Mark Sennen - Touch

‘Of cause, ma’am,’ Riley smiled.

They pulled into Grassendale Avenue and parked next to a small park. Out of the car and Riley was thinking that although the day felt colder, at least the rain had stopped.

‘Sleet and snow,’ Enders said, looking up at the sky. ‘According to the guys in Wet Orifice. Rain off the Atlantic meeting cold air from the north. If the idiots are correct.’

The headquarters of the Met Office was only a few miles away in Exeter, but the scientists seemed incapable of predicting the weather for Devon and Cornwall. Riley still hadn’t got used to the local practice of ignoring the forecast and as a result he’d spent many an uncomfortable day wet, cold or sweaty.

The park was bordered with large boulders — presumably intended to stop joyriders or boy-racers from wheel-spinning their way across the turf — and had a fenced-off playground for the tots, a basketball court and a larger, grassy area where four older boys in football gear were having a kick around, a coke can and a foam burger container acting as goalposts. Only one wore the dark green shirt of the Pilgrims, the local team, the other three’s loyalties were divided between the deep blue of Chelsea, the claret and sky blue of West Ham and the vertical red and blue stripes of Barcelona. None appeared to be aged above nine or ten. The two detectives strolled across the muddy grass to the boys who were trying their best to stay upright as they skidded around chasing a toddler’s Thomas the Tank Engine football.

‘Shouldn’t you lot be in school?’ Riley said.

‘What do you care?’ The blond lad in the Chelsea strip answered.

‘They’re the pigs and they are going to bang us up.’

‘Nah, they’re paedos. My mum said I had to look out ’cos they are always sniffing around.’

‘They’re paedo pigs, that’s what they is.’

Riley and Enders stood still and the boys danced around them laughing, full of spirit and life, without a care in the whole of their limited world.

‘What’s your name?’ Riley asked the blond haired boy.

‘Ewan,’ the boy replied. ‘What’s yours?’

‘He’s a ninky nonk,’ one of the others shouted out. ‘I know that’s what they’re called cos my nanna told me.’

‘He’s not a fucking ninky nonk, Kyle, you daft cunt,’ Ewan said. ‘Ninky nonks are like those people in the takeaway.’

‘He is too! Hey can you sell me some crack you black mothafucka?’

The other boys burst into fits of laughter and began jiving around, giving each other high-fives and mimicking a troop of bad-ass rappers. Riley took the opportunity to step forward and kick the ball, lifting it with his foot and performing a clever little flick up to Enders. Enders used his head and a knee, before dropping the ball to the ground and hoofing it high into the air for Riley to chase. Riley raced along, out-pacing the kids screaming behind him. The ball bounced a couple of times and he trapped it with his foot. He stood with his hands on his hips challenging the boys to get closer.

‘OK, who wants to take on Pele?’

‘Who’s Pele?’ Ewan said.

‘He was nearly as good as Ashley Cole only he wasn’t a bum boy,’ Kyle said.

‘Ashley Cole isn’t a bum boy.’

‘Yes he is!’

‘No he isn’t.’

‘Is too!’

‘Isn’t.’ Ewan turned to Riley for some sort of adult input to settle the dispute.

‘You like Chelsea, Ewan?’ Riley said, pointing at the kid’s shirt.

‘Yeah, sort of. Better than Man U Wankered anyway.’

‘Chelsea are my team too. Think they can win the league this year?’

‘Dunno. Yeah. If Drogba can stay on his feet.’

‘Hey, isn’t there a guy who is a real Chelsea nut round here?’ Riley nodded his head in the direction of North Prospect Road. ‘Wears his shirt all year? Bit of a lad?’

Ewan hesitated and the boy’s eyes wandered away from Riley toward the estate. Conflicting loyalties, Riley thought, and wondered if he had pushed his luck. He tried again.

‘Only some of the lads at the station are thinking of organising a minibus up to the Bridge one Saturday and we’ve got a few spaces free. Fancy coming along?’

‘Oh, you mean rabid David?’ The name was pronounced so the couplet rhymed.

‘That’s him. Did he ever have a kick around? Like we have.’

‘No. He was scary. Once he nicked our ball and booted it right out there.’ The lad pointed to the Wolsey Road, a dual carriageway on the other side of the playground. ‘He was a bloody nutter. ‘Lewis almost went under a fucking bus trying to get the thing back.’

They were interrupted by a shout and Riley looked over to where a woman was getting out of a little red Toyota that had pulled in behind their car.

‘Hey, can I help you?’ The woman began jogging over toward them.

‘DS Riley, miss,’ Riley said, producing his warrant card.

‘Oh, sorry.’ The woman flicked a lock of dark hair away from her face and smiled. She was late twenties and wore faded jeans and a black chunky knit jumper that hugged her figure, accentuating her curves. Cute, Riley thought. She continued. ‘Only I got a phone call saying a couple of guys were down here talking to the kids. Can’t be too careful these days.’

‘And you are?’

‘Julie Meadows. I run NeatStreet, a kid’s charity. Minding this lot is part of the job. For my sins.’ She ruffled Ewan’s hair and when the boy smiled back at her Riley saw something approaching love in the lad’s eyes.

‘He’s a real detective Julie, ‘cept he’s black.’

‘There are black cops as well, Ewan, only we don’t get many down this part of the world.’

‘Yeah, I know that. He said he was going to take some of us to watch Chelsea. Not on TV, not on Sky. For real. At the Bridge. He promised.’

‘Did he now?’ Julie cocked her head to one side and half-smiled at Riley. The smile hit Riley somewhere deep inside his ribcage. To hide his embarrassment he kicked the ball away toward Enders and the boys took chase.

‘We are trying to find out about a man called David Forester. I understand he used to hang around down here?’

‘Forester? Big guy with a football shirt? Drove a black 4x4?’

‘Yes, that’s him.’

‘Yes, he came from here. Forever poking about with his video camera.’

‘What, shooting the kids?’ Riley indicated the playground.

‘No, the mums. Young mums, yes, but legal. He was always promising them modelling contracts, saying he would help them get discovered. He belonged to some photo club and he said to the girls he would get them work doing glamour shoots if they would audition for him first. From what I heard an audition involved them going back to his place and taking their clothes off.’

‘Anything else?’

Julie stopped. She belonged here, like Ewan, and Riley guessed she would be unlikely to want to reveal information which might make their lives any worse.

‘It’s important,’ Riley said. ‘Forester’s missing, a girl is dead.’

Julie looked around, as if the whole neighbourhood was watching in judgement. She sighed.

‘Forester did drugs. Used and dealt. Some of those girls ended up getting screwed by him. Metaphorically and literally. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘He could talk the talk, that was the problem, and round here people cling to any last hope. It is all too easy to tell them a fairy tale they want to believe. He could spin things so it seemed as if it was only one step from here to living in a mock Tudor mansion with a footballer as a husband and Hello Magazine beating a path to your door.’

‘Any idea what type of stuff he used to shoot?’ asked Riley.

‘Glamour, to begin with. Then he’d get them to show a bit more flesh, give them a little tit-bit as a reward. Next, rumour has it at least, he’d get the video camera out and start shooting full-on hardcore. I heard the material used to go up on the web on some paysite he helped run.’ She shook her head. ‘I am not a prude, but to think of those girls with Forester makes my skin creep.’