Odd Child Out Read online

  I talked so much that I got out of breath, and Abdi helped me to a bench, where we sat and rested for a few minutes.

  The bench was in the marble corridor, and I showed Abdi where Dad’s name was printed in gold letters on a big wooden board because he was a house captain.

  It was nice.

  Noah’s Bucket List Item No. 2: Visit the Skeleton Coast (this one’s a long shot, I know).

  In addition to the recording of the emergency call, I request public CCTV footage from the city center, along any routes that the boys might have been likely to take from Clifton to Feeder Canal. I want footage from the scrapyard and surrounding area, too, but that’s going to have to be requested from any local businesses who might have private cameras, so I ask Woodley to get on that.

  Woodley and I sign out a pool car and make the short drive over to Easton. He agrees to keep a low profile during the interview. I want him to observe while I question. Some members of the Somali community have a reputation for keeping to themselves. I don’t know how fair that is, but it makes me wary of behaving in any way that might alienate this family.

  The Mahad family lives on an estate that’s sandwiched between Stapleton Road and the motorway. It’s not the ugliest estate in the area, nor does it have the worst reputation, but it’s probably somewhere you’d be plotting to get away from if you had anything about you.

  There’s a small grassy area that sits between the buildings in the middle of the estate, and I park alongside it. It looks muddy and unkempt, and I don’t think the swing set could pass a health and safety inspection even if it bribed somebody.

  We’ve had no detailed briefing about the family, so I’m not sure what to expect as we approach their building. In the middle of a short row of buzzers that are broken or just identifiable by number, theirs has a neat card inserted into a space beside the button with their name carefully printed in ballpoint pen.

  Inside, there’s no elevator, and the stairwell’s badly lit, though not so much that you can’t see the blistered paintwork. The family lives on the third floor. We’re greeted with a handshake by a tall man who’s wearing round gold-rimmed glasses, a white shirt, gray trousers, and an expression of deep concern.

  “Nur Mahad,” he says, and we introduce ourselves.

  Inside, seated on one end of an L-shaped sofa, are two women, both dressed in hijabs. The younger woman’s headscarf is deep ruby red and draped stylishly over a soft, oatmeal-colored sweater. She also wears slim dark jeans. She’s rolling a gold bracelet around her wrist. She’s slightly on the chubby side, but also strikingly pretty.

  Her mother’s clothing is much more conservative: a black headscarf worn over a long, deep brown gown that covers her feet. She wears a pale blue cardigan over the top of her gown as well, but it doesn’t stop her looking as if she’s cold. There’s no spare flesh on her face. Her cheeks are almost concave.

  I nod in the direction of the women, remembering that it might not be the right thing to do to offer my hand if this family is very devout.

  “My wife, my daughter,” Nur Mahad tells me. “Maryam and Sofia.” His voice is heavily accented.

  “Is Abdi here?” I ask. “I’d like to have a word with him if possible.”

  Five paces bring us to the door of a bedroom containing a single bed and a modest-sized desk. Curtains are drawn across a small window. Abdi lies with his back to us, almost completely covered by his duvet.

  “Abdi!” his father says. “The detective is here to talk to you!”

  He opens the curtains and shakes his son gently by the shoulder. Grayish light filters in, but not much of it, because the view from the window is mostly of a wall opposite. Abdi’s body moves as he’s being shaken but falls still as soon as his dad lets go. He looks much taller than Noah Sadler, from what I can tell. He’s skinny, with long limbs: the shape of an adolescent boy having his big growth spurt. His hair’s cut neatly, and short. He’s very much a schoolboy.

  Nur Mahad shrugs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “He’s been like this since he got home. We don’t know what to do.”

  He goes to shake the boy again.

  “Sir,” I say. “That’s okay. May I speak to him myself?”

  He steps away and I squat beside the bed, but I keep a respectful distance. If the kid’s suffering, I don’t want an accusation of harassment.

