Random Acts of Unkindness

by Jacqueline Ward

I approached and touched Alice Smith’s elbow and she turned, her face ashen. Her blue eyes widened and she shouted loudly:

  ‘Bessy. It’s Bessy. She’s here.’

  Etiquette was ignored and I was hustled to the front of the group, where Ettie Groves was standing silently. The whole market became silent and I felt like a spotlight was shining on me. I hadn’t felt like this since I got stage fright in the school play, and that had been stopped by an air raid warning.

  I looked up at the Market Hall tower, at the huge clock. It was coming up to three and I should really be at home making Colin’s tea. Ettie started to speak.

  ‘Look, love, I don’t know how to put this, but a body’s been found in Hattersley. A boy, seventeen. In a house up there.’

  I stared at her.

  ‘Well, it can’t be Thomas. He’s eighteen. Eighteen.’

  Handkerchiefs were raised to mouths and the tears began. A woman’s hand rested on my shoulder and I was guided toward a bench, where three old men moved to let me sit down.

  ‘We thought it was best that you knew as soon as possible. I was sending Alice to tell you. Sally Jones saw the panda cars outside the house and someone said a bloke had been arrested and took away.’

  I sat and tried to take the information in.

  ‘I’d better go home and see to Colin. He’ll have heard by now. I’d better go home.’

  I stood up and walked to the bus stop, Alice and Ettie flanking me, and the other women looking on, their heads bowed and tears flowing. We got on the first number nine bus and sat down. I stared at the seat in front of me, my mind a funny mixture of dread and pain, stopping me thinking about any details. I wondered if Colin was in, if he’d been sent home from work.

  We got off at the stop at the end of my road, and I expected to see a panda car outside my house, the kids climbing on it and the neighbours out. But the street was deserted. I opened the front door and the house was empty.

  ‘Colin? Colin?’

  I turned to Ettie and Alice.

  ‘You can go now, I’ll be all right.’

  Alice shook her head.

  ‘No. I’ll wait with you till Colin gets home. I’ll make a pot of tea.’

  I didn’t argue. What would be the point? I’d lost control over every piece of my life. And I suppose they were supporting me, in their own way. I’d no idea where my son was, whether he was dead or alive. Me and Colin hardly spoke, and he slept in the small bedroom on his own.

  My parents lived away and never came to see me, and I had no brothers or sisters. Colin’s mother clearly thought Thomas going away was my fault; they had convened a little blame club where they would huddle together and talk about what a bad mother I was. I had no friends, except these women who alternated between gossip and hand-holding. Thomas and Colin had been my life.

  The next layer of people I knew were women like Ettie and Alice, not quite friends, and dreadful gossips. So, all in all, I had not a soul to talk to. No one at all. When you’re in that position, and lots of people think they know better than you, you have no choice but to keep it inside yourself, build the shell even stronger, and just keep hoping.

  We sat and had a cup of tea, Ettie and Alice trying to start a conversation and me knowing whatever I said would be on the market in the next few hours. They meant well, but I said very little. I just waited and sipped my tea. Eventually, Colin burst in.

  ‘Is it him? Is it, Bessy? Is it? What’ve they said?’ Alice and Ettie jumped when he shouted, but I was used to it. He often turned nasty these days and I didn’t turn a hair. ‘Come on, you two, out. You’re like bleedin’ vultures, waiting for the bloody prey so you can go and gossip it. Out!’

  They scuttled away and onto the street and he slammed the door.

  ‘Well?’

  I looked at the floor.

  ‘I don’t know, Colin. I only just found out about it.’

  He came closer, so close that I could feel his spittle on my cheek.

  ‘Don’t know? But I thought you knew bloody everything? More than me and me mam, eh?’

  It was the usual argument, but I couldn’t believe he would do this now.

  ‘It’s not the time for this, Colin. We just need to find out if that dead lad is our Thomas. Then we’ll decide what to do.’

  He pushed his hands in his pockets, like he did when he felt like he was going to hit me. I could see it in his face. I suppose he needed someone to blame, and I was here, completely alone, his best option.

