No Name Lane (Howard Linskey)

by Howard Linskey

  ‘Really?’ answered Bradshaw, ‘and I thought he wanted me to marry his daughter.’

  ‘Listen, Sherlock, we all know what you’ve been up to,’ Skelton told him, ‘so why don’t you just admit it. Come clean and you’ll get what you want … what we all want, in fact.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘A ticket out of here,’ O’Brien told him. ‘There won’t be a fuss, as long as you ’fess up but if you deny this and we prove it was you then you are for the high jump.’

  ‘Really? Right, okay,’ Bradshaw was nodding his head as he spoke. ‘I heard someone pinched a Kit Kat from Trevor Wilson’s lunch box the other day but I can assure you it wasn’t me. I’m more of a Twix man myself, as you can see,’ and he indicated the chocolate bar on his lunch tray.

  ‘Someone has been leaking,’ O’Brien informed him, ‘and we’ve been asked to find the mole.’

  Bradshaw merely blinked back at him, as if awaiting further information. ‘What’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘That local lad, Tom Carney, the hack who went off to London then came back with his tail between his legs. It’s him, isn’t it? We’ve been checking him out and asking around. All it took was a couple of phone calls. We found out a lot about him, in fact.’

  ‘Including who he drinks with,’ added Skelton, before adding, ‘QED.’

  ‘Now, we are going to give you one last chance to admit what you did, Sherlock, and you can leave quietly,’ O’Brien told him. ‘After that, you are on your own.’

  Bradshaw opened his mouth to say something in denial, then he stopped. It would be so easy. All he had to do was cop for it and he’d be off the stupid body-in-the-field case, out of the dead-wood squad and away from the force forever. There’d be no more grief from colleagues who despised him or hassle from senior officers who considered him a liability. Perhaps he could find something more useful to do with his life. He could start again, maybe even go abroad, work in a bar, some place hot. All he had to do was admit it.

  They were both watching him intently now. Waiting to see what he would do.

  ‘School,’ said Bradshaw simply.

  ‘Eh?’ asked Skelton uncomprehendingly.

  ‘I know him from school,’ Bradshaw explained reasonably. ‘Tom Carney was in the year below me at my comprehensive,’ he explained, ‘or did your extensive enquiries not yield that bit of information? I hadn’t seen him in years but we both happened to be in the Greyhound at the same time, along with a bunch of other journalists and coppers. He came up to say hello. I must have spoken to him for all of five minutes.’

  There was a moment’s pause while Bradshaw waited for their response. Inwardly he was holding his breath. He knew they were bluffing him with the offer to confess and leave without a fuss, which meant they merely suspected he was the mole but couldn’t prove it. He in turn was bluffing them to see if they had anything more than a sighting of him drinking in the pub with Carney, which wouldn’t be enough to damn him on its own.

  When they didn’t reply Bradshaw said, ‘That all you’ve got? Good, now why you don’t you piss off and leave me alone. Better yet, I’ll piss off instead shall I? I’ll eat my Twix in the car.’

  He got to his feet and took his tray with him. As he made to go, Skelton said, ‘This isn’t over by a long way, Sherlock. You’re history and you know it.’

  Roddy placed a large roll of papers bound with string onto his kitchen table. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said, ‘two things actually,’ and he fished a scrap of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. ‘I’ve been asking around about Mary Collier and her late husband Henry. There’s not many left who remember him before he became headmaster but this fellah will.’ He handed Tom the scrap of paper, which had the name Sam Armstrong written on it, along with a phone number.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Remember Armstrong’s farm at the end of the village?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Tom.

  ‘He only sold up eight or nine years back. Tough as old boots, he was. I remember playing in his hay bales when we were kids and he chased us out of there, effing and blinding. I’ve never run so fast.’ He was grinning at the memory.

  ‘What’s his connection with Henry Collier?’ asked Tom before Roddy could be distracted by any more childhood reminiscences.

  ‘Best friends when they were kids, by all accounts.’

  ‘Are you sure about this, Roddy?’

  Roddy looked hurt. ‘I checked it out, man. I gave the old fellah a call and it’s true. He confirmed it.’

  ‘Blimey, what does he know about Henry then?’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Eh? Why not?’

  ‘I’m a historian not a reporter, that’s your job. I’m just opening the door for you.’

  ‘Will he see us?’ asked Helen.

  ‘He says so. Give him a ring. He only moved ten miles away.’

  ‘Nice one, Roddy,’ said Tom, ‘you said there were two things?’

  ‘Yes,’ and Roddy slid the piece of string off the rolled-up papers and let them open so they were facing upwards then he flattened them down with his palms. The first sheet was a line drawing of the woods behind the river bank.

  ‘Another one of Sean Donnellan’s landscapes,’ said Tom.

  ‘It’s good too,’ observed Helen.

