I got a lot of letters from them, about the sheltered accommodation and hospital appointments, but I just went out all the time, on the moor, to the market, even into Manchester. I went to Daisy Nook, lying on the grass, looking at mine and Thomas’s clouds, seeing faces and flowers and even a giraffe. All the colours seemed brighter now it was all settled. I’d sometimes lie there until dusk, and wait for the moon, so that I could be sure that Thomas, wherever he was, would have looked at the same thing as me recently. It was my favourite time, but twice people walking dogs had called the police, thinking I was ill, and I had to hurry up home.
I’d sit on the forms on Ashton Market, newly built again after a fire that left only a shell. I knew how it felt. I’d look into the crowds but I didn’t know who I was looking for now. The seventeen-year-old boy had grown into a man and I had no real idea what he looked like.
I’d met with people I’d gone to school with, and not recognised them from my memory of them as a teenager. Now, anyone could be Thomas. The middle-aged man with his wife, the grey-haired loner, the alcoholic sitting in the bus shelter his dirty Mac with a bottle of cheap wine—all these people could be him, in any part of the world. I still kept waiting for the postman, waiting for a letter from Thomas and I still didn’t lock the back door, just in case. Because you never know.
I carried on and avoided social services and my only sadness was that I had never told anyone all this. Then when I knew I was going, and that someone would find her upstairs, about the moor and them, I thought it was a good chance to get it all out before I set off. It took me some sleepless nights to write it all down, I tried to write it as if I were there and it took me right back, tears an’ all, but I hope it explains that upstairs and, well, things in general. I’ve enjoyed meeting all those people who live by the moor, who I see every day. That bloody Sarah, be careful of her, not all she’s cracked up to be.
Listen to me, telling people what to do! So I’m off now to catch my flight. I’ve heard it’s nice, they take you to this flat and play music while you’re on a machine that does it all for you.
They give you a drink to have. I’ll just drift off and not wake up, and all the pain will be gone. I’m ready for whatever’s on the other side. I’m not scared for myself, I’m bloody glad, but I’m sad for the birds, and for the moor—I think I’ll be missed.
That’s why I’m asking you to arrange for someone to stay at the house for a couple of days, to see to the birds. I’ve arranged for them to send me back, arriving a week on Tuesday, and by then everything should be taken care of.
So, Cheerio, and don’t worry, it’s what I want. Anyhow, whoever you are, thanks for your help and I hope you can do this little thing for me. Even if you don’t I expect the world will turn like it always has without me. I’m just going to have a little sit down and a piece of toast, say my goodbyes to Thomas and this house, then I’ll be off.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I never did tell Jim about Aiden and Sal. Even though I know Aiden’s alive, I still need to protect him. I don’t know if he was with Sal when he murdered my colleagues, no one does, so the way I figure it is innocent until proven guilty. They’ll find Sal soon enough, but I’m not taking any chances.
I know he’s complicit in all this, that no one’s forcing him to go with his father, but I can’t completely know he’s guilty. Or believe it. That he’s taken part knowingly. Another maternal defence, maybe? I don’t know, but I need to keep him safe still, in case one day he remembers me and comes back into my life. So I didn’t tell.
I got together with Mike and we went through the papers that were confiscated from the Gables. I felt sick to the stomach, looking into the faces of those poor young people, tying them into my notes and building the background to a case. I turned the pages, willing Thomas not to be there. But I carried on. Turing back time until 1963. August. Don’t be there, Thomas, be alive somewhere, with a family. Don’t be there, or buried on the moor. Don’t fulfil your mother’s worst nightmare. Don’t be there.
But he was there. Right at the back of the book. The first boy. 30th August, 1963. Thomas Swain. A black-and-white picture of him, surly and smiling slightly. Thomas Swain. Aged seventeen. Bessy’s instincts were wrong, but somehow right.
