‘Let me see.’ Stirzaker sat behind his desk and tapped the keyboard on his computer, checking the attendance register. ‘No, Mark’s not in. Not been in for four days now, so he’s a cause for concern — educationally, that is. Computer’s flagged him up for further attention today, actually.’
‘Have you done anything about him so far?’
‘Two phone contacts with mum — no help. Next up was a home visit from Mark’s head of year. That’ll probably be tomorrow, now.’
‘Is Bradley Hamilton in?’
Stirzaker looked questioningly at Henry.
‘He’s Mark’s best mate, isn’t he?’
‘You know a lot about Mark.’
‘I dealt with his sister’s death.’
‘Ahh… that had a big effect on the lad. Let’s see.’ He checked the computer. ‘Bradley’s in.’
‘We need to speak to him.’
‘I’m not sure…’ Stirzaker’s voice tailed off.
‘I’ll come clean, Mr Stirzaker, Mark’s mum isn’t just dead, she’s been murdered.’
‘Do you suspect…?’
‘Mark? No. But we urgently need to find him, as you’ll understand.’
‘Poor, poor lad. I’ll get Bradley.’
‘We need to speak to him alone.’
Stirzaker looked uncertain, but Henry’s stern face made the decision for him. ‘And while you’re at it, bring in Kate Bretherton, too. Mark’s girlfriend, as I recall.’
Stirzaker checked the register again. ‘That’s odd, she’s not in. Very unusual. Just one second.’ He picked up the phone on his desk and dabbed in a number. ‘Yes, it’s me… Katie Bretherton? Not in today. Any idea why? Any phone call from the parents? Nothing. How odd. Thanks.’ He hung up and said, ‘Reception — all absences should be reported to there, but nothing in Katie’s case. Very odd. She’s one of our star pupils, a real achiever, never sick.’
‘OK, wheel in Bradley, then, please,’ Henry said.
‘Now then Bradley,’ said Henry after introducing himself and Donaldson, though the fact that Karl was an FBI employee seemed to fly over the lad’s head. He had been seated in one of the comfy chairs in Strizaker’s office, whilst Henry perched the cheek of his bum on the corner of the desk and Donaldson lounged by the door.
The young lad’s eyes darted from one man to the other, clearly frightened and intimidated — just as Henry liked ’em.
He smiled ingratiatingly and said, ‘I know we haven’t met before, but I do know you’re Mark Carter’s best friend.’
‘Was,’ Bradley corrected him.
‘Whatever… fact is, you know Mark well, don’t you?’
‘Look, am I in the shit, or something?’ Bradley reared. ‘Cos if I am you need to arrest me and caution me, and I need an appropriate adult present. I know my rights. I do Citizenship, you know.’
‘Let’s just forget that little outburst, shall we? Hm?’ Henry jiggled his eyebrows. ‘Mark came to see you last night, didn’t he?’
‘No,’ Bradley sneered.
‘I’ll go and ask your mum the same question, shall I?’
‘No,’ Bradley blurted. ‘Yeah, he came — so what?’
‘Bradley, you seem like a decent lad, so let’s drop the attitude, OK?’ Henry knew he sounded patronizing, but he was past caring. ‘What did he want? What did he say? And where can I find him?’
‘So I’m not in trouble?’
‘No, but Mark is, and not from the cops.’
‘He told me what had happened, the old man and Rory, and that somebody’d tried to run him down, too.’
Henry hadn’t heard about that, but he let it go for the moment.
‘He said whoever’d killed the old guy was after him, too, and he wasn’t safe in town, so he was going to run, go to London, he said. Then he went.’
‘Did you hear about last night’s shooting?’
‘On the estate, yeah, course. Kids doing a drive-by. Not really news any more.’
‘Wrong… men attempting to kill Mark and killing an innocent person instead.’
Bradley faded to ashen. ‘Is Mark OK?’
‘He did a runner, but Billy Costain is dead.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘I need to find Mark, I need to protect him.’
‘He said you couldn’t. He doesn’t trust you.’
‘That doesn’t change anything. There’s no way on earth he can protect himself. Has he got a mobile phone yet?’
‘Nah, he just doesn’t like them.’
‘You’ve been no great help.’
‘Well what do you expect? All I did was give him something to eat, a bit of cash, and then he went. Last I saw of him. I went to bed, y’know?’
There was a knock on the door. Donaldson opened it to find the head teacher, Stirzaker, there, hopping about worriedly. ‘I thought you should know. It’s about Katie Bretherton. I’ve just spoken to her mum. Apparently, she did set off for school this morning as usual.’
Mark had landed hard under Henry Christie’s body as the detective shoved him over the garden wall just a second before the bullets started flying. Mark had seen the car approaching, like some terrible bug in a sci-fi movie, and he’d recognized its outline immediately — because he’d seen it before when it had tried to flatten him just after Rory had been murdered.
The breath went out of him under the detective’s crushing weight and everything became a visual blur.
He heard the dull firing of the automatic weapon, then saw the slow-motion dance of Billy Costain under the street lights as the slugs ripped into him and tore open his chest.
Then Christie’s weight came off as Henry peered over the wall, at which point Mark took his chance. Scooping up his sleeping bag, he rolled away, up on to his feet, running hard down the side of the unoccupied house without a backward glance. He realized that distance was the most important thing for him at that moment in time.
So he ran. Vaulted fences, stumbled blindly through gardens. Powered across roads without looking until he was on the complete opposite side of the estate, where he stopped, then walked casually up someone’s footpath, down the side of the house and into darkness where he slumped down exhausted and tried to control his breathing.
Eventually, his heart rate subsided and he found he was sitting by the side of a garden shed in someone’s back garden. He crept to check the back of the house. Lights were still on and a TV blared loudly in the living room at the front. He sneaked back to the shed and tried the door. Locked. He tugged at it and it rattled in its frame. Not very secure, but Mark was no burglar, knowing nothing about locks. He could ease the tips of his fingers inside the door, which he pulled back. He paused, took a look around, then braced himself and pulled hard. The hasp and lock came away from its mounting, the tiny screws ripping out of the wood.
He went rigid, expecting the householder to appear with a machete. Thirty seconds passed. All he could hear were the sounds of the night and police and ambulance sirens in the distance.
He stepped into the shed and pulled the door closed, hoping it would not sag open. It stayed closed.
It was a fairly big shed with all the usual gardening equipment. Mark made out a set of four folded-up patio chairs stacked next to an old mountain bike. He took one and eased it open. There was just enough floor space in the shed for him to place it down and sit on it.
He leaned forwards, hands clasped between his knees, then started to cry.
He’d folded the chair away, unrolled his sleeping bag and curled up inside it in the space on the shed floor where the chair had been. It was warm and almost pleasant, smelling of wood and humus, and he’d slept well for a few hours before waking up desperate for the toilet. At first he did not want to move. The floor was hard but he was comfortable and it felt safe. But he had to. Dawn was approaching and he could see light around the edges of the door. He had to be gone before the household came to life.