  ‘Do? What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s just see if it’s Thomas.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I’d fallen asleep reading the first part of Bessy’s story. My imagination had gone off on a tangent that was familiar these days, one that stretched away from logic and common sense into the unknown.

  What were the chances of me finding Bessy’s notebook, with her son missing as well? What were the odds of that? It seems like a coincidence on the surface, something freaky that I could dwell on and wonder about. But underneath it isn’t, and logic kicks in. There’s a common denominator, and it’s Connelly.

  This is why I’m so sure that he has Aiden. I don’t know what it means, but I hold it in my mind as I become more drowsy. Then, as I finally teeter on the edge of sleep, I realise that all this happened five decades ago and anyone could have found the letters. Anyone to do with Connelly because, after all, he owned this house.

  I’d followed up a tentative lead and got a result. Not a coincidence at all, a link in a place where no one else was looking. Bessy must have known that someone would have found the book after she had gone. Someone who found out about the box upstairs and its contents.

  But lots of people have missing relatives. Don’t they? Yet I’ve been in the police long enough to know that somewhere in this fucked-up mess there’s a link. Estranged. That was the final word as I fell into a deep sleep.

  Now I’m in the car, ready to drive to Coal Pit Lane to meet Mike. I want to read more of Bessy’s notebook, but I don’t have time. I’ve been on autopilot this morning, with Percy winding through my legs as I tried to make coffee, and now I can hear him meowing. I could have sworn he was in the house on Aiden’s bed. I look in the rearview mirror, but there’s no sign of him so I set off.

  Mike had texted to say he was going to be late, and I was glad of the leeway. Bessy’s story had made me feel less alone. Harrowing though it must have been for her, at least it showed that something was eventually done about her case.

  The Moors Murders. I’d policed this area long enough to know that they were what she was caught up in. Famous worldwide, any discussions always came with the qualification that cases like this were few and far between, that serial killers didn’t crop up that often, and that children were relatively safe.

  This is what I had believed until Aiden disappeared. Even with my privileged knowledge, that people were possibly less safe than they thought, and a keen eye for how rife crime actually was, I’d still believed my son was safe. At fifteen, wasn’t it fine to let him go out with friends, travel alone across town to his father’s flat?

  It had been six weeks now, and Bessy’s story made me realise that I had never actually checked the crime stats on missing children. Boys. Normally, that would be the first thing I’d do, to see how unusual a case was, who were the usual suspects, what it had in common with other cases.

  But I hadn’t done it. Not yet. I hadn’t done it partly because I was still in shock and partly because, if I’m honest, even I made the assumption that the crime stats around teenage boys were correct. That stereotype of missing boys being from rough homes, running away from trouble to trouble. I hadn’t bothered because I thought my son was different. But what if he was the same? A seed grows in my mind and I store it for later.

  I spot Mike’s car parked up on Coal Pit Lane. I lock up my car and jump into his.

  ‘Mornin’. How’s tricks?’

  He looks tired.

  ‘OK. You know. Onward and upw
ard.’

  He nods. He’s not looking at me, a sure sign that he’s about to tell me whatever’s on his mind. I’ve known him long enough to be able to read his expressions.

  ‘Yeah. Look. I need to say this before we embark on Prophesy.’

  I snigger.

  ‘Embark? Christ. Bit formal.’

  ‘Yeah. Thing is, you’ve been acting a bit, erm, strange. I just want to know you’re up to it. You know I’ve got your back one hundred percent. Problem is, this could get heavy and I need you to be on the ball. Otherwise . . .’

  ‘What? Otherwise what? And I can’t see that I’ve been any stranger than anyone else who’s kid has gone missing. I’m fucking worried. Just think if it was one of yours.’

  I see him flinch and I know this isn’t fair. He’s my best friend and I’ve hit below the belt.

  ‘It isn’t though, is it? D’you think you should have some time off? You know, to think and get over it.’

  ‘You’re acting like he’s dead.’

  Silence. Then he shakes his head.

