The Marriage - K.L. Slater (story books to read .TXT) 📗

‘Nevertheless, Jesse did die,’ Robert said smoothly. ‘The judge sent him down for ten years for manslaughter, and that’s what you still can’t accept.’

Twenty-Two Nottinghamshire Police

2009

Aside from the usual teenage antisocial behaviour at the park and the odd drunkard causing trouble in a late bar, it was rare that anything really serious happened in Mansfield or the surrounding area.

So when DS Irma Barrington got the call from her boss, DI Marcus Fernwood, at 2.45 a.m., she was surprised to say the least.

‘Hope I’ve not caught you at a bad time,’ he said drily. ‘Serious assault outside Movers nightclub in town. Victim unconscious with suspect still at the scene.’

Irma’s interest was instantly piqued. ‘Sounds interesting.’

‘You can drive. Pick me up on the way through.’

Irma said, ‘See you in ten.’

She’d fallen asleep on the sofa for the third night running, and the single advantage of that was that she was still fully dressed. She popped her head around the spare bedroom door and saw that her dad was still out for the count. She’d be back home in a couple of hours and he’d be none the wiser. It was the second time this month he’d turned up just before midnight ratted out of his skull, and it couldn’t keep happening. But she’d worry about that later.

She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and, closing the front door quietly behind her, padded out to the car. The street light outside the small front garden lit her path. She pointed the fob at the car, and the corresponding beep seemed loud enough to wake the whole street.

It was cold, and she wished she’d grabbed her warmer coat before leaving the house, but once the car heater had got going and started to belt out a bit of warmth, she instantly felt better.

She picked up Marcus from his smart townhouse in Oak Tree Lane and they drove towards the centre of town via Nottingham Road. Marcus wasn’t very talkative; in fact, when she glanced over, she saw his head was slumped against the window and his eyes were closed.

She navigated around the one-way system, passing the Four Seasons shopping centre, and turned into a side street that would lead her to Movers nightclub. In contrast to the deserted roads she’d driven through, the area outside the club was rammed with a large crowd of people.

‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Haven’t folks got beds to go to?’

Marcus shook himself and looked around. ‘This lot have obviously piled out of the club and found themselves some late-night entertainment.’

They got out of the car and pushed their way through the clamour of bodies, walking down the side of the building to the back entrance. It was a particularly cold night, and most of the crowd were underdressed. Irma pulled her jacket tighter and cursed herself for not remembering her scarf.

A man of around twenty lay prostrate in the quiet road that ran behind the club. He wore jeans and a white Lacoste T-shirt. His arms were wiry and his head had twisted at an awkward angle, his eyes closed. There was no obvious injury and Irma spotted shallow movement from his chest.

Marcus held up his ID and addressed the uniformed officer.

‘What’s the situation?’

‘His name is Jesse Wilson, sir,’ the young officer said, standing a little straighter. ‘He’s a local lad. The guy who punched him is over there. Says he’s his best friend.’ He handed Irma the victim’s ID.

‘With friends like that …’ Marcus murmured.

The detectives turned to see a stocky young man standing with a female police officer. He had dark hair and wore black jeans and a black T-shirt, the short sleeves straining around his muscular biceps. He stared at his boots and did not glance up.

‘Sounds like they had some kind of disagreement outside the club,’ the officer continued. ‘His mate over there reckoned he only punched the victim once, but Jesse slipped and fell, hit his head on the concrete. Ambulance is on its … Ah, looks like it’s just arrived.’

The crowd parted and fell away to let the emergency vehicle through. Irma glanced at the details on the ID in her hand, then dropped to her haunches and studied the face of Jesse Wilson, eighteen years old. He was a good-looking lad, in a rocker sort of way. The kind of bad boy her teenage niece would no doubt go weak at the knees for.

With the absence of any visible injuries, he looked deeply asleep, as if he’d simply had too much to drink and had passed out in the road.

She stood up and met the eyes of the young man the officer had said was Jesse’s best friend. She took in his naturally assertive stance, the look of dread on his face, and let out a small sigh.

He looked like a decent young man who’d come out for a good night and found himself in a whole lot of trouble.

Twenty-Three

Tom Billinghurst sat quietly in the back of the car as Irma drove him to the station with Marcus.

She watched him in the rear-view mirror but he would not meet her eyes. He stared out of the window at the deserted streets. It was almost 4 a.m. now; soon daybreak would arrive. Another day would start, very different to the one this young man – an amateur boxer, Marcus had since told her – had experienced yesterday.

Today, with a single, solitary punch, his whole life had taken a hairpin bend.

Before they’d got into the car, the paramedics had informed Marcus that Jesse’s prognosis did not look good. ‘They said there were signs of internal brain trauma when they got him into the ambulance,’ he told her. ‘They’ll be sending him directly for a CT scan when he gets to hospital.’

Irma had heard of one-punch deaths before. Freak accidents. Particularly lethal when administered by a trained boxer, as seemed to have happened in this case.

‘The doorman insists there was nobody else involved,’ Irma