Deadly Animals, page 7
Her gaze was piercing but Ava was calm. ‘Did you tell anyone?’
‘No,’ said John.
‘Not even your mom?’
‘No,’ said John. ‘Ava, you have to tell a grown-up because—’
‘Why do I have to?’ Ava was obviously pissed off now. ‘If I tell a grown-up, I’d have to explain what I was doing out there at night, and they’d ask a billion questions about me and not about Mickey. They’ve got nothing else; so suddenly it’s about what I did, even though what I did actually helped them out. Mom would be told and then I’d have to deal with the fallout from her, so I’d be exiled to Nazareth House.’ Nazareth House was the huge Victorian children’s home run by nuns, and it was bang opposite the Austin Works. Some parents threatened to send their kids there if they misbehaved. ‘Instead, nothing has happened to me, has it?’ Ava used her hands expressively when she was on a rant. ‘Mickey’s been found and now the police are investigating.’
‘But weren’t you scared?’ John whispered. ‘It must’ve done . . . something to you.’ He’d have been terrified. Dead humans were vastly higher on the terror scale than dead cats.
‘No. I wasn’t scared, and it hasn’t done something to me.’
‘No nightmares?’
‘No, John.’
And John believed her. Ava could do that: separate parts of her life and feelings as if none bore any relation to the others. She dealt with her world in her own time in her own way. ‘Weren’t you afraid the killer was still around?’
‘There was nobody there but me,’ said Ava.
John had had mixed feelings on hearing Mickey’s body had been found. Years ago, Mickey and a couple of his friends had shoved John and Little Adam against the walls of the underpass. John had kicked Mickey’s legs, which made Mickey angry enough to smack John in the gob so hard it made his lip bleed. They then spat in Little Adam’s hair and mushed it in. For weeks after, Little Adam was too scared to leave the house. John was bigger and stronger now, and would have loved for Mickey to try it on again, only this time in a proper fight. With Mickey dead, he’d never be able to beat seven shades of shit out of him. He supposed being dead meant Mickey had paid the ultimate price for being a wanker and that price was too high.
‘Mickey was a tosser, Aves.’
‘I’m glad he’s gone,’ said Ava. John breathed a sigh of relief, grateful he wasn’t alone in feeling guilty for not feeling guilty. ‘But the way he died wasn’t right because somebody killed a kid and that puts all kids in danger, like you and my sisters . . . ’ And you, thought John. You’re a kid yourself, Aves – don’t forget.
Their secret was gargantuan. It loomed above them both, greater than the building and the Quarry, the most serious thing to ever have happened to Ava, and now John too because he was part of it whether he liked it or not. It was scary and exciting, an adventure – but also a horror story. Ava was part of the investigation and nobody else knew it but him.
Ava patted the earth, folded her hand into a makeshift paw, placed it on the low mound of grave and murmured The Rabbit’s Prayer. John tilted his head and said amen at the end, which made her smile.
‘Did you say the prayer for Mickey?’ John asked.
‘Yes,’ said Ava.
There was a loud whooshing sound from the road. Both children were obscured from view as Nathaniel Marlowe cruised past, hands-free, on War Horse. It was the name Ava gave Nathaniel’s bike – a heavy black Raleigh Roadster modified with chunky wheels, a sturdy trailer full of bricks and tools at its rear. Marlowe whistled The Dam Busters theme under the hood of his Quadrophenia coat, cool as anything. Riding a bike hands-free was a skill Ava envied. But she’d only recently learned how to ride a bike, and that was only because John had taught her how on Winston, his orange Chopper. No-hands riding would have to wait.
Marlowe didn’t see them as he sailed by, his arms outspread, the tails of his military coat flapping like wings behind him as he descended the hill and out of sight. As fearless as all teenage boys seemed to be.
‘What if they find out Mrs Poshy-Snob was you?’ said John as they got up and dusted dirt from their clothes and knees.
‘How can they find out unless you or I tell them?’
John said nothing.
Ava told him about the footprint cast, and the telephone call she’d made to the investigation team yesterday.
‘You’ve got steel bollocks, Aves,’ John said with admiration. It struck him for the millionth time that the reason other kids were cruel to her was because they were afraid of her. Ava, perhaps bemused at his awe, shrugged.
