The Lost

Bennet wasn’t happy. She marched in silence through the corridors to a fenced-off car park at the back of the police station, leaving Jonah to keep up on his crutches. By the time he caught up with her she’d already yanked open the Polo’s door and climbed in. Not convinced she’d wait long enough for him to put his crutches in the back, Jonah wrestled them into the passenger seat with him.

‘This wasn’t my idea,’ he said, struggling to fasten his seat belt as she pulled up to the exit barrier and wound down the window to present a pass.

‘Never said it was.’

Resigning himself to a silent journey, Jonah stared out of the window as she pulled into the evening traffic. It was cold inside the car, the chill from the seat striking through his jeans. Without comment, Bennet put the heater on, filling the cabin with a noisy blast of cool air that gradually began to warm.

Even more gradually, the atmosphere in the car began to thaw as well.

‘What’s going to happen to Dylan?’ Jonah asked after a while. ‘Will he be charged?’

‘Not my call.’

‘He’s just a kid.’

‘He’s seventeen. Old enough to know you don’t help yourself to a bagful of money you’ve found stashed in a loft.’

‘He thought it belonged to his dad.’

‘Right. Because every police detective can salt away three quarters of a million. Nothing wrong with that at all.’

Bennet’s profile was stern and unforgiving in the glow from the passing streetlights. But after a moment or two she shrugged.

‘He’ll probably be let off with a warning. But that’s only a guess. Like I say, it’s not my call.’

Jonah badly wanted to ask how the search was progressing for Owen Stokes, but he knew she wouldn’t tell him. There was one thing he needed to say, though.

‘Is it true one of the male victims has been identified?’

‘I thought I told you not to listen to rumours.’

‘This was more than a rumour. I was told his name was Daniel Kimani.’

Bennet’s momentary silence was confirmation enough. ‘Who told you that? The journalist again?’

Jonah hesitated. But Daly hadn’t said anything about the information being confidential. In any case, if she was going to publish it, the enquiry team had a right to know.

He nodded. ‘Is it true?’

‘What else did she say?’

‘That he was Kenyan and here on a student visa.’

‘Did she tell you anything else?’

‘No, that was all. But she’s still digging for a story.’

‘She’s a reporter, of course she is.’ The only outward sign of any agitation was the tapping of Bennet’s index finger on the steering wheel. ‘Are you helping her?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Why was she confiding in you?’

‘She was hoping I’d give up something in return. Don’t worry, I didn’t.’

But even as he said it he wondered if that was true. The memory of Daly’s visit was still an uncomfortable one.

‘Why didn’t you mention this to DI Fletcher earlier?’ Bennet asked.

‘It slipped my mind.’

It had, though only at first. But by then Jonah had only wanted to get out of that interview room. He didn’t want to give Fletcher any more excuses for holding him.

‘I wouldn’t let anything else slip, if I were you,’ Bennet said.

She dropped him off by his car. It was only when he was back in the familiar seclusion of the old Saab’s cabin that he realised how tired he was. It had been another long day, so he parked on the road near his flat again rather than walk back from his garage. As he approached the lighted entrance to the flats, his thoughts were already on sitting down with something to eat, watching a game or something non-demanding on TV.

The first he realised he wasn’t alone was when the bottle exploded at his feet.

Jonah was spattered with beer and shards of glass. Startled and furious, he looked in the direction it had come from. A short distance away, a group of shadowy figures stood under a concrete awning. It was too dark to make them out properly, but he thought he recognised the two youths who’d got into the lift with him the night before.