Sharon Bolton - Like This, for Ever

‘She wasn’t even allowed to wash him,’ said Sylvia. ‘The two of them were put straight in the truck and taken to the capital. Four hours in that hot, stinking truck, and all the time that poor baby covered in blood.’

‘It was the blood that made you suspicious, wasn’t it?’ said Dana, still talking to Abbie. ‘Blood on his clothes?’

‘Jorge washes his own clothes,’ said the grandmother, still at the top of the stairs. ‘He insists on that. I did spot some blood one time, but it was fake blood, from that show he’s in. I know he was telling the truth. He has a bottle of it in his room.’

Abbie’s blue eyes were still fixed just a few inches over Dana’s shoulder.

‘And he was always out when a boy disappeared or when a body turned up,’ Dana went on. ‘Always at football or at the youth club or whatever it is that he does in the evenings. He’s always out, isn’t he? On Tuesday and Thursday evenings?’

‘That’s when he rehearses,’ said Sylvia. ‘He’s in a show in the West End. He’s playing Peter Pan.’

Behind Dana, Gayle Mizon gave a small whimper.

Abbie came to life then. She made a move to push past Dana and the others. ‘I need to find my son,’ she told them.

Dana stood her ground. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You need to sit down and tell us where we can find him.’

Huck, Barney, now Jorge. How many more boys would be lost before the night was done?

‘You wouldn’t have a chance,’ Lacey told the silver-haired child with the dead eyes, knowing that, the way Tulloch felt about her, he actually stood a very good chance of convincing the police she was the killer. It would be a nice, neat ending for the case. Overly disturbed police officer going on a murderous rampage, misdirecting her colleagues to cover her own tracks, until she couldn’t live with the guilt any more. Except—

‘Take that gag off Barney and he’ll tell you I wasn’t in London for the first three weeks of this year,’ she said. ‘There’s no way I could have killed Tyler or Ryan.’

Jorge glanced over at Barney. ‘Then it’ll have to be Barney who did it,’ he said.

Shit, that would work. The MIT would certainly believe Barney was the killer. She had done so herself until a few minutes ago.

Jorge reached into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Which means you’re next,’ he said to her.

She’d lost track of time. Joesbury had said he’d come looking after an hour. The hour was definitely up, but by how much? Probably not enough.

‘Which bit do you enjoy the most?’ she asked Jorge, as he took a step closer. He was holding something in his right hand. Within the cup of his fingers, she could see the gleam of a blade. Behind him, Huck was straining to lift his head from the table. His wide blue eyes were watching in horror. Barney, on the other hand, had his eyes fixed to the ceiling. The fingers on both his hands were flexing and pointing, like claws going into spasms. ‘Do you enjoy the moment the knife breaks the flesh? Or when you see the light leaving their eyes?’

Jorge stopped moving. His eyes were staring, his mouth twisted. He looked like a child who’d been unjustly told off. He looked as if he was about to moan that it wasn’t fair.

‘Are you sexually excited by young boys?’ asked Lacey.

For a second she thought she’d gone too far, that he’d launch himself at her.

‘I’m not a pervert,’ he told her. ‘I don’t do it for pleasure.’

‘Why, then? Why do you do it?’

‘Honestly?’ he asked her.

She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Tell me honestly.’

‘Honestly,’ he repeated. ‘I just don’t know.’

Sometimes, there was no reason. Except …

‘I do,’ she said. ‘I know why you do it.’

Jorge turned from her then, walked back to the two trestle tables, right up to where he could look down at Huck on one side and Barney on the other. The Barlow twins had died in this room. The bloodstain down the table leg closest to Lacey was unmistakable. Jason and Joshua had bled to death here. Probably others as well. Terrified young boys had lain in this room and felt their blood seeping out as their bodies got colder and the darkness grew at the edge of their vision. Jorge was looking from Barney to Huck, at the point of their necks just below their chins, as though deciding which one to cut first.

‘I know,’ she repeated.

She could see the dilemma in his face. Half of him wanted to shut her up, the other half to hear what she had to say.

‘It’s like a tension inside you,’ she said. ‘It grows all the time. You feel it in your head, your stomach, even your fingers and toes, and it gets stronger and tighter, and with every hour that goes by it gets a firmer hold on you, until it feels like your entire body is screaming. And then that cut. That moment the knife slides across the skin and it falls apart, there’s something almost magical about it. Then the blood comes fizzing up and flows out and it’s like all that noise in your head just goes away.’

He was shaking his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.

‘The blood makes all the noise, all the pain, just slide away,’ said Lacey.

His head was saying one thing, his eyes another entirely. How much time had gone by? Enough?

‘You’re wondering how I know, aren’t you? I know because I do it too. Only I cut myself. I’ve never been quite as brave as you. Don’t you believe me? Untie my wrists and I’ll show you the scars.’

His mouth twisted – he wasn’t going to fall for that one. But at least he wasn’t looking at the boys any more.

‘You’ll have to cut Barney’s wrists, you know,’ she said. ‘If he’s the one you’re planning to pin the blame on, you can’t cut his throat. They’ll never believe an eleven-year-old would cut his own throat. You’ll have to cut his left wrist first, because that’s what right-handed suicides always do. And you’ll have to get the angle right, or they’ll know. Will you remember all this?’

‘Shut up.’

‘And another thing you should know is that it takes a lot longer for people to die when you cut their wrists than when you do their throats,’ Lacey called out. ‘It takes longer to bleed out. And the wounds will start to heal themselves. The blood will coagulate. You may have to make more than one cut. It will take time. Won’t be pleasant.’

‘Shut up!’

‘You’ve never killed a friend before, have you? You hardly knew the other boys. Are you sure you can do this to someone you like?’

Jorge looked from her to Barney, then to Huck. He stepped closer to Huck.

‘One last thing,’ Lacey called out. ‘It’s really important I tell you this.’

‘What?’

‘I have Huck Joesbury’s new mobile phone in my pocket.’

As Jorge’s eyes opened wide in surprise, she turned quickly to Huck. ‘Your dad bought you a new iPhone,’ she said. ‘He lent it to me because the police have mine, but it’s yours. He hasn’t given it to you yet because your mum thinks you’re a bit young for it, but he’s got it all set up for you. The numbers of all the people you know are in it – your mum, your dad, DI Tulloch, your godmother.’

‘If this is about trying to make me think you’ve made a call, forget it,’ said Jorge. He dug his hand into his jacket pocket and held something out towards her. ‘It fell out of your pocket when I hit you.’

‘Is it damaged?’

Unable to stop himself, Jorge glanced down at the screen and pressed the small round button that would activate the home page. Lacey saw the gleam of light and colour. The phone wasn’t damaged.

‘The reason it’s important,’ she said, ‘is that there’s a very useful app on that particular phone – you might have heard of it, it’s called Find My Phone. If two iPhones are connected by the same computer, then one phone always knows where its partner is. It’s done by GPS. So all Huck’s dad has to do to find us – and can I just say, he is one mean son-of-a-bitch when he’s mad, isn’t he, Huck? – all he has to do is open up the app, put in a password and his phone will tell him exactly where this one is.’