.
Dayna was repeatedly shaking her head. She was clearly traumatised. Victim support would be on to her soon enough, he reckoned, but perhaps immediate counselling was what she needed. Her head would be well and truly clogged. He’d dealt with young witnesses like her many times before. They either never shut up spouting lies, or they went in on themselves, like Dayna, somehow feeling that they were to blame, that they could have done something to help.
‘We were bunking off. I was waiting for English. I’d got some chips.’ She touched her lips, as if the taste was still there.
‘Go on.’ This was good. She was thinking about it.
‘And then . . .’ Dayna stood and went to the window. Dennis squinted as she whipped back the curtains. ‘And then they were just there. Taunting him. Threatening him.’ She turned. ‘You’re not meant to die bunking off lessons and eating chips.’
Dennis sighed heavily. ‘What do you mean, you were waiting for English?’
‘It’s the only lesson I like. Max likes it too. Liked.’
‘I can see you read a lot.’ Dayna’s room had more books in it than the average teen, he reckoned. Not that he knew much about kids’ bedrooms these days. Not since Kaye had left with Estelle. Dealing with teenage girls particularly stung these days. He tried not to think about it.
Dayna nodded. ‘We read to each other.’ She was a silhouette between the gloom inside and the spring sun that had broken from behind cloud. ‘Shakespeare and stuff.’
‘Did Max have any enemies that you know of?’
The girl swallowed several times. As if the news had just hit her all over again, she puckered with sadness and fell on to the bed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t fucking know anything any more.’ Then she raised her head. ‘I do know one thing though. I’m never going back to school.’
Her head sank into the bedding again. Even the detective’s hand tentatively placed between her shoulder blades didn’t elicit a response. He decided to allow her an hour or two more grieving; to come to terms with things before he really set to and grilled her. Meantime, he would catch up with what Jess and the others had rounded up.
He would also call Carrie or Leah. It would be incredibly useful if they could air a last-minute special edition show, he decided, wondering just how many strings he could pull. Perhaps a general round-up of knife crime to stimulate interest, then a focus on the Quinell case. They could do a reconstruction. He needed answers and he needed them fast. In the past, it had been clearly proven that the sooner they got information out to the public, the better the results. And Jesus Christ, he thought sourly, did he need results.
Dennis left Dayna’s bedroom and trod the stairs quickly. Mrs Ray didn’t bother replying when he called out a goodbye, that he would be back later, that Dayna would need to come down to the station to make a statement. He hesitated by the front door, turned and opened his mouth. But then he continued outside, seeing no point in telling the woman that her daughter could use some motherly comfort.
THE PAST
‘Don’t write shit about me,’ were Dr Quinell’s first words to her. He didn’t care for journalists, and he cared even less for the stupid photographer as she circled round him, snapping repeatedly. He batted his hand at the silly girl. ‘Get away from me.’
‘I’ll only write shit if you choose to tell me shit.’
‘All journalists write shit.’ He flashed a crooked smile.
‘I’m not all journalists.’
Before she could put pen to paper, he reached out and snatched her pad. ‘What is this?’ he said, turning the pad round and round. ‘I can’t read it. It’s sh—’
‘Shorthand.’ She tried to grab it back, but Quinell whipped it behind his back. There was a ripping sound followed by the scrunching of paper. ‘What the hell...’ She darted behind him, but he spun round. ‘Stop it! That’s my notepad.’
‘Full of
Dayna was repeatedly shaking her head. She was clearly traumatised. Victim support would be on to her soon enough, he reckoned, but perhaps immediate counselling was what she needed. Her head would be well and truly clogged. He’d dealt with young witnesses like her many times before. They either never shut up spouting lies, or they went in on themselves, like Dayna, somehow feeling that they were to blame, that they could have done something to help.
‘We were bunking off. I was waiting for English. I’d got some chips.’ She touched her lips, as if the taste was still there.
‘Go on.’ This was good. She was thinking about it.
‘And then . . .’ Dayna stood and went to the window. Dennis squinted as she whipped back the curtains. ‘And then they were just there. Taunting him. Threatening him.’ She turned. ‘You’re not meant to die bunking off lessons and eating chips.’
Dennis sighed heavily. ‘What do you mean, you were waiting for English?’
‘It’s the only lesson I like. Max likes it too. Liked.’
‘I can see you read a lot.’ Dayna’s room had more books in it than the average teen, he reckoned. Not that he knew much about kids’ bedrooms these days. Not since Kaye had left with Estelle. Dealing with teenage girls particularly stung these days. He tried not to think about it.
Dayna nodded. ‘We read to each other.’ She was a silhouette between the gloom inside and the spring sun that had broken from behind cloud. ‘Shakespeare and stuff.’
‘Did Max have any enemies that you know of?’
The girl swallowed several times. As if the news had just hit her all over again, she puckered with sadness and fell on to the bed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t fucking know anything any more.’ Then she raised her head. ‘I do know one thing though. I’m never going back to school.’
Her head sank into the bedding again. Even the detective’s hand tentatively placed between her shoulder blades didn’t elicit a response. He decided to allow her an hour or two more grieving; to come to terms with things before he really set to and grilled her. Meantime, he would catch up with what Jess and the others had rounded up.
He would also call Carrie or Leah. It would be incredibly useful if they could air a last-minute special edition show, he decided, wondering just how many strings he could pull. Perhaps a general round-up of knife crime to stimulate interest, then a focus on the Quinell case. They could do a reconstruction. He needed answers and he needed them fast. In the past, it had been clearly proven that the sooner they got information out to the public, the better the results. And Jesus Christ, he thought sourly, did he need results.
Dennis left Dayna’s bedroom and trod the stairs quickly. Mrs Ray didn’t bother replying when he called out a goodbye, that he would be back later, that Dayna would need to come down to the station to make a statement. He hesitated by the front door, turned and opened his mouth. But then he continued outside, seeing no point in telling the woman that her daughter could use some motherly comfort.
THE PAST
‘Don’t write shit about me,’ were Dr Quinell’s first words to her. He didn’t care for journalists, and he cared even less for the stupid photographer as she circled round him, snapping repeatedly. He batted his hand at the silly girl. ‘Get away from me.’
‘I’ll only write shit if you choose to tell me shit.’
‘All journalists write shit.’ He flashed a crooked smile.
‘I’m not all journalists.’
Before she could put pen to paper, he reached out and snatched her pad. ‘What is this?’ he said, turning the pad round and round. ‘I can’t read it. It’s sh—’
‘Shorthand.’ She tried to grab it back, but Quinell whipped it behind his back. There was a ripping sound followed by the scrunching of paper. ‘What the hell...’ She darted behind him, but he spun round. ‘Stop it! That’s my notepad.’
‘Full of
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