by David Evans
20
Brannigan watched as the young man left the hairdressing salon; this time, no holdall. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen him before. He might not even have been calling on Felicity but his suspicions were aroused.
He waited for another five minutes before crossing the road and entering the shop. Sharon approached him as he came in. “Have you an appointment, sir?” she enquired.
He could see Felicity looking at him in the mirror in front of her chair as she wrapped her client’s head in a towel.
Conscious of his bald head, he resisted the temptation to ask if she was taking the piss. Instead, he took a breath and said, “I’ve just come in for a word with my step-daughter.” He nodded towards her.
“Felicity’s a bit tied up at the moment, could you come back later?” Sharon replied.
“If you have a seat for ten minutes, George,” Felicity said from the other side of the floor, “I can spare a few minutes when Mrs Crowther is under the drier,”
Sharon turned to Felicity and glowered. “Only if you’re sure, Felicity. You’re first priority is your client.”
Brannigan sat watching his step-daughter perform her skills on the middle-aged woman in the chair. Now and again he’d catch a nervous glance from her in his direction, in between the endless chatter from the woman. He could tell she wasn’t paying much attention to what the woman was saying.
Eventually, with Mrs Crowther under the drier obscuring any further talk from her, Felicity led Brannigan into the staff room.
As soon as the door was closed, she turned to face him. “Look, what do you want? You shouldn’t be coming here,” she said.
“What do I want? What do I want?” He was incensed but kept his voice low. “I just shelled out thirty grand yesterday because someone kidnapped you. What do you think I want? I want some bloody answers.”
Felicity began to pace the small room. “Well I’ve none to give. I have no idea who was responsible. I was kept somewhere with a blindfold and my arms and legs were taped up the whole time.”
“You know more than that and I want to find out who was behind this.”
She was up close to him now. “I’ll tell you what I know, shall I? I know you nearly cocked things up on Wednesday night. I heard how angry and annoyed they were. I heard them on the phone to you.”
“They? So there was more than one?”
She shook her head. “No. I mean I don’t know, it’s just a figure of speech. Anyway, what I want to know is what happened in those toilets? Apart from the fact that some bloke is dead. Andy showed me the paper. I hope you didn’t drag him into any of that. Was that you and your temper again.”
He raised his hands.
“That’s right, thump me like you used to thump Mum.”
He stopped, arms in mid-air then slowly turned his hands to his forehead then rubbed his eyes. A grin began to appear on his face. “Always could wind me up,” he said. “The pair of you.”
“What’s going on in here?” Sharon burst in to the staff room. “I can hear all these raised voices. Just as well the ladies are all under the driers now.”
“It’s okay, Sharon,” Felicity said. “My step-dad is under a bit of pressure at the moment. He’s a bit upset.”
Sharon looked from Felicity to Brannigan and back again. “Well this really isn’t the time or the place.”
“Sorry, Sharon.”
The owner seemed to calm down. “Well, I don’t know what’s been going on with you Felicity,” she said. “But something’s not right. I saw Andy drop you off then your cousin visits you and now your step-dad. This isn’t good for business.”
“It’s okay,” Felicity said, “George is just going.”
Brannigan nodded slowly. Of course, the young lad – he was sure he recognised him; her cousin, what was his name now? “We’ll need to talk some more,” he said. “But you’re right.” He addressed Sharon, “I apologise. This is the wrong place to talk.” He turned to Felicity. “I’ll catch you later.”
Brannigan walked calmly from the salon, confident that all was not as it had seemed just a few days before. He’d have to track down Felicity’s cousin. His thoughts travelled to Veronica, his late wife, Felicity’s mum. Three years he’d been on his own now. Despite all Felicity said, he missed her mother dreadfully.
A car tooted its horn as he took a step into the road. He was about to gesture then thought better of it, raising a hand in apology. He crossed behind it and turned up a side street to collect his car. That cousin, he must be Veronica’s sister’s lad. That would be his next priority, he needed to track him down.
He was about to climb into his BMW when his mobile rang. He looked and recognised a customer’s number. Shit, he thought, he’d an appointment in Huddersfield in half an hour. Despite all that had been going on, he still had a business to run. The lad would have to wait, for now.
Early evening and George Brannigan took a sip of one of his favourite single malt whiskies. He replaced the glass alongside the Talisker bottle on the table beside his chair. Classical music was playing softly from his stereo system as he turned over the events of the past few days in his mind. He regretted what happened to that bloke who walked in on them in the public toilets on Wednesday evening. But it wasn’t really his fault. Who goes to a place like that at that time of night without some dodgy purpose? It was a natural mistake, thinking he was the one come to collect. How was he to know that the one blow he struck would be fatal? He blamed his army training for that. Twelve years in the Green Howards; happy days.
But things didn’t add up. Felicity wasn’t telling him everything. He didn’t go for all that upset she was keen to display and not remembering; she was stronger than that. God, she and her mother lived with him for over ten years, of course he knew her character. Always was a tough little sod, and then she grew up. Precocious little madam when he first met her mother. Felicity didn’t make it easy for his relationship. Slowly, Veronica won her round, but she was always apt to put in the odd word of criticism that made him angry.