  ‘Told you I’d find them,’ said Roddy, as if it was never in doubt. ‘A couple of these are unfinished. I guess he wasn’t happy with them,’ and he let them look at each of the half-dozen drawings in turn. There were four of the surrounding area but when he reached the last two drawings he placed the landscapes carefully on the floor so he could position the final pictures side by side. Both had the same subject; a very pretty young woman was gazing unsmilingly back at the artist. ‘Good, aren’t they?’ said Roddy, adding, ‘unfinished like the others, but a damn good likeness.’

  ‘A likeness?’ asked Tom.

  Roddy regarded Tom as if he was missing something obvious then he smiled. ‘You’re a lot younger than me so you can’t see it but that,’ and he tapped the end of a finger against one of the pictures, ‘looks a lot like a young Mary Collier.’

  Tom peered at the drawing for a while then said, ‘you’re right, Roddy, it does.’

  Helen, Tom and Roddy stood in silence for a moment, contemplating the drawing of the serious young girl Sean Donnellan had captured in a moment long ago, forever frozen in time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  1936

  ‘Ow.’

  ‘Keep still then.’

  ‘I am,’ Mary assured her, ‘ow.’

  ‘You’re all knots this morning,’ Mrs Harris told her. ‘What have you been doing in the night?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Mary flushed, ‘sleeping.’

  ‘In a thorn bush? I can barely get the brush through these rat’s tails.’

  ‘You are full of sweetness and light.’

  ‘I hardly slept a wink last night. I envy you. You sleep the sleep of the innocent.’

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘You have to suffer to be beautiful.’

  ‘Who said so?’

  ‘My mother used to say it and she wasn’t often wrong. There’s a few in this village who should listen to their elders and betters if you ask me.’ Mary knew Mrs Harris must have been building up to this, ‘I’ve seen that Betty,’ she said ominously, ‘we’ve all seen her, even if she thinks we haven’t, walking out with that Irishman.’

  ‘Is that such a terrible thing?’ asked Mary, ‘for Betty to go for a walk with Mr Donnellan?’

  ‘As long as that’s all she’s been doing, but tongues wag in this village and people could see those walks as something they’re not. A girl always has to be careful, particularly a silly little one, like Betty. Some men have a way with words and a woman can be swept away if she’s not careful. Her reputation destroyed forever in a single day.’

  ‘Why am I under the impression we are no longer talking about Betty? Is this because
I go on long walks with Henry? You don’t have to worry,’ Mary assured her, ‘he respects me.’

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ Mrs Harris answered stiffly, ‘but men can’t always control themselves, which is why a lady has to ensure …’ She struggled to find the words.

  ‘That her honour is never compromised?’

  ‘You always say it better than me,’ she admitted, ‘which shows the value of your education, but I know what I’m talking about, so just you take heed.’ She seemed to soften then. ‘I know your Henry is a good man. He thinks the sun shines out of you and I expect you’ll run him a merry dance when you’re married.’

  ‘I will not,’ retorted Mary.

  ‘Now, his elder brother on the other hand,’ and Mrs Harris coughed, ‘let’s just say I wouldn’t want to bump into him on my own on a dark night.’

  Nor he you, thought Mary, before she immediately scolded herself for being unkind.

  When Mary went for her walk that morning down No Name Lane, she found herself hoping to bump into Sean Donnellan again by the river. She found him there sure enough, bent over his work, but when he saw Mary he put it to one side and they talked of mundane things for a while. Then he said, ‘I was about to stretch my legs. Will you walk with me for a time?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why? Would that be improper?’

  ‘The whole village knows you are walking out with Betty.’

  ‘Does it? I have walked with young Betty but I’m not walking out with her,’ he told her.

  ‘More fool her then,’ answered Mary, ‘for making it seem so.’

  ‘Can a man not walk down a lane with a woman without getting betrothed at the end of it?’

  ‘Not round here,’ she said but it was not a reprimand, more an admission of the parochial outlook in her village.

  ‘I’m not the right sort for a gal like Betty. She will never leave Great Middleton, nor even contemplate it,’ Sean said, ‘but I will leave, because there’s a whole world out there that wants seeing and I intend to see it before I lose the light.’

  ‘The light?’ at first she thought this was an artist’s term.

  ‘Most people have a light inside them when they are young but it soon goes out.’

  It was obvious she didn’t understand him. He looked exasperated, because he hadn’t explained himself well enough.

  ‘I’m talking about hope, Mary and the way it has of dissolving, usually to be replaced by fear. Young people think anything’s possible, God love them, then they go out into the real world for five minutes and they’re cowed by what they see, by what they’re told they must contend with.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The need to make a living, put a roof over their head and food in their bellies, it takes over. The fear of starvation, of being put out on the street, replaces any dreams they might have once had, so they settle for less. It’s a sad fact but true. How many people do you see who are living the lives they dreamed of when they were young?’ he asked rhetorically, ‘but I won’t settle for less, Mary and nor should you. There’s nothing for you here.’

