‘We know he stayed here because we found the bill. Wasn’t it quiet in January?’
‘That doesn’t mean I remember him.’
‘All right, thank you. If anything does come back, you know how to find me.’
Jayne left the hotel and called the number she’d been given by Barbara. It rang out for a while, and she wondered whether the retired detective was going to answer, but eventually a voice said, ‘Hello?’
‘Andrew Porter?’ When he grunted in the affirmative, she introduced herself. He started to bluster his objections, so she interjected, ‘I’ve come to Brampton to speak to you. The quicker you talk, the quicker we’ll leave you alone.’
There was a curse, before he said, ‘I’ll be on the north cliffs walking my dog in fifteen minutes. If you’re serious about this, you’ll be there too,’ and then he hung up.
Jayne smiled. She hadn’t expected progress this quickly. She ducked back into the hotel. ‘How far on foot to the north cliffs?’
‘It’s not far. Easy to find. Just head north and follow the sea.’
She thanked Glenys and set off walking.
There was something about Brampton she liked.
The harbour jutted out into the bay, grey stone piers battered by the sea on both sides, the North Sea slamming hard against the walls and sending spray over the windows of a small hut selling fishing tackle. Trawlers lined one pier, yachts in the middle, with the usual seaside collection of stalls and shops selling burgers and candyfloss and decorated shells lining the other side.
Most of the harbour trade was done for the day and, as she followed the path round, she saw that most of the town looked as if it was closing down. Guest houses with flaking paint, fairground rides covered in tarpaulin, an open promenade home to empty crisp packets and cans blown along by the wind. Amusement arcades blinked and flashed, but there was no one in them.
As she put the harbour behind her, the long sweep of the bay towards a distant headland was impressive, the chalk cliffs high.
The walk was a lot longer than she’d been led to believe, the grassy slope leading to the clifftops some distance away, at the end of the long stretch of seafront tarmac and metal railings painted white.
She picked up the pace, her walk turning into a slow jog, even though she wasn’t dressed for it, in jeans and pumps. The town centre was soon behind her and she was passing bowling greens and rows of houses built in high elegant curves, remnants of the first Victorian seaside boom.
She was panting hard as the tarmac gave way to grass and she rushed up the slope that ended on the clifftops.
As she reached them, she noticed a man with a dog further along. A metal lead swung from one hand, and in the other he was carrying a red plastic stick, one of those things that hurl a ball far, the spaniel with him running in tight circles around his legs.
He launched the ball skywards and Jayne watched as it sailed towards her, the dog bolting for it, not looking where it was going. She had to jump to one side as the ball landed just behind her and the spaniel attacked it on the floor, its tail wagging hard, making small growls as he played with it.
The man didn’t apologise for nearly hitting her with the ball.
As she got closer, she said, ‘Mr Porter?’
‘Aye. I thought it was you.’
The spaniel ran past her and brushed against her leg, almost knocking her over. Porter patted his leg to bring the dog to heel, and he sat down next to him and wagged his tail, panting hard.
‘You know why I’m here then.’
‘Of course I do. The same as that idiotic reporter.’
‘The idiotic dead one, you mean?’
‘Well, yes, and I’m sorry about that, but seeing as though you represent his murderer, I don’t suppose you’re the one I should be saying sorry to.’
‘Alleged murderer.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, let’s play that game and all pretend.’
‘Look, I get it. You’re a retired cop and don’t like the defence, but the sooner we get this done, the sooner I’m back to civilisation.’
He looked surprised. ‘You don’t like Brampton?’
‘It’s too sleepy and forgotten for me.’
‘Turn around.’
‘What, why?’
‘Just do it.’
She frowned, but then did as she was asked.
‘Look at that town,’ he said. ‘The sun rises over the sea, making everything cold blue, but now the sky has that beautiful orange to it. The harbour juts out but is brave to the North Sea winds. You don’t know how hard it blows in winter, so cold that it cuts your cheeks, so when summer comes it’s like a blessed relief. The people brace themselves to get through winter. Huddle up in coats, don’t go out as much, spend days watching the gales throw sea spray against their windows.’
Jayne turned back. ‘Is there a point to this?’
‘Yes, there is, because the case Mark Roberts was looking into soiled this town.’
‘Tell me about it then. Let me see it your way.’
‘Are you serious that you know nothing about it?’
‘Absolutely.’
He looked as if he was about to walk away, but his tone softened as he said, ‘You have to go back more than twenty years. The worst and best case I was ever involved with.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Worst because two children were murdered. Snatched and killed, just a few weeks apart. The best, because we caught the bastard before he could kill any more, and he’s still rotting away in a cell somewhere. That thought keeps me warm at night, because every time I pour myself a single malt and look out of my window, I imagine him settling in for the night in a bare cell, on a wing with the other perverts, the rest of the prison desperate to get to him.’
‘I haven’t heard about these murders.’
