Kitabı oku: «LAST RITES»
NEIL WHITE
Last Rites
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Copyright © Neil White 2009
Neil White asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9781847560193
Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007322725
Version: 2018-05-31
Dedication
To Thomas, Sam and Joe, as always
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Chapter Eighty-three
Chapter Eighty-four
Chapter Eighty-five
Chapter Eighty-six
Chapter Eighty-seven
Chapter Eighty-eight
Chapter Eighty-nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-one
Chapter Ninety-two
Chapter Ninety-three
Chapter Ninety-four
Chapter Ninety-five
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Abigail Hobbs looked up and shivered as she opened the door to her stone cottage. The wind was blowing hard from the west, October ending with a snarl, the first bad mood of winter. It roared along the sides of Pendle Hill, a huge mound of millstone grit covered in grass and heather. The hill dominated the surroundings, dark and gloomy, and kept the sunlight from her windows. She pulled her coat to her chest and flipped the collar to her ears. She was too old for mornings like this.
‘Tibbs? Tibbs?’
She couldn't find her cat, a grey British Shorthair, all smile and floppy paws. He was always there when she woke, waiting on her windowsill, blinking at her. But not that morning.
‘Tibbs?’
She looked around. Still nothing. Her voice wasn't as strong as it had once been, and it died on the breeze, but she knew something wasn't right.
Abigail stepped onto the path, the stones sunken and uneven, and listened out. She could hear something, but at first she thought it was the wind. A knocking sound; a fast rattle. She edged along the path, her slippers making slapping noises on the stones. There was the noise again, like metal banging against wood. And there was something else. A crying sound, distressed.
‘Tibbs?’
Abigail got nearer to the end of the house, long grass trailing against her ankles. The noise seemed louder. She called out again. The sound was still there.
She reached an old outhouse, a brick add-on to the cottage that was used to store garden tools. The door was banging, the metal latch clattering, and as her footsteps got closer, the crying got louder.
‘Tibbs, wait there. What have you done?’
She pulled on the outhouse door but it didn't give at first. It felt stiff, like someone was holding the other side. She could feel the vibrations in the door, the cries from inside louder now. She yanked at the door, and then as it opened she saw Tibbs, her cat, suspended in mid-air, struggling, thrashing, something wrapped around him.
Abigail was confused. She reached out, went towards him, but then there was a flash, a loud bang. Something wet hit her in the face, sharp and small, making her stumble backwards, losing her balance. As she fell, she saw that Tibbs was no longer there.
Chapter Two
I didn't hear my phone at first.
I was walking up the steep hill to my house, legs working hard, chin tucked into my scarf to keep out the cold. The morning walk was my break from the mundane, where I could forget about the bickering at home or the long stretch of the day ahead. The air in the Lancashire hills woke me up, crisp and fresh, so different from when cotton ruled the valleys, when the giant chimneys filled the towns with smoke and every life centred on the huge redbrick mills clustered around the canal.
My walk wasn't just about the cold in my face though. The last year had seen too many chocolate runs or long nights in with takeaway and wine, and we'd both put on weight. We'd settled into each other. Maybe too much.
I turned as I walked and looked back on what had made me: Turners Fold – a tired old collection of steep terraced streets, cobbled scars in the lush green view, like a museum of lost industry. But for me it was more than just that. As I looked, I saw all the haunts of my childhood. The park where I'd braved my first kiss, the sweeping crescents of the estate where I'd grown up, the school that had educated me so I could leave the town, which I did for a while, but the lure of home brought me back.
I smiled at the view. The mills were all empty now, the chimneys cleaned up, the buildings redeveloped as offices and apartments, or just left to crumble as grass grew through the floor and the windows fell in. But the town glowed from October dew and stood in silhouette against the sun spreading from the east, making me forget the bitterness of the wind.
I turned back and saw my house ahead, halfway up the hill, dry-stone walls lining the road, the old slate tiles and stubby chimney set against the fields behind. I thought I saw Laura through the window, just a shadow as she moved about inside. I waved but she didn't wave back.
Then I heard my phone, the ringtone set to the horns of ‘Ring of Fire’, an old Johnny Cash tune. I flipped it open and recognised the number. Sam Nixon, a local defence lawyer. He didn't call me that often and so he must have something good for me.
‘Hi Sam,’ I said, as I went into the house.
Laura looked up as I answered, but I turned away. She was making Bobby his breakfast but I could tell that she was listening.
I listened to Sam, and then said, ‘Okay, I'll see you then,’ and closed my phone. I turned to Laura and tried to look innocent.
‘What did Sam Nixon want?’ she asked.
I sneaked my arm around her to pinch one of Bobby's soldiers. ‘He said he would tell me when I got there.’
‘Don't get mixed up in anything stupid,’ said Laura, and when I glanced back I saw her eyes flash me a warning.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean,’ she said wearily. ‘Defence lawyers can mean trouble. Most don't see the line that separates their client from themselves.’
‘Sam's not like that,’ I replied. ‘And you know how it works.’
And Laura did know. As a detective in the local police force, she saw too much of her hard work undone by crafty defence work, silence or lies peddled in the name of human rights. My side of crime was different. I sat at the side of the courtroom, writing up cases for the local paper, usually just sidebar stuff. I'd done some feature work, even used to do freelance in London, but it was too uncertain, sometimes dangerous, and it wasn't a good time for me to take risks.
