The Kill Call

he’s clean. Not even a bit of juvenile on his record. Actually, he doesn’t seem the type from what I saw of him. Long hair, and a bit dreamy looking. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wrote poetry. You know the sort of kid.’
    ‘An emo?’
    ‘Is that what they call them?’
    ‘Emos are more likely to kill themselves than anybody else,’ said Fry. ‘Did Mrs Crabbe understand what she was implicating him in?’
    ‘She must have done, surely?’ said Hitchens. ‘Here’s his custody record anyway, Diane. The name is Sean Crabbe, aged twenty, student. He’s local, too – so his voice could well match the 999 call.’
    Fry sat up straighter. ‘You want me to do the interview, sir?’
    ‘Well, why not?’
       
    Sean Crabbe sat in Interview Room One, a desperately hangdog expression on his face. He was staring down at his hands, which gripped the edge of the table. His knuckles were white, a sign of the tension he was under.
    If he’d been in any doubt about the seriousness of the charges he might face, he had been enlightened by his brief, who looked almost as anxious as Crabbe.
    ‘It wasn’t me who killed him,’ was the young man’s first sentence when Fry sat down opposite him and started the tapes.
    ‘Killed who, Sean?’ asked Fry, hoping this was going to be an easy one.
    ‘The man in the hut. The dead man.’
    Fry reminded herself that the 999 call had reported a dead body in the abandoned hut. That was despite the fact that Patrick Rawson had clearly not been dead at the time, since he’d recovered sufficiently to run a few hundred yards across the adjoining fields. Of course, that didn’t preclude Sean Crabbe from being responsible for his death.
    ‘You’d better tell us about it, Sean. From the start.’
    He glanced at his solicitor, and Fry could sense that they’d agreed what Sean would say – and perhaps what he wouldn’t. But she’d encountered this brief before, he was pretty straight. Besides, Sean Crabbe seemed more than ready to tell his story.
    ‘It was the sight of the phone, just lying there. That was what did it. I couldn’t resist picking it up. It was really smart, you see – a Sony Ericsson.’ He leaned forward and stared at Fry to see if she understood. ‘It happens all the time, people nicking phones. I’ve had two nicked in the last year. All my mates have, too. I thought it would be all right, just to – you know, take one back.’
    ‘Sean, I don’t think you’ve started from the beginning, like I asked you,’ said Fry.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Let’s begin with why you went up to the old agricultural research centre on Longstone Moor on Tuesday morning. I need to know what you were doing there in the first place.’
    Sean hesitated. ‘The old huts are just somewhere I go, to be on my own. There was no other reason.’
    ‘Were you going there to meet someone?’
    ‘No. It was like I just said.’
    ‘But someone else was there,’ insisted Fry.
    ‘Just … well, just the dead man.’
    ‘His name is Patrick Rawson. And he was alive when you first saw him, Sean.’
    ‘He was dying, though. He was practically dead. And I wasn’t responsible for that.’
    ‘Oh, come on.’
    ‘I’m telling you the truth.’
    Fry sat back in surprise. He almost looked as though he was going to cry. Twenty years old, and he was upset by somebody speaking to him a bit sharply. What was it the DI had said? He didn’t look the type. Sean Crabbe was the kind of boy who ought to be writing poetry somewhere. The kind who wanted to be on his own, and wouldn’t like an intrusion into his little hideaway. She decided to try a different tack.
    ‘You said the old huts are just somewhere you go, Sean. So you go up there often, do you?’
    He ran a hand across his face, though there weren’t actually any tears that Fry could see.
    ‘Quite often. Whenever I get the chance.’
    ‘Because it’s somewhere you can be on your own?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Don’t you ever meet anyone up there?’
    ‘No, never. No one goes there, except me.’
    Fry nodded. ‘So you must have been annoyed when you saw Mr Rawson arrive.’
    Sean looked confused. ‘I told you.’
    ‘No, you didn’t, Sean.’
    ‘I told you, I didn’t see him arrive. He was already nearly dead when I saw him.’
    The duty solicitor was starting to get restless. The same question asked in a different way could often get a result. But not with Sean Crabbe.
    ‘Sean, you were in possession of Mr Rawson’s wallet. So we know