I try to keep my tone even and nonthreatening. It’s all I can do at this point. To force an interview, even if I could, might risk anything I learned from him being thrown out of court down the line if it’s considered that he wasn’t well enough to talk to me.
I think about what my dad might have said about that, how he would have sent a couple of DCs around to scoop this boy up and march him down to the station to make him talk.
The women melt away from the door as I turn to leave the room, but I’m acutely aware of their gaze, even as I take a seat.
Woodley’s been there all along, sitting quietly. He’s good at that. It’s an important skill for a detective, to be able to morph into a wallflower. People let down their guard around you, and you can learn a lot.
I glance around, taking in the room for the first time. Net curtains with gold-colored trim cover the room’s window. On a small shelf unit in the corner of the room there’s a bowl of oranges and a few books. The mother brings a tray of tea and sets it down on the glass coffee table. Aromatic steam rises from the cups.
“Obviously we’ll need to speak to Abdi himself once he’s feeling better,” I say, “but I’d like to take a few details from you in the meantime, if I may.”
Nur Mahad nods his assent. He’s taken a seat on the sofa that’s set at a right angle to the one I’m perched on. His knees are almost touching mine and he’s leaning forward. His body language is screaming that he wants to please. It’s not the nervous or unresponsive demeanor of a parent who’s harboring a teenage troublemaker.
“How old is Abdi?”
“He’s fifteen.”
“Where does he go to school?”
“He goes to Medes College. He won a full scholarship.”
Medes College is a top-class and expensive private school located in the center of the city. I’m impressed.
“Is it typical of him to be out late at night with his friend?”
“No! No, not at all.” It’s a very vigorous denial. “We thought he was at a sleepover with Noah. Abdi has never, ever been in trouble with the police, with school, with anybody. He’s a very good boy. Always top grades, chess champion, badminton team.”
“So this is out of character?”
“Very out of character.”
His daughter’s watching me closely, but his wife seems more disconnected. She’s showing very little emotion, and I still haven’t managed to make more than fleeting eye contact with her. I direct my next question to both of them.
“It’s important that we build up as full a picture of Abdi as possible. Could you tell me about his normal routine? Who he hangs out with, where he goes?”
Nur looks as if he wants to answer, but he knows he should defer to someone else. I’ve been briefed that he works as a taxi driver, so I suspect he’s out of the house at all hours.
Sofia answers. Her voice sounds thin.
“Abdi takes the bus to school. He leaves at seven thirty in the morning and he gets home at about five o’clock unless he has an after-school club or a chess tournament or a badminton match. Then it’s later. Noah’s his best friend. He’s the only friend who Abdi visits at home.”
“Can you tell me a bit about their friendship?”
“It’s good. They’re very close. They made friends straightaway when Noah started school. It was nice for Abdi. He met one or two boys before that, but didn’t have a best friend.”
“Did they ever argue?”
“I don’t think so. Abdi never said.”
“No minor disagreements at all? Especially recently?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How would you describe the friendship?”
“Happy, quite competitive about schoolwork and stuff. Kind of nerdy. The boys would never do anything bad to each other. Abdi’s not like that. He’s really kind.”
Her father nods his agreement, and her mother puts a hand on Sofia’s arm and says something in Somali.
“I’m going to translate your question for her,” Sofia says, and they have an exchange in rapid Somali before turning to look at me again.
“Did your mother have anything to add?”
“She says the boys were good for each other. They spurred each other on to study hard.”
I don’t like not being able to understand what they’re saying. My job is to listen to people and to read their body language at the same time. That’s where you can often spot the fault lines in their stories. There’s not much I can do about it now, though, so I press on.
“Did the boys ever get into trouble?”
“No. Abdi liked school. He wanted to make a good impression.”
She’s sounding increasingly defensive, so I swallow my next question to give us all a breather. Into the silence Nur Mahad says, “Abdi sometimes volunteers with his mother at the Welcome Center.”
“I’m not familiar with it.”
“It’s a drop-in center for refugees. Only five minutes from here. Maryam volunteers there—she helps cook. Refugees can get a hot meal five days a week.”
“How often does Abdi go there?”
“Sometimes in the evenings after school, depending on homework.”
“And what does he do when he’s there?”
“Anything they want him to: translate, chop vegetables, play Ping-Pong with the other boys, wash up. Whatever they ask him. He’s a good worker.”
I look over my notes. There’s enough to be following up on for now, and I’m not learning anything new. I decide to quit while I’m ahead and get on to the other interviews.
“You’ve been very helpful. Thank you. Please contact me immediately if Abdi improves and feels ready to talk to us, and also if you think of anything else I might need to know.”
I leave another of my cards on their coffee table.
Once we’re in the car, Woodley says, “What do you reckon?”
“If that boy was up to no good, then I think it’ll be news to his family.”
“I got up to all sorts of things at his age and my mum and dad didn’t have a clue.”
It’s a good point. It wouldn’t be the first time a teenager had a secret life. Though in the house I grew up in, it was different. When your dad rules with his fists, you think very carefully before you step out of line. I did, anyhow. My sister was braver or stupider, depending on your opinion.
“And the ‘best friends’ image totally contradicts the witness,” Woodley says.
“I got the feeling that boy was scared.”
As we drive back to HQ, Woodley laughs out of the blue, as if he just remembered something: “I did some seriously stupid things when I was fifteen.”
“Care to share?”
“Nope. Nice try, boss.”
As I drive, I think that if there’s one thing I’m going to be sure to do, it’s to bring a translator with me if I visit the family again. I’m also getting a feeling that we’re not going to be able to put this case away neatly or tidily, or even soon.
I want to find out what scared the hell out of that boy.
After the detectives leave, Sofia’s seized by an urge to get out of the flat. She loves her family and her home, but there are times when a sense of claustrophobia overwhelms her and she feels as if she needs to be away from them so that she can cease being a daughter and a sister and just be herself. It’s the best way she knows to work out her own thoughts.