Laura sighed heavily and gave Bobby a kiss on the top of his head. ‘Not now, Jack,’ she said. ‘We can't afford to mess this up, not so near the end.’
I turned away and walked into the kitchen, a small windowless room partitioned off from the living room. I didn't want an argument, not so early.
Laura came into the kitchen behind me. ‘Jack, talk to me.’
I turned around, the kettle in my hand. ‘It's all we talk about these days,’ I replied sullenly.
‘I just don't want you getting wrapped up in anything stupid, that's all,’ said Laura.
‘I know, I heard you,’ I replied. ‘Our lives are on hold, just so we don't upset your ex-fucking-husband.’ The words came out harsher than I intended.
‘Do you think I'm enjoying it?’ she snapped back at me. ‘Waiting for someone else to decide who my son can live with? Is that what I had in mind when I moved up here?’
I paused and took a deep breath. ‘I'm sorry,’ I said, putting the kettle down and holding my arms out to her, trying to pull her towards me. ‘I wasn't having a go. I know it's harder for you.’
Laura shrugged me off. ‘No, you don't know how it is for me,’ she said angrily. ‘I'm the one who has made the sacrifices. I moved north with you, with my son, made a new life for us. No, hang on, that's wrong. I moved north for you, and sometimes I just wonder whether I did the right thing or whether we should have stayed in London, where I wouldn't get the fucking martyr treatment every time the situation gets a bit inconvenient.’
I looked to the ceiling. We'd had the same row too many times now, but I knew it wasn't us. We were good together, in those quiet moments we shared, when the custody battle for Bobby was forgotten for a few hours and we got the chance to relax – but those moments were getting further apart.
‘Look, it's okay,’ I said. ‘Sam just said he had a story for me.’ When Laura didn't look convinced, I added, ‘It will be nothing. Some tip, an overnight case or something.’
‘So why didn't you just say that?’ she said, before she turned and walked away.
I sighed heavily, all the pleasure from the walk now evaporated. How had we got to this? And so quickly.
I went back into the living room and saw that Laura was getting Bobby's school bag ready. Bobby was silent, eating his breakfast slowly. He had been here before with his father – Laura's ex-husband – and he deserved more than that. He was the sweetest boy, just six years old, with Laura's brightness and Geoff's height, but how did you stop a child getting hurt?
It wasn't us, though, I knew that. It was the situation, Laura's ex-husband fighting to take him back south, to her native London. He claimed that it was for Bobby's benefit, that Laura's police work made his home life chaotic, but it had never been about Bobby. It was all about me, Laura's new man, stranger in the nest, the one who made her happy, who had made her give up her London career and settle instead in a small northern town, a detective job in nearby Blackley replacing the London Met. So now we had the fortnightly trip to some motorway services near Birmingham for Bobby's handover, Laura quiet all the way home, only really happy again when he was collected two days later.
Laura looked up at me, Bobby's bag in her hand. I tried a smile.
‘C'mon Bobby,’ she said, turning away from me. ‘Finish your breakfast. We need to go.’
Chapter Three
Inspector Rod Lucas dusted down his tatty brown corduroys, slammed the door on his battered old Land Rover, and looked at the scene.
The cottage was just as he expected it. Like most houses in the shadow of Pendle Hill, it was set back from the road, dark grey stone against the sweep of green fields stretching away behind it, the slate roof low and overhanging.
He looked up at the hill, the exposed, barren summit making him feel cold. He pulled on an old waxed jacket and turned away, thought about Abigail Hobbs instead, still in hospital, burns on her face and stitches in her head from when she'd hit the stone floor. He knew that it wasn't the physical injuries that would hurt her the most. It would be the emotional scars that would last.
The two constables by the door straightened as he approached, both young women, their hands thrust into the pockets of their luminous green coats, their hips made to look big by the large belts around their waists. He glanced down at his own clothes. He lived in a barn conversion, access gained by a mud track overhung by branches, and he had been pruning a tree when he'd got the call. His hands were still covered in dirt and he hadn't changed into his uniform. He would oversee the scene, and then go back to his garden.
‘How bad is it?’ he asked, his voice quiet, a slow Pennine drawl.
The two officers exchanged glances. ‘It's not nice, sir,’ said the older of the two.
‘Are Scenes of Crime on their way?’ he asked.
‘As soon as they can,’ came the reply.
Lucas knew what that meant: that this was a rural area, a few miles from the nearest town. Scenes of Crime would be busy with more urban crimes: burglaries, glassings. They'd come out here when the day warmed up and they fancied a drive in the country.
He looked around. Brambles overhung the path and the paint on the windows looked flaky and old. The windows didn't give away many secrets though.
‘Third time in two weeks,’ he said to himself.
‘Is that why you're here, sir?’ asked the other constable. ‘An inspector, I mean. Is it more serious now?’
‘Someone has been hurt,’ Rod replied. ‘It's gone beyond routine vandalism.’
‘So what do you think?’ she asked. ‘Kids?’
He looked around, noticed the small track that meandered down to the cottage from the main road, grass grown over the stones so that it was sinking back into the land as the years passed. ‘No,’ said Rod. ‘It's too far from everywhere else, so getting away would take too long. It would increase the chance of getting caught. This is something else, some kind of a message.’
‘But why her?’
Lucas's lips twitched. ‘I don't know. Why any of them?’ He straightened himself, and when he asked where it had happened he was pointed towards an old outhouse along the path. As he set off walking, he felt his trousers become damp from the trailing grasses. He swept back his thinning hair, his head golden with freckles, grey sideburns reaching down to his jaw-line.
