Stop Dead (DI Geraldine Steel)

his hood. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best he could do. Once he had left for the day, he would stay out of the house as long as possible, and run straight upstairs when he got in. With any luck she would never notice he’d been injured.

     
    His pillow was not so easily disposed of. He could hardly throw that away. He racked his brains, trying to come up with an excuse for a missing pillow, because even if he succeeded in leaving the house without his mother catching sight of the gash on his head, the pillow would give the game away. Although he had banned her from his room, she went in there all the time, nosing around, checking up on him, ever since she had found a packet of her fags beside his bed. She was bound to go in and see the bloody pillow and then all hell would break loose. He would be grounded, and his mother would insist on marching off to the school to complain, as though that would make any difference. She was always complaining, and it only made things worse for him. All the teachers hated him because of her fussing, and the other kids knew it. Anxiously, he pushed the pillow under his duvet.

     
    With the stained pillow concealed for the time being, he felt more positive. She probably wouldn’t notice. By the time she saw it, the gash on his head would have healed and he could make up some bull about having cut his finger or something equally innocuous. Anything to prevent her finding out that he had been set upon again. There was no way he was going to tell anyone the truth about being attacked by a woman. The more he thought about it, the less he liked the idea of anyone finding out. Apart from the fact that he would become a laughing stock at school, it raised all sorts of awkward questions.

     
    Adults always closed ranks. They were bound to suspect the woman had been acting in self-defence, raising questions about what he had been up to, setting on her. The only alternative was to convince everyone he was the victim of an assault. And if he lied about his attacker being a woman, his mother would start banging on about going to the police who would check CCTV and find out he had been lying about being beaten up by a gang of lads on the estate. It was all so complicated, it made his aching head spin. Only one thing was clear. No one must ever find out what had happened. He skipped out of the house without stopping for breakfast.
    ‘Gotta go, I’ll be late for school.’
    ‘When did you ever care about being on time? And take that bloody hoodie off. What’s wrong with your jacket? I spent good money getting you a proper uniform for that school.’

     
    Ignoring her raised voice as he ran through the door, he raced along the walkway and down the concrete staircase. He had no intention of going back to school until his head had healed. As long as he kept his hood up, he could move around without attracting attention. His head was still throbbing but he didn’t feel too bad, and he had a tenner in his pocket that he had borrowed from his mother’s purse. Stupid cow should have been more careful. She would blame it on him, of course, as per usual, but in the meantime he was on his way to the shopping centre with a free day ahead of him and ten quid in his pocket. Stuff her. Stuff them all. This was his time and he intended to make the most of it.

     
    Talk about unlucky. He still had the note in his jeans pocket and could have paid for the bar of chocolate ten times over. They shouldn’t leave goodies on display like that, if they didn’t want people to help themselves. It was there for the taking. The sodding security guard caught him just outside the shop.
    ‘Fuck off! You’ve got to be joking. It’s only a fucking bar of chocolate! Here, have it.’
    He squirmed but the security guard kept a tight grip on his arm. Inexorably dragged back into the shop, he continued his protest, keeping his head down because people had started to look at him.
    ‘I can pay for it if you let go of my fucking arm. I’ve got ten quid on me. I’ll pay for it. Take the money. Let me go.’

     
    The office was a poky room with a desk and some rusty filing cabinets along one wall. Charlie thought the manager would have had a more impressive place to work. He looked the old geezer straight in the eye and decided to appeal to his good nature. He looked like a goody goody sort. After all, it was only a bar of chocolate.
    ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ he stammered.
    He tried to sound scared, which