She knew exactly what had happened to her son, but not the who. She was egged on by her fear and John Connelly. Preyed on. I turned the pages, back through the years to the present day, all those boys, and their mother and fathers trapped in a perpetual wondering about what had happened to their child.
After I finished Bessy’s notebook and realised what had happened to her, I had a good long think about things. I went out walking on the moor, just like she did every day, with Piers stumbling along behind me. He might be a crack shot with big muscles, but he’s not very good at fell walking.
One day we were walking along and I recognised the skyline. I knew where we were, right at the point where all the pictures were posed in the sixties. As soon as we stepped into the heather I felt a fear.
It’s like those icebreakers you do at college, where you fall backward and trust someone to catch you. I never really knew what to expect, even though there were only two choices. My fear of doing it was disproportionate to the outcomes.
This was the same. I would either find a good, clear foothold and confidently make good progress, or feel something nasty, something furry or slimy against my leg. Or worse, the crunching of bone.
My legs are already sore from days and days of walking, and this is a real test. I tried to see through the dense plants, past the brightness of the tiny purple flowers, past the pale wooden trunks of the bonsai trees, onto the dry ground. Suddenly, right in front of me, a flock of small birds erupt from the heather; all around them is a halo of pollen, clouds of it billowing into the atmosphere.
It scared me so much that I started to cry. Huge sobs for Aiden, and for Thomas. For Bessy, who never even got to make her own decisions, even at the end. It was the first time I’d cried since I’d found my police colleagues murdered, and I just stood there and bawled my eyes out.
Then I went back to the cottage and packed up all my belongings and booked a ticket to Cuba. Even after all this, I can’t let Aiden go. I just can’t let my boy go. If I send people after him, bring him back, he’s in trouble. All I can do is go to him.
I go home, but don’t go in. I merely take my bike out of the garage and load it with the same bag I brought with me. I stop at the travel agent’s to pick up my ticket, and my excitement builds. Of course, I have no idea where they are in Cuba, but I can go to the Embassy and try to find out. I just need to see him, make sure he’s all right.
I drive along the M60 and take the correct turn off, held in traffic for what seems the longest time. I’m scanning the skies as usual, force of habit, but this far out there is only the occasional hanging signal, looking almost accidental.
I feel a little bit more optimistic; I’m doing something, taking action. To find my son. It feels like the right thing, a pull inside me that I can’t ignore. The traffic starts up again and we drive along at snail’s pace, sun shining and the light dancing on the chrome handlebars of my bike.
I see a small boy peering at me through the back window of the car in front and he pulls out his tongue. I pull a face and he waves at me. I wave back and we’re at a roundabout approaching Terminal 1. The car pulls onto the roundabout and I’ve got a clear view ahead, clear enough to see a low wire with a sign that tells me that no vehicle over a certain height can enter.
Suspended from the wire is a small brown shape, two arms, two legs and a head, with a noose around its neck. Even from a distance I can see that it’s Jezzer, Aiden’s teddy. As I pull the bike off the road underneath the wire, an image of Aiden, asleep in his bed with Jezzer, flickers into my consciousness and I wonder how we got from there to here. How did that happen?
There is no way on a busy airport road to scale the pole, skim across and release it, but I stand and stare for a whil
e. It hasn’t stopped. The messages are still there and this one is clearly for me. This is the only road into Terminal 1. I’d have to come this way to follow them. I look at the airport buildings, so near, and wonder what I should do.
I so desperately want to follow Aiden, reason with him, find him, bring him home, but this is a definite sign that I should not be doing that. A warning. My heart is breaking, and, as I turn the bike around and ride away, I can’t see the road for my tears. I will find him one day, I will follow him, when all this is done and Connelly is brought to justice, I will. It’s not over.
So I went home. It had been almost a month since my house was turned into a crime scene, and when I had turned the key in the lock I hadn’t really known what to expect.
