Cold Sacrifice (23 page)

‘Get away from me!’ he screamed, swinging his arm wildly.

Chas faltered and took a step back. Thrilled, Ben advanced on him, waving the knife with a slashing movement. The gang closed in on them.

‘Get back or I’ll kill him!’ he yelled at the assembled crowd.

He was beside himself with terror and excitement, hungry to draw blood. They would all see who was in charge. The new general had arrived and his triumph would be sealed with the blood of his enemy.

The chanting was suddenly hushed. For an instant, Ben didn’t notice what was happening and continued ferociously brandishing his weapon. He saw the deputy head at the same time as he heard him shouting, ‘What’s going on here?’

Ben’s relief lasted less than a second. This wasn’t a reprieve. Instead of standing his ground, maybe having time to think of a way out of his predicament, he was going to be expelled for bringing a weapon in to school. Worse, they would take his knife away. He was in so much trouble. Wretchedly he lowered his arm and obeyed the deputy’s summons to follow him. With every step his legs felt heavier until he could barely put one foot in front of the other. He hardly noticed the howls of derision behind him.

‘I don’t feel well,’ he whined, stopping to lean against the wall as they reached the corridor. He thought he was going to collapse.

The maddening part of it was that he could so easily have avoided trouble. He should never have brought his knife to school. It would have been better to have taken a beating. The knife was never going to protect him in the long run.

‘I’m going to be sick.’

The teacher’s expression remained deadpan.

‘When will I get my knife back?’

‘We’ll be handing that to the police.’

There was really no point trying to argue his way out of it, but he had a go anyway, whining that they had no right to confiscate his knife.

‘It was self-defence,’ he insisted, staring at his feet. ‘He started it.’

‘Enough!’ the deputy barked. ‘Keep quiet.’

Ben stopped babbling and looked up. The teacher’s pale complexion was suffused with a pink glow. He looked as though he was enjoying himself.

R
OB WAS AWAY AT
a meeting and Ian was working with Polly, trying to find out more about Della. Early on Wednesday afternoon they arrived at the club where she worked to find the shutters closed and everything seemingly locked up. Ian tried the bell anyway and was pleased to hear footsteps approaching inside. A woman in a blue overall opened the door and peered up at him.

‘We’re closed,’ she announced in a thin sharp voice, ‘so you’ll have to come back later. None of the girls is here at this time of the day.’

Catching sight of Polly, she broke off abruptly and gazed at the visitors in surprise.

‘What was it you wanted, anyway?’

Ian told her who he was and introduced Polly. After a bungled attempt to close the door, the woman began to bleat that she was only the cleaner, and had no idea what went on in the club.

‘I keep myself to myself, always have,’ she said. ‘You can’t expect me to answer your questions.’

Ian explained they weren’t there to quiz her. They just wanted to know what time the manager would arrive.

‘Could be any time.’

Polly stepped forward.

‘Perhaps we could come in and wait for him,’ she said, ‘and then we can let you get on. We don’t want to hold you up. It must be a full-time job, cleaning this place. But you must have a team of people working for you.’

The cleaner snorted.

‘Chance would be a fine thing. No, it’s just me.’

‘What?’ Polly sounded really shocked. ‘You are kidding, aren’t you?’

‘I wish I was.’

‘You mean you keep this place clean all by yourself? With no help?’

‘Well there’s Bill, the caretaker, but he does bugger all. He’s never here when you need him. And the bouncers are supposed to keep it tidy out the front, only they don’t. And if it isn’t swept, who gets it in the neck?’

‘None of the men,’ Polly commiserated with her.

‘You’re right there. Anyway, you come on in, dear, and you can wait at a table. You go and sit down and I’ll bring you a cup of tea, you and the young chap.’

Ian followed Polly and the cleaner, who was telling the constable she must be the same age as her own daughter. When the two detectives were seated in the small auditorium, facing the empty stage, the cleaner bustled off to fetch them some tea. Polly grinned at Ian who returned her smile with developing respect. Ingratiating herself with the cleaner had been smart. It might help them pick up on some useful gossip.