‘I’m chuffed you recognised Mrs Poshy-Snob,’ she said with a smile. ‘I knew you would.’
Chapter Seventeen
T
O AVA, THE RAINDROPS RESEMBLED glass beads thrown against the window, a multifaceted view through each globule, like a fly’s compound eye.
The Bonneys’ home smelled of Sunday lunch. Trevor and Luke were fixing wardrobe doors. Mom was washing up and listening to the radio, while Rita played with the cardboard puppet set Ava had made for her. The TV was off, but the record player was on, and Isao Tomita’s Snowflakes Are Dancing filled the room with beauty.
‘Arabesque’ was Ava’s anthem. She looked out the window as the music flowed through her, its pops and pipples, its soars and swoops – other-worldly and magical. At the table behind Ava, Veronica drew pictures and wrote stories.
Ava turned from the window just as the silver Audi Quattro pulled into the cramped cul-de-sac. She sat opposite her sister and resumed her own writing.
The letter box clattered and everyone froze. Veronica looked at Ava, their pencils poised. Rita’s puppet play stopped mid-run. Rita turned the volume down on the stereo and ran to her sisters, just as she did when the Rent Man came.
‘Who the bloody mc-fuckery is that on a Sunday, ay?’ Trevor came into the hall in unison with Colleen, Luke trailing behind.
‘It could be my brothers,’ said Colleen. ‘Or maybe it could be your brother, Trev.’
The letter box clattered again, accompanied by a thumping on the door. Trevor had turned a fascinating shade of green. Ava wondered about all those new things wrapped in plastic in his flat that had fallen off the backs of so many lorries. Maybe one of those lorry drivers had come to take it back. And all those times when Trev had gone to see all those men about all those dogs – maybe those dogs had come back to bite him? One could only hope, Ava thought.
‘It could be your ex,’ said Trevor.
‘Who? Mike?’
‘D’you have another ex, Coll?’
Ava found this funny. Good one, Trev.
‘Why would Mike come here?’ Colleen was genuinely baffled. ‘There’s nothing here he wants.’
Thanks, Mom, thought Ava. Bitch.
Another knock on the door. Whoever it was wasn’t going away. Luke pulled a theatrically worried face behind his father’s back and the girls smiled. If Luke was unworried then they’d be unworried too.
‘It could be Mike,’ said Colleen. Mike couldn’t discover Trev was her boyfriend at all costs, Ava knew, as it might affect maintenance money. ‘Trev! Hide in the bedroom and shut the door, just in case!’ Trevor did as he was bid.
Colleen went to open the front door with her chin held so high Ava was surprised she could see ahead at all.
Ava recognised Detective Sergeant Delahaye’s voice immediately.
‘It’s the police!’ Colleen declared, as if announcing the arrival of Albert Pierrepoint.
Trev burst out of the bedroom with Luke behind him. Trev had two default forms of presentation indoors: oil-covered clothes or barely any clothes at all. Today, he’d actually managed to put on a clean shirt and trousers, for which Ava was thankful.
* * *
When the door opened, the angry-looking man standing at the threshold had his hands on his hips like a bullfrog impersonating Superman.
‘Hello, sir. Sorry to disturb you and your family this afternoon,’ said Delahaye, extracting his warrant card from his jacket pocket just as Lines did the same.
‘What’s this then? What you want then, ay, on a bloody mc-fuckin’ Sunday?’ In Delahaye’s experience, Trev spoke in the manner of all criminals caught in criminal acts, Sunday or not.
‘And you are, Mr . . . ?’ Detective Constable Lines pulled out his notebook and pen. The action had the desired effect on the man, who reeled his neck in sharpish.
‘I’m Trevor Bax. I’m a friend of the family.’
Judging by Ava’s expression, Delahaye could see he was no ‘friend’ of hers. He recognised Bax from the door-to-door inquiries after Mickey’s body was found but he also recognised the name from Pete Ancona mention of it.
‘I remember you,’ Delahaye said. ‘We interviewed you last week at your flat.’
Trevor said nothing.
The detectives were led into the living room to find the three girls huddled around a slim, dark-haired youth who stepped forward and said, ‘Hello, I’m Luke Bax. Trev’s my dad.’ The policemen shook his hand, liking the lad immediately. Sometimes the apple falls miles from the tree.
