by D J Harrison
‘But I put lives at risk, if it weren’t for me nobody would be dead.’
‘It’s the scumbags who attacked the police, not you.’
‘But it only happened because of me.’ I can feel the frustration welling up inside me now; I’m tired of the way I allow myself to be hijacked, give myself away all the time.
‘They’d have found some other way of making trouble, Jenny. Using Kat was just one option, I’ll bet. Whatever you did things were going to turn out badly, believe me.’
The sound of my phone brings me back to reality. I leap up. Fetch it dutifully. Answer it as if compelled by some supreme force.
‘Jenny. I need you to come to my office. Right away.’ It’s Hector’s voice telling me, not asking me if it’s convenient.
71
Hector’s PA has obviously been sunning herself somewhere exotic, judging by her general hue of deep mahogany. Everywhere apart from her nose which, unfortunately for her, lets the rest of her down badly. Instead of smooth brown, her nose is crinkly red and obviously has several layers of carefully tanned skin completely missing. I’m feeling wrung out, overwrought, tired, upset, emotional, anxious and scared. But Parrot Face’s nose manages to lift my spirits and provides evidence that there must be a God.
‘Mr Brighouse isn’t back from his meeting.’ She eyes me coldly as if suspecting me of some devious plot. Maybe she’s naturally perceptive, but experience tells me that she’s generally mistrustful and congenitally unhelpful.
‘I’ll wait in his office then.’
‘No,’ she replies sharply. ‘Please take a seat in here until he arrives.’
‘I need to return his book anyway.’ I take the heavy volume out of my big bag and brandish it in front of her scabby nose. She makes no physical effort to stop me but stands in the doorway glaring at me as I go in. Her phone rings and drags her away from her observation post. I quickly take the gun from Hector’s drawer, pop it in the bag and then squeeze the book back on to his shelf. Parrot Face returns from her call and hovers.
‘There.’ I point to the newly restored book. ‘Back safe and sound. Have you read Vindication of the Rights of Women?’ She stares blankly at me. ‘My advice is don’t bother,’ I continue, aware of how irritating I’m being. ‘But Hector says it’s well worth reading, maybe you should give it a try.’
I walk back out of the office and sit down where she originally directed. That thin-lipped grimace on her face might indicate triumph or it could just as easily be derision.
‘How much longer is Hector going to be?’ I ask after half an hour of watching her make people clamouring for Hector’s attention wish they’d never bothered. I pick up my heavy bag, place the strap over my right shoulder, and try to walk as upright as I can out of her office. She does nothing to prevent me leaving with Hector’s gun, maybe she knows I’ve got it. I wouldn’t put it past her to hope it’ll get me into trouble. I have the feeling she likes me even less than I like her.
72
It’s not the dawn raid that I’d have preferred; mostly due to Hector’s summons, but also down to my weak physical state. There’s lethargy in my limbs now that the adrenalin from stealing Hector’s pistol is wearing off. There’s no answer when I beat hard on Stefan’s caravan door. I’m making enough noise to raise the neighbours, their envoy a thin old man with a pronounced limp arrives to state the obvious.
‘He’s not in.’
‘Do you know where he might be?’ I ask.
He looks at me suspiciously, shrugs his shoulders, parts his hands, says nothing and walks back to his own caravan.
‘We could try some other neighbours,’ Monty suggests.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll do the knocking, you look too much like a debt collector.’
‘And you look like a debt collector’s boss.’ He grins.
An elderly lady in the caravan opposite Stefan’s answers her door, with the smile of an honest woman free from debt.
‘We’re looking for Stefan,’ I explain, ‘he lives over there.’
‘They’re all very nice really,’ she says.
‘Do you know Stefan?’
‘Very hard-working, up at the crack of dawn, never causing any trouble. They send all their wages back home, it’s a fortune to them, a fortune. They can live for years on a day’s pay from England.’
My back is hurting. I’m hoping it’s only bruising from the horrendous punch that young lad gave me and not some insidious long-term crippling ailment. I want to lie down, curl up, rest and make the pain go away.