At first glance it was as if nothing had ever happened there. Some things were different, like the new carpet, light blue, and the new sofa, almost the same as the old one. Some of the furniture had been replaced, but the insurance had taken care of it all.
I’d been advised not to go back there, to sell the house and move somewhere else, but I couldn’t. Things on Northlands had returned to normal now, in fact, better than normal. Without Connelly dictating, the whole place was more relaxed.
Crime figures had fallen and Jim had put liaison officers on the estate to try to help people understand what had happened. So today is my first day back at work and I feel a little bit nervous. I knew I’d have to face the music sometime, but I’ve already made my decisions about how much I’m going to tell. After all, it’s my prerogative.
I pull out of the drive and watch the neighbour’s curtains move. I expect they’re not best pleased to see me back, what with their quiet little avenue being shot up only a month ago.
I drive down the road and park up at the corner shop, the Tesco Metro that has two doors, one on the front and one on the side, grabbing a carrier bag from the self-service terminal on the way.
I nip through to the side, and out into a blackspot. I rush across the road and down a narrow overgrown alleyway and reach under a thick privet bush. It’s still there. I pull out the money and push the damp package into the carrier bag. Then I hurry back by the same route and get into my car.
Once at the station, there’s a small silence as I enter the ops room. I’m unsure as to whether it’s dismay or reverence, until someone starts clapping. There’s more clapping and smiling, and I nod and smile back as I tap on Jim Stewart’s door. He waves me in and I sit down.
‘Back to work, is it?’
I nod.
‘Yes, sir. Glad to get back.’
He’s got his hands clasped in front of him.
‘Just a few things before you do. I wanted to ask you how you found out about the Gables? And if it’s got any connection with that deceased woman from Ney Street? Only we’ve found out that her son was one of the boys who . . .’
‘No, sir. I told you already. I saw a picture in Mothers for the Missing at the community centre, you know, with Pat and the others. It matched up with some in the files I looked at, older files.’
‘And was Mrs Swain’s file one of the files you might have looked at?’
I shrug.
‘Could be, they were files about missing boys. So if her son was missing, then it’s a probability.’
He sighs.
‘How can I put this? You see, I have to wonder if you were looking for the missing boys at all. Because, back engineering it, we didn’t know about the missing boys until we found them, did we?’
I nod.
‘Actually, we did. They were all on the files. All I did was pull them all together.’
‘But how did you know where to look?’
I laugh.
‘I’m a detective. I covered all bases and I got lucky.’
He considers this. He knows full well he isn’t going to get any more out of me. We both know how this looks, but he’d have to prove it. As I suspected, he tries another route. He’s good.
‘And then there’s the forensics. When they came back, you were all over a box that had been in an upstairs cupboard in Mrs Swain’s house. How do you explain that?’
My heart’s beating fast now, but I keep my cool. I lean forward.
‘My DNA will be all over that house. I went upstairs to get a blanket to cover her up with. As you know, her body was damaged and I was trying to show her some respect. I touched the bed, the curtains, maybe even the cupboard. I certainly touched things in the kitchen, and probably leaned on stuff in the lounge. So maybe the forensics person transferred my trace onto whatever it was found on? I didn’t pick any box up.’
It was true. I didn’t pick up a box. Just half of the contents. Jim nods.
‘Yes, that is a possibility. But all this seems to be bound up with Mrs Swain, she seems involved somehow. Funny how . . .’
‘She is involved. The reason I was in the area was because I was looking for Aiden on Connelly’s patch. I had an inkling it was some kind of revenge kidnapping, so I was looking for him. Then I hear the woman talking about the smell and . . .’
He laughs.
‘You can drop that now. We all know you went for Connelly. All I want to know is who told you? Who made you think it was him?’
‘Made me think? No one. Like I said, I thought he had kidnapped Aiden as some kind of revenge for Operation Hurricane, and I was looking for him.’
Jim stands up.
‘So your husband didn’t mention it?’
I freeze.
‘Ex-husband.’
He sighs.
