Catch the Fallen Sparrow (10 page)

‘I want to make another point. The Press will be on our heels wanting an early arrest but our forensic evidence is, quite frankly, so far disappointing. It is important we arrest the right man for the right reasons. I am not in a hurry but I am determined. No mistakes and play it all by the board. We can video the children's evidence and it will be admissible in the courts. According to our latest guidelines children do not lie.' The ripple that swept through the room was louder this time and one or two laughed. She held up her hand. ‘I know, I know,' she said, ‘but they are our guidelines. We can sift through their statements carefully and see where it leads us. Also, I have spoken to the coroner. The inquest can go ahead and Dean buried just as soon as we've contacted his next of kin.' She stopped briefly before saying quietly, ‘I believe there is a mother – somewhere.' Then she added, ‘The verdict will almost certainly be murder.'

She paused to glance through her notes again. ‘We're following up the lead on the ring but still haven't managed to get hold of either Mr Robin Leech or his mother, Mrs Gill Leech. It seems they are away from home for a long weekend. When they do return I want you to remember – we will have to go cautiously. Mr Ashford Leech was a man who was very vocal at the House. His wife and son are both members of some minority groups – also very vocal. The Leech family will know their rights and you can be sure they will be the first to complain of any departure from recommended police protocols.' She paused. ‘Any questions?'

One of the detective constables at the back raised his hand. ‘The two soldiers who found the body, ma'am, are they under suspicion?'

Joanna nodded. ‘The boy soldiers,' she mused. ‘Yes.' She turned back to the board and the enlarged photograph of the tattoos on Dean's knuckles. ‘I expect some of you noticed these tattoos. Private Gary Swinton appears to have at least the same tattoo artist as Dean. We're looking into Swinton's past at the moment and will let you know any further developments in that direction. We do need to know a little more about these boy soldiers – their whereabouts for the night in question, alibis and, most important of all, I want to know this: did Swinton have any previous contact with the dead boy.' She grinned at the DC. ‘Well done.'

She scanned the room. ‘Does anyone have anything further to add?'

This time it was Roger Farthing who spoke. ‘I visited the shoe shop,' he said, and reported the uncertain record of stock. ‘When I got back from the shop,' he said slowly, ‘I looked up Keithy Latos – the guy who owns the shop. He has a record for soliciting young boys. He's been caught once in some public toilets in Hanley with an under-age.' He sat down, with a flushed face. ‘I thought you ought to know.'

Joanna nodded. ‘So,' she said, ‘he has to go on the list. We'll watch him for a day or two.' She glanced at Roger. ‘Did you say he's going to stocktake?'

‘Yes.'

‘We'll call back there later on today. Mike?' He nodded. ‘We'll go together. If we can see anything out of the ordinary we'll get a warrant and search his flat.'

Mike touched her on the shoulder as the officers filed out of the room. ‘Have you heard from Dr Levin?'

She shook her head.

His face was almost mocking. ‘Not even a picture postcard, Joanna?'

‘I told you,' she said sharply. ‘He's on a family holiday.'

‘Oh yes, I was forgetting.' His eyes were very dark and unreadable. ‘A family holiday.'

They called at the shop just as Keithy Latos was switching off the lights. He started when he saw them, and opened the door very slowly, giving a strained grin.

‘I thought you'd be back,' he said.

Mike spoke. ‘We wondered if you'd had time to go through your books yet, Mr Latos.'

Keithy Latos took a step backwards. ‘I did actually,' he said. ‘It was quiet in the shop. I am missing a pair. Did you say size sevens?'

‘When did they go?' Joanna glanced around the shop, wondering whether it had been here that Dean had died – or upstairs?

‘I ... I'm not that sure.' He licked his lips.

‘Were you just closing?' Joanna asked innocently. ‘We could come up, help you look through the books.'

He opened and closed his mouth like a fish.

Mike smiled. ‘A cup of tea would be lovely;' he said.

It was a tiny flat upstairs, a square foot which served as a landing. Through a half-opened door Joanna glimpsed an unmade bed with dark sheets and quilt thrown back. To the side was a white toilet with curling lino on the floor. Ahead was a square sitting room and a tiny kitchenette. It was a far cry from the smart shop below.