  “Abdi,” I say to the back of his head, “I’m Detective Inspector Jim Clemo.” I think the rise and fall of his shoulders accelerates slightly. He’s listening.

  “I’m investigating what went on at the canal last night. Are you feeling up to talking to me about what happened?”

  No change. My gut tells me that he’s not putting this on. He’s afraid. He’s either seen something or done something that’s terrified him into silence. It’s got me interested.

  “You’re not in trouble, son,” I say, even though I’m not a hundred percent sure of that. “I’m here to listen to you.”

  Nothing. I consider my options and settle on the only one that’s realistically available.

  “Abdi, I’m going to leave my card here.” I take one from my wallet. There’s no bedside table, so I pin it on the corner of a corkboard that hangs beside his bed. The board’s covered in school certificates and commendation letters. There’s also a photograph of two boys, about twelve or thirteen years old, I guess, arms slung around each other’s necks and holding a trophy between them. It’s shaped like a chess piece.

  The caption reads: It’s a county win for Abdi and Noah!

  The happy, smiling boys celebrating their victory in the photograph couldn’t be more different from the inert, silent body in the bed in front of me.

  “You can contact me at any time, Abdi. I’d really like to hear from you about what happened last night.”

  I try to keep my tone even and nonthreatening. It’s all I can do at this point. To force an interview, even if I could, might risk anything I learned from him being thrown out of court down the line if it’s considered that he wasn’t well enough to talk to me.

  I think about what my dad might have said about that, how he would have sent a couple of DCs around to scoop this boy up and march him down to the station to make him talk.

  The women melt away from the door as I turn to leave the room, but I’m acutely aware of their gaze, even as I take a seat.

  Woodley’s been there all along, sitting quietly. He’s good at that. It’s an important skill for a detective, to be able to morph into a wallflower. People let down their guard around you, and you can learn a lot.

  I glance around, taking in the room for the first time. Net curtains with gold-colored trim cover the room’s window. On a small shelf unit in the corner of the room there’s a bowl of oranges and a few books. The mother brings a tray of tea and sets it down on the glass coffee table. Aromatic steam rises from the cups.

  “Obviously we’ll need to speak to Abdi himself once he’s feeling better,” I say, “but I’d like to take a few details from you in the meantime, if I may.”

  Nur Mahad nods his assent. He’s taken a seat on the sofa that’s set at a right angle to the one I’m perched on. His knees are almost touching mine and he’s leaning forward. His body language is screaming that he wants to please. It’s not the nervous or unresponsive demeanor of a parent who’s harboring a teenage troublemaker.

  “How old is Abdi?”

  “He’s fifteen.”

  “Where does he go to school?”

  “He goes to Medes College. He won a full scholarship.”

  Medes College is a top-class and expensive private school located in the center of the city. I’m impressed.

  “Is it typical of him to be out late at night with his friend?”

  “No! No, not at all.” It’s a very vigorous denial. “We thought he was at a sleepover with Noah. Abdi has never, ever been in trouble with the police, with school, with anybody. He’s a very good boy. Always top grades, chess champion, badminton team.”

  “S
o this is out of character?”

  “Very out of character.”

  His daughter’s watching me closely, but his wife seems more disconnected. She’s showing very little emotion, and I still haven’t managed to make more than fleeting eye contact with her. I direct my next question to both of them.

  “It’s important that we build up as full a picture of Abdi as possible. Could you tell me about his normal routine? Who he hangs out with, where he goes?”

  Nur looks as if he wants to answer, but he knows he should defer to someone else. I’ve been briefed that he works as a taxi driver, so I suspect he’s out of the house at all hours.

  Sofia answers. Her voice sounds thin.

  “Abdi takes the bus to school. He leaves at seven thirty in the morning and he gets home at about five o’clock unless he has an after-school club or a chess tournament or a badminton match. Then it’s later. Noah’s his best friend. He’s the only friend who Abdi visits at home.”

  “Can you tell me a bit about their friendship?”

