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JIM
We had the TA in an interview room at Kenneth Steele House.
His mother, her face drained of colour, had spoken to him quietly and fiercely in the hallway of
their home, telling him that she’d call their family solicitor, while he shouted at her that she always
thought the worst of him, that he hadn’t done anything wrong, that he wasn’t being arrested.
‘Not yet,’ Bennett had muttered under his breath. ‘But it won’t be long, sonny boy.’
He’d come with us voluntarily, but odds were that we weren’t going to let him leave. We knew
that, but he didn’t yet. He sat slumped in a chair looking like a bad boy. His chin was at a defiant tilt,
and his pupils were pinpricks swimming in irises that were the palest blue.
We had enough to arrest him, but we were debating when to do that, because, as soon as we did,
the clock would start ticking until the deadline to release him, unless we could come up with
evidence or a confession.
Fraser’s view was simple: ‘I think we should caution him now.’
‘He’s come in of his own volition.’
‘I don’t want him talking when he’s not under caution and us not being able to use it in court later.’
‘Solicitor will tell him to keep schtum.’
‘It’s a risk that I think we’re going to have to take. Otherwise he could walk out of here and do a
disappearing act. What’s this I hear about an Anderson shelter in the garden?’
‘Empty, boss, apart from a lawnmower and some bags of compost.’
‘What do you reckon?’
‘He was near the scene, he’s lied to us, he knows Ben well, and we’ve got the schoolbooks.’
‘Motive?’
‘Don’t know enough about him yet.’
‘What’s the mother like?’
‘Angry with him.’
‘Get Bennett to caution him, and get her in for an interview while we’re waiting for his brief. And
is somebody getting hold of his lying girlfriend?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Good work, Jim.’
I had a spring in my step as I went back to the incident room. It might have been adrenalin fuelled, but
that was good enough for me. I wanted to be thoroughly prepared for the interview, not one little
pebble left unturned. I knew the real work started now because we only had twenty-four hours to
charge him.
I sat down at my desk and got on with reading all the background we had on Lucas Grantham. I
thought back to when I’d first met him at the school, the way he’d seemed gormless, a bit pathetic. I’d
had no inkling then that he’d been lying to us, though Woodley had thought he was a bit shifty. I didn’t
want to think I’d missed something I should have noticed.
But I never got to finish my research, because we had another turn-up. Nicky Forbes’s husband
arrived. Unexpectedly. Asking for me.
Simon Forbes was as posh as I might have expected. I’d Googled his wine company the day before. It
was high end, the website slick and impressive, and he was obviously very well connected. He was a