‘This afternoon Manchester Metropolitan Police charged a fourteen-year-old boy, who cannot be named for legal reasons, with the murders of Victor Tosin and Lydia Oluwaseyi. I would like to thank the community of Manorclough for their help and to thank my officers for their dedication and persistence’ but not their pigheaded reckless fuckwittery ‘in pursuing this case. The recent murders of Richard Kavanagh and Victor Tosin and Lydia Oluwaseyi we believe to be hate crimes and if those charged are convicted they can expect to face longer sentences as a result. We all have the right to live safely in our community. Attacking another person for no other reason than a dislike of that person’s ethnicity, sexuality, subculture or lifestyle is an appalling crime and will be investigated with the utmost rigour and determination – as will any murder in our town. Our thoughts are with the relatives and friends of the victims. Thank you.’
Back inside the police station, the incident room was deserted. Plenty more to be done but nothing that couldn’t wait until morning. A wave of exhaustion made Gill dizzy. A good night’s sleep, that was what she needed, something decent to eat, an hour of telly, a chat with Sammy. Some routine. The team would be in the pub. She’d show her face, important to be there celebrating their success, to be part of it.
Just Rachel and Janet left now. The lads had stayed for a drink then gone to a pub down the road to watch the match. Mitch had gone home after showing his face. He had a young family and his work meant he missed out on a lot of the domestic stuff. He made up for it whenever he could.
‘He wasn’t thick, was he?’ Janet said. ‘Connor. Not like Noel and Neil Perry. He can’t have thought he’d get away with it.’
‘Search me,’ Rachel said. You could drive yourself mad trying to work out why people did the stupid stuff they did.
‘That hatred, living with it day in day out. It’s easier to fix on that, to blame other people, outsiders, isn’t it?’ Janet said.
‘What for?’
‘For everything that you hate about your miserable little life. But it’s like a split, isn’t it?’ Janet said. ‘He’s matey enough with Victor and Lydia, hangs around there. Probably likes the attention, he’s only fourteen, they’re dealing. Victor trusts him enough to hand him the gun, then it’s like someone’s flipped a switch. Bang bang. What did he think would happen? His dad pats him on the head and trains him up in the family business. No comeback, no repercussions. Did he think we wouldn’t catch him?’