‘Do you know where he’s gone?’ I ask.
‘That’s his car over there.’ She points to a battered Ford Fiesta, parked on the mud-smeared grass between caravans.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask.
‘Yes, of course I’m sure. He’ll not be far away, not without his car. There’s no bus service you know, well none to speak of. It’s all right for the lucky ones with cars. What about the rest of us though? There’s no point having a bus pass if there’s no bus or you’ve got to walk miles to the bus stop.’
‘Did Stefan ever give you a lift to the shops?’
‘Oh yes, he fetches me bits and pieces as well you know, the essentials like tea and sugar and bread and potatoes.’
‘Here.’ I put my business card in her hand. ‘If he comes back please telephone me, you do have a telephone?’
‘Oh yes I do, I’ll show it you. It’s a Nokia and you can make it ring different tones.’ She shuffles back inside.
I shout, ‘Goodbye, thanks’ through the doorway and make my retreat.
Monty says the car hasn’t moved for a while, probably a few days. He’s basing this on the rust on the brake discs. Whether this is a reliable sign or some male invention, I’ve no idea.
‘It looks roadworthy, though,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing obviously wrong with it.’
‘Maybe he’s bought himself something better with that cash and taken it back to Poland.’
‘I don’t think so. He’s had less than a day. It takes time to buy a car. Anyway, he’d have used the old one in part exchange,’ Monty says.
‘Let’s have a look in his caravan,’ I say.
Monty narrows his eyes. ‘Breaking and entering, eh?’
‘My money could be in there.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘But we’re here now, no point in going away without checking.’ I march over to the caravan and begin tugging on the door. My efforts are enough to demonstrate how insubstantial it is. Monty grabs the side of the flimsy thing with both hands, gives one sharp jerk and it flies open.
I clamber inside. It’s gloomy and cramped. A fetid smell, perhaps of rotting food, old refuse, neglect, poor hygiene, filthy toilet maybe. The living area is shrouded by tiny curtains on the windows. I reach forward to open them to give me some light and then I stumble over something on the floor. As I fall I scrabble at the cushions to haul myself upright. My right knee lands on something soft. I sprawl full length on top of a human body.
73
I leap to my feet in alarm and disgust, look down at the bloodied corpse. ‘It’s Stefan,’ I can hardly breathe enough to form the words, ‘he’s dead.’
‘We’d better get the police,’ Monty says, hauling the phone out of his jacket pocket.
‘Wait.’ I push my way out of the caravan, slam the door closed behind me. It swings open disconcertingly. ‘We can’t do that. See if you can get that door to close again, then we’d better get out of here.’
‘We can’t just leave. The police will be suspicious, we’ve been seen here, they’re bound to find us.’
‘He’s been killed, Monty. Someone has tied him up and beaten him to death, he’s in a shocking state. Don’t forget, this is the man who hit me and broke my arm, the man who you fought with. Now he’s dead and we’re on the scene. Think how that’s going to look to the police.’
‘But we didn’t kill him.’ Monty fiddles with the door, wedges something in the crack, stops it
from flapping open.
‘Let’s go.’ I give him my sternest look and walk over to the car. As we drive away he’s still protesting.
‘It’ll look worse that we didn’t report the body, how do we explain that?’
‘We’ll say we thought the caravan was empty. Anyway you’re assuming the police find out we were there. That’s by no means certain. Apart from that old lady nobody knows us here and she’s pretty incoherent. Even if she shows them my card I’ll say I’m just an employer looking for an employee who’s not been in to work.
‘They may tie you into the murder with forensics. You fell on top of the body, you’ve probably left some traces in the caravan.’
‘Even if you’re right, it would take a long time for them to do that. Meanwhile, we can get on with things ourselves. Find out who they are then hand them over to the police.’
‘I still think we’re making things more complicated this way.’