He slowed down as he got near to the outhouse. The remains of the cat were still scattered over the path, the tiny severed head by the door, its mouth open, the sharp little teeth set in a final grimace.
He pushed at the door with a pen, careful not to leave any forensic traces, and saw the wire hanging from the latch. Just like the others, the wire led to a small metal pipe, filled with gunpowder. Once the door opened, it pulled at the wire, which set off a small blasting cap and exploded the pipe. In the other attacks, the pipe had been left on the floor. This time it had been strapped to Abigail's cat and suspended from the top of the door by a clothes line. This was more than just kids, he knew that.
He let the door close slowly as he turned away, the rusted hinges creaking, and walked back to the house, deep in thought. The constables by the door stepped aside as he went to go into the house, curious to find out more about Abigail, but he caught their exchange of glances, the raised eyebrows.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
They both looked at each other again, unsure what to say, and so Rod Lucas brushed past them and pushed at the door. It opened slowly, the interior dark, and as he peered in, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, he whistled.
‘What the hell?’ he muttered to himself, and then stepped inside.
Chapter Four
I was heading for Sam Nixon's office, walking quickly through Blackley along the paved precinct, chain stores on one side and the entrance to an indoor mall on the other. Victorian shop-fronts used to line the street, back when the town was the glamorous big brother to Turners Fold, but the area had tried to shake off its past a few decades earlier. The modern town plan that had come along in its place looked tired already. Not many people walked the streets, just earnest young college students and shop assistants clicking their way to work in high heels.
I could see Sam watching my approach. His office was above a print shop, accessed through a glass door at the bottom of some stairs, his name spelled out in gold leaf. His clients congregated there sometimes, somewhere quiet and warm to swap dealer names, but Sam's wife, Helena, acted as the bouncer. She used to be a lawyer herself, straw-blonde with stick-thin arms and a pinched nose, but years out bringing up children and being on the wrong end of a breath test turned her against it. Instead, she managed the paperwork, the money, and allowed Sam to do the law.
I exchanged quick greetings with Helena, just a peck on the cheek. Her face was cold, her complexion pale.
‘How's business?’ I asked.
Helena grimaced. ‘Crime's no game for a sole practitioner.’
‘Not busy?’
She laughed, but it sounded bitter. ‘People through the door are not the problem. Getting a decent rate of pay for it, that's the problem.’
I didn't respond. I reckoned our views on decent pay might be different. Instead, I let Helena show me through the reception area and into Sam's office, a large room with just a chipboard desk and worn-out chairs bought in a clearance sale. The desk was busy with files, the dark blue of Blackstone's, Sam's preferred legal reference, acting as a paperweight, but the room felt bare and cold. Sam Nixon & Co. hadn't brought in enough money to think about comfort.
Sam stood up as I entered, smiling, his hand out to shake. ‘Hello Jack, good to see you.’
I shook his hand and noticed the tiredness behind his smile. Sam looked like business was tough. He wasn't much older than me, both of us moving through our mid-thirties, but his face looked filled with worry, his hair was working its way backwards quickly, and whatever was left was sprinkled with grey. He had lost weight and lines had started to appear around his eyes.
Sam Nixon fed me stories, often just a nod as he came into court, a tip that a case was worth hanging around for. My write-ups shamed his clients, but it kept his name in the paper and a steady footfall through his door. For me, it was my job. For Sam, it was free publicity.
‘How's Laura?’ he asked.
‘She's on CRT.’
‘Good hours for the family,’ said Sam, nodding his approval.
I smiled, played the happy boyfriend for a moment, aware that there were other people in the room.
Laura was a detective on the Custody Reception Team at Blackley Police, who dealt with the overnighters, the burglars and the domestic bullies. The nightshift officers would be long gone to their beds, leaving behind a disgruntled prisoner and a bundle of paperwork, and Laura's team had to sort it out. It gave her regular hours, but it meant she spent most days interviewing hostile prisoners in the belly of the old police station, where the smell of the cells, sweat and vomit, seeped into her clothes.
I was suspicious of Sam. If a criminal lawyer asked me first about the welfare of my detective girlfriend, I assumed that he didn't want her around.
‘You know what Blackley is like,’ I said. ‘It's full of criminals. They keep her busy.’
‘Blame it on the lawyers for setting them free,’ Sam replied.
As he was talking, I turned towards the other people in the room, a middle-aged couple perched uncomfortably on chairs. I recognised them immediately. Their faces had filled the local news for the last week. I looked back at Sam, who seemed nervous now.
‘Jack, this is Ray and Lucy Goode,’ he said.
I smiled a polite greeting, but I knew who they were. Their daughter had made the headlines, a pretty young teacher, the photograph from the school prospectus showing her with straight auburn hair and freckles like splashes. Sarah had a boyfriend, Luke, a fitness instructor at her gym. It was normal girl-boy stuff, until Luke had been stabbed to death in her bed a week earlier and Sarah had disappeared.
It had played out in the local paper for a few days, had even brushed the nationals, but the television got the best angle – the news conferences, Mr and Mrs Goode tearful and scared, begging for Sarah to come home – but then it went quiet when there was nothing new to report. I'd guessed the subtext: it was officially a missing persons investigation, but, for the police, Sarah Goode was a murderer on the run.
