Itchcraft (11 page)

‘Maybe,’ said Itch. ‘Maybe.’ He sipped and winced again. ‘Don’t suppose I’ll have a teacher like him again. He always listened, Lucy. He was always . . . there. Always the same. Stood up for us against Flowerdew. And Shivvi. That beating he took from her is the reason he—’

‘Stop,’ said Lucy. ‘You’re doing it again.’

Itch’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen and answered it. ‘OK, see you in five.’ He turned to Lucy. ‘That was Mum. The police want to talk to me. And I have to go to the police station as the press are outside Jack’s place. My dad’s on his way.’

‘Have you caught him?’ said Itch as two police officers walked into the interview room. ‘Have you caught Flowerdew?’ He and his father had been sitting at a plain wooden table, but he had jumped up as soon as the door opened.

‘I’m DCI Abbott – Jane Abbott.’ A woman with shoulder-length grey-flecked hair smiled briefly at Itch. ‘And this is DCI Underwood . . .’ An overweight man with glasses and a beard nodded. Itch wanted to say that he didn’t look like a policeman but thought better of it. They all shook hands.

‘You must be Nicholas Lofte?’ said Abbott.

Nicholas nodded.

‘Now, then . . .’ She turned to Itch. ‘Have we caught who?’

Itch looked at his father, then back at the policewoman. ‘Well, Flowerdew obviously. The man who sent the parcels. The man who killed my teacher . . . the man who tried to kill me.’

‘And sent the bomb to the Cornwall Academy?’ asked Abbott.

‘Yes!’ said Itch, sounding exasperated. ‘Of course!’

‘Well, I think we’re getting just a little bit ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?’ Abbott gave a tight smile, and Itch sensed his father bridle.

‘My son is fifteen, not five. Someone has tried to kill him today, my neighbour’s house got blown up instead, and one of your colleagues was killed taking the blast. So try keeping that patronizing tone from your voice, if you don’t mind.’ Nicholas sat back and glared at the woman across the table.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘OK, I’ll try again . . .’ She checked some papers in front of her. ‘PC Marston died opening a package he had taken to your neighbour’s house to check. He had a wife and baby.’ She stopped and looked up at Itch and Nicholas. Itch felt something was wrong.
That sounded like she’s thinking it was our fault
.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Nicholas quietly.

DCI Abbott nodded and continued. ‘His colleague was burned in the fire and has gone to hospital.’ Again the look up, and Itch fidgeted in his seat. ‘According to the fire team, the rear of the next-door house is smoke-damaged and will need major work. Your house is fine, and you can return as soon as the investigations are complete.’

Itch nodded. ‘Would you like to know about Flowerdew now?’ he said. ‘You must—’

Abbott held up a hand and produced another sheet of paper. ‘Wait, please. The fire team have told us that when they returned to their station, they went through the usual checks and discovered something rather odd.’ She looked at Itch now. ‘Their protective gear – their helmets, uniforms and so on – all tested positive for radiation. It wasn’t strong, but it was there. They were radioactive. Do you know why that might be?’

‘Was . . . the bomb radioactive?’ said Nicholas, astonished.

‘No, we don’t think so. Just the usual sort of explosives. The radiation came from somewhere else . . .’

Itch was aware that not only were both police officers staring at him; his father was too.

‘We know something of your, er, adventures, Itch,’ said Abbott. ‘And that you collect the Periodic Table. You’ve got quite a collection, I’m told. Might you have had something that could have been released in the fire?’

Itch looked at the floor. This was a familiar feeling.
Of course . . . Of course, it was me
.

‘But this was next door to us—’ began Nicholas.

‘Yes,’ said Itch, slightly too loudly. ‘Yes, there was some thorium next door.’

‘There was some
what
?’ This was the first time Underwood had spoken. He sat down next to DCI Abbott.

‘Itch?’ said Nicholas.

Itch took a deep breath. ‘Thorium, named after the god of war. Atomic number 90, melting point 1750 degrees C. It’s where most of the Earth’s heat comes from. It’s silvery—’

‘Is it radioactive?’ said Abbott flatly.

‘Yes,’ said Itch. ‘It’s weak, but yes.’

‘And this was part of your . . . collection?’ asked Underwood.

‘Yes – it’s not illegal, is it?’

Abbott shrugged. ‘We’ll check. But in general, last time I checked, boys aren’t allowed to have radioactive material.’ That thin smile again.

