Текст книги "Death in Dark Waters"

Автор книги: Patricia Hall

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Eight

Laura lay in bed the next morning, rigid with an anger that had not been dissipated by a restless night’s sleep. She listened to Michael Thackeray moving around in the bathroom next door and wondered whether reopening their differences again in the grey half-light of morning was worth the risk of deepening the rift between them in the unpropitious cause of changing a mind that had seemed set in stone the previous evening.

She had got home from work already seething. When she had returned to the office she had braved Ted Grant in his glass-walled watch-tower at the end of the newsroom and outlined the results of her researches on the Heights. He had not seemed impressed, and after she had played her taperecordings of the two distraught mothers to him he had merely opened his office door and summoned Bob Baker, the crime reporter, from his computer with his customary bull-like bellow.

“It’s as likely nowt as owt,” Grant had said as the younger man glanced inquiringly at the editor. “Laura reckons folk up on the Heights are putting that lad Whitby’s death down as murder. What do the police think?”

“What I hear is that Mrs. Whitby’s gone off her rocker since the lad died,” Baker had said dismissively. “He’s a bit of a militant, the father. The Anti-Racist League, works for the council and took them to court over discrimination, all that stuff. Complaints about police harassment a couple of years ago. Nothing substantiated, of course. They see discrimination round every bend, some of these people.”

“That’s not fair,” Laura said. “I’ve got a witness on that tape who says he saw the other boy pushed over the edge of the roof.”

“Black, is he?” Baker asked.

“No, he’s not, as it goes,” Laura snapped.

“On drugs then?”

“Getting off them, actually. Or trying. He saw what happened and he’s scared out of his wits.”

“And has he told the police that?” Baker asked. “Because my information is that there’s not a scrap of evidence that it was anything but an accident. Derek Whitby was high as a kite, fooling about on the roof, went too near the edge and bingo! He’s mince-meat.”

“And the other lads who were on the roof with him have come forward to confirm that, have they?” Laura asked sweetly, but Baker just shrugged.

“You know what it’s like up there. They won’t confirm their own names if they can avoid it,” he said.

“Well my information is that the dealers up there are using all sorts of violence to keep the kids in line, and that this was just the most vicious instance,” Laura said.

Ted Grant had glanced at his two warring journalists with something like a smirk of satisfaction. Suddenly he pushed Laura’s cassette tape in Baker’s direction.

“You have a listen to this, Bob,” he said. “Then have a word with your contacts up there, and in the Force. Laura’s too busy with other stuff to get stuck into a crime story right now – if there’s a story there, which I very much doubt.”

Laura opened her mouth to protest and then closed it again. She knew from the glint in both men’s eyes that it would do no good and would only provoke further humiliation. As she spun on her heel to go, hair flying, face set, she heard Baker’s low laugh and Grant pull open a drawer in his desk.

“I had my invitation this morning to join this committee to redevelop the Heights,” she heard him say. “That was a good move to put my name forward. It’ll give us the inside track on a lot of good stories up there.”

“I thought you’d be pleased,” Baker said. “It was Barry Foreman’s idea. Thought you’d be an asset.”

“Close the door, lad,” Grant had said suddenly, realising that Laura was still within earshot.

White-faced with suppressed anger she had made her way back to her desk, pounded out the last few hundred words of the feature she was working on and had stormed out of the office a good hour before she should have done to drive back up to the Heights as fast as she could weave her Golf through the heavy late afternoon traffic. If remaining on the Gazette meant being passed over in favour of flash young men ten years younger than herself, she wondered how much longer she could hang on. All her half-buried ambition to get out of Bradfield came flooding back. Joyce, she had long ago decided, she could take with her if she decided to move and apart from her grandmother there was only one other person to keep her in her home town any longer. Unfortunately, in spite of their differences, Michael Thackeray remained the most important person in her life. She had pounded the steering wheel in frustration as she waited at the traffic lights to turn onto the Heights again.

Not many cars ventured into the narrow streets beneath the flats and there were few people about on foot in the wet winter dusk as she parked. More aware than usual of the brooding bulk of the estate and the menacing shadows beneath the walkways, she hurried to the Project where she found Donna drinking tea with Kevin Mower in the brightly lit back room.

“Your gran’s gone home, love,” Donna said, stubbing out her cigarette into her saucer and lighting another. “She looked right tired this afternoon so I told her to go and have a rest. I reckon she’s trying to do too much, you know.”