‘This is Jack Garrett,’ Sam said. ‘Our local hotshot reporter.’ When I didn't respond, he added, ‘They want to speak to you. Is that okay?’
I nodded at them politely, but then I asked Sam, ‘Why me?’
Sam looked embarrassed. ‘It's probably for the best if they tell you about it.’ He went towards the door. ‘I'll be in the next room if you need me.’
I watched him go, surprised, and wondered why he didn't want to be a part of it. When the door clicked shut, Sam left behind an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the ticking clock on the wall and the creaks of the chairs as Mr and Mrs Goode shuffled nervously.
I tried to weigh them up. They were in their fifties. She was in a blue suit, knee-length skirt and blazer, navy blue with gold buttons, her hair in tight grey curls. He looked uncomfortable in a dated brown suit, as if he hadn't worn one for a long time, and I could see the shirt collar digging into his neck. His sandy hair had receded to just wisps of a comb-over.
‘This is about Sarah, I presume?’ I said.
They glanced at each other, and I saw a nod, a look of comfort. It was Mrs Goode who took the lead.
‘Yes, it's about our daughter,’ she said. Her voice was firm, but the way their knees touched told me that they needed each other for support. She licked her lips and repositioned her bag on her lap. Then she said, ‘We want you to help us find her.’
It was said simply, as if she assumed I would be interested.
I wasn't. I didn't write features any more. I'd sacrificed that for family harmony, for our bright future.
I tried to sound sympathetic. ‘I'm sorry, but that's not the sort of journalism I do, the campaign stuff. I write up court hearings, that's all.’
‘But you used to do more than that,’ said Mrs Goode. ‘Mr Nixon told me about some of the stories you wrote.’
‘That was then. And I'm a reporter, not a private detective.’
‘But we thought it would be a good story if you found her,’ she pressed.
I shook my head slowly. ‘I don't see a story, not the type I write.’
They looked down, disappointed. Mrs Goode clenched her jaw and a tear dripped onto her eyelashes.
It was Mr Goode who spoke next. ‘Not even if you found her first?’ His voice was quiet, hesitant.
I gave him a smile filled with fake regret. ‘The police will have to speak to her before me, and if Sarah is charged I won't be able to write anything that might affect the case. It's called sub judice. It would just sit on an editor's desk for six months, maybe longer.’
‘There might not be a court case,’ Mrs Goode said, her eyes imploring. ‘If you could find her and bring her in, once we know what she is going to say, she might have a defence.’
My eyes narrowed at that. ‘What about Sam Nixon?’ I asked. ‘Will he speak to Sarah before she goes to the police?’
Mrs Goode looked down and didn't answer. That told me all I needed to know. It wasn't about a story, it was about Sarah's parents getting her story straight first, before she handed herself in.
‘I'm sorry, I really am,’ I said as I headed for the door, ‘but I don't see a story, not yet anyway.’
They both turned to each other and exchanged desperate looks. Mrs Goode put her hand over Mr Goode's hand and squeezed it. He looked like he was about to break down. It stalled me.
Mrs Goode turned back to me. ‘Thank you for coming down, Mr Garrett,’ she said softly. ‘At least you listened.’
‘How much have you told the police?’ I asked.
‘Whatever they wanted to know.’
I sighed. ‘If they can't find Sarah, I don't see how I can,’ I said, and this time the regret was genuine.
As I left the room I saw that Sam was waiting in one of the reception chairs. ‘How was it?’ he asked.
‘You know damn well how it was,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’ Sam replied, as he picked at his fingers and tried to look innocent.
‘They came to you because they know the police want to arrest her for murder,’ I said. ‘Is that right?’
Sam started to say something, but then he stopped himself. He nodded and tried to shrug an apology instead, but then he realised that it was pointless.
‘They're decent people,’ he said. ‘They're worried about their daughter.’
‘And someone is dead,’ I replied harshly. ‘His family will be decent people too.’ Sam looked down, so I continued, ‘They need someone to help them find her, but they can't afford a private investigator and they thought I would come cheap. About right?’
‘But it would be a good story if you could find her.’
‘I wish it was like that, Sam, because I need the money – Laura's lawyers are taking most of what we have – but you don't understand journalism. I deal in court titbits, pub talk.’ Sam looked confused, so I said, ‘My point made. Papers want the pub tales: Man Bites Dog, that type ofthing. This is feature stuff, an in-depth analysis, and I can't afford to take the gamble of someone being interested. And anyway, if I find her, I'm the story, and that's not how I want it right now.’
Sam nodded in apology. ‘I'm sorry, Jack. They came to me for help. They're desperate people, and they're good people. You were the only avenue I could think of.’
I sighed. ‘So what's your interest?’
Sam looked sheepish at that. ‘We're struggling, Jack,’ he said. ‘We've got the work coming in, but it's all small stuff. Shoplifts, car breaks, Saturday night bust-ups. It's turnover work, but the bills come in faster than the clients.’
‘You need a murder to put you in the big league,’ I said, acknowledging his admission, and then nodded back towards the room I had just been in. ‘And so you need their daughter in a cell.’
Sam looked ashamed, but he added, ‘This is my living. I didn't kill that man, and someone has to represent her. Why not me?’
I thought about Mr and Mrs Goode and the look they both had – confused, helpless, wanting help. ‘I think they want a bit more,’ I said, and headed for the exit. ‘Thanks for the tip, Sam, but I can't see a story in it.’