‘No palace,' Keithy called, ‘but it does – know what I mean? Go in, sit down. I'll put the kettle on.'

While he disappeared into the kitchen Joanna and Mike walked into the tiny room, decorated in cream and brown, dominated by a huge television set and video. They scanned the room but saw nothing more suggestive than a pile of gay magazines. Keithy walked in carrying three steaming mugs.

‘I'll just get my books.'

The books were poorly kept with Tipp-Ex and crossings out but as far as they could see the list of stock was short by one pair of trainers. But as the previous accounts had been done almost three months ago the shoes could have gone at any time in the last twelve weeks.

Joanna closed the book and looked at Latos. ‘Can you give me a better idea of when the trainers might have been stolen?' she asked. ‘When did you put them outside in the basket?'

Here he could not be much more help. ‘About a month ago,' he said, ‘I think.' He studied his fingernails. ‘I'm not really a very precise sort of person.'

‘Mr Latos.

‘Please, call me Keithy ...'

‘Keith,' Joanna said firmly. ‘The boy who was killed. Did you know him? His name was Dean – Dean Tunstall.'

Mike slid the photograph in front of the man's face.

‘You see,' Joanna said softly, ‘we know that you have been in trouble before – with boys.'

A look of panic crossed Latos's face. ‘I swear, I don't know anything about him. ‘You see ...' his eyes pleaded to be believed, ‘I got a steady friend now. The guy I went to Buxton with. We're very faithful. I wouldn't ... I really wouldn't. I couldn't do anything to risk things between us two.'

They finished their tea and left.

In the car outside Joanna looked at Mike. ‘Well?' she said. ‘What do you think?'

‘Very eager to please.'

‘Come on, Mike,' she said. ‘You know these past sexual offenders. They feel they get hauled in for about everything that goes on – all the slightly deviant crimes. In his place you'd be eager to please.'

He turned towards her. ‘I wouldn't be in his place,' he said. ‘But just remember, Jo, there is a coincidence. The shoes came from here. Dean was abused. This man has been convicted of soliciting boys ...'

‘We don't have enough to get a warrant,' she said. ‘Circumstantial. That's all.' She paused, then bit her lip. ‘Do you think his name's really Keithy?' she asked.

He drove her back to the station to pick up her bike.

‘Fancy a drink?'

She frowned. ‘I want to get back. I have a sudden strong desire to be alone. Besides ...' she grinned, ‘it's a steep ride home.'

There seemed no time at all between the ride home and the return journey back into work. Mike was moving into his parking slot as Joanna locked her bike against the railings. He gave a swift, appraising glance at the slim figure in black cycling shorts and a pink T-shirt.

‘Good morning, Jo,' he called. ‘What's on the agenda?'

‘Nothing until I've got changed.'

She emerged from her office ten minutes later in a straight black suit with a scarlet blouse and some low-heeled, black leather pumps.

‘I want to speak to Mark Riversdale,' she said.

The Nest looked grey, old and forbidding as the car rolled up the drive. A face was peering through the window but jerked back when the child saw it was observed.

Joanna stood, staring for a moment, then she and Mike walked briskly up the four steps to a huge front door. It was opened almost immediately by a young man with brown hair and a plump face with heavy glasses. He was dressed in a navy sweatshirt and blue jeans.

‘Hello?'

Joanna held out her hand. ‘Mark Riversdale?'

He gave a rather weak smile. ‘That's right,' he said. He gave a deep sigh. ‘I suppose you're the police.'

‘That's right. I'm Detective Inspector Piercy. This is Detective Sergeant Mike Korpanski. May we come in?'

They were shown into one of the large, shabby front rooms. A dusty grand piano stood in the corner, a box of toys underneath it. The carpet was plain blue; the curtains a different shade of blue. They sat in soft low armchairs of brown Draylon.

‘There's going to be a devil of a fuss,' Mark Riversdale said with a worried look. ‘Typical of Dean. He was always the nigger in the woodpile – the unexpected one.' Both police officers noted that the warden – or ‘carer' as they had been informed – was not unduly upset at the tragic end of one of his young charges. ‘I suppose he was lying there dead when I was believing a pillow was him.' He seemed cross at the deceit.

