‘Over the moon?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘A teenage beauty queen’s take on the world is always worth recording.’
‘How about you? Did you follow up with Betty Turner?’
‘I did.’
The food arrived then. ‘I’m starving,’ he said as he covered every square inch of his plate with ketchup.
‘You can take the boy out of the North …’ she said.
He shrugged then proceeded to eat like a man in a hurry while she took a bite from her sandwich.
‘So what have you got for me?’ she asked, ‘since we’re sharing?’
‘Not much,’ he told her through a mouthful of his breakfast, ‘just a name.’
‘A name?’ she asked uncertainly, ‘you have a name for our body-in-the-field?’
‘According to Betty, his name was Sean.’
‘Oh my God. Have you told the police?’
‘Not yet.’
‘But shouldn’t we? I mean, the man was killed. This is an actual murder investigation.’
‘I don’t think there’s much danger of the culprit fleeing the country on his Zimmer frame. He’s probably six feet under.’
‘Did she tell you anything else?’
‘A first name was all I got,’ he said, ‘before her son threw me out, literally, which was a shame because I reckon she had a lot more to tell, so I was thinking …’ He gave her a look.
‘What?’
‘I can hardly go back there. I’d probably leave through the window.’
‘Rough family?’ she asked and he nodded, ‘but you want me to go down there?’
‘Well, they’ve never beaten up a woman,’ he assured her, ‘at least, not to my knowledge.’
‘There’s always a first time.’
‘I’ve got your back,’ he promised her.
‘Why does that not reassure me?’ she asked.
Just then the door to the café was flung open and a young woman appeared, looking flustered. She was in her mid-twenties and could easily be described as beautiful, with long, blonde hair and a figure that caught the eye of the two builders. Her face took on a pained expression and she mouthed the word ‘sorry’ at the young man in the shirt and tie.
Helen said quietly, ‘Don’t you want to say I told you so?’
‘I don’t have to, you saw how he leaped out of his chair to greet her, how he didn’t mind her being late. The man’s besotted with her, poor sap.’
‘Okay, you were right. But there’s no need to be horrible. If he loves her, it doesn’t make him an idiot.’
‘You didn’t spot her wedding ring,’ he told her, ‘and he wasn’t wearing one.’
‘Oh.’
‘Those two aren’t married,’ he assured her, ‘at least, not to each other.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When Bradshaw caught up with Vincent Addison, his colleague was staring out of the window by his desk. There didn’t seem to be all that much to see; just skies darkened by a fine rain the consistency of mist that coated the surrounding buildings, greying them in the process.
‘You all right, Vincent?’
‘I, er …’ Vincent began unsurely, still gazing out of the window, ‘it’s just, I’ve not done this for a while.’
‘It’ll be okay,’ Bradshaw assured him, ‘how do you want to play it? Good cop, bad cop?’
‘How about bad cop, bad cop?’
The pavement was slick and shiny from a rain storm they’d missed while they were in the café.
‘Did the police not think Betty going to Mary’s house and banging on her door was significant?’ Tom asked, ‘you’d think they’d have followed it up.’
Helen thought for a moment. ‘Betty was taken home by uniformed officers. They logged it but maybe they didn’t tell the detectives investigating the body-in-the-field …’
‘Sean,’ he corrected her.
‘… investigating Sean, sorry. Perhaps nobody has actually linked Betty’s little walk in the night to the body.’
‘Left hand, right hand,’ he told her, ‘it’s the same in every large organisation, including the police, which means we are one step ahead.’
‘If Betty really knows something,’ she reminded him.
‘She knows something all right and I’d have found out what if her knuckle-dragging sons hadn’t been home.’
‘So now you need me to go into the lion’s den?’
Vincent broke the rules. He lit a cigarette in the interview room, took a drag then flicked the end into an ashtray on the table between them. The lorry driver’s eyes followed his movements. ‘Do you know why we asked you to come down here?’
‘You said it was to help find Michelle,’ said Denny.
‘We just wanted a word, Denny,’ said Bradshaw, ‘it is Denny, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s that short for then?’ asked Vincent, ‘not Denzel?’
