‘No, it’s fine.’ She wipes away a tear and takes a shuddering breath before placing the frame carefully back in its place. She tops up our teacups from a flower-sprigged teapot and takes another deep breath.
‘It’s not a story with a happy ending, I’m afraid,’ she says. ‘We had tried for a baby early on, and nothing happened. Nicky came along when I thought I was going through the menopause. We were both thrilled, of course, and Al and Nicky were especially close. They went everywhere together: cycling, fishing, watching the motor racing at Donington. He was a joy as a child, so good-natured. Then, as he got older, he started to get argumentative and defiant. Just adolescent stuff, or so we thought.’
She pauses, fiddling with a heart-shaped stone around her neck before continuing.
‘He did scrape through his exams and managed to get a place at university, but he never fulfilled his promise. His tutors predicted a First, but he ended up with a Third. We found out later he had been experimenting with drugs, cannabis and stimulants, mostly.’ She sighs, holding the necklace between her fingertips. ‘This is all I have left of him.’
I look closely at the pendant to see if it holds a photo of her son, but it’s just black glass with a faint sparkling effect.
‘It might seem a bit odd, but this stone contains some of Nicky’s ashes. It means I get to keep him close to me.’
‘It doesn’t feel odd at all,’ I say. ‘It’s a beautiful way of remembering him.’
‘Thank you. I imagine some people would be repulsed by the idea, but I find it comforting.’
She raises the pendant and brushes her lips over its smooth surface.
‘Please don’t feel you have to tell me, but how did Nicky die? Was it to do with drugs?’ I say.
‘I don’t mind telling you, and yes, he died of an overdose. We had tried everything we could to help. Bailing him out constantly, paying off his debts, attending groups with other families affected by the problem. We tried to get ourselves as informed as possible. Nothing we did worked. He seemed determined to self-destruct. In the end, he and Al had a blazing row, and Nicky left home.
‘We tried contacting him, but we didn’t know where he was, and he never answered our calls. The police told us that he had been living in a squat with other users and had started injecting heroin. The wrap he’d bought that killed him came from a batch with high purity levels. Nicky’s was just one of a number of deaths during the time that batch was circulating. I know every death is a tragedy, and this is going to sound awful, but we feel cheated. Nicky had so many opportunities and so much potential. We couldn’t believe that this could happen to our family.’
Sal blinks away tears, and I lean forward and reach across for her hand.
‘Please don’t blame yourself, Sal. You will know from the meetings you attended that this problem cuts across all boundaries. You did the best for your son. As parents, that’s all any of us can do.’
Sal takes a tissue from a box on the coffee table, dabs at her eyes, and blows her nose.
‘I know you’re right, but there are so many ‘what ifs,’ and people we know don’t really understand. It’s almost shameful to admit what happened. I know Al blames himself. He shut down after Nicky’s death. He even cleared the house of everything associated with Nicky apart from a few photos. He deals with his grief by keeping himself busy. That’s his way of coping, whereas I’m inclined to ramble on if anyone will listen.’ She tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
‘You ramble away if it helps,’ I say. ‘And if people are judgemental, that’s their problem. There but for the grace of… whatever. I’m not religious, but you get my meaning. Nobody should be smug and think their loved ones are immune. It can happen to anyone.’
I think back to another death that occurred as a consequence of the drug trade. Another child loved and cherished, but failed by those who should have protected him. I wasn’t deemed culpable, but the guilt is there nevertheless. Baby C died under my watch, and I will never forgive myself for that. I will tell Sal the full story, though not now. This is her time to remember, unsullied by my hurt and remorse. I glance at my watch and see over an hour has passed. I need to get going.
‘I will have to set off soon, Sal. Buddy will need a walk, and the traffic will be a nightmare if I leave it too late.’
‘Oh my goodness,’ Sal says. ‘I’ve been going on, and I haven’t even got around to giving you an explanation for why I asked you to come in the first place. Let me put the kettle on, and then I will reveal all.’