He’d need to speak to her again. And then there was that younger lad he saw visit the salon today, her cousin. He remembered his name now – Mark. He’d been at Felicity and Andy’s wedding. And what did Andy know? She must have told him what happened to her? He could try him on his own too. Now Mark, he was sure he was Veronica’s sister’s lad. He’d never mixed much with Veronica’s family. They lived in Wakefield but he wasn’t sure where. Of course they came to the funeral. But hold on, Lupset rang a bell. Was that where Mark lived? Bloody coincidence that that’s where he had to make the drop on Thursday. And that little shit on a bike; he’d only be doing a job for whoever was behind this. Thirty grand. Thirty big ones he’d been taken for.
Veronica kept an address book. Now where was it? He rose, walked to the bureau and opened the second drawer. After rummaging towards the back for a few seconds, he drew out a book decorated in flowered paper. Back in his chair, he began to flick through the pages. Bingo!
He glanced at his watch then looked to the whisky bottle. Half past seven and he’d only had the one glass. No time like the present, he thought, stood up switched off the stereo and grabbed his car keys.
21
Saturday 16th February 2002
Susan drove to Alison’s house in Ossett at lunchtime. Sammy came with her too, wanting to spend some time with Alison.
“Have a quick look through these,” Souter said to Susan, handing her the copies of the news reports Phyllis had organised for him. “The family moved from the house where they lived on the Lupset Estate a year or so after Claire died. They’re now in a council house just off Flanshaw Lane.”
At ten past two, Souter set off from Alison’s with Susan alongside. The rain grew heavy again and lashed the windscreen as he drove down Dewsbury Road towards town. He turned right onto Townley Road.
“Where are we going?” Susan asked.
“I thought we’d have a look at their old
house,” he said. “Just to absorb.”
Bare trees lined the street. It would be a month or two before leaves would sprout. A few turns and they came to a road where the pebble-dash rendered houses changed to red brick-built ones, giving a warmer feel. Finally, he drew his Ford Escort to a halt outside number twenty-seven.
“Is this it?” Susan asked looking to her left.
“No, it’s over there,” Souter replied, indicating the right hand one of a pair of semi-detached houses opposite. “Number Thirty.”
They looked at the house with net curtains at the windows, half-glazed timber front door and neatly cut privet hedge.
“Looks well-cared for,” Susan said.
After a few seconds, Souter set off again; a few more left and right turns
“Where are we going now?” Susan asked.
A minute later, Souter had stopped again, this time outside a pebble-dash rendered property. “Number seventeen,” he said, “Home of Claire’s friend, Sally Green.”
Susan turned to look at him. “So are we talking to her?”
“Could be a bit difficult, she’s married and living in Australia now. But I thought it important to see how close, or far apart the two girls lived. On the Friday night, Claire left Sally’s at five to ten to be back home as her parents had insisted by ten o’clock.”
“Only she never arrived,” Susan said, wistfully.
Souter set off again and ten minutes later drew to a halt outside another red brick council house, this time about a mile away on the Flanshaw estate.
“Ready?” Souter asked.
Susan gave a slight nod and reached for the door handle.
Souter opened one of the gates to the driveway and walked to the front door past a blue Vauxhall Astra parked on the hardstanding. Fortunately, the rain had eased to a light drizzle. Before they reached the door, it was opened by a woman in her late fifties, around five feet four inches tall with short grey hair and glasses. She pulled a cardigan around herself as she spoke.
“Mr Souter?” she asked.
“Bob Souter, yes,” he replied. “Mrs Hobson, this is my colleague Susan Brown.”
“Come in,” she said and stood to one side.
Souter and Susan waited for the woman to close the front door then show them in to a comfortably furnished front room. A man of around sixty years of age stood up from an easy chair he’d been sitting in, TV remote in hand. He switched off the set in the corner and introduced himself. “Michael Hobson,” he said. “I’m not sure what you can achieve after all this time. This was my wife’s idea.”
“Mike, don’t be so negative,” the woman said. “Please sit down.” She indicated the settee. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee?”
“No thanks, Mrs Hobson, we’re fine.” Souter and Susan sat down.
“Please, call me Louise,” she said.
Michael resumed his seat and Souter couldn’t help but think he looked dead behind the eyes. When he’d stood up, he guessed he was around six feet tall but he had a large beer belly and a buzzed head.
“Thanks for agreeing to see us, Louise … Michael.” He looked to the man in an effort to include him in the conversation. “I think it’s a good idea to bring your situation back to the public’s attention. Twenty years is a significant anniversary.”
Michael snorted. “After all this time, I don’t see what can possibly be gained by raking all this up.” He sat further back in his chair. “It’s only going to satisfy all these weirdos who get off on reliving other people’s hurt.”
“I do understand your concerns, Michael, if I can call you Michael?” An imperceptible nod from the man. “But like I was discussing with my colleague here, things can change in twenty years. Someone who has some vital piece of information might now realise its significance or might not now have reason to withhold that.” Souter could see Mr Hobson was unconvinced, so he moved on. “Could we start with some background information on Claire,” he said, looking from Michael to Louise.
