Steven Dunne - Deity

Screaming and hurling abuse they stormed away, regaling every curtained house with news of the pervert in their midst and pointing back at Jake panting and sobbing on the front gate.

At that moment, Jake’s dad pulled up in his windowcleaning van and got out. He noticed the two girls creating a racket and aiming V-signs at Jake, and nodded approvingly. Perhaps his lad wasn’t such a mummy’s boy. ‘Nice one, son. Treat ’em mean, to keep ’em keen.’

‘Fuck off, Dad.’

‘Oh. A bit of spirit have we now, son? That’s what I like to see,’ he said, and he began to shadow-box with Jake, throwing in the occasional slap on the face.

‘Fuck off, Dad!’ Jake roared, on the brink of hysteria and clenching his fists.

Mr McKenzie pulled up as though slapped. He balled his fists and took a step towards Jake, then thought better of busting his son’s mouth in front of the house. That’d mean a week or two’s earache from Her Majesty, if not a visit from the police. ‘Okay, son. That’s a freebie — for now. I only popped home for more bait. And I don’t mean jail bait,’ he sniggered.

Jake watched his dad go inside, still chuckling and repeating his joke. Jake slumped on to the gate for support. He glanced down the road at Trina and Shazz, just disappearing around the corner. He was only three years older than them but already her age group were like beings from another planet. They were laughing and joking again, arm-in-arm, oblivious to the damage they’d done. Correction. The damage he’d done — Judas McKenzie. He took a deep breath. No more lies. He pulled out his mobile and texted Kyle. Soz Kyle miss you xx .

Still no reply. Jake opened the front door and sprinted upstairs to his room.

DS Morton held his warrant card to the crack in the door. The door closed and the chain was removed. The heavily pregnant Mrs Rifkind looked about sixteen to Morton. She opened the door with one hand, using the other to support her unborn baby. She looked nervously beyond Morton.

‘Sorry, Officer, I thought you were a reporter.’

‘Reporter?’

‘Somebody found out that Watson bitch stole Adam’s credit card to set up that website. They’ve been hanging round, trying to get an interview.’

‘Is your husband here?’

‘It’s half-term. He’s up at the cottage working on his novel and getting away from all this shit.’

‘Where is that?’ asked Morton.

‘In the Peaks. Alstonefield.’

Morton ran his eye over her huge belly and wondered what sort of man left his pregnant wife alone to face the press while he worked on a novel. ‘Does he have his computer and mobile phone with him?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘What’s this about? He’s told you all he knows.’

‘We’ll need the address.’

Morton closed his notebook and walked back to his car, not noticing the curtain pulled aside briefly in an upstairs window.

He jumped into the driver’s seat and threw his notebook on top of Fern Stretton’s laptop and mobile phone, both shrouded in plastic.

Morton smiled, remembering her reaction — first excitement then consternation. She was important now. She was involved in the investigation. Police had ‘raided’ her home.

What a lot she’d have to tell her friends. She’d be the centre of attention. It was only when she realised she’d have no means of communicating with them that her excitement had turned to despair.

DC Cooper peered over the shoulder of the technician sat at the computer. Brook, Noble and Morton waited patiently in the darkened Incident Room, staring up at the grey square on the whiteboard. Eventually Cooper gave the thumbs up.

‘Okay. We’re going to see a piece of film. It’s digital quality, and as you can see from the display, it was taken on the nineteenth of May at a quarter to midnight.’

‘That’s the night before the party,’ said Morton.

‘And just a couple of hours after the assault on Kyle Kennedy,’ added Brook.

The film began with a view from the Council House across the weir to the river wall of the Derwent. A figure emerged from the darkness of the small triangular public garden wedged between Meadow Road and Exeter Place.

‘It’s the guy from the first Deity film,’ said Cooper. ‘The one who laid out Kyle.’

‘Wilson Woodrow,’ said Brook. ‘Yvette Thomson was right.’

‘He looks the worse for wear,’ said Cooper. ‘Was he on something?’

‘It’s likely but we don’t know yet,’ replied Noble.

The burly figure strolled unsteadily to the river wall and placed something on it. Then he returned to the gloom of the gardens and reappeared a few seconds later to repeat the process.

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Can we zoom in?’

Before the technician could obey, Brook said, ‘He’s fetching the stones.’

‘Jesus,’ said Morton. ‘He jumped.’

The team of experienced officers continued to watch in horrified fascination. There was no other sound, no movement, not even the gulp of an Adam’s apple. After the second delivery of stones, Wilson clambered on to the river wall and began to fill his pockets with them. A second later he stepped off and disappeared under the water. The detectives watched a little longer but gradually movement and conversation returned.

‘Why didn’t the controllers pick up on this before. .?’ asked Brook, clicking his fingers as if a name was on the tip of his tongue.

‘Rhys,’ answered the technician. ‘Well, there are a hundred and seventy cameras, sir, so it’s not simple to police. At that time of night, most operatives will be watching the city-centre monitors for anti-social behaviour but, if something happens, we do respond to requests for time and place. Like now.’

Brook nodded, looking at his watch as he yawned. It felt like mid-afternoon but was only ten o’clock. ‘Run it again.’

Noble’s phone began to croak. He answered and listened intently. ‘Which hospital?’ He rang off. ‘The squad car that went to pick up McKenzie found him unconscious. They think he took an overdose.’

‘Alive?’

Noble nodded. ‘They’ve taken him to the Royal.’

‘Another suicide,’ muttered Brook.

‘Two from the same peer group,’ said Noble. ‘Bit of a coincidence.’

Rhys restarted the film and they sat through it again, this time a little less mesmerised.

‘Can we enhance Wilson, standing on the wall?’ asked Brook.

A couple of clicks later and Wilson’s face loomed large and the film resumed.

‘He’s talking,’ said Cooper.

‘Who to?’ muttered Morton.

‘He could be talking to himself, keeping his focus. Drugs can do that,’ said Noble.

‘Maybe.’ Brook nodded. ‘Do we have a lipreader on the books?’ He lifted the last of his cold tea to his lips but his hand froze in mid-air. ‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing at the screen. ‘Go back.’

The technician rewound and replayed the film.

‘There.’ Brook leaped up to show him. ‘Next to that tree.’

The film was rewound and paused. Brook pointed to a tiny red dot emanating from the darkness of the gardens.

‘I see it,’ said Cooper.

‘What is it?’ asked Morton.

‘Somebody’s filming it,’ said Noble.

‘And maybe egging him on,’ added Morton. ‘Of all the coldblooded. .’

Before Brook could ask, Rhys the technician enhanced the picture around the red dot. Behind the red dot the officers could make out the silhouette of an arm. A hood was over the face but a few large letters were visible on the chest.

‘G-something-A-R.’

‘Pity it’s not in colour,’ began Cooper.

‘Blue,’ said Brook. ‘It’s blue. That’s Kyle Kennedy’s G-Star hoodie. He was wearing it when he disappeared.’