Typically for a weekday afternoon, an air of somnolence hung over the police station’s narrow waiting room. Crombie identified the kid immediately. Even if the room had been packed, other ‘customers’ would still be giving him a wide berth. The teenager's tracksuit was thick with grime and ripped along the seam of one trouser leg, uncomfortable though the plastic moulded chairs were, he’d managed to drop off to sleep. His head tipped back to rest on the window sill behind, stretching his neck and exposing red stripes that could have been the result of someone trying to strangle him.
Crombie tapped him on the knee as he passed.
‘Who you waiting for son?’ Though he knew damn well.
Bolting upright, the kid surprised him by almost coming to attention and answering politely.
‘Sergeant Rogers asked me to come in Sir.’ He swept heavy dark hair back from his face, as though gathering his thoughts.
‘My gran and cousin were attacked last night in their … I mean our house.’ Realising he’d slipped up he gabbled on:
‘He wanted me to sign for something, but I’ve been waiting twenty minutes. Sir.’ He tried a hesitant smile, not a bad looking kid. His skin was a bit sallow, and his dark brown eyes looked weary, probably the result of too much time in front of a computer screen. Either that, or too many late nights. Crombie nodded as though this was news to him. Stepping over to an internal door, Crombie punched in a security code and let himself into the main offices behind the waiting and interview rooms bellowing for Rodgers to attend to his ‘customer’.
Minutes later he swept out again, ignoring the kid’s glare at making him the unwanted centre of attention.
‘Be with you in a minute son. Not long now.’ Catching the eye of another ‘customer’ waiting to sign in for probation, Crombie reinforced his status.
‘Mr Digby, always a pleasure to see you.’
‘Wish I could say likewise Crombie.’
‘That’s Detective Inspector Crombie to you Digby.’
Once out in the fresh air, Crombie hurried over to a local McDonalds. Not that he felt the need for a Big-Mac. One day in the far off future he might be glad of food that tasted already pre-digested, but in addition to looking exhausted, the kid looked hungry enough to eat a horse. Crombie intended to provide him with the next best thing.
To interview a minor, a social worker, lawyer or ‘suitable adult’ maybe even all three would be required. A waste of space in Crombie’s opinion, when all he wanted was an informal chat with the kid, and to find out if his hunch was correct.
From a vantage point opposite the station Crombie waited patiently. His timing was immaculate, within minutes, the door swung open and his quarry emerged from the waiting room. For a fleeting moment the kid hesitated, casting a glance backwards towards the vending machine prominently displayed in the foyer, and Crombie knew he’d chosen his bait wisely. Hiding a smile, he crossed the road to intercept the gangly teenager, already striding purposely away from the station.