According to their details only six children were housed at 51 Greystoke Road, a large, terraced Victorian house, almost in the centre of the town. PC Cheryl Smith and DC Alan King had been assigned to make the enquiries here, to try and connect the dead boy with a living home, to find a name, friends, someone who cared.
Cheryl Smith stared up at the tall house with its wide bay windows, and two small gables at the very top and made a wry face. ‘The Nest.’ She read the sign at the side of the door. ‘Hardly seems appropriate, does it?’
Alan shook his head. ‘Well, I’d hardly call the kids that come from these places little birds,’ he said, ‘but it’s a home.’
She looked at him. ‘You believe they think of these institutions as a home?’ She queried. ‘I rather think they consider them nearer to a prison.’
‘Maybe that’s more to do with their attitude,’ he said. ‘The places I know do a bloody good job of making them homely. Besides, perhaps a nest might be right for little birds, but these are something else. More like fierce little rats with sharp teeth, erratic tempers, unpredictable and aggressive behaviour. Perhaps a prison is more appropriate.’
‘Now, now,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t do to have these preconceived ideas. They’re just children – like all the others.’
He made a face. ‘Who are you trying to fool?’ he said. ‘Come on. The trouble is they aren’t anything like the other children, are they? They stick out. From their clothes to their hair to their behaviour. And that’s what makes them even more different.’
She glared at him as he banged on the door. ‘There’s no need to act the dawn raid, policeman-on-duty bit. Can’t you understand this is half the trouble. You have certain preconceptions about young institutionalized kids and you barge into their home. No wonder they learn to hate us.’
He turned to her then. ‘Whose side are you on, Constable?’
‘There you go again,’ she said. ‘Get it into your thick skull. There aren’t any sides.’
Alan King opened his mouth to speak but before he could the door was opened by a thin girl of about thirteen still in her check school summer dress and a navy cardigan which had dropped down off her shoulders. Her hostility was thick from the moment her eyes brushed the black and silver uniforms.
‘Who’ve you come to moan about now?’ she asked, her green eyes flashing. ‘Can’t you lot leave us alone? What is it now? Someone lost a penny in the supermarket?’
Cheryl stepped forward. ‘Can we speak to the warden, love?’
Tell me what it’s about first.’ The girl held her ground, blocked the doorway. ‘He’s out anyway.’
PC Alan King let out a quiet expletive and Cheryl moved in front of him. ‘Who’s in then, love?’
The girl glowered at them. ‘Don’t call me love,’ she said waspishly. ‘I’m not your love or bleedin’ anybody else’s love. He’s here. I suppose you’ll have to come in, make your trouble.’
‘Just let us have a word with the warden.’ Reluctantly the girl stepped back and opened the door halfway. ‘All right.’
Cheryl smiled. ‘We haven’t come to get anyone into trouble,’ she said pleasantly.
The girl shrugged and said nothing.
She could have been a pretty girl, blessed with tangled dark hair, and a heart-shaped face and the green intelligent eyes of a clever cat. But already her mouth had hardened with all that life had mercilessly hurled at her and it was a thin, mean line that would always find it a struggle to laugh or smile. And her bony shoulders drooped with a faint depressive line. Slowly her life-map was being drawn.
But instead of familiar irritation Cheryl felt something more like pity. She knew they had come to the right place. It was only afterwards when she filled out her report that she realized why she had known so surely. It was the tattoo on the girl’s knuckles. Not the words ... ‘Love’ and ‘Hate’ were common enough. It was the letters – the ‘A’ done in the same pointed style with a curl at the bottom and the ‘L’ with a loop at the bottom corner. Calligraphy instead of the usual crude square letters. And they were drawn in grey rather than the usual navy ink.
So they followed the girl along the corridor towards a smell of onions. ‘He’s making tea,’ the girl said over her shoulder. ‘Hotpot.’
The warden was younger than they had expected, with a plump face and heavy glasses. He was bending over the kitchen table, wearing a navy-and-white striped butcher’s apron over jeans, holding a very sharp-looking carving knife. With a quick and expert touch he was busily slicing onions and as they walked in he scraped them into the pot over the pink, raw beef.
‘Tea,’ he said, with a wary glance at the overwhelming presence of the two police officers. ‘Don’t tell me one of them’s been up to something again ... I really thought they’d settled down – apart from Dean.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Have you brought him back?’
‘No ... There’s no trouble ... Please don’t worry.’ DC Alan King put his hat on the table.
The warden held out his hand. ‘Mark,’ he said. ‘Mark Riversdale. I’m warden of this madhouse.’ He had brown eyes behind the glasses fringed with long, thick lashes and a frank, friendly smile. ‘So what can I do for you?’ His eyes were still faintly wary.
