Brigands M.C.

  4. HANDS

  Salcombe wasn’t exactly a crime blackspot. The police spent most of their time dealing with parking offences, low-level drug dealing and burglaries of rarely used second homes. Even the Brigands knew better than to piss in their own backyard and usually kept whatever trouble they caused behind the high fences of their clubhouse.

  A burned out house with five bodies inside was the biggest crime in decades. Twenty-six-year-old constable Kate McLaren had never known anything like it. The fire brigade’s first impression was arson, but the house didn’t burn completely and the charred corpse blocking the front doorway had an obvious bullet wound in her back.

  The media had poured into the area, split between the crime scene and the car park around Kingsbridge police station four miles away. Photographers, journalists and TV vans fitted with satellite dishes were double parked in the street awaiting a press conference.

  There had been no official announcement, but it was common knowledge that two of the dead were Brigands and many journalists jumped to the conclusion that an old grudge had flared between the Brigands and a local gang known as the Headless Corpses.

  The key witness lay silently in a small room filled with toys and cushions. There was a two-way mirror, a video camera mounted above the doorway and anatomically correct dolls that little kids could use to re-enact the horrible things that adults did to them.

  As the only woman on duty, Kate McLaren had been asked to play mother. Dante’s clothes had been taken for forensic purposes. After comforting him during a doctor’s examination and taking him upstairs for a hot shower, she’d persuaded the manager at Woolworths to open early so that she could buy underwear, tracksuit and trainers for age 7–9. Through all of this, and the four hours that followed, Dante hadn’t spoken.

  The child-friendly room felt too warm as Kate stepped inside. Dante was warmer still, having buried himself under every cushion and soft toy he could find. The click of the door made his eyes swivel and he flicked some hair off his face before going back to being dead.

  ‘You didn’t eat any of your lunch,’ Kate said softly, as she stared at the tray on the floor.

  She didn’t know what Dante liked, so there was milk, juice and cola, along with two different sandwiches, packets of cookies, pieces of fruit, crisps and chocolate bars.

  ‘I could get anything you wanted, Dante. Fish and chips, bacon sandwich, a Happy Meal.’

  The cushions above Dante shifted and the boy made a dry grunt. Kate smiled, hoping she’d finally made a breakthrough.

  ‘Did you say you’d like a Happy Meal? What’s your favourite, Dante? A burger? McNuggets?’

  ‘Will it make me happy?’ Dante said sarcastically.

  Kate ached with grief as she tried to imagine what Dante had seen. Getting him to speak was a breakthrough, but she wasn’t a psychologist and had no idea what to say next.

  ‘I used to collect Smurfs when I was your age,’ Kate said. ‘They were little blue men with white hats. My parents got coupons when they bought petrol and you needed ten tokens to get a Smurf.’

  Dante sensed Kate’s desperation. He felt cruel, making her sit there worrying about him and asking questions that he ignored, but there was darkness in his head like he’d never felt before. Everything hurt: colours hurt, sounds hurt and so did the rubbery smell from his new trainers and the itchy label in the back of his shirt. He wanted to speak, but at the same time thinking of even the tiniest movement filled him with dread.

  ‘Would you feel more comfortable speaking to someone else?’ Kate asked. ‘Like your teacher? Or maybe you’d prefer talking to a man instead of me? Because we don’t want to push you Dante, but you can really help by telling us what happened.’

  Dante thought about his dad. He’d been let out of prison to witness Dante’s birth, before returning to serve the balance of an eighteen-month stretch for possession of drugs and assault. He’d told Dante that the cops fitted him up. He said it was better to sort your own problems. The cops were scum. Snitches and informants were lower than paedophiles.

  But Dante wasn’t grown up. He’d have a long wait if he wanted to get on his Harley and settle a score with the Führer with a gun or a knife. So should he be a snitch or should he wait until he was old enough to get revenge?

  Dante rolled slightly on the cushions and felt a burning pain in his bladder.

  ‘I need to pee,’ he blurted, aching with dread as cushions and teddies flew about. He stood up and glowered at Kate with manic eyes and knotted hair.

