in Kings Heath, a ten-minute cab ride from New Street station. Theirs was a purpose-built, two bedroom house on a modern estate, a short walk from shops and buses. The sort of place that a couple in their early sixties might move to. A quiet place where people like them could relax and enjoy retirement, with little to worry about, now that their children were settled. Settled perhaps, but never safe.
Mary Enright, whose world had so recently turned upside down, greeted them warmly and showed them into a smal and unbearably hot living room. She was a short, contained woman.
She produced tea almost instantly.
'Robert won't be long. He's taken Charlie over to the park. There's a nice playground, you know, a roundabout and some swings, it's very popular actual y. To tel you the truth, I think Robert gets more out of it than Charlie does at the moment. He needs to get out of the house, you know, breathe a bit. Things have been a bit tense to be honest...'
McEvoy sipped her tea and nodded, ful of understanding, or the appearance of it. Thorne looked around the stifling room, happy to let his sergeant keep the conversation going. Both just waiting to see the boy. Both dreading it.
The few child's books and toys, arranged neatly next to the sofa,
seemed horribly out of place among the ornaments, antimacassars and gardening books. The house smelt of beeswax and liniment. It wasn't a place where a child was at home yet.
Thorne noticed that there were already a few Christmas cards on the bookshelf in the corner. Greetings from those who didn't know. He wondered whether the Enrights would celebrate anyway, for their grandson's sake. Grief often came down to going through the motions. And often, so did investigating the cause of it.
Charlie Garner had already been interviewed. As per procedure this had been done by special y trained officers under strictly control ed conditions. The interviews had taken place at a house in Birmingham owned and maintained jointly by local social services and West Midlands police. It was a simple modern house much like any other, except for the ful y equipped medical examination suite and state-of-the-art recording facilities.
Charlie had been given toys to play with, and officers from the Child Protection Team had chatted to him while the entire process was monitored from an adjoining room. Thorne had watched recordings of al the interviews. Charlie had been a little shy at first, but once his trust had been won he'd become lively and talkative, about everything save what had happened to his mother...
Thorne wasn't sure he could get anything out of the boy. He didn't know if there was anything to get. He was certain that he had to try.
He was just summoning up the courage to ask if they might turn the radiator down a notch or two, when he heard the key in the front door. He and McEvoy stood up in unison and so quickly that Mary Enright looked quite alarmed for a moment.
Robert Enright shook hands and said, 'pleased to meet you', but his watery blue eyes told a different story. In stark contrast to his wife, he was very tal and had clearly once been fit, but where she was spry and alert, he seemed merely to drift, hol owed out and vague.
Death hit people differently. She was getting by. He had al but
given up.
He slumped on to the sofa while his wife scuttled off to make more
tea. 'Charlie's gone up to his room I think. He'l be down in a minute.' His voice was deep and gentle, the heavy Brummie accent lending a weariness to it that it almost certainly didn't need.
Thorne nodded. He had heard the thump thump of the boy's feet
charging upstairs as soon as the front door had shut.
'Good time in the park?'
The old man shrugged. Stupid question. Fuck off out of my house,
away from me and my family. 'It's starting to get cold...'
Mary bustled in, handed her husband his tea and attempted to kil
the time until Charlie arrived with aimless chatter. She talked to Thorne and McEvoy about their
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley