In Guilty Night (3 page)

‘That would be too easy,’ McKenna said. ‘Brace yourself for a trawl of the sex offenders and deviants feeding on the underbelly of our little society. We’d better take Hogg’s advice and start with David Fellows, even though he rigorously confines his activities to those over the age of consent as far as I know. I expect you’ll persuade him to part with the names of those who don’t share his refined sensibilities.’

‘Has he harboured kids on the run before?’

‘If he has, no one told us,’ McKenna said. ‘I’m going to see Mrs Thomas again. We left her with a neighbour ’til her husband came home.’

‘Arwel’s social worker from Area Office should be able to tell us more about his admission to care. Dodging school doesn’t seem much of a reason, and he’s got no criminal record.’

‘Make an appointment for this afternoon.’ McKenna stood up, embattled by the pain which consorted with every movement. ‘Which school did he go to?’

‘He didn’t. Blodwel’s got a schoolroom and one full-time teacher. The local schools don’t want kids from care on their patch,’ Jack said. ‘Folk probably don’t think they’re worth educating. Written off right from the start.’

The last dying leaves, bronzy-green and edged with black, withered on the branches of the ash tree outside McKenna’s office window, and shivered in a wind rising off the Strait. Ragged ends of mist lingered between the tall narrow buildings behind High Street, drifting around their footings.

As he pulled his arm from its sling and stretched carefully, Eifion Roberts walked in without knocking and sat down.

‘You’re a very depressing sort of person to have around.’

‘Why’s that?’ McKenna asked.

‘Never functioning on all cylinders, dying by visible degrees,
ergo
a very uncomfortable reminder of my own mortality. Hurts, does it?’

‘The rest of me’s in agony. This is numb.’

‘I daresay it’ll be hurting soon for you.’

‘And is that good or bad?’

‘Depends.’

‘I won’t ask on what, because I’ve an appointment with Arwel’s social worker at half two.’ McKenna lit a cigarette. ‘Finished the post-mortem?’

Dr Roberts nodded. ‘Done the cutting up, and the stitching up, and sent samples off for analysis, and I’ve never seen such a mess on a boy that age. What’s his background?’

‘Taken into care for non-school attendance. No convictions. The commonplace story of an aimless juvenile at the edge of delinquency.’

‘Any rumours about Grandad or Uncle or Mam’s boyfriend?’

‘Not a whisper. His social worker might know.’

‘You’re an optimist, aren’t you? Social Services’ll deliver a load of garbage about professional ethics, and hope the problems’ll resolve themselves without intervention. Some hope, especially if the HIV tests come positive. That’ll put the fear of God into whoever’s been buggering the lad.’

‘They’d have to know,’ McKenna pointed out. ‘We’re not advertising the fact. Is there any risk to people who handled the body?’

‘The railwaymen wore gauntlets, else they’d’ve had ice burns off the track, and the rest of us are too canny.’ The pathologist fell silent, age and disillusion shadowy on his face.

‘You don’t look too good yourself,’ McKenna said.

‘When I have to cut up a child, I feel like the child under my own knife.’ He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I contacted the GP practice which looks after Blodwel children. Arwel had a routine medical on admission, and they saw him once after, when he had summer ’flu. Glandular-fever tests were negative, and he wasn’t tested for anything more sinister.’

‘And what killed him?’

‘A huge depressed fracture on the left side of the skull and a broken neck. He fell, or was thrown, very hard against some smooth solid object. There’s no external wound, and no visible debris.’

McKenna fidgeted with his lighter. ‘Can’t you be more precise about the time of death? Some time between Friday night and Sunday morning isn’t really much use.’

‘It’s been so cold, and I don’t know how long he’d been exposed naked, so it’s the best I can do for now,’ Dr Roberts said. ‘There’s substantial subcutaneous bruising, variously healed, around the lower torso and thighs, so he’s probably
taken more than his share of beatings. You should be taking Blodwel apart, whereas I hear you can’t get your foot through the door. Can’t your boss lean on the director of social services? There must be some old favour due in between blood brothers of the Taffia, unless it’s already being repaid.’

Arwel’s social worker was perfectly adjusted to her role, McKenna thought, irritated by the dribble of platitude and evasion. ‘One of the children in your care is dead,’ he snapped.

‘He wasn’t in my care, and he was on the run, anyway. Runaways come to grief, but they won’t be told.’

‘Having a client murdered doesn’t sound like a new experience for you,’ Janet said. ‘Are many of them persistently beaten up, as well? And persistently sodomized?’

