Right to Kill

by John Barlow

  ‘You know whose it is, then?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Seen it before?’

  Again, no.

  ‘OK, thanks for your time, Mr Sugden.’

  37

  They dropped down into Cleckheaton town centre. Her eyes were still wide, but they were slightly glazed, not a hint of sympathy in them. It was as if she was a different person.

  ‘You really don’t need to interview me again, right?’

  ‘No. I assume you’ve already spoken to someone else on the case?’

  ‘Yes. They came to school today. Has there been an arrest? There was something on the news about it.’

  ‘Still questioning, last I heard.’

  She closed her eyes and exhaled, long and hard.

  A pause.

  ‘Do you know why I like Maths?’

  ‘Why?’ he asked slowly, keeping his eyes on the road as they drove.

  ‘Because you get an answer. The perfect answer. In life, things don’t always resolve themselves neatly. Maths generally does. There’s clarity, a sense of getting things exactly right.’

  ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘Pardon? You think you know me?’

  ‘No, I mean…’

  ‘Life doesn’t always turn out well, Joe. There isn’t always a neat answer.’

  They turned right and drove past the old mill building that dominated the town. On the other side of the road was what looked like the remains of a railway line, minus the tracks.

  ‘It’s a Greenway,’ she said. ‘Railway’s long gone.’

  ‘It was pure Industrial Revolution around here, wasn’t it?’ he said, just to make conversation, sensing that she was tense, and that she regretted having accepted a lift from him. ‘But the village where you live? It’s only a handful of miles away, but could be in the Dales. Never touched by industry. Incredible.’

  ‘Ah, Tong! Scene of the infamous photograph! Front-page stuff!’

  ‘You know the weird thing about social media? If you don’t pay any attention, it all seems so distant, like it’s got absolutely nothing to do with you. I did get suspended, though.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, perhaps. I’m officially keeping a low profile while they decide what to do with me. Not allowed in pubs, though.’

  ‘Shame. There’s another nice one just up the road in Gomersal. The Wheatsheaf. I go there from time to time.’

  ‘Well, as long as it’s somewhere discreet. Rules are always open to interpretation, aren’t they?’

  ‘You know what? Would you mind dropping me at Tesco’s instead? I need to get a few things. And I don’t think this is a good time, is it? Look, we can go down here.’

  They turned left, the road taking them beneath the course of the old railway, down along an old underpass, the very spot where Craig Shaw used to park to do business, where it was assumed he’d been murdered.

  Joe came to a brief stop at the darkest point, the grey light of the early evening sky visible in odd snatches between the massive iron girders of the structure above them, caked in decades of paint and rust.

  ‘The bereavement group, up at the library?’ he asked.

  She attempted a smile. But it looked painful, all her teeth on show. There were tears in the corner of her eyes.

  ‘How on earth did you know?’ she asked, reaching into her bag and pulling out a ball of screwed up paper. ‘Anyway, I’ve just taken the poster down. I’ve made a decision.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘I’ve run that group for five years. But I’ve decided to pack it in. Nothing really works, Joe. You can’t talk your way through it. I realized that last night in the pub.’

  ‘I’m sure it does help. And the other people in the group, I’m sure they are helped by it. By you.’

  ‘I’ve done all I can. It’s too late.’

  She wound down the window and tossed it out.

  ‘Apologies for littering. The supermarket’s just up here, sharp left. I hope we don’t get photographed!’

  She laughed, but it didn’t sound like a joke.

  They parked up near the back. Before them was a large expanse of tarmac, nine or ten long rows marked out for vehicles, about half of them filled. Tesco was doing brisk trade even now, before the rush hour.

  ‘I had a son,’ she said, watching him as she spoke. ‘He died.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She forced the tiniest of smiles.

  ‘The woman you mentioned yesterday, with the dead son? She’ll live with it forever. It doesn’t go away.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘No, you can’t. You can’t imagine it.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything, Joe. It happens. Life. It just happens. Then you get on with it.’

  ‘How the hell do you cope with something like that?’

  ‘In practical terms? I became a teacher. Tried to help people. The other stuff, too. Job club, bereavement group. In the end, though, it doesn’t work.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  She paused, considered what he’d said. And it wasn’t with fondness.

  ‘Thomas would have been sixteen tomorrow.’

  ‘Jesus, I’m so sorry.’

  She paused, looking out through the side window.

  ‘Sixteen. My little man! I wonder what he would have grown up to be?’

  Joe counted his breaths, unsure what to say.

  ‘A soldier, I reckon,’ she said, turning to look straight ahead, across the rows of parked cars. ‘Something outdoors, anyway. We used to take him to a park near his school. There was a little café, a shack really. It served ice cream. He’d play there for hours, whatever the weather. The cold never bothered him. When he fell he never complained. Never cried. Tough little bugger. He loved ice cream.’

  As she spoke, she was watching two young lads, a couple of rows down. One was a lot taller than the other, but it was the short, scrawny one that caught Joe’s attention.

  ‘Who knows,’ she said, ‘he might’ve turned out like that!’

  There was a heightened casualness in the way the smaller boy moved, a presumption. His face was angelic yet threatening, the skin around his eyes pulled tight, as if his humanity was a mask, something far older than his years.