Sam didn't answer, and so I was back on the street, heading towards the Magistrates Court, ready for another day of routine crime stories.
Chapter Five
As Rod Lucas pushed open the door to Abigail's cottage, the smell hit him first. It was strong, sort of smoky. Incense-burners, he guessed. His eldest daughter had gone through a phase of burning them in her room. It helped her sleep, or so she claimed at the time. It was to cover up the smell of cigarettes, he learned later. She was away at university now, and her twenty-a-day habit was one of a list of concerns.
But he remembered the cloying smell, the way it made him cough and wrinkle his nose. He could understand an experimental teenager burning them, but why a pensioner living in a remote cottage?
He looked around. Rod had expected chintz: patterned sofas, high-backed chairs, china ornaments everywhere and pictures of grandchildren, but the cottage wasn't like that. The walls were painted black, with thick red cloth covering the windows and tall mirrors on the walls, ornate and Gothic. There were candles everywhere – on the mantelpiece, the sideboards, the windowsills – everything from deeply scented ones in small jars to large black altar candles.
He saw a rug pushed up against the wall, revealing the stone floor, large slabs worn smooth over the years. His eyes widened when he saw why it had been moved, and what was in its place, the thing that dominated the space.
White lines criss-crossed the room, jagged and uneven, made up of something sprinkled onto the floor, like small white grains. There was a table and chair set in the middle of it all, as if the old lady sat in it when she was alone. Lucas stooped down to dab his finger into the lines. He tasted it. Salt.
The lines made a shape. It wasn't perfect, as if it had been done in a rush, but he could make it out: a five-pointed star, with things placed at each point. A small posy of flowers; a large red candle; a sea-shell.
Rod thought back to the explosive device. Why would anyone target this woman? Was her lifestyle the reason? This was the third explosion like this, but no one had reported anything strange in the other houses. Or maybe they just hadn't looked hard enough.
He would go to the hospital next. Maybe Abigail could provide the answers.
I shuffled on the bench at the side of the Magistrates Court in Blackley as I tried to get comfortable. It was still before ten and the court hadn't started yet, although I could hear the corridor getting busier. I looked up to the ceiling, at the flaking paint, and wondered how I had got to this point. I used to write crime features for the nationals when I was a freelancer in London, had always had the dream of writing a book, maybe ghostwriting a gangster memoir. Now, I churned out the small stories: incidents of local shame, drunken fights, domestic violence, sexual misbehaviour. The local paper paid me for each story rather than a salary, so if the crime scene went quiet, or if the police started another new initiative to keep people away from courts, then I didn't get paid. I worked my own hours, though, and it still left me to peddle the better stories to the nationals, but I used to do so much more.
But I knew that Laura was right. The stories were steady work and provided a stable home. Laura was doing the same, working regular hours, no shifts, so that we were home each evening, and there was nothing for the judge to criticise when the trial for Bobby's custody started.
I looked around the courtroom, empty apart from the prosecutor at the front, sorting out his pile of files, ready for the morning slog. The defence would arrive soon, wanting their papers for the overnight clients.
‘Anything decent for me?’ I asked.
The prosecutor looked up. ‘Uh-huh?’
He was one of the old guard; when the mood was right he was effective, but most days his job was just a plough through Blackley's grime.
‘Anything to report?’ I asked. ‘I'm not here because I like your suit.’
He smiled at that, just a glimmer. ‘Just the usual,’ he said. ‘We've got a drink-driving teacher, crashed his car leaving school, if that's any good.’
I raised my eyebrows. Another reputation ruined, but his shame was his problem. My mortgage was mine.
‘Don't get too excited, though,’ said the prosecutor. ‘Mick Boreman's defending. There'll be no guilty plea today.’
‘Too middle class to be guilty?’ I queried.
‘Something like that.’
I exhaled and sat back. I couldn't write the story properly until he was convicted. It was good for a paragraph reporting his name and profession, but not much else.
I thought about Mr and Mrs Goode as I waited for court to start. Was I right to turn down their request? Looking for Sarah would be a break from the mundane, and it might be a good feature to have written up and ready just in case she was caught and convicted. But then I thought about the bills that dropped onto the mat most mornings, how we needed the steady production line of small tales from the courtroom just to keep ahead of those, and if Geoff went all the way with his custody case then Laura's lawyers would soak up the rest, and quite a bit more.
The tapping of my pen got faster.
The family future was nearly resolved though. Anything I wrote now would be published later, long after the custody case had finished, and if the court was going to be quiet then it might be worth looking into Sarah's case, just to see if there was something to grab the headline. I could write the feature at night, after Laura had gone to bed.
I felt some guilt creep up on me as I thought of Laura, but I dismissed it, perhaps too quickly. I was a reporter; selling stories was what I did.
I put my notepad back in my pocket and rushed out of the courtroom.
Chapter Six
Sarah Goode panted as she looked around the room. Stone walls all the way round, with a door at one end, cell-like, just twenty-foot square with no windows, no view out, a dirt floor scratching her feet.
She looked up to the ceiling and then winced, shielding her eyes. The lights there were like car headlights, bright halogen on full beam, searing into her retinas.
She tried to stretch her legs, but they hurt, all cramped up. She knew she had to keep moving, had to get her muscles working again. She limped to the walls and thumped them, but the sound came back as a dead thud. They were solid, sound-proof, old Pennine stone.
