The Innocent Ones

by The Innocent Ones (retail) (epub)

  No, that was the hint that she needed that she ought to leave town. Wherever she looked, she saw danger, shadows that shifted. She wanted to go back to Highford, to work out her next move.

  Then she remembered the address she’d written down. Rodney’s ex-wife. Her new address wasn’t much of a detour. It was worth a try.

  As she went back to her car, she had one last look around her and wondered if she’d ever be back.

  She hoped not.

  * * *

  Porter marched into the gift shop. The wind chimes jangled as he rushed through, thumping down the stairs and into the cafe below. Chris Overfield was still there.

  He looked up as Porter approached, surprised. ‘Are you keeping watch on me?’

  ‘No, her. I was outside her hotel, but what a surprise. I wanted to know who she’d met, but I should have guessed it would be you.’

  Chris pointed to the seat opposite, gesturing for him to sit down. Porter was about to refuse, until Chris jabbed the table with his finger. ‘Sit.’

  Porter slid into the bench seat and leaned in close. ‘Look, Chris, I don’t want to fall out with you, because I know what you’ve been through, but you don’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘You’ve no idea what I’ve been through.’ He slammed his hand on the table, making the cups jangle and some of Jayne’s coffee spill. ‘You were a spectator, nothing more, thinking you can understand by giving us the soft voice when you gave us the news. But where were you in the years that followed, once Rodney had gone to prison?’

  ‘You know the job, Chris. We investigate. We convict. We move on.’

  ‘But you got the wrong man!’

  ‘You need to keep your voice down.’

  ‘You’re not in the force now. You don’t get to tell me what to do. But yeah, I can see how you’d want to keep it under wraps.’

  Porter rubbed his forehead. ‘Just tell me what she said.’

  ‘Why? That’s between me and her.’

  ‘I’m not your enemy, Chris.’

  ‘Yet here you are, confronting me in a coffee shop. My sister died because of what you didn’t do. That poor boy was found below the cliffs, but you couldn’t catch the murderer, so a killer was free to kill again. That’s down to you.’

  ‘If you think we could just click our fingers and the evidence would appear in front of us, your career in the force will be damn short. You know how cases work. They take time, they need evidence.’

  ‘Save me your excuses.’

  The two men sat in silence for a few seconds, both glaring at each other, until Porter said, ‘Just tell me, what’s Jayne’s next move?’

  ‘I thought you were following her. Carry on, if you’re so curious.’

  Porter slid out of his seat again. ‘I’m sorry you’re being like this.’

  ‘Do you blame me? Now go.’

  Porter left without saying anything. He scowled as he trudged through the shop before ending up on the pavement outside.

  Things were spinning out of control. He’d lost Jayne by going into the cafe, wanting to know who she was meeting, and he knew he couldn’t follow Chris. He was a police officer, and trailing an on-duty officer would be unwise.

  He let out a long breath. All he could do was go home and wait.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Dan led his father to The Crown pub. It wasn’t far from his office and had once been a collection of small rooms, perfect for those union and political meetings that became smoke‑filled debates, plots hatched and fingers jabbed over foam-ringed pint glasses and red faces. Now, it had opened out into a collection of alcoves, illuminated by bright lights, a fruit machine bleeping in one corner.

  As he went in, Dan remembered all the evenings his father had lost in pubs like The Crown. The talk got louder as the evenings progressed and was often forgotten amongst the hangovers of the morning after. Dan had witnessed some of this, whenever his mother would send Dan out to find him, tired of wondering where he was, and how drunk he’d be when he got home.

  Not that his father was ever violent, physically, but he could rant and point and lecture, and how loud it got depended on how many pints he’d had. Sometimes, his mother wanted to know whether going to bed early got her an easier night.

  The shadows of that man were still there, his temper as quick to rise, but his frame was more beaten, sagged by his stroke and withered by age.

  Dan held the door open for his father to enter, the scooter bashing against the door frame, but he made it in. Dan couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked so determined. Yes, there were definitely flashes of the old man still.

