No Name Lane (Howard Linskey)

by Howard Linskey

  Thank God he was finally off duty. He was halfway through the sports pages of a discarded newspaper when someone spoke to him.

  ‘Ian Bradshaw?’ He looked up to see Tom Carney staring down at him. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Bradshaw was sure he did not know the man standing opposite him and that could only mean trouble.

  ‘I thought so,’ Tom smiled at him. He had a pint of IPA in one hand and a bowl of chips in the other. ‘Tom Carney,’ he told the bemused Bradshaw, ‘you were at my comprehensive, the year above me, or maybe two. You won’t remember me but I saw you play football a couple of times. You were bloody good.’

  Not quite good enough, thought Bradshaw. ‘Thanks, I was okay I suppose, many moons ago.’

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ Bradshaw did mind but he slid a chair out with his foot and Tom sat down. ‘Cheers. So what you up to now then?’

  ‘Police.’

  ‘That explains it. Are you investigating the missing girl or the body-in-the-field?’

  Bradshaw didn’t want to admit the truth. ‘Both.’

  ‘Then maybe we could help each other out,’ offered Tom.

  ‘How’s that?’

  Tom explained what he did for a living and Bradshaw visibly tensed at the word ‘journalist’.

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything dodgy, Ian. I might come up with some information you’d value and you could repay the compliment,’ and he smiled, ‘in the time-honoured tradition of these things.’

  Bradshaw knew that members of the police force had been tipping off reporters in exchange for a second income for many years now but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go down that route. It wouldn’t matter that the practice was widespread, it was still against the rules and it would be just like him to be the one who was caught and made an example of. His superiors could then use it as an excuse to get rid of Ian once and for all.

  ‘What makes you think you could uncover something I can’t?’

  ‘The locals round here aren’t too forthcoming where the police are concerned.’

  ‘Maybe not.’ Tom was certainly right about that, though Bradshaw had no idea why. ‘We have had a few leads though.’

  ‘Go on, admit it,’ grinned Tom, ‘you might have had some help with your missing girl, they’d want her back obviously, but I bet you’ve had radio silence on that old murder.’

  Bradshaw lacked the will to lie to Tom’s face and hoped the shared school connection might mean the younger man was less likely to stitch him up in print. ‘They’re saying bugger all about it.’

  ‘Unsurprisingly.’

  ‘Why unsurprisingly?’

  ‘Because people have long memories and they haven’t forgotten what your lot did,’ said Tom.

  ‘What do you mean my lot? What are we supposed to have done?’

  ‘The battle of Orgreave,’ Tom said, ‘during the miner’s strike. The police went in hard on the pickets and I do mean hard.’

  ‘That was miles away and it was the South Yorkshire Police, not us.’

  ‘Yeah but striking miners travelled from all over, including a fair few from this village.’

  ‘Some of those striking miners were a bit of a handful from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘I’m sure they were but the blokes charged with keeping the peace went in like World War Three had just started. One of the lads from this village took a right beating, ended up with a fractured skull and almost died.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘The police denied all responsibility then threatened to do him for obstruction and assaulting a police officer. At one point the bloke was going to be charged with rioting. He’d have been sent down for years if that had stuck.’

  ‘They were probably just trying to scare him.’

  ‘They succeeded and it wasn’t an idle threat by the way. Nearly a hundred miners were charged with rioting after Orgreave but here’s the thing: all of the charges were mysteriously dropped when they went to court, because it turned out that serving police officers had made most of it up.’

  ‘That’s a bit strong isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Tom, ‘then why has South Yorkshire Police paid out more than four hundred grand of taxpayers’ money in compensation to those men, without ever admitting liability and not a single police officer has ever been disciplined over it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bradshaw replied truthfully.

  ‘Because it was probably orchestrated from the very top,’ said Tom. ‘They never identified the officers who did the beatings and concluded there was no evidence of wrong doing. Your lot always do that though, don’t they?’

