‘Why’d you even bother nicking somebody for carrying this stuff?’ asked Sam. ‘It’s hardly the great train robbery.’
‘We saw this lad carrying that bag, Boss, acting shifty,’ Ray explained. ‘So we followed him to the park. It was obvious there was going to be a handover, so we waited to see who turned up. We concealed ourselves cunningly in a shrub. But then the lad sort of … spotted us.’
‘What do you mean, “sort of” spotted you?’
‘It weren’t me, Boss, it were ’im!’ Ray jabbed a thumb towards Chris.
‘I’ve got a problem that needs tablets!’ Chris protested. ‘I can’t help meself. The gas builds up and it hurts me tummy. I got no choice but to …’ He mimed a vile pumping action with his fist. ‘If I don’t let it out I could do meself an injury. Blokes die. It’s medical, Boss. I tried changing me diet, but it sent me the other way, all bunged up and solid, you know what I mean? Like trying to drop a lump of coal.’
‘I get the picture, Chris, thank you,’ said Sam.
‘I’m on charcoal tablets,’ Chris went on. ‘They turn your tongue black, but it’s a price worth paying.’
‘I said I get the picture, thank you. Okay, so Chris quite literally blew your cover and the suspect spotted you. What happened next? Run off, did he?’
‘Like a shot,’ said Ray. ‘I shouted at him to hold up but he kept legging it. So I brought him down with a rugby tackle and there was a bit of argy-bargy.’
‘And that set me off again,’ Chris grimaced. ‘Like flippin’ Hiroshima.’
‘We had to nick him, Boss, he was acting so suspicious,’ Ray went on. ‘And besides, we didn’t know what was in that bag. Could’ve been drugs. Could’ve been guns.’
‘Them photos could lead us to an international porn ring,’ said Chris, pointing at the bag. ‘This could be big, Boss!’
‘I doubt it,’ said Sam. ‘These pictures were probably snapped off locally. Look at them, they’ve been taken in somebody’s crappy little flat. It’s small beer. Amateur night. Let the lad go and get back to nicking real villains.’
‘He is a villain, boss!’ Chris insisted. ‘A jail bird. He’s done time before. He told us on the way in here. He did a stretch at Friar’s Brook and he begged us not to send him back there. Practically crying he was.’
‘Like a nancy,’ growled Ray.
Sam’s ears pricked up: ‘Friar’s Brook? He’s done time at Friar’s Brook borstal?’
‘That’s what he said, Boss.’
Friar’s Brook borstal was where the junk metal was being brought in from at Kersey’s yard, and it was also the source of the letter found on the lad who’d stolen the truck.
‘This young man you arrested, what’s his name?’ Sam asked.
‘Barton. We stuck him in Cell 2.’
‘Barton …’ Sam mused. Then he said, ‘You two knock off for the night. The Guv’s already down the boozer, he’ll be missing your company.’
‘You not coming, Boss?’ Ray asked.
‘No. I want to speak to this lad Barton. I’m interested in Friar’s Brook and he might have something useful to tell me about it.’
‘And what about – that?’ Chris indicated nervously at the sports bag full of shoddy gay porn.
‘I’ll hang onto it,’ said Sam flatly. ‘For my private use.’
Chris’s mouth fell open. Ray scowled, uncertain, disturbed.
‘What’s the matter, boys?’ Sam added camply, arching an eyebrow. ‘Afraid of your own feelings?’
‘You shouldn’t joke, Boss, not about stuff like that,’ said Ray darkly. ‘You’ll get yourself a reputation. C’mon, Chris, let’s get down the Railway Arms. The Guv hates to drink alone. And besides, his sense of humour’s more – more normal than some.’
As the two of them headed off together, Sam called out to them, ‘Oh – and Chris?’
‘Boss?’
‘Those charcoal tablets you’re taking. Don’t overdo ’em, they’re carcinogenic.’ And when Chris stared blankly at him, Sam added, ‘They give you cancer.’
‘Give over, Boss!’ scoffed Chris, waving him away. ‘They ain’t no worse for you than fags.’
Sam headed back down to the cells. He reached the heavy door of Cell 2 and opened up the spyhole. Inside he saw Barton pacing anxiously about, sweating and chewing his nails. He was older than Sam had imagined, with rough skin around his neck and face, and collar-length hair that was well overdue for a wash. If he’d been an inmate at Friar’s Brook borstal, it must have been some years ago.
‘Barton?’ Sam called through the spyhole. ‘My name’s DI Tyler. I want a word.’
Barton turned with a start and at once dashed over.
‘Officer!’ he cried. ‘Sir! You gotta get me out of here! Please! Please, sir! I’m begging you! I’m no nonce. I’m just the courier. It’s them what takes the pictures, sir, not me.’
‘I’m not really fussed about all that.’
‘They take ’em in one of the flats on the Hayfield estate. Dirty pictures, sir. I just deliver ’em. They pay me a couple of bob, I need the cash, but I don’t get involved or nuffing ’coz I’m not like that, honest I’m not, sir! Please, sir, please, you gotta let me out of here!’
‘Barton, take it easy. There’s nothing they can charge you with except some trumped-up nonsense about resisting arrest. And if you cooperate with me I can see that charge is completely dropped.’
‘Really? Really, sir?’ Barton pressed his face hard against the spyhole. ‘You’ll let me go? You mean it?’
‘Of course I mean it. But in return, I want to ask you a few questions.’
‘Oh thank you, thank you!’ grovelled Barton, thrusting his fingers through the spyhole and waggling them. ‘I knew you’d help me! I could see you were different, you’re not like the others. You’ve got kind eyes.’
‘I have?’ said Sam, suppressing a grin.
‘Yes, yes, sir, you have, very kind eyes! And a kind face, sir! A very, very kind face.’
Sam laughed.
‘I mean it!’ Barton cried. ‘I know, I know, you think I’m a nonce talking like that. They all thought I was nonce, back in Friar’s. That’s why I don’t ever want to go back there. They gave me a hard time. A hard time, sir!’
‘Friar’s Brook is what I wanted to ask you about. What’s it like?’
‘Terrible, sir! They nearly killed me! It was awful. They said I was a nancy, they said I’d got my dick out in the showers and tried to – they said I wanted to – that I … It weren’t true, I swear it, sir! I never did nothing! I’m no poofter I like big tits and that!’
‘When were you at Friar’s Brook?’ asked Sam.
‘Last year.’
‘Rubbish. It’s a borstal. You’re way too old.’
‘Too old? I’m seventeen.’
Sam was taken aback. The heavy features, the skin roughed by cold shaves and alcohol aftershave and a diet of instant mash and fish fingers – could that really be the face of a teenager?