He looks at me like a stunned rabbit, the carrot making circles in his mouth. My mum comes out of the kitchen, wondering what’s wrong. I don’t give her a second glance.
Outside again, I open the envelope as carefully as I can and slip out a single yellow page. The next second, I’m calling Mike.
HINCHCLIFFES. The neon buzzes above my head and the lack of an apostrophe, as usual, bugs me. Everyone knows that our local self-styled businessman-guru is an only child and unmarried, so I don’t care how many charities he funds, how many floats he sponsors in the Ferrivale parade, or how many drug runners he has operating across town, his punctuation is atrocious.
As we shuffle forward in the queue, I shoot Mike a concerned glance. He came running over as soon as he got my call but last night is clearly telling on him. Under our phone lights, he examined the new picture I’d been sent from El’s Moodles and Doodles book – this time a drawing of Bradley Hinchcliffe, the sharp nose, small eyes and ferrety mouth so familiar from local newspaper coverage of a million ribbon-cuttings. Only El had drawn Bradley’s mouth to resemble a leech-like hole, a disgusting dripping cavity ringed with needle-sharp teeth. From out of this alien mouth, gluts of white powder fall like snow over Ferrivale.
In a few short sentences, I told Mike about that day at your aunt’s and my theory as to why Bradley might have wanted you out of the picture.
“I think it must be someone who was at Gemma’s ‘wake’ party,” I said. “The journal-sender, I mean. They assumed from what happened last night that we’ve ruled Gemma out, which pretty much confirms our theory about them not knowing who rescued me. They’re using the journal pictures to help us identify suspects, but it’s just guesswork on their part. They don’t know for sure, so they send us the next most likely suspect from El’s drawings.”
An idea then popped into my head. Could it be Ollie? It would fit in with his ultra-protective behaviour at the party… But something about that didn’t ring true.
“So from what you say, this picture might indicate that Bradley Hinchcliffe had a grudge against El and that he’s our lake suspect,” Mike said. “We can pretty much rule him out for the porno perv or whoever frightened El at the dance. Someone would’ve noticed if he’d been hanging around the school. Okay, so what’s the plan?”
It’s a pretty terrible plan, but it’s the only one I could come up with, and so here we are, at the front of the queue – and for the first time in our Hinchcliffes history, a bouncer is barring our way.
“IDs.”
Crap. Neither Mike nor I look eighteen and we’ve both left our IDs at home.
“Um, we don’t really want to come in, necessarily.”
The man-mountain gestures with two fingers and the people behind us start funnelling past. “Oh yeah? So you’re just turned on by the queueing part then?”
“No.” I shake my head. “But me and my mate… Well, we want to buy some… You know…”
He looks down at me and breaks into this huge grin. “Now youareyanking my chain. Look, little boys, run on home, will you?”
I’m at a complete loss when Mike pipes up. “Hey, that notice above your door? Your premises’ licence to sell alcohol?”
“What about it?”
“It’s a legal requirement that the person nominated to sell alcohol must be clearly identified on the sign,” Mike says, parroting something he’s probably picked up from Carol’s work as an events organizer. “As you will see, Mr Hinchcliffe’s name is currently hidden by a huge dollop of bird shit. That means you are in breach of the law, and if I call the cops, theywillshut you down. So unless you want to get a ladder and some marigolds and start scrubbing?”
“You cheeky little—”
A hand reaches up from behind the goliath. “It’s okay, Tommo. Let them in.”
Tommo moves aside and Bradley Hinchcliffe himself beckons us inside. Reaching the cloakroom, the small, sleek, well-dressed figure stops and indicates a girl behind the counter.
“Talk to Yaz here,” he says. “She’ll sort you out.”
He’s about to move on when I catch the sleeve of his immaculate pinstripe.
“We’re not here for that,” I tell him. “Mr Hinchcliffe, I want to talk to you about a boy who died.”
Bradley hesitates, then shrugs and leads us through the painfully purple heart of his club, past the glittering bar and private booths, across the slightly sticky dance floor and beyond the DJ box. People barge and jostle us but it’s only 9.45 and the banter’s friendly. One girl tries to grab Mike and twirl him but he offers his apologies and keeps pace with us. My heart is hammering. Scenes from a dozen Hollywood gangster movies flicker through my head: scar-faced henchmen hauling traitors into the presence of cat-cuddling mafia bosses, bodies stuffed into trunks and dropped off piers. What have I dragged you into, Mike?
Hinchcliffe opens a leather-padded door and ushers us into his office. Then, while we stand in audience, he rounds a big glass desk and sinks into his chair.
“So what’s this all about?” he asks casually.
And suddenly I’m not one bit scared. Fuck this guy. Fuck him for what he did to you and Julia that day, El. “I want to know if you had anything to do with the death of Ellis Bell.”
He steeples his fingers and looks up at us. “Who?”
I take out your drawing and smooth it down on the desk.
