Tom Graham - Life on Mars - Borstal Slags

Gene shrugged. ‘Your reputation might not be besmirched, Jimmy, but Andy Coren certainly is. Well and truly besmirched all over a load of old ovens in a great big crusher. Right old mess it was. Squashed, flattened, half his internal organs squirtin’ out his arse. I can go into more details if you like.’

Fellowes sat down slowly and laid his hands on his desk. ‘So. He got out inside one of the ovens. It’s as we thought.’

‘It won’t happen again,’ declared McClintock. ‘I have implemented tighter security.’

Fellowes looked up at Gene and Sam, said, ‘Thank you for coming out here to inform me of this tragedy – though I can’t see why it took two experienced officers to come here in person, when a phone call would have sufficed.’

‘We came here, Mr Fellowes, because of certain irregularities associated with Coren’s death,’ said Sam.

‘What sort of irregularities?’

Sam found himself glancing nervously at McClintock, although the House Master was motionless and silent, his blank face unreadable.

I don’t like that man. There’s something wrong about him.

‘Well, Detective Inspector? What sort of irregularities?’

‘Hard to say at present,’ said Sam, forcing his attention away from McClintock and back to Fellowes. ‘Ongoing intelligence. We’re in receipt of – scraps of information. We very much want to make sense of these scraps.’

Fellowes looked searchingly at McClintock, then shrugged.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll help you all we can – if we can.’

‘Your kitchen block and boiler house,’ said Sam. ‘They’re being demolished. Why is that?’

‘They were unsafe,’ said Fellowes. ‘The boilers were ancient and simply had to go. And the kitchen had been in a dire state for years. We’d struggled on with it, but then there was a terrible accident with one of the gas ovens. It went up like a bomb.’

‘A boy was killed, am I right?’ asked Sam.

‘I’m afraid you are. After that, the Home Office had no choice but to allocate us funds for a refit. Perhaps you’d like to see our brand-new kitchens?’

‘I’d love to see your new kitchens more than words can say,’ growled Gene. ‘But, before you thrill me and my colleague with that particular emotional roller coaster, I want to know more about this boy what got barbecued. What kind of lad was he?’

Fellowes fumbled for something to say, but it was McClintock who answered. ‘He was a young man by the name of Craig Tulse. Nasty little rogue he was. A lot of backchat. Insubordinate. A constant source of trouble to me and my warders.’

‘So – a relief to be rid of him?’ Gene said. His manner was confrontational.

McClintock gave him a very cold stare. ‘The boy died. Burned. Horribly.’

‘I’ll bet. And what about this other lad, the one who topped himself a couple of weeks back? What’s his name again, Tyler?’

‘Tunning, Guv.’

‘Aye, Tunning. What’s the story with him, eh?’

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