Sarah felt her way round the length of the room, using the wall as support, looking for a weak spot, maybe a loose stone, until she got to the door, wooden and old, the edges uneven and dry. It was bolted on the other side; she had heard it slide back whenever he came into the room. She knew it was a man from his hacking coughs and his deep throaty laugh when he taunted her, when he had kept her in the box.
She looked over to the corner of the room. The box was still there, one end open, from where she had crawled not long before. She turned away from it swiftly and looked up at the lights again, shielding her eyes. Would they stay on all the time? She leapt at them, tried to break one just to reduce the glare, but they were too high. She hurt herself instead when she landed, the dirt cutting into the soles of her feet.
Sarah sat down and put her face in her hands, gripped her hair with her fingers. Why was she there? What had she done? Why her?
She started to pull at her hair, wanting to scream, but then she looked up, startled. She could hear the buzz of speakers. Sarah shielded her eyes to see past the lights, and then she saw them, dark shapes behind the brightness. She sat still, waiting for whatever was going to come out of them. Then the sound came out at high volume, so loud that she had to cover her ears. It was the sound of a heartbeat, fast and anxious, a relentless thump-thump, the noise pulsing around the walls.
Sarah clamped her hands tighter over her ears and screamed, tried to drown it out, but the sound still made it through, making her own heart race to keep up.
She looked back to the box. Maybe it would be quieter in there.
She turned away. She couldn't go back in there, she knew that. Her life had once been normal, but those days in the box meant that it would never be the same again.
Chapter Seven
Laura McGanity swung her bag onto her desk and sat down with a slump. She leaned back and closed her eyes for a few seconds.
‘I'm not sure I can cope with another day of this,’ she said, almost to herself.
Pete Dawson grinned at her. ‘Turning on tape machines and filling out forms not exciting enough for you?’ he said.
Laura looked at him, took in his crew cut, and the scar over his eye that was a remnant of his last jaunt with the Support Unit in the Saturday night van.
‘Don't be offended, Pete, but you don't look the agony aunt type,’ she said.
Pete laughed. He had been Laura's sidekick for most of her time in Blackley. He was an old-style detective, a head-cracker who had not yet accepted the committee style of police politics, and Laura liked him for that. Pete had learned one thing in his police career: criminals are ruthless and devious, and don't feel much remorse for those they hurt on the way. So Pete liked to let them know what he thought. Sometimes it was just a quiet word on a dark street, although it came with a snarl. Mostly it was just about being relentless, so that the criminals knew that if he became an enemy it was time to change their turf.
‘This was your choice,’ he said. ‘Regular hours.’
She rubbed her eyes. ‘It's not just that, though.’
‘If you want to have a moan,’ he said, ‘you've got around ten minutes, because the cells are full, and if we're ever going to see daylight today we need to get the first one out of the way.’
Laura shook her head. ‘I'm not talking about it,’ she said, and then she turned her head quickly when she heard laughter further along the corridor. It was the murder squad, assembled for the Luke Howarth murder, all chasing down Sarah Goode.
‘It's not just Bobby's custody case, though, is it?’ he asked. ‘Or Jack?’
‘What do you mean?’
Pete pointed towards the door. ‘I thought maybe you'd grown tired of me, but it seems like you just want in on the big case.’
Laura didn't answer straight away. It was more than being out of the loop, she was about to say. It was about Jack, and Bobby, and home, and Geoff and the custody case, and missing London. But she didn't say that. Instead, she exhaled and forced out a smile. ‘You've got me, Pete. Maybe we should get into interview quickly if you're in this kind of detecting form.’
‘You don't want to be with them,’ he replied. ‘The creases are too sharp in their trousers.’
‘Is that how you judge people?’
‘It's just one way.’
Laura sighed. ‘C'mon then, what have we got first?’
Pete tossed over the papers. ‘A fight in The Trafalgar. Someone almost lost an eye.’
‘Is this a joke?’
‘It's barely a case,’ Pete replied. ‘We've got the right man, but no one is making statements, not even the victim.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Laura, smiling now. ‘An argument over a woman, and the victim is married?’
‘And you said I was the great detective,’ Pete replied, standing. ‘C'mon, let's turn the tapes and see what we get.’
I sat in my car and pondered the view.
I had made a few calls around some contacts to get the address, and so I was outside Sarah Goode's house in Blackley, the scene of the crime, in the middle of a long terrace halfway up a steep hill. Or down it, depending on your outlook on life. It seemed like nothing out of the ordinary. The street was long and straight, its lines broken only by the roads that crisscrossed it, so that driving down became a game of dare, a dicey rat-run for those trying to avoid the town-centre jams. The houses were in traditional glazed red brick, with the doorframes picked out in painted white stone, no gardens, the front doors straight onto the street, and the slope so pronounced that it took only a tilt of my head to make the street look like fallen dominoes.
I looked along the street, trying to gauge the neighbourhood. I felt my car windows vibrate from R&B played too loudly on bad speakers, and a car filled with young Pakistani men drove past slowly, all of them staring at me. Their community had grown in the sixties, when the cotton mills needed night-shift workers and the newly prosperous white working class didn't want to do them. The Asians worked at night, the whites during the day. When the mills closed down, both communities had found themselves jobless.
A group of women watched me from further up the street, as the wind pushed their silk pants against their legs and made their headscarves flap around their faces. I took some pictures. Maybe there was something here. How Sarah came to be a killer, an analysis of small-town murder. Truman Capote for the industrial north. I could follow the investigation, something in the bank for after Bobby's custody case, a story better than the ones I churned out most days.
