by Ryan Casey
He saw them and he wondered how he’d ever bring another kid into a world as nasty as this.
“The bus twenty-two. Wait for details on where it broke down yesterday. Then we search around there for any signs—CCTV, witness reports, anything that might give us an idea where Beth Turner went missing.”
“Something else is bothering you, isn’t it?”
Brian took a glance at Brad as he drove the car. Saw him looking at him with that side-look of his. That hawk-eyed vision that seemed to spot human feelings like an x-ray machine traced a broken bone.
“This fucking vanilla air freshener of yours is the problem,” Brian said, hitting the awful strong piece of card out of his face.
“And you’re sure that’s all?” Brad asked.
Brian started to nod. Started to carry on with the lie.
And then some other words he wasn’t expecting slipped out of his mouth.
“Hannah’s pregnant.”
There was a momentary pause from Brad. And then a whistle. “Wow. Congratulations, I guess. You look delighted.”
“Yeah yeah,” Brian said. “Quit with the sarcasm. It’s a disaster. A complete disaster. There was me thinking Hannah was screwing some bloody fitness coach of hers and all along the problem’s been that she’s bloody pregnant.”
“Again, don’t be too enthusiastic,” Brad said. “Let’s save the party for when the cheery little nipper’s born.”
Brad shook his head. “You don’t understand. But why would you? You don’t have kids.”
“I have a kid.”
Brian turned around. Looked at Brad to see if he had his usual smile on his face. But no. He had his eyes firmly fixed on the road. Deadly serious.
“My bad,” Brian said. “Never knew.”
“Got a girl pregnant when I was eighteen. She wanted to keep it, I wanted to get rid. Whole life ahead of me, I thought. Didn’t want to bog myself down in serious relationships or kids or anything like that.”
“You’ve not changed much since you were eighteen then.”
Brad ignored Brian. “The girl, Sammy, she was understanding. Too understanding. And her parents were rich so they supported her. And I moved city anyway.”
“Everything wrong with young fathers. Never thought you had it in you.”
“I sometimes wonder, you know? Wonder how the kid’s doing. Wonder if they even know I’m … yeah. You get the picture.”
Brian didn’t add a witticism to this. He wanted to break through the awkward as shit silence that had formed between him and Brad, but he couldn’t think of what to say. He could only think of Hannah. Think of the way she’d told him she was pregnant. And he could only think of what was going through her mind when she told him. Did she want to keep the kid? Or was she just negative because she knew Brian wouldn’t want to?
The thoughts went on like this until Brian’s phone buzzed against his leg.
It was a welcome break through the silence. He pulled it out of his pocket. Put the phone to his ear. “McDone speaking.”
“Brian.” It was DC Arif, and from the sounds of things he was munching some crisps. “Did a check on that bus twenty-two for you.”
Stomach tensed. “And?”
More crunching. “No record of it breaking down at all.”
“Fuck,” Brian said.
“Sorry mate. Did all I could.”
Brian squeezed the bridge of his aching nose. “Yeah. Cheers, Arif.”
“Don’t tell me,” Brad said. “No luck?”
“No fucking luck at all. No record of the bus breaking down. Nothing like that.”
They turned out from the A6 and headed towards town. “So we’re gonna have to check this bus route the old-fashioned way, then?” Brad asked.
Brian bit into his lip and nodded. “Better get the dogs fed up for a few hours. It’s gonna be a long day.”
It took the police three hours to search the route from the bus station in the city centre to the outskirts of Ashton.
Brian and Brad walked along with the party of police search dogs. The army of police officers got funny looks as they walked up the dodgy terraced housed streets. Back at the offices, DC Finch was working on getting the CCTV from yesterday’s route following the twenty-two, but so far there was no sign of where Beth Turner got off the bus. And for that matter, there was no sign of the bus twenty-two breaking down at all.
Brian wondered if maybe it was the killer who’d sent that text about the bus breaking down. Something to throw them off. They were looking into messages sent from Beth’s phone, trying to work out if she had Location Services switched on at the time of sending those messages.
So far, nothing.
“Is it lunch break yet?” Brad asked.
Brian looked at his watch. Half-one. His stomach was rumbling, but the thought of a greasy pasty or a dry sandwich was far from appetising right now. “Only an hour ago,” he said. He knew he wouldn’t be able to focus on eating properly or doing anything properly until he’d found something on Beth Turner. There had to be something. A girl didn’t just go missing, not in an area of the city as populated as this.
Somebody had to have seen something.
The lives of innocent children depended on it.
They knocked at a few doors down Plungington Road. Checked in at the pub. A few beer-breathed punters said they’d seen the girl, but none of their stories added up or matched. They were getting nowhere. Quite literally leading a wild goose chase. If the killer knew what they were doing, they’d be laughing like mad at them.
They stopped in another pub, the White Rose, to ask about any weird characters that frequented the area. Or any suspicious activity. One woman said there was a scraggly haired madman who always peered through the pub window and mumbled threatening things at her. Another said there was a man in a black suit with funny coloured socks who always stood at the bus stop on Garstang Road, always waited and watched as the kids came out from school with a smile on his face.