  ‘Truth is, I don’t know if he is or not. Neither do you. But try looking at it from the point of view of someone on the outside. Fifteen-year-old boy, hormones, broken home, mum at work, dad, well, you’d be the first one to admit Sal’s not the calmest person. Wouldn’t your first thought be that he’d ran? Honestly, wouldn’t it? I know it’s not easy, but all this stuff about Connelly, you’ve got no proof.’

  I nod.

  ‘Yes. But two things. One, he wouldn’t run. He doesn’t know anyone. None of his friends are hiding him. He spends all his time with Sal when he’s not with me. Two. What about the threats from Connelly? If we’re looking at evidence . . .’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Yeah. But didn’t we all get them at some time? I got dog shit wiped across my windscreen. Jenny Smith got a voodoo doll. Load of others got other stuff. But only yours came true? Why you, Jan? Why you?’

  I can feel the tears prick my eyes. He doesn’t believe me. Mike doesn’t believe me.

  ‘Why anyone? What makes someone a victim of crime? Isn’t it random and never their own fault?‘ I picture Bessy and Colin waiting for news on Thomas. ‘What about them kiddies killed in the Moors Murders? Why them? Why their parents? Do you know that there are missing teenagers from around that time whose cases have never been solved? Why them too?’

  He starts the engine. Then he turns to look at me.

  ‘I don’t know. And for the record, I can totally see your side of it and why you think fucking Connelly might have done this. I’ve sent my kids to my mum’s on the strength of it, you know, just in case. It’s not that. I’ve got a family, and I need my job. I need to stay alive too. So this isn’t about believing you, it’s about you being able to do your job and keep my back. I’ve got yours. Get a grip back on mine.’ He takes my hand. ‘I’m doing this because I love you, you know, as a mate, like. But I do know this. One false move on this one and I’ll have to think about going to Stewart. I don’t want to, but I don’t want either of us coppin’ for it either. Sorry, but you need to be on the ball.’

  I nod.

  ‘Fine. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure I keep it under. After all, it’s my problem, isn’t it? Why should anyone else give a shit?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. But there’s a time and a place. People are starting to talk. It’s like everything is centred on Aiden, like that’s the most important part of the case, when we don’t have any evidence at all that it’s anything to do with Connelly. We do know he’s importing and distributing drugs. We just don’t know where he keeps them. We do know he’s supplying prostitutes. We just don’t know how he’s doing it. We do know that he’s got a string of associated businesses involved probably through a protection racket. We just don’t know how. We have evidence for all those things. What we need to do now is find out more about them.’

  We’re stopped at traffic lights and he looks at me. ‘Look. I’m not saying don’t talk about it. God knows, we’ve worked together long enough. Like I said, you’re my mate. But please drop this connection for now. Wait until we do catch whoever is running the crime on Northlands. Like Jim said, it might not be Connelly. It might be Brian Jameson from out of town. He’s been seen there a couple of times. You’ve no proof. All the checks were carried out, all the procedures followed. Banks checked, school and friends interviewed. Maybe you should do the TV appeal now?’

  The TV appeal. We hadn’t done it at the beginning, as I’d point blank refused. Sal thought it would help. He wanted to get everything done as soon as possible. Even after three days, he was thinking Aiden had run away. Coming round to the idea.

  I’d seen Sal’s statement, that Aiden had taken his passport and bank card, but left a rucksack with some clothes in it. Uniformed had been round and searched Sal’s flat half-heartedly. They had filed a report saying that he had ‘gone out prepared.’

  When I queried this, they queried why a fifteen-year-old would have taken his passport, if he had just nipped round the corner to a mate’s? It’s not a normal thing to do, they said. And it planted a seed of doubt in my mind.

  Maybe they were right. Maybe I was a complete bitch of a bad mother and he had run away. I wondered if it was the biannual foreign holidays, or the expensive trainers that had done it? Or maybe the entertainment system he demanded for his room? Sal dutifully reminded me that ‘stuff’ couldn’t make up for a mother’s love, and wondered out loud if I had maybe loved my job a little too much.

