Oak and Stone

by Dave Duggan

  I looked Teresa directly in the eyes. She held my gaze lightly. She was primed and alert. Not fazed in the slightest.

  ‘Your Granda was a striker. A goalscorer, right?’

  I made it sound like I knew him. Teresa blinked and both our eyes settled on a photograph on the mantlepiece. A team of footballers, tall ones arranged at the back, smaller ones on one knee, at the front. A cup gaping open like an insect-eating plant, prominent in front of them. A boy in a duffle-coat, standing off to one side, picking his nose. The man I hazarded was Teresa’s grandfather stood tall at the left end of the back row, a quiff you could slide down making him seem taller.

  ‘Good in the air,’ I continued. ‘A number 9, I’d say. Could do a job at the back, if the team needed. Never flashy, just good. Yeh. Just good’.

  The silence in the room deepened. A child’s voice sounded from the street.

  ‘Ach, Mammy!’

  S’mantha?

  Then Donna spoke in a rush that filled the room with air.

  ‘Oh, aye. Teresa’s granddad, aye. He’s my father. At the back there. The tall fella with the big hair. Spent more time in football shorts than in his trousers, that boy. Teresa, she …’

  That’s when I threw the ball at the girl. A forceful elbow-propelled basketball player’s throw. Without shifting her gaze from the photo on the mantlepiece Teresa caught the ball square in her chest and bowled it underarm, one handed, straight back to me. Her mother gasped. Hetherington stood up. I caught the ball, smiled and tossed the ball gently back to her. As two friends might pass a ball between them, while chatting. She lobbed it back to me. Back and forward the ball went, in easy arcs. Hetherington sat down, bemused but quiet. Donna relaxed and a rosy flush lit her cheeks. Throwing easy arcs, we traversed the air, the ball bridging us.

  ‘You have a notebook. Could you please write down what you saw. The man, I mean. Just what you saw. And if you saw anyone else. We’ll just be out the back a minute. To see the garden, like.’

  I caught the ball one last time and curled it under my arm. I walked past Donna, now openly gaping at me and went into the kitchen area and through the patio doors into the small yard. I breathed out loudly, just managing to compose myself as Hetherington and Donna joined me.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ she said.

  I could see by Hetherington’s stare that he hoped the same.

  ‘Let’s give her a minute.’

  ‘We don’t even know if she was there. You’re assuming the child the groundsman saw was Teresa.’

  ‘Yes, I am. And if it is her, Teresa will tell us.’

  ‘She …’, Donna hesitated. ‘It is her. She does go there. Every morning nearly. Her Daddy follows her the odd morning. Don’t tell her. To mind her. He spoke to the men there. They’re not happy with it, but they …’

  The ‘turning of the blind eye’ is one of humanity’s most-used survival strategies.

  ‘Her Daddy said he’d speak to her. Get her to stop, but, you know, with the new school, he … it didn’t seem right. She’s doing no harm.’

  ‘When you get a chance, after we’re gone, ask her if she goes there now. Ask her directly. She’ll tell you.’

  She looked at me as if for the first time I had instilled some belief in her that this visit by the police might end without harm to her family.

  I bounced the ball three times, tossed it to Hetherington who tossed it back immediately as if it was a salmon that had leapt a weir into his unwary arms.

  ‘Lovely yard, Mrs. Bradley. Snapdragons, is it? A great show. The good May helps, doesn’t it?’ I said, trying to put us all at ease, even though I sensed I was heading towards another dead end.

  Teresa was at the table under the window when we went back in. Late afternoon sunlight crossed her face in warm bands that made her look more puckish than before. Two pages of notes, torn from a small notebook lay in front of her.

  She stood up and handed them to me. I handed her the football.

  ‘Thank you. Please take the ball into the yard and give it a try.’

  Teresa nodded and flicked her eyes at her mother, who smiled in agreement. When Teresa left, I handed the pages to Donna and sat on the sofa, beckoning to Hetherington to join me.

  Donna took the pages and sat where her daughter had sat and read them out loud.

