Fiona

by D Attrill

  “Aye, a white Corsa, weren’t it.” Armitage answered blankly.

  “Does that look like white to you?” he pointed out some peeled remnants of red on the rear edges.

  “Said nowt about the colour, pal – just pick out anything that starts wi’ a ‘W’.”

  “Well I didn’t. So which of these were off white ones then?”

  “How the chuff should I know? Do I look like a detective?”

  “You look deaf.” Garstone ended it delicately, avoiding a heated dispute.

  “Trouble here, ladies?” Leyton emerged to investigate.

  Garstone explained things.

  She mulled over it a moment, yet her eventual reaction was ready to disappoint him.

  “The undercoat does vary, you’ll find,” she lectured “Just gather up all the ‘W’s you got hold of, would you ... and preferably with less noise if possible.”

  Too late. Brian Saddleworth had stepped through, sporting an un-amused look.

  “You said you’d take just five minutes.” he complained “What’s this entire racket in aid of?”

  Leyton told the two DCs to continue, and ushered Saddleworth back into the yard. Armitage followed them - he appeared not to trust this man.

  “It’s not exhaust components that we are tracing as of now, Mr Saddleworth,” she explained. “It transpires that your visitor popped in for a stint of plate-swapping.“

  “He got them old bits off, lightning fast I gather.” Saddleworth responded “a lot faster than I can manage, I tell you that.”

  “Do you mean to say you weren’t actually there?!” Leyton asked, furious at now hearing this. “Who the hell was, in that case?”

  “‘Steptoe’ were. He’s my assistant site supervisor.” Saddleworth seemed alerted to an arriving van. “I’ll ask him, he saw what went off. You want to just go make sure your mate’s not starting a landslide?”

  “Aw, I’m sure DC Garstone knows what he’s doing, no worries.”

  She swallowed her judgement as a sudden clatter came from near.

  “At least you’ve an alibi this time, Leroy,” Leyton muttered.

  Armitage moved back through to make sure all was well.

  Saddleworth meanwhile talked briefly to his colleague then introduced him to Leyton, before also heading back to the grind.

  Referred to as ‘Steptoe’, this chap sported the look to justify his nickname. He was of contrasting build to his boss, with a skinny, roughened face, sat on by a mop of whitening hair that just about classed as short, while he also looked half boiled to death in his indigo jumpsuit, despite the wintry climate.

  “So, sir, you are..”

  “Chris Gringley. Assistant yard supervisor.”

  “Mr Gringley, I gather you are a witness to this so-called attempted theft yesterday?”

  “Yep,” Chris put his hands inside his pockets, for warmth that his gloves seemed not to give. “A bloke with a white Corsa, yeah?”

  “That’s what we’ve been lead to hear. What time did you see him arrive?”

  “Around half ten. Was after an old exhaust pipe or something of that nature, he said. I more or less told him to ‘bollocks’, still he wasn’t taking it lying down.”

  “So how did he respond?”

  “Just drove straight on, at about forty miles-an-hour, right up to where I’m stood here. Leapt out his door, right through that bit where your mates are, there.”

  “Did you give chase?”

  “Running ain’t for me, love. I’ve just come back from having an op’.” He lifted his left trouser up

  “How long did all this go on for?” She’d seen enough to convince her.

  “He’d climbed back in his door by the time I caught up. Couldn’t spot anything he had on him, though.”

  “Did you attempt to intervene as he left?”

  “I daren’t, not with my leg still out of action.”

  “What about the registration – did you catch that, unlike your manager?”

  “What I remember of it.” He got his mobile out. “W-twenty-five…” he recited.

  “Hmm…”

  Leyton found Chris’s answers a little more useful. She grabbed her radio.

  “Greg, the plates - can you put aside any that contain a ‘two’ or a ‘five’ especially any with both? Over.”

  She continued to grill her host.

  “Almost forgot to ask something else. Were there any passengers?”

  “Not that I spotted.”

  “Damn, that’s awkward.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to do the bloke or not?”

