The Runaway In Love (The Runaway Trilogy Book 2) Page 15

  I wiped my eyes and nose then looked over at Franco, who pointed his finger sideways, reminding me to poke the area he’d nipped. While it didn’t feel as bad as when he’d done it, it did help me focus.

  “Sarah had such a beautiful voice, didn’t she? I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

  I took a moment to acknowledge some of the attendees.

  “Miss Wilson, you were Sarah’s favourite teacher. She was so good at maths, and often helped me with my homework, even though I’m older so I should have been way past what she was studying.

  “She helped a lot of the younger kids at The Willows with their maths homework, too. But then again, she did that a lot—help people, I mean. Especially those who couldn’t help themselves, like kids that were being bullied in school or at The Willows. Sarah always got in trouble for it but she didn’t really care. She thought that beating bullies was the right thing to do. Sarah said it was worth having detention or getting grounded to know she’d given a bully a taste of their own medicine. I think she enjoyed fighting for those who couldn’t, for whatever reason, fight for themselves. After all, that had been her when she was younger, though the bullies in that situation had been her parents.

  “Does that give you all a different perspective of the reasons why Sarah fought so much?” I asked as I looked around the room. I took another deep breath and continued. “The thing that hurts the most is…she didn’t have many people willing to fight for her.

  “From day one she’d been left with an abusive, drug-addicted mother. There’d been so many red-flag occasions that had been ignored. Doctors reported every hospital admission to social services, but it took years and her mother dying for her to permanently escape that hell. Failure number one.

  “When Jean had her heart attack we were taken straight to The Willows. There was no one willing to sit us down and explain things—like why we had to be there, how long we had to stay, or just to let us know what was happening with our foster mum. We were worried for Jean. Scared that we’d never get to see her again. No wonder Sarah rebelled.

  “A different approach might have made the transition from foster family to residential children’s home an easier pill to swallow. But no one saw it from our side. Not to our knowledge at the time, anyway. I’ve since learned how much effort Lisa put into trying to help us visit Jean. For that I’m truly grateful.”

  Lisa looked shocked at my admission but nodded her head at my acceptance of her efforts.

  “Preventing Jean’s access to us at The Willows, along with the way we were left there, I believe was yet another failure. But it wouldn’t be the last.

  “When I went to my tutor, Mrs Keating, and let her know what Sarah told me was happening with Farid, Hassan, and Tariq, she’d been taken away from The Willows to a temporary home across town. It was the right thing to do, yet she was only gone for five days. Why? Why couldn’t she have been kept there and watched. She should have been able to confide in someone and maybe receive counselling. Why couldn’t the police have arrested Farid, Hassan, and Tariq? How bad does a crime against children have to be to make you act?” I questioned loudly while staring at the detectives. One of them shifted nervously while the other, Detective Constable Twatface/Twain, glared at me defiantly. He wasn’t the slightest bit bothered that Sarah was dead. I knew that.

  “Something I came to realise many years ago…kids like Sarah and me don’t really matter. Our parents might be drunks or junkies—maybe they’re selling sex in order to buy an illegal substance they care for more than us. Maybe they’re habitual thieves or people who collect antisocial behaviour convictions like they’re going out of fashion. The automatic response to us seems to be, ‘Why waste time on them, they’ll never amount to anything?’ It’s like we don’t deserve the same thought, care, and respect as children born to regular, hardworking parents. Those that fit into the ideal of what a conventional family should be.

  “It doesn’t matter how well behaved we are or how smart we might be. Our cards are already marked. We’re an inconvenience. We’ll be on drugs and on the game like our mums. We must be lying when we say people are hurting us. And it’s obvious we’re being racist when we tell you that a gang of Pakistani men are raping our friends. Isn’t that so, Detective Constable Dickson and Detective Constable Twain? I call that a failure of epic proportions.”

  They both looked like they were about to object, but PC Winters gave them a warning glare, shaking his head to reinforce his silent message.

  “How many more young lives will be ruined before those that should have protected them take responsibility for their failures? What will it take to make changes to the system to protect the vulnerable?

  “There are monsters out there who search out their victims carefully. They prey on those they consider to be an easy target: children who are in desperate need of consistency and love in their lives. Children who lack the material things that some of their peers take for granted.

  “Tariq Akbar was a DJ at the local youth club. Presumably he’d had to undergo police checks and fill in a disclosure form before he was able to work with kids. Of course, if nothing had been flagged on his police check he had every right to take that job. But what about afterwards? The rest of the staff knew how friendly he was with the girls. How Sarah, Beth, and others their age hung around him. They must have seen him give some of those girls a lift home. Maybe they were like me: they knew something was off, but because the girls were behaving themselves in public, they let it go. Treated it like a passing phase.

