world around them. Instead, they sought some sense of belonging in the gangs that ruled the poverty-ridden estates across the city, like the one where Carla Rae had died the previous day. Young black kids growing up on the estates had little choice but to join one of the gangs; those few who tried to keep their heads down rarely lasted long. The gangs had become training grounds for the criminals of the future and they were efficient at it. Those who survived childhood graduated to the firms, where they discovered colour was no longer an issue. They’d become part of a new breed, their skills honed and their hearts hardened, where the divisions had nothing to do with race or colour and everything to do with them and us, ‘them’ being normal society. Cass hated the new-style crims taking over London’s streets. They had none of the honour of those old dogs like Artie Mullins. Artie was a bastard, right enough, and he’d done some evil things to keep his grip on the top, but he never involved civilians.
When Justin Jackson and John Miller died, the media held them up as an example of how things could be: two children who had maintained their friendship despite their different skin colours. Difference was, Justin Jackson didn’t live on a bleak housing estate. In fact, Cass thought, as he followed his sergeant into the Jacksons’ elegant lounge, if anything had kept Jackson and Miller’s friendship firm, it was probably that they still had beautiful lives in a world where everyone else was busy tightening their belts. But the press didn’t focus on that. Perhaps they felt people would have less sympathy for rich children than they did for poor. Cass didn’t get why there had to be more to the tragedy than two children being accidentally gunned down. What exactly did the readers need in order to actually feel something?
‘Take a seat, please.’ Clara Jackson’s clipped English accent cut off Cass’s internal rant and he moved across to one of the two large cream sofas that faced each other across a glass coffee table. It looked as if no one had ever sullied it with anything as common as a coffee cup. She returned to her own place beside Eleanor Miller as Cass sat opposite. It seemed to him that the two women, although both still holding onto the kind of beauty money definitely could buy, had diminished somewhat since he’d first met them. The early lines they’d obviously pampered and massaged out of existence had crept back, sinking into the hollows under their eyes. The clothes they wore were still expensive, but they no longer looked as if each garment had been carefully chosen, more as if they had just donned whatever came to hand. Both faces were bare of make-up, though their highlighted and styled hair still hung perfectly despite being mostly ignored other than a quick, distracted shampoo in the shower. That was the kind of cut that cost money.
But Clara Jackson and Eleanor Miller had suffered a reality check. They were both facing the appalling prospect of having to continue with life in the face of death.
As Clara took her seat, the women’s hands automatically joined, thin, knotted fingers grabbing each other. Cass thought the papers should run a picture of those hands. Maybe then they’d see that sometimes elaboration wasn’t necessary. The two women sat in silence, their pain filling the room.
‘Have you got something to tell us?’ Paul Miller stood behind his wife. He was thirty-eight, but over the past ten days all the years that his son would never see had etched themselves into his flesh. Where the women clung together, their grief gripped tight in those manicured hands, the men stood stiff, side by side, but a world apart. Clara and Eleanor’s eyes flickered to each other, a tight ghost of a smile passing between them, as sharp as a sliver of glass. Paul Miller and Isaac Jackson kept their dead eyes focused entirely on Cass. The foot between them was like an ocean; cold and endlessly
When Justin Jackson and John Miller died, the media held them up as an example of how things could be: two children who had maintained their friendship despite their different skin colours. Difference was, Justin Jackson didn’t live on a bleak housing estate. In fact, Cass thought, as he followed his sergeant into the Jacksons’ elegant lounge, if anything had kept Jackson and Miller’s friendship firm, it was probably that they still had beautiful lives in a world where everyone else was busy tightening their belts. But the press didn’t focus on that. Perhaps they felt people would have less sympathy for rich children than they did for poor. Cass didn’t get why there had to be more to the tragedy than two children being accidentally gunned down. What exactly did the readers need in order to actually feel something?
‘Take a seat, please.’ Clara Jackson’s clipped English accent cut off Cass’s internal rant and he moved across to one of the two large cream sofas that faced each other across a glass coffee table. It looked as if no one had ever sullied it with anything as common as a coffee cup. She returned to her own place beside Eleanor Miller as Cass sat opposite. It seemed to him that the two women, although both still holding onto the kind of beauty money definitely could buy, had diminished somewhat since he’d first met them. The early lines they’d obviously pampered and massaged out of existence had crept back, sinking into the hollows under their eyes. The clothes they wore were still expensive, but they no longer looked as if each garment had been carefully chosen, more as if they had just donned whatever came to hand. Both faces were bare of make-up, though their highlighted and styled hair still hung perfectly despite being mostly ignored other than a quick, distracted shampoo in the shower. That was the kind of cut that cost money.
But Clara Jackson and Eleanor Miller had suffered a reality check. They were both facing the appalling prospect of having to continue with life in the face of death.
As Clara took her seat, the women’s hands automatically joined, thin, knotted fingers grabbing each other. Cass thought the papers should run a picture of those hands. Maybe then they’d see that sometimes elaboration wasn’t necessary. The two women sat in silence, their pain filling the room.
‘Have you got something to tell us?’ Paul Miller stood behind his wife. He was thirty-eight, but over the past ten days all the years that his son would never see had etched themselves into his flesh. Where the women clung together, their grief gripped tight in those manicured hands, the men stood stiff, side by side, but a world apart. Clara and Eleanor’s eyes flickered to each other, a tight ghost of a smile passing between them, as sharp as a sliver of glass. Paul Miller and Isaac Jackson kept their dead eyes focused entirely on Cass. The foot between them was like an ocean; cold and endlessly
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