“Try telling her that,” Laura said. “The day Joyce stops fighting will be the day we need the undertaker.”

“How did you get on with Dizzy,” Mower had asked and Laura told them everything they had learned from their visits to Stevie Maddison and Derek Whitby’s bereaved mother.

“D’you think Derek could have been pushed?” she asked when she had finished. “He can’t have been able to see that clearly in the rain and the dark.”

“Anything’s possible with some of the scumbags we have to live with up here,” Donna said bitterly.

“Do you know this man they call Ounce? Mrs. Whitby’s sure he’s behind the dealing.”

“I’ve not come across him, though I’ve heard the kids mention the name. We …” She hesitated and glanced guiltily at Mower. “I’ll ask around. See what’s being said. But I guess if the police didn’t investigate Derek’s death straight away they’ll not be right interested now. The lad’s funeral’s next week.”

Laura glanced at Mower who almost imperceptibly shook his head. So he still had not told Donna that he was a policeman, Laura thought, even though that unexpected pronoun had hinted again at a much closer relationship than was apparent to the naked eye. She smiled slightly.

“I’ll chase Bob Baker so we get a story out of it somehow,” she said. “That’s a promise.”

But when she had got home and turned to the person she had hoped would be her closest ally in an attempt to expose what was happening on the Heights, she met a lack of enthusiasm that at first surprised and then infuriated her.

“You’re taking a real risk knocking on doors up there,” Thackeray had said, propped up on the pillows beside her in too unyielding a position for Laura to feel able to get as close to him as she usually did. He took up their debate where they had left it earlier in the evening. “Especially if you’re with someone who may well be a dealer himself. David Sanderson has form for drug use, and he’s up to his eyes in the Carib Club which seems to be awash with the stuff.”

“It’s not a bit of dope we’re talking about up there, is it?” Laura said. “These kids are dying from heroin overdoses, crack cocaine, cocktails of the real hard stuff. Dizzy B’s just as horrified by what’s going on as any of us. He’s a nice guy. And he’s not too impressed by the attitude of some of your people, as it goes. Says he was nicked by a racist DC, an Asian. Who would that be then?”

“Sharif,” Thackeray said shortly. “Just arrived from Leeds, but he’s a Bradfield boy. And if Sanderson’s got a complaint he should make it through the official channels, not go broadcasting his grievances to the Press and God knows who else.”

“I’ll tell him,” Laura had said, her temper on a very short fuse. “So stick to the main issue, Michael. What’s being done about the heroin crisis on the Heights? Why do people think a murder’s being covered up? Why does everyone up there – including Joyce, incidentally – think no one gives a damn about their kids? Is everyone just waiting for the flats to be pulled down and hoping that the problem will disappear with them? It’s not very likely, is it? It’ll just move somewhere else.”

“Laura, Laura, you’re jumping to conclusions again. I never said nothing was being done. But I can’t tell you about everything we’re doing, you know that. It’s not all my responsibility. As far as I’m concerned I’m still trying to discover who got the Adams boy so far out of his head on Ecstasy that he walked in front of a taxi.”

“Is he still unconscious?” Laura asked.

“As far as I know, yes. But slightly improved, apparently.”

“But if this other boy, Derek Whitby, was pushed off the roof that would be murder and surely that would be your responsibility, even if the drug squad is up on the Heights,” she had persisted.

“I never said anything about the drug squad,” Thackeray came back irritably. “And I’ve absolutely no evidence that the Whitby boy was murdered. Bring me the witnesses, and then we can talk about it. In the meantime, please don’t take risks up there. You’re right on one count at least – the place is run by the dealers and some of them are very unpleasant indeed. They’d think nothing of throwing a reporter off a roof if she got in their way.”

“I can look after myself,” Laura had said, with more confidence than she really felt. “And I think I can get you the witnesses.”

Thackeray groaned.

“You are the most pig-headed person I have ever met,” he said.

“And you love me for it,” Laura had come back quickly, reaching a tentative hand for his. But he had pulled away.

“Just now I’d like to go to sleep,” he said. “You’re not the only one who’s had a bad day.” And with that she had to be content. In the cold light of morning, finding herself alone in the bed, Laura had quickly realised that she had not forgiven him for his lack of understanding and she guessed – as he had not roused her with his usual kiss – that he felt much the same.