Nothing but contradictory stories, witch hunts, bullshit.
“I’m just saying,” Brad said, as the police dogs tugged at the officers in front of them, panting like mad. “We’ve been searching for three hours. This is getting ridiculous now.”
“An eleven-year-old girl doesn’t just vanish then appear butchered in a shopping centre toilet.”
“I’m just saying we can’t go sniffing around the whole fucking city. Imagine what the press will say. What about the CCTV from Booths? Anything back from that yet?”
Brian checked his phone, stopping and realising how tired his legs were. “No. Not a fucking thing.”
“Then maybe it’s time we accelerated the search into that rather than this stupid fucking fun run through the middle of Preston.”
Brian wanted to argue with Brad. He wanted to tell him to get stuffed and take his bloody droning negativity with him. But he couldn’t argue. The police with the dogs in front, they were clearly bemused by this search. It wasn’t getting them anywhere. Better to just wait for the CCTV from Booths to be investigated. Wait for something to show up on CCTV around the Ashton area—something on Beth Turner. Because there had to be something. There just had to be.
“Okay, okay,” Brian said. He stopped walking. Called the officers ahead of him. “We’ll get a van down here to pick you guys and the dogs up.”
Many sighs of relief. A few mutterings of, “Jesus Christ I never thought this was gonna end,” things along those lines.
Brian and Brad watched as the officers regrouped, as they waited for a van to get down here and pick them all up.
Brian leaned back against a brick wall at the A6 and Plungington Road crossroads. Stared down the busy A6, at the leaves tumbling from the trees and scooting up in the wheels of cars. At the runners making their way towards Moor Park, at the little subway that led underneath the busy road and emerged at the other side.
“Something will show up,” Brad said, stepping next to Brian and leaning back against the wal
l. “Besides, I don’t think it’s the search that’s really bothering you, is it?”
Brian tensed his jaw. “Drop it about my bloody personal matters, would you?”
Brad raised his voice. “I just want you to know I’ve got your back. That’s all.”
He nodded at Brian. Brian nodded right back at him, feeling a little guilty for snapping. “Just quit droning on. No wonder you can’t ever pull. Morbid bastard.”
They looked back across the road, saw another runner disappear down the subway then emerge a few seconds later, clearly upping their pace to get out of it.
Something made Brian step forward. Made him walk across the pavement and over the busy road, cars honking and pipping at him.
“Brian? Where the hell are you…?”
Brian powered across the road. His heart pounded. The subway. The subway to Moor Park. A secluded place. A dark place.
He got to the other side of the road. His knees ached as he turned his power walk into a run. Behind him, he heard Brad shouting—shouting, but getting closer to him, as he made his way to the dip in the pavement, to the metal railing of the subway.
Brian stopped right outside the entrance to the subway. Stared down into it. Graffiti covered the mucky white walls. The area stunk of piss and lingering weed. Walking down the steps, Brian’s shoes squelched in tossed away condoms, cracked along broken beer bottles.
He held the railing and made his way down into the darkness. Reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone and flicked on the torch app which was nicely built into the interface now. He looked around the poorly lit subway. Looked for something—any sign that Beth Turner had been down here.
He heard Brad’s footsteps getting closer to him when he saw something twinkling in the light from his camera torch.
He took a few steps over the puddled floor. Heard water dripping through the subway, car tires zooming over his head.
“Brian? Have you completely lost it again?”
Brian ignored Brad and walked closer to the twinkling little object on the right side of the subway. Crouched down when he reached it, his fingers shaking, his heart thumping.
“Brian? What is it?”
Brian put his phone onto the grotty floor and covered his right hand with his black coat sleeve. He reached for the item and picked it up, being careful not to drop it.
Then he turned around and showed it to Brad.
Brad’s face was filled with confusion at first. But the way the frown dropped, Brian knew he understood now.
“Beth Turner’s earring?” Brad asked.
Brian shook his head. Picked his phone back up and looked closer at the earring. “Beth Turner’s earrings were purple. This is Sam Betts’ earring.”
A look of sheer puzzlement, sheer confusion, on Brad’s face.
The vibrating of Brian’s phone in his hand interrupted his torch. He clocked the Unknown Caller. Hit “answer.”
“Yeah, McDone.”
“Got the CCTV from Booths for you,” DC Finch said in his excited little voice. “Bloke seen walking out of the ladies’ at nine-thirty-five Friday night. Blood on his hands and messed up little smile on his face.”
Brian stepped out of the subway. Let the light fill his eyes with floaters like it always bloody did nowadays. “How about earlier? There must be someone taking Beth in. There must be—”
“All I know is the bloke’s wearing a suit with a blood red tie and black pants that are way too short. Barely cover his weird little blue socks.”
Brian was about to put the phone down when he saw the man at the bus stop across the road.
The man in the black suit with the creepy smile looking right at him.
With blue socks poking out of the bottom of his trousers.
His heart pounded. He tried not to make any sudden movements. Tried not to look too suspicious as this creep who the bartender had mentioned earlier stared right at him. “Thanks, Finch.” He put the phone down. Looked around Moor Park, tried to look disinterested in the man in the suit.