“She was just your typical teenager,” Louise began, “Into her pop music. She had a thing about Paul Weller and The Jam; posters on her bedroom wall. But she was a young fourteen-year old.”
Souter was taking notes.
“She was doing okay at school,” Louise went on, “and she had a couple of friends she seemed close to; Sally, of course, Sally Green where she went that night.” She broke off, pulling a piece of paper tissue from her cardigan sleeve and dabbing her eyes.
“This is what I mean,” Michael jumped in. “All this is going to do is bring upset back to the surface.”
That comment seemed to upset Louise more than talking about Claire.
Souter stopped writing.
She looked across at her husband earnestly. “But I need to find out what happened. I can’t just live my life not knowing who was responsible.”
“I’m going to the garage,” Michael said, standing up and leaving the room.
Louise waited until he’d gone. “He’s taken it hard. They were close, Claire and her dad.” She turned to Souter. “He told me once how he felt he’d let her down, how he wasn’t able to protect her like a father should. I told him that was nonsense but that’s his logic, anyway.”
“I do understand,” Souter said, pausing for a second. “So on that Friday, Claire went to her friend, Sally’s house?”
“That’s right. She left home just after her tea, around seven. She was looking forward to listening to some new records Sally had bought, up in her room. We told her to be back by ten. It was something she’d done quite a few times before, or Sally or one of her other friends would come round to ours. It was only about a five-minute walk.”
“She obviously got to Sally’s alright,” Souter prompted.
“Yes, Sally’s parents were distraught when they heard Claire had never reached home. They’d seen her set off about five to ten.”
“And they would be the last people to see Claire?” Souter deliberately left off the word ‘alive’.
Another dab of the tissue to her eyes as Louise nodded.
“So when did you suspect something wasn’t right?”
“As I said, she was pretty good in getting back when she said she would. We left it until the ten o’clock news had finished at half past. When she hadn’t turned up by then, we rang Sally’s. That’s when alarm bells started ringing. Mike went out to look for her. He was out for over an hour. He’d asked a few people he saw if they’d seen her but he drew a blank.”
“When did you call the police?”
“Must have been around midnight. They sent an officer round about one. She took a photo and description of Claire and said she’d get the patrols to look out for her. But it wasn’t until the following lunchtime and she still hadn’t shown up when we got the visit from the plain clothes people.”
“Do you remember who attended?”
“I do, it was a DI Hartley and a female detective, DC Woods.”
Souter screwed up his face. “Not names I’m familiar with,” he said.
“After that,” Louise went on, “things just seemed to happen in a blur. My Mum came round, I remember. Poor soul, she’s passed on now. And when it got to Saturday night with no news, I was in pieces. Mike was out with a load of his mates scouring the streets, asking anyone they came across if they’d seen her. It must have been some time in the early hours before he came home. I was still awake. I couldn’t sleep. And then … Oh God.” This time Louise broke down in floods of tears.
Souter saw that Susan was struggling to keep her emotions in check too.
“Look, Louise, if you’d prefer we left it for now – come back another time?”
The woman shook her head. “No.” She recovered, reached for a fresh tissue from the box on a nearby unit and blew her nose. “I’d like to carry on.”
For the first time Susan spoke. “Could I make you a cup of tea, Mrs Hobson?”
Louise got to her feet. “You know what, I’ll do it and I’ll make you
two one as well. What would you like?”
Susan was about to get to her feet, insistent on making the drinks but Souter gave her arm a restraining touch. He felt Louise would benefit from the break as well as doing something she wanted to do. Susan settled for a coffee and Souter a tea. Whilst Louise was out of the room, he took the opportunity to study some of the photographs that were on display. In hushed tones, he said to Susan, “You can see how they’re both coping.”
“Except Mr Hobson isn’t,” Susan remarked.
“Grief handled in different ways.”
22
Mavis Skinner had worked part-time at the 24/7 store on the corner of Dewsbury Road and Townley Road for the past five years. She’d had her fair share of drama with awkward customers, young thugs after some cigarettes or cash from the till, but overall, she’d enjoyed the experience. At over sixty years old she felt she was giving her life some purpose after her husband had died eight years ago. She liked to engage with the customers.
By ten past three, she had quite a collection of flattened cardboard boxes ready to be put in the waste bin at the back of the store. The rain that had lashed down for most of the day had eased.
“Just going to take these out,” she said to her colleague behind the till.
Scooping up the cardboard, she paused at the doors as two uniformed police officers appeared. They stopped to let her out first.
“Thanks, Dennis,” she said to the older of the two, a regular visitor to the shop.
“Here, let me help you with that, Mavis.” Dennis stepped forward to take the load from her.
“I’m alright thanks. You need to get your fags and sweet supplies before you get a shout.” She grinned at him.
As the two PCs went into the shop, Mavis walked down the side and turned again into the small service yard. Putting the cardboard on the tarmac, she raised the lid of the large blue bin then bent down to pick up the flattened boxes. As she threw them in, something inside caught her attention.
She leaned over and shuffled some of the cardboard out of the way. That’s when she was sure.