  Kate led Dante briskly along a peeling corridor, past offices filled with desks and computers. The men’s toilets were through the last door before the fire exit at the end of the corridor.

  The frosted windows had been swung open and Dante got a chill blast as he stepped up to the urinal and started pissing. After shaking off he looked at the sinks and decided to wash his hands. He didn’t usually wash if he’d only peed, but he liked the fresh air in the washroom and wanted to delay going back to the stuffy air and the pile of cushions.

  Dante turned on the tap and repeatedly tugged the lever under the soap dispenser until a bright pink lake filled his palm. When he slapped his hands glistening strands flew in all directions, spattering the white tiles behind the sink.

  He concentrated on the soap, finding innocent relief in swiping it up and down his hands, then rubbing them together until a lather mound pirouetted and shrank into the plughole. Dante imagined that his mum was watching him from heaven or something. She’d undoubtedly be pleased that he’d washed his hands.

  She always said he should wash his hands every time he went, even if it was just to pee. Also if he came in after playing out in the fields, and before he ate dinner, and if he stroked Mr Norman’s golden retriever. If Dante had washed his hands all the times his mum wanted he’d probably have to do it thirty-seven times a day. On the other hand, Dante’s dad didn’t care about that sort of thing. He’d come inside after working on his bike, and get a filthy look as he wiped greasy hands on his jeans and picked up a sandwich.

  But which one of them was right?

  A flushing noise came from one of the stalls behind Dante. A big man emerged in a red tie and cheap suit. He slapped a copy of The Times on the tiled ledge above the sinks before starting to wash his hands.

  ‘Did I need that,’ the man said, as he gave Dante a relieved smile. ‘Better out than in, eh?’

  Dante didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on his hands, but his mind was back in the boxing ring from the night before. He thought about the difference between the world of his mum, where you said please and thank you and washed your hands and the world of his dad where fighting, swearing, selling drugs and farting out loud were perfectly acceptable.

  ‘Name’s Ross Johnson,’ the big man continued, despite the fact that Dante had ignored his first remark. ‘I’ve come down from London. I’m a police inspector, but I’m also a psychologist. I specialise in interviewing and supporting child witnesses. You must be Dante Scott.’

  The words drifted over Dante as he scrubbed under his nails and between his fingers, struggling to wipe off all the soap. All Dante’s life his dad had been the cool one and his mum had seemed bossy and strict. But if all people were like his mum, he wouldn’t have had to watch her get shot in the back. Or have seen his brother and sister die, or Holly get hit on the head or …

  ‘A crime is like your dinner,’ Ross explained. ‘You want to get right on the case while it’s hot. Information you give us today is more valuable than the same information might be tomorrow.’

  Dante was finally listening to Ross Johnson. As he turned the tap off, he looked up and saw that the big man was holding out paper towels to dry his hands.

  ‘My dad didn’t like the police,’ Dante said nervously, as he dried between his fingers. ‘He told me never to speak to cops if they came to the house. But I don’t think that’s what my mum would have wanted. It was the Führer, trying to get my dad to sign papers letting them k
nock down the clubhouse. Felicity was there. He pulled a gun when my dad said no.’

  Ross was excited by this information, but at the same time raised a hand indicating that he wanted Dante to stop talking. ‘Dante, what we need to do is take you to an interview room where I can get everything you say on tape, OK?’

  Ross opened the door and Kate was stunned to see Dante chatting away. She didn’t complain, but felt miffed that after all of her efforts to get Dante to come out of his shell he’d opened up after a chance encounter in the gents.

  ‘I want a cheeseburger and chips from Bay Burgers and loads of ketchup,’ Dante said confidently as Kate led him back down the corridor with Ross striding behind.

  Dante suddenly felt odd, but also important. His brain ran at fifty times normal speed and the aches in his head were replaced by sparks of energy.

  ‘And I don’t want to go back in that horrible room,’ he added. ‘It’s too stuffy.’ Then he stopped suddenly and turned towards Kate. ‘My sister Holly! What was it you told me about Holly?’

  Kate smiled. ‘Holly is in the hospital. She had some stitches and lost a lot of blood. She’ll be in hospital for a few days but she’s going to be fine.’