  Dan thought the barman was about to object, shout out for them to watch his furnishings, but when he saw who it was, he laughed and shouted, ‘If it isn’t Bruce Grant. What’s happened to you? I thought you’d died.’

  ‘I almost did,’ he said, and couldn’t stop his grin. ‘Pint of the usual, if you remember, and the same for him,’ and he steered towards a corner of the pub that gave him a view of the whole place.

  ‘Of course I remember,’ the barman said, almost to himself, and then to Dan, ‘and are you his carer?’

  ‘Son,’ Dan said. ‘I’m his son.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re the lawyer, right?’

  ‘He’s mentioned me?’

  ‘He talked about you all the time,’ he said, pulling a pint of bitter into a straight glass, the foam churning. ‘He’d say it like we were supposed to be impressed, but you don’t look like a lawyer, if I can say that.’ He tapped the side of his face, to indicate Dan’s bruises.

  ‘It’s been a rough couple of days.’

  The barman glanced over to his father and lowered his voice. ‘How did he end up in the chair?’

  ‘A stroke. A couple of years ago now. He can still move about without it, but slowly, and he’s been too proud to come out on his scooter. My office had to burn down to bring him out.’

  ‘Oh, that was your place? I heard the sirens last night. I’m sorry. Is it bad?’

  ‘Gutted, like me. I’m here to drown my sorrows.’.

  ‘Well, you’re in the right place for it.’

  Dan carried the drinks over, his father not glancing his way as he put his pint on the table. Instead, he was staring out of the window, a wistful look in his eyes. Dan thought he detected tears.

  ‘It’s strange, isn’t it,’ he said, still looking away. ‘You see the same view so often, and then it stops because you become ill, and you miss it so much and you worry that it will change, that you’ll leave and it’s a whole new world and it’s moved on without you. Then you’re here again and nothing has changed. The same view, the same road, the same pub.’

  Dan took a drink. It felt cold on his throat and soothed him. ‘Is that good or bad?’

  He lifted his pint in salute. ‘Good. Like I’ve been let out of prison.’

  ‘I’ve been telling you for long enough.’

  ‘It had to be my decision, not yours.’ He turned to Dan. ‘What now for you, then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just let me get through today. I fancy getting smashed. Really, completely, utterly trashed. Tomorrow, I’ll have a thick head, but I’ll work out what to do.’

  His father raised his glass. ‘Amen to that.’

  They drank in silence for a while, his father enjoying the return to one of his favourite pubs, Dan not in the mood for idle chat.

  As Dan was staring outside, not really focusing, something caught his attention. Or rather, someone.

  He stood and got closer, peering along the street and scouring the passers-by, until he saw her. Barbara, standing on the other side of the road, in a doorway so that she was partly in shadow, almost as if she was trying to conceal herself, looking towards Dan’s office, just out of Dan’s view and further along the road.

  Dan was distracted by someone coming into the pub. An old man, his hair just grey wisps, his nose swollen deep red, his clothes shabby. He wore the years of booze like an old coat.<
br />
  As soon as he saw Dan’s father, he laughed and wagged his finger. ‘I knew you wouldn’t stay away.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Chalky. Are you still going?’

  ‘It’ll take a lot to put me down.’ He bought a pint of bitter and shuffled over to Dan’s table, setting his glass down with a clatter. ‘It’s good to see you. I’ve missed talking about the old scraps we had.’

  Dan stepped away, willing to let his father indulge in war stories. He was about to set off towards the door, to check for Barbara, when his phone rang.

  He thought about ignoring it, but he knew he couldn’t. There was too much going on. ‘Hello, Dan Grant.’

  ‘Mr Grant, it’s DS Banks from Highford Police. We’d like you to come in and give us some information about the fire at your office. And there’s your assault, too.’

