Make Believe - [7]

People dispersed. Millie whispered something to Richard and he roared with laughter. Janine tried to hide her irritation. ‘Millie?’

Richard hesitated a moment but Janine waited until he moved away before speaking. ‘Can we avoid sensationalising it?’

‘Do my best,’ Millie said, ‘but the nationals will be onto it, the Sundays. Big story.’ She checked her watch. ‘You ready?’

In the conference room, Millie stood at the front observing while Janine stepped up to the table to address the journalists. As soon as Janine opened her mouth, a battery of flashlights went off.

Janine took a breath and then spoke directly to the crowd. ‘At approximately eight o’clock this morning, police were called to Kendal Avenue, in Withington, where the body of a young child was recovered from a drainage tunnel. Cause of death was a fracture to the skull. We are not yet in a position to confirm identity.’

‘Is it Sammy Wray?’ one of the journalists called out. Not local, perhaps up from London.

‘We’ve not made a positive identification yet but we are investigating that possibility,’ Janine said, choosing her words with care. ‘We still have individuals we would like to talk to who were at Withington Park on the nineteenth of April and who we have not yet spoken to. I would ask those people to contact us as soon as possible. We would also ask anyone with information, anyone who saw or heard anything on Kendal Avenue, anyone who thinks they know something, no matter how small, that might help the inquiry, to please come forward, contact your local police station or ring the police helpline. In cases like this the help of the general public is invaluable.’

Hands went up and people shouted questions but it had already been made clear that Janine would not be answering any questions after the official statement. She nodded by way of thanks, turned and followed Millie out of the room.

Chapter 4

Butchers, on door-to-door, had spoken first to the Palfreys at number 14, across the driveway from the empty house where the body had been found. They had reported the flood but had absolutely nothing else to offer, though they were helpful as could be. Both retired local government workers, they were distressed at the events unfolding on their doorstep and appeared guilty that they hadn’t seen or heard anything untoward that Butchers could write down.

Second on his list were the Staffords number 18, the property adjoining the house. It was mid-afternoon and Butchers knocked several times before the door was opened by a middle aged man with a monk’s tonsure and a sour look on his face. The householder was in pyjamas.

‘What?’ he demanded.

‘Mr Ken Stafford? DS Butchers, you’re aware of the incident nextdoor?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’re interviewing everyone in the vicinity,’ Butchers said.

‘Can’t help you. I didn’t see anything.’ Ken Stafford shut the door.

Butchers felt a flare of impatience. Mardy-arse. They’d a little kiddie dead in the house next-door and this idiot was being awkward about talking to the police.

Butchers hammered a tattoo on the door again, twice. He wasn’t going anywhere until he’d got what he came for.

With a show of irritation, Ken Stafford let him in.

Inside, the living room was cluttered and dusty. The video game cases littering the carpet in front of the TV and console and a pair of battered skater-boy shoes in the middle of the room suggested a teenager lived there too.

Butchers took in the photos, also dusty, on the wall. Mum, dad and child, a boy.

‘Can I talk to your wife, as well?’ Butchers said.

Ken Stafford took his time replying, ‘She died.’

Butchers cleared his throat, ‘Sorry.’ He indicated the photos. ‘And the boy?’

‘Luke, at school.’

‘You say you’ve not seen anything suspicious.’ Butchers opened his notebook. ‘What about regular comings and goings?’

The man shrugged, no.

‘Neighbours, builders?’

‘Builders, that’s a joke,’ Ken Stafford said caustically. ‘Permanent go-slow. Don’t see them for days then they turn up at the crack of dawn. I work nights. But they don’t give a toss.’

‘Can you remember when you last saw them?’ Butchers said.

‘A week ago. The Monday, McEvoy was around. Is that it?’

There was a noise from the hall and someone came in, shutting the door so hard the whole house rattled.

The lad stood in the doorway, slight, skinny, dark hair, he’d piercings on his face among the angry-looking acne. ‘Luke?’ said Butchers.

‘The police,’ Ken Stafford said, ‘want to know if we saw anything.’

Luke Stafford shrugged. ‘No,’ he said, ‘just the coppers and that this morning.’

Butchers spent another ten minutes with the Staffords but made no further progress, nothing he could take back to the inquiry. They were both miserable buggers, the lad you could understand, embarrassed at that age to be asked anything, but the father Ken, curt and short-tempered, just seemed bitter. ‘If you do remember anything,’ Butchers said, as he was leaving, ‘seeing anything, hearing anything in the last ten days, please let us know.’

‘Is it Sammy Wray?’ the kid said, his face flaming red, when Butchers moved to the hallway.