‘Then you’re wrong. I dread to think how complicated it will get if we tell them the truth. All we did was find the body. No, Monty, I know who killed him. It’s the same men who kidnapped Toby and took Lafferty’s cash. Stefan was trussed up with cable ties, just like they did to me. It’s them, I’m certain.’
‘So why don’t you just tell the police, Jenny?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’d have to tell them how I know what I know. I’d have to describe how the same men broke into my home and kidnapped my child, then I’d have to explain why I didn’t bother to report any of that to the police.’
‘You could leave out the bit about the cash, tell them everything else.’
‘Look, Monty. My story’s full of holes. I’ve a grudge against Stefan. If they find me next to the body they won’t bother looking any further. It’s an obvious situation to them. I’ve got motive, opportunity and the method is you and your fists. No more work necessary on their part. Even if I come clean about the money, sentence myself to several years in prison, there’s little prospect that they’d drop the murder charges against either of us.’
Monty drives in silence for a while. Eventually he says, ‘You’re right I suppose, but if they place us at the scene, we’re both going to be in real trouble.’
‘That’s why we have to sort those bastards out ourselves, before the police get involved.’
74
Despite the urgency inspired by the discovery of Stefan’s dead body I am reduced to waiting for Charles Smith to ring me back again. He’s the only one I can think of who can help me now. Monty insists on getting back to work. I agree he’s better spending his time there than sitting listening to my moaning. Now he’s gone, I really have to do something. I can’t sit on my backside all day. There’s been no more calls from Hector or his PA. They seem to have gone off the idea of seeing me. Short of joining Monty at Midgeland, there’s not much in the way of an alternative to just waiting.
I pull out the crumpled note I made during Charles Smith’s call. The name and address of the registered owner of the Jaguar that Martha saw parked in front of my house. It’s almost futile, I know, but I have to do something.
Getting into the car and setting off makes me feel better. I know there’s little point in what I’m doing. For a start, there’s not going to be anyone in on a Monday afternoon. If someone’s at the house I bet they won’t answer the door and, even if they do, they’ll have nothing helpful to tell me. All they’ll say is that the car was stolen, that the police have been told and they have no idea who stole it. As I clock up the motorway miles I regret not trying to contact Mr Potts on the phone. It’s too late now, I don’t fancy pulling over and trying to find the number. The owner’s almost certainly ex-directory; everyone else seems to be.
The name Accrington associates in my mind with dark factories and heavy industry. This part of Accrington is leafy lanes and unspoilt countryside and comes as a complete surprise. My next shock is when I pull up outside a rather imposing detached house and see the Jaguar parked on the drive. Next to it is a battered red pick-up truck.
My blood runs cold with the memory of being punched and kicked. The number on the Jaguar corresponds exactly. Monty’s old friend across the road did a perfect job. It has to be him, the old guy who kicked me and abducted Toby. This is where he lives. The Jaguar alone could have been stolen and returned to some innocent householder, but the pick-up provides me with conclusive evidence. When he used it to take the money it had no number plates, but I followed it down the track for long enough to recognise the same cracked rear light and the tell-tale scrapes on the wheel arches.
I drive to the intersection, turn right and park in a field entrance. If I send for the police, tell them the whole story, then what? They’d be more interested in prosecuting me, finding out where I got all that money. Lafferty will inevitably be put back in the picture. Squeaky Sandy will wet himself with glee. I breathe out, let my body and mind relax. Feel into how I am, where I ache, where my fear and excitement are manifesting in my body. I visualise confronting Potts, spitting in his face, smashing him with a baseball bat, kicking his belly when he’s down and cowering, pointing Hector’s gun at his head and hearing him beg for mercy. Hector’s gun. I’ve still got it in my bag.
There’s a slim chance I’ve got the wrong man and the wrong address. My attacker could have borrowed the vehicle. Perhaps this is his employer’s house? It’s possible. I should go and take a look. I’ll need to be careful, make sure I’m not spotted. If I can get a sight of the Jag’s owner, then I’ll be sure.
