Someone Else's Son (11 page)

‘Where’s Kev now?’

Dayna shrugged. ‘Pub. Someone’s house. Bookies. Job Centre if it’s Mum’s lucky week.’

Dennis suddenly felt like a male version of Carrie Kent, prising out the grim truth of lives that most people would rather ignore. Lives filled with tragedy, poverty, neglect and abuse. It went on. He saw it every day.

Dennis pulled things back on track. ‘Do you think it was a pupil at your school?’

Dayna shrugged.

‘Tall? Short? White? Black? Asian? What was he wearing? You must be able to tell me something? You were actually there, weren’t you?’

Dayna began to shake as if she wasn’t sure. Her electric blue-tipped fingers snatched at the duvet cover. Her eyes swam with confusion and anger. ‘Shut up! I didn’t see them.’

‘If you can give even a couple of shreds of information about Max’s killer, Dayna, it will help enormously. Think back to this morning. Start with when you first saw Max. What were you doing?’ Masters put pen to pad. He wrote
them
.

Dayna was repeatedly shaking her head. She was clearly traumatised. Victim support would be on to her soon enough, he reckoned, but perhaps immediate counselling was what she needed. Her head would be well and truly clogged. He’d dealt with young witnesses like her many times before. They either never shut up spouting lies, or they went in on themselves, like Dayna, somehow feeling that they were to blame, that they could have done something to help.

‘We were bunking off. I was waiting for English. I’d got some chips.’ She touched her lips, as if the taste was still there.

‘Go on.’ This was good. She was thinking about it.

‘And then . . .’ Dayna stood and went to the window. Dennis squinted as she whipped back the curtains. ‘And then they were just there. Taunting him. Threatening him.’ She turned. ‘You’re not meant to die bunking off lessons and eating chips.’

Dennis sighed heavily. ‘What do you mean, you were waiting for English?’

‘It’s the only lesson I like. Max likes it too. Liked.’

‘I can see you read a lot.’ Dayna’s room had more books in it than the average teen, he reckoned. Not that he knew much about kids’ bedrooms these days. Not since Kaye had left with Estelle. Dealing with teenage girls particularly stung these days. He tried not to think about it.

Dayna nodded. ‘We read to each other.’ She was a silhouette between the gloom inside and the spring sun that had broken from behind cloud. ‘Shakespeare and stuff.’

‘Did Max have any enemies that you know of?’

The girl swallowed several times. As if the news had just hit her all over again, she puckered with sadness and fell on to the bed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t fucking know anything any more.’ Then she raised her head. ‘I do know one thing though. I’m never going back to school.’

Her head sank into the bedding again. Even the detective’s hand tentatively placed between her shoulder blades didn’t elicit a response. He decided to allow her an hour or two more grieving; to come to terms with things before he really set to and grilled her. Meantime, he would catch up with what Jess and the others had rounded up.

He would also call Carrie or Leah. It would be incredibly useful if they could air a last-minute special edition show, he decided, wondering just how many strings he could pull. Perhaps a general round-up of knife crime to stimulate interest, then a focus on the Quinell case. They could do a reconstruction. He needed answers and he needed them fast. In the past, it had been clearly proven that the sooner they got information out to the public, the better the results. And Jesus Christ, he thought sourly, did he need results.

Dennis left Dayna’s bedroom and trod the stairs quickly. Mrs Ray didn’t bother replying when he called out a goodbye, that he would be back later, that Dayna would need to come down to the station to make a statement. He hesitated by the front door, turned and opened his mouth. But then he continued outside, seeing no point in telling the woman that her daughter could use some motherly comfort.

‘Don’t write shit about me,’ were Dr Quinell’s first words to her. He didn’t care for journalists, and he cared even less for the stupid photographer as she circled round him, snapping repeatedly. He batted his hand at the silly girl. ‘Get away from me.’

‘I’ll only write shit if you choose to tell me shit.’

‘All journalists write shit.’ He flashed a crooked smile.

‘I’m not all journalists.’