Joanna looked at her notes. ‘Was that why his disappearance wasn't reported?'

‘I went into the bedroom Monday morning to get the lads up for school. Jason and Dean shared a bedroom.' He looked suddenly defensive. ‘It isn't bad – two of them sharing a room. It's a bloody sight better than it used to be.'

‘So what happened?'

Mark Riversdale flushed. ‘I saw the hump in the bed,' he said, pulling his glasses off in an embarrassed way. ‘I thought it was Dean.'

‘You didn't check?' Mike could never quite keep the critical note out of his voice.

Mark Riversdale put his glasses back on. ‘One of the boys distracted me.'

Joanna looked again at her notes. ‘Jason?' she asked.

Riversdale nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘What about Sunday morning?' Mike was watching him intently.

‘I never disturb them Sunday morning,' Mark said. ‘They have to have a bit of freedom.'

‘We'll have to talk to Jason.'

Mark's eyebrows lifted. ‘I'll have to be present; he said apologetically, ‘and a social worker. And if there's any possibility of his being charged ...'

‘Definitely not at this stage.' Joanna paused. ‘Mr Riversdale,' she said with some difficulty, ‘tell me – what was Dean like?'

Mark sat right back in the chair, his eyes half-closed. ‘Like a lot of them,' he said, ‘he was naive, gullible ... longed for something better without a clue how to go about it. He was so typical of these lads ... streetwise and crafty. Clever. He could con the trousers off anyone.' He frowned. ‘Such a pretty kid. Blond, you know – blue eyes innocent as a baby's. But he had this tough exterior – like they all have.' He looked suddenly upset. ‘The tattoos and the ear-rings ... They're all a badge. I'm tough. Leave me alone.' He smiled. ‘He was fond of doing that ... shrugging his shoulders, pushing your hand away. “Leave us alone;' he'd say. But he could be so damned secretive ... And this last few months he's gone from bad to worse.'

Joanna watched Mark Riversdale's face very carefully.

‘Where was he going,' she said, ‘when he absconded?'

‘I don't know.' Mark seemed angry and insulted at the question. ‘If I knew I would have gone and got him back.' He thought for a minute. ‘Where do they all go?' he asked.

‘But he wasn't sleeping rough, was he?'

Riversdale shook his head. ‘I don't think so,' he said. ‘But I've often wondered. I mean, where else? He had no family. Mother walked out years ago,' he explained. ‘I don't think she's seen him for many years – possibly not since Dean was about two. The last I heard she was in Portsmouth ... but that was seven years ago.'

‘Perhaps you'd let us have the address.'

‘Yes, of course.' Mark Riversdale wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Look, the person you really ought to be talking to is Maree, Dean's social worker Maree O'Rourke.' He gave them the number.

‘And Dean's father?' Mike asked.

‘No sign of a father at all – not even on his birth certificate.'

‘Was he resentful at all – envious?'

Mark Riversdale thought for a moment. ‘No, I don't think so.'

‘He wasn't envious of others with families?'

‘He said to me once ... he said he had a family.'

‘Do you think he meant here?'

Mark Riversdale thought for a moment. ‘I thought so at the time. I must admit now I'm not so sure. Maybe he meant here. But perhaps...' He hesitated. ‘Some of the kids here – they make up things. They're not a particularly truthful lot and deep down under all that bravado and swagger they really do wish they were like other kids ... you know – mum, dad, brothers and sisters. It isn't unusual for them to invent them.'

‘But in Dean's case,' Joanna pursued, ‘he returned clean and well fed. Didn't you wonder?'

Riversdale pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘He was canny,' he said. It was not an answer.

‘The tattoos,' Joanna said next. ‘Who did them?'

‘Jason,' Riversdale said reluctantly. ‘Considers himself quite an artist.' He looked at Joanna. ‘I know ... I know they're awful. But all the kids were clamouring to have them.' He sighed. ‘What could I do?'

Joanna opened the next line of enquiry very gingerly. ‘The post-mortem shows evidence of both physical and sexual abuse,' she said.

Riversdale's eyes flickered.

‘Someone had burned him repeatedly with a cigarette. Do you have any ideas?'