‘No,’ answered Denny sullenly and they both regarded him with suspicion. Denny felt a pang of fear. Perhaps it would be better if he tried harder to cooperate. ‘It’s my name …’
Bradshaw interrupted him, ‘your name is Denny?’ he peered at the papers in front of him. ‘No, it isn’t.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Denny almost stammered.
‘That’s what I said,’ answered Bradshaw.
‘My real name is Darren,’ he said it quickly before they could interrupt him again, ‘but when I was small my little brother couldn’t pronounce Darren,’ they both frowned at him, ‘he used to run round after me ’cos I was a bit older and he was always shouting “Denny! Denny!” ’ they continued to regard him as if he might be making this up, ‘and when the adults heard, they all thought it was funny, so they started calling me Denny too … and it just sort of stuck. Now everyone calls me Denny, always have done.’ He shrugged apologetically.
There was a long silence. Finally Bradshaw spoke, ‘Denny, you are one hell of a storyteller. That was riveting.’
‘Well, you asked me …’
Bradshaw interrupted, ‘There was no need to write a book about it.’ Denny looked into the policeman’s fierce eyes and tried to make some sense of what lay there. Why were they treating him like this? It wasn’t fair. He wanted to go home. When Bradshaw received no reply from the nervous man in front of him he shouted, ‘was there?’
‘No!’ Denny shouted back in reply. God they could have asked him to stand to attention right then and he’d have done it, he was that nervous.
‘All right, Denny,’ and Vincent laughed, giving him a twinkly, all-lads-together smile, ‘no need to shout about it, eh? We’re only over here.’
‘Sorry, sorry, it’s just I’m a bit …’
Vincent smiled again, ‘Nervous?’
‘Yeah,’ Denny nodded, grateful for the empathy.
‘Why are you nervous, Denny? What have you got to be nervous about?’ Vincent’s face was as hard as stone now and just as unforgiving.
‘Nothing.’
‘You sure?’ asked Vincent. ‘It’d be better if you told us everything, better for you, better for Michelle, wherever she is.’
‘No,’ Denny was shocked. ‘I haven’t done anything. I just mean you make me nervous, that’s all. I’m not used to this.’
‘Used to what?’
‘Police.’
‘You got something against the police, have you, Denny?’
‘No! God no, course not.’
‘We’re the good guys,’ Bradshaw reminded him, ‘aren’t we?’
‘I know, I never meant …’
‘You don’t have to be nervous about us, mate,’ said Vincent, ‘not unless you’re hiding something,’ Vincent cocked his head to one side, which made him look like an inquisitive dog. ‘Are you hiding something, Denny?’
‘No.’
‘You sure?’
‘’Course I am.’
‘Well we think you are,’ said Bradshaw, ‘we know you are in fact,’
‘I’m not hiding anything. I don’t know what happened to Michelle. I don’t.’
‘Michelle?’ asked Vincent innocently, ‘who said we were talking about Michelle?’ and he feigned surprise.
‘Well …’ stammered Denny, ‘what else could …’
‘We are talking about what you’ve been hiding in the shed,’ said Bradshaw.
Denny tried to look innocent and uncomprehending but he made a pretty bad job of it. His eyes widened, he even licked his bottom lip in a nervous gesture. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking …’
‘Sod off, Denny,’ said Bradshaw.
‘We found your stash,’ Vincent told him calmly, ‘the one you’d gone to so much trouble to hide.’
Denny tried to look as if he hadn’t a clue what they were on about, but he was fooling no one and he knew it.
Bradshaw reached under the table and picked up a familiar-looking carrier bag. He upended it and its contents fell onto the table in front of Denny, a dozen magazines, each one with a young girl on the cover, a very young girl.
‘I don’t …’ Denny seemed to be searching for an explanation but he couldn’t come up with one.
‘This is only a few of them,’ Vincent informed him, ‘I left the others in the shed in case we need to make it official.’
‘Official?’
‘It’s all right though, isn’t it Denny? I mean, we are all lads together. No one minds a bit of grot, not these days. It’s 1993 not the 1950s,’ Bradshaw assured him, ‘who hasn’t got a bit of the old porno?’