‘OK. Ex-husband. Sal. Did he tell you?’
‘No. Why? What’s Sal got to do with this?’
As if I didn’t know. But I have a feeling I’m going to hear something I don’t like.
‘We’ve got intelligence that Sal was involved with the Gables. He was the fixer. Arranging for clients to visit. Carrying around a catalogue. That sort of thing.’
I stare at him.
‘Sal?’
He nods.
‘Yes. For years, it seems. We’ve got pictures of him with Connelly as he left yesterday. Apparently, he’s high up in the hierarchy. Which means that we still can’t do Connelly for anything. We’ve still got nothing solid on him, nothing that would stand up in court. Nothing to connect him to the crimes or the crime scene. But plenty to connect Sal. And now he’s disappeared. Have you had any contact with him lately?’
I stand up now and spin to face him.
‘Hang on. What are you accusing me of? I want representation . . .’
‘I’m not accusing you of anything. You see, people like Sal, they plant a seed, get information out of people like you, without you knowing. I just wondered if you’d . . .’
‘If I’d told him any police business? Is that what you mean?’ He doesn’t say anything but his eyebrows rise. ‘Really? Me? What about you, and the cosy little chats you’ve had with him in here? Nodding and smiling while he tells you how mad I am, how I’ve lost the plot? Sound familiar, does it? With respect, sir, I think it’s you who’s been had here.’
He’s bright red now and I fold my arms and wait.
‘Well, he did have a point. I mean all that stuff . . .’
‘Over Aiden?’ I move closer to him and lower my voice. ‘Remember that day when we nearly died and you sent your family to Point C? Well, just imagine what you would do if one of them didn’t arrive. How far you would go to get your child back?’
He bends a little closer to me.
‘Why? How far have you gone? What have you been telling your husband? Enough for him to pass onto Connelly? Enough to ruin Operation Hurricane, eh?’
I take my phone out of my pocket.
‘Ex-husband. Ex-fucking-husband. And look. I don’t have his number on my phone. I don’t need it. I’m divorced from him and we don’t talk. I don’t even know where he is. How about you, sir? Have you got Sal’s number on your phone?’ His hand goes to his pocket and he covers his phone. I see him count back to the only time
I ever had his phone, and my scrolling through the address book. ‘Let’s have a look then. Why would you have Sal’s number on your phone?’
He falls into his seat.
‘It’s not what you think.’
I nod.
‘But you don’t know what I’m thinking. All I know is that you told me that Sal’s a good man, has my best interests at heart, and he’s a friend of yours. Oh, and now I know he’s been selling kids to strangers, letting them use a building he has connections with to abuse children, and you seem to have his direct dial.’ I sit back down opposite him. ‘I’m pretty good at putting two and two together. Gathering all the information and forming it into a crime shaped theory, then investigating it. So before you start throwing accusations about, have a look at yourself. Sir.’
We sit there for a moment longer, staring at each other.
‘Is that all? Only I was going to go to organise Mrs Swain’s funeral, seeing as she died alone. Is that all right?‘
He nods.
‘Do what you want. You will anyway. I just want to say that I didn’t . . .’
‘You don’t have to say anything. I was just pointing out that some things aren’t what they seem to be. But if I were you, just to be on the safe side, I’d delete that fucking bastard off your phone. Just in case anyone ever questions your motives.’
He’s already doing it. I leave and go to my desk and watch him through the glass of his office door. I don’t think for one minute that he was involved with Sal or Connelly. He was a pawn in Sal’s game. But he’s right. All the threads of the case were woven together with Bessy’s story.
I see Mike and he waves at me. It’s his first day back too, and he looks tanned and fit. He sits down beside me.
‘How’s tricks?’
I laugh. Mike’s made tea. Everyone else is out at a people-skills seminar, and there’s a lapse in work in the wake of the storm. He’s stirring his tea carefully.
Random Acts of Unkindness Page 27
