Kill Who You Want

Chapter Twenty

Plot reminder: Maureen Booth, who features in the third segment of this chapter, is the unpopular English teacher who was Nathan's original target. Lydia Collins, who appears in the same segment, is a fellow teacher who Maureen considers naive and loose with discipline. Nathan is in temporary foster care. Heather Gilchrist, the editor of the local newspaper and who turned down the murderer's offer that he cease his activities, has meanwhile been uncontactable all day...
Author's note: After this chapter I've inserted a complete character list as a reader's reference. Please skip right past to the next chapter.

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"OK. So I can put him on the line now?"

The potatoes set to boil for that evening's sausage and mash, Carol Hobbs glanced around as WPC Hargreaves lifted the mobile phone from her ear, offered it across the table to Nathan.

"It's Marcus," the officer nodded encouragingly. "He wants to talk to you."

Nathan observed the phone with frowning suspicion, seemed for all the world like he were being handed a timebomb ticking down its final seconds.

"Marcus, it's me."

His head proceeded to bob up and down like a tennis ball playfully bounced on an upturned racket. Slouched in the chair, the visible leg jerked frenetically in that way of teenage boys in situations of heightened emotional tension. Eyes flitted from the officer to Carol herself then back to the scratched, mug-ringed surface of the table.

As a foster parent of several years' experience, Carol had known a dozen boys like Nathan. She likened them to spluttering, obstinate motor engines on a frosty morning. Sometimes, a gentle push was all that was required to get then in motion. Other times, a firm kick up the rear end. Specialist intervention might occasionally be called for. And almost always, a sainthood's worth of patience.

"Fishfingers and beans," he was saying, referring to what she'd cooked him for lunch. He'd wolfed it down in a minute flat. A primal instinct almost, clearly unused to regular hot meals.

"You?" There were more nods, further leg jerks. Then: "Suppose you hate me."

The officer glanced over to her, eyes widened. An expression not so much of surprise, but of heartbroken sympathy. Of a strived-for but quite attainable empathy. How many of us, Carol wondered, had ever had true cause to ask a sibling such a question?

It wasn't a smile exactly, just a slight shifting of body position. A little less slouched now in chair, Nathan's upper body was hinged more vertically, the jerking of the leg not quite so manic. Enough for the constable and she to infer that the little brother's answer had been negative.

"They say you can come home soon."

The boy's eyes once more darted in Carol's direction. Apprehensive, grateful, embarrassed, optimistic. Everything in one fleeting glance.

"They've found us a new mum," he explained.

*

It wasn't just the usual floatiness: Abigail could feel a definite undertone of sheer euphoria too. It was almost as if everything was alright, had always been alright and would continue to be alright. Maybe it really would. Wow, yea... Exhaling out the joyous rush, she turned the corner to her street. Breathed it all back in again, deep and slow.

It was special stuff, Giles Hancock had assured them as he'd pinched speckles of the flame-melted green substance into the waiting embrace of the tobacco. Extra strong, right from the soft pure heart of the brick. A type known as skunk, apparently.