‘You did well to get us in here like that,’ he said.

Polly went red.

‘It’s only because I remind her of her daughter,’ she said, flustered.

Before long the cleaner returned clutching two mugs of steaming tea.

‘Where’s yours?’ Polly asked as she took her tea.

‘Oh, I need to get on, dear.’

‘Not until we’ve asked you a few questions, so you might as well fetch yourself a cup of tea and come and sit down.’

The woman hesitated before going to fetch a third mug of tea.

‘Well, seeing as you have to speak to me, I suppose I might as well take the weight off, if you really think I can help you.’

She let out a loud sigh as she sat down. Ian leaned back and left it to Polly to find out as much as she could about the club, the manager, and the girls who worked there.

‘They call them dancers, but there’s more goes on here than you might think.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice, although there was no one else there but Ian. ‘It’s not just what you see on the stage. The girls are expected to take customers upstairs.’

Although the cleaner was eager to tell them everything she knew, she was unable to reveal anything they hadn’t figured out already. She thought she had heard of Della and said she knew a girl called Candy worked there, but wasn’t sure who she was. Every few minutes she glanced at her watch and became increasingly uneasy, until finally she said it was time for her to return to her work. She must have had a shrewd idea when the manager would arrive, because a few minutes after she had left them the door flew open and he stomped in, looking down at his iPhone. He was halfway across the room when he caught sight of them watching him. The complexion of his large face darkened, and his heavy brows drew together.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he roared. He strode over to their table and stood over them, his face red and bloated. ‘Who let you in?’

Ian rose to his feet, towering over the other man. The manager took a step back.

‘What do you want?’ he asked in a lower voice. ‘We’re not open. How did you get in?’

‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘Go on, then, now’s as good a time as any. But make it quick. We open in two hours. Is it about Della?’

‘What do you know about what happened?’

The fat man pulled a chair over to their table and sat astride it with an air of resignation.

‘The trouble with these girls is they’re none too bright. We warn them not to go off with men. They don’t need that kind of shit. I mean, they got a good job here, as long as they keep the customers happy. But after a while they start thinking they can do better for themselves. They all think they’re going to find themselves a man who’ll take care of them, keep them in clover. But what man’s going to want them? We’re in the twenty-first century, for fuck’s sake. If they knew what was good for them, they’d be satisfied with what they get here and not keep looking for something better. That was what Della did, and look what happened to her.’ He shook his head. ‘She didn’t know when she was well off. We do our best to look after our girls here, Inspector, but they don’t help themselves.’

It was clear that the manager believed Della had been killed by a frustrated customer. He had no idea that her death had anything to do with the recent stabbing in Herne Bay. Just as Ian concluded that they were wasting their time at the club, his phone rang. A knife matching the description of the one used to stab Martha had been discovered. It had the hand guard and, more significantly, the blade was bent out of shape in a manner that exactly matched the blade they were looking for. It was being examined for traces of blood, which would give conclusive proof that it had been used in the fatal stabbing. In the meantime, the young boy who had been carrying it had been taken to the police station where he was being held pending questioning.

In the car, Ian told Polly everything he knew about this new development.

‘When you say young boy –’

‘He’s thirteen.’

‘Jesus.’

‘We don’t know he was the one who stabbed her,’ Ian pointed out.

He hoped the boy wouldn’t turn out to be implicated in the murder.

S
USAN
B
AILEY WAS WAITING
at the police station in Herne Bay when Ian arrived. With an officer trained to question children present, Ian could sit back and observe the boy.

‘Ben, do you know why you’re here?’ Susan began.

The boy looked sullen. Susan repeated the question.

‘Yeah, yeah. It’s because of my knife – the knife.’

‘Well done. Now, would you like someone to be here with you? Do you want us to call your mother?’

‘No way. She’ll tell Eddy.’

‘Who’s Eddy?’

‘He’s her boyfriend. He’s not my father. What I do is none of his fucking business.’

He dropped his gaze, incapable of hiding his disquiet.