  “It’s good. They’re very close. They made friends straightaway when Noah started school. It was nice for Abdi. He met one or two boys before that, but didn’t have a best friend.”

  “Did they ever argue?”

  “I don’t think so. Abdi never said.”

  “No minor disagreements at all? Especially recently?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How would you describe the friendship?”

  “Happy, quite competitive about schoolwork and stuff. Kind of nerdy. The boys would never do anything bad to each other. Abdi’s not like that. He’s really kind.”

  Her father nods his agreement, and her mother puts a hand on Sofia’s arm and says something in Somali.

  “I’m going to translate your question for her,” Sofia says, and they have an exchange in rapid Somali before turning to look at me again.

  “Did your mother have anything to add?”

  “She says the boys were good for each other. They spurred each other on to study hard.”

  I don’t like not being able to understand what they’re saying. My job is to listen to people and to read their body language at the same time. That’s where you can often spot the fault lines in their stories. There’s not much I can do about it now, though, so I press on.

  “Did the boys ever get into trouble?”

  “No. Abdi liked school. He wanted to make a good impression.”

  She’s sounding increasingly defensive, so I swallow my next question to give us all a breather. Into the silence Nur Mahad says, “Abdi sometimes volunteers with his mother at the Welcome Center.”

  “I’m not familiar with it.”

  “It’s a drop-in center for refugees. Only five minutes from here. Maryam volunteers there—she helps cook. Refugees can get a hot meal five days a week.”

  “How often does Abdi go there?”

  “Sometimes in the evenings after school, depending on homework.”

  “And what does he do when he’s there?”

  “Anything they want him to: translate, chop vegetables, play Ping-Pong with the other boys, wash up. Whatever they ask him. He’s a good worker.”

  I look over my notes. There’s enough to be following up on for now, and I’m not learning anything new. I decide to quit while I’m ahead and get on to the other interviews.

  “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you. Please contact me immediately if Abdi improves and feels ready to talk to us, and also if you think of anything else I might need to know.”

  I leave another of my cards on their coffee table.

  Once we’re in the car, Woodley says, “What do you reckon?”

  “If that boy was up to no good, then I think it’ll be news to his family.”

  “I got up to all sorts of things at his age and my mum and dad didn’t have a clue.”

  It’s a good point. It wouldn’t be the first time a teenager had a secret life. Though in the house I grew up in, it was different. When your dad rules with his fists, you think very carefully before you step out of line. I did, anyhow. My sister was braver or stupider, depending on your opinion.

  “And the ‘best friends’ image totally contradicts the witness,” Woodley says.

  “I got the feeling that boy was scared.”

  As we drive back to HQ, Woodley laughs out of the blue, as if he just remembered something: “I did some seriously stupid things when I was fifteen.”

  “Care to share?”

  “Nope. Nice try, boss.”

  As I drive, I think that if there’s one thing I’m going to be sure to do, it’s to bring a translator with me if I visit the family again. I’m also getting a feeling that we’re not going to be able to put this case away neatly or tidily, or even soon.

  I want to find out what scared the hell out of that boy.

  After the detectives leave, Sofia’s seized by an urge to get out of the flat. She loves her family and her home, but there are times when a sense of claustrophobia overwhelms her and she feels as if she needs to be away from them so that she can cease being a daughter and a sister and just be herself. It’s the best way she knows to work out her own thoughts.

  “I’m going to the library,” she says. Nobody will argue with that, because education is king in their family. “Dad, call me if anything changes.”

  On the street, she walks until her head starts to clear.

  She feels bad about leaving Abdi, though she knows her parents will watch him closely. She’s not sure what she thought about the detectives. DI Clemo was quite nice, but Sofia’s not immune to the fear that many in her community have, that the police will judge them and suspect them because they’re Somali. If you listened to the boys talk at school, it seemed that none of the white boys were ever stopped and searched by the police, but it happens to the Somali boys a lot in their neighborhood. It makes them feel targeted and vulnerable, and sometimes angry, too.