  ‘Will you stop calling them “your lot”? It wasn’t Durham, it was South Yorkshire and I wasn’t even in the force back then.’

  ‘No but you know what I mean. There are always enquiries and nobody is ever held accountable or, if they are, they’re allowed to retire early, though ill health.’

  ‘Some police officers are actually ill you know,’ Bradshaw bridled at this, ‘stress and depression are real.’

  Tom nodded. ‘But there are a fair number who aren’t. Everybody knows you’ve pretty much got to kill somebody to get thrown out of the police force and even then.’

  ‘All right, you’ve made your point,’ conceded Bradshaw, ‘journalists aren’t exactly saints though, are they? A small minority of police officers might be caught telling lies but your lot have turned it into a profession.’

  Tom smiled, ‘I have to concede there are some tabloid reporters who stretch credibility at times.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘Thank God there are still honourable men like us,’ he grinned, ‘to make up for all of those rotten apples,’ he clinked his glass against Bradshaw’s. ‘So is it a deal then?’

  ‘Is what a deal?’

  ‘You and me, helping each other by sharing information?’

  ‘What kind of information?’

  Tom leaned forward, ‘I need something other journalists don’t have: police theories about Michelle Summers’ disappearance, leads you are following, anything that’s better than the bland old crap about exploring numerous lines of enquiry.’

  Bradshaw thought for a moment. He was still annoyed at Tom Carney’s casual tarring of every police officer with the same brush. Even if Bradshaw could quite easily imagine Skelton and O’Brien cracking heads on a picket line, he didn’t like to hear criticism from outsiders. Then he remembered Tom’s words about Orgreave and thought about spending the next week having doors slammed in his face. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘you find out something of significance about either of those cases and I’ll give you something nobody else has. How does that sound?’

  ‘Something of significance?’ asked Tom cautiously while he regarded Bradshaw for a moment to see if he was serious. ‘How about his name then?’

  ‘Whose name?’

  ‘The body-in-the-field.’

  This had to be a wind-up but Tom Carney didn’t look like he was kidding. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I am if you are.’

  ‘How the hell did you manage to get a name?’ challenged Bradshaw.

  ‘I’m not the police, which gives me a distinct advantage in a pissed-off mining village. I have my contacts and little ways of teasing out information.’

  ‘Go on then,’ urged Bradshaw.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Tom told him, ‘this is a deal, right? I expect something from you in return.’

  ‘You can’t just hang onto a name in a murder enquiry,’ Bradshaw told him. ‘I could have you arrested for obstructing the police.’

  ‘I don’t think a couple of hours is a serious delay in a case that’s sixty years old, do you?’ challenged Tom. ‘And my story might have a bit more credibility if I can add the words “Police are working on the assumption that …” to my claim about the identity of this man. So it’s in my best interests to leak it in advance to a trusted police source but, I’ll be honest with you here, I’d rather cho
ose someone I trust, so I can further their career,’ and he took a sip of his pint before adding, ‘not some tosser who threatens to have me arrested.’

  Bradshaw sighed, ‘I’m sorry,’ and his head dropped. ‘I didn’t mean that. It’s just … I’ve been having a very bad week.’

  ‘Well, your week is about to become a whole lot better. Now pin back your lug holes because I have a story to tell.’

  Bradshaw did listen then, as Tom explained Sean Donnellan’s visit to Great Middleton and his sudden disappearance.

  ‘Sean Donnellan,’ repeated Bradshaw, ‘and they reckon he did a moonlight flit?’

  ‘That’s what people thought, at the time. Obviously he didn’t. He was murdered.’

  ‘If it’s him.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Who else could it be?’

  ‘How did you get this?’ asked Bradshaw.

  ‘A journalist never reveals his sources,’ and when he saw the impatient look on the DC’s face he added, ‘that works both ways. How can you trust me with information if I give you up as soon as somebody asks me?’