‘Blodwel’s placements are Mr Hogg’s responsibility, and he reports to the director. I’m not involved with those children on a daily basis.’

‘So when did you last see Arwel?’ McKenna intervened.

‘Six weeks ago. Seven, perhaps.’

‘Why not check your records?’ Janet suggested. ‘Where did you see him?’

‘I had a word with him when I took another child to Blodwel.’

‘Mrs Thomas tells us Arwel wasn’t allowed home leave,’ McKenna said. ‘Why was that?’

‘I can’t discuss casework decisions with you.’

‘Can’t you discuss them with the parents, either?’ Janet asked. ‘How was he when you saw him?’

‘The same as usual.’

‘And how was that?’ McKenna asked.

‘Uncommunicative at first, then quite insolent when he eventually condescended to open his mouth. Mr Hogg said he was involved in a lot of trouble with the others, so that’s probably where he got the bruises you’re talking about.’

‘And where’d’you think he might’ve got the anal injuries?’ Janet asked.

‘He was obviously up to something nobody knew about.’ Staring at Janet, she added testily, ‘We can’t help people who don’t want help, and he rejected all the treatment plans we drew up.’

‘You didn’t like him, did you?’ McKenna asked.

‘Personal feelings aren’t an issue. We give every client the best possible service.’

‘Then I’d hate to see your worst,’ Janet said.

‘I haven’t noticed the police doing much good with juveniles! We’ve had some notable success with Blodwel placements, probably because Mr Hogg’s seen as an ideal father-figure. His wife puts many of the children’s own mothers to shame.’

‘What good is that for the parent-child relationship?’ Janet asked.

‘The children learn to overcome their parents’ failings.’

‘Which children on your books would know Arwel?’ McKenna asked.

‘I can’t tell you. Our client files are confidential, children’s included. You wouldn’t open your records to us, would you?’

Janet hunched over the wheel of McKenna’s car. ‘I toyed with the idea of social work for a while. Did you ever hear such claptrap?’

‘Social-work speak.’ McKenna lit a cigarette. ‘And she’s in thrall to Mr Hogg, like the rest of the world.’

‘I do wish you wouldn’t smoke so much, sir.’

‘Not you as well!’

‘I’m trying to stop, but it’s awfully hard, and the fag-fascists give you the evil eye if you dare smoke in the canteen.’

‘You can have one if you want,’ McKenna said, ‘though it’s a bit like offering the needle to a heroin addict.’

‘You’ll get done for sexual harassment if the senior lady officers with the short sharp haircuts and jolly voices hear about you.’ She ran her fingers through her own luxuriant dark hair. ‘I’d love a cigarette, and I don’t think Mr Hogg holds people in thrall. He’s just persuaded everyone he’s Mr Clever Dick with the answer to all their problems, so there’s a huge vested interest in keeping him sweet.’ Taking the cigarette, she added, ‘Arwel’s social worker’s such a stereotype, isn’t she? She read the label round the lad’s neck, and that was the end of it. Sociology calls it the process of dehumanization: first the label, then abuse, then extermination. I suppose it’s one way to rid the world of its problems.’

‘Why are you sulking, Prys?’ Jack demanded.

‘I’m not sulking.’

‘Are you not?’ Jack regarded the sullen face. ‘What are you doing, then? Dealing with a severe case of constipation?’

‘It’s not fair!’ Dewi burst out. ‘Why couldn’t I drive Mr McKenna instead of slogging over the computer all afternoon?
And I’ve got to sit in while you talk to that stinky git in the interview room.’

‘Had your nose pushed out of joint by our little lady detective, have you? Afraid of being elbowed out of the chief inspector’s favour?’ Jack grinned. ‘For all people reckon you’re quite the most handsome young copper Bangor’s ever been lucky enough to have patrolling its mean streets, I’m sure WDC Evans is much more congenial company, because she has attributes, Dewi Prys, you’ll never have and wouldn’t want. And apart from that, some jobs need a woman officer, as you well know.’

‘That’s very snide, Mr Tuttle. You’re implying Mr McKenna might be fancying her. Janet Evans is younger than me.’

‘She’s pretty enough, she’s over twenty-one, and she’s single. Could do him a world of good.’

Christened David Fellows, reared in a frilly suburban villa along the coast, and well on the road to perdition before he was out of school, the man known in his middle years as Dai Skunk sat tidily on an upright chair in the interview room, sipping from a mug of tea.

