‘About a year.’
‘What did you do?’ Rory asked.
‘That’s not important, Rory,’ Sian said as an aside. ‘Craig, did you speak much to Ryan Asher yesterday?’ she asked quickly. She knew of Craig’s crime and didn’t want to hear him describe his actions in glorious technicolour to a captive audience.
‘A bit. Me and Mark Parker were having a pool tournament so we kept to ourselves yesterday.’
‘But you did speak to him?’
‘Kate asked me to show him around but, as usual, Callum Nixon stepped in and took over.’
‘Why did he do that?’ Rory asked.
‘Because he’s a tosser,’ Craig said, spitting his words out with venom. He clearly didn’t like Callum.
‘Did you overhear anyone talking about Ryan?’ Sian wanted to keep the interview on topic.
‘Nope.’
‘Did anyone say if they liked him or not?’
‘Nope.’
‘Do you know why Ryan Asher had been sent here?’
‘Not a clue,’ he replied nonchalantly.
‘What did you do last night after your evening meal?’
‘Nothing.’
‘When did you find out about Ryan being killed?’
‘Just after breakfast when we all tried to leave the dining room.’
‘Were you surprised?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Didn’t know the lad.’
Sian rolled her eyes. He may as well be answering ‘no comment’ to every question. Was he doing this on purpose, she wondered. ‘Do you have any idea who could have killed him?’
‘I’m not answering that. Why should I help out the pigs when you got me locked up in here?’
‘That Callum’s a right little bastard,’ Aaron said to Matilda.
‘They’re all right little bastards, Aaron, that’s why they’re here in the first place.’
There was an empty office Matilda had managed to secure for them all to use when they wanted to have a cup of coffee and a break from interviewing. It was cramped and cold, but it would do.
‘He’s a sarky shit as well.’
‘Did you get anywhere?’
‘No. He was locked in his room from nine o’clock until seven this morning. They all were.’
‘And even if one of them had got out of his room he’s hardly likely to admit it,’ Scott said. ‘We have to remember these boys are killers. Even if they made a full confession and begged for mercy, they’re killers and they’ve lied to and manipulated their victims.’
‘Scott’s right,’ Matilda said. ‘We can’t treat these boys in the same way as we do regular witnesses. They could be covering up for each other.’
‘This is going to be fun,’ Aaron began but stopped when his mobile phone started ringing. ‘It’s Katrina,’ he said, moving away from the group for a bit of privacy.
‘Are you all right, Scott?’ Matilda asked, offering him a biscuit from a battered tin.
‘Yes. I’m just a bit uncomfortable around all these killers. First time I went into a prison I didn’t sleep for a week afterwards. My mum always said I’m too sensitive to be a copper. I’m starting to think she might be right.’
‘You’re not thinking of leaving the force, are you?’
‘No. I’ve always wanted to be a detective, even when I was a child. I just need to toughen up a bit, I suppose, not be so—’
‘Sorry, boss, I’m going to have to go. Katrina’s bleeding.’ Aaron burst in on the conversation, grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and charged out of the room before Matilda could say anything.
Hull. February 2015
Two years ago I was in a car crash that killed my parents. I was in the back seat, safely strapped in. I was stuck in that car for nearly an hour before someone came along to help. I couldn’t move. I was trapped against a wall. Dad smashed his head on the steering wheel, and Mum had taken her seatbelt off, I’m not sure why, and went straight through the windscreen. They were both dead by the time help came. I knocked my head and had to have a few scans but I’m OK.
I went to live with my aunt and uncle. I don’t think they wanted me living there. They didn’t want kids, and, all of a sudden, they end up with me on the doorstep. But I’m family, so they had no option but to take me in. Aunt Susan always said that Mum was her sister and she was doing it for her.
I don’t know when they noticed a change in my behaviour. Uncle Pete said it was probably to do with the car crash and watching my parents die. Aunt Susan said I should have come out of it by now because kids are resilient. She wanted me to go to see someone. Uncle Pete was against it. So was I. I didn’t need to see anyone.
One night, Aunt Susan sat me down and asked if I was OK. She asked if I was being bullied at school, if I was taking drugs, if I was in trouble, if I was gay. I answered no to all her questions. There was nothing wrong with me.
The thing that changed it all was during the October half-term holiday. Uncle Pete was at work, and Aunt Susan was doing the washing. I was in the kitchen having breakfast. The washer finished and Aunt Susan was unloading my football shirt when it got caught on the catch on the door and it ripped. She held it up.
‘Oh Craig, I’m so sorry,’ she said. She didn’t sound sorry.
‘What have you done?’ I said, shocked.
‘It was an accident, Craig. I got it caught, I’m sorry.’
‘You’ve torn my shirt.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘That’s my best shirt. That’s my football shirt and you’ve fucking torn it,’ I screamed at her.
‘Craig, watch your language. It was an accident. I’ll replace it.’
‘Damn right you’ll fucking replace it.’
‘Craig, I won’t tell you again. Don’t speak to me like that.’
‘You can’t do anything right, can you?’ I shouted at her. ‘All you do is cook, clean, and wash and you balls that up too.’ I snatched