  “You see, I failed Sarah too. I knew something was wrong, but because Sarah had stopped getting in trouble so much, I said and did nothing. By the time I knew what was going on it was already too late. Those men had gotten their claws into Sarah. Farid Ali convinced her she was special to him, that he loved her and wanted her to be his for always. For someone who craved love and affection, you can see how easily she was manipulated by him and his gang. They gave the girls phones. Sarah thought that made them kind and generous, when really it was a way to keep control over them and their whereabouts. Sarah did try to end it, but they threatened Jean and me—people who meant more to her than anything. They showed her photos of me leaving school and Jean outside her house. She was scared they would hurt us if she told anyone. And let’s face it, when any of them did inform the police, the information went nowhere. The groomers could rely on the police to ignore their victims.”

  I gave a sarcastic laugh then stared at the despicable detectives before saying, “There you go, fellas. At least some members of society can rely on you.

  “Some of you might think a funeral isn’t the right time or place to bring all this up. I think it’s the perfect time. When I first began to talk about Sarah I mentioned how she’d fight for others. She cared about people and would stand up for them as best she could. She can’t do that now—not physically, anyway. By getting everyone to talk about what happened to Sarah—not only what led to her death, but throughout her short life—then maybe lessons can be learned that will prevent these failures happening to another vulnerable child. My husband has suggested I set up a charity to help young people leaving care. I think that’s a great idea. But I also think we should extend the umbrella of that charity to other children who are in a no-win situation due to their upbringing. I’d like to call the charity Sarah’s Legacy. It will be a way of keeping her name and memory alive. A way she can still fight for those that need her help.

  “The charity will give young people chances in life they might otherwise be denied—a way for them to secure a brighter future. It could help with further education or getting a place to live or work.

  “Many of you are involved with children and young people in a professional capacity. You would be more than welcome to send me suggestions of ways in which you think the charity could help those in need. My husband’s business will be the charity’s main benefactor, though I’m hoping we can eventually rely on public donations and support.”


  I looked towards Sarah’s coffin, noticing for the first time how the sparkles in the paintwork reflected the light from the stained glass window.

  “Sarah’s ashes will be scattered in the loch at Glengarran Castle in the Scottish Highlands. My husband and I got married there so it means a lot to me. As he owns the castle and the land around it, he asked me to let you know you are welcome to pay her final resting place a visit, whenever you’re in the area. If you let us know beforehand we can inform the staff, who will be happy to greet you upon your arrival.”

  I recalled Mrs Braeburn, the housekeeper at Glengarran, and thought the last sentence might not strictly be true. She hadn’t been so welcoming to me.

  “I’d like to thank you all for coming here today. It meant a lot to me and Jean to see everyone outside school and The Willows paying their respects. There’s a small buffet and refreshments in the tea rooms at the bottom of the hill, if anyone would like to join us.

  “Before we leave, I’d like to play you one last video of Sarah. It includes me, too, so I’ll apologise beforehand for my less than stellar voice.”

  I pressed play on the remote control once again and waited for the next video. It was of both of us singing Wings, another of Birdy’s songs, and one of my favourites.

  Kolya came forward and took my arm as I stepped down from the pulpit, before escorting me back to my seat beside Jean. During the last chorus of Wings, the dark blue heavy velvet curtains either side of the altar closed, removing Sarah’s coffin and our video from view.

  29

  Kolya

  No one could stay long at the customary funeral tea. Teachers had to get back to their classes and PCs Foster and Winters were getting ready for the afternoon shift.

  Before she left, PC Foster informed us that Farid Ali had been spotted at a mosque with Hassan Akbar the night he’d been reported missing. Apparently Farid had also been spotted buying kebabs at a takeaway in Leeds, so the police were working on the assumption he was hiding out somewhere in West Yorkshire. The officer wanted us to be aware in case we were planning on spending time in the area.

  Tess had kept her expression blank, her confusion masked. She knew Farid Ali was dead; she also knew it was me that killed him. She’d met Rashid but hadn’t noticed his resemblance to Farid—or maybe she did notice but hadn’t wanted to acknowledged it. I was thankful that Rashid hadn’t joined us today, and wondered if he would be willing to shave off his beard.

  The two detectives my wife despised didn’t follow us into the tea rooms. I was glad of that. I wanted to hurt them, badly. Their treatment of Tess was unacceptable. I thought that shit involving Carrick would have stuck to them, too, but they’d been lucky so far. Before the year is out I will make sure their careers are ruined.

  Teachers from Tess’s school said they would be happy to support the charity she had proposed, as did PC Foster. Neither Tess nor I could discuss it further until we had the legal side sorted, which everyone understood. I’d spoken with Oliver Ward Jones at length about the project and he was handing it over to his associate to deal with. I promised everyone we’d be in touch when we’d heard back from the Charities Commission. In the meantime we were open to any ideas. I suggested we set up a meeting to discuss our mission statement once the charity had been registered.

  Yannis had left as soon as the service was over. He’d placed a gift in our vehicle for Tess before he and his team drove away. He had a meeting in Paris that couldn’t be postponed but promised he would call her later to see how she was. Tess had won him over without much effort. He admired her wit, outspokenness, and bravery.

