Good Girl, Bad Girl(84)

“He has an alibi.”

“A partial one. You still haven’t confirmed where he spent the night.”

Lenny rubs her eyes with the heels of each hand.

“Does Felix have a criminal record?” I ask.

“Not as an adult.”

“Before?”

“Juvenile records are sealed.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Clearly, Lenny could tell me more but chooses not to. It’s another reminder that I may work for the police, but I’m not part of the club. I don’t have the unambiguous, unerring certainty needed by someone like her, a crusader who divides the world into good and evil.

She reaches for the ignition, but something moves in the periphery of her vision. The electronic gates are opening. Moments later, a black cab pulls out and accelerates past us. Dougal Sheehan is behind the wheel, in a hurry.

Lenny doesn’t hesitate before pulling out and following. She’s better at this than I am—tailing someone—keeping at the optimum distance to avoid being caught by red lights or clocked in the cab’s mirrors.

We drive in silence but my question about Felix is on her mind.

“Do you know why juvenile records are sealed?” she asks.

“To assist with rehabilitation and treatment,” I reply.

“Exactly. We don’t want youngsters stigmatized or labeled as career criminals. They deserve a second chance.”

“I agree.”

“Felix was picked up at a summer music festival in Sherwood Forest. A sniffer dog found him carrying small amounts of crystal meth and Ecstasy. He was fourteen—too young to be charged—but he was most likely a runner for a local gang.”

“Could he be still involved?”

“If he’s stupid. We’ve had three stabbings since January, all of them unsolved. The Moss Side Bloods are moving in from Manchester, and those guys are seriously dangerous. Most of the gangs operate away from home because they’re less likely to draw attention from the competition or be known to the local coppers. When they move into an area, they look for a base—normally a squat or a derelict building, or sometimes they target the vulnerable, like an addict or someone with mental health problems, befriending them and moving into their house. They call it cuckooing. Once they establish there is a market, they begin recruiting runners. Usually they trawl the train stations, amusement arcades, and skate parks, looking for strays or kids on the margins, from dysfunctional families or failing at school. They might offer them alcohol or cigarettes or computer games. Some get turned into junkies, or the girls are groomed for sex.”

I remember following Felix to the train station and the job center. If he’s still involved with drug dealing, it could explain the mobile phones and the money in Jodie’s locker. Would he risk using her as a runner?

We’re heading along Maid Marian Way, past the Broadmarsh shopping center, and then along Canal Street towards the A612. As we reach the outskirts of Nottingham, the cab takes the exit on a roundabout signposted to Nottingham Racecourse. Another right turn and we’re almost at the river, approaching a newly minted high-rise development called Trent Basin. Cranes dot the skyline and a huge billboard advertises “Luxury Riverside Apartments.”

The cab stops suddenly in a loading bay. Dougal Sheehan leaps out, heading for the entrance, where he stabs impatiently at the button of an intercom. The glass door unlocks. Dougal takes the stairs. Lenny shoves her foot in the closing door and follows him, climbing quickly. I’m a dozen steps behind her, losing track of the floors.

We reach an open door and enter an apartment with a large open-plan living area dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river. I hear raised voices.

“What did you do?” yells Dougal.

“Nothing. Get off me!”

“Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him!” pleads a woman.

They’re in the bathroom.

“Why was Jodie there?” demands Dougal.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re hurting him! Let him go!” cries the woman.

“Police!” yells Lenny, spinning through the door.

Dougal Sheehan is crouching over his son, gripping Felix by the hair and forcing his head into the bowl of a toilet. He presses the flush lever, draining the cistern. Water sloshes over Felix’s head, spilling onto the floor.

“You’re killing him! You’re killing him!” yells Maggie Sheehan, begging him to stop.

Dougal presses the button again. Felix can’t breathe. His legs are twitching.

Lenny kicks Dougal hard in the back of his knees, making his legs buckle. She twists his arm behind his back and forces his face against the white tiles. Felix rolls away from the toilet, opening and closing his mouth like a stranded fish. His teeth are stained pink by blood and water drips from his hair.

Maggie drops to her knees and hugs him, wetting her blouse. He pushes her away and manages to sit up, leaning against the bath. Shirtless and concave-chested, he’s dressed in baggy jeans that hang low off his hips, showing the crack of his ass.

“What’s this about?” asks Lenny.

Felix wipes his wide, slack mouth. “Ask him.”

Dougal’s face is still pressed hard against the tiles, twisting his mouth out of shape. “It’s family business,” he mutters.