I parked my crappy Renault behind a line of Range Rovers and BMW four-by-fours, none of which looked as if they d ever seen so much as a muddy puddle. A rugby pitch was laid out in the grounds, and a group of about thirty kids sprinted up and down, passing the ball back and forth every time a bloke in a black tracksuit blew his whistle.
My phone rang. I pulled it out and read the screen: Parker. I pressed the button. This important?
Silence from the other end. Then, Embers Fuck man, I just heard. You OK?
What do you think?
Shite Anything I can do? You want me to go see Michelle, or something?
Maybe someone should. She doesn t like you, Parker.
Aye, I know, but she s family. Katie s family. Can t sit on my arse and do nothing.
It s not
I ll get her flowers or something, yeah? A pause. I m really sorry.
A woman appeared at my shoulder, wearing a dark trouser suit with the school crest on the breast pocket, silver hair immaculately coiffured. Think we re going to win next week, don t you?
I hung up on Parker, put the phone back in my pocket.
Which one s Dawson Whitaker?
A little frown. I m sorry, I don t think we ve met. Are you a parent?
Until five o clock tomorrow. I pulled out my warrant card.
I need to speak to Dawson.
Ah, I see Is he?
No: potential witness.
Well, in that case I m sure Mr Atkinson will be happy for you to have a word. Do follow me.
Down the hill and across to the pitch. The massive white H of the goal posts glowed like honey in the setting sun, the sky a deep and crystal blue.
The whistle blared and the kids changed direction again, getting slower. The guy in the tracksuit made a megaphone with his hands.
Come on, pick up your feet! Five more! Jenkins, don t cuddle it: it s a rugby ball, not your teddy bear!
This close it was easy to pick out Brenda Chadwick s boyfriend: still skinny; still with floppy blond hair; mouth hanging open, showing off the gap between his front teeth.
One second, please. My guide walked over to the man with the whistle. Talked to him in a low voice, pointing back at me.
He shrugged, then gave an extra long blast on the whistle. Phweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Whitaker, over here, at the double! The rest of you: laps!
Dawson trotted over, all elbows and knees, a rugby ball tucked under his arm. Sir? Posh-boy accent, his voice doing that uncomfortable teeter between a wee kid s and a proper grown-up s.
The children thundered past, puffing and panting and groaning. Off in the middle distance, Mr Atkinson and the woman in the trouser suit shared a joke. Giving us a little privacy.
Dawson shrugged, an exaggerated gesture that seemed to haul his arms up at the elbows. I don t know. It all happened really quickly, we d been arguing she wanted to go to the new Disney film on the Wednesday for her birthday, I d got tickets to an Ingmar Bergman retrospective at the Watershed. It was nothing serious. I mean the relationship and the argument.
Relationship? He was thirteen; since when did thirteen-year-old boys call it a relationship? But you saw him, right? The man who took her?
It was only ever a casual thing, but she got a bit clingy. Truth be told, I was going to break it off after her birthday. Didn t want to spoil the day.
Yes, because nothing said HAPPY BIRTHDAY! like an evening watching Swedish existential cinema.
I pulled out the photo of Katie. She s my daughter.
He raised an eyebrow. Very gothic.
The Birthday Boy s got her and he s going to kill her tomorrow. Did you see him?
Dawson closed his mouth, looked away over my shoulder. My father doesn t like me talking to police officers. You shouldn t have come here.
He s going to kill her.
I m sorry. I really, genuinely am. A small shake of the head.
And then a hand landed on my shoulder. Big hairy one, attached to a mountain of muscle in an expensive-looking suit. Sunglasses, bullet-shaped head with a crew-cut and a diamond earring. This bloke botherin you, Dawson?
Genuinely sorry. The kid backed away a couple of steps. I have to get back to practice. He turned and jogged away on an intercept course with the rest of the team.
I curled my hands into fists. Move your paw, or I ll break every finger on it.
You hear that, Ed? Haggis here s gonna break my fingers for me.
A rumble, like a bear in an echo chamber. Don t think so. Ed stepped in close. His face was a knot of scar tissue tied around a boxer s nose, hair greying at the temples.
Shit two of them. What was the point of taking the gun all the way to Bath and leaving it in the bloody car?
Up above, the sky turned the colour of blood, shadows stretching across the playing field like claws.
One last try at being civilized before the violence started.
I just want to know what the boy saw, that s all. I don t give a toss about your boss.
A third voice. Yeah, well, he gives a toss about you.
They frogmarched me across the car park to a Range Rover with blacked-out windows.
I tried a couple of steps towards my manky Renault. Need to get something from the car.