  They sat and watched as the boys made their way through the rows of cars, taking what appeared to be a deliberately indirect route.

  ‘They’re not…’ Joe said, intrigued. ‘They’re not gonna steal one, are they?’

  The smaller of the two walked down the side of a black Subaru, dragging something along it as he went.

  ‘He’s keying it!’

  Then, as he got to the side mirror, his young body swung into the car with a well-practiced jerk. A second later the mirror was hanging from the door, and the boys were walking away.

  ‘Shall I nick him?’ He watched as the kids wandered off, not a hint of haste in their movements. ‘I mean, why would he even do that?’

  ‘’Cos he’s no good,’ she whispered.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Yep. A wrong ’un, as they say. It’s the evil gene, Joe.’

  ‘That’s a bit strong, don’t you think? What is he, eleven?’

  ‘Thirteen. Go chase after him. You’ll see.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘You’ll see it immediately. A flicker of badness. It’ll make you shudder.’

  He watched as the boys disappeared into the supermarket, shoving each other, messing about, the Subaru’s broken side mirror already forgotten.

  Meanwhile, Chris was looking at Joe. She was smiling, and it was a patronizing smile, as though she pitied his ignorance. There was a tear hanging on one of her eyelids, just waiting to fall.

  ‘It’s like the clever ones, y’know? The really bright kids at school?’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Clever kids get bored, because it’s all so easy. They’re just waiting for univers
ity, for the rest of their lives. They know it’s gonna get better. It’s the same with the truly nasty ones. They’re waiting to be old enough, biding their time until they can launch themselves onto the world. They already know what’s waiting for them.’

  ‘Isn’t a school’s job to steer them away from that kind of future?’

  She laughed out loud. The tear began its slow progress down her cheek.

  ‘The ones who are gonna end up in jail, who are going to do really bad things? I can spot ’em a mile off. There’s not many, but they’re easy to recognize. And they’re not all from bad homes.’

  ‘What are you saying, then? It’s genetic?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘They have an aura. You can feel it. It’s unnerving. I mean,’ she said, pausing for thought, ‘you must know this?’

  ‘I don’t. Not the way you put it.’ He was still looking at the entrance to the supermarket. ‘Have you been following the Graphite Assassin case?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Did you read about Jason Beverage?’

  ‘I did,’ she said. ‘Do you need more proof? Really?’

  ‘The evil gene, eh?’

  ‘OK.’ She bit her lip, took a moment to think. ‘I’ll tell you what. Go after him. Kieron Burnett, that’s his name. He’s thirteen and he’s got a juvenile record as long as your arm. Go on, take him under your wing. Shower him with social workers. Be his surrogate dad. His mentor. Take him bowling, hiking, give him books to read, whatever. But you know what? None of it will make any difference. He won’t change.’

  ‘A wrong ’un?’

  That shrug again. She wasn’t arguing with him. She was simply stating the truth, a truth that seemed to crush her. She was crying now, silent tears as she looked out through the window.

  ‘And that’s why you became a teacher?’ he asked.

  She unbuckled her seat belt.

  ‘I became a teacher for the good kids, the huge majority. The odd rotten one just comes with the territory.’

  She opened the door and got a leg out.

  ‘Do you need a lift home?’ he asked. ‘Anything? Someone to talk to?’

  ‘I’m fine. I might take a walk up the hill to Gomersal, have a quiet drink in that pub. I think I need to be alone tonight.’

  ‘In a day or two, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps.’

  She leant back into the car and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘See you, Joe.’

  38

  He got settled down on his uncomfortable, mid-priced sofa, a dish of microwaved tagliatelle on his lap, and switched on Look North. The Graphite Assassin was still the lead story. There’d been a bit of a media scrimmage outside Kirklees HQ sometime in the afternoon when Rita emerged to deliver the news that they were still questioning a man. A sizeable crowd had gathered by then, blocking the steps of the building, several banners of the Patriot League held up for the cameras. She didn’t add anything new, but managed to hint that they were near a breakthrough.

  The item was about a minute long, and the drunken photo of Joe and Chris was only shown right at the end, the image only on screen for a couple of seconds. He saw himself: the face of an older man, of someone else, eyes tinged with red and held unnaturally open for the camera, the sense of being relaxed yet unsure of himself. Cautious in pleasure. Is that what he was? A man unsure of himself?

  He put his pasta to one side and poured a glass of wine as the news moved on. For a moment he considered searching for the photo on the internet, just to see how many websites and blogs now featured his face. He had a web browser on the TV. Once, after a long evening alone with too much wine, he’d used it to search the internet for porn, only to find that when he tried to turn it off again, he couldn’t. He’d managed to press the wrong button, and the frozen image of a gurning sex actress was left on screen until he got up and switched the whole TV off. And she was still there when he turned it back on. The longest fake orgasm in history.

  He sat there and savoured his wine for a while. Then he let out a long, dog-tired sigh, turned the news off and made a start on all the background reports he’d ordered the previous night.