  ‘I suppose,’ he conceded reluctantly.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It sounds feasible,’ admitted Bradshaw.

  ‘I’d say it’s more than feasible,’ Tom told him, ‘it’s all you’ve got and in the absence of anything else I’d call this a strong line of enquiry, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say it’s strong.’

  Tom said, ‘none of the other villagers could go missing without anybody noticing.’

  ‘True, but do we have a motive? Why would anybody kill this guy? He was Irish but it couldn’t have been political back then?’

  ‘He was an artist from Dublin not a rebel from Belfast and this was thirty years before Bloody Sunday but …’

  ‘But what?’ probed Bradshaw.

  ‘He had a way with the ladies by all accounts.’

  ‘That’s not a bad way to make enemies in a small village.’

  ‘Exactly and I’m going to write this story regardless,’ bluffed Tom. ‘I’m going to say that it’s him but can I also say that the police think it could be him?’

  Tom held his breath and watched as Bradshaw considered the implications of this. Finally the detective constable concluded he had nothing much to lose. ‘I’ll tell my DI about it in the morning. There’s enough there for us to run some checks into this man.’

  ‘Which would make it a line of enquiry?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Bradshaw, ‘it would.’

  ‘Then I have a story and you’ll get a pat on the back for excellent police work.’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Bradshaw without enthusiasm.

  ‘Look,’ said Tom, ‘I’ll sit on it for a day. Just call me when your lot confirm they are looking into it, will you? I’m staying here,’ and he indicated the pub.

  Bradshaw nodded and they both sipped their beers reflectively then Tom said, ‘So, go on then.’

  ‘Go on then what?’

  Tom gave Bradshaw a disbelieving look. ‘Give me something good, something nobody else has.’

  ‘Oh,’ Bradshaw sounded sheepish.

  ‘A deal is a deal.’

  ‘I know,’ admitted Bradshaw with the dread of a man waiting to be called from a dentist’s waiting room. ‘Well, okay,’ he said, ‘there is something that nobody knows about.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  1936

  Mary watched the young couple from the road. They were standing in the doorway of St Michael’s church, framed by its gothic archway, smiling out at the well-wishers who had gathered to share their big day. As well as family and close friends who had spilled out of the church following the service, there were passers-by, like Mary, who took a moment to gaze on ‘love’s young dream’, while children stood around, hoping the best man would throw pennies into the street.

  The groom was a local boy; tall and good looking but with few prospects. The bride was not much older than eighteen. Mary noted her shyness and the way she clung onto her new husband’s arm uncertainly, as if the act did not yet feel altogether natural. The term ‘blushing bride’ could have been invented for her and Mary thought she knew why. Surely Mary was not the only one wondering about a time after the wedding party was over when the guests had all departed. The bride was almost certainly a virgin, unless of course she had foolishly allowed herself to be swept away in a moment of weakness, and if that was the case it would be a surprise if the man still wanted to marry her. However the bride’s assumed virtue meant the whole village knew what they would be up to that night if the marriage was to be consummated. This seemed to Mary like a dreadful intrusion into their privacy, but she had to concede she was as guilty of that intrusion as anyone.

  Mary couldn’t help trying to picture the scene in her own inexperienced mind. Would she undress for him or would he do it for her with his big rough hands? What would it feel like when he finally lay her down on the bed and took her? Would he be gentle or behave like an animal, as she had heard men sometimes did when passion overcame them?

  ‘A penny for them?’ asked Henry for he had crept to her side without Mary noticing.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular,’ she said.

  The best man threw a handful of pennies into the air then and they landed on the road. Several young boys scrambled to pick them up as they rolled in all directions.

  Mary’s father came out of the church, still dressed in his vestments. He left his congregation to speak to Henry, which caused Mary’s soon-to-be-fiancé to stand a little straighter, as if he was on parade.

  ‘Will we see your brother in church this Sunday, Henry?’ asked the vicar.