  An image came into his head of a young officer who was rising quickly, his stint in the Saturday-night van replaced by suits and a folio case. ‘Does it have to be today? I’m not sure I’m in the mood for it right now.’

  DS Banks’s voice became firmer. ‘The information we’re getting is that the fire was started deliberately. We need to find out who did it. Don’t let us suspect that the person could be you.’

  ‘Do you, really?’

  ‘No, not at the moment, but that can change if we start to wonder why the tenant is avoiding the police. And think of Mrs Molloy. Doesn’t she deserve to know what’s happened to her building?’

  Dan sighed and rubbed his forehead. DS Banks was right. Eileen needed to know.

  ‘Give me ten minutes,’ he said, and clicked off.

  When he looked over to his father, he was deep in conversation with his old friend, both chuckling to each other, lost in tales that had been told so often. ‘You all right for an hour or so?’

  His father didn’t look up but waved that he was fine.

  Dan left the pub and looked up and down the street. Barbara was gone.

  He was curious, despite wanting to spend the day not caring about anything but oblivion. She’d seemed as if she wanted to get a view of the burnt-out shell but not be seen doing so. Why would she do that?

  As he set off for the police station, that thought remained lodged in his head.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Jayne drove through Wakefield, glad to be back in a place that seemed to be connected to the outside world in some way. There was the steady jam of traffic, the bustle of shoppers, the trail of buses spewing fumes. It was an old mining city, where the skyline once whirred with colliery wheels, surrounded by small villages that were once one-pit places, everyone working in the same mine. The strike had tried to keep those communities alive, but Thatcher won out and they’d turned into commuter villages for first-time buyers.

  Sarah, Rodney’s ex-wife, lived on an estate at the very edge of the city, surrounded by fields, although it was an estate that had seen better times. The brickwork was dark and seemed to have soaked up all the smoke from years gone by, and her route took her past a line of shops that were mostly boarded up, with teenagers sitting on concrete bollards outside, staring at her as she drove past. In places like that, they could spot a stranger.

  Rockley Drive was a long curve of privet hedges, the houses set back, most still owned by the council, if the uniform colour of the doors was a guide. The ones that had been bought had double glazing and white front doors, shiny and new.

  Number nineteen was halfway along, a semi-detached that looked glum and jaded. Someone had painted the occasional brick white and the lawn was overgrown.

  Jayne stepped out of her car. There was someone looking out of the house next door, watching her as she walked along the short path. Perhaps it was the kind of place where visits from strangers rarely conveyed good news.

  Jayne knocked, which led to a cacophony of barking. The door was old and painted blue, with frosted panels that looked dirty. There was a short delay before she heard a woman’s voice bellow at a dog to get back, before the door opened on a chain.

  A face appeared in the opening. Her hair was dyed blonde, dry and straggly, her eyes tired over vein-broken cheeks. ‘What?’

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Whether to admit it. Are you from one of those debt places? You’re wasting your time, love. I’ve nothing for you to take and you’re not getting your money.’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ Jayne said, and introduced herself. ‘It’s about Rodney.’

  She blinked and took a pull on a cigarette that had been concealed in her other hand. ‘It’s always about Rodney. What’s new?’

  ‘Did a writer come to speak to you a few months ago?’

  ‘Posh fella? Young. A bit of a looker.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Jayne said it bluntly, watching for the reaction.

  Sarah’s eyes widened, giving away her surprise, before she said, ‘Dead? And he was so nice.’ Eventually, she unhooked the chain. ‘You better come in. And watch your feet.’

  Jayne followed her in and saw straight away what she meant. Two small dogs ran around the front room when she went in, perky mongrels with greasy, matted fur, her senses assaulted by the smell of excrement. One of the dogs had used the corner of the room as a toilet, making Jayne cover her nose.

  Sarah shuffled through to the kitchen and came back with a small plastic bag. She scooped it up and took it through to the kitchen to get rid of it, before opening the back door to let the dogs out.