“Damn and blast,” she muttered into the pillows, before burying her head under the bedclothes and remaining there without moving until she heard the front door close behind him. “Oh, Michael,” she said to herself as she shrugged herself into her bathrobe and wandered into the kitchen for orange juice. “Are we ever going to make this work?”

Thackeray carried his ill-humour to the office with him. His track record with women, he thought as he drove into town, didn’t bear thinking about. His marriage to the sweetheart he had met at sixteen had collapsed early into acrimony on Aileen’s part and heavy drinking on his. By the time their son Ian had been born it had been too late to rescue much from the wreckage and he had been too drunk most of the time to notice that his wife was sliding into the suicidal depression which soon claimed her sanity and the life of their baby. Since then he had drifted from one brief unsatisfactory relationship to another until he met Laura Ackroyd and rediscovered the sort of intense happiness which he thought had slipped beyond his grasp for good. And now he found himself wondering how long it could last – and how long he could last if she left him. He knew she was frustrated by her job, by Bradfield and increasingly, he felt, by his own limitations. They paddled endlessly around the jagged reefs of his fears: of commitment, of permanence, of having another child. He adored her for her resilience, her determination and her humour, but these were the very things he was afraid he was wearing down. She deserved more, and he was very afraid that he would never be able to give it to her.

He parked his car in his space at the central police station and made his way gloomily to his office where he flicked idly through overnight reports. The name Adams caught his eye and he saw that Jeremy, who had been in the Infirmary for almost a week now, had regained consciousness. Squaring his shoulders to face the day’s work, he picked up the phone and asked DC Val Ridley to come in to see him.

“Can we interview the Adams boy today?” he asked when she had presented herself, all brisk efficiency in a dark suit and a powder blue shirt which matched her wary eyes.

“Possibly,” she said. “But doting dad says he wants his solicitor to be there.”

“Taking no chances then?”

“He wouldn’t would he, boss?”

“Let me know when you get a slot to see him,” Thackeray said. “I might come with you. If they feel the need to put up their big guns perhaps we should do the same.”

Val Ridley smiled faintly as if she approved of that but she did not comment.

“Did you hear about the trouble at the Carib Club last night?” she asked.

And when Thackeray shook his head, she expanded.

“Running battles between the black kids coming out and some Asian youths who were evidently waiting for them outside.”

“Serious, was it?”

“Serious enough. Half a dozen charges of affray, a couple of ABH, three in hospital with minor stab wounds. And a whole chorus of the great and the good on the local radio this morning calling for the place to be shut down. Including the local mosque, of course.” Laura usually listened to the local radio news as they snatched breakfast together, he thought, but this morning he had made sure he was not there when she woke.

“You’re not suggesting it was a put-up job, are you?” Thackeray asked with half a smile. “I mean, if you want to get a place a reputation for rowdiness there’s no easier way than providing a bit, is there? What was your impression when you interviewed the owners?”

“It didn’t seem to be any worse than half a dozen other clubs on the patch,” Val said.

“And young Sharif? Would he agree with that assessment?”

“Omar’s a bit uptight about these things,” Val said carefully. “The Carib’s very close to Aysgarth Lane. There’s been a long history of trouble between the black and Asian youngsters there. Omar’s not just aware of that, I guess he was probably part of it when he was at school. The older generation seemed to be doing their best to damp it down but I’m not so sure now.”

“I heard Omar didn’t endear himself to the DJ when you arrested him yesterday,” Thackeray said, to Val Ridley’s evident surprise. “Over the top, was he?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” she said, not daring to ask how he had come by his information. “Not much love lost, but nothing you’d need the race relations thought-police for.”

“The last thing I want with this Carib row going on are allegations that the police are taking sides, or being racist in any way,” Thackeray said. “Keep an eye on Sharif, will you? And on anyone else who might raise the tension – by accident or design.”

“Sir,” Val Ridley said, her face expressionless, and Thackeray knew that she did not like the order, although whether that was because she thought he was over-reacting or because she did not want to mother a younger colleague, he could not tell. She probably suspected that he would not have asked any of her male colleagues to do the same, and she was probably right, he thought wryly.

Ridley hesitated by the door.

“Have you heard anything from Kevin?” she asked at last. “When he’s coming back.”

“He’s got another couple of weeks before he needs to make a decision,” Thackeray said. Another boss might have teased her about her interest but that was not the way he worked. “Last I heard he was doing fine.”

