darkness of the doorway, her face ashen, her lips parted, her eyes filled with absolute fear. ‘Max is dead ?’ Her words were sewn together with a tenuous thread; that if she spoke too loud, it would make it real.
‘I’m so sorry. Yes.’ Dennis waited a moment. He had assumed she knew.
The girl didn’t cry. She swallowed and stared at the wall behind him. Then she swung the door wide open and went back into the dim room to fold herself on to her unmade bed. Dennis followed. When she said nothing, he shifted a pile of clothes and sat down on a wooden stool.
‘I know this is hard for you, but I was hoping you’d be able to talk to me about what happened, while it’s still fresh in your mind.’
Dayna lifted her head and dragged her gaze around as if it weighed a ton. ‘But I loved him.’ A sigh escaped.
Dennis sensed they were virgin words; a declaration, fuelled by loss, that – at what? Fifteen? – she had finally found the courage to say. Except it was now too late.
‘I’m sure Max knew that.’
‘No. No, he didn’t.’ She stared askew at Dennis.
‘Were you his girlfriend?’ He would have to work his way gently. If he could have removed his notepad and pen without her noticing, he would have done. As it was, her eyes flicked to his hands. He rested the pad on his knee.
‘Yeah, kind of.’ Dayna’s eyes suddenly glistened and rounded with tears. ‘Are you sure he’s dead? The . . . the ambulance came.’ She smudged her sleeve across her eyes. ‘They were meant to help him.’
‘I’m sure.’ Dennis sighed. He couldn’t see a damn thing with the curtains closed. ‘Were you close friends?’
Dayna nodded.
‘Before we go much further, love, I want to ask you if you know who did this to Max. Who stabbed him? Who was holding the knife?’
Dayna focused on the detective. Her face slowly puckered into a gradual implosion of grief. ‘No,’ she whispered. The single syllable shattered into a thousand pieces. ‘No, I didn’t see.’ She fell forward and cried fiercely into the duvet. Her fingers kneaded the wadding. She pushed her head deeper and deeper into sorrow, into the softness. Dennis Masters sat and watched, waiting until she was able to speak again.
She sat up. ‘It was all over so quickly. One minute all normal. And then . . .’ She squinted, as if reliving the scene in her mind. ‘And then there was just so much blood. All that shouting. The panic.’ Dayna wrapped her thin arms around her body, hugging herself. Dennis concluded that there was probably no one else going to do it.
‘Are these . . .’ Dennis glanced at a blood-smeared carrier bag lying on the floor.
‘My dirty clothes. Covered in blood,’ Dayna replied, blushing.
‘I’ll have to take them.’
Dayna nodded.
He heard the woman downstairs yell and then a young child’s indignant wail.
‘Little brother?’ he asked.
Dayna offered a glimmer of a smile. ‘Sister. Well, half-sister. Kev’s not my dad.’
‘Where’s Kev now?’
Dayna shrugged. ‘Pub. Someone’s house. Bookies. Job Centre if it’s Mum’s lucky week.’
Dennis suddenly felt like a male version of Carrie Kent, prising out the grim truth of lives that most people would rather ignore. Lives filled with tragedy, poverty, neglect and abuse. It went on. He saw it every day.
Dennis pulled things back on track. ‘Do you think it was a pupil at your school?’
Dayna shrugged.
‘Tall? Short? White? Black? Asian? What was he wearing? You must be able to tell me something? You were actually there, weren’t you?’
Dayna began to shake as if she wasn’t sure. Her electric blue-tipped fingers snatched at the duvet cover. Her eyes swam with confusion and anger. ‘Shut up! I didn’t see them.’
‘If you can give even a couple of shreds of information about Max’s killer, Dayna, it will help enormously. Think back to this morning. Start with when you first saw Max. What were you doing?’ Masters put pen to pad. He wrote them
‘I’m so sorry. Yes.’ Dennis waited a moment. He had assumed she knew.
The girl didn’t cry. She swallowed and stared at the wall behind him. Then she swung the door wide open and went back into the dim room to fold herself on to her unmade bed. Dennis followed. When she said nothing, he shifted a pile of clothes and sat down on a wooden stool.
‘I know this is hard for you, but I was hoping you’d be able to talk to me about what happened, while it’s still fresh in your mind.’
Dayna lifted her head and dragged her gaze around as if it weighed a ton. ‘But I loved him.’ A sigh escaped.
Dennis sensed they were virgin words; a declaration, fuelled by loss, that – at what? Fifteen? – she had finally found the courage to say. Except it was now too late.
‘I’m sure Max knew that.’
‘No. No, he didn’t.’ She stared askew at Dennis.
‘Were you his girlfriend?’ He would have to work his way gently. If he could have removed his notepad and pen without her noticing, he would have done. As it was, her eyes flicked to his hands. He rested the pad on his knee.
‘Yeah, kind of.’ Dayna’s eyes suddenly glistened and rounded with tears. ‘Are you sure he’s dead? The . . . the ambulance came.’ She smudged her sleeve across her eyes. ‘They were meant to help him.’
‘I’m sure.’ Dennis sighed. He couldn’t see a damn thing with the curtains closed. ‘Were you close friends?’
Dayna nodded.
‘Before we go much further, love, I want to ask you if you know who did this to Max. Who stabbed him? Who was holding the knife?’
Dayna focused on the detective. Her face slowly puckered into a gradual implosion of grief. ‘No,’ she whispered. The single syllable shattered into a thousand pieces. ‘No, I didn’t see.’ She fell forward and cried fiercely into the duvet. Her fingers kneaded the wadding. She pushed her head deeper and deeper into sorrow, into the softness. Dennis Masters sat and watched, waiting until she was able to speak again.
She sat up. ‘It was all over so quickly. One minute all normal. And then . . .’ She squinted, as if reliving the scene in her mind. ‘And then there was just so much blood. All that shouting. The panic.’ Dayna wrapped her thin arms around her body, hugging herself. Dennis concluded that there was probably no one else going to do it.
‘Are these . . .’ Dennis glanced at a blood-smeared carrier bag lying on the floor.
‘My dirty clothes. Covered in blood,’ Dayna replied, blushing.
‘I’ll have to take them.’
Dayna nodded.
He heard the woman downstairs yell and then a young child’s indignant wail.
‘Little brother?’ he asked.
Dayna offered a glimmer of a smile. ‘Sister. Well, half-sister. Kev’s not my dad.’
‘Where’s Kev now?’
Dayna shrugged. ‘Pub. Someone’s house. Bookies. Job Centre if it’s Mum’s lucky week.’
Dennis suddenly felt like a male version of Carrie Kent, prising out the grim truth of lives that most people would rather ignore. Lives filled with tragedy, poverty, neglect and abuse. It went on. He saw it every day.
Dennis pulled things back on track. ‘Do you think it was a pupil at your school?’
Dayna shrugged.
‘Tall? Short? White? Black? Asian? What was he wearing? You must be able to tell me something? You were actually there, weren’t you?’
Dayna began to shake as if she wasn’t sure. Her electric blue-tipped fingers snatched at the duvet cover. Her eyes swam with confusion and anger. ‘Shut up! I didn’t see them.’
‘If you can give even a couple of shreds of information about Max’s killer, Dayna, it will help enormously. Think back to this morning. Start with when you first saw Max. What were you doing?’ Masters put pen to pad. He wrote them
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