‘Well, no, but you’re too young, I suppose. The first one was William Clegg. A sweet little boy who went missing when they had the annual bonfire here, up on these cliffs. It’s some festival they invented fifty years ago or more, made it out to be an old Viking festival, just to get the visitors in and kick-start the season. It became a big event, with drinking and bonfires and cliff walks. Poor little William, six years old. He’d got away from his father, who’d been more attentive over his drink than his little boy. We all looked for him and found him by the old pillbox down there.’
‘Pillbox?’
‘Follow me.’ He set off walking to the cliff edge.
Jayne followed, getting more nervous as she got closer, the sea filling her view, the grassy edge ragged and uneven.
He pointed. ‘Down there.’
Jayne edged towards it, always keeping an eye on Porter, and leaned over, her breath tight in her chest, ready to jump backwards if he made any move towards her. As she looked down, she saw a large concrete block, broken up into three pieces, dark and brooding against the white pebbles on the beach.
‘Built during the war,’ Porter said. ‘They have them up and down the coast, put there to watch out for an invasion. The sea has broken it up, but twenty years ago it was still mostly complete. William was found in a small gap between the cliff and the pillbox.’
‘He could have fallen.’
Porter raised an eyebrow. ‘The pathologist could tell the difference.’
Jayne stepped back from the edge. ‘You mentioned two.’
‘Yes. A May Day festival on the rugby club fields, just a few weeks later. The same as before, except the body wasn’t found nearby. A seven-year-old girl, Ruby, became separated from her mother, but it was over a week before we found her. It felt like the town was on lockdown, until she was found in a small grave a few miles out of town.’
‘How did she die?’
‘Strangled and bludgeoned. That’s the only way to describe it.’
‘Who did you get for it?’
‘A local man called Rodney Walker. He’d been stopped by a patrol monitoring traffic, everyone looking out for whoev
er took her, but left to go on his way. Once Ruby was found, we went back to him and traces of her blood were found in his boot. Turned out he lived next to the rugby club, and there were traces of her blood in his garage too, along with Ruby’s belt. That’s where he killed her, after enticing her in there, then drove her out to dump her like she was old rubbish.’
‘What about William?’
‘Blood again. His DNA was found on the rear seat belt and the lock, where Rodney had fastened his kids in.’
‘He’d taken his children with him when he went out killing kids?’
‘We don’t know that. He might have left them somewhere else and picked them up afterwards. But it was enough.’
Jayne blew out. This was serious stuff. ‘Did he deny it?’
‘He didn’t say anything. Not during his interviews or at court. It was almost as if he enjoyed torturing the families even more, by not letting them know what he’d done to them before they died. He went to prison and the town moved on. The bonfire the year after was a strange one, because everyone remembered and there weren’t as many families there. The rugby club cancelled the May Day event and haven’t held it since. People moved on though, until Mark Roberts came to town and started to ask questions, digging it all up.’
‘What kind of questions was he asking?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘He ended up dead, in Highford, so yes, it seems like it does.’
Porter stared out to the sea for a few seconds, before saying, ‘Just because wounds are old doesn’t mean they’re not raw.’ He shouted his dog over, who’d gone sniffing after something in long grass on the other side of the clifftops. ‘Just be careful what you do here.’
‘Where did he live, this Rodney Walker?’
Jayne could tell Porter was thinking about not answering, but then realised that it would be easy for her to find out. ‘Mayfield Crescent, number 15.’
‘And what about the girl’s parents, and the parents of the first child, William.’
Porter shook his head. ‘You don’t go bothering them. They’ve suffered enough.’
And with that, Porter set off walking. As she watched him go, she wondered what wounds she’d be reopening. And if doing that had led to Mark Roberts’s death, how much danger would she be in?
Chapter Twenty-One
As Dan made his way through the rest home where his father lived, fresh from the confrontation with the man wielding the knife, anger had replaced shock.
An old trade unionist, his father had been one of the town’s fierier campaigners, until years of formulating battle plans in pubs had ended with a stroke and he’d been forced to give up independent living for a small apartment in residential care. It had its own kitchen and living room, more than just a bedroom and a toilet, but the place had rules and regulations and all the care assistants had free access. It confined him, made him angry, not that it took much.
That’s how Dan remembered him as a child, angry, spewing his views as the factories and mills closed down, all the time shouting at the television whenever Margaret Thatcher came on. By the time Dan had finished school, the coal mines had gone, as had the mills. The valleys were no longer shrouded in smoke and no one lost limbs like they used to, but Highford lost some of its soul and became just one more empty northern shell.
Those firebrand days were gone. His father passed his time drinking cider and watching television. Drinking beer aggravated his gout, so he’d discovered that cider was better somehow. He didn’t slow down. He changed his tipple.
The rest home was too warm, as always, Dan’s footsteps silenced by carpets that were thick and spongy as he passed residents who shuffled along, the peace broken only by the steady click of metal canes or the slow creak of walking frames.
Sometimes, Dan stopped to say hello. He represented people in court who saw people like these as targets, the one part of the job he hated the most, how his clients didn’t care what people had done before they became vulnerable. The wars they’d fought in or the families they’d raised counted for nothing for his clients. They were just someone to con or rob. Spending time with them eased his conscience.