“He’s a good copper,” Val said defensively.

“I know that, Val,” Thackeray said. “Don’t worry. I’m not looking for an excuse to get rid of him.”

She nodded and closed the door quietly behind her, leaving Thackeray to contemplate his economy with the truth. Val Ridley, he guessed, still carried a torch for Kevin Mower, in spite of the sergeant’s near contemptuous lack of interest, but he saw no reason to cause her unnecessary anxiety about his future. But while he would be happy to have Mower back on his team he knew there were those above him in the hierarchy who might not be so keen. When it came to the crunch, he knew that he might have to fight for Mower’s future career. And he owed him that, at least.

For the rest of the morning he ploughed through the paperwork and it was not until lunch-time that Val Ridley knocked on his door again and dropped a copy of the first edition of the day’s Bradfield Gazette on his desk.

“I thought you’d like to see that, boss.” The headline jumped out at him

“Drug club facing closure”.

He read Bob Baker’s front page story with growing anger before taking the stairs two at a time to superintendent Jack Longley’s office. Longley raised an eyebrow as the DCI was admitted to his sanctum.

“Summat up, Michael?” he asked mildly.

“I just wondered who the police spokesman was who’s allegedly said we’re considering taking action on the Carib,” Thackeray said, spreading the paper in front of Longley just as Val Ridley had spread it in front of him. Longley cast an eye over it.

“Gone to town a bit, has he?” he murmured. “He was trying to get hold of me last night, but I got the wife to tell him to go through the Press office. I’d nowt to say to Baker. I’d like to know who has been blabbing in that direction, mind.”

“So are we considering closing the place down? On the say-so of Grantley Adams? The black kids will play merry hell. It’s the only place they really call their own.”

“If we do close it, it’ll be when I say so and on my say-so, not Adams’s, or the imams from the mosque. But yes, after the little fracas last night, following on from the accident, uniform’s not happy. They thought they might try out these new powers to close rowdy pubs and clubs. D’you have a problem with that?”

“Not if the trouble stems from the club itself and not from people trying to get it closed down by making sure there’s trouble there,” Thackeray said.

“Yes, well, it has to be said that Barry Foreman says his door-policy will keep the trouble-makers out.”

Thackeray found it hard to conceal his astonishment at that.

“I met him at this regeneration committee they’ve asked me on,” Longley said quickly. “He rang me yesterday and we had a chat about the Carib. He reckons he can keep the drugs out.”

“Does he?” Thackeray said, not bothering to hide his scepticism. “That’s not what I hear happens at the other clubs where he does the doors. Word is that selected dealers get in with no questions asked. His own men, no doubt. We just don’t have the evidence to prove it.”

“Aye, well, I’ve told you before, he’s well in now, is Foreman. If you reckon he’s anything other than a respectable businessman you’ll have to find some cast-iron evidence to prove it.”

“And the Carib?” Thackeray said, his unease growing.

“My feeling is that we give the Carib one last chance to see if Foreman’s as good as his word. But if we get trouble on the streets again we’ll be under a lot of pressure.”

“My guess is you’ll get trouble on the streets either way,” Thackeray said. “It’s a no win situation. In the meantime, it looks as if we’ll be able to interview the Adams boy shortly. He′s regained consciousness, apparently.”

“Has he?” Longley said. “That’s good. You’ll go and see him yourself, will you?” It was not phrased as an instruction but Thackeray had no doubt what was intended.

“I’ll see if I can find the time,” he said, grudging what he had already decided to do anyway. “Don’t worry, we’ll get the kid gloves out, but if he’s been dealing he’ll get no favours from me.”

“Of course not, Michael,” Longley said, unembarrassed.

By mid-afternoon Thackeray found himself waiting with Val Ridley outside a side-room off a ward at the Infirmary. Through the frosted glass windows it was possible to see the shapes of several people moving about the small room and when eventually the door was opened by Grantley Adams himself, they found Victor Mendelson, one of the town’s leading solicitors, sitting on one side of Jeremy Adams’s bed, and his mother on the other, with an anxious-looking young nurse hovering at the end of the bed.

Thackeray nodded to Mendelson, who was the father of one of his few close friends in Bradfield, the friend who had introduced him to Laura Ackroyd at a dinner party, every minute of which he still remembered well. He introduced himself and Val Ridley to the boy on the bed, who was watching the proceedings from beneath a swathe of bandages with surprisingly wide-awake eyes considering he was supposed to have been unconscious for days. Thackeray nodded to the boy’s parents and then held the door open wide.

