Sharon Bolton - Like This, for Ever

Detective Constable Pete Stenning, thirty-one years old, tall and good looking with dark curly hair, was jogging lightly down the steps to join them.

‘What can you tell us, Pete?’ she asked, when he was close enough.

‘They were spotted at 20.15 by the local florist,’ said Stenning. ‘I was with him just now. He’s had a busy day, what with it being Valentine’s Day, and he’s got a big wedding on tomorrow so he and a couple of assistants were working late. He needed a fag and smoking in the street is frowned upon so he tends to wander down the lane and up Horselydown steps. Finds it soothing to watch the river, he says, and there’s shelter if it’s pissing it down. His words, not mine.’

‘And he spotted them?’

‘There was just enough light from the Brewhouse behind and the bridge in front, he says, although he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking at till he went down to the beach. And before you ask, he saw nothing else. The two women in the shop confirm his story.’

‘Any thoughts on how they were brought here?’ asked Anderson.

‘Could have come by water,’ said Stenning, ‘but personally, I doubt it. This is a bloody treacherous place to bring a boat in at anything other than very high water.’ He gestured over towards the river’s edge. ‘There’s the remains of a Victorian embankment just under the water there,’ he went on. ‘If your boat hits that at any speed, chances are you’re going down.’

‘Road, then?’ said Dana.

‘More likely,’ said Stenning. ‘One thing you should see,’ he went on. ‘Just a bit further under the bridge.’

Dana and Anderson followed Stenning into the shadows beneath Tower Bridge, trying to ignore the craning necks and intense stares just a few feet above them. Then all attention switched from the police officers to the small black bags being carried out of the police tent. The boys were being taken away. A few outraged cries broke out, as though the police on the beach were responsible for what had happened to the children.

Beneath the bridge, uniformed officers with torches were still combing the short stretch of bank that remained accessible. A small area had been cordoned off with police tape. Stenning shone his torch on to it.

‘Footprints?’ asked Anderson.

‘Large wellington-type boot,’ said Stenning. ‘Looks to be the same tread as the ones we found at Bermondsey. Thing is, there would be no need for him to come here. Look.’

He was pointing back towards the stairs.

‘He carried them down the steps, then a few yards along the beach to where we found them. He’d want to get it over with as quickly as possible. And yet he walks all the way over here, a detour of – what – eight metres, to leave a footprint.’

‘On the only stretch of sand I can see on this beach,’ said Dana.

‘My thoughts exactly, Ma’am,’ said Stenning. ‘On the rocks and gravel, he wouldn’t have left any prints. So he comes over to a patch of sand that, conveniently, happens to be beneath the bridge and sheltered from the rain. He wanted us to find it.’

‘Cheeky bastard,’ said Anderson.

‘Who’s that, Sarge? Him or me?’

‘Both. You OK to accompany the bodies?’

Stenning agreed that he was and then set off to follow the mortuary van as it took the boys’ bodies away.

‘I’ll get on with the door-to-door, if it’s alright with you,’ said Anderson.

Dana nodded. Anderson invariably got twitchy if forced to keep still for more than a few minutes during an investigation.

‘Somebody will have seen something,’ he went on. ‘Even if they don’t know it yet.’ He turned to go, then half turned back again. ‘What’s up, Boss?’ he asked her.

She ought to tell him nothing, that she was fine. The team needed her to be fine.

‘This one scares me, Neil.’

She saw his head draw back, his eyes narrow. ‘You’re the DI who caught the Ripper,’ he said. ‘My money’s on him being scared of you.’

Anderson loved to say what he thought was the right thing. Even when the right thing was an obvious cliché.

‘Mark and Lacey caught the Ripper,’ she said. ‘I just got the credit. And I was never as scared by the Ripper as I am by this one. Four boys dead in two months. Another one still missing. And he’s speeding up. He’s taking them faster and he’s killing them faster. How long have we got before the next one?’

3

AS LONG FINGERS closed around his neck, Barney dropped his Coke can, the wheels of his skates slid and he almost fell. Two strong hands kept him upright.

‘Steady, Barney Boy. Don’t piss your pants.’

Aw, shit-shit-shit! Every nerve-ending singing, sweat breaking out all over his body, Barney wondered if being proved right was any consolation for being made to look an absolute tit. What the hell was Jorge playing at?

‘Prat,’ he managed.

Jorge, his best mate’s older brother and the gang’s undisputed leader, had been hiding on the roof of the bikeshed. To cover up the fact that his face would be bright red and that he’d snorted snot out of his nose, Barney bent to pick up the now-dented Coke can. ‘How long have you been up there?’ he asked, when he’d wiped his nose on his sleeve and straightened up.

‘Couple of minutes.’ Jorge didn’t even bother trying not to grin. ‘Spotted you at the corner.’

OK, deep breaths. It was dark, maybe no one would see the sweat on his forehead. He hadn’t wet himself, thank God. ‘You been rehearsing?’ he asked, in an attempt to sound normal.

Jorge nodded. ‘Mum texted me to say I had to collect Harvey on the way home. Come on.’

Leaping on his skateboard and kicking off, Jorge set off towards the others, leaving in his wake a sense of pent-up energy that was unusual, even for him. Harvey had been complaining lately that Jorge came back from rehearsals completely hyper. That it took him several hours just to calm down. If he pulled tricks on a regular basis like the one he’d just played, Barney could understand Harvey being pissed off.

The rest of the gang watched as first Jorge and then Barney made their way up the ramp towards them.

‘Your hair’s green,’ said Hatty, looking at Jorge.

Jorge tossed his head and ruffled his short, usually silver-blond spikes. ‘Hairdressing wanted to try it out,’ he said, as though it were perfectly normal for ‘hairdressing’ to take an interest in a fourteen-year-old boy’s hair. ‘Green hair to match the green costume. They’re going to stick leaves in it as well. The other two are well pissed off because they both have dark hair and it just doesn’t look as good on them.’

Jorge wanted to be an actor. A couple of months previously, he’d successfully auditioned for a West End show. To his annoyance, though, because he was only fourteen, he had to share the part with two other boys. Boys who, if Jorge were to be believed, didn’t have a fraction of his talent.

‘Did I miss anything?’ Barney asked, conscious he should have arrived an hour ago.

‘Nah,’ Harvey told him. ‘Lloyd won the darts tournament, but then Sam threw one at Tom Roger’s arse and we were kindly invited to leave.’

‘Can’t leave you lot alone for five minutes,’ said Jorge.

‘Did you get banned?’ asked Barney.

‘They said they didn’t want to see us for the rest of the week,’ said Lloyd, a large-eyed, dark-haired boy who was in the same class as Jorge. ‘Then they said we had to go straight home and not hang around outside.’

‘Like this?’ said Barney.

‘Yes,’ agreed Lloyd, his brown eyes wide and serious. ‘Hanging around like this would be very wrong.’

Hatty got up without a word and set off down the ramp. With the possible exception of Barney, she was the best blader of the group. She raced up the other side and stopped herself at the crash barrier. Lloyd, Sam and the two brothers were looking at a bent wheel on Harvey’s skateboard. Only Barney saw Hatty’s head lift like a dog’s that had just caught a scent. She was looking at something in the middle distance. After a few seconds of staring, she turned and sped back to the boys.