Odd Child Out Page 16

  They sit. Sofia keeps her eyes on Clemo, waiting for him to speak. She notices everything about him: the hazel eyes that are kind but also calculating, the dark smudges beneath them, the way his mouth seems sticky this morning. When he clears his throat, the sound of it gets under her skin.

  “Is your father here?” Clemo asks her.

  “He’s out.”

  The translator repeats everything in Somali for Maryam’s benefit.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Soon.”

  “Has Abdi spoken to you about what happened yet?”

  Sofia shakes her head and tries to keep her breathing under control. She knows she should tell Clemo right away that Abdi’s gone, but she’s terrified he’ll be angry that they didn’t phone the police when they first discovered it.

  Maryam hasn’t said a word.

  Clemo leans forward. He’s much more tense than last time they came.

  “I’m very sorry to tell you that Noah Sadler died a few hours ago in hospital.”

  The translator repeats his words in Somali.

  Sofia and Maryam both experience an intense moment of shock. Sofia retches and runs to the bathroom. She isn’t sick, but she feels dizzy and clammy. For a few minutes she stands with her back against the bathroom wall and tries to breathe normally.

  When she returns to the room, she sits beside her mother and their fingers link as tightly as a dovetail joint. Sofia weeps softly, but Maryam remains in control. Her emotions burn as fiercely as Sofia’s, but she learned long ago to keep them packed away deep inside her.

  The translator puts a hand out as if to comfort the women, but withdraws it when neither of them reacts.

  “I appreciate that is going to be very difficult news for Abdi and for you, especially because it changes the nature of our investigation.”

  Clemo glances from Sofia to Maryam as the translator speaks. Neither of them replies. He looks at the translator. She shrugs.

  “I have another question for you, if I may?” He doesn’t wait for permission to ask it. “We have now found the audio recording on the iPad we collected from you, but it had been deleted, so it took a bit of tracking down. Do you know how that could have happened?”

  “I didn’t delete it,” Sofia says. When the interpreter has translated, Maryam shakes her head, as if confused by this.

  “Perhaps it got deleted by mistake,” Sofia suggests.

  She glances at her mother, wondering if Maryam could have done that somehow.

  Clemo makes a note and moves on.

  “It’s very important that I talk to Abdi now. But I wonder if you would prefer to break the news of Noah’s death to him yourselves, before I do that?”

  Sofia opens her mouth. How to say it? She’s silently scrabbling for words and for the courage to say them, eyes fixed on Clemo, when Nur arrives home.

  A small cry of pain escapes Maryam—she was holding out hope that he would have Abdi with him—and she finally speaks:

  “They want to talk to Abdi,” she says to her husband in Somali. “Noah’s dead.”

  The translator repeats her words for Clemo.

  In the beat of silence that follows, Sofia says, “Abdi’s gone.”

  The energy in the room changes instantly.

  Clemo fires questions at them, jaw clenched as he barely suppresses his anger that they didn’t phone the police as soon as they discovered Abdi was missing. The detective with him takes a note of everything they say.

  By the time they leave, the family are under no illusion that they’re obliged to turn any relevant information about Abdi and/or his whereabouts over to the police or risk consequences to themselves.

  “Let me make this as clear to you as possible,” Clemo tells them. “Your son is now a person of interest in what may become a murder investigation.”

  Nur speaks up as the detective inspector pulls his coat on. He isn’t cowed. He has a family to protect. “Abdi is an innocent boy. What will you do to find him and bring him home safely?”

  Clemo pauses.

  Be kind to my father, Sofia thinks, he’s a good man.

  “We’ll do everything we can, sir. Of course.”

  Woodley, his face as white as mine, jogs to catch up with me as we get back to the car, and doesn’t flinch when I curse.

  “I’ve got to call Fraser,” I say.

  I slam my palm on the roof of the car. I’m already regretting not putting more pressure on Abdi Mahad to talk earlier, and I’m sure I’ll be regretting it even more after I’ve spoken to her.