When she comes back, she seems composed, lighter somehow, as though talking has released some of the dam of emotion that had built up since Nicky’s death.
‘Thank you for listening, Fran. I’m sorry for loading it all on you. What must you think of me? Al doesn’t want to know. He thinks talking about what happened is just picking at a sore. Like most men, he finds it difficult to show his emotions.’
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘You can’t force the issue, but if everyone, especially our men, talked more openly about their feelings, there would be a lot less unhappiness in the world.’
I know that reticence on the part of men is not even a generational thing. So much dissatisfaction and unhappiness stems from bottling up emotions, and this occurs in all age groups. It’s not that talking is a panacea for all ills, but never has the maxim ‘a problem shared is a problem halved’ seemed so pertinent when male suicide is at an all-time high.
Sal is standing at the window, looking down the garden to where Al is still working. She raises her hand and waves. He is obviously engrossed in what he is doing and doesn’t look up.
‘He’ll be out there until dark if I don’t go and interrupt him.’ She laughs, sitting back down in her chair. ‘Now, I’ve got distracted, but the main reason I asked you to come here is simple; I dislike conveying important information by phone. It’s a pet hate of mine. Call me old-fashioned, but so much nuance is lost when you can’t read people’s expressions.’
‘Mm, yes, I suppose I agree…’ I say.
‘Anyway,’ Sal says before I can finish, ‘I wanted to tell you directly. The woman from the canal whose dogs attacked Buddy, Mel, I think you said her name was?’
I nod in agreement.
Sal’s face hardens, and she purses her lips as though tasting something unpleasant. ‘Well, Fran, I’m not going to mince my words, but from what we saw, Al and I are pretty sure that she is a drug dealer.’
20
I agree to another cup of tea, resigned to hitting the rush-hour traffic. While I wait for Sal to come back, I consider the implications of what I have just heard. I’m not naive, and I’m aware Mel’s lifestyle has got to be subsidised in some way; it’s patently obvious, but drug dealing?
I had already worked out she was involved in something underhand. The nice lifestyle, the expensive car and the large amounts of cash she carries all point to something dodgy. She’s living beyond her means, that’s apparent, but I was thinking more along the lines of grey-market activities like knock-off computer games or replica shoes and clothing. It didn’t occur to me that she could be involved in drug dealing. I consider Laurie’s reaction after I had described my visit to Mel’s. He had been alarmed and worried about my safety. Had he figured out what was happening? And if so, why hadn’t he been more explicit in spelling out what he thought was going on?
Sal tells me the reason she has asked me to come to the house. They had seen Mel when they stopped for a bar meal before taking Minerva through the final lock on their journey back to the marina. The pub had been busy, and they had gone for a walk along the towpath while waiting for the pub to quieten down..
‘There’s a little boatyard and general store on the opposite bank,’ Sal says. ‘We go there a lot to buy fuel and pick up provisions when we are on the boat. We have got to know the owner quite well. We noticed some activity in the car park and crossed the canal bridge, thinking if Fred was working late, we would go and have a cha
t with him. It was Al who noticed her first. She had parked in the far corner of the car park. She drives a newish, silver-colour four-by-four, right?’
‘So do a lot of women,’ I say, trying not to sound too dismissive.
‘It was definitely her. Although we were well concealed behind a wall, we could see her very clearly. She was wearing that very distinctive and expensive pink coat when she got out of the car.’
‘So far, so innocuous,’ I say. ‘What on earth makes you think she was drug dealing?’
Sal shakes her head in exasperation and wags her finger at me. ‘That’s not the end of it. This is where it gets suspicious. A car pulled up alongside her, and a man got out. They spoke for a few minutes; then he made a call on his phone.’
‘And? It could still all be very innocent,’ I say.