  Yannis and Catherine had already been good friends when we met. It was he who introduced us. They never had as much as a cross word or heated debate in all the years they’d known each other. I could not say the same.

  Yannis and I had often argued. Sometimes we’d go weeks without speaking if he was in one of his sulks, though it was never serious enough to break our friendship. I doubt anything could do that. We were like brothers, he and I.

  Catherine said that Yannis was mollycoddled by his parents in his younger years. He was an only child and had been used to getting his own way, which was something she had understood. As an adult he wanted the same thing but that’s not always acceptable. He always let James have his own way and gave him everything he asked for—often berating Catherine and me if we denied him anything.

  The last time Yannis and I had a blazing row was on New Year’s Day. We were both hungover and he was unhappy that I’d decided against buying one of his company’s shipyards. It had been out of commission for some time and he’d offered me the chance to purchase it, and the land around it, for a significantly reduced price. The proposal was appealing but I’d already made the decision to buy in Central or Eastern Europe—hopefully with the tempting incentives the EU were offering. He’d stormed out of my hotel and refused to speak to me for a couple of months, though I knew he kept in contact with James on a weekly basis.

  Yannis rang me at the end of February and apologised for his behaviour. I accepted his apology and his assurances that the whole thing would be forgotten. After that we went back to our same easy friendship—one which had lasted two decades.

  When we’d met up again in April, our friendship was the same as it always was. We were going to have a late dinner then hit a club. Yannis told me he was in the mood for a night of debauchery with a beautiful stranger as we’d made our way out of the building. Then chaos erupted around us, and an angel with wild copper-coloured hair saved my life, risking her own in turn.

  I watched my angel from across the room. It looked like she was in a heated discussion with one of her old social workers. I made my way across to her, smiling to myself as I pondered the thought of Tess and Yannis arguing. I knew my wife wouldn’t put up with his childish sulks. They both had a quick temper but my friend wouldn’t stand a chance against her when she was out for blood.

  “Is there a problem here, ladies?” I slipped my arm around Tess and stared at the woman she’d been disagreeing with.

  “Andrea here is being all judgy, as per usual. She said she’s concerned for my welfare and offered to help me get away from you.”

  “Is that so?” I replied, my voice calm and steady, though inside I was furious.

  Andrea stuck her chin in the air and stared at me defiantly.

  “I was only offering Tess another option. I wanted her to know our department could still help her,” she said rather loudly, as if she wanted everyone to hear.

  Franco and Jonesy laughed out loud at her bold statement.

  “Now they want to help! Bit late for that poor girl we carried into the chapel today, huh?” commented Franco, and I wholeheartedly agreed.

  “Apart from having to deal with the events surrounding Sarah’s death, I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my whole life. But you refuse to acknowledge that, Andrea,” Tess declared.

  “All you see is a man who is older than me; a rich man who can have anything or anyone he wants, yet he chooses me. That sets off alarm bells in your head because, obviously, I’m no one special. An ex-foster kid with a troubled background. It’s exactly what I said in the chapel. You can’t see how I’d be good for someone like Kolya or how he could love me. So you look at Kolya and find flaws with him, instead.

  “You’ve already mentioned the age difference. You’re assuming he’s got a thing for young girls, and probably think he has a whole harem waiting for him in Russia somewhere. You suggested he’s not a good man because he creates and sells weapons, but some of those weapons are used by our own military to keep our country and others safe. I went to a ball in London a few weeks ago and watched him speak with government ministers and foreign dignitaries. They know Kolya well and have a lot of respect for him.

  “You also said you know what they are like. I’m confused by that sentence. Did you mean arms dealers, Russians, or just men in general? Let’s go through them all, shall we?”

  I h
eard Jonesy mutter, “She’s on one now, God help us.”

  If Tess heard him, she didn’t pause her angry tirade.

  “Arms dealers are filthy rich and can talk the hind legs off a donkey when it comes to the next big thing in weaponry and defence. Especially when they create the stuff.

  “Next up we’ll take the fact that although Kolya has dual citizenship, he’s Russian by birth. And we all know how the media likes to portray Russians. Homophobic, racist, intolerant of anything different. My husband isn’t any of those things. Take Nate over there. He’s of African American descent, he lives with his other half, Kevin, in our home. Kevin also works for Kolya. He has other guards who you would say are from an ethnic minority, and that extends into other areas of his business, too.

  “Now let’s talk about the fact that he’s a man. You assume you know what all men are like—probably think he’s sex mad and couldn’t wait to get ‘vulnerable little me’ into bed at the earliest opportunity. You couldn’t be more wrong. Kolya valued and respected my innocence. Even though we were married he said he wouldn’t sleep with me until I turned eighteen, which drove me bloody mad at the time. But I see what a good man that makes him, and I love him all the more for it.

  “So you can keep your bigoted, judgemental attitude to yourself, and go write up your little report of today’s events. Remember to add in the fact that the man you so dislike will do more for kids leaving care in the next twelve months than you will have done in your whole career.”