  The look on Woodley’s face tells me that he feels the same way. It’s the sort of expression you’d make if you’d been invited to pet a venomous snake.

  When I make the call, Fraser reacts to my news with silence at first, which is almost worse than a verbal tirade. Then she gives me instructions in curt tones.

  “Get over to the witness now, as planned, and make sure she doesn’t breathe another word to the press. I’ll speak to Janie. I don’t want word of Noah Sadler’s death getting out if we can help it. It might make Abdi Mahad even less willing to come home, because I’m assuming he didn’t know about it before he did his disappearing act. I’m afraid we’re going to lose him to the streets if we’re not careful. Once you’ve read the riot act to the witness, and I’ve had a chance to put some things in motion to find this boy, we’ll finalize a plan for what we do going forward.”

  “Boss . . .” I want to talk it through with her now, because I’ve got some ideas about what we should do, but she’s not having any of it. It’s out of my hands.

  “Not now, Jim. Call me after you’ve spoken to the witness. Though this is not looking too rosy for Abdi Mahad, I’ll tell you that.”

  On our way to Clifton Village, Woodley and I get through the city quickly on a string of green lights. As we pass the Children’s Hospital I feel my heart clench at the thought of Noah Sadler’s body: lifeless, machines withdrawn.

  We find the witness’s shop easily. In an elaborately looped and curlicued font her name, Janet Pritchard, is all over the lilac signage. As I suspected, the shop is one of the boutiques that line a street in the heart of the village, where the glass shines and the clientele is mostly very well-heeled.

  Inside we find a bored shopgirl behind the cash desk. When we ask where we can find the owner, she poses her answers like questions.

  “Janet’s at the Albion?” she says. “Having a meeting?”

  I know where the Albion is. A short walk takes us down a pedestrian street packed with café seating and a fruit and veg stall. Just in front of a Georgian carriage arch, which gives us a glimpse of an elegant garden square beyond, there’s a cobbled courtyard where the pub’s located.

  Janet Pritchard is inside, having coffee with a man who wears a crisp white shirt, a blazer, and jeans with an elaborate metal buckle. He stands when we make our presence known. The place is empty otherwise, apart from a staff member who’s lighting a woodburning stove. A tang of beer is in the air.

  “This is a surprise, Detectives,” Janet says. “Don’t you ever phone first?”

  I don’t like the edge to her voice. It’s a change from the trying-to-please attitude she had at the scrapyard two days ago. I force a smile.

  “We need a quick word with you, if possible.”

  “This is my business partner, Ian,” Janet says.

  “Nice to meet you.” He has a firm handshake, and the edge of a tattoo emerges from underneath a pristine cuff.

  “Alone would be preferable,” I add.

  Her partner gets the hint. “I’ll leave you to it. See you later, darling.” It’s said with a wink. Not just a business partner, then. I wonder if he was the man who tried to call while I was interviewing her in the cabin.

  Janet clears away paperwork as Woodley and I sit down.

  “What can I help you with?” she asks.

  “At what point did you feel that it was appropriate to speak to the press about the disturbing i
ncident concerning two teenage boys whose families are distraught?” I ask her.

  Woodley sucks in his breath. Careful, I can tell he’s thinking, we need her onside.

  Janet Pritchard gives me a level gaze.

  “To be fair,” she says, “I didn’t know I was talking to the press. That lady came into my shop. I thought she was a customer at first, but she said she was a support staff person for witnesses and victims of crime. We went for a cup of tea.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “How was I to know any different?”

  “Did you tell her that you witnessed a racially motivated attack?”

  “No. I told her what I told you. She made the rest up.”

  I’m not sure if I believe her or not, but her pout tells me that this is her story and she’s sticking to it.

  “Can you describe her to me?”

  “Gorgeous. She had thick dark hair and lovely eyes. Bit of a foreign name, though she didn’t look it. She gave me her card.”

  As she roots around in her bag, I already know it was Emma, and when I take the card from her I see that I’m right.