  Jayne noticed a computer whirring in one corner, the screen showing an online bingo game. There was a glass next to it, filled with what looked like cola, although the half-empty bottle of cheap vodka next to the computer desk told her that the day was already starting to blur.

  When Sarah came in, she picked up her glass and sat down. She was wearing a velour top and jogging bottoms, although the bright colour had faded, and there were cigarette stains on one arm.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’

  Jayne saw the greasy smears on the glass and politely declined.

  ‘Tell me about the writer,’ Sarah said, before taking a drink.

  Before she could answer, Jayne felt a burst of sadness. She remembered how Chris described someone so different, an attractive dreamer chasing a more exciting life. Is this where dreams took you?

  ‘The writer was called Mark,’ Jayne said, ‘and he was murdered as he was looking into Rodney’s case. We’re trying to see if it’s connected, because Mark didn’t think Rodney was guilty, and it might have made him some enemies.’

  Sarah started to laugh, but it turned into a hacking cough. She stubbed out the remnant of her cigarette, which had been smoked right to the filter, and said, ‘He was a nice man, but he sounds deluded.’

  ‘Is Rodney guilty? You knew the man.’

  ‘I thought I knew him. Did he have it in him? They found the girl’s belt in his garage, so yeah, it looks like he did. Just like him to pick on kids though.’

  ‘What, he had a thing for children?’

  ‘No, just spineless, that’s all. He’d never pick on someone who could fight back. Big on doing the right thing is old Rodney. He married me because I got pregnant, wanted to make me a respectable woman.’ She grinned, and for the first time Jayne saw her rotten teeth, either missing or browned to stumps. ‘Look how that worked out. Even getting pregnant was a non‑event. Some knee-trembler along the seafront when he walked me home.’

  ‘Did you suspect he had a thing for children?’

  ‘No, never. What kind of person do you take me for?’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘What reason did he give?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him. My boss has though.’

  She looked towards the window and took another drink. ‘And I bet it wasn’t good.’ She reached across to slam her glass down on the computer desk. ‘I’ll tell you. I was bored. There you go, it’s as simple as that.’

  ‘But yo
u had children. Why didn’t you make him leave?’

  ‘That’s why I was bored. Don’t you get it? That’s the thing with Rodney. He wouldn’t know a great time if it smacked him on the arse, and I was stuck in the house with those mewing brats. So, I partied, and I’m not apologising for it.’

  Jayne winced at how she thought of the children. ‘Did you see much of your children after you left?’

  ‘Rodney brought them sometimes, but, you know, what was I supposed to do? Stay inside and play happy families? Not for me.’

  ‘And how did you end up here?’

  ‘I left Brampton after Rodney was locked up. I couldn’t stand the stares and the gossip, because everyone thinks I knew something, that I was keeping his secrets even though we’d split. This was a new start.’

  ‘And for the children?’

  She reached for her glass again. She swirled the drink. ‘Got taken into care in the end. They said I was neglecting them. Even took me to court. Got a suspended sentence. Child neglect. The coppers came round and were all snooty because my cupboards were empty and I’d let things get a little out of hand, but kids are hard, you know. It was like they expected it to be all about vitamins and fruit and eating the right stuff, but they’re children. They’re allowed to enjoy themselves, right?’

  ‘Where did they end up?’

  ‘With my parents, but they were too much for them even, so they ended up in a home somewhere.’

  ‘Didn’t you try to see them?’

  Sarah lifted a cigarette packet from the waistband of her bottoms and lit one. At least the smoke took away some of the animal smell.

  ‘They were better off without me. New start and all that. After all, it hadn’t gone so well with Rodney, and at least I’m not in jail. They were too much anyway. Too much trouble.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Must be Rodney’s genes. He’s the murderer in the family. Or perhaps it was the shame, but it seemed as if they couldn’t be happy. I gave them what they wanted. The freedom to do as they pleased. I let them come in when they wanted, eat what they wanted, watch what they wanted. They’d been through a lot. Why not just make them happy?’