the weather, a bus and one of an orange underground train.
‘He likes Glasgow underground,’ Miss Stuart explained with a smile.
Janice stopped at a picture of a wide muddy-coloured river, with high banks.
Rua
was written below.
‘I think
rua
means water, or river, in Hausa. That’s the language he sometimes uses. There’s a drawing of a man on the next page.’
The figure was tall and stately. Broad but not fat. He was wearing a suit and a blue tie. There was a thick, angry pencilled cross drawn through his face.
If this was Stephen’s father, he didn’t like him very much.
‘May I take this with me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where does Stephen sit?’
Miss Stuart pointed to a desk in the second front row.
‘And friends? Who sits beside him? Plays with him?’
‘Stephen doesn’t have a particular friend. He likes playing by himself.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Although he does chat to Yana on occasion.’
‘Yana?’
‘She’s black too.’ She looked embarrassed to use the word. ‘Her father works at Glasgow University.’
‘It might help to speak to Yana.’
Miss Stuart opened her register and wrote an address on a slip of paper. ‘I will call Dr Olatunde and tell him I’ve given you his contact details, if that’s all right?’
‘Of course.’ Janice nodded her understanding.
‘There’s one other thing . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘Stephen is afraid of the dark. Very afraid. Something happened to make him that way.’
‘He told you that?’
She shook her head. ‘No. His mother did.’
‘And she never mentioned a Mr Devlin?’
‘No. And I never asked,’ she said firmly.
Single parents were apparently a common occurrence for Miss Stuart.
‘Did Carole Devlin give the impression she was afraid of something or someone?’
‘No. She seemed calm and well organised. If she was fearful it was for her son. She worried whether the other children would be mean to him because of his colour.’
‘And are they?’
‘Not in my presence,’ she retorted angrily.
As Janice left, the teacher went back to her marking. Overtime in teaching wasn’t paid for. A bit like CID.
The corridor smelt of disinfectant. Janice breathed it in. For a moment, she was a school kid again and it was just as scary now as it had been then.
10
CAROLE DEVLIN’S FLAT was as neat and tidy as a hotel bedroom and just as impersonal. Bill watched as a team went carefully through her meagre belongings. It looked as though Carole had come here with nothing and had amassed nothing while here. Two suitcases in a hall cupboard. Minimal clothes in the wardrobes and drawers. The kitchen had enough food for a couple of meals. Plenty of cornflakes and milk suggested Stephen was a cereal fan. The flat was a private rent. He’d already spoken to the owner, a Mr Fisher, who lived above. He was elderly, deaf and very pleasant. He didn’t like renting to students, he’d told Bill. He could hear their music even when he turned his hearing aid down.
Mrs Devlin and the boy were quiet. She paid two months in advance and had taken the flat for six months initially. She brought him his milk and paper when she went to the shops. In fact she was a perfect tenant. His rheumy eyes betrayed his distress at her demise.
‘What about Stephen?’ he asked, his voice shaking.
‘We’re still looking,’ Bill told him, trying to sound positive.
They had managed to keep the story of the torso out of the headlines so far. The press was giving them a window to see if the body was Stephen’s.
The continuing house-to-house plus the search of the surrounding area had produced nothing. The boy had simply disappeared. If he had managed to get away from his mother’s attacker, he had found a good hiding place.
Bill had experience of runaway kids before. A girl of eight had gone missing in the summer of 2004. Molly Reynolds. Her name was written on his soul. Thirty-six hours after she disappeared on her way home from school, he had
‘He likes Glasgow underground,’ Miss Stuart explained with a smile.
Janice stopped at a picture of a wide muddy-coloured river, with high banks.
Rua
was written below.
‘I think
rua
means water, or river, in Hausa. That’s the language he sometimes uses. There’s a drawing of a man on the next page.’
The figure was tall and stately. Broad but not fat. He was wearing a suit and a blue tie. There was a thick, angry pencilled cross drawn through his face.
If this was Stephen’s father, he didn’t like him very much.
‘May I take this with me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where does Stephen sit?’
Miss Stuart pointed to a desk in the second front row.
‘And friends? Who sits beside him? Plays with him?’
‘Stephen doesn’t have a particular friend. He likes playing by himself.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Although he does chat to Yana on occasion.’
‘Yana?’
‘She’s black too.’ She looked embarrassed to use the word. ‘Her father works at Glasgow University.’
‘It might help to speak to Yana.’
Miss Stuart opened her register and wrote an address on a slip of paper. ‘I will call Dr Olatunde and tell him I’ve given you his contact details, if that’s all right?’
‘Of course.’ Janice nodded her understanding.
‘There’s one other thing . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘Stephen is afraid of the dark. Very afraid. Something happened to make him that way.’
‘He told you that?’
She shook her head. ‘No. His mother did.’
‘And she never mentioned a Mr Devlin?’
‘No. And I never asked,’ she said firmly.
Single parents were apparently a common occurrence for Miss Stuart.
‘Did Carole Devlin give the impression she was afraid of something or someone?’
‘No. She seemed calm and well organised. If she was fearful it was for her son. She worried whether the other children would be mean to him because of his colour.’
‘And are they?’
‘Not in my presence,’ she retorted angrily.
As Janice left, the teacher went back to her marking. Overtime in teaching wasn’t paid for. A bit like CID.
The corridor smelt of disinfectant. Janice breathed it in. For a moment, she was a school kid again and it was just as scary now as it had been then.
10
CAROLE DEVLIN’S FLAT was as neat and tidy as a hotel bedroom and just as impersonal. Bill watched as a team went carefully through her meagre belongings. It looked as though Carole had come here with nothing and had amassed nothing while here. Two suitcases in a hall cupboard. Minimal clothes in the wardrobes and drawers. The kitchen had enough food for a couple of meals. Plenty of cornflakes and milk suggested Stephen was a cereal fan. The flat was a private rent. He’d already spoken to the owner, a Mr Fisher, who lived above. He was elderly, deaf and very pleasant. He didn’t like renting to students, he’d told Bill. He could hear their music even when he turned his hearing aid down.
Mrs Devlin and the boy were quiet. She paid two months in advance and had taken the flat for six months initially. She brought him his milk and paper when she went to the shops. In fact she was a perfect tenant. His rheumy eyes betrayed his distress at her demise.
‘What about Stephen?’ he asked, his voice shaking.
‘We’re still looking,’ Bill told him, trying to sound positive.
They had managed to keep the story of the torso out of the headlines so far. The press was giving them a window to see if the body was Stephen’s.
The continuing house-to-house plus the search of the surrounding area had produced nothing. The boy had simply disappeared. If he had managed to get away from his mother’s attacker, he had found a good hiding place.
Bill had experience of runaway kids before. A girl of eight had gone missing in the summer of 2004. Molly Reynolds. Her name was written on his soul. Thirty-six hours after she disappeared on her way home from school, he had
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