“Well?” Brad asked.
“Don’t look, but the man across the road. The man a few locals told us about. The weirdo who watches the school kids. With the funny socks and the suit.”
Brad did look across the road. Looked across with a frown on his head.
“I said don’t look you idiot. He’s… he’s on the recording. Seen walking out of the ladies’ at Booths last thing on Friday night. Blood on his hands.”
“Who do you mean?” Brad asked. “There’s no one at the bus stop.”
Brian spun around.
The bus stop was empty.
The suspect was gone.
FOURTEEN
“I saw him right over the road. Now get a bloody move on!”
Brian sprinted across Garstang Road and over to the bus stop where the suspect had been. Brad followed closely behind, muttering things that Brian didn’t have the time to process right now.
All he cared about was catching this guy with the red tie and the blue socks.
The guy who had walked out of the Booths ladies toilets where Beth Turner was found at 9.30 last night with blood on his hands.
A few cars honked at Brian as he reached the solace of the other side of the road. He looked right—looked over at the turning in the crossroads, the Shell petrol station, the dishwasher shop that used to sell videogames. Nothing.
Looked to the left. Red bricked terraced houses. Little side roads. Cars parked closely to the kerb. But still, no sign of anyone.
He felt a push on his back. Looked around, saw Brad panting.
“What the fuck’s got into—”
“The guy that the bartender mentioned a few pubs back. The weird one who—who smiles and watches the kids. I saw him here. And… and on the line. On the line just then.” He panted as he tried to regather his breaths. “This man, he—he was seen leaving Booths toilets. Leaving with—with blood on his hands. Nine-thirty last night.”
Brad shook his head. Kicked some loose stones across the pavement. “Fuck. Fucking hell.”
“We’ve no time to waste. We have to find him. You call into the station and get every bloody officer in this city looking for this guy. Wears a suit. Blue socks on show. He’s distinctive.”
Brian jogged down the pavement towards the terraced houses. His heart thumped around his chest.
“And where are you off to?”
Brian didn’t stop to turn around. “See if I can get a head start.”
He didn’t hear Brad’s footsteps following him so he assumed DS Richards was actually following orders for once. He ran to the turning in the main road that led down to a tree-laden side street. He stopped. Squinted down it, floaters and colours in his eyes like always happened when he was feeling weak. Warning signs that he should slow down or he’d end up in a hospital bed again.
But he didn’t have time to worry about a frigging hospital bed.
He ran away from this street, seeing no movement down it. Jogged to the second one. The weirdo creep who’d been watching him, he can’t have got far. And he’d done a runner. The slimy bastard had done a runner. It was one thing Andy Wilkinson doing a runner from Jean Betts’ house, but another thing completely for someone seen at the scene of Beth’s murder.
Brian stopped at the end of the next road, steamy breath pummelling out of his mouth. He put his hands on his knees as a crippling stitch clawed through his body. Looked down this street, so similar to the last one, all terraced houses and bird shit covered cars and claustrophobia inducing trees.
And then he saw movement from behind a car halfway down the street.
He lifted himself back up slowly. It wasn’t normal movement, not like someone just walking down the street or taking something out of their car boot. It was creeping. Someone crouched down, emerging from behind a car, looking all around to check for company, then disappearing down a little pathway between the second and third rows of terraced houses.
Brian tensed his fists. Felt
his body tingle all over. This was it. He was getting this slippery, perverted fucker, right now.
He took a deep breath, powered through the stitch and sprinted as fast as he could down this side street. He saw more colours and floaters in his eyes, but he ignored them. A little more running wouldn’t do any harm. He was fit and healthy, anyway. The Brian who’d had a heart attack last year, he was a different guy. Not as healthy. Ate way too many burgers.
Sure, he still ate a few, but with moderation.
He stopped at the turning where the guy had run down. A little darkened alleyway between the terraced houses, a gate partly open. At the other side, another gate, also ajar.
Brian felt his phone buzzing in his pocket and ignored it. No time to fuck around right now. The police, they’d be down here soon anyway. He had this guy. He couldn’t let him slip.
He crept slowly down the concrete pathway of the terraced houses. Both of these houses had dusty, curtained windows hiding whatever was inside. The doors were giving way to rot, and the flags on the patio were cracked.
Brian stepped into the darkness of the alleyway between the houses. Got another whiff of piss, which was becoming synonymous with tunnels and alleyways lately. He crept through. Crept towards the opened gate at the other side. The perverted fuck who’d killed Sam Betts and Beth Turner, he had to be down here. He couldn’t be far away. He almost had him.
Brian emerged from the darkness. Felt the autumn sun above him, the brick walls of the terraced yards towering either side of him, like they were about to slide together and crush him in the middle of them.
He saw movement. Movement up ahead. Across the next street, someone running.
He started to run again when he lost his footing and smacked his head against the solid concrete ground.
He groaned a little as he rolled onto his back. He’d really hurt his pissing ankle. He could taste blood, feel his face vibrating with the impact. Clumsy bastard. Must’ve tripped on something. Must’ve tripped and…
When he turned around completely, he saw someone standing above him.