I take out my phone, prepare to tell Monty where I am and what I’ve found out. My finger hovers over his number. If I tell him he’ll tell me to get away from here, forbid me from doing any more investigation. Better to wait until I’m one hundred per cent sure.
The road’s so narrow, a tiny strip of tarmac between banks of brambles, nettles and hawthorns. My legs are unsteady in the heels I wear to impress Hector, or perhaps it’s his PA I’m trying to outdo. Here in the countryside, my black ensemble is completely out of place.
A whooshing sound heralds the rapid approach of a lorry. As it bears down on me it seems wider than the road, and there’s no footpath, only the undergrowth for me take refuge in. As I step onto the soft verge my heel sinks into the mud, my foot gives way and I tumble sideways into a clump of tall nettles. The ground shakes and a strong wind whips the nettles across my face as the milk tanker passes. I can feel the evil plants stinging me through my clothes. Although there’s nobody around to witness my loss of dignity, I still feel very embarrassed.
Worse still, I realise that I must stick out like a sore thumb. If Potts is the man I’m looking for, it’s certain that he’ll recognise me and I have to face the fact that walking along this road I’m impossible to miss. A sudden panic overwhelms me and I scurry back to my car; face, legs and back on fire. As I flee the vicinity, I wonder what the medical equivalent of a dock leaf might be.
I know now that there’s one call I have to make and it’s not Monty I need to speak to.
75
‘Oh you poor thing.’
Doreen’s soft Irish voice soothes me as much as the ointment she’s gently rubbing into the nettle stings on my back. She’s not referring to the skin irritation but responding to my account of Toby’s kidnapping. We’re on our own in the house, the children are at school or work. I can tell her everything I need to without interruption. When I’m finished I give her the paper with Adam Joseph Potts’s name and address.
‘Be careful,’ I say. ‘Fergus maybe still under surveillance, they’re almost bound to be listening to all his phone calls.’
‘They can drop as many of those eaves as they want, they’ll not be getting anywhere with him. He’s as smart as the day’s long. One step ahead and few more besides, that’s Fergus,’ she says.
‘But it’s you I don’t want implicating in anything that’s a bit –’
‘Dodgy?’ Doreen laughs. ‘Don’t you forget
I was married to Gary, God rest his soul. You know what he was like. There was nothing he’d do straightforward that he couldn’t do crooked. It wasn’t until you came along that I started to sleep at night.’ Her warm smile radiates kindness, fills me with comfort and restores my flagging spirits. I shouldn’t underestimate the strength under all the goodness. As I look into her eyes there’s a deep knowledge and complete understanding of what’s going on. She retains no illusion, despite her outward innocence. ‘He’s back this evening,’ she says. ‘That silly aeroplane of his is bringing him into Manchester. I’ll make sure he gets your message.’
76
‘We need to meet.’ Hector offers no apology for not showing up at his office. The prospect of facing his PA with nettle stings on my face isn’t one I relish.
‘Birch Services, M62,’ he says. ‘Eastbound, be there in fifteen minutes.’ I almost point out that I will practically have to drive past his offices to get there but am put off by his insistent tone. If he wanted me at his office he’d have said so; he’s not one for worrying about my convenience.
As I drive cautiously into the services area, a police car pulls alongside and the traffic cop inside waves at me to follow him. My body goes rigid with alarm. I wonder what petty violation he’s observed and think about Hector’s pistol in my bag.
He ushers me into a parking space in front of the tiny police station and I stop in the space next to him. He walks around his car and pulls open my door. I put my hand across the bag on my passenger seat, conscious of the need to hide it. I quickly scrape it off the seat into the footwell and climb down to face the policeman.
‘What’s the problem?’ I ask.
‘You are to wait inside.’ He indicates a small building with a large blue insignia on the wall. I make doubly sure my car is locked before following him inside. It’s not a proper police station, just a couple of rooms for traffic cops to lounge around drinking tea and eating cake in between hassling motorists, but I still feel uncomfortable and guilty. It’s probable that this is Hector’s way of making sure we have a private place to meet and being certain I’m here before he bothers to set off.