‘So, then, why’re you here?’ Colleen crossed her arms. ‘We’re a good family, we are.’ She obviously dreaded having the neighbours watching police entering her home, Delahaye thought.
‘I’ve no doubt of it, Mrs Bonney,’ said Delahaye. ‘We’ve come to talk to Ava, if you don’t mind.’
‘I do mind! What’s she done, ay?’ Colleen’s eyes narrowed at Ava, and she took a step forward, hand raised. ‘What’ve you done then, you little bleeder?’
Delahaye stepped forward and blocked Colleen’s view of her daughter. ‘I can assure you Ava is in no trouble whatsoever,’ he said. ‘We’d just like to ask a few questions.’ Strangely enchanting music played on the stereo and he picked up the album sleeve nonchalantly. ‘We hope Ava can help us.’
Trevor, however, had obviously thought they were here for him.
‘Questions about what, ay?’ Trevor laughed, though nothing was funny. ‘Mate, no disrespect, but you’d better watch that one! She makes shit up, she does. Can be a right little bloody liar, can’t she, Coll, ay? Away with the mc-fuckin’ fairies. Can’t trust a word she says, you can’t.’
Delahaye listened to this little diatribe with interest because, in his experience, it was always the way of bad men to tell the truth about their own failings by accusing others – especially if those others were children. He suspected that the only person who needed watching, who ‘made shit up’, was Trevor Bax. Clearly Ava had him sussed and Trevor felt threatened. And Colleen not defending her own daughter against a man who was not the father – that appalled Delahaye.
‘Perhaps we can talk in the car,’ said Delahaye.
‘What you need to say can be said here,’ said Colleen. ‘We’ve nothing to hide.’ Trevor remained silent.
It was a dilemma. They needed to speak to Ava with an accompanying adult, but Delahaye suspected Ava would not speak openly with her mother and Trevor in the room.
‘This has nothing to do with your family or Mr Bax,’ said Delahaye. ‘It’s about Mickey Grant.’
‘Oh.’ Colleen clutched the dish towel to her chest.
Ava inhaled deeply and sighed. ‘Luke can be with me. He’s sixteen,’ she said.
‘We won’t be long,’ said Delahaye as he shepherded the teenagers towards the front door just as ‘Footprints in the Snow’ came on the stereo.
Chapter Eighteen
A
VA WAS RELIEVED TO BE out of the flat – away from Trevor.
Inside the Quattro it smelled of cigarettes and clean men, and was the most modern car Ava had ever sat in. Luke sat in the back with DC Lines and Ava in the front beside DS Delahaye. This visit couldn’t be about yesterday’s telephone call from Miss Poshy-Snob, surely. Because how could they know Ava was she?
‘Ava,’ said Delahaye. ‘Do you know anything about kids’ dens and hiding places in this area?’
Ava nodded. ‘Yes, some of them, but they do change around or disappear, especially after winter.’ Also, children grew out of the need to make dens, and some teenagers preferred to call them hideouts or hang-outs.
Ava caught the detectives exchanging glances.
‘Could you mark them out on a map for us?’ Delahaye pulled an Ordnance Survey map from his jacket pocket. Ava balked.
‘I could do but it would take me ages,’ said Ava. She could only show them on her own hand-drawn maps. She’d never find the sites on an official chart.
‘How come you know where they are, bab?’ asked Lines.
‘It helps to know where you can hide during Wolf . . . ’
‘Wolf?’
‘It’s a game. A really rough kind of hide ’n’ seek,’ said Luke.
‘And it helps to know where to hide from the Trogs,’ said Ava.
‘Bullies,’ Luke translated. ‘Not the band.’
Delahaye shifted in his seat to properly face her. ‘Trogs?’
Ava smiled. ‘It’s short for troglodytes, the classification name for chimpanzees.’
‘Mickey Grant’s old den is abandoned,’ said Delahaye. ‘We’ve been told he might’ve had another one, but nobody knows where.’
Ava scrunched up her nose. ‘I don’t know for sure. I think he did have another place he hung out. It was off the estates completely and I used to see him walk in that direction, towards Waseley Hills, lots of times last summer,’ she said. ‘I followed him once, just to see where he went when he wasn’t going home.’