‘I had a bath this morning,’ he announced to Jack and Dewi. ‘So you can both stop breathing through your mouths.’

Dewi snickered, then winced as Jack’s heavy shoe caught his ankle bone.

‘Do you know why you’re here?’ Jack asked.

Fellows shrugged. ‘Some little queen squealing to a big butch copper, I suppose. Gives you an excuse to persecute me. Not that you need one, even though I never do anything illegal. Our kindly government changed the law quite a long time ago.’

‘And a sorry day that was,’ Jack observed, dreading the onslaught of the sickly odour. Once told by McKenna that a rare and obscure medical condition might be its cause, he labelled rampant homosexuality neither obscure nor a medical condition, but simply a vile perversion. Fellows, short and painfully thin, swallowed the last of his tea, and wiped his lips on a grubby handkerchief.

‘Do I need a solicitor?’

‘You’re not under caution. You can have a brief if you want.’

‘I’ll save myself some money, then. Aren’t I too trusting?’

‘We’re interested in an exchange of information,’ Jack said. ‘We have some information about you. You can tell us whether it’s true or not.’

‘Mr McKenna said we had to lean on people,’ Dewi pointed out.

‘Did he?’ Fellows leaned forward, sending his smell ahead like an advance scout. ‘That should be exciting!’

‘Pack it in!’ Jack warned.

‘The bigger the aversion, the harder you’re leaning on the closet door.’ Fellows smiled as rage turned Jack’s face thunderous. ‘Too bad you’re not my type, isn’t it? I prefer them a bit younger, like your pretty friend. Look at those lovely blue eyes and that gorgeous black hair!’

‘Just how young d’you like your playmates?’ Jack asked quietly.

The smile died in Fellows’ red-rimmed eyes, and he began to rub the side of his neck. ‘You snidey git! You’ve got me here because of that boy you found on the railway line.’

‘He was on the run from Blodwel, and we’re told you might’ve let him rest his weary head at your place.’

‘I don’t know any kids from there.’ Fellows rubbed his skin viciously. ‘Who told you I do?’

Jack took Arwel’s photograph from the file, and placed it on the table and, as Fellows looked, his restless hand stayed itself. ‘Oh, God! Wasn’t he beautiful?’ His hand came to rest beside the picture, fingers smearing blood on the table. ‘What a bloody terrible waste!’

‘You’ve made your neck bleed,’ Dewi said, watching a crimson globule well from the dark lesion below Fellows’s ear. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

The other man looked at his hand, then wiped the blood from his neck with the grubby handkerchief. ‘Only my badness coming out.’ He smiled wryly, all flirtatiousness gone. ‘Don’t you know I’ve got AIDS? My name’s been changed to Dai Death.’ Looking once more on Arwel Thomas, he added, ‘I wouldn’t even breathe on a beautiful boy like him.’

Janet sat again at the table in the back parlour of the Thomas home, McKenna beside her on a chair which sagged painfully under his buttocks. Peggy Thomas hunched in her armchair, and the thin pot-bellied man she had wed leaned against the mantel, cutting off heat from the meagre fire. In the other armchair, hands clasped so tight colour bled from the knuckles, was a girl who looked little older than Arwel. Unable to take his eyes from her, McKenna wondered how the parents, lacking even the distinction of true ugliness to mark them from the
herd, produced the beautiful boy eviscerated on the autopsy table, and this girl. Perfectly proportioned, slender and fine-boned, hair and skin pale and luminous, her loveliness was that rarity demanding awe. She looked up suddenly, dark saddened eyes gazing into his, and he imagined her body brittle under the weight of sweating urgent lust. Janet’s voice broke into the nightmare.

‘We’re terribly sorry to bother you again.’

Tom Thomas grunted. ‘What’s done is done.’ He gestured to the figure of his daughter. ‘She’s Carol.’

‘There’s just Carol and Arwel, is there?’

Peggy nodded. ‘Just these two.’ She favoured Carol with a look full of emotion, pity, or its spiteful twin, there in abundance.

‘When did you last see Arwel?’ McKenna said.

Staring at her daughter, Peggy said, ‘Three months ago. We went to a case conference or something.’

‘And how often had you seen him before then?’

‘Twice since he went to Blodwel.’ She chewed the inside of her mouth. ‘Eight months back, just before Easter.’

‘After the first time,’ Tom intervened. ‘Mr Hogg told us not to come again ’til he said, because Arwel went off his head when we left.’