  The assistant’s ingratitude was interrupted as Garstone climbed out. He was taking a stash of plates, as passed through by Armitage.

  “I’ve only got seven to match the criteria, ma’am.” Garstone looked guiltily disappointed as he showed them.

  “What do you want those for?” Chris was looking on with indignant curiosity.

  “This ‘bloke’, sir,” Leyton realised she’d neglected to explain, “...went on to seriously injure a cyclist, along, almost with three other drivers. On top of which, we also believe a vehicle of the same description was involved in a murder that took place later on Thursday afternoon; only minutes from the same location.”

  “That was on the news. I’m sure it was.” Chris’s face became a little like a ghost. “Didn’t see anything going off last night, though, I’ve got to say. I don’t travel out that end much. I live in Shepley, somewhere out Huddersfield way.”

  As he talked, he looked at Garstone. The DC was struggling to stop his clutch of registration plates from collapsing.

  “You want a bag?” Chris asked.

  “Aye.” Garstone grinned, amidst his discomfort. “Just gonna ask you that.”

  “Try the toilet… there’s shelves above. Get yourself a couple, out of them Tesco jobs.”

  “Cheers.”

  “Miss Leyton,” he asked the detective left behind, “Do you and your other mate want to come over to the office? I’ll dig you up one of our cards.”

  Bearing the burden one last time, Garstone endured the plod over to the dingy green cabin. He edged the steel door ajar, using his one free arm. The toilet was through a door at the end of a murky, lightless storeroom. Mingy coats and orange overalls, shredded and intact shoved into the pockets obscured his way until the actual door was right in front.

  Opening it, he found a cracked white pan in front, with a plastic cistern and nearly no flush handle left. He was at least glad the seat was fixed firmly in place.

  Garstone placed the plates on top of the toilet seat then searched for the carriers he’d been offered. Finding a fairly weighty batch, wedged against the ceiling, he put one foot on the pan and pulled with his right hand. They seemed pinned solid. He kept yanking away at them until they finally slid out, followed by an endless cascade of used papers.

  “Lying bastards.” he mumbled.

  Doggedly sweeping up the faded tabloids, he then forced them back onto the shelf and sorted himself out with his bags. As he saw a last paper lying beneath the pedestal, he stopped.

  He picked it up and gasped but not at the page 3 girl for once. A second blonde female, in the photo below it took hold of his eye… as did the accompanying headline.

  ‘GLASGOW MURDER MUM GOES TO GROUND.

  STRATHCLYDE POLICE have passed details to forces across England and Wales, in the hope of tracing a young single mother of one who skipped bail. 25-year old Elaine Ruth Craig was arrested and detained in custody, pending enquiries into the disappearance of her babysitter on the 27th of August this year. Miss June Gullins, aged 51,from Rotherham, South Yorkshire had reportedly suffered rows with Miss Craig at her tenement flat outside Glasgow city centre in the several days leading up to her disappearance. The young mum and her nine-month-old child have since skipped bail and are believed to be on the run in Northern England.’

  “Don’t I recognise you from somewhere?”

  The picture was not
of pristine quality. The smudge of a tarmac-encrusted thumbprint only helped make it even harder to see properly. What was visible of her face stretched across to her inner left cheekbone. The mouth appeared pale-lipped, possibly due to lack of make-up. Her peroxide mane practically dissolved into the background, as did the fringe over her almost albino-like forehead.

  “If it isn’t that crazy mare from Meadowhall, on Thursday…”

  He’d only caught the tiniest of glimpses two days ago, yet working out the rest from Layton’s ramblings, her image was still distinct enough that it gelled. The issue was whether his much put-upon superior would buy it: right now it was some bird who’d gone a bit doo-lalley in the middle of a mall. Leyton would hardly prioritise that when a hit-and-run or a murder needed to be solved.

  “Greg!” came Armitage’s voice, along with a thump on the cabin door. “You done mate? Gaffer wants t’ toilet.”