‘What – you mean, like bananas?’

‘Itch, don’t do this,’ said his father softly. ‘Not now.’

‘Bananas are radioactive,’ said Itch, ignoring his father. ‘It’s the potassium, you see. Your bones are radioactive. Not illegal at all. Radiation is everywhere. If your house is made of granite, it’ll release some radon gas. That’s radioactive.’

‘OK, enough of the science lesson,’ said Abbott. ‘I take your point. Where do you buy thorium, then?’

Itch looked at his father. ‘We’ve just come back from South Africa. We visited a thorium mine and I brought some back.’

‘Is that even allowed?’ said Underwood, busy looking up thorium on his phone.

‘How much did you bring back? Did you tell customs?’ Abbott was looking at Nicholas.

‘I . . . I didn’t know he had it. I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘It’s only a small amount. It was stored safely. Or I thought it was. But the parcel explosion must have—’

Abbott leaned in towards Itch. ‘Do you have anything else that we should know about?’

Before he could answer, Nicholas leaned in too, their faces close. ‘Excuse me . . . this is all wrong. We can come to the thorium and whatever else Itch has in his collection later. But someone tried to kill my son. Have you forgotten again? His teacher was killed, and a bomb was sent to his school. That’s what you should be talking about.’ He sat back and glowered.

‘Ah yes, the package at the school.’ Abbott produced yet another sheet of closely typed paper. ‘Itch, can you explain why you left your lessons – left your school, indeed – moments before the bomb was delivered by the parcel company?’

There was silence in the interview room. Itch looked pale and flushed at the same time.

‘Your teacher said that you felt unwell and asked to be excused. But seconds later you were seen running from the school. Just as the bomb was delivered. Where were you going in such a hurry?’

‘Itch?’ said Nicholas, his brow furrowed. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I can explain!’ said Itch, flushed and rattled. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking! I was going to the library in town . . .’

Underwood frowned. ‘You ran out of school to go to the library? Really? What was the hurry?’

Itch looked from face to disbelieving face. ‘There was this book that Mr Watkins had got out and I was trying find it. He was doing some research into mining accidents or something, and he wouldn’t tell us what it was.’

‘I didn’t know you’d joined the library,’ said his father.

‘I just did. Last night.’ Itch’s head was spinning. He had hoped that the police might be close to finding Flowerdew. Now he was being interrogated as though he was the bomber. ‘I think I need some help,’ he said.

‘You’d like a lawyer?’ said Abbott, her eyes wide.

Itch shook his head and reached for his bag. Finding a small card, he handed it to his father.

‘I think we should call Colonel Fairnie.’

It was dark when Itch and his father left the police station. The wind blew hard off the sea and the freezing rain stung their faces, but neither of them hurried to the car. The cold was a refreshing blast after the stale heat of the interview room, and they stood on the steps, inhaling deeply. Itch knew from Jack’s texts that the journalists were still camped outside her house.

‘How many does she think are there?’ said Nicholas.

‘She says about eight. And a TV crew. And a policeman . . .’

Nicholas sighed. ‘Maybe we could just go back to ours anyway,’ he said.

‘No point. Chloe says they’re there too.’

‘OK. Uncle Jon’s, then.’

‘I’m sorry, Dad. I should have told you about the thorium.’

‘Yes, you should, but in the greater scheme of things, on a day when someone’s tried to kill you and Dr Dart and actually succeeded in killing John Watkins, it hardly matters.’

They were pulling out of the police station car park when Itch’s phone rang. ‘Hello, Colonel Fairnie,’ he said. ‘I’m putting you on speaker. I’m in the car with Dad.’ Itch put his phone on the dashboard.

‘Good evening to you both. Nice to hear your voice, Itch. I’m shocked by what’s happened today – really shocked. I’m so sorry about Mr Watkins. He was a good man.’

There was a long silence . . . Itch couldn’t think what to say.

‘Yeah, well . . .’

‘Colonel Fairnie, it’s Nicholas Lofte here. What did you say to the police?’

‘What I had to. Explained what, and more specifically who, we are up against.’

‘You mean Flowerdew,’ said Nicholas.

‘Of course. We need to reconsider the threat level again, I’m afraid; he’s clearly still active, and has resources at his disposal. You heard about the fourth package?’

Itch and Nicholas looked at each other, horrified.

‘No . . . Who . . .?’ said Itch, hardly daring to hear the answer.