Before she could put pen to paper, he reached out and snatched her pad. ‘What is this?’ he said, turning the pad round and round. ‘I can’t read it. It’s sh—’

‘Shorthand.’ She tried to grab it back, but Quinell whipped it behind his back. There was a ripping sound followed by the scrunching of paper. ‘What the hell...’ She darted behind him, but he spun round. ‘Stop it! That’s my notepad.’

‘Full of shit, like I said.’

‘I need to write the story up later and you have no right to—’

‘Tough. Have dinner with me tonight and I’ll tell you a story worth printing.’

‘No, I—’

‘Fine. Go tell your editor that you couldn’t be bothered to report on one of the biggest breakthroughs in coefficient regression since Legendre and his least squares.’ Quinell balled the paper tightly and bounced it back and forth between his large hands.

The woman watched as her notes teetered on destruction. He doubted she’d remember anything of what he’d told her. It was gobbledygook to the lay person.

‘My mother always told me not to go off with strangers. I imagine that includes dinner with you,’ she said.

‘And my mama told me never to date a white girl, but that hasn’t stopped me asking. I think you should go tell your mother—’

‘Telling her anything will be difficult. She died two years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Dr Brody Quinell’s manner suddenly changed. His face became serious and one hand reached out to her shoulder although didn’t quite touch. He noticed her face soften, her eyes open wide as her brow lifted.

‘Thank you. But you still shouldn’t have ruined my notes.’

He stopped playing with the paper ball for a moment and let out a noise, more a roar than a laugh. ‘But you wrote—’

‘Stop!’ she said, half smiling, looking around for her photographer. Her pencil crept between her teeth. Brody could see he was winning.

‘So what’s your name?’ he asked, reckoning she was about twenty-three or -four.

She swallowed. ‘Caroline Kent,’ she said quietly.

‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Kent.’

Then Dr Brody Quinell – up-and-coming mathematician in the field of statistical science – spread his lips wide and stuffed the paper right in his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he chewed and chewed. ‘Mmm, tha’s goood shit,’ he got out. ‘Reckon I’m so stuffed full I won’t be needing any dinner at all tonight.’

 

Carrie Kent, ace reporter with a final warning on a job that many young women fresh out of university would lose a few fingers for, her boss had said, decided she would try a tape recorder on Dr Brody Quinell. She knew she’d drawn the short straw by being given this story, but she was serving time under the science editor as part of her internship with a huge periodical conglomerate. She was determined to prove herself.

The recorder was hidden in a small evening bag. She lifted her napkin and set the purse down on the table with the half-open flap facing him. She’d expected more burger bar than expensive cuisine and was surprised at his tailored suit. He’d made an effort. Earlier, he’d perched on the wall outside the university wearing ripped jeans and a faded shirt. His research work over the last four years had resulted in a paper that was causing quite a stir in the States. It was Carrie’s job to discover and report on the personal side of Dr Brody Quinell for
SciTech
magazine.

‘The jeans aren’t the only thing that’s ripped, eh?’ Leah, her photographer and best friend, had said when she saw Carrie eyeing up the doctor’s lean physique.

‘Not my type,’ Carrie had whispered back, just wanting to get the story and leave. But gradually she’d warmed to the man, convinced him to take her notes from his mouth, flatten them out, and go over the technical points that she simply couldn’t read any more. Eventually, she agreed to go to dinner with the persuasive maths star – he’d been working with NASA, he confided, and had once dated an astrophysicist. He promised her exclusive details of how his research was going to be used and he would even tell her what he had in his refrigerator. If it got back to the editor that she’d passed up the chance, her job would be on the line for sure.

‘Nice restaurant.’ Carrie glanced around at the elegant wallpaper and pristine tablecloths. Conversation hadn’t exactly flowed since they’d arrived. She glanced at her watch.

‘You think?’ Dr Quinell replied, already appearing bored as if his great mind simply wasn’t being stimulated enough.

Carrie smiled coyly, praying she wouldn’t ruin things. She smoothed out her napkin. ‘Yes, I do.’ This was awful. She wasn’t going to get anything from him.