  ‘I will ask him,’ Henry assured the vicar, ‘again.’

  ‘No man needs the solace and comfort of religion more than one who has been to war,’ the Reverend Riley assured Henry, then he made a point of looking heavenward while he strained to recall a quotation. ‘Put on the whole armour of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil.’ he recited at Henry. ‘I think it would reflect well on your family should Jack choose to join us at prayer,’ he told the young man then he smiled, ‘but you are not your brother’s keeper.’

  ‘No,’ answered Henry, ‘but I will try.’

  ‘You can do no more than that,’ the reverend informed him.

  ‘We were about to go for a walk, father,’ Mary told him, to spare Henry any more discomfort.

  ‘Don’t be late,’ he told her. Everyone in the village knew that immoral acts always happened after dark. Young, courting couples were particularly susceptible to their urges then and could easily ‘fall wrong’, so Mary and Henry were only allowed to conduct their wooing during respectable hours.

  ‘We won’t be long,’ Mary assured her father, though she couldn’t help but think that they would be gone long enough should they wish to get up to something.

  He had the knife in his hand and he was staring intently, gazing down the long blade with its razor-sharp point, ‘it won’t be long.’

  ‘This is silly,’ she told him.

  ‘No one will see,’ he told her, ‘nobody will know.’

  ‘Then what’s the purpose of it?’

  ‘We’ll know, won’t we?’ Henry reminded her. ‘I didn’t think you’d want everybody to see it.’

  ‘I don’t,’ and it worried her how emphatically she’d said that.

  ‘We’re well off the beaten track. The only people who’ll come out here will be doing what we’re doing.’

  ‘Carving their initials on a tree,’ Mary observed drily, ‘with a heart around them.’

  Henry looked hurt then. ‘I thought you’d like it.’

  ‘I do,’ she said quickly when she saw the disappointment in his face, ‘really I do,’ and in an effort to encourage him she added, ‘you’ve not finished our heart.’

  He gave the tree one last scrape with the lock knife, leaving their initials framed by a rough, uneven h
eart. ‘There,’ he said, pleased with his handiwork.

  Henry folded the lock knife and put it back into his coat pocket before gently drawing her closer to him. The kisses that followed felt clumsy and one-sided. Henry expected to take these liberties by now, for they had been walking out together long enough and she would grant them but sparingly, towards the end of their walks and not for long. They both knew they must wait until their wedding night, a mythical time that would involve the instant shedding of all of their joint innocence in one go.

  Henry would sometimes be left flushed and flustered by her insistence that they stop but Mary never found herself getting too carried away and she wondered if there was something wrong with her for not feeling his embraces more intensely. It was not that they weren’t pleasant enough but that was all they were. That day, however, Henry did get carried away.

  ‘Henry!’ Mary warned him wide-eyed as she felt the stirring then the hardness pressing against her. Henry was mortified and immediately took a step back from her.

  ‘Oh Mary, I’m sorry,’ he seemed distraught, ‘please forgive me.’

  Mary wanted to laugh but contained herself for his sake, for she knew enough about men already to know that they did not care to be laughed at; Henry more so than most. ‘Of course I forgive you,’ she said, ‘I understand and we didn’t go too far. It’s all right.’

  ‘It’s not all right,’ he seemed on the brink of tears. ‘I don’t think of you like that, Mary. A beast in the field would have more restraint.’

  Mary took hold of his hand. ‘Let’s say no more about it. Walk with me,’ and she steered him away from the shelter of the trees.

  Mary returned home alone just as Mrs Harris was leaving the vicarage. ‘I’m off to my sisters,’ she reminded Mary as she bustled down the path. ‘Your father is at the Dean’s. Mind you stay out of mischief,’ she said that last part as if it was a joke, but she wasn’t really joking. Mrs Harris’s biggest fear was that Mary would end up disgraced in some way before she was safely secured in wedlock.