Lisa Ballantyne - Guilty One

Lisa Ballantynewas born in Armadale, West Lothian, Scotland and was educated at Armadale Academy and University of St Andrews. She spent most of her twenties working and living in China, before returning to the UK in 2002, to work in Higher Education, most recently at the University of Glasgow. She lives in Glasgow; this is her first novel.

Copyright

Published by Hachette Digital

ISBN: 9781405511681

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Lisa Ballantyne

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

Hachette Digital

Little, Brown Book Group

100 Victoria Embankment

London, EC4Y 0DY

www.hachette.co.uk

To my family

‘The soul in darkness sins, but the real sinner is he who caused the darkness.’

Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Copyright

Dedication

Crimes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Guilt

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Judgement

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

The Guilty One

Reading Group Discussion Points

Author Q & A

What is On Lisa Ballantyne’s Reading List?

What is On Lisa Ballantyne’s Bookself?

The Top-Ten Things Lisa Ballantyne has Learned About Writing a Novel:

Crimes

1

A little boy was found dead in Barnard Park.

The air smelled of gunpowder when Daniel emerged from Angel Tube and headed for Islington Police Station. It was midsummer and airless, the moon slipping unseen into a bright, troubled sky. The day was gravid, ready to burst.

As he started up Liverpool Road, the thunder came and then thick drops of rain, reprimanding, chastening. He turned up his collar and ran past Waitrose and Sainsbury’s, dodging last-minute shoppers. Daniel was a runner and so he did not feel the strain in his chest or his legs, even when the rain fell heavier, soaking the shoulders and the back of his jacket, causing him to run faster, and faster.

Inside the police station, he shook the water from his hair and wiped his face with one hand. He brushed the water off his briefcase. When he said his name, he steamed up the glass that separated him from the receptionist.

The duty officer, Sergeant Turner, was waiting for him and pressed a dry hand into his. In his office, Daniel took off his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair.

‘You got here quickly,’ Turner began.

Instinctively, Daniel slid his business card on to the sergeant’s desk. Daniel frequented police stations in London, but had not been to this one in Islington before.

‘Partner at Harvey, Hunter and Steele?’ the sergeant said, smiling.

‘I understand he’s a juvenile?’

‘Sebastian is eleven years old.’

The sergeant looked at Daniel, as if searching for a response in his face. Daniel had spent a lifetime perfecting reflection and knew that his dark brown eyes gave nothing away as he stared back at the detective.

Daniel was an experienced defender of juveniles: as a solicitor he had defended fifteen-year-olds accused of shooting fellow gang members, and several other teenagers who robbed for drugs. But never an actual child – never a little boy. In fact he had had very little contact with children at all. His own experience of being a child was his only reference point.

‘He’s not under arrest, is he?’ Daniel asked Turner.

‘Not at the moment, but there’s something not right. You’ll see for yourself. He knows exactly what happened to that little boy … I can tell he does. It wasn’t until after we called you that we found the mother. She arrived about twenty minutes ago. Mother says she was in all this time, but poorly, and only just got the messages. We’ve applied for a warrant to search the family home.’

Daniel watched as Turner’s reddish cheeks sagged in emphasis.

‘So he’s a suspect for the actual murder?’

‘You’re damn right he is.’

Daniel sighed and took a pad out of his briefcase. Chilling a little in his damp clothes, he took notes as the police officer briefly described the crime and the witnesses and details of the interview with the child so far.

Sebastian was being questioned in relation to the discovery of another child’s body. The little boy who had been found dead was called Ben Stokes. He appeared to have been beaten to death in a leafy corner of the adventure playground in Barnard Park on Sunday afternoon. A brick had been smashed against his face, fracturing his eye socket. This brick, and branches and leaves, had been used by the attacker to cover his broken face. His body had been hidden underneath the wooden play-house in the corner of the park, and it was here, on Monday morning, that he was found by one of the youth workers in charge of the adventure playground.

‘Ben’s mother reported him missing early Sunday evening,’ said Turner. ‘She said the boy had gone outside to ride his bike along the pavement of Richmond Crescent that afternoon. He wasn’t allowed to leave the crescent, but when she looked out to check, there was no sign of him.’

‘And you’ve taken this boy in for questioning because …?’

‘After the body was found, we set up an incident van on the Barnsbury Road. A local man reported that he had seen two small boys fighting in Barnard Park. One of the boys matched Ben’s description. He said he shouted at the boys to stop, and the other child had smiled at him – said they were only playing. When we approached Ben’s mother with the description of the other boy, she named Sebastian Croll – your boy in there – who lives only a few doors down from the Stokeses’ house.

‘Sebastian was home alone in Richmond Crescent – or so we thought – when two officers stopped by at four o’clock this afternoon. Sebastian told the officers that his mother was out, that his father was overseas on business. We arranged an appropriate adult and took him down to the station just after that. It’s been obvious since we started that he’s hiding something – the social worker insisted that a solicitor be called.’

Daniel nodded and flipped his pad shut.

‘I’ll take you through,’ said Turner.

As he was led to the interview room, Daniel felt the familiar claustrophobia of police stations engulf him. The walls were papered with public authority notices about drink driving, drugs and domestic abuse. All the blinds were closed and dirty.

The interview room was windowless. The walls were painted pale green and completely blank. Straight ahead of him sat Sebastian. The police had taken the boy’s clothes and so he was dressed in a white paper suit, which crackled as he shifted in his chair. The oversized suit made the boy seem even smaller and more vulnerable – younger than eleven. He was strikingly beautiful, almost like a little girl, with a wide heart-shaped face, small red lips and large green eyes full of intelligence. His very pale skin was sprinkled with freckles over the nose. His hair was dark brown, and neatly cut. He smiled at Daniel, who smiled back. The child seemed so young that Daniel almost did not know how to speak to him and did his best to conceal his shock.