He shrugged. ‘We’ll find out, won’t we?’ He stared hard at her. Carrie was unable to look away. Something passed between them. She felt herself break out in a sweat. Finally, Carrie asked for some water. She fiddled with her hair – anything to override the bolt of electricity that shot out from her heart.

They’d barely finished their starters when he suggested they leave.

She sat in stunned silence but, inside her mind, it took her only a second to decide. It couldn’t be worse than staying here, having him stare at her, break her down like one of his stupid equations. She didn’t want to be something he could figure out. That was what she was supposed to be doing to him.

Then that shard of excitement again, straight through her middle.

He had an apartment, he said, with wine and plenty of food.
They could relax more
. It would be a glimpse into his personal life – for the article, she tried to convince herself as her mind forged ahead to other things.

Carrie swallowed, stood, and picked up her bag. She’d never done anything like this before. ‘Sure,’ she replied as if she were merely accepting another glass of wine. She would get the story – an exclusive – and then go home.

But there was something about Dr Quinell, she thought as they waited for a cab; something that made her stomach wring itself out. But that same something also made her want to slap him as hard as she could for unsettling her. He was infuriating yet intriguing, powerful yet oddly vulnerable, Carrie discovered, when she saw his apartment. It was basic. He’s been single for a long while, she deduced. That or he made a point of not letting women influence him one bit. His living space was utilitarian and devoid of personal belongings. Not even a picture on the wall or a single cushion on the grey sofa.

Carrie stood alone in the sparse apartment and felt like a very small number in this great man’s world.
His genius had aided the exploration of Mars
. Suddenly her article for
SciTech
seemed wholly unimportant.

Two hours later, Carrie was feeling as if she’d been to Mars and back. As for the process, she couldn’t quite work out how it had happened. Just something about the man she was meant to be interviewing, something about the sum of them both after a few more words and a bottle of wine.

‘Again?’ Brody asked. It wasn’t really a question. He clambered on top of her for the third time, his shiny black skin such a contrast to her milky white colour, and twenty minutes later he rolled off. ‘Not bad,’ he said, eyes closed, sheet tangled around his waist.

Carrie reached across the bed and slapped him hard. She felt utterly satisfied. Then she reached for her bag and took out the tape recorder. She spent the next four hours grilling Brody about his life, his loves, his achievements and ambitions. He was, not surprisingly, his most amenable yet. Carrie didn’t even notice when the mini-cassette reached the end and clicked off. Eventually, exhausted, she drifted off to sleep. When she woke, quite against her better judgement and large amounts of good sense that usually dominated her life, she wondered if this was anything akin to love.

Max had grown up with something weighing him down and, try as he might, he couldn’t name or identify it. He didn’t like it – just as some kids were fat or had a limp, or spots or eczema. That was their thing. They got on with being teased and that was the end of it. No one wanted to be different.

One girl in his kindergarten class had an extra finger on her right hand. A little wiggly stump without a nail. Her parents wanted to have it removed when she was younger, but she’d refused. She thought it made her special. The other kids ripped into her about it, but Max loved her for it. She had something extra too, like him, only he wasn’t sure exactly what it was he’d been born with, just that he knew he had it – something unusual sitting on his shoulder. Something heavy that he dragged around every day of his life; something that ate into him; something that watched him, spied on him, like his own personal god. Or demon, he concluded as he grew up.

During his early years, Max believed that he was special, that this
thing
somehow protected him. He knew he was different from the other kids – he was mixed race for a start, one of only a handful at his school. He knew his parents paid a lot of money to send him to Denningham College and wondered if that was the source of his angst. He was never happy there.

Teasing, bullying, racism, violence or plain nastiness is simply not tolerated at Denningham. Any pupil caught partaking of such contemptible crimes will be immediately removed from the school. Here, we pride ourselves on good behaviour and tolerance of all
.

The headmistress’s words rang loud and clear at the start of every term. No one took any notice. Max still got his hair washed in the urinals; still had his possessions taken, broken or sold; still got the silent treatment as his entire year was cajoled into not speaking to him for a term. And he always slept badly in the dorm. He woke early to take his shower before anyone else was up for fear of being ridiculed about his skinny body. He couldn’t bear it if he had to do those vile things in front of them all again.