‘That’s fine, Ben,’ Susan said gently. ‘We won’t tell Eddy. But we’ll have to let your mother know you’re here. Would you like to wait for her before answering a few questions?’

‘Fuck off. You don’t know my mother or you’d never ask.’

‘Now, Ben, you do understand that we have to ask you some questions about the knife that was found on you. You know this is really important, don’t you?’

‘I’m thirteen. You don’t have to talk to me like I’m a child. And I’m not dumb. I know what you’re doing.’

‘What are we doing?’

‘You’re trying to scare me. Bloody hell, it’s only a knife. Everyone has one. It’s for protection. No one messes with me.’

He glared first at Susan, then at Ian, with pathetic bravado. Small and skinny, he could have been eleven although he was nearly fourteen. With his shoulders thrust back and head held high, he stared defiantly across the table. His straggly light brown hair looked as though it could do with a wash, and his face and hands were grubby. He was wearing a dark green anorak, faded jeans and muddy trainers. In any other circumstances he wouldn’t have attracted a second look, just another kid loitering on the streets.

‘We’ve sent your knife away for forensic examination,’ Ian said bluntly.

There was something about the boy’s insolent stare that needled him. It worried him that youngsters had so little respect for authority.

The boy didn’t answer. He licked his lips and looked from Ian to the constable and back again.

‘We’ve been looking for your knife,’ Ian added.

‘Why?’

‘We’ve been looking for a knife with a bent blade.’

At a nod from Susan, he put a photograph of the weapon on the table.

‘Your knife,’ Ian repeated. ‘A knife that was used to stab someone.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s what knives do, innit.’

He glanced at the photograph.

‘How do you know it’s my knife? There’s thousands of knives like that. Millions.’

‘It was found in your pocket. A pocket sewn into your jacket.’

‘Yeah, well, someone put it there, didn’t they?’

‘It’s got your prints all over it.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s mine. I recognise it now. I never said it wasn’t mine.’

Susan flinched as the boy raised his filthy thumb to his mouth and began chewing his nail.

Ian sat forward and spoke very slowly, glancing at Susan.

‘This knife was used to kill a woman.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ the boy blurted out.

His cocky bearing slipped and he blinked nervously. His face went pale.

‘A woman was stabbed to death in a park near your house.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’ The boy wriggled in his chair. ‘That’s got nothing to do with me.’

‘Listen, son. Your prints are on the handle. We’re going to find a dead woman’s blood on the blade. It’s not looking good for you. So why don’t you tell us exactly what happened, because lying isn’t going to help you. We’ll know.’

‘You’re the one who’s lying,’ the boy said.

‘A dead woman’s blood on your knife is going to take some explaining,’ Ian said.

‘Yeah, well, I found it, didn’t I?’

‘You found it?’

‘Yeah, I found it.’

Even though he was clearly rattled, there was something calculating in the boy’s expression.

‘I took it,’ he amended his statement. ‘I thought it would be cool.’

‘Cool?’

‘A knife like that, I thought it would get me some respect!’

He scowled at Ian then, for no apparent reason, his whole demeanour changed. His eyes lit up with excitement and he began fidgeting. All at once he had come alive, bursting to leap up out of his seat. He should have been out kicking a football around with his mates, not sitting in a police station answering questions. No longer craven, he stared boldly across the table. Even his voice changed, aping a Jamaican drawl.

‘Yeah, well, it was me, man. You got me bang to rights.’

‘Are you telling us you killed a woman with this knife?’

‘Yeah, like I told you, it was me, man. I’m the killer you’re looking for. It was me all along.’ He grinned at Susan, avoiding Ian’s eye, and dropped his affectation of an accent. ‘Will it be in the papers that I done it? Because you can’t put me in the nick, can you? Not at my age.’

‘You don’t know what we can do,’ Ian said softly. ‘Now, why don’t you tell us the truth? Because one way or another whoever did this is going to be locked up for a very long time. And you can imagine what would happen to a boy like you, in a young offenders’ institution.’

Ignoring Susan’s warning frown, Ian pressed on.

‘Locked up, day after day, with all those older boys, testosterone levels out of control. Is that what you want?’