  He began with Mark Sugden, the cocky twat who’d sounded a good deal less cocky today. Sugden had grown up in Todmorden, the epicentre of Happy Valley. One arrest for breach of the peace at a fracking demonstration. Jobs in various libraries, interspersed with periods as registered unemployed. Previous and current addresses all in and around Halifax and Brighouse.

  ‘Sticks close to the Valley,’ he said, getting up and moving across to the table, where his metre-square plan of the case was laid out.

  An hour later he was still there, a half-empty bottle of wine by his side. There were now papers everywhere on the floor in what might once have been some sort of order but was now simply a mess. The enormous sheet of paper on the dining table was heavy with thickly etched lines, names circled again and again, many of them linked to others in irregular triangles and squares, and everything overlaid with bursts of unsteady handwriting that flew out at all angles, like the mind-map of a madman.

  Data support had trawled up some interesting stuff on Dave Bannister, the retired local councillor, who had been investigated twice (and absolved twice) by his local party for corruption, and had stood down from politics halfway through his last term of office. Just a few inches away from Bannister’s name on the plan there was now a patch of heavy scrawling around the names of Danny Cullen and his Patriot League associates, so dense that it was difficult to see whether there was any sort of design to it, or if Jackson Pollock had lost his shit with a pencil.

  Each time he stopped reading the reports and looked down at the huge sheet of paper, his eyes were drawn to the name of Craig Shaw. He considered giving Jane Shaw a ring, just to see how she was. He wished he had news for her, a lead, a line of enquiry, anything promising he could refer to with honesty, rather than the upbeat bullshit Rita was obliged to churn out for the media. He also wished he had a cigarette.

  In fact, Rita was the next best thing to a smoke. He pulled out his phone.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. Any news?’

  He listened to a brief summary of a wasted day. She was tired, but still she managed to sound in command of the facts. Turner was still being interviewed, but it didn’t sound promising.

  ‘What about Mark Sugden?’ he asked. ‘You checked the CCTV to see if that bike fits? I saw your lot sniffing around there today.’

  ‘He says the bike’s not his. They’re looking at the footage now.’

  ‘And Turner’s bike?’

  ‘Nothing yet. Forensics are still trying to place it at the scene. Ditto Turner. And by the way, what were you doing up at the library?’

  ‘Digging away. Give me an hour or two. I’ll ring again. Something’s gonna turn up.’

  ‘Who are you looking at? ’Cos I’ve got nowt here.’

  ‘Give me an hour.’

  He returned to the table, found the word Bike, and scored a thick line to a name that so far had been circled and linked to less than most. He’d been putting it off, perhaps hoping that something else would surface from all the information. But it hadn’t. Armed with a fresh glass of wine, he moved across to the sofa and opened the final bundle of printed documents: Christine Saunders.

  It didn’t take an hour. But by the time he’d read the report a couple of times the wine was gone and his face was shiny with tears, his lips quivering like a baby’s.

  He set the papers down and concentrated on his breathing, willing it to slow down, to become smooth and regular. He tried not to think, just gather up the loose ends of his emotions and wait for them to settle.

  Then he phoned her.

  ‘Rita, I need to see you.’

  ‘I’m ready for bed. I’m friggin’ exhausted. Gwyn’s still at HQ if…’

  ‘Tomorrow, then. First thing.’

  Tuesday

  39

  They met at Broadyards Country Park. It was eight in the mor
ning and it was cold. There was a picnic bench close to some trees, a fair distance from where Shaw’s burnt-out Toyota had been found. But they could see the ghostly shadow of the car on the ground, the four scorch marks of the tyres, a patch of darkened earth where the engine had dripped its molten oil.

  ‘OK,’ she said, settling down on the bench and zipping up her leather jacket against the wind. ‘Turner was released last night. We just didn’t have enough to hold him. And he knew it. Him and his bloody lawyer.’

  Joe nodded.

  ‘What about the rest?’ she asked. ‘Are you managing to keep up with it all?’

  ‘Just popped into Elland Road. Saw all the stuff on the system. How many officers you got on it?’

  ‘Loads.’

  They looked out across the car park. There were a few vehicles, a handful of dog-walkers, one of whom stopped as he got to the darkened earth, peered down at the ground for a moment, then took a couple of shots on his phone.

  ‘Popular spot,’ he said.

  ‘It is now. Makes you think, eh? Two bodies in four days.’ She watched Joe, noting the strain in his eyes, the way in which his face seemed to have lost all colour and animation. This is a weird one, Joe.’

  Still she watched.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, finally. ‘I reckon it is.’

  She gave him more time. It wasn’t a Romano pause, silence as a means of cajoling the truth from someone. She sensed that now he needed time just to breathe. His whole body seemed to be heavy with a deep, unremitting lethargy.

  ‘Joe, there doesn’t need to be another kill. We can stop this now.’

  He tried to smile. ‘I’m off to the Greyhound in Tong this evening. The pub. You know, the one in the Twitter photo?’

  ‘I know it.’

  A pause.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what kind of copper do you think I am?’

  She blew out an exasperated sigh.

  ‘No,’ he added. ‘Put it another way. What kind of copper do you think I think you are?’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Go on. What do I think about you? Tell me.’