‘You would think so, but wait until you hear this. Within a few minutes of the man making the call, half a dozen teenagers arrived on bicycles. They were all dressed in tracksuits and had rucksacks on their backs. Mel opened her car boot and passed out packages to the man, who placed them in each of the rucksacks. Once the kids had gone, Mel and the man got into their cars and drove off. It was so quick. It was all over in a matter of minutes.’
‘Why didn’t you call the police?’
Sal fixes me with a look of not quite disdain, but close to it.
‘Because what good would it have done? Al and I know from experience that you need a lot of evidence if the police are going to take any notice. Anyway, by the time the police arrived, they would have gone. We asked about CCTV, but apparently the landlord has to provide any security measures himself, and the pub is struggling to keep afloat, so it’s a no-go on that front.’
‘And you don’t think it could have been stolen stuff, like games or trainers, she was handing over. It just seems so blatant in full view like that if it was drugs.’
Sal gives me a resigned look. ‘I suppose you could be right. Perhaps I am letting my imagination run away with me, but I’ve heard of kids being used by gangs to distribute drugs for them.’
I think of Gabe and his friend in their tracksuits and rucksacks. Is it possible that Mel is a link in a chain of supply? Could she be sending Gabe and his friend to Birmingham to collect consignments of drugs? And where does Tyler’s death fit into all of this?
I’ve read about it happening in other parts of the country. Young people recruited and paid to act as couriers. It’s a no-brainer for the drug gangs. The kids are mobile on their bikes and less likely to get caught by the police. If they do end up getting apprehended, their sentences are more lenient because of their age. In my job, many of my more vulnerable clients used both illicit and illegal substances, or had problems with alcohol. I’m aware how endemic drug use is in all communities, but using children – including your own – as a resource in that way would be despicable. Is it possible that Mel is really that calculating?
We walk up the garden, Sal carrying a mug of coffee. Close up, I see the verdant stretch of grass is artificial. Passable from afar, but unyielding and plasticky underfoot. We reach the top part of the garden, and it’s very different from the rest. Tinkling wind chimes hang from the branches of a spreading Japanese maple almost devoid now of its russet-coloured leaves. A wooden bench sits in its shade, surrounded by a large patch of waist-high grass scattered through with flowers. Something is etched into the wood on the backrest of the bench, and I bend down to get a closer look. Nicholas Harris 1982–2007.
It looks as though Al has been cutting the grass using an old-fashioned scythe. I can smell the sweet scent of meadow grass, even though the summer is long over.
‘A wild flower garden, Al? It looks beautiful. It must be a lot of work.’
Al pauses to take a sip from his coffee cup. ‘You should have seen it in the summer. The wild flowers have been abundant this year. There were so many bees and butterflies, and of course, the birds love it too. It actually doesn’t take much looking after. Just a cut twice a year. I do it in the spring and autumn. We come back from the boat for the odd couple of days to check on the house, and this year, this whole area was a blaze of colour. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it look so splendid.’
‘It’s something I’ve thought about doing, but I wouldn’t know where to start,’ I say. ‘It’s probably too late for this year, but I’d really appreciate some advice on planting for next year.’
‘Actually, autumn is the best time to seed. You can always start getting the area ready at the end of next summer, and then you can sow in the autumn. I’d be more than happy to help. We need more wild areas in our gardens.’
My watch tells me I have been here for nearly three hours. ‘Crikey,’ I say. ‘Time does fly when you are enjoying yourself. I really must go. Buddy will be crossing his legs.’
I wave goodbye to Al, and Sal leads me back to my car. When I move to open the door, she reaches for my arm. Her voice is sombre, with an undertone of anger. ‘Al and I despise anything to do with drugs. Scum like that woman are responsible for a lot of broken lives. If there’s a way of shutting down that awful network of misery, I’d like to know about it, because the police don’t seem to have the resources to tackle it effectively.’
