Witness - [15]

It was like he’d never spoken to the officer in the police car, the woman. He had to start from scratch. Sat in a meeting room with a copper who was a few years older than Mike. Grey hair but well turned out – suit and white shirt. He slipped the jacket off once they were settled. Joe Kitson, a detective inspector. ‘Call me Joe,’ he told Mike. Mike appreciated the informality. Understood it too. People would open up to you more if you were on first-name terms.

Joe asked Mike to talk him through what happened. Then he wrote down what Mike had told him. Checking sentence by sentence. He wrote on a laptop, fast, read back each complete paragraph and made sure he’d got it right. Joe didn’t talk much but he had an easy way to him, a good listener, not only for the statement but for the other stuff Mike mentioned: the situation at work, the shock he’d felt when he realized he was seeing it for real.

Then Joe printed it all out on a special form and asked Mike to read it, and sign and date it at the bottom. He’d give evidence if the case came to court, Joe said, Mike understood that?

‘Yes, of course,’ Mike said

Joe explained what would happen next. The police would be gathering as much evidence as possible to try and bring charges against the culprits. It would probably be a matter of months rather than weeks before they knew whether they had enough to mount a prosecution.

Joe told him that they intended to keep the witnesses’ identity secret to minimize any chances of coercion. He asked Mike not to advertise the fact he was giving a statement and might be called as a witness. Joe gave him his card, told him to get in touch if he had any questions, any concerns.

‘What do you reckon the chances are?’ Mike asked as Joe walked him out. ‘Reckon you’ll find out who did it?’

‘Oh, we’ve a pretty shrewd idea of who’s behind it,’ said Joe. ‘What we have to do now is see if we can prove it.’

‘Did you trace the car? You’d think a Beemer like that’d be a doddle to find.’

Joe smiled, shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’m not allowed to discuss the investigation with you.’

Mike nodded. ‘Need to know basis,’ he said. Some line off the telly. He felt a prat as soon as he said it.

‘That’s right,’ Joe agreed. They shook hands at the front desk. ‘Thanks for coming in, and I hope we’ll be in touch later in the year.’

Mike had lost an hour and three-quarters and missed two calls from Ian. He rang his boss.

‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ Ian barked. ‘I’ve had Sandringham Way mithering about a new laptop for the past hour, stayed off work to take delivery.’

‘Almost there,’ Mike lied, ‘five minutes.’

‘Keep your bloody phone on!’ Ian ended the call.

Mike sighed, slid a CD into the player. Jumped to Track 4, prepared to sing along with Jagger: ‘Hey You Get Off My Cloud’.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Zak

Topping up his phone had used up what was left from the supermarket money. And he only made a tenner on the stuff from the house. Everyone had a camera these days and the people in the pub slagged off the one he was flogging: no video and only two megapixels, they’d better on their phones. The jewellery brought a bit more.

He bought half an ounce of Golden Virginia and some Rizlas, a bottle of Lambrini. In the shop they were talking about the murder. Zak didn’t want to hear it. Made him remember the way Carlton had looked at him, trapped in the window. And if Carlton knew Zak had seen him shoot, what then? He’d be coming after Zak before too long – to shut him up.

He was living in an old house near Plattfields Park. Not on the council estate but the other side of Wilmslow Road. The place was scheduled for demolition, chain link fencing and warning signs. Zak wasn’t much of a reader but he could tell what the red and white sign with the picture of an Alsatian meant. And he knew it was just for show. Any hint of a real guard dog and Bess would have let on.

There was a gap below the fencing at one side where a part of the low garden wall had collapsed. He only needed to shove some bricks aside to wriggle under and Bess had followed.

The house was full of damp and the garden thick with saplings and brambles. Now they were in leaf and hid most of the building. It looked blind: sheets of chipboard nailed over the windows and doors. When he first found it, he could see they’d been there a good while. Broken guttering poured rainwater on to the sheet over the side door and the wood had gone black and green with mould, the bottom swelling with rot.

It hadn’t taken Zak much effort to work one edge loose, lumps of wood crumbling off like Weetabix and woodlice scurrying away. A couple of kicks had got him through the brittle door behind.

Now, when he came and went, he could swing the chipboard out a couple of feet and push it back in place. From any distance the property still looked secure.

No electrics so it was pitch dark day and night, and full of creepy crawlies, but it was safer than the streets.

Zak had nicked some candles from the health food shop. Big, fat yellow ones that burned for hours. The driest room was at the back. The old dining room. He’d got his sleeping bag in there and there was a massive fireplace where he could burn stuff. The smoke came back in the room but it was worth it to see the flames dancing and feel the glow of heat. The place was stone cold even now in summer and come winter he thought it’d be unbearable. Unless he got hold of some sort of arctic clothing, bearskin or summat, like explorers use. He’d have to move on. Maybe find out if his mam was sorted out now and move back there.