Cheryl Smith found herself wondering just how many times the police had visited The Nest.
‘Trouble?’
‘We hope not.’
Mark looked questioningly at Cheryl and smiled at her. ‘Well, then?’
‘How many young people live here?’ she began.
Mark Riversdale blinked. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know two police officers don’t simply turn up at children’s homes and make polite conversation. I don’t want to appear unfriendly or over-suspicious but what’s going on?’
‘How many?’ Cheryl asked gently.
Mark gave a loud sigh. ‘Three boys,’ he said, ‘and three girls. At the moment Sonya is the youngest. She’s four and Jason is the oldest. A couple of boys left about four months ago,’ he explained. ‘They have to leave care at sixteen.’
‘Have you seen the papers?’
Mark Riversdale gave a quick glance from one to the other. ‘Hardly have time to look at them,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Do you have a boy aged about ten – eleven,’ Cheryl asked, ‘with blond hair and an ear-ring?’
Mark laughed. ‘They all have ear-rings,’ he said, and tattoos. Jason fancies himself as a bit of an artist. I have asked him not to but the kids, they beg him.’ His eyes looked suddenly weary. ‘I have more important things to worry about than a bit of skin-art.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘That’s what they call it. It seems a fanciful name for those crude love/hate things but – as I say – they like them. For the record,’ he looked serious now, ‘we do have a boy who answers that description but he isn’t here at the moment. He’s absconded,’ he said apologetically. ‘I usually leave it a day or two. He often goes. Always gets back safe and sound. Keeps him out of trouble, you see, if I don’t make too big an issue of it.’
‘So you haven’t informed the police?’ Alan King failed to keep the accusation out of his voice and the warden picked it up.
‘We’d never get any other work done if we reported every single absconder from a home to you and expected you to find him or her. As I’ve said, I usually wait – up to a week. If they come back, no harm’s done. If not then I inform you lot. Dean can look after himself.’ He stared at the table. ‘He absconds on average twice to three times a month, usually for two to three days – much less frequently in the last year. February it was a fortnight. He always comes back, you know, clean and well fed. Sometimes even with money in his pocket. He is a survivor that one.’ Sudden alarm crossed his face. ‘What is all this about?’
Cheryl pulled out the photograph of the dead boy, placed it on the table and studied Mark Riversdale’s face, knowing Alan King was doing exactly the same.
‘Is this Dean?’ she asked.
Mark stared at it disbelievingly. One hand reached out slowly, picked it up and held it nearer his face. ‘It can’t be,’ he said. ‘Surely this boy ...?’ Then he looked up at the two police officers.
‘Yes,’ Alan said quiedy, ‘the boy is dead.’
Cheryl leaned across the table. ‘Take your time, Mr Riversdale. Be sure. Is this boy Dean?’
Mark Riversdale studied the photograph again, then he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘at least I think so.’ He looked again at the photograph then nodded slowly, deeper and more definite. ‘Yes, it is him.’ He bit his lip, gnawed at a nail, drummed one index finger on the table. ‘How did he die?’ he asked eventually.
‘We’re not absolutely sure,’ Alan said, ‘but it looks as though he was murdered. You will have to formally identify him, of course.’
Mark Riversdale looked again at the picture, brushed away a tear and muttered something about the onions. ‘He could almost be asleep,’ he said. ‘He looks so peaceful.’
‘He isn’t asleep,’ Cheryl said brutally. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Who-where?’
‘He was found dead on the moors early yesterday morning,’ Alan King said.
Mark, looked up. ‘So he was the lad. I heard something about a body being found on the moors. Wasn’t it burning?’
‘And you still didn’t report it?’
Mark Riversdale sank down into one of the kitchen chairs. ‘I just didn’t connect it,’ he said, pulling off his glasses and setting them down on the table. ‘I never thought for a minute it was Dean ...’ He passed his hand over his brow in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘But he was a survivor. He was always going. But he came back – every time. Not only came back but was clean and well fed.’
‘Not this time,’ Cheryl said quietly.
‘It wasn’t exposure?’
‘No.’
Cheryl felt suddenly sick and angry. All she could think of was the fact that the dead boy now had a name. Dean.
‘Dean what?’ she asked.
‘Dean Tunstall. He was ten years old.’
And her mind toyed with another idea. He had been a victim of long-term sexual abuse. She looked carefully at Mark Riversdale and wondered.
‘When did you say he was found?’ Mark asked.
‘Yesterday, very early in the morning.’
He passed his hand across his brow. ‘All the time I thought he’d be back.’ He stared again at the photograph.