  I took a penalty. The man was there.

  I did not know. His face was in the

  ground. I had my new boots.

  The Dreamtime ones. I got them with my

  own money. I can kick penalties

  with my left foot and my right foot.

  The man had a red and white scarf

  on him. I did not see him. I stood on

  him his on the scarf. He did not move.

  The Dreamtime got bloody. I did not like

  that. I could not take a penalty then.

  The man was alone. The man was

  dead. The other man in the yellow

  jacket shouted. I ran. The man did

  not run after me. He was dead.

  The sound of the bouncing ball and her daughter’s shuffling feet came in from the yard, while Donna read her daughter’s note. Her eyes filled with tears, as she handed the pages to me and sat down again. I passed them directly to Hetherington, who read them briskly. Then, finally, I read them, from back to front.

  ‘Can you please ask her to come back in again, Mrs. Bradley?’

  Teresa returned and lobbed the ball to me, with a nod. It passed her test. I put it on the ground beside me.

  ‘Do you have a computer and printer?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Here, in the house?’

  Donna spoke.

  ‘She has her own set-up, in her room. We got it for her – a laptop and a printer – when she started the secondary school. I keep a good eye on what she does online.’

  I’ve learned that having the police in your house can make even the most law-abiding and intelligent person act like the guilty child who stole the last biscuit from the cupboard.

  ‘Teresa,’ I said. ‘Could you please type up these notes? Keep the originals yourself. And send them to me here.’

  I gave her my card.

  ‘There. You can use my personal email. Or the Messenger service. See. You probably have that service yourself.’

  Teresa nodded.

  ‘I don’t want to rush you. But could you do it tonight? Thanks. And if you remember anything else, just put that in the message too. Like, was there anybody in the stands or on the terraces. Or when you got out, did you see anybody around.’

  Once again the nod, this time with a hint of tiredness in her avid eyes.

  ‘Your boots. Your new Dreamtimes. I’ve never seen them. I’d love to see them. The Dreamtimes.’

  The tiredness left her eyes and she ran off. More thumping up and down the stairs, then Teresa was before us once more. She handed the left boot to me and the right one to Hetherington. I smoothed the leather uppers and the vamps, caressing it as I would a cat. Hetherington turned his over and inspected the underside.

  ‘They’re lethal. Soft and strong, at the same time. You’re what, size five?’

  Teresa held up four fingers.

  ‘Size four. A good size. Not too big, so you’re not flopping around. Not too small, so you can’t give it a good whack. Your feet’ll probably grow another couple of sizes as you get bigger.’

  ‘Her grandfather was a size seven. Like a dancer’s, his feet.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs. Bradley. Thank you, Teresa. What did you think of the ball?’

  She gave a non-committal shrug and smiled, as if to say ‘alright’.

  ‘I know what you mean. Okay for a kick-about, training maybe, but too flighty for a proper match. I’ll loan it to you, if you like.’

&nb
sp; ‘Will you be back?’ her mother asked.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said.

  I hope I gave her enough of a sense that I didn’t think so. Hetherington chipped in.

  ‘We can always phone if we need anything.’

  I stood up and went to the mantlepiece.

  ‘Your granddad would be proud of you. Your skills and all. And your hand-writing. I look forward to seeing your typed version. Tonight, yeh? Thanks for your time, Mrs. Bradley.’

  I shook her hand. Were there tears gathering on her cheeks? Hetherington stood and kicked the ball playfully to Teresa. She trapped it expertly and smirked at him. I smiled as I walked past her out onto the sun-coloured street.

  ‘You’re bribing child-witnesses now, Slevin,’ Hetherington said, as he carefully edged the car out of the parking space. Children, skipping, moved off the road and he pulled clear, then moved along the street, towards Park Avenue. I wound down the window as we slowed at the junction. A man my age leaned against a wall, peeling an orange, putting the peel onto the windowsill beside him, then breaking off segments to pass to two small boys in front of him. I nodded at him and our eyes met. I might be on that street again, if not to see the Bradleys, then perhaps to call on the man peeling the orange.

