Page 103 of Little Children

‘Okay, thanks for?—’

‘What’s that about?’ Kim asked, nodding towards the other room.

Bryant followed her gaze to two photos side by side on the wall. They were crime scene photos of Jasmine Swift and another woman.

From Bryant’s sickened expression, she guessed that the other victim had been the subject of the photo in Roy Moss’s hall of fame.

‘You think they’re connected?’ Bryant asked.

‘There are similarities, not least the positioning.’

From what her colleague had told her about Justin Holmes, the possibility of him murdering two women was growing more and more unlikely.

‘Obviously I can say no more,’ Wade said, reaching for his hat. It was a clear sign he was done.

Bryant thanked him as her phone rang.

She stepped outside and answered it. It was a short conversation which required very little response from her.

She strode towards the car.

‘Where now, guv?’ Bryant asked.

‘Back to the station. Chief wants to see us. Now.’

Sixty-Four

LEWIS

‘Fuck’s sake, Lewis, you can do better than that,’ Mister shouted at him from the doorway.

After a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and bacon, Mister had carried in a pig with a metal ring through its nose and hung it from the steel hook in the wall. The stench of the dead animal filled his pen, and he almost vomited up his breakfast as Mister released him from the chain on the ground before moving to stand in the doorway.

‘Pummel it,’ Mister instructed.

Three punches to the creamy flesh of the animal and he felt the fatigue enter his bones. Two decent meals had done little to elevate his energy levels. Every muscle in his body felt leaden. Between visits to and from the toilet, he wasn’t even allowed to stand. He remembered one time back at home when he’d been kept off school for the flu. He’d thought he was okay until he’d stood up, sneezed and fallen back down again. He had that same sensation now, as if his muscles weren’t strong enough to hold him.

‘Hit the fucking thing.’

Lewis hit it again, feeling the anger start to build deep in his stomach. Sometimes after the morning tablets he found himself getting angry.

Mister continued to shout instructions.

‘Right hook.’

Most times his rage was directed towards his family.

‘Left hook.’

He pictured Bobby’s face on the head of the pig. He’d overheard the conversation Bobby had had with his mother. He’d heard how Bobby wanted him taken away and trained to fight. He’d heard him sell the whole plan to his mum: how it would be better for the whole family, about how Lewis couldn’t be trusted around the little ones with his temper tantrums. How the house needed a break, some peace and quiet from the fighting and the mood swings.

‘Kidney punch.’

He pictured his mum’s face on the head of the pig. Her flat refusal to send him away had gradually been worn down by Bobby’s arguments. Once her definite no had been eroded to wondering if it really would be the making of him, he’d known he had no one on his side.

‘Low blow.’

He pictured Kevin’s face on the head of the pig. His brother had tried to persuade him to apologise for all the fighting and the times his mum had been called to the school. He’d asked and then begged him to call his mother and tell her things would be different.