‘Mr Riversdale,’ DC King’s voice was toneless, ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to come down to the mortuary for a formal identification. Also we shall want to speak to the other occupants of the home.’ He hesitated. ‘We’ll have to report back to the station. I think it’s best if you tell the other children.’
Mark nodded.
‘Do you know what’s puzzling me?’ Cheryl said as they were driving back to the station.
Alan King shook his head. ‘Come on, brain-box,’ he said, ‘what is it?’
‘Clean and well fed.’ She looked at her colleague. ‘Does that sound like a boy who’s been sleeping rough?’
Joanna held the briefing early that afternoon. She faced the team allocated to her. ‘Thanks to some legwork by DC Alan King and PC Cheryl Smith we have a name for our burning boy. I just want to say that they may have been to the right place but all of you have helped to identify this child. You are all equally important. It’s just luck who happens to visit the right place. My thanks extend to every one of you. I don’t need to tell you that finding out who he is was the first step to finding out who killed him.’ She smiled. ‘The boy’s name is Dean, Dean Tunstall. He was resident at the children’s home just off the Ashbourne road, known as The Nest.’ She ignored the titters at the name that rippled around the room. Sometimes in a murder case – especially the murder of a child – it was only the light relief that kept morale from dipping into depression. ‘He was ten years old and a frequent absconder from the home – we’d returned him there ourselves once or twice. He had apparently lived there for most his life.’ She glanced at Cheryl Smith who was sitting in the front row, her dark eyes fixed on Joanna’s face with rapt attention. ‘PC Smith’ she said, ‘as you have already been to The Nest I would like you to go back there. Find out as much as possible about Dean’s life ... his origins ... parents, friends, relatives, etc. I’d like you to begin as soon as formal identification has taken place later on this afternoon.’
She looked back at the workforce. ‘It’s early days yet,’ she said, ‘but already we know a few details. The warden at the home is twenty-seven-year-old Mark Riversdale. As far as we know, he’s clean with no previous convictions. However, please remember, Dean had been abused over a number of years. Obviously any male who came into contact with the boy is under suspicion. Broach the subject carefully. At the moment he has to be on our suspect list. PC Smith ...’ she glanced at Cheryl, ‘go gently, but we will need statements from the children at the home, in the presence of social workers. Also we’ll interview Mark Riversdale. Get an alibi if possible.’ She paused. ‘There is another avenue which we would be negligent not to explore. Dean was as we know a frequent absconder. I want a couple of you to speak to the homeless in Leek and find out if they knew him. Although we know that when he returned ...’ she glanced at the notes she had made, ‘in mid-February last year following a disappearance of a fortnight he returned clean and well fed.’ She looked up. ‘I don’t know whether any of you remember that particular fortnight, but according to the Met Office it snowed and the temperatures remained well below zero for most of that period. So where was Dean? Who looked after him? Who kept him?’ She nodded.
‘I want to make another point. The Press will be on our heels wanting an early arrest but our forensic evidence is, quite frankly, so far disappointing. It is important we arrest the right man for the right reasons. I am not in a hurry but I am determined. No mistakes and play it all by the board. We can video the children’s evidence and it will be admissible in the courts. According to our latest guidelines children do not lie.’ The ripple that swept through the room was louder this time and one or two laughed. She held up her hand. ‘I know, I know,’ she said, ‘but they are our guidelines. We can sift through their statements carefully and see where it leads us. Also, I have spoken to the coroner. The inquest can go ahead and Dean buried just as soon as we’ve contacted his next of kin.’ She stopped briefly before saying quietly, ‘I believe there is a mother – somewhere.’ Then she added, ‘The verdict will almost certainly be murder.’
She paused to glance through her notes again. ‘We’re following up the lead on the ring but still haven’t managed to get hold of either Mr Robin Leech or his mother, Mrs Gill Leech. It seems they are away from home for a long weekend. When they do return I want you to remember – we will have to go cautiously. Mr Ashford Leech was a man who was very vocal at the House. His wife and son are both members of some minority groups – also very vocal. The Leech family will know their rights and you can be sure they will be the first to complain of any departure from recommended police protocols.’ She paused. ‘Any questions?’
One of the detective constables at the back raised his hand. ‘The two soldiers who found the body, ma’am, are they under suspicion?’
Joanna nodded. ‘The boy soldiers,’ she mused. ‘Yes.’ She turned back to the board and the enlarged photograph of the tattoos on Dean’s knuckles. ‘I expect some of you noticed these tattoos. Private Gary Swinton appears to have at least the same tattoo artist as Dean. We’re looking into Swinton’s past at the moment and will let you know any further developments in that direction. We do need to know a little more about these boy soldiers – their whereabouts for the night in question, alibis and, most important of all, I want to know this: did Swinton have any previous contact with the dead boy.’ She grinned at the DC. ‘Well done.’
