Chapter 11 Ian
Ian
NOW
‘What’s this, Ash?’ Ian asks, although he can see through the plastic what it is.
‘Look, the younger Knoll boys smoked a joint outside your house on the night of Millie’s party and—’
‘What were they doing outside my house? How do you know this?’
‘I was on taxi duty. I picked Iris up that night. I saw them. They were sitting on your wall.’
‘Oh.’ Ian fiddles with his cigarette packet. Quitting Will Improve Your Health is written on it in big, bold, black letters. Jo’s always nagging him to stop smoking. He thinks she’s more interested in improving their finances than his health, though. Ian has given up more times than he can count.
‘They were sitting on your wall, puffing away on a spliff. You know, Jonah and Jeremiah or whatever their names are. Their fingerprints will—’
‘Jordan and Jasper Knoll.’
‘Right. Jordan and Jasper. Both names beginning with J. Joshua, too. I bet the parents get confused all the time. The teachers, too.’
Ash gives a dry chuckle, but Ian doesn’t join in.
He has an inkling of where this is going and he doesn’t like it.
They’re sitting at a wooden picnic table in the garden of The Grove, Ash’s local, Ash nursing a pint and Ian drinking a coffee.
He needs the caffeine fix. It’s bloody cold out here, but there’s no one else outside so at least they can talk without worrying that someone might overhear.
And Ian can smoke. He lights up an Embassy.
Ian is shocked at Ash’s appearance. Everything about Ash exudes desperation. His blue eyes are dimmed and underlined with tired, black bags; he’s hunched over.
‘Please,’ Ash says. ‘You said if I ever needed you …’
Ian hates thinking about it. He’s never talked about it. His darkest secret. His greatest shame. His biggest mistake. He’s always known it would come back and bite him in the arse one day.
That day has come, apparently. Ian owes Ash, and Ash is calling in that favour. At least, that’s what Ian thinks his best mate is doing.
He and Ash met at university – Birmingham – during freshers’ week.
They were in the same hall of residence.
They hit it off straightaway, although, on the surface, they had little in common.
They weren’t even on the same course. Ian was from Derry; Ash was from Devon – Ash could hardly understand a word he said in his thick accent.
They were like Little and Large, only a lot younger and even less funny.
But their friendship was firmly cemented the night Ash saved Ian’s skin.
He’d been stupid. Really stupid. He’d never been stocious, never even drunk alcohol before he came to university – Ian’s father was an alcoholic until he drank himself into an early grave. Afterwards, his mam didn’t keep a drop of alcohol in the house, not even wine to use in her cooking.
He thought he was relatively sober when he left the party, but it soon became clear to him that he couldn’t hold his drink at all.
Ash had tonsilitis and was on antibiotics.
He’d only drunk one pint at the party. He’d cycled to the party, which was off-campus at a student house, whereas Ian had driven out to Aston to buy some second-hand books he’d seen advertised that he thought would make good background reading for his criminology degree.
He’d come to the party straight from Aston.
He and Ash left at the same time and agreed to meet up back at their hall of residence.
It was dark and she was wearing dark clothes.
She came from out of nowhere. Her dog ran across the road and she ran after it.
Technically, it wasn’t Ian’s fault. He told himself that again and again over the weeks that followed, while the girl was lying in hospital with a broken leg, concussion and internal bleeding.
But who was he kidding? Who knows if his reactions would have been quicker if he hadn’t been blathered.
He thought he must have been driving more or less at the speed limit, but he couldn’t swear to it.
What was he thinking? He wanted to go into the police force, for feck’s sake!
That wasn’t going to happen if he had a criminal record!
After a while, Ian couldn’t even be sure if his version of events was accurate.
Had he swerved? Had he been driving too fast?
Recklessly? He didn’t think so, but, again, he couldn’t swear to it.
Ash arrived a few seconds later. He jumped off his bike and shouted orders at Ian.
‘Get the triangle from your car and set it up! Hurry!’
She was breathing, but unconscious. Ash thought something might be broken so he said they couldn’t put her in the recovery position. He’d worked last summer as a lifeguard at his local pool. He knew more first aid than Ian did.
Ian did what he was told. Then Ash left Ian watching over the girl, their coats wrapped around her, with strict instructions not to move her, to talk to her non-stop and to monitor her breathing.
This was back in the day when very few people – and hardly any students – had mobiles, so Ash legged it to the nearest payphone, which, as luck would have it, wasn’t that far away. He called 999.
Ash couldn’t have been gone more than a few minutes, but it seemed like hours. It was late and no one else came by the whole time. When Ash got back, he said, ‘The ambulance is on its way. I expect they’ll send out a police car, too.’
‘She ran out in the road, after her dog,’ Ian said.
‘How much have you had to drink?’ Ash asked.
‘Too much. Way too much.’
Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.
Then Ash said, ‘Is your car insured for any driver?’
‘Aye, it is.’
Everyone in the family had used Ian’s car before he came away – his brother, his sister, his mam.
Ian had worked summer and weekend jobs and paid for it, but he didn’t really need it at uni and he’d been a buck eejit to insist on taking it.
