Deity

skimmed it briefly.

‘Let’s call him the deceased until we’re told it’s murder, John.’ Brook yawned heavily and tossed the papers on to the desk. ‘Decent lads?’

‘Solid kids from good families. No juvey-juvenile cautions,’ Noble corrected himself before Brook caught his eye. ‘And those CCTV cameras near the bridge were dummies.’

‘Any other cameras locally?’ asked Brook.

‘In Borrowash? Hardly. The only excitement round there seems to be the odd broken wing mirror.’

Brook put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘All this careful planning suggests our man’s a murderer.’

‘Man? So you’ve definitely ruled out multiple suspects.’

‘I think so. Statistically we’re looking for a male, especially as our John Doe may have needed lifting. And, whether he has accomplices or not, he was on his own when he dumped the body.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The traffic cones,’ replied Brook, looking up at Noble to see if he wanted to take the reins.

Noble lifted his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. ‘What about them?’

‘He couldn’t carry the cones as well as a Road Closed sign. Two people could have done it. After he dumps the body, he’s in a hurry so he picks up his sign . .’

‘. . and leaves the cones stacked on the pavement thinking no one would notice,’ finished Noble. ‘Presumably he blocked off the road from the other side as well — somewhere out of sight of the bridges.’

‘I think so.’

‘We should-’

‘I already looked, John. There’s nothing to see though I’ve got a picture of an impression in the road that could have been from a line of cones — all fairly pointless.’

‘We might get a fingerprint from the cones he left behind.’

Brook wrinkled up his nose. ‘Doubtful.’

‘At least we know he must have driven off south, towards Elvaston Castle, because if he parked on the river bridge to dump the body, he must have run the hundred yards back up to Station Road for his sign.’ Noble looked at the ceiling, thinking it through. ‘But when he drove away, he pulled up to his other road-block so it was easier to put the sign and the cones in his car.’

Brook smiled approvingly at his DS. ‘There you go. Though if he’s transporting a body, some kind of van is more likely.’ He pushed the A-Z towards Noble. ‘All of which gets us to here, the junction of the B5010, where he turns right towards the A6 and A50, maybe heading for the M1 or back into Derby.’

‘Or left towards Shardlow — assuming he’s not from Thulston.’

Brook sighed. ‘You’re right. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s wait for Forensics and the post mortem to find out exactly what we’re dealing with.’

The middle-aged man in a crumpled white chef’s uniform stared in disbelief as Rusty spoke to him. He then turned and glared over at Kyle and the others, giving them a lingering look up and down. Finally he shrugged and a moment later followed Rusty to their table and set a tray of soft drinks down, before distributing them to the students. He wore an ID badge with the name Lee and the archaic title Refectory Manager.

Adele smiled for the first time that day. The uniform and the title seemed incongruous to her, since the pinnacle of culinary sophistication in the college cafe was cheese on toast. Nevertheless she added the word ‘Refectory’ to her mental list of arcane words for future use. Just in case.

Rusty smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said, talking to the table.

‘Aye. Well, don’t get used to it,’ said Lee. ‘I’m not a fucking waiter.’

Rusty placed a pound coin on to the empty tray without looking up.

The Refectory Manager looked down at it in surprise, if not gratitude. ‘Blimey. Think I’ll have it framed.’ He nodded his appreciation before trudging back to his till.

‘Waiter service, eh?’ teased Kyle.

‘Hark at Simon Cowell over here,’ added Becky.

Rusty was embarrassed. ‘My mum was a waitress for a while, and they earn a pittance, so I try to leave a tip if I can.’

Adele beamed at him. He squirmed under her gaze. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Rusty.’

‘Yeah, thanks for the drink, bruv,’ said Kyle, taking a swig of Coke.

Rusty examined the camcorder strapped to his right wrist. ‘No probs.’

‘I can’t imagine your mum as a waitress, Rusty,’ said Adele. ‘She’s so pretty.’

‘It wasn’t for long. And there was nothing else she could get in Chester.’

‘Don’t they need models in Wales then?’ asked Fern, turning to grin at Becky. To her surprise, Becky looked away, unsmiling.

‘She must be raking it in now though, if you’re such a moneybags,’ said Kyle.

‘Not really,’ said Rusty. ‘But it was my eighteenth last week so Mum’s spoiling me.’

There was an uncomfortable silence round the table from all except Fern. ‘Happy Birthday,’ she said gaily, missing the sudden mood-change. ‘Did you have a party?’

Becky and Adele rolled their eyes at Fern until she became vaguely aware she’d said the wrong thing.

Rusty smiled at the table, equally unaware of her faux pas. ‘No. But my mum bought me this new camcorder.’ He brandished it proudly. ‘And a cake.’

‘Your mum sounds nice,’ said Kyle warmly. He nodded sadly at the others. Poor Rusty. Nobody knew. Eighteenth birthdays were a big deal in a life so short of landmarks. They were an excuse for wild partying and drunken revelry with friends, extravagant presents from parents and maybe even a cruise round Derby, hanging from a Stretch. Assuming you had friends, of course. He looked at Rusty and realised he knew very little about him.

Suddenly Rusty looked up into his eyes. ‘What’s a MILF?’ The others darted their eyes around the table in panic. ‘That is what Wilson called my mum, isn’t it?’

It was difficult for the others to keep a straight face in the ensuing silence. Fortunately the writer among them came to the rescue. ‘It stands for Mums I Like Fine,’ said Adele, with a quick glance at Fern to discourage giggling.

‘That’s right,’ agreed Becky. ‘And Wilson’s such a good judge of personality.’ She stared at the top of Rusty’s head, then open-mouthed at Fern and Adele. Was this guy for real? Social skills zero, street patter zero. She sneaked a glance at Fern, who was starting to snigger, and Adele who was mouthing at her to stop.

Rusty looked up again and smiled. ‘Funny, I had Wilson down as a bit of a knobhead but he’s right. Mum’s the best. It’s been very difficult for her, having to move again.’ He looked away again, embarrassed, and no one pressed him to finish. They’d all heard the rumours of bullying.

‘It’s my eighteenth tomorrow,’ said Kyle, changing the subject. He looked round at his fellow students with an apologetic smile. This time even Fern was on message and looked intently at her drink. ‘Don’t worry,’ he continued. ‘You don’t need to waste your weekend on me. I’m not having a party either. Things are tight at the moment. There’s just me and Mum. Daddy Warbucks offered to pay but Mum doesn’t. .’ Kyle’s voice became more halting and he began to wish he’d said nothing. ‘Well,’ he finished tamely.

‘I couldn’t come anyway,’ said Fern, trying to hide her relief. ‘My parents are taking me Bournemouth for the weekend. Lame or what?’

Adele laid a hand across Kyle’s and fixed him in her gaze. ‘You should celebrate.’

Kyle looked at her with his doleful eyes. ‘Should I?’ He emitted a half-laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, I think so. You only get one eighteenth. And on a Friday too.’ She smiled but felt a stab of pain. Friday was always her special night with Adam. The first time they’d made love was on a Friday, last summer at his cottage.

‘He doesn’t have to celebrate if he doesn’t want to,’ said Becky.

‘Celebration implies happiness,’ said Rusty almost to himself.