‘Bill Kent at ISIS. The guy who helped show you round the target station – the guy Flowerdew no doubt blames for helping you to destroy the 126. He’ll be OK. He realized there was something wrong and turned his back on it. It went off, but he only suffered minor burns to his neck. I told your DCI Abbott enough for her to be impressed with you, Itch, instead of suspicious. Given the targets of the bombs, there can be little doubt about the perpetrator.’

‘Thank you,’ said Itch and his father together as they drove past their house.

Then Nicholas added, ‘Any advice on dealing with a media scrum?’

‘Ah. I’d restrict your comments to expressions of sadness about John Watkins. Say nothing of the bombs addressed to Itch and Dr Dart. And get Itch indoors quickly.’

‘Pretty much what I was thinking,’ said Nicholas as he turned into his brother’s road. The gathering of reporters was larger than Jack had reported and they had all spotted the approaching car; two bright TV lights swung in their direction.

‘Oh, and Itch,’ said Fairnie, ‘keep your head down and get inside. Let’s do this one day at a time. If I were you, I wouldn’t say anything at all.’

As Nicholas parked, the car was surrounded, cameras flashing.

Itch nodded. ‘That’s easy. I never want to say anything to anybody anyway.’

Fairnie laughed. ‘Well, good luck. Call me anytime. I’ll always speak if I can.’

Itch ended the call as his father killed the engine.

‘Ready, Itch?’ he said.

‘No.’

They sat for a second as the car was circled, questions shouted through the steamed-up glass.

‘How is your son, Mr Lofte?’

‘Were they trying to kill him?’

‘How you feeling, Itch?’

Itch looked at his father. ‘Can’t we go somewhere else? This sucks.’

For a moment it looked as though Nicholas was considering it. Then he shook his head. ‘We’d have to get your mum and Chloe out of there first. And then they’ll follow us. So let’s just get this done.’ The front door of the house opened slightly and he saw his brother Jon peering out. ‘Come on, Itch. Let’s go.’

With the assistance of a policewoman who cleared a path for them, Itch sprinted for the door. He heard questions coming from all around but ignored them. As he approached the house, the door swung open and he ran in. A smiling Chloe was waiting with Uncle Jon.

‘Come in, come in!’ he cried, ushering them inside. ‘Your mum’s in the kitchen.’

‘Itch, come and see,’ said Jack from the front room.

He walked in to see Jack and her mother watching TV. It took a moment for him to realize that the twenty-four-hour news channel was showing pictures of Jack’s house; and another to realize that his dad was fielding questions. Itch heard his voice outside the door, then the satellite-delayed version on screen a few seconds later.

‘. . . of course it’s been a terrible day . . . We just want to be left alone now . . . We are all very upset about what happened to John Watkins . . . My son’s fine really, just shaken . . . Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’ They watched as Nicholas, looking tired and tense, turned and pushed his way through the pack. Moments later he was in the hall. The TV picture had switched to a reporter, who was standing next to their car.

‘This is weird,’ said Chloe as her father appeared in the room, her mother and uncle close behind.

‘Can someone turn that down?’ said Jon, pointing at the television. ‘Tell us what happened, Itch. What did the police say?’

Itch slumped onto a large sofa next to Jack and was about to answer when she nudged him. ‘Itch, look.’ She was pointing at the TV. They both sat bolt upright. The Greencorps company logo had appeared, along with pictures of its co-chairmen.

‘Turn it up, turn it up!’ said Itch, and Chloe found the remote. The room fell silent.

The report had cut to footage of a badly lit, grimy basement and what looked like bloodstains in the dirt. The caption across the bottom of the screen said:
Oil executives found ‘executed’ in Nigeria
.

Chloe came and sat by Jack and Itch.

‘
Van Den Hauwe and Revere had been missing since the end of last year
,’ said the reporter, ‘
and it was believed negotiations for their release were well advanced. But both men were found with a single gunshot wound to the head. Police are saying they believe the execution was the work of a local gang and have issued photos of the women they want to question
.’

‘Women?’ said Jude.

‘Women . . .’ whispered Jack as a photo of six women, all in diving gear, appeared on the screen.

Itch felt his flesh creep. ‘Shivvi’s diving gang . . . weren’t they all women?’ he said. Jack nodded.

Suddenly Itch’s phone rang. ‘It’s Lucy,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

The three cousins jumped up and found the kitchen empty.