Hostage (Bodyguard #1)(6)

‘I fight boys, though!’ she said as Connor, stunned and hurting, tried to recover his balance.

The girl went to kick him again, but rather than retreat Connor moved in and caught her leg in mid-swing. Struggling to free herself, she struck for his neck with the edge of her hand. But Connor grabbed hold of her wrist and twisted her arm into a lock, forcing her to submit. The girl squealed in pain.

‘LET THAT GIRL GO!’

Connor glanced back down the alley. Two police officers – a tall black man and a slender white woman – were hurrying towards them. Connor reluctantly released the girl, who promptly kicked him in the shin before running off in the opposite direction. The rest of the gang followed close on her heels.

Connor went to go after them, but the policeman seized him by the scruff of the neck. ‘Not so fast, sonny. You’re coming with us.’

‘But I was trying to save this boy,’ Connor protested.

‘What boy?’ questioned the policewoman.

Connor looked up and down the alley … but it was deserted. The boy had gone.





The officers escorted Connor across Freemasons Road and down a side street to an imposing red-brick building. As they neared the entrance, the traditional blue lamp of the Metropolitan Police came into view. Below this was a sign in bold white lettering declaring: CANNING TOWN POLICE  STATION. They climbed the steps, passing a poster warning Terrorism – if  you suspect it, report it, and entered through a set of heavy wooden doors, the blue paint chipped and worn.

The station’s foyer was poorly lit and depressingly drab, the walls bare, apart from a cork noticeboard promoting a local Neighbourhood Watch meeting. The sole pieces of furniture were a bench and a glass reception booth, manned by a single bored custody officer. As the three of them approached, he looked up and tutted upon seeing Connor’s split lip and the splashes of blood dotted across his sweatshirt.

‘Name?’ the custody officer asked him.

‘Connor Reeves.’

‘Age?’

‘Fourteen.’

He noted this down on a ledger. ‘Address and contact number?’

Connor gave his home in Leytonstone.

‘Family?’

‘Just my mum and gran,’ he replied.

As this was added to the ledger, the policewoman explained the reason for detaining Connor and the custody officer nodded, seemingly satisfied.

‘In there,’ he said, pointing with his pen to a door labelled INTERVIEW ROOM.

Connor was marched across the foyer. The policeman stayed behind to log the contents of his kitbag with the custody officer.

‘After you,’ said the policewoman, ushering him through.

Connor stepped inside. In the centre of the room was a large desk with a single lamp and a couple of hard wooden chairs. A single fluorescent strip buzzed like a mosquito, casting a bleached light over the depressing scene. There was a musty smell in the air and the blinds were drawn across the window, giving an unsettling sense of isolation from the rest of the world.

In spite of his innocence, Connor’s throat went dry with apprehension and his heart began to beat faster.

This just isn’t right! he thought. He’d tried to stop a mugging and he was the one being arrested. And what thanks had he got for stepping in? None. The Indian boy had disappeared without a trace.

‘Sit down,’ ordered the policewoman, pointing to the chair in front of the desk.

Connor reluctantly did as he was told.

The policeman rejoined them, closing the door behind him. He handed his colleague a thick folder. The female officer stepped behind the desk, flicked on the lamp and sat opposite Connor. In its glare, Connor watched the policewoman lay the folder on the table and, next to this, place a notepad and pen. To Connor’s growing unease, the folder was stamped STRICTLY  CONFIDENTIAL.

He started to sweat. He’d never been in trouble with the police before. What could they possibly have on him?

The officer carefully undid the folder’s string fastening and began to inspect the file. The towering policeman took up position next to his colleague and stared unflinchingly at Connor. The tension became almost unbearable.

After what seemed an age, the policewoman declared, ‘If that girl files a charge against you – for assault – it would be a matter for the courts.’

Connor felt the ground beneath him give way. This was turning out to be far more serious than he could have ever imagined.

‘So we need to take a full statement from you,’ she explained.

‘Shouldn’t I call a lawyer or something?’ Connor asked, knowing that’s what was always said in the movies.

‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ replied the officer. ‘Just tell us why you did it?’

Connor shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘Because … there was a boy being mugged.’

The police officer made a note. ‘Did you know this boy?’

‘No,’ replied Connor. ‘And I never will. The ungrateful kid ran away.’

‘So why decide to get involved in the first place?’

‘They were calling him names and about to beat him up!’

‘But other people walked on by. Why didn’t you?’

Connor shrugged. ‘It was the right thing to do. He couldn’t stand up for himself. It was four against one.’