Her vehemence, though not directed at me, takes me off guard. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s still grieving and angry about what happened to her son, and grief can make us irrational and unpredictable. I know that better than anyone. I tell her I agree with her up to a point, but that in Mel’s case, we don’t have all the facts. It’s possible she could be as much a victim as anyone in all of this. After all, she too is mourning the death of her son.
I say all this, and a part of me wants to believe it, but the evidence is stacking up against Melanie Ingram. I’d like to know, one way or another, what the truth is.
‘What did you mean when you said the police needed a lot of evidence before they would do anything?’ It had been a throwaway remark, but now I wonder about its significance.
Sal looks scornful. ‘What a waste of time that was. We went to the squat where Nicky was found. We parked up and watched the comings and goings from the car. We were just so desperate for answers.’
‘Did you find out anything?’
‘Well, we thought we had acquired a lot of evidence. We would wait sometimes for hours, and then a car, the same one each time, would appear. People from the squat would come down, and the driver would pass something to them through the car window. We weren’t close enough to see what exactly, but it looked dodgy as hell.’
‘What did the police say when you told them?’
‘That was what was so disappointing. We gave them the car registration and some pictures Al had taken on his phone. They said it wasn’t enough evidence, and anyway, they told us they were already monitoring the area. They said we should not compromise our own safety or the investigation by being there, and advised us not to get involved. They treated us like a pair of interfering busybodies.’
I find the image of the two of them on a stake-out amusing, like an episode of Midsomer Murders, and I struggle to suppress a giggle. I put my head down and get into the front seat of my car, conscious of not wanting to offend Sal after all she’s been through. I’d hate for her to think I was laughing at their efforts, but she has given me an idea.
It’s a long shot and potentially dangerous, but if it gets me closer to the truth, it will be worth it.
21
The drive home is arduous, with traffic snarled in every direction. Fed up with the bumper-to-bumper crush, I swerve off at the next available junction and take the longer cross-country route. The radio is irritating, fizzing with static and constantly losing the signal. Laurie thinks it’s a loose wire and probably a garage job. Being in the car with little distraction does allow me the luxury of thinking time. My defence of Mel Ingram, on the face of it, seems perverse given what I’ve heard today. But for some reason, I feel the need to at least give her the benefit of the doubt. Mum brought
me up with a healthy dislike of injustice and an awareness that appearances can be deceptive.
You should never prejudge without having the full picture. We are all social actors, and what you see might not always be a true reflection of what’s going on, she would say. Like swans, everything may appear serene on the surface, but underneath, any one of us could be paddling furiously.
As a child, this imagery was so strong that I would look at people, searching for signs of webbed feet. It took a few years for me to work out that this was a simile, and grasp the true meaning of the saying.
Mel, as Laurie identified, ‘has got under my skin’. She’s abrasive, overconfident, and her values are at odds with mine. She’s not really friend material, so what’s going on? Why the urge to defend her?
I’m mulling over what Sal said when suddenly I remember something else that was mentioned in the article I read about drug runners. The term ‘cuckooing’ was used to describe how drug gangs take over a house and use it to stash money and drugs. They may even deal drugs from the property. Some of what was written fits in with Mel’s behaviours, but there are discrepancies. The article referred to vulnerable people being exploited, but Mel doesn’t come across as vulnerable, not in the sense they were meaning, anyway. But because she doesn’t behave like a victim, it doesn’t mean she isn’t one, though, does it?
Don’t worry, Mum. I haven’t forgotten the swan analogy. My mind starts to work overtime. Mel may not be especially vulnerable, but she could owe money to someone. It’s not difficult these days to build up substantial debt. Worse, what if she stole some of the proceeds and Tyler was killed by gang members in revenge? If it was a considerable amount, she could still be paying off the debt by dealing and allowing the gang access to her house.
I’m getting there, I think. There are chunks of missing information, but this must go some of the way to explaining what’s going on.
In A Deep Dark Wood: A psychological thriller Page 11