  “Ten secs,” Garstone responded, tucking the paper away carefully. He secured the second bag over the top of the plates, and tucked them below his arms.”

  “Oops, sorry!” Garstone found he’d almost swung the cabin door straight into Leyton instead.

  “I tried warning her them ones open outward.” Saddleworth bailed him out but then appeared to see his ‘package’. “What you doing wi’ that? Them bags aren’t yours to go nicking.”

  “Your assistant supervisor said to help myself to a couple.”

  Garstone hoped the manager would not be stirred by his shiftiness. Saddleworth’s stare had however swung along the site towards his own colleague who was grafting away in the distance.

  “Shall have to have words. We keep hold of them on purpose, tha knows. Same as we do with us papers.

  “It’s a good job that no females work on your site then, isn’t it?” Leyton said. “Equal Opportunities might also end up having ‘words’ one day, otherwise.”

  Saddleworth’s face puffed up in defeat, all politeness between these two now put to bed. As the manager backed away, Leyton opened the boot.

  Garstone placed the plates in carefully, like he were handling gold bulletin. Waiting for her to turn her back, he pretended to slow up the task, just enough to slip his paper into the back, unseen by her.

  “How long does it take to place a pile of number plates into a boot, Greg?” Leyton could have probably laughed. “Lord forbid.”

  “Quite a bit –these so-called carrier bags have only one-handle left between them.”

  “Wedge them against the side if you like.” She placed her case right next to the bundle . “Just try not to leave too much rust if you can.”

  Leyton jumped in behind the wheel, as Garstone stood for a moment, lost in thoughts of the moment.

  “Wakey wakey, matey.” Armitage said as he leapt into the back. “Them reg plates send you to sleep did they, heh heh?”

  Garstone said nothing and stepped in –he was praying Leyton wouldn’t notice that paper, more importantly.

  Silence seemed to remain a virtue all the way back, until a turn-off at Oughtibridge: even then it was just scant mumblings between the two DCs, by which Leyton was neither disturbed nor concerned by. A radio crackle soon provided her with an inescapable conversation.

  “Afternoon Will,” She addressed the messenger right away. “We’re just heading our merry way home, you’ll be glad to know.”

  “You won’t be glad to know this.” came Thompson’s voice “Spillage on the M1, southbound... Junctions 35-33. An Arkinsons Paints van, apparently. Advise you to detour through Ecclesfield instead, ma’am.”

  “Magnificent, Will - send us straight through a crime scene why don’t you?”

  As Leyton closed in towards Fife crossroads again, Garstone pointed out a cycle stunt course over to the right, along with a children’s playground. Both of the two were places she preferred not to be reminded of at the moment, with recent events in mind. At least the main cordon had been moved aside; only the corner where Mr Summers was hit appeared to remain taped.

  Just as she slowed for the lights, a lone silhouette stepped into view from the opposite corner. She was walking along with her head ducked down, in a sorrowful-looking manner.

  “Ey up, ma’am!” It had also managed to attract Armitage’s attention. “Ain’t that thingy... your mate from Uni?”

  “Becky?”

  Leyton craned to see through the rear. Struggling to make the figure out, she checked all was clear behind then slow-reversed, twenty five metres.

  “I’d recognise that cardigan anywhere.”

  She stopped the vehicle and showed Garstone into the driver’s seat, he in turn offering his old place to Armitage.

  “I’d better go and see what’s happened. You two go on ahead.”

  “Aye.”

  Garstone looked to be drooling at the privilege of driving his boss’s car - that was until she swung back with a sharp reminder.

  “You dare start playing James Bond with it... I’ll...”

  “I won’t, I won’t.”

  Garstone wheedled her trust out of her, with a boy scout-style salute.

  “Right back to base, I promise.”

  She took his word and walked away. As Garstone eased cautiously off from the lights, Leyton tiptoed up behind the lone figure she recognised.

  “Becky? Is that you?” She adjusted her tone softly as possible.

  Her question was swiftly answered. As soon as her voice sounded, the other woman turned to face her. Becky Grayson smiled momentarily, then collapsed into a rain of sobs over her shoulder.