‘I used to want my very own Playboy model when I was a lad,’ admitted Vincent, ‘like that bird off Baywatch. That’s just my personal preference.’
‘I’m more partial to the amateur ladies,’ Bradshaw followed Vincent’s lead, ‘the mucky bird next door with her filthy fantasises about the window cleaner. I’m more of a realist. I’m not likely to wake up next to Pamela Anderson but I’ve got half a chance of finding some dirty housewife in Darlington whose old man’s away on business and, when I do, I’ll be ready for her, believe me.’
Denny couldn’t hide his relief. At least they understood.
‘Can’t beat Readers’ Wives,’ said Bradshaw matter-of-factly, ‘know what I mean?’
‘Yeah,’ said Denny shyly, ‘I s’pose.’
‘Only you don’t though, do you, Denny,’ said Vincent, ‘know what he means,’ and the mood seemed to change again in an instant.
Bradshaw was regarding him with those piercing, emotionless eyes, ‘You see, what we are talking about is some honest-to-goodness pornography for the red-blooded, adult male. The kind of thing any fellah would be proud to have in his stash, just so long as his old lady doesn’t find out about it. And even if she does, well, “I’m very sorry, darling but …” and you can laugh it off, front it out. She might not speak to you for a day or two but that’s … well, that’s just an added bonus in most modern marriages. But what you’ve got hidden in your shed is a bit different. That’s very far from all right.’
‘It’s just the same,’ said Denny but his voice came out too high, ‘just a bit harder, that’s all.’
‘Where in God’s name did you get it all from?’ asked Vincent.
‘Amsterdam,’ squeaked Denny, ‘I do long-haul jobs, some of them in Europe. They’ve got loads of that stuff out there. Everybody looks at it.’
‘No they don’t, Denny,’ Vincent told him.
‘Girls in white cotton panties,’ tutted Bradshaw, ‘in school uniforms?’
‘Lollipops in their mouths,’ muttered Vincent in disgust.
‘They’re all over-age,’ Denny assured them, his voice cracking again.
‘You sure?’ asked Vincent.
‘Yeah, course.’
‘How could you be, unless you took the pictures?’ Bradshaw lifted one of the mags and leafed through it, ‘Most of them look like they could be fourteen, fifteen at the outside,’ and he shook his head at the depravity of the world. ‘Michelle is fifteen, isn’t she, Denny?’ Denny’s face was red, the shame burning him, like a physical sensation. What would Fiona think if she knew about his sordid little secret? She’d never understand and these two would probably tell her for the fun of it. Finally he said, ‘I want a lawyer.’
‘Why would you need a lawyer?’ asked Bradshaw. ‘You’ve not been arrested, let alone charged with anything,’ and he paused. ‘Why do you need a lawyer, Denny? What have you done?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Only guilty men ask for lawyers, Denny,’ said Vincent.
‘Was it her fault?’ asked Bradshaw, his tone suddenly reasonable again. ‘I bet it was,’ and he nodded as if he had accidentally stumbled upon the truth. ‘Did she wander round in her skimpies? Perhaps she didn’t realise what she was doing,’ Bradshaw offered, ‘or maybe she did. Was that it, Denny? Did she enjoy rubbing your nose in it?’
Denny shook his head. ‘Did you want to teach her a lesson, show her what it was for, eh, while her mam was out at the shops?’ asked Bradshaw. ‘Did she act like she wanted it at first then suddenly change her mind? Is that why you had to force yourself on her? Is it why you killed her afterwards? If she was going to tell her mum, we’d understand.’
‘I didn’t …’ stammered Denny in protest, ‘… I never touched Michelle.’
‘Come on, Denny, not even once?’ chided Bradshaw, ‘all that time under the same roof? You must have thought about it.’
‘Where is she, Denny? What have you done with her?’ asked Vincent. ‘You know you want to tell us and we’ll find out anyway, so spare us all a lot of time and bother.’
‘You’ll feel much better when you do,’ added Bradshaw, ‘believe me. It’ll be like a great weight lifted from your shoulders.’
