Peter Robinson - Many Rivers to Cross

Bowen sat down again, rather heavily this time. ‘I’m probably speaking out of turn here,’ he said, ‘though I’m fully aware there’s no binding confidentiality agreement between teachers and students. It’s not so much Chris who worries me, as much as the company he keeps.’

‘Anyone in particular?’ asked Banks.

‘Jason Bartlett. They’re very close friends. Chris gives him a lift to and from school, as Jason doesn’t own a car, and the public transport situation is horrendous. And Jason, of course, is nowhere near as bright as Christopher.’

‘What’s the problem?’ Banks asked.

‘Nothing specific. Just that I think Jason is becoming a bad influence. I know the boy has had problems at home. His sister... Terrible business. And that has really affected his exam prospects. There’s another slightly worrying aspect to his development, too. You know we have a school magazine? No? Well, we do. Not so long ago Jason Bartlett submitted an article for publication. It was rejected, and I was urged to read a copy by the editor. To put it in a nutshell, it was a scurrilous, racist diatribe. Against foreigners in general, but mostly against the more visible groups. Claiming they’re no better than animals and are all sexual predators. Giving examples like Rochdale and Rotherham. You may or may not know it, but we have a rather large percentage of foreign students here at St Botolph’s, and such an article would have been most offensive or upsetting had they seen it.’

‘I see,’ said Banks. ‘Have there been any incidents involving Bartlett and his views? Has he been involved in any propagation of hate literature, for example?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Bowen. ‘And I think I would know.’

‘Any specific targets? Names?’

‘No. The article was the first I knew of it, and it was general in scope. You could see the influence of certain far-right views. English Defence League, UKIP, Yaxley-Lennon, that sort of thing. Second-hand ideas. Not something we encourage around here, as you might imagine. It was also unexpected. According to his form master and other teachers, he’s very quiet in class.’

‘Has Myers ever echoed any of these ideas?’

‘No. Not as far as I know. Not in public, at any rate.’

‘Can I see a copy of the article?’

‘You can take it with you,’ said Bowen, going over to his filing cabinet and rummaging around until he found what he was looking for. He handed it to Banks.

Banks nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Bowen. You’ve been most helpful. We’ll let you get to your class now.’

On the way back to the car, Gerry said, ‘You didn’t have to tell him that, guv. About me going to a private school. And Cambridge.’

‘You shouldn’t be afraid to blow your own trumpet, Gerry. After all, it’ll be your main occupation should you ever rise to the heady rank of chief constable. Besides, I think you made an impression there. Much longer and I guarantee the good headmaster would have asked for your telephone number.’

Gerry didn’t do or say anything, but Banks could tell she wanted to nudge him hard with her elbow.

The whole Bartlett family was sitting around the television watching Emmerdale when Banks arrived that evening after teatime, having spent most of the afternoon reading over the article Jason had written and talking with various contacts about some of the racist ideas he had expressed. The family was clearly annoyed at being interrupted, but Gus turned the volume down and seemed resigned to answering a few questions.

‘Mostly it’s Jason I’d like to talk to,’ said Banks.

‘What have I done?’ said Jason. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Nobody’s saying you have,’ said Banks. ‘I just want a word, that’s all.’

‘We’re all staying,’ said Gus.

Banks nodded. ‘Very well. Suit yourselves.’ So they all settled back in their chairs and waited. Emmerdale went on with the sound turned down.

Jason looked both furtive and distracted. ‘I’ve got an exam tomorrow afternoon,’ he said. ‘So please hurry up. I’ve got revision to do.’

‘What is it?’ Banks asked.

‘Media Studies.’

‘Ah. Watching television.’

‘Shows how much you know.’

‘Jason!’ said his mother. ‘Manners.’

‘Well, he was making fun of me.’

‘It was a joke,’ said Banks. ‘Obviously in poor taste. I’m sorry.’

Jason said nothing.

Banks turned to Gus Bartlett. ‘I understand you work with Granville Myers on the Neighbourhood Watch?’ he said.

‘That’s right.’

‘I was wondering if any of you out there noticed anything odd on the Sunday night before last, when the Syrian boy, Samir, was killed. Do you have written records, reports and so on?’

‘We do,’ said Bartlett. ‘But Sally Villiers keeps those. She’s a secretary at the town hall, for the council, like, and she’s skilled at that sort of thing.’

‘Do you submit incident reports?’ Banks smiled. ‘If it’s anything like us, you’d have to write even the slightest detail up in triplicate.’

Bartlett laughed. ‘No. It’s not that bureaucratic. But we do keep records. Incident reports, as you say. I mean, a good deal of our job is intelligence. Not so much catching criminals in the act as keeping an eye on neighbourhood trends, suspicious strangers hanging about, that sort of thing.’

‘Do you photograph them?’

‘Sometimes. Some of our members do, yes.’

‘Get a lot of strangers?’

‘Not many. No.’

‘What about recently? Before the Sunday in question. Just from memory.’

‘None I can think of, no.’

‘And that evening?’

‘I’d have to check, but I don’t think there was anyone from the Watch out that night. Sundays are usually pretty quiet.’

‘Burglars’ night off?’

Bartlett laughed. ‘I see what you mean. But it’s true. We’ve rarely had any kind of incident on a Sunday evening.’

‘So nobody was out on patrol that night?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure you weren’t in the park with Granville Myers?’

‘I... no. As I said, we didn’t go out Sunday night.’

‘Ever had any incidents down in the park?’

‘That’s not really part of our territory.’

‘It seems like the ideal place for people up to no good to hang out. Hey, Jason?’

‘Why look at me?’

‘You know. Lads get up to all sorts. I did, myself. Smoking. Maybe sharing a bottle of whisky. You know the sort of thing.’

‘No.’

‘So, Mr Bartlett, you never had any trouble down there?’

‘As I said, we don’t patrol the park, specifically, but if anyone had seen or heard anything, I’d certainly know about it.’

‘Lisa? I know the memory might be painful for you, but do you know anything about what goes on in the park?’

Lisa shook her head. ‘I was on the shortcut through the car park at The Oak to the hill. I didn’t walk through the park. I never do. It’s too scary after dark.’

‘Why?’

She hugged herself as if she were cold. ‘No reason. It’s just a scary park, that’s all.’

‘But if nothing ever happened there...?’

‘I wouldn’t walk through there alone. That’s all.’

‘OK.’ Banks leaned forward and looked at Jason. ‘We think that Samir, the Syrian boy, ran from Hollyfield Lane up to the park on the night he was killed, but we don’t have any reports of him going anywhere else after that. It’s a bit of a puzzle. Can you help us?’

Jason just shrugged and averted his eyes. His father said, ‘But he must have gone to the East Side Estate. Isn’t that where his body was found?’

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘But that doesn’t mean he was killed there. Besides, it’s quite a long walk from here.’