  But even then I knew that Aiden hadn’t run away. He’d never make himself suffer like that. He couldn’t live on the streets or in a squat. He couldn’t last five minutes. Also, he loved me. Underneath the bravado, the toughness, the black looks, and tantrums, he still loved his mum.

  His goodnight hug was firm, and he sometimes slipped his arm around my shoulder. Taller than me at five-ten, he would tilt his head until his cheek rested on my hair. Only when no one was around, in the queue for the chip shop, or sometimes at the cinema. I could hear his heart beating. I knew that deep down he was a caring boy who wouldn’t hurt me. Or Sal. He wouldn’t.

  A tear trickles down my cheek and I wipe it away before Mike can see it. Maybe the TV appeal would work. If he was out there, and he saw it, maybe it would melt his heart. I text Sal, who will be pleased that I’m giving in to his constant nagging.

  Mike was driving toward Old Mill, where we would spend the morning on observations. Photographing people coming in and out, registrations of goods wagons, cars, that sort of thing. This afternoon we’d go back to the ops room and report the information and pull out the best leads for ourselves.

  I had to do it. I still needed to survive. It’s a catch-22. You feel like you’re dying inside yet you have to appear normal outside. I thought it was bad when my mother died, shortly followed by my father. I felt like I was going mad and took two weeks off, which made it worse as I had to sit at home under Sal’s daytime television regime.

  It was school holidays, and he insisted that Aiden shouldn’t go to the childminder because I was home. I explained that I was sick, needed time alone and he told me I was selfish. All three of us spent a full two weeks curled up on a sofa, watching Midsummer Murders and Catch Phrase, and a cacophony of children’s cartoons.

  Sal and Aiden loved it, but I swung between worrying about work and wanting to scream and cry for my dead parents. When I returned to work, I was in worse shape than before my time off, but managed to hide it and gradually recover. Not this time.

  My anger is seeping out of every pore, and as we park up at the end of Nelson Lane, where the Old Mill stands, I’m shaking.

  Mike gets out the camera and the iPad. I usually take the notes, verify times and registrations. There’s an embarrassing silence between us and it makes things much harder than usual because I know Mike really does care about me. Sometimes I catch him looking sideways at me, making sure I am all right.

  Container vehicles are queued up outside Con
nelly’s mill by eleven thirty, a backlog of unloading clearly holding them up. Several drivers have gotten out of their cabs and are drinking tea and coffee at a nearby portable food cabin.

  With no words needed, we get out and sit on rickety white plastic chairs. We’re often undercover together and it just comes naturally now. Mike gets the drinks. I set up the conversation. I quickly get into role. I should have been an actress.

  ‘Is it that one over there, love?’

  Mike nods and stirs his tea.

  ‘I think so.’ He turns to the driver nearest to him. ‘Is that the kitchen place, mate? We’re from Manchester. Don’t know the area.’

  He turns around and smiles. His colleague also takes an interest.

  ‘Yep. That’s it. Connelly’s Kitchens. Good stuff too. But you usually order online. Not sure they have a shop here. Mainly supply trade, I think.’

  I sigh.

  ‘Wasted journey then. Bloody hell. Might as well finish my tea.’

  Mike goes in for the kill.

  ‘Where you from then? Local or . . .’

  The driver nods.

  ‘Liverpool. Bringing this stuff straight from the dock. I’m freelance, pick up consignments that have been delivered. Easy money.’

  His friend obliges.

  ‘Me too. Thing is, if you work for someone you have a wage. In this game, you can charge what you want as long as you get the stuff to them quick.’

  Mike frowns.

  ‘Right. I might be interested in that myself. Need a license, do you, or what, a special driving permit?’

  The second man leans forward.

  ‘What you doing now, mate?’

  ‘Just been laid off.’ I follow their gaze to our VW Golf. ‘Proper in the shit, I am, debts everywhere. On top of that, our kitchen’s had it. Had to have a damp ceiling ripped out along with all the fittings and we’re managing with a camping stove. Using all our savings on the car and the kitchen.’

  The driver taps his chin.

  ‘I might be able to help you out, pal. I might need some help unloading and loading at the dock. Can you get there early? Start in a couple of days? Temp, like, but it might help?’