The boy who had asked the question was a tall, skinny Asian, eighteen or so. He sniffed and reached to nudge glasses back up his nose, then went back to holding the DVD he was clutching to his chest. The boy next to him was younger, shorter and thickset. White, with a shaved head and bad teeth which Thorne saw a good deal of, as he had not stopped smiling since he arrived at the table.
Thorne said, ‘Yes, I am.’
The Asian boy pulled out a chair and sat down and his friend was quick to do the same. The PO looked across again, but Thorne ignored her.
‘My name’s Tom Thorne. I’m a police officer.’
The Asian boy shrugged, like he’d worked that much out already. ‘Aziz,’ he said. He nodded towards his friend. ‘This is Darren.’
Darren smiled.
‘He was called Amin,’ Thorne said. ‘The boy that killed himself. Did you know him?’
‘Seen him around,’ Aziz said. ‘Wouldn’t say I knew him though.’
Thorne looked at Darren.
‘Same,’ Darren said.
‘Thing is, you never really get to know anyone, if you understand what I’m saying.’ Aziz spoke quickly with a London accent and the merest suggestion of a stammer. ‘People in here are all trying to be something they’re not or something they want you to think they are. Easier that way, yeah?’
Thorne nodded. ‘What about you?’
Aziz laughed and leaned back until the front legs of his chair had left the ground. ‘Nah, too much effort, all that, and I’ve been here a while anyway so I know how to be myself and keep out of trouble.’ He spread out his arms, the DVD in one hand. ‘What you see is what you get.’
Darren leaned forward to Thorne suddenly. ‘So, you like the library then?’
‘It’s good,’ Thorne said. ‘Quiet.’
‘Yeah, it’s quiet.’
‘You like it?’
Darren pointed across at Aziz, grinning. ‘ He does, and that’s a fact. He’s in here all the time, I swear. Reading this weird shit about space and all stuff that’s been invented. Science and that, like a professor or something.’
Thorne looked at Aziz who reddened slightly, then shrugged, happy enough with the description.
‘Go on, ask him something,’ Darren said, excited. ‘He knows everything about science and that, I’m telling you. He could go on Mastermind, I swear, and thrash any of them, piece of piss. Go on, ask him a question. Hard as you like.’
Aziz eased his chair gently back down and told his friend to shut up.
‘No point anyway,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m rubbish at science.’
‘ He’s not rubbish,’ Darren said, pointing at Aziz again. ‘Honest to God, he’s like that bloke in the wheelchair who sounds like a Dalek
… except the bloke in the wheelchair’s not a Paki.’
‘You should talk to that black kid,’ Aziz said. He nodded Thorne across towards the boy who was reading by the door. Aware of the attention, the boy glanced up from his book for a second or two. His face was expressionless; handsome and hard.
‘Why?’ Thorne asked.
‘He was that dead kid’s mate. I saw them together a fair bit, talking in their cells, all that. In here too, sometimes.’ Aziz lowered his voice, and not just because the PO was scowling at him. ‘He got in big trouble for punching someone a few weeks back, got chucked off the Gold wing and all that. I reckon that was because they said something sick about his mate killing himself and he didn’t like it, you know what I’m saying?’
Thorne looked over at the boy by the door again, but saw no more than the top of his head.
‘You want to see something funny?’ Darren asked.
Thorne turned back, his mind still on the boy. ‘What?’
‘Show him,’ Darren said. Laughing, he reached across and tried to grab the DVD, but Aziz snatched it away.
‘What have you been watching?’ Thorne asked.
Aziz tossed the DVD on to the table. There was a picture of a human foetus in the womb on the cover. ‘Been showing him some stuff about reproduction and all that. Basic human biology, how it all works, whatever. He wanted to know, so… ’
‘I told you,’ Darren said. ‘He knows everything about all that.’
‘What did you think of it?’
Darren shook his head, though the smile never wavered. ‘There’s some seriously strange shit on there, I tell you. Test-tube babies and weird rubbish like that. I swear, I’d never want no test-tube baby.’
Aziz looked at Thorne and rolled his eyes.
‘They’ve got like… webbed hands and feet,’ Darren said. He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. ‘No word of a lie.’
Aziz shook his head. ‘Why do you think they’ve got webbed feet?’
‘That’s how they swim out of the test tube.’
Thorne fought to control a smile, but couldn’t manage it.
‘He’s not normally quite this mental,’ Aziz said. ‘He’s just a bit over-excited.’
‘Tell him why.’
‘ You tell him.’
‘I’m getting out in two weeks,’ Darren said, beaming. ‘And I’m going to be a dad. My girlfriend’s having our baby.’ He smacked his chest proudly, then pointed at the DVD, to the picture of the foetus in the womb. ‘Our own little baby, just like this one.’
‘That’s good,’ Thorne said. ‘Best make sure you don’t come back then.’
Darren nodded, solemn.
‘How long have you been inside?’
‘Eighteen months,’ Darren said. He looked at Thorne and then at his friend. ‘What…?’
Aziz was still laughing as Thorne gathered up all the files, and the PO was smirking behind her magazine. Darren looked confused but continued to smile. Thorne turned round again, just in time to see the boy in the corner walking out through the library doors.
SEVENTEEN
The takeaway where Danny Armstrong worked was fifty yards from Essex Road railway station, between a dry cleaners’ and a shop that seemed deserted but still had a few old vacuum cleaners on display. Holland and Kitson stared in through the steamy window and spotted a likely-looking teenager chopping tomatoes behind the counter. He looked up when they entered, pushed the tomatoes into a plastic container and wiped his hands on the back of his jeans.
‘Yes, mate?’
The place sold kebabs, burgers, chicken; pretty much anything that could be deep-fried and stuck inside a bun. Come half past eleven at night with a few drinks inside you, it probably smelled like heaven, but, stone cold sober at lunchtime, Holland was suddenly feeling a little less hungry than he had been.
He produced his warrant card.
‘Just a quick word, Danny.’
Armstrong looked nervously towards a doorway to his right and, on cue, a burly, middle-aged man appeared carrying a metal tray piled high with chicken wings. He was Greek, Holland guessed, or Turkish, and he watched as Kitson went to the door and turned the sign to CLOSED.
‘Hey… ’
Holland flashed his ID again, but the man shook his head and shouted at Kitson. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘Yes, I can,’ Kitson said.
Holland said that he was sorry for the inconvenience, but that they would only need a few minutes of the boy’s time. The man laid his tray down and pointed at Armstrong. He said, ‘It’s coming out your wages,’ then turned and walked out.
Armstrong looked at Holland. ‘Cheers.’
Kitson walked across and placed a five-pound note on the counter. ‘We’ll have a couple of bags of chips then,’ she said. ‘Keep your boss happy, OK?’
Armstrong grunted, moved to the deep-fat fryer and pushed up the lid.
‘Amin Akhtar,’ Holland said. ‘Remember him? He died in prison a few months back and we were wondering if you’d heard about it.’
Armstrong didn’t look up. ‘News to me.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I told you.’ He raised his head. ‘I swear… I didn’t know that.’
‘Not spoken to Scott Clarkson about it, maybe?’ Kitson asked. ‘Or Lee Slater’s dad?’
‘Don’t really see them.’
‘You might see them now though, right? Have a few drinks to celebrate.’