‘I want …’ There were tears in Denny’s eyes now and he sniffed them back before continuing.
‘What do you want?’ asked Bradshaw. ‘Tell us, Denny,’ he urged.
‘I want a lawyer,’ said Denny emphatically then the big man wiped his eyes.
Bradshaw slowly rose to his feet and he hung over Denny like a black cloud. ‘I wasn’t sure until just now,’ he told the terrified lorry driver, ‘I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt until I watched your reaction to your …’ he seemed to be searching for the right words, ‘dirty little secret,’ and he leaned even closer, ‘and then I knew, I just knew. You’re a wrong ’un. You’re hiding something and we know what it is. What have you done with her? What have you done with Michelle?’
‘I …’ Denny’s voice was a squeak and he cleared his throat. ‘I want a lawyer.’
Vincent and Bradshaw exchanged looks.
‘No need for that Denny,’ said Vincent amiably, ‘we’re done, for now.’
‘We’ve been sitting here for over an hour,’ she told him.
‘That’s journalism.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Helen said, ‘journalism is writing things. Staking out people’s houses, waiting for them to leave is police work or private eye stuff.’
‘You could try knocking on their door but I suspect that might not work. I speak from experience,’ Tom reminded her.
They sat for a while in silence, watching Betty Turner’s house through the windscreen of Tom’s car.
‘How does he do it?’ asked Tom suddenly, as if Helen was privy to his innermost thoughts.
‘Do what?’
‘Get them to come with him,’ he shrugged and she realised he was talking about the Kiddy-Catcher. ‘They’re not little girls. They are ten or eleven years old. They know not to talk to strangers. All girls do at that age. Don’t they? Didn’t you?’
‘I suppose,’ she thought for a moment, ‘yes I did know at that age, of course I did.’
‘You would,’ he said. ‘The most naïve girl in the world would know not to get into a strange man’s car,’ and he looked at her, ‘wouldn’t she?’
Helen nodded. She tried to remember how much she really know about men and rape and murder when she was twelve
years old. Not much but enough, even then. It was drummed into you. You did not speak to strange men or get in their cars and go for a drive. If you did, something awful could happen.
‘I don’t know. Unless he is snatching them from the streets, bundling them into his car …’
‘No,’ he said with the kind of finality that brooked no objection, ‘no struggles, no witnesses, nobody has ever reported seeing the Kiddy-Catcher dragging a lass into a car. Not once. Despite what people say, if a young girl screams loud enough, people come running. Of course they do.’
‘So how is he doing it?’
‘Dunno,’ he admitted, ‘and why have the police not found Michelle’s body yet? All of the others were found quickly. He doesn’t burn or bury them, just leaves them out in countryside and waits for the first person to find them.’
‘Perhaps the spot is more isolated and nobody has stumbled across her yet.’
‘Or he still has her – or she isn’t a victim of the Kiddy-Catcher at all. Perhaps someone else took her or she just disappeared.’
‘People don’t just disappear,’ she said, ‘not like that.’
‘Yeah they do. People disappear all the time, loads of them. You just don’t notice it. No one does. You know how many people were reported missing last year in this country?’
‘No.’
‘Guess,’ he urged her.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘Try, you’re an educated lady. How many people do you think just upped and disappeared into thin air, leaving their friends and families with absolutely no clue to their whereabouts or even if they are alive or dead.’
‘A lot I should imagine,’ she answered, ‘it must be more than we would think, so I’m going for three thousand.’
‘Not even close.’
Her eyes widened at that, ‘and she thought for a moment, recalibrating her expectations, ‘forty thousand then.’
He shook his head. ‘More than two hundred thousand.’
She seemed genuinely shocked. ‘I’d no idea it was so many.’
‘We tend to think of it as teenagers running off to London and getting mixed up with drugs or prostitution but they come from all ages and walks of life. Some come back within a few days or weeks but others disappear for years. You get middle-aged guys who crack under the pressure of a job or a mortgage and they just vanish.’
No Name Lane (Howard Linskey) Page 13
