to know where he is. You owe them that. Let them bury their son.”
Mrs. Weekes stifled a sob.
“He’s in the river,” Lionel said softly.
“All right.” Graeme nodded. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“We snuck out last night.” Lionel glanced fearfully at his father.
“You’ve done this before?” Graeme interjected, drawing the boy’s attention back.
“Yes. We meet at the sports field, over by the church?” Graeme nodded encouragingly. “So we were sitting on the pier on the river, passing a bottle. And Colin… he just slipped off the dock into the water. We thought he was joking around so we waited for him to come back up.” Lionel took a shuddering breath.
“But he didn’t.”
“No.”
“What did you do then?”
“We waited, oh god, we waited for so long. And it was dark and we couldn’t see him and we couldn’t hear him splashing or calling for help.” A lone tear began to trickle down his cheek. “Andrew said we had to go. We had to go home and not say anything. He said we’d get in trouble, we’d get expelled, we’d go to jail.”
“So you came home.”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Lionel Sr. exploded in fury. “Why didn’t you tell us? You left him to die?”
“I… I didn’t know what else to do.”
“OK, Lionel, OK,” Graeme soothed. “Mrs. Weekes, could you get Lionel a glass of water? Sir, would you speak privately with me for a moment?” He drew the father aside. “Sir, your son was not at fault here. It was an accident.” He held up his hand, forestalling the impending argument. “Yes, they should have called the police. I doubt that it would have changed the outcome. He’s your son and yours to discipline as you see fit, once I’m done with him. But you have to let me interview him now.”
***
The Mole is a fast-moving river, deep and murky. Graeme stood on the pier, shading his eyes against the lowering sun as he watched the divers search the water. A wet-suited form broke the surface, waved at Martin before using the tether rope to pull himself to the side of the wharf.
Graeme crouched down. “Found him?”
The diver removed his breathing apparatus, spat to clear his mouth. “Yeah. They’ll be bringing him up momentarily.”
Weary, Graeme rubbed his forehead. Damn. “God. I knew you were going to find him and yet I still kept hoping…” He paused and gathered his thoughts. “ I’ll get the coroner over here. He’s on the bank, somewhere.”
Colin [Parsons]’s body was bloated and discolored from its hours in the water. “Look here, Martin,” Dr. James said, pointing, “here’s where he struck.” The coroner held the dead teen’s head gently as he rotated it to display the large bruised contusion over Colin’s right ear.
“What did he hit, do you think? The pier, a rock, or what?”
“No way to tell. But it’s a substantial injury. He would have been knocked unconscious immediately.”
“Which explains the lack of struggle or a cry for help.” Martin sighed and brushed his hands on his jeans as he rose. “In the dark, the other boys never had a chance to find him. He most likely drowned right under their feet.”
“When will you tell the parents?”
“Soon. I’m going to collect Father Blaxson to go with me.”
“Tough call.”
Martin looked over to the water, where the sun was slowly sinking into the shadows of the trees. “Yeah, it is. The worst.” As he watched the remaining divers exit the water, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed up the Police Chaplain.
[more here?]
“Martin.” The lead diver grabbed his wrist as Graeme turned to go. “There’s more down there.”
“More?”
“A car. There’s a car at the bottom of the river.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. What is this, suicide week?” With a sigh, Martin withdrew his cell phone again and called {Headquarters]. “We’ve found a car in the Mole. Will you send a crane round tomorrow morning and fish it out for me?”
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