  ‘Where to now? You got anymore shopping you want to do?’

  ‘Nope. Back to base.’

  I knew it was bugging him, so I asked myself for him.

  ‘Why did I give her back her note? Why did I leave without her statement? She’s our only real lead, right?’

  ‘Right, yeh.’

  ‘You read her note. Nothing. You checked the boots. Exactly as in the crime scene report. You’ve probably got her notes memorised anyway. Leave her be. There might be something in her next draft. When she’s had a chance to think. And now she knows we’re not coming after her.’

  Hetherington drove slowly, negotiating traffic coming and going on Park Avenue.

  ‘A one way system would do power of good here,’ he said.

  ‘No chance. It’s awkward, but who’s going to agree to losing a route? The people coming up or the people going down? Neither. And we’re all one and the same in the long run. We just have to work around each other, both ways. Did you see the statuette on the mantelpiece? Beside the photo?’

  ‘How did you know it was her grandfather?’

  ‘I didn’t. I guessed.’

  ‘And if you were wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I’d have covered. Re-covered.’

  ‘It’s all a bluff with you, isn’t it? Sir.’

  ‘No need to be defensive when you’re being critical. Kenneth.’

  ‘I’m not being critical, I’m being …’

  ‘You are being critical. In a philosophical sense. And that’s good. Yes, I am guessing. And there’ll be more. Go on, give me the bullet points then. Leads?’

  ‘Nil. Confirmed by the girl’s notes.’

  ‘Witness?’

  ‘Ditto. Teresa saw nothing. The groundsmen saw less. The house-to-house in the area turned up nothing. Nothing even from the houses overlooking the ground. It’s a big pitch and to carry a dead body across so much open space and no one see it, I don’t know.’

  ‘We sleep soundly in this city. We have a victim at least. A body. Any thing there to go on?’

  ‘Shot in another location. Brought to the site by unknown means. Forensics have a badly damaged bullet they’re working on. Pathology useless, now we’ve eliminated the boot marks and Teresa.’

  ‘Motivation? Here, turn right by the post office. We might get a clear run to the Northland.’

  ‘Nothing really. Speculation at best. No unusual phone activity. Family members in Manchester. Team mates. Coach.’

  ‘Women? Girlfriends?’

  ‘Nothing steady. Not a playboy either. The women spoke well of him. A gentleman, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Still a few of us left, Kenneth. Gay?’

  ‘Not out in any way. No sign of boyfriends.’

  ‘Gambling? Debts?’

  ‘No. We got access to his bank accounts. All adds up. Income from the club. Typical standard outgoings. Sent money home to his mother on a regular basis, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘More than a gentleman. A paragon.’

  ‘No unusual transactions. No large sums going or coming.’

  ‘Put any direct debits into a note for me. Amounts, no matter how small and destination accounts and any details you can get.’

  I hesitated, but then asked,

  ‘That skeleton and the café on your bullet points. ‘Intermittent’?’

  ‘I went round there, like you said. Boarded up. The off-licence next door said no one had been there for weeks. I could track down the landlord.’

  ‘Naw. Don’t bother.’

  ‘Dead end?’

  I didn’t answer.

  We reached the Northland Road. Home-time traffic was dense, but a taxi-man held back at the junction and let us cross to the far lane. Hetherington gave him a small wave. People grow easier with the police. But not all. I thought of the man peeling oranges.

  ‘Paramilitaries?’

  ‘They work in mysterious ways, obviously. Not their kind of target. Not their kind of operation.’

  ‘It could be a punishment thing.’

  ‘They say they’re not doing that anymore. There’s the odd expulsion, still, but even that’s half-hearted. Anyway, if it was them, they’d have claimed it by now.’

  I smiled at his well-briefed analysis, but guessed there was more to know than was held in police briefings.

  ‘If it suited. Drugs? User? Supplier?’

  ‘No evidence of either. Fit as a racehorse. Top class professional. Keen to do well here and make a move back to England. A good prospect. A winner.’