“If you’ll excuse us, we’d like to talk to Jeremy alone please. Victor will represent his interests very ably, I’m sure.”

Grantley Adams, face flushed, opened his mouth as if to object but his wife got to her feet quickly, took his arm and urged him into the corridor as Victor Mendelson held up a placatory hand. The nurse followed the parents out of the room.

“How are you feeling, Jeremy?” Thackeray asked after introducing himself and taking a seat on the other side of the bed from the lawyer. “You’re quite sure you feel fit enough to answer some questions about the night of your accident?”

The boy nodded.

“I’m not sure I remember much,” he said.

“It’s not the accident I’m so interested in as what happened before,” Thackeray said. “There were plenty of witnesses to what happened outside the club. What I’d like to know is where you came by the drug which was found in your blood stream when the hospital came to do tests. In other words, where did you get the Ecstasy from?”

“I’m not sure my client should answer that,” Victor Mendelson said.

“It’s all right,” the boy came back quickly. “Honestly, I can’t remember. That whole evening is a blur.”

“You can’t remember whether you took it before you went to the club or while you were in there?”

“What does Louise say?” the boy prevaricated.

“I can’t tell you that,” Thackeray said. “I want you to try to remember without any prompting.”

Jeremy shook his head and then winced and passed a hand which was shaking slightly across his eyes.

“I can’t recall, you know. I’m sorry.”

“Can you recall whether it was the first time you’d taken Ecstasy?” Thackeray asked.

“Oh, yes, it must have been. It’s not a habit or anything like that. It was Louise’s birthday, a celebration. We must have decided to give it a try.”

“You mean she supplied it?”

“No, I don’t mean that at all,” the boy said with a startled look at the lawyer. “But it’s difficult to remember.”

“And what about the cannabis? Is that a habit?”

Victor Mendelson made to intervene but Thackeray shook his head sharply.

“We found some in his room,” he explained.

Jeremy Adams shut his eyes and sighed heavily.

“Just now and again we’d have a spliff,” he said. “Honestly, it was nothing. We never took it to school or anything. Just in the house, usually.”

“And did your parents know this was going on?”

“No, of course not.”

“And who supplied you with the cannabis?” Thackeray persisted, although he knew he would not get an answer.

“Oh, friends of friends, you know. It’s not difficult to get hold of. No regular dealer or anything. It’s harmless enough. You know that.”

Thackeray ignored that.

“So you can’t tell me the name of anyone you’ve bought illegal drugs off – ever?” he snapped. “These things just came into your possession almost inadvertently?”

The boy glanced at his lawyer and shook his head helplessly.

“That’s the way it is, you know?” he said. And Thackeray almost believed him.

Outside in the corridor he found Grantley Adams waiting, his broad face still suffused with colour. His wife fluttered to one side of him like a nervous bird. Adams opened his mouth as if to launch a new tirade but Thackeray was determined to get in first.

“We won’t bother Jeremy again until he’s recovered,” he said. “But we may well want to talk to him again at some point, Mr. Adams. He doesn’t deny he’s been taking illegal drugs.”

“Did he tell you where he got the stuff? The Ecstasy?” Adams asked.

“No, he didn’t,” Thackeray said. “Nor where he got the cannabis we found in his bedroom. Did you know he had cannabis in the house, Mr. Adams?”

“Of course I bloody didn’t,” Adams said. “I’d have tanned his backside for him if I had, never mind how big he’s grown. What I want to know is where he’s been getting it from. I’d put odds on it being that bloody club.”

“That’s what we’d like to know too,” Thackeray said. “But hasn’t it crossed your mind that Jeremy may not just have been buying drugs, but selling them too. That he may have been a dealer …” Mrs. Adams gave a faint moan at that.

“You what?” Adams said, his face becoming even more flushed. “What the hell are you suggesting now, man?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Adams,” Thackeray said, aware that Victor Mendelson had followed him out of the ward and was watching him with what appeared to be a thin smile. “You have every right to know what line our inquiries might take when Jeremy’s a bit more able to recall what he’s been involved in recently. As I think you’ve said yourself, drugs are a menace and those who deal in them need to be identified.”