  Sofia is feeling increasingly afraid that Abdi will be discriminated against if he doesn’t speak up, and maybe even if he does.

  She wonders what she can do for him and thinks it might be helpful if she went to get his stuff from the Sadlers’ house so he has it when he starts to feel better. The thought gives her some energy and a welcome sense of purpose.

  Two bus rides later she’s in Clifton Village, walking up Noah’s street and thinking about how long it has been since she was last here. She knows the Sadlers will probably be at the hospital, but she hopes their housekeeper will be at the house.

  She rings the bell and the door opens almost immediately. Alvard, the housekeeper, is just as Sofia remembers her: a small, anxious-looking woman with short dark hair, sharp dark eyes, and a deeply creased forehead. Whenever Sofia sees Alvard, she remembers the time Alvard pressed a napkin full of warm cookies into her hands and told Sofia that what she most missed about Armenia was her mother’s peach orchard.

  “Nobody’s here,” Alvard says. “They’re at the hospital. They told me I can go home, but I want to straighten up the house for them.”

  “Is it okay if I pick up Abdi’s things?”

  Alvard shows her into the hallway and asks, “How’s Abdi? Is he all right?” and Sofia finds herself losing the composure she’s been fighting to maintain.

  “No. Not really,” she says into Alvard’s shoulder. Sofia hates to cry. When new mothers cry at work she finds it beautiful and right, but when she cries she feels ugly and weak.

  Alvard holds her gently in the overheated hallway of the Sadlers’ home. As she gets control of her emotions, Sofia tunes into the deep, slow ticking of a grandfather clock and thinks what a sad sort of sound it makes.

  “We’ll get Abdi’s things,” Alvard says. “Come.”

  Sofia pauses instinctively before following her up the stairs, because she’s never been farther than the hallway in this house. The hallway was where she used to wait for Abdi after he’d been to play here. She would will him to hurry up because either their dad was
waiting outside in his taxi or they would have a bus to catch. Fiona Sadler would stand at the bottom of the stairs, shouting up, and then showing Sofia a tight smile, neither of them knowing what to say to the other.

  “Come!” says Alvard from the top of the stairs, and Sofia begins to climb, putting her hand on the gracious banister rail for the first time ever, her fingertips feeling the heft of it and the shine on it.

  Noah’s bedroom is on the top floor of the house, and Sofia’s impressed. It’s a huge space, flooded with light from two skylights, as well as a casement window that has a view out across Clifton and toward Leigh Woods. Noah has a double bed to himself and there are shelves of books and mementos around the room, as well as a TV and a computer gaming setup. It’s the kind of kid’s bedroom that Sofia has only ever seen in movies.

  Alvard bustles over to a single put-up bed and Sofia recognizes Abdi’s bag lying beside it on the floor, half-open, looking like he’s just slung it there, which would be typical of him. His nightwear has been dropped on the bed.

  As Sofia packs up Abdi’s things, Alvard rifles through the stuff on Noah’s desk.

  “Some of this might be Abdi’s,” she says.

  Sofia is momentarily distracted by the sight, through a partially closed cupboard door, of a ton of medical paraphernalia. There’s a bucket for sharps, packets of syringes, dressings, flushing fluids, gloves, and an oxygen tank. She sees these things every day when she does her hospital placements, but the sight of them tucked into the corner of this perfect bedroom reminds her of the fact that sits at the center of Noah’s life, which is that he has often been close to death. Sofia can’t help wondering if he has ever been as close as he is today, and the thought makes her shudder.

  “Sofia?” Alvard prompts.

  She apologizes. She hopes she hasn’t appeared mawkish, staring so obviously.

  Alvard hands her an iPad.

  “That’s not Abdi’s,” Sofia says.

  “I don’t think it’s Noah’s.”

  “Oh!”

  Sofia takes the iPad from her and turns it over. There’s a school sticker on the back. Abdi must have it on loan. She puts it in his bag.