Sarah's house looked still. There were wicker blinds in each window, all down, so nothing about the house gave away its secret. I decided to leave the neighbours for a while. There'd been a flurry of interest just after the body was discovered, and not all journalists were courteous. There's no story in a slammed door.
I checked my watch as I pondered where I should go next, and then I saw something, some movement in my peripheral vision. I stepped out of my car and moved closer. Sarah's house looked the same as before, deserted and cold, the blinds still closed.
Then I saw it again, in the front-room window, just a finger on the blinds. Somebody was watching me.
Chapter Eight
Inspector Lucas looked at the floor as he was led through the ward. There were the usual smells, antiseptic and illness, but it was the hopelessness that made him look away. The ward was a series of rooms, each containing four beds, the occupants old and disinterested, just staring into space. He was on the dark side of fifty. How long was there until this?
He noticed that the nurse had stopped walking and was gesturing towards one of the rooms. The occupants were all women, with no empty beds, but he guessed which one was Abigail from the freshness of the bandages. He followed the nurse into the room. No one looked at him as he went in. He saw that Abigail was sleeping.
‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘The cuts on her legs have been stitched, and the burns are not too bad,’ the nurse replied, her voice low. ‘Superficial mainly. But she's in shock, and we're worried about her sight.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Some of whatever it was that exploded hit her in the eyes. Her right eye is just sore, but she might lose her sight in her left.’
Rod didn't want to tell the nurse that it had been pieces of Abigail's cat that struck her in the eye.
‘I'll just wait,’ he said.
‘It might be a while,’ she said. ‘I don't want you asking her questions before she's ready.’
‘I won't,’ he said, and nodded that he understood. The nurse looked unsure at first, but when he gave her a reassuring smile, she relented and left him in the room.
Rod pulled up a chair next to her and sat down. Abigail wasn't like he expected. He knew her age, sixty-eight, and so he had expected grey hair and pale skin, but Abigail was different to that. Her frizzy hair was long and dyed black, her silver roots showing through, and it was back-combed, spread in a tangled mess over the pillow. Her fingers were covered in rings, and her nails were long and painted purple. Despite the plaster over her eye, Rod could tell that both eyes were ringed by bruises. Abigail's legs were out of the bedcovers, bandages over her wounds.
He looked closer at her hands. There were grazes on them, but something else drew his attention. It was one of her rings, the one on her right hand, third finger. A screaming face, silver on black, set into a silver band. He had seen it before, he was sure of it, but he couldn't remember where.
‘Abigail,’ he whispered, just to check whether she was awake. There was no response. ‘Abigail,’ he said once more. Still nothing.
He settled back in the chair. Sometimes the art of being a good copper was patience.
I knocked on the door of Sarah's house. The women at the top of the road looked at me again and then chattered to each other. I waited, but there was no response from inside.
I knocked again, more insistent this time. Then I heard a noise, and when the door opened I flashed a smile. It had no effect.
I was facing a dark-haired woman in her early twenties, in jeans and a loose T-shirt. Her hair was short, elfin-style, tucked just behind her ears so that it showed off her face, pretty and porcelain pale, with high cheekbones and bright hazel eyes.
‘Yes?’ she said curtly.
My mind raced through what I knew about Sarah's story. Luke's body had been discovered by her lodger, a young student. There was a pause as I grasped for her name, but it came to me just as she was about to slam the door.
‘Katie Gray?’ I asked.
She didn't answer at first, but then asked, ‘Who wants to know?’ Her voice was cautious.
I smiled again, tried to disarm her. ‘My name is Jack Garrett and I'm a reporter.’
‘I guessed that.’
‘I'm interested in Sarah Goode,’ I continued.
‘I guessed that too,’ she snapped, but I put my hand in the way as she went to close the door.
‘Sarah's parents contacted me. They want me to write about her.’
She paused at that.
‘I understand she used to live here,’ I continued, trying to engage her.
‘She still does,’ she replied, but her tone was less hostile than before.
‘Her parents just want to find her,’ I said. ‘They want to help her, make sure she's all right.’ My voice was soft and low, my hand still on the door.
‘Have you got any ID?’ she asked.
I reached into my pocket and found a business card. I passed it over and waited, but how could she refuse once I had produced identification?
She looked at the card, then at me, and then at the card again.
‘Okay, Mr Garrett, you'd better come in,’ she said, and then turned and went into the house.
I followed her into the hallway, narrow and dark, the light coming from a small window above the front door. Katie led me into the room at the back of the house, a chill-out room, with saggy old sofas and family photographs on the wall, but I glanced into the room at the front as I went past the doorway. It was more formal, with better furniture and an old black fireplace, the light dim behind the wicker blinds.
Katie turned around. ‘Do you want a drink? Coffee? Tea?’
I chose coffee, it would keep me in the house for at least fifteen minutes, and Katie disappeared into the kitchen, a long and thin extension with views into a concrete yard.
‘How long have you been living here?’ I asked her, as one of the pictures on the wall caught my eye. It looked like a family tree, framed, the branches spreading out, but it was the symbol at the top that drew my attention. It was unusual, like a screaming face, with hollow eyes and open mouth.
‘I thought you were here to talk about Sarah,’ Katie shouted from the kitchen.
‘I am, but you're part of the story.’