Adams appeared to deflate suddenly and turned a sickly shade of pale. He glanced at his lawyer for help but Mendelson was studying the no-smoking notice on the other side of the corridor with unusual interest.

“Thank you for your help,” Thackeray said to no one in particular and led Val Ridley away down the long hospital corridor at a brisk pace leaving Adams to berate his lawyer in a fierce whisper.

“That was a bit over the top, wasn’t it, boss?” Val said as soon as they were out of earshot. “You don’t really think the boy’s been dealing, do you?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Thackeray said. “The whole thing is a complete charade. He’ll never tell us where he got the Ecstasy and his cannabis stash isn’t even worth cautioning him for. But Adams himself was the one screaming for retribution. It doesn’t hurt to let him know just where that might lead.”

Val glanced at her boss with some curiosity. She recognised a bombastic bully in Adams when she saw one but she had not often seen the DCI react so overtly to such a challenge. Canteen gossip, in this case originating she guessed with Kevin Mower, suggested that Laura Ackroyd has been known to indulge in a spliff now and again – although how Kevin had come by that piece of compromising information she could not begin to guess. Perhaps Kevin had shared one with her. She would not put it past him. Or perhaps the reporter had been passing round a relaxing joint at home these winter nights, Val thought with a secret smile.

“We waste too much time chasing kids with dope,” she said cautiously. Thackeray glanced at her as they waited for the lift.

“Maybe,” he said. “Though in this case you’re certainly right. If Grantley Adams didn’t regard himself as the great moral arbiter for the whole of Bradfield …”

“Or its grand master, more like,” Val said sharply. “We wouldn’t be here, right?”

“I couldn’t possibly comment,” Thackeray said. Thackeray let the detective constable go back to police HQ without him and made his way through the long hospital corridors and down a back staircase to where the mortuary and pathology departments lived discreetly separate lives in the basement. Amos Atherton was not in his office, and after glancing through a small window into the main operating room, Thackeray saw the pathologist untangling his bulky frame from green blood-stained overalls. He nodded at the DCI through the glass as he struggled out of his boots.

“Give me two minutes, lad,” Atherton mouthed, holding up his fingers in a Churchillian salute.

Thackeray waited in the corridor wondering whether he could get away with a cigarette immediately beneath the large red no-smoking notice on the tiled wall. It was not a place he had ever felt comfortable. Too many memories stalked the infirmary corridors for his peace of mind, and they were not just of people he had met professionally, lying naked and ultimately exposed in the room behind him, victims of a second assault under Atherton’s dispassionate scalpels and saws, although those ghosts were bad enough. Once he had roamed these tiled depths for hours, without authority and crazed with grief and alcohol, while a pathologist – and he had never dared ask Atherton if it had been him – had ascertained the cause of death of his tiny son. Upstairs his wife had lain comatose hooked up to life-support machines, and while every fibre of his being had wished Ian back to life, he had just as fervently wanted Aileen dead. In the end the cries of pain he was hardly aware he had uttered had brought officialdom in his direction and sympathetic but firm hands had led him away. He had never set foot in the hospital again without a shudder of fear and shame.

Atherton’s two minutes were up and the pathologist shambled out of the morgue straightening his jacket across broad shoulders and making a vain attempt to button it across his ample stomach.

“Now then?”

Thackeray hesitated for no more than a second.

“The lad on the Heights who fell off the roof,” he said at length. “Open and shut, was it? Nothing to suggest it might not have been an accident?”

“Ah, now I’m glad you asked me that. I’ve been meaning to complete the report and get it back to you,” Atherton said, looking slightly flustered. “I’d been expecting to find him full of heroin. The tolerance these kids build up never ceases to amaze me. But even though he had plenty of old scars and track marks on his arms, the blood tests came back clean.”

“His mother’s insisting he was murdered,” Thackeray said shortly.

“Well, I can’t say that’s what I concluded. There were no injuries I could find that weren’t consistent with him simply hitting the ground from a great height. He could have been pushed, I suppose, but I’m not sure that’s what the coroner will decide, on the evidence we’ve got. He could have just been fooling about up there, the way lads do. All I can tell you is that he wasn’t high on drugs, for what that’s worth.”

Thackeray shrugged.

“It’s probably nothing. Though in the natural course of events, there’s too many people dying up there. Take each case on its own and it looks like an overdose or some other sort of accident. Take them together and you begin to wonder.”