  ‘Which takes us back to the statuette? On the mantlepiece.’

  ‘Some kind of trophy she won. Or maybe the granddad’s.’

  ‘It’s not exactly a trophy. More a symbol or an ornament. Up close, it’s a crouching skeleton, perched on a rock. I couldn’t see any inscription. Just the figure, a man – no – a skeleton – like he – she? – was in thought.’

  ‘Same as the card you showed me. And the thing round the big cat’s neck.’

  ‘Close enough. Cousins, if not brothers and sisters.’

  ‘What is it? Why do the Bradleys have it?’

  ‘You keep searching. I’ll keep making it up.’

  FIVE

  My phone pinged as Hetherington and I climbed the stairs back to our office. I recognised Hammy’s avatar as the message screen lit up.

  ‘My office now. Wherever you are.’

  I had been expecting that summons for a few days and realised that the review in the car with Hetherington was just the preparation I needed. He reached the top of the stairs four steps ahead of me, so I called to him and caught up.

  ‘Kenneth, just a wee minute there. One more bullet point. Tip line. Anything coming in there?’

  ‘Not much. The usual, and obvious, cranks. I chased a couple of dead ends. I’ll check again.’

  ‘See when you get to your desk, send me the ones you checked, sort of a top ten.’

  ‘I don’t think …’

  ‘A top five then. Send me your best five. Straight away.’

  We passed Sharon’s desk. She was bent over a financial spreadsheet, making delicate tick marks on selected entries, with a finely-sharpened pencil. I placed the current issue of Kick-Boxing International Monthly at her left side and walked on. I’d picked it up when I’d bought the football for the girl. When I got to my own desk, I swivelled into my chair, so I could see Sharon. She continued marking the spreadsheet until she had completed another column, then glanced at the magazine, before returning to her scrutinies. I allowed myself th
e thought that I could see a smile below her fringe. In terms of the acceptance of a peace offering, I gave it three out of ten.

  I scored zero the moment I entered Hammy’s office. He was standing by the window. Another man, as finely made as a whippet, sat at the desk, not quite commanding it but yet still managing to dominate the room. I walked to the window, ignoring the man at the desk.

  ‘I got your message, sir. Hetherington and I were on our way in from interviewing a witness.’

  The man beside the desk spoke.

  ‘Pity you don’t respond so promptly to all your messages. You’ve been not answering me for three days now.’

  His voice was indiscriminately dark. Like his suit. Neither Hammy nor I turned away from the window.

  ‘You know, Slevin,’ my superior said. ‘A man could spend a lifetime looking out of this window and not see the same thing twice.’

  ‘It’s the river, sir. It’s never the same. It’s the past flowing by us, in the present and, upriver, coming our way, there’s a future we may never live.’

  The voice behind us interjected with a laugh.

  ‘If you two boyos are finished with the mock-philosophising, maybe we could do some police work here. Hammy, bring your man to heel.’

  ‘This, Detective Sergeant Slevin, is Officer Cosgrove of Internal Security. You probably guessed that, from the sneering tone and the notable absence of any appreciation for your fine epigram.’

  Hammy took me by the elbow, which was as close to bringing me to heel as he dared, and led me to a chair. We both sat down, so that we now formed an ungainly triangle around the rectangular desk. If a stranger came into the room, they wouldn’t be able to work out who was in charge.

  I sensed that the Internal Security man was waiting for Hammy, my boss, to get us started. He wore very light glasses perched across a fine aquiline nose that centred his perfectly formed face. He was handsome, lithe as a dancer in a musical chorus and still the right side of fifty. He stared hard at Hammy, who flicked dust motes off his grammar school tie, until he grew exasperated and turned directly to me.

  ‘Detective Slevin, a simple question. Why didn’t you respond to my messages?’

  ‘I intended to today, sir. I received one, that I’m aware of. And I’ve been busy, as you say, doing ‘police work’. I am working on the murder of Todd Anderson, sir.’