But he wasn’t in the mood for it today. He ignored the passing resident as he knocked on his father’s door and waited for the buzz to let him in.
He thought for a moment about turning to leave, wondering why he’d come here. His relationship with his father was cordial but distant.
The loud electronic buzz ended his doubts and he went inside.
His father was watching a football game, some rerun from the night before. There was a glass filled with orange liquid next to him. He turned and gestured at the screen. ‘Don’t tell me the score.’
That made Dan smile. No big welcome. He held up the bag containing cider bottles, the usual admission price. ‘Usual place?’
‘As long as they can’t see them, the staff don’t mind.’
‘Except when you’ve had too much and you get angry over something.’
He waved his good hand in dismissal. His other was curled up like a claw and rested in his lap. ‘I’m calming down as I get older. What brings you here?’
‘Just passing.’
‘You always say that. You can admit you like to spend a bit of time with your old man,’ and he cackled. ‘In these mellow years, I’ve become all, what’s the word?’
‘Avuncular?’
‘You didn’t inherit your fancy words from me, but that sounds like it. Avuncular.’ His eyes narrowed as his smile faded. ‘What’s on your mind, son?’
Dan shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘You’re lying to me. I can see fear in your eyes, and I know that look. I’ve seen it so often with people who think they’re about to lose everything and not sure if they’ve got enough fight in them. What is it? Your business going wrong? A case?’
Dan wondered whether his father was the man to confide in about the threat with the knife, but as he thought about what to say he realised that he hadn’t ended up here by accident.
Once he’d hidden the cider, he sat down and asked, ‘Back in the old days, when there were still industries to save, what did you say to those who didn’t see the point in fighting?’
‘I told them that it’s not about the size of the fight, or whether you’ll win, but about how you’ll feel if you just give in and let them win.’
‘Whatever the risk?’
‘Exactly that. The people I used to stand alongside often had nothing to lose. The factories were going to close anyway, or the pay rises were never going to happen. During the miners’ strike, do you think we ever really thought we would win? Not a chance. But it meant we could look our children and grandchildren in the eye, when they had no future, no community, and say that we did our best. It’s always better to fight and lose than just accept the loss.’
Dan smiled. ‘I never took you for the homespun-wisdom type.’
‘Oh yes you did, because it’s why you come here. You’re bloody-minded, won’t admit a weakness. You get that from me, I suppose, but at least it means you can learn from my mistakes.’
‘And what mistakes have you made?’
‘I regret the fights I didn’t have more than the ones I did.’
‘What if it feels dangerous?’
‘When you win, those are the fights that feel the best of all.’
Dan stood and patted his father on his shoulder. ‘Thank you.’
‘Not staying for the game?’ He pointed at the television.
‘I know the score.’
His father winked. ‘Thanks for the cider. All I’ve got is my memories, and you. The least I can do is share what I have.’
That closed Dan’s throat and made him swallow.
He went for the door, needing to get outside. Just as he got there, his father shouted out, ‘Just be careful.’
Dan shouted back, ‘As always,’ before returning to the corridor, the warmth even more cloying than before.
* * *
> Mayfield Avenue was a long street of red-brick semi-detached houses with bay windows and brick walls that protected small front gardens, roses round many of the porches. There were no cars on the street, the driveways wide enough to accommodate them, all safely behind gates. One side backed on to a street of identical houses, whereas the other had the rugby fields behind it, green and open, the white posts visible behind.
As she approached number fifteen, Jayne saw how it was different from the rest.
At the end of every driveway there was a garage. Some were in better condition than others, and some nothing more than dilapidated workshops. At the end of the driveway for number fifteen, however, there was open garden, the memory erased of whatever happened there more than twenty years earlier.
Jayne wasn’t convinced it had worked. Rather than scrubbing away the memory, it highlighted it, conspicuous by its absence.
There was no point knocking on the door of Rodney Walker’s old house. Jayne presumed that the owner had bought it after Rodney had been incarcerated, either unwittingly or at a knockdown price and prepared to overlook the past. It was the neighbours who would provide the answers.
She started at number seventeen.
A bright new porch had been built on the front. After a few seconds of pressing the bell, an old man with salt-and-pepper hair in a tight blue jumper appeared, his stomach protruding over his belt. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m here about next door,’ and she jabbed her finger towards Rodney’s old house.
‘Are they out? I can see their car.’
‘No. I mean the man who lived here twenty years ago.’
The man straightened and folded his arms. ‘What’s all the sudden interest?’
‘Do you mean the reporter, a few months ago?’
‘Aye. Some southern chap. Asking a lot of questions and upsetting people.’
‘Why upsetting them?’
‘Because he thought Rodney didn’t kill those kids.’
‘Really? That’s what he said?’
‘He tried to, but I told him straight, no more of that talk. One of those kids was killed in his damn garage. That reporter was just another fool looking for a headline.’
The Innocent Ones Page 10
