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Authors: Jo Bannister
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him.” There was a nasal whine in the boy’s voice.
“I will,” promised Hazel. “I’ll explain everything. But he’ll need to talk to you. You saw these things and I didn’t. He won’t be angry with you. Why would he be?” She got to her feet, pulled Saturday to his.
And it was through her hand on his arm that she felt his spare muscles bunch, ready to flee. She said softly, “If you run, I will come after you. We have to deal with this, and we have to do it now.”
After a moment, Saturday nodded. They walked back to Balfour Street and collected Hazel’s car.
* * *
Detective Inspector Gorman had them shown up right away. It was almost, Hazel thought, as if he was expecting her. But the boy trailing reluctantly behind her like a pram dinghy behind a frigate took him by surprise.
He had his mouth open to say one thing, then thought better of it and shut it. He waved them to chairs on the opposite side of his desk. “Er…”
Hazel waited another moment, politely, before embarking on the explanation she’d prepared. “This is my friend Saul Desmond. You may know him as Saturday. He’s the one who left that laptop for me to bring in.” She was pleased with that. It was perfectly accurate, without contradicting anything she’d told the DI previously. “And the reason he wanted us to have it instead of selling it to some guy in a pub”—Saturday kept his eyes averted—“is that he’s got better instincts for criminality than the two of us put together. He accessed it the same way we did. But instead of seeing who the owner was and shutting it down, he found a second set of files behind a second password. Those were the ones he wanted you to see.”
Dave Gorman blinked. He’d thought, when he heard Hazel was at the front desk, that he knew how the next few minutes were going to go. But it wasn’t like this. “Why?”
Hazel turned to Saturday; Saturday remained fixated on a tear in the left knee of his jeans. Hazel sighed. “Because they’re full of images of child pornography. Scores of them.”
Police officers dedicated to the pursuit of criminals and the prevention of crime cannot decently admit to smacking their lips at any lawbreaking. Among themselves, though, a certain relish may be detected at the prospect of a good jewel heist to solve or a clever art robbery. There are those who positively look forward to working on a good old-fashioned bank job or a brilliant con.
But nobody wants to investigate child abuse. They do it because decent police officers, like all decent people, want it dealt with as efficiently as possible, and the perpetrators put where they can do no more harm. No one wants to work on cases like that, but when they do, no one has to ask them to stay late. Detectives who can normally stretch a lunch hour until three can be seen eating sandwiches at their desks. They abandon all hope of a private life until they’re sure they’ve done everything they can.
“You didn’t see these images?” Gorman asked Hazel.
“No.”
“And he didn’t tell you about them when he gave you the laptop?”
“No,” Hazel said again. “Mr. Gorman, I know this boy. I know he isn’t lying. He’s got nothing to gain by lying. He could have sold the laptop and neither you nor I would ever have known. Fifty quid, eighty quid in his pocket. That’s a lot to someone like Saturday. He’d need a good reason not to do that. Well, this is it. What he saw on that computer. He may not be your idea of a model citizen, but this struck him as important enough to do the right thing.”
“Why didn’t you tell us what was on it?” This time the detective was looking straight at the boy.
Saturday mumbled something in reply.
“What?”
The boy looked up with a sudden hawklike fierceness. “Because,” he enunciated sharply, “it never occurred to me for one frigging minute that you wouldn’t frigging look!”
Gorman had Saturday repeat in grueling detail exactly what he’d
“I will,” promised Hazel. “I’ll explain everything. But he’ll need to talk to you. You saw these things and I didn’t. He won’t be angry with you. Why would he be?” She got to her feet, pulled Saturday to his.
And it was through her hand on his arm that she felt his spare muscles bunch, ready to flee. She said softly, “If you run, I will come after you. We have to deal with this, and we have to do it now.”
After a moment, Saturday nodded. They walked back to Balfour Street and collected Hazel’s car.
* * *
Detective Inspector Gorman had them shown up right away. It was almost, Hazel thought, as if he was expecting her. But the boy trailing reluctantly behind her like a pram dinghy behind a frigate took him by surprise.
He had his mouth open to say one thing, then thought better of it and shut it. He waved them to chairs on the opposite side of his desk. “Er…”
Hazel waited another moment, politely, before embarking on the explanation she’d prepared. “This is my friend Saul Desmond. You may know him as Saturday. He’s the one who left that laptop for me to bring in.” She was pleased with that. It was perfectly accurate, without contradicting anything she’d told the DI previously. “And the reason he wanted us to have it instead of selling it to some guy in a pub”—Saturday kept his eyes averted—“is that he’s got better instincts for criminality than the two of us put together. He accessed it the same way we did. But instead of seeing who the owner was and shutting it down, he found a second set of files behind a second password. Those were the ones he wanted you to see.”
Dave Gorman blinked. He’d thought, when he heard Hazel was at the front desk, that he knew how the next few minutes were going to go. But it wasn’t like this. “Why?”
Hazel turned to Saturday; Saturday remained fixated on a tear in the left knee of his jeans. Hazel sighed. “Because they’re full of images of child pornography. Scores of them.”
Police officers dedicated to the pursuit of criminals and the prevention of crime cannot decently admit to smacking their lips at any lawbreaking. Among themselves, though, a certain relish may be detected at the prospect of a good jewel heist to solve or a clever art robbery. There are those who positively look forward to working on a good old-fashioned bank job or a brilliant con.
But nobody wants to investigate child abuse. They do it because decent police officers, like all decent people, want it dealt with as efficiently as possible, and the perpetrators put where they can do no more harm. No one wants to work on cases like that, but when they do, no one has to ask them to stay late. Detectives who can normally stretch a lunch hour until three can be seen eating sandwiches at their desks. They abandon all hope of a private life until they’re sure they’ve done everything they can.
“You didn’t see these images?” Gorman asked Hazel.
“No.”
“And he didn’t tell you about them when he gave you the laptop?”
“No,” Hazel said again. “Mr. Gorman, I know this boy. I know he isn’t lying. He’s got nothing to gain by lying. He could have sold the laptop and neither you nor I would ever have known. Fifty quid, eighty quid in his pocket. That’s a lot to someone like Saturday. He’d need a good reason not to do that. Well, this is it. What he saw on that computer. He may not be your idea of a model citizen, but this struck him as important enough to do the right thing.”
“Why didn’t you tell us what was on it?” This time the detective was looking straight at the boy.
Saturday mumbled something in reply.
“What?”
The boy looked up with a sudden hawklike fierceness. “Because,” he enunciated sharply, “it never occurred to me for one frigging minute that you wouldn’t frigging look!”
Gorman had Saturday repeat in grueling detail exactly what he’d
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