  Kate opened the door of the little room with the cushions and toys, but Dante was repelled by the dead air and the sense of gloom he’d felt as he lay on the cushions.

  ‘I hate this room,’ he said.

  ‘It’s just for a minute until we find somewhere else,’ Kate explained.

  ‘We’ll find a room with a window that opens,’ Ross said warmly. ‘You can eat your burger while I set up the tape recorder.’

  An image of Jordan and Mum flickered in Dante’s mind. He felt like he was balanced on a cliff’s edge. He was terrified that the room and the cushions would send him back into the aching black space where his mind had spent the last six hours.

  ‘I can’t go back in there,’ he said, breaking into a loud sob. ‘I want my mum back. Why did this have to happen to me?’

  Kate went down on one knee and scooped Dante into her arms. His grip felt surprisingly strong as he grasped her with tears streaking down his face.

  5. POOL

  Three hours later Ross Johnson came out of an interview room looking stressed. Five long strides took him into an incident room. Chief Inspector Jane Lindsay was the uniformed officer in charge of the murder inquiry. She stood by the window, peering into darkness at the press gathered in the car park downstairs.

  ‘They can wait there all night,’ she sighed. ‘They’ve had the only statement they’re getting.’

  Ross furrowed his brow as he followed the senior officer’s gaze. Most of the journalists sat on the low wall around the car park or in the open doorways of their cars. A vaguely familiar face from the BBC wore a high-necked black coat. She was going out live on twenty-fourhour news, while the correspondent from Sky stood behind her camera trying to put her off by making dickhead gestures.

  ‘So,’ Chief Inspector Lindsay asked, as she looked back at Ross. ‘How’s our star witness holding up?’

  ‘Dante’s in shock,’ Ross said. ‘He’s having what we call a manic response: one minute he’s full of beans, the next he’s crying and asking for his mum. But he held it together for long enough to record a decent witness statement.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll make a good witness in court?’ Lindsay asked.

  ‘He’s only eight, but I’d say so,’ Ross nodded. ‘I had a brief conversation with his teacher. She said Dante’s one of the two or three brightest kids in his year. Good all-rounder, confident and popular. Only trouble is he can be a bit rough in the playground, but she says they’ve got a few bikers’ sons at the school and they’re all the same. They idolise their dads and the macho posturing rubs off on them.’

  ‘We might need a strong witness,’ Lindsay said. ‘The Führer had half an hour to clean up the house before Dante reached the payphone and forensics reckon he did a pretty thorough job. All the bodies are badly burned and what wasn’t burned got a soaking when the fire brigade doused the flames.’

  ‘What about away from the scene?’ Ross asked. ‘Tyre tracks, petrol cans, eyewitnesses?’

  ‘Not yet, but we’re hoping,’ Lindsay said. ‘I’ve dealt with Brigands cases before. The Führer will have torched his clothes and shoes. The weapons will have been taken away and melted down.’

  ‘Has the Führer been pulled for questioning yet?’ Ross asked.

  Lindsay shook her head. ‘We thought he might choose to disappear for a few days, but he seems confident. We knocked on his door, asked him a few questions and explained that we wanted to impound his bike in conjunction with a murder investigation. He told the officers to go ahead, but they found the bike on the floor of his workshop in a hundred and sixteen pieces, fitted with a brand new set of tyres that’ll make it impossible to trace tyre tracks.’

  ‘Shit,’ Ross said, shaking his head. ‘What about the other Brigands, someone must know something?’

  ‘They’ll never speak to cops,’ Lindsay said.

  Ross raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘But in this instance. I mean, two of their own people dead. A woman, two kids …’

  ‘Someone in the gang might have a problem,’ Lindsay acknowledged. ‘But if they do, they’ll deal with it within the club and the first we’ll know is when another body turns up. So, unless forensics find something spectacular, or an eye witness comes forward, I’d say that this case is going to hinge on the quality of Dante’s eye witness testimony. I just hope he’s not telling any fibs.’

  ‘I think he’s solid,’ Ross said. ‘Except for the bloody T-shirt.’