It was the day after Mickey had thrown gravel at Veronica and he’d enraged her, wearing his West Brom T-shirt with his cocky stride, as if he’d done nothing wrong. He’d stopped occasionally to stroke a cat or a dog – maybe the reason she hadn’t hated him the way she hated Brett Arbello was that Mickey had genuinely loved animals. She’d shadowed him without knowing why and had kept a safe distance but Mickey, being a confident boy, never sensed a tracker because who would dare follow him? Boys had no need of peripheral vision or a sense for being observed. It must be nice being biologically programmed with such arrogance, to be kings of the world.
‘I can take you to it if you like.’ Studying a map only wasted time anyway, she thought.
Again, the men exchanged their shared relief with a glance. ‘Yes please, Ava,’ said Delahaye. ‘But shouldn’t we ask your mother if you can go with us?’
Ava rolled her eyes. ‘She won’t notice I’m gone.’ Or she’ll stop me from going, she thought. She looked at him. ‘Can I ask you something now?’
Delahaye smiled. ‘Yes.’
‘What made you think I could help you?’
Luke shifted in his seat, just as curious to know.
‘Something you said the first time we met – about the Moors Murders,’ said Delahaye. ‘You came across as a smart girl who might see things others miss.’
‘Aw, she’s a very clever girl, our Ava,’ said Luke with pride, and Ava beamed at him. She didn’t ask why the police needed to find Mickey’s hideout. She guessed it was because it could be the kill-site. Delahaye’s face, however, showed no urgency. She was surprised this possibility hadn’t occurred to him, that he hoped only to find evidence of the boy’s last movements, not anything as huge as a kill-site. Ava suspected it was because the words ‘den’ and ‘hideout’ just smacked of silly little kiddie business, playground nonsense.
Ava chose not to warn the detectives. She was aware she should warn them – it was a ‘good girl’ thing to do after all – but she didn’t want to. Ava felt no need to share or divulge. And anyway, even if she did, they’d want to know why, because it wasn’t something a child should suggest.
What’s more, if they believed the den could be the kill-site they would insist she stayed at home. And Ava didn’t want to go home. She was more involved than they knew, and they had come to her for help. They didn’t know that they’d been helped by her before. Nope, she had to down-scope below the grown-ups’ sightline until they forgot about her; until it was too late to do anything about it.
‘We ready?’ Delahaye said, and Ava nodded. He started the car.
‘Have you found out who the classy lady was – the one who made the phone call?’ asked Luke. Ava fought off a grin. Classy!
‘Nah, we haven’t found our Miss Misty yet,’ Lines said.
‘Miss Misty?’ Luke grinned. ‘Like the crazy lady from Play Misty For Me?’
Delahaye smiled into the rear-view mirror. ‘Well, we had to call her something.’
Miss Misty, thought Ava. That’s much better than Mrs Poshy-Snob.
The windscreen wipers hit the same rhythm as ‘Day Trip to Bangor’, a song Ava despised as it was the main soundtrack to an uncomfortable journey to Wales last year in a battered, windowless Ford Transit van with few toilet stops.
At the junction, across the road, lay Frankley estate.
‘Left here,’ said Ava then added: ‘Please.’ When she’d seen Mickey walk along the old farm’s drive, she’d gone straight back home. It wasn’t safe for a girl to be caught in the middle of nowhere with a mean teenage boy.
On their way, Lines tapped the window on his side and said to Delahaye, ‘That’s Pete Ancona’s house. Mickey had to have walked past it.’
Delahaye nodded. Ava was intrigued – it was true that the ice-cream man and Mickey had hated each other. Did the police think he had something to do with Mickey’s murder? She daren’t ask.
They remained on the road until the houses gave way to the countryside.
‘This was a very long way for you to walk, bab,’ said Lines.
Ava shrugged. ‘I’m used to it.’
‘And Mickey didn’t notice you?’ asked Lines, impressed.
‘Ava’s got serious ninja skills,’ said Luke.
‘Crikey, she should work for us,’ Lines said.
‘Boys don’t notice anything,’ Ava drawled before perking up in her seat, looking off to the right. ‘There. Turn right there, please.’
Delahaye steered into the mouth of a narrow country lane. An orchard flanked the potholed surface; a faded sign hung lopsided on a rusting gate: BANLOCK FARM – PRIVATE PROPERTY.