She scanned the room. ‘Does anyone have anything further to add?’
This time it was Roger Farthing who spoke. ‘I visited the shoe shop,’ he said, and reported the uncertain record of stock. ‘When I got back from the shop,’ he said slowly, ‘I looked up Keithy Latos – the guy who owns the shop. He has a record for soliciting young boys. He’s been caught once in some public toilets in Hanley with an under-age.’ He sat down, with a flushed face. ‘I thought you ought to know.’
Joanna nodded. ‘So,’ she said, ‘he has to go on the list. We’ll watch him for a day or two.’ She glanced at Roger. ‘Did you say he’s going to stocktake?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll call back there later on today. Mike?’ He nodded. ‘We’ll go together. If we can see anything out of the ordinary we’ll get a warrant and search his flat.’
Mike touched her on the shoulder as the officers filed out of the room. ‘Have you heard from Dr Levin?’
She shook her head.
His face was almost mocking. ‘Not even a picture postcard, Joanna?’
‘I told you,’ she said sharply. ‘He’s on a family holiday.’
‘Oh yes, I was forgetting.’ His eyes were very dark and unreadable. ‘A family holiday.’
They called at the shop just as Keithy Latos was switching off the lights. He started when he saw them, and opened the door very slowly, giving a strained grin.
‘I thought you’d be back,’ he said.
Mike spoke. ‘We wondered if you’d had time to go through your books yet, Mr Latos.’
Keithy Latos took a step backwards. ‘I did actually,’ he said. ‘It was quiet in the shop. I am missing a pair. Did you say size sevens?’
‘When did they go?’ Joanna glanced around the shop, wondering whether it had been here that Dean had died – or upstairs?
‘I ... I’m not that sure.’ He licked his lips.
‘Were you just closing?’ Joanna asked innocently. ‘We could come up, help you look through the books.’
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish.
Mike smiled. ‘A cup of tea would be lovely;’ he said.
It was a tiny flat upstairs, a square foot which served as a landing. Through a half-opened door Joanna glimpsed an unmade bed with dark sheets and quilt thrown back. To the side was a white toilet with curling lino on the floor. Ahead was a square sitting room and a tiny kitchenette. It was a far cry from the smart shop below.
‘No palace,’ Keithy called, ‘but it does – know what I mean? Go in, sit down. I’ll put the kettle on.’
While he disappeared into the kitchen Joanna and Mike walked into the tiny room, decorated in cream and brown, dominated by a huge television set and video. They scanned the room but saw nothing more suggestive than a pile of gay magazines. Keithy walked in carrying three steaming mugs.
‘I’ll just get my books.’
The books were poorly kept with Tipp-Ex and crossings out but as far as they could see the list of stock was short by one pair of trainers. But as the previous accounts had been done almost three months ago the shoes could have gone at any time in the last twelve weeks.
Joanna closed the book and looked at Latos. ‘Can you give me a better idea of when the trainers might have been stolen?’ she asked. ‘When did you put them outside in the basket?’
Here he could not be much more help. ‘About a month ago,’ he said, ‘I think.’ He studied his fingernails. ‘I’m not really a very precise sort of person.’
‘Mr Latos.
‘Please, call me Keithy ...’
‘Keith,’ Joanna said firmly. ‘The boy who was killed. Did you know him? His name was Dean – Dean Tunstall.’
Mike slid the photograph in front of the man’s face.
‘You see,’ Joanna said softly, ‘we know that you have been in trouble before – with boys.’
A look of panic crossed Latos’s face. ‘I swear, I don’t know anything about him. ‘You see ...’ his eyes pleaded to be believed, ‘I got a steady friend now. The guy I went to Buxton with. We’re very faithful. I wouldn’t ... I really wouldn’t. I couldn’t do anything to risk things between us two.’
They finished their tea and left.
In the car outside Joanna looked at Mike. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
‘Very eager to please.’
‘Come on, Mike,’ she said. ‘You know these past sexual offenders. They feel they get hauled in for about everything that goes on – all the slightly deviant crimes. In his place you’d be eager to please.’
He turned towards her. ‘I wouldn’t be in his place,’ he said. ‘But just remember, Jo, there is a coincidence. The shoes came from here. Dean was abused. This man has been convicted of soliciting boys ...’
‘We don’t have enough to get a warrant,’ she said. ‘Circumstantial. That’s all.’ She paused, then bit her lip. ‘Do you think his name’s really Keithy?’ she asked.
He drove her back to the station to pick up her bike.
‘Fancy a drink?’
She frowned. ‘I want to get back. I have a sudden strong desire to be alone. Besides ...’ she grinned, ‘it’s a steep ride home.’