He refused to talk.
Pa went down there and tried to gain access to his cell, but Roger Brennan wouldn’t even let him see the killer. I heard later what happened in there.
‘You’re not going to stop me from ripping his head off,’ Pa said, furious the guards were keeping him from exercising justice. My father usually got his own way and it must have driven him crazy to know my sister’s murderer sat only a few feet away.
‘Sir,’ Roger Brennan said. ‘Mr Donovan told me to ask you to wait. Told me to tell you you’ll get your chance.’
‘Wait for what? There’s nothing to wait for. I need to finish this now!’ Pa paced up and down, enraged, but the guards held firm.
‘Not just yet, Sir. I know how you feel.’
‘Bollocks do you know how I feel!’
Roger Brennan spoke calmly. ‘The case is too high-profile. If you kill one of Charminster Compound’s tradesmen you’ll land yourself in a whole heap of trouble.’
‘So?’
‘Do you want to start a perimeter war? Where would that leave you and your family?’
‘My family …’ Pa couldn’t finish his sentence. He tried again. ‘I won’t kill him yet. Just let me in that cell. Just give me five minutes alone with the …’
‘All in good time, Sir. I’m sorry but I have my orders.’
It turns out they should have let Pa in there to do his worst, as later that night Ron Chambers escaped.
How he got out of a locked cell in a highly guarded perimeter is a mystery. Ma’s Armoured Vehicle disappeared at the same time and they’re assuming Chambers must have stolen it.
Liam was knocked unconscious during the escape but was otherwise unharmed. My father and Roger Brennan both suspect inside help, and blame is hopping from shoulder to shoulder. It doesn’t change anything. It still looks like an almighty cock-up.
No one seems to have a clue who’s responsible and why they would want to help the killer of my fourteen–year-old sister.
Chapter Three
Eleanor
*
Abigail Robbins was princess bitch of the county. Originally from a snooty village suburb in North London, she came late to our school, a mainly middle class Gloucestershire comprehensive. When she arrived, we were part way through the summer term of year eight.
The warm morning had been laid up with a dose of double History and everyone sweltered in the airless classroom while Mr Croft droned on about the War of the Roses. I was desperately trying to keep my eyes open when the door creaked open and a girl walked in, jolting us all out of our semi-comatose state. She looked like something out of 90210 – perfectly groomed and perfectly cool. Nothing like us imperfect mortals. I could hear the collective inward sighs of fifteen adolescent boys.
‘I’m Abi Robbins,’ she said to Mr Croft, while gazing down at her immaculately shaped nails.
‘Yes? Are you lost?’
‘No, I’m Abi Robbins. I’m in your class.’ She spoke to him slowly as if he was the stupidest man on the planet.
Mr Croft ran his finger down a list in front of him.
‘Ah, yes. You’re new. You’re a bit late.’
She didn’t reply, just raised her eyebrows heavenward to imply the man was an idiot. Everyone sniggered and Mr Croft glanced up to see Abigail look innocently and expectantly at him.
‘Ah, yes, very good. Yes, if you could find yourself a seat we’re talking about the rival houses of Lancaster and York.’ His voice faded into the background.
Abigail glanced around the room until her eyes locked with mine. She gave me a conspiratorial smile and shimmied across the room to an empty desk behind me.