Good as Dead by Mark Billingham Page B

smiled, knowing. ‘See if anyone changes their story.’
    Thorne smiled back. ‘That’s always a possibility.’ He kept his eyes on the governor as he drank the last of his coffee. ‘Any idea who was responsible for the attack on Amin?’
    ‘A couple of my officers reckon they’ve got a very good idea,’ Bracewell said. ‘But proving it is something else entirely. The boy concerned denied it of course. Amin refused to tell us who it was and it’s very hard to find witnesses in a place like this. I’m sure you know what it’s like.’
    ‘I’ll need to speak to him,’ Thorne said. ‘Proof or no proof.’
    ‘Unfortunately, he was released a couple of months ago. Just a few days after the attack on Amin, in fact. Annoying, but without evidence there was nothing we could do to prevent it.’
    ‘I’ll need a name, then. The address on his release papers.’
    Bracewell said that shouldn’t be a problem, but with sufficient hesitation for Thorne to point out that, as far as this inquiry was concerned, the normal procedures did not, could not apply. There was simply no time for niceties, or ethics. Bracewell said he understood, and though Thorne could see that he did not, that the man was still desperate to know the reason for what was happening, he could also see that the situation was making him uneasy.
    ‘I need to speak to whoever found the body as well.’
    ‘That was Ian McCarthy,’ Bracewell said. ‘ Dr McCarthy. I think he should be in by now, so I can get one of my officers to take you down there. If that’s OK?’
    Thorne thanked him for his help and Bracewell phoned out to make the arrangements. Almost as soon as he had hung up, the phone rang and Bracewell took the call. He said, ‘For Pete’s sake,’ and ‘Right,’ and when the call was finished, he sat back shaking his head as though the weight of the world had just settled on his smartly suited shoulders. ‘One of the boys has smashed his cell up. Seventeen-year-old Polish lad, doesn’t speak a word of bloody English.’
    ‘Can’t be easy.’
    ‘It isn’t. My officers are doing their best, but they’ve got their work cut out as it is.’
    ‘I meant for the boy.’
    Thorne remembered the colourful sign he had seen at the entrance to the prison. A single word written in dozens of languages. It was a nice idea, but a shame that the effort at translation had not gone a little further. The inmates probably thought it was a sick joke anyway, considering where they were and what that one word was.
    Welcome .
    ‘Well no,’ Bracewell stammered. ‘Of course not … I mean, obviously . It’s a very tricky situation for everyone.’
    When the prison officer arrived, Thorne stood to gather up the files and Bracewell moved quickly from behind his desk to assure him that he would remain available if there was anything else he could help with. With his hand pressed firmly between the governor’s two, Thorne said that he would bear the offer in mind.
    Then he turned and followed his escort out of the office.
    Decided, on reflection, that perhaps there was a miniature portrait of the Queen tucked away in one of the drawers.
    In the school’s assembly hall, the temporary Incident Room was up and running. A communications team had set up fax and phone lines and had tapped into a local CCTV feed. Monitors showed live, black and white images of the shopfront from two different angles, while a hastily erected camera in the alleyway behind the property broadcast a picture of the shop’s back door. There was no sound and precious little movement. Occasionally an emergency vehicle moved through shot, or a stray dog that nobody had yet been able to catch. A member of the CO19 team wandered between the two Armed Response Vehicles which were still parked on the street across from the newsagent’s.
    Still waiting for instructions.
    There were more than two dozen officers working inside the school. Most sat at computers, feeding back any information they