It was early evening, and Gerry was glad to be out of the squad room. She had just heard about the boy’s aunt and uncle identifying their nephew’s body. They could now put a name to him: Samir Boulad, from Syria. But they knew nothing else about him yet, except that he had made a long and hard journey away from his family, who had all been killed in a bombing after he left. Just when everyone was starting to think the war was almost over.
Gerry enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her face and her hair as she headed down Elmet Hill, only mildly annoyed that the sunny weather would probably bring out her freckles. Myers lived on one of the many narrow, meandering side streets, Elmet Close, and had said over the telephone that he would be pleased to talk to her again. Though he worked in the sales office of an agricultural supplies company in Helmthorpe, he said he often worked from home these days and would put fifteen minutes or so aside for her visit. So eager did he sound that she rather thought he might have an agenda of his own.
Myers’s house was a Georgian semi with a large bay window and a reasonably sized, well-kept front garden, complete with crazy-paving, herbaceous borders, neatly-trimmed lawn and a small patch set aside for herbs. Gerry recognised basil, thyme and rosemary, and could smell their mingled aromas as she passed by. The front door was painted white — recently by the looks of it — with a brass door knocker and four small thick glass panes above the letterbox. There was also a bell, which Gerry pushed, and in no time at all the door was opened by a tall man in navy chinos and a blue and white checked short-sleeve shirt with breast pockets, one of which held a black pen. The white star on its cap protruded pretentiously.
‘Come in,’ said Granville Myers with a smile. He had a fine head of greying hair and a thin face, with a receding chin that Gerry thought might benefit from a small beard. Once again, she was struck by his resemblance to Nigel Farage. ‘We’ll sit in the kitchen,’ he said, as she followed him inside. ‘I’ve put some coffee on. Will that be all right? I can make tea if you’d prefer. DC Masterson, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. And coffee’s fine, thank you,’ said Gerry. The kitchen was a bright, airy room, all clean pine surfaces and gleaming white appliances, with four matching stools around a central island. Myers pointed to one and Gerry sat, resting her feet on the lower bar. The top of the island had a slight overhang which formed a perfect recess under which her knees fitted snugly. Through the window, she could see the paved patio area in the back garden, with its outdoor grill and white table and chairs, all under the shade of a large striped umbrella and an overhanging willow. Very nice, indeed. The hill wasn’t an area of town she knew well at all, and she could see why the locals might like it to remain a well-kept secret. She wondered what the house prices were like. More than she could afford, no doubt; she would be stuck in her one-bedroom flat on the edge of the student area for some time yet, she thought. Still, she had it all to herself, which was more than could be said for many young women away from home for the first time.
When he had poured them both coffee and put out the milk and sugar, Myers sat opposite Gerry and smiled. ‘At your service,’ he said.
‘You may have heard,’ she began, ‘that there’s been a death on Hollyfield Lane.’
‘Yes. A drug addict, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s right. A man in his sixties called Howard Stokes. We don’t think there’s anything suspicious about his death, but we still have to ask a few questions.’
‘Overdose, was what I heard.’
‘Pardon?’
‘A drug overdose. That’s what he died of.’
‘I can’t really comment on that.’
‘Most likely self-administered.’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘Oh, come, come, DC Masterson. Remember Lisa Bartlett?’
‘Yes, of course, she’s—’
‘Then you might also remember that Lisa is the daughter of a very good friend of mine, Gus Bartlett, a fellow founding member of the Watch, and she was sexually assaulted hardly a quarter of a mile from here on her way home from Eastvale Comprehensive just a month ago. The poor girl is still traumatised, absolutely traumatised.’
‘I investigated the case, as you know,’ said Gerry, ‘and it’s terrible, but you have to—’
‘Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve had a regular police presence in this area? An occasional car passing through, let alone an officer walking the beat?’
‘Our resources just don’t—’
‘Then what are you here for? It’s not as if your solution rate is that high. I mean, you haven’t found out who assaulted poor Lisa yet, have you?’
‘Believe me, Mr Myers, it’s not for want of trying. She wasn’t able to give us a very accurate description of her attacker. But I want you to know we’re still working on it.’
‘Would you be able to give a description? If you were grabbed from behind and... and violently sexually assaulted in the dark? Do you really think you would be making notes of your attacker’s appearance? I have children, DC Masterson. Including a nine-year-old daughter. Can you imagine how that makes me feel about living here with a monster like that on the loose? Can you?’
‘Sir, these occurrences are very rare. Besides, it’s not that—’
‘Tell that to Gus Bartlett. The poor bloke’s at his wits’ end. Not to mention his wife, Sally. And Lisa’s brother, poor Jason. He’s having to try and concentrate on sitting his A-levels with all this going on. My own son’s having a hard time of it, too. Jason and Chris are best friends.’
‘I’m very sorry for your—’
Myers leaned back and seemed to relax. Now that he had said his piece, his voice took on a softer, more sing-song tone, as if placating a wayward child. ‘I’m not blaming you, DC Masterson. I’m sure you’re doing your best under the circumstances. No. It’s the system. I realise that. A government that would rather spend money on campaigns to keep itself in power than on personal security, education and healthcare. I’m not blaming you personally, but I do think the police could try just a little bit harder.’
‘I assure you the Lisa Bartlett case is still being investigated, sir. It’s still active.’
‘But the death of this drug addict takes precedence. Is that it?’
‘Not at all. This is a separate issue.’
‘And no doubt you’re putting the rest of your resources into investigating the death of that young Arab up on the East Side Estate, eh?’
‘His name is Samir Boulad, and he came here from Syria all by himself. And he was murdered. There’s no doubt about that. Brutally stabbed to death, and we—’
Myers’s voice hardened again. ‘Are you saying that’s worse than what happened to Lisa?’
There was no real answer to that if you were talking to the kind of person who thought an assault on a young white girl was worse than the murder of a Middle Eastern boy, but Lisa Bartlett would heal in time, would go on to live a normal and possibly very productive life; Samir Boulad would not. ‘We don’t make such comparisons, sir,’ Gerry said. ‘We have limited resources and we allocate them as best we can. I wish I could send you ten officers to patrol your neighbourhood every night of the week, but I can’t.’
Myers ran his hand through his hair. ‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘Believe me, I know. I’m sorry. Put it down to tiredness. I’m out almost every night with the Watch these days. It’s tiring me out. All of us. But we can’t risk another girl getting assaulted.’ He smiled. ‘Do you think I really want to give up my evenings to wander these streets until all hours? I’d rather be home with my wife watching TV and having a beer or two.’