Plus, it would have been far easier to take the plane than the ferry to come over to the mainland in the first place.
‘Ride my bike and meet me back at the hall,’ Ash said.
Ash was willing to take the rap for Ian. Ash was breathalysed. He was under the limit. Ian would have failed the test.
Her name was Tracey, she was seventeen and she lived with her parents in a tiny terraced house about half a mile away from where Ian had run her over.
She was taking A levels that year. Ash and Ian walked her dog two or three times a week for months, even after she got out of hospital and even after the cast finally came off her leg and she could do it herself, albeit with a pronounced limp.
Tracey couldn’t remember the accident itself. Ash’s insurance sorted out compensation. Ian was terrified Tracey’s parents would sue Ash for dangerous driving; he was terrified his secret would come out in the end.
But as the weeks became months, he began to relax. Tracey and her parents had accepted Ash’s version of events and there were no witnesses. No one who could tell them that, actually, Ian was the one driving. Drink-driving.
A truncated version of all this flashes through Ian’s mind now, as he puffs on his cigarette and Ash looks at him imploringly.
‘I just thought … I didn’t think,’ Ash continues. ‘I took a glove out of the first-aid kit under the passenger’s seat and sprinted across the street and picked it up.’
‘And what do you want me to do with it?’
‘You know what I want you to do with it, Ian. I’m asking you as a friend.’
This is what Ash does. He protects those he loves like a loyal German shepherd. It’s second nature to him. But Ian can’t be part of this, even though Ash went above and beyond to save his skin. ‘Och, Ash, mate, I could lose my job.’
Ian might not have this job if it wasn’t for Ash, but although Ian has a feeling that Ash is thinking this, too, neither of them says it.
‘Dammit, Roly, she’s innocent!’
‘Then she has nothing to fear.’
‘She’s my daughter. She’s your goddaughter!’
Ash has raised his voice. He’s usually so composed. The Ashfords have been under so much stress. Ian’s afraid that’s going to all start up again before it’s really calmed down.
‘Ash, I can’t plant fake evidence,’ he says. ‘Not even for you. And we can’t frame the kids of a family who have just lost their son.’ Ian watches Ash’s face fall. ‘Even though their son was an evil bastard,’ he adds, hoping that will cushion the blow.
‘I don’t want to frame them. Not as such. I just want there to be a clue that points away from Iris.’ He emphasizes the word away.
‘What makes you think there’s a clue that points towards her?’
‘Come on, Roly. She had a motive. You know that as well as I do. Better than I do. What makes people kill?’
Ian takes one last drag on his cigarette, then exhales the smoke through his nose and stubs out the fag in the ashtray. ‘There are loads of reasons, Ash. Literally shitloads.’
‘Nine times out of ten it’s for money, love or revenge. Isn’t that what they say?’
‘In films and books, maybe. But this is real—’
‘Promise me you won’t come after Iris.’
‘I can’t promise you that. You know I can’t promise you that. We’ll have to go where the investigation takes us. We’re going to have to talk to a whole bunch of kids who knew him, Iris included.’
‘Jesus, Roly.’ Ash rakes his fingers through his hair. ‘This is such a mess. Can you talk to her? Don’t let someone she doesn’t know interrogate her, will you?’
‘It won’t be an interrogation, Ash. More like a wee chat. She doesn’t have to come in to the police station or anything. Not unless we need a statement. But, yes, I can talk to her personally, if that makes you feel better. She’s a minor. She’ll need a parent present, so you can be there too.’
Ash nods.
‘Look, for all we know, there’s DNA on Knoll’s body,’ Ian says.
‘Or on his clothes. We should find out soon enough.’ Seeing Ash’s blue eyes widen, Ian adds hastily, ‘I didn’t mean Iris’s DNA.
I meant the murderer’s. I’ll keep you posted.
You know, unofficially. OK?’ He’s not sure why he promises this.
He can’t tell Ash anything. He’s not even supposed to share anything with Jo.
Ash drains the rest of his pint. Ian has never seen him look so scared. Ash gets up to go. Ian stands, grabs Ash’s arm, retains him.
‘Hang on. I’ll drop you home,’ Ian says, although Ash’s house is just a stone’s throw from the pub.
Ash pulls away and walks off without saying goodbye.
Ian sits back down and smokes another cigarette.
He’s consumed with guilt. Guilt for smoking a fag when Jo so badly wants him to quit.
Guilt for running over Tracey. He has his Catholic upbringing to thank for all the guilt.
(The fact he’s a lapsed Catholic only makes it worse.) Above all, he feels bad about not helping his best friends and his goddaughter more when they were having such a shit time.
He tried to be there for them, but he wanted to do more than just show support. But cybercrime isn’t his field.
Murder, now that is his field. This time he can do something. He’s the fecking SIO on the case. But he can’t possibly do what Ash has asked him to do. He’ll feel bad about not doing it, though. It’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation.
On the table, next to the ashtray, is the knotted glove containing the roach. Honestly, it’s like the bloody thing is staring at him. He gets up and scissors over the bench. Then he pulls his keys out of his pocket, grabs the plastic glove and strides across the car park to his car.