Dead Wrong - [38]

I suppose in the scale of things it didn’t make a great deal of difference to Dermott Pitt whether he acted on the new information immediately and tried to get the CPS to drop the case, or whether he waited until it came to court when he could demolish the prosecution case, get Luke released and win plaudits into the bargain. In fact, the latter course would probably enhance his reputation and advance his career more.

But it made a massive difference to Luke. The more weeks and months he spent incarcerated at Golborne, the more damage would be done. He was already losing his sense of worth, his sense of purpose, becoming depressed and withdrawn. The consequences could affect him for years to come. He could kiss his youth goodbye. I determined that I would get to see Dermott Pitt early in the week. If necessary I’d hover around the courts. Create enough of a nuisance value and he’d listen to me just to get shut of me.

Friday night, kids asleep, I was wrapping up a Pass the Parcel game, inserting super bouncing balls, dinosaurs that could squirt water, tattoos and face-paints between the layers of paper. Ray was labelling party bags with the guest-list and getting muddled as to which bags had got which novelties in. Digger had been banished to the kitchen after showing too much interest in the sweets.

‘I just hope it’s dry,’ I said, ‘if we can keep them in the garden it’ll be ten times easier.’

Ray grunted.

The phone rang. It was Victor Wallace. He was over the moon when I told him about the replacement knife. He demanded I see Pitt right away, asked if I’d told the police yet, was all for calling the press in. I tried to calm him down a bit. I didn’t want either police or press at this stage. I was still hoping that I could see Joey D and find out what had actually gone on that night. And it would be wise to see the lawyer with the fresh evidence before doing anything else, as he would be more of an expert in how to use it. I got Victor’s agreement on this and accepted his effusive thanks, hoping that they weren’t misplaced.

Tom is usually a very equable child with an adventurous spirit. Unlike Maddie he enjoys new situations and challenges, while she hangs back convinced that ‘there be monsters’ in any fresh environment. But the strains of his fifth birthday party pushed him to the limit.

He held it together for the first highly exciting half-hour while he ripped open carefully wrapped presents and tore open cards with signatures laboriously scrawled by his little friends. He coped fairly well with the ensuing games of Pin the Tail on the Dinosaur and Hunt the Treasure in the garden, even though two of his bigger pals knocked him down in their determination to find more sweets than anyone else.

However, anyone who knew him could see signs of mounting tension in his clenched fists and increasingly glazed eyes as he lurched around during Musical Bumps. And when Daniel Metcalfe began to tease Tom over the birthday tea with a typically cruel playground chant: Tom Costello is a smello, and Maddie, o traitorous one, hooted with laughter, then Tom really lost it. He knocked over Daniel’s Cola, yelled at everyone to go home now, dissolved into tears and ran off to his room.

Intense negotiations finally resulted in his return after he’d been promised that he could work the music for Pass the Parcel. The admiration that greeted Sheila’s Tyrannosaurus cake helped as well.

‘I’m shagged.’ Ray staggered into the kitchen having parcelled off the last small guest with a party bag. ‘How many more years of this do we have to go through?’

‘Five or six,’ muttered Sheila with feeling born from experience. ‘It gets worse -. seven and eight are the pits.’ She scraped jelly into the bin. ‘Once they hit ten it’s a few friends to the pictures or ice-skating.’

‘No more party bags,’ I said, ‘it was a nightmare finding things that were cheap enough and wouldn’t break before they got them home.’

‘In my day,’ Sheila said, ‘it was a piece of cake and a balloon. And only one of you got a prize in Pass the Parcel. None of this prize in every layer and stop the music to make sure everyone gets one,’ she laughed. ‘Awful really, all the bitter disappointment when you didn’t win.’

After snacking on cheese and pineapple kebabs, veggie sausages on sticks and jelly, I didn’t feel hungry enough to cook a big meal and neither did the others. It was dry and warm even if it was overcast, so we decided to have a picnic in the garden. Sheila had some hummus and cheese, I made a salad, Ray boiled some eggs and heated up some pitta bread, I opened a bottle of chilled white wine.

Maddie and Tom were busy playing with his new acquisitions and ate on the hoof.

It was rare to share a meal with Sheila, who as our lodger led a fairly independent life. She was in her first year of a geology degree and enjoying it immensely. Term was practically over and she was planning a summer travelling round – a mixture of study and socialising.

‘I’ll start up in Scotland, at Dominic’s,’ she referred to her younger son. ‘He’s kept his flat on and St Andrews will be a great base for touring. I’ll do a few of the cities then head off to the highlands.’