  ‘What T-shirt?’

  ‘Forensics found one of Dante’s T-shirts in a bush alongside the house,’ Ross explained. ‘It was covered in blood. I asked the boy and he said his friend Joe had a nosebleed while they were playing.’

  ‘So are they following the story up?’ Lindsay asked.

  Ross sighed. ‘Joe is the Führer’s youngest son. Same age as Dante, same class at school. The thing is, the way the blood is spattered across the shirt it doesn’t look like any nosebleed that I ever saw. And when I mentioned it to Kate, she said that Dante had dried blood on his arm and under his fingernails when he got here. The doctor who examined him took swabs and photographs.’

  ‘Dammit,’ Lindsay cursed.

  Ross shrugged. ‘I’m guessing he caught this Joe with his elbow or something and doesn’t want to tell me because he’s scared he’ll get into trouble for fighting.’

  ‘Most likely,’ Lindsay nodded. ‘But the fact that Dante lied undermines his credibility as a witness.’

  ‘Still,’ Ross said, ‘Dante’s given us an hour’s worth of testimony. I don’t think anybody will believe that an eight-year-old is capable of making up a story in that kind of detail.’

  Lindsay shrugged. ‘Let’s hope, eh?’

  ‘What are we gonna do with Dante?’ Ross asked. ‘Did you get anywhere trying to track down a relative?’

  Lindsay shook her head. ‘Scotty was a product of the care system. No known father, mother deceased. There’s an uncle, but he’s in Wandsworth prison and won’t be available for babysitting duties until 2011. On Dante’s mother’s side there’s one grandparent, but she’s in a psychiatric hospital and there’s no aunts or uncles.’

  ‘Shit,’ Ross said.

  Lindsay shrugged. ‘A healthy boy with a tragic sob-story background and cute baby sister. They’ll get snapped up for adoption. I know it’s sad, but in the long run it’s probably better not being brought up by some biker scumbag.’

  Ross nodded. ‘I was actually thinking about tonight. Dante’s the only witness. The Führer’s going to want him dead. We can’t have an eight-year-old living in a police station, but we’ve got to find somewhere safe.’

  ‘Could you deal with that?’ Lindsay asked. ‘Maybe take him under your wing for a few days, until we find a foster home in a safe location? You’re the only person he’s responded to. W
e’ll find a couple of nice rooms in a hotel.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable,’ Ross said. ‘I’m a London boy, so I’ve got to find a hotel anyway. I’d suggest somewhere at least an hour’s drive from Salcombe. I’ll need some shopping money as well. He’s got nothing except the clothes he’s standing up in.’

  *

  Every time Dante woke up he hoped it was a dream. He wanted to find himself back in his own bed with the floor piled with junk and Jordan’s teenage odour in the air. But this was the third morning he’d woken in a king-sized bed at the Bristol Park Hotel, after a night of drug-induced sleep.

  Nothing could compensate for the loss of Dante’s family, but the plush hotel did at least provide some novel distractions: room service, mini bar, on-demand movies and best of all swimming pool at the end of the hall.

  Dante’s family weren’t rich. He’d never stayed in a hotel before and he’d worn hand-me-downs from Jordan all his life. It felt satisfying peeling sticky labels and tags from new BHS boxers and socks each morning. Devon police had also granted him enough money for an Adidas tracksuit, two nice pairs of jeans, some warm tops, a camouflage coat and a pair of blue Etnies skateboarder shoes that were the coolest item of footwear he’d ever owned.

  Ross slept in the adjoining room and the doors in-between were propped open. Dante strolled through and found GMTV on Ross’ television with the sound turned low. Ross himself was in the bathroom using his Philishave.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, when he saw Dante reflected in the bathroom mirror. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Dante smiled a little. ‘Those pills are like pressing a magic button. You take one and ZONK: fast asleep.’

  ‘I probably need to reduce the dosage. You don’t feel groggy at all? No headaches?’

  ‘Nope,’ Dante said, as he sat on the bed and eyed Ross’ laptop on the desk nearby. ‘Are they saying anything about us on the news?’