  Chapter 6

  (i)

  Leyton sat with one hand on her lap.

  Her other was over the shoulder of the snivelling wreck that was her friend.

  Becky sat slumped beside her on the bench, her head bowed pitifully.

  She had been in such a state when Leyton found her, that it was impossible to extract any sense from Becky for nearly half an hour. Rough tatters of a tale came up - something or other about Fiona hitting the roof...then this other business to do with removing a toy off the stairs.

  Attempting further questions seemed futile - Becky appeared suffocated by emotion. As both continued to look straight ahead into the misty wet the silence became impossible to tolerate.

  “You know...” Leyton began, merely for the sake of speaking. “Only two weeks ago I was also sitting by a bicycle track, with another person in just the same kind of state you are. The one problem however, Becky, is I’m still far from grasping the full picture. This so-called fiery side of Fiona’s, is not something I’d automatically ignore... but I’m not convinced it’s a real habit of her character, either.”

  “I thought you were on my side.” Becky finally lifted her face from her hands.

  “I am, you silly lump.”

  Leyton hastily eased Becky’s trust, with a hand wrapped tight around her shoulder.

  “It’s just that for these last twenty minutes, I’ve been piecing together a feeble and also frankly, contrived-sounding sob story. This friendly, happy-go-lucky Scotsgirl, or so I was introduced to, flies off the handle at you without warning; while it’s not something I’d let by without looking into, it can happen for a whole variety of reasons.”

  “But what things?”

  “My own mum was capable of complete ‘blowouts’. However, as I grew older I learned I should take it with a pinch of salt, as opposed to letting it break my spirit. It’s called being in a foul mood. Even a totally innocent act - for example, removing a dangerously-placed toy without asking consent - could unexpectedly light someone’s touch paper, once in a while.”

  “How can it be ‘mood’ though?” Becky appeared not to accept this angle on it. “It just kept coming out of nowhere - she’d be cheerful as chips one moment... then suddenly, for no good reason, blows a gasket.”

  “As I just said... such displays of anger do flare up fast, but it’s all depending on temperament.”

  “What about the second time? Do you seriously think
that’s incidental?”

  “It’s happened TWICE?”

  “First this morning… again, this afternoon.” Becky eventually replied. She was nodding her head slowly as the tears welled up once more. “The same thing as before, only worse.”

  Leyton shook her head invisibly

  “Can you possibly convince me that this wasn’t that Becky of old bouncing back again?”

  Leyton finally admitted that she found this difficult to buy. As her oldest friend, one of her earliest memories of Becky Grayson was her penchant for meddling with other people’s items, and also their affairs on occasion.

  She craned over to look Becky in the face.

  “There’s more to it than that, Jo.” Becky sat right up to face her, the tears totally cleared.

  “Really?” Leyton awaited a new tale, straight from one of their greatest tellers.

  “Izzy was using the Playrail in his cot. A couple of the Squeezie shapes were too far over to reach. You remember Fiona said he’d got difficulties walking?”

  “Yes. Standing… one of those two.

  Leyton recalled the situation with the Playrail.

  “Well,” Becky went on “he tried to reach for them but… but he fell. I had to adjust them for him...”

  “Had Fiona already left them as they were?”

  “Er…”

  “Just answer me, darling, I’m not angry.”

  “Ok….yes, she had, yes.”

  “Right, then.”

  “But she’d not said anything to me abou… about not to move them... I meant, I thought yesterday was a one-off.”

  “Did you try to reason with her?” Leyton asked. Her pal was prepared to give in too easily.

  “I tried to explain…said sorry. She just told me to get the eff out of her house. Even called me unfit to be a babysitter…for her or f.....for....any...”

  Becky’s last syllables drowned under her sobs once more.

  “More than she’s unfit to be a mother?” Leyton comforted her. Although I'm still having trouble believing it, her newest eruption does sound slightly more disturbing.”

  “Does this mean you’re going to ignore it nor not?”