  “May I keep this?” I ask.

  “Sure. I won’t need it now anyway, will I? Now that I know not to talk to her again.”

  She raises her eyebrows in a sarcastic way that I don’t like.

  “There could be legal consequences if you do.”

  “Understood.”

  “One more thing. Was one of the boys wearing a backpack when you saw them?”

  “Might have been. Yes, I think he was. The boy who went in the water was.”

  “Thank you.”

  As we’re about to leave, I remember a detail that bothered me after her first interview.

  “When we last spoke, you said you made the 999 call from your car.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you said you had to root through your bag to find your phone, which is why you didn’t see exactly what happened as the boy fell into the canal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was your phone not Bluetooth-connected to your car? A nice motor like that, I’d have thought it would have been.”

  She pauses only momentarily before answering. “That’s because the system in the car’s broken. The Bluetooth connection doesn’t work.”

  As we leave, her phone starts ringing. She’s obviously a lady who’s in demand. She answers it in a businesslike way as the door swings shut behind us.

  Out in the courtyard, Woodley yawns, feeling the early rise.

  “What’s happening about the recording of the 999 call she made?” I ask. “I think we need to hear it as soon as we can.”

  “I’ve requested it. I’ll chase it up.” Woodley looks longingly back at the pub as we walk away. “Bit early for a pint, do you think, boss?”

  “Can we take a break from the wisecracks, maybe?”

  On the way back to HQ, Woodley takes the wheel. I get Emma’s card out of my pocket and examine it. It’s simple and stylish, as I’d expect. There’s no job description, just her name and there’s also a phone number on it.

  I’m sure Dr. Manelli would warn me against it in the strongest possible terms, but I know I’m going to call Emma. I want to warn her off interfering in the case and give her a piece of my mind. I’m so cross with her right now that I can’t believe it was only a few hours ago that I sat on my parapet and thought I felt something tender for her. That’s a call I want to make in private, though. There’s no way I’m going to do it with Woodley earwigging.

  Instead I phone Fraser from the car, because there’s something I do want her permission for, and I want it this morning.

  I request another dive search, focusing on the area of the canal beside the scrapyard, and things have got serious enough for her to authorize it on the spot. I want to find Noah Sadler’s backpack. At this stage, it might be one of our best bets for getting some clues as to what the boys were up to.

  Nur takes the taxi back out to look for Abdi, and this time Maryam goes with him.

  “You keep phoning everybody,” Nur instructs Sofia before he leaves. “Everybody you can think of. We have to find him.”

  She works the phone, contacting everyone she can think of. By now it’s pinging constantly with a series of texts and messages from friends and old schoolmates promising to watch for Abdi and spread the word on social media.

  She doesn’t take any calls. She can’t face talking to anybody. She feels the shame of the situation just as her parents do, but they can’t keep this to themselves any longer. Finding Abdi is the most important thing.

  When she’s done everything she can think of, she finds herself sitting with her thoughts.

  She thinks again about the recording of Abdi and Ed Sadler, and the way it disappeared. She struggles to believe her mother would have purposely deleted it, because she’s not even sure Maryam would know how to, but she can’t help feeling a tiny bit of suspicion that she did.

  Whether her mother tampered with the recording or not, she realizes that its existence is enough to convince her that the key to all of this lies in what Abdi’s been doing over the past few days. It’s all she has to go on, anyway.

  She feels a twinge of guilt that she’s been so preoccupied with her course that she hasn’t paid much attention to her family in the past few weeks. She wonders where to start. She obviously can’t go to Noah’s school asking questions, but she remembers that Amina mentioned Abdi being at the Welcome Center with Maryam on Friday evening, and that it was an unusual night, because Maryam fainted. Sofia marches over there, looking out for her brother with every step taken.

  At the Welcome Center they’re unloading boxes of food at the back entrance.

  Somebody’s inside the van, picking over the food surplus items that have been collected from local businesses that morning.

  “Got a ton of rice and peppers, tomatoes. There’s chicken! And meringues.”