Katie returned with two coffees. ‘No, I'm not,’ she said, and handed me one of the cups.
I sat down, and I felt my knees rise up as I sank into a broken old couch.
‘You found Luke. That makes you part of it,’ I countered.
She sat down on a chair opposite and thought for a moment. She pulled her legs onto the cushion and took a drink, watching me over the top of the cup. ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘The story,’ I replied.
Katie drank her coffee for a while, and then said, ‘If you've read the papers you'll know most of it. Sarah's a teacher. She couldn't pay for the house without a lodger. She put a notice on the college notice-board. I saw it and got in touch.’
I nodded and smiled, played at being the interested journalist: sympathetic glances; faked empathy. I noticed that her body language was less defensive, and that her voice was quieter now. ‘I presume I'm talking to Katie Gray,’ I said, more as a comment than a question.
Katie paused, and then smiled properly for the first time, her eyes twinkling.
‘You have read the papers,’ she said.
‘It's my job,’ I replied, and then asked, ‘What do you study?’
‘History,’ she said, and blew into her coffee as she watched me, the cup cradled in both hands. She looked younger now, more vulnerable. ‘So if you've seen the papers, you already know the story,’ she said. ‘You must want something more.’
‘Sarah's parents just want me to find her,’ I said, shrugging. ‘They are convinced she had nothing to do with her boyfriend's death, but the only way to prove it is to get Sarah to come home.’
Katie nodded as she listened.
‘I know how Luke died,’ I continued, ‘and I can guess what the police think, but I need to know more.’
She put her cup down on the floor and leaned forward. I thought I saw something in her eyes. Sadness? Loneliness?
‘Where have you been so far?’ she asked.
‘I've started here.’
‘Where else are you going to look?’
I looked at her carefully when she said that. Katie seemed interested in my movements and I wondered why.
‘Wherever the facts take me,’ I replied cautiously.
‘How are Sarah's parents?’ Katie asked.
‘How well do you know them?’
‘Not much at all really. I'm just the lodger.’
I thought back to the meeting in Sam's office. ‘Somewhere between frantic and sad,’ I said.
Katie looked back and ran her fingers through her hair. She smiled at me and then asked, ‘What do you need to know?’
‘Just tell me about Sarah,’ I said simply.
Katie watched me for a few seconds and I felt myself shuffle in my seat. I looked away, tried to take in the room. The walls looked sparkling clean. No cobwebs around the light-fittings, and the tabletop gleamed so that the scuffs and scratches seemed to catch the light and shine it back. Katie still lived in the house. Maybe the house had been cleaned to wipe out the memories of what had happened there.
‘She was fun,’ Katie started, making me look back, her voice low, so I had to lean in to catch what she was saying. ‘She wasn't like a teacher. She was more fun than that. Her parents live close by, but she wanted her own place. She moved in, but she bought the house at the top of the boom and so needed me to help with the mortgage, and that's it.’ Katie smiled wistfully. ‘We got on. We went out together, met some men together, just normal stuff. She started seeing Luke, and the rest, well, you know how it ended.’
‘Who was Luke?’
‘He was a personal trainer at the Pendle Gym. I reckon Sarah was different to most of the women he met. He could have had anyone at the gym. You know, he had the body, the smile, but Sarah was cooler than that. She was a bit prim and proper on the outside, and I think he liked that.’
‘And on the inside?’
Katie laughed, blushing slightly. ‘I used to hear them in the night. She wasn't always so reserved.’
‘So Sarah liked him,’ I said.
‘Oh, it was more than that,’ she replied, grinning now. ‘He was handsome, six foot and muscular.’ She traced the top of her cup with her finger. ‘She was falling in love.’
‘Was he?’
Katie sat back and thought for a few moments, more solemn now. ‘I really don't know,’ she said. ‘You know what men like him are like.’
‘You mean he was seeing other women?’
‘Don't men like Luke always see other women?’
Would it make her grab a knife and stab him, I thought to myself, as Katie twirled her fringe with her finger, watching me as I jotted down her quote?
‘So what do you think happened?’ I asked.
Katie watched me, almost studied me. ‘Why do you think my opinion matters?’
‘Because you knew both of them. The police didn't, and they've got an opinion.’
‘Have they?’
She was teasing me, trying to make me uncomfortable.
‘My guess is that the police think she killed him,’ I said.
She shrugged, her eyes never leaving mine. ‘They're the experts,’ she said.
That surprised me. It seemed like Katie agreed with the police hints, that Sarah was Luke's killer.
Katie glanced at her watch and put her cup down. ‘Have you got many more questions?’ she queried. ‘I've got to go somewhere.’
‘Lectures?’
She nodded.
‘Can we talk again?’ I asked.
Katie waved my business card at me. ‘I've got your number. I'll call you.’
I went to stand, but she leaned forward and grabbed my hand. Her fingers were warm and soft, her grip gentle, almost a caress.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘For what?’ I asked, surprised.
‘Just for being nice. It seems like people avoid me now.’
I nodded and smiled, felt my cheeks flush. ‘That's okay,’ I said, and dropped her hand. I turned to go. I thought she was going to show me out, but she stayed in her seat, tapping my business card against her cheek.
‘Another time then,’ I said. I felt awkward but I didn't know why.
When Katie didn't answer, I let myself out. I looked back at the house and wondered at how much I had learned in there. And then I felt my cheeks. They were hot, and my fingers trembled slightly.
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