  Chef Sami is standing at the back door, arms folded.

  “Hey, Sofia,” he says, “do you think people will like chicken meringue surprise for lunch?”

  He can always make her smile, even today.

  “Is Amina in?”

  “She’s sorting out the donation cupboard.”

  Inside, the center is busy, as usual. The English-language teachers are setting out materials in the temporary classrooms, and a solicitor who offers free advice is smoothing plastic tablecloths over the trestle tables to be used at lunch. The kitchen volunteers are setting up tea and coffee urns and unwrapping packets of biscuits. The room’s warm and bright, and Sofia knows that soon it will start to fill with the smell of cooking as the team gets to work making a hot meal out of whatever comes from the van.

  She finds Amina on an upstairs landing. She’s sitting beside an empty cupboard and a fusty-smelling pile of clothing.

  Amina holds up a stained women’s vest top. “Why do people think that it’s okay to donate things like this?” She shakes her head. “Coats and sweaters are what we need. Warm clothes for grown men.”

  Sofia tells her what happened, feeling her composure wobble as tears fill Amina’s eyes. It’s actually a relief to tell somebody outside the family.

  “But Abdi’s such a good boy,” Amina says. “He’s the last boy I would think would be in a situation like this.”

  “When you saw him here last time, when Mum fainted, did you see what he was doing?”

  “You think he fell in with some bad boys?”

  “I don’t know what to think. I’m trying to find out anything I can.”

  “I probably saw him once or twice that evening, but it was very busy—it was a cold night—and I wasn’t paying attention until your mother fainted. I think Abdi helped with food prep. They had a nice young crowd of volunteers in. He didn’t do serving with us, but I think he was clearing plates from the hatch. When your mum fainted, a few of us helped her to sit down and I sat with her. Abdi disappeared for a bit, but he came back to look after her
and . . . and one of the volunteers drove them home early.”

  “Do you know why my mother fainted?”

  “No. She said the feeling came on suddenly. One minute she felt sick and dizzy and the next she was falling. I’m sorry I’m not being more helpful, darling, it was crazy busy that night. Somebody else might remember more. Why don’t you ask Tim?”

  Sofia finds Tim at the entrance desk, signing in the refugees, who are starting to arrive. He has a friendly face and big hands that dwarf his mug of tea.

  “Yes, Abdi was here on Friday,” he says. “It was really busy. We saw a lot of new faces.”

  “Do you know what he did?” she asks.

  “Kitchen, I think. He was buzzing around there for most of the evening. And he was asking around about somebody after your mum fainted.”

  Sofia feels her pulse quicken. “Do you know who?”

  “It was a Somali man, but that’s all I know.”

  He checks the book where the volunteers sign in. “Kate and Jacob were in with him that night. He chats with them a lot. They might know more.”

  “Do you have their contact details?”

  “I’m not allowed to give those out—sorry, darling—but I can talk to them and ask them to call you.”

  “And please, would you ask all the volunteers to look out for Abdi and phone us if you see him?”

  “Of course. Anything we can do. We’re all very fond of him here. He’s one of our most popular volunteers.”

  Sofia writes her number down on a piece of paper and gives it to Tim.

  “Please feel free to get a tea before you go, if you like. You look as if you could do with it,” he says.

  Sofia’s shyness means that her first instinct is to say no, but she checks herself. She hasn’t eaten anything all morning, and she’s feeling weak.

  She helps herself to tea and biscuits and says hello to the volunteers she recognizes. Just as the refugees are always in flux here, so, too, are many of the volunteers. She withdraws to a table in the corner of the room and watches as refugees begin to arrive. Some are cheerful, looking forward to lessons, to a chat with friends. Others wear their experiences less lightly. There’s hot tea in this bright, welcoming room and warm support for the vulnerable, but Sofia feels their collective suffering as if it were a separate entity in the room. It becomes unbearable. She tidies up her empty mug and plate after just a few minutes, and leaves.