  And though they spoke no more that day and there was no physical contact between them, Mary would look back on the exchange and realise that was the moment when it all began.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Tom steered his car off the main road and into the lane, bringing it to a halt. Sam Armstrong’s house was situated at the end of a long, rutted track at the top of a hill. It was steep, full of puddles from the rainstorm and slick with mud. Clearly Sam had not left the countryside entirely behind.

  ‘I don’t think my car is going to get us any closer,’ he said and they looked at each other.

  ‘We’ll manage,’ she told him, not wanting to turn back now.

  They left the car where it was and climbed the hill. Within seconds their trousers were speckled with wet mud. As they walked, they were forced to tread carefully, to avoid the pools of water in the broken road surface. Halfway to the house Helen slipped and Tom instinctively shot out an arm to prevent her from falling.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘not my most practical pair.’ She took another tentative step but her shoe immediately slid again.

  ‘Here,’ he took her hand in his and they began a slow and unsteady trudge towards the house. The road grew steeper and they both nearly slipped several times. As they neared the top of the hill, Helen had to stifle the urge to giggle as she realised how it must have looked, the two of them walking along the road together holding hands like a couple of soppy teenagers.

  Tom finally let go of her hand to bang on the door. Immediately a dog began to bark ferociously somewhere inside the house. ‘I hope he’s bloody in,’ he muttered as he looked at their filthy shoes.

  The door was opened by an old man with a heavily lined face and rough calloused hands from years of working outdoors. He looked them up and down and said by way of greeting, ‘Roddy should have told you to bring your wellies, you’re covered in clarts.’

  Though not as cluttered as Roddy Moncur’s place, Sam Armstrong’s home also spoke of a solitary existence. Sam was a widower who didn’t seem to have much interest in housework. He left Helen and Tom for a moment to silence his dog then returned and set about moving things so they could sit down. Several newspapers, a pile of clothes set aside for washing and some small, oily mechanical parts from an old machine he’d been tinkering with on a coffee table were all removed. The room was cold but he did not make use of the ancient paraffin heater in the corner.

  The old man listened silently while they explained the purpose of their visit. ‘Sean Donnellan,’ he said slowly, ‘until Roddy mentioned it, I hadn’t heard that name in a long time. You reckon he’s the bloke they dug out of Cappers Field?’

  ‘We’re not sure,’ said Helen, ‘but it looks likely.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said the old man placidly.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘That man had a knack of getting on the wrong side of people,’ said Sam. ‘He was cocky and had a way with words. The lasses round here hadn’t heard anything like it before. They acted like he was a film star or summat and the blokes weren’t too fond of that.’

  ‘We heard Betty Turner fell for him,’ said Tom.

  ‘She wasn’t the only one,’ answered the farmer pointedly, as if he was waiting to hear what they knew before revealing more.

  ‘Mary Collier too,’ Helen stated.

  ‘Aye, her an’ all, and one or two more besides. Some were crafty about it, others hadn’t got the sense. The whole village knew he was walking out with a few of them while he was there.’

  ‘So Mary was just one of a number he was stringing along?’ asked Tom.

  The old man thought for a while as if he was trying to remember or perhaps he was choosing his words carefully. ‘No, she was more than that. Whatever they got up to it was enough for her to turn her fiancé over, which caused quite a storm at the time. Not many in the village liked the Irishman for that; leading the vicar’s daughter astray in a place as small as our village …’ and he shook his head as if they wouldn’t be able to sufficiently comprehend the seriousness of it back in those days.

  ‘Sounds like you remember it pretty well?’ asked Helen.

  ‘I do,’ said the farmer, ‘Henry Collier was a good friend of mine. We used to go fishing together.’

  ‘From what you’re saying there’d be quite a few with a grievance against Sean Donnellan.’

  ‘There was,’ he agreed, ‘but not many who’d kill him over it.’

  ‘Who do you think did it then?’ asked Helen.

  ‘It could only have been one of two people,’ said Sam, ‘if you’re asking me.’

  Helen and Tom were both surprised by his certainty. ‘We are asking you,’ Tom told him, ‘who do you reckon killed Sean?’

  ‘Either Henry Collier,’ he said his old friend’s name quite calmly, ‘or his brother Jack.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONEr />
  Sam Armstrong had a story to tell but he decided he required a drink first. Tom turned him down because he was driving and Helen because she was no fan of whisky. Sam shuffled over to a rickety old wooden cabinet, which opened to reveal a half-drunk bottle of Bells and a small glass jug of cloudy water with a stopper in it. He poured himself a large measure of the whiskey and added the merest splash of water before retaking his seat and taking a sip.

  ‘Henry Collier gambled everything on Mary,’ he explained, ‘his whole life really. We were just kids when she moved to Great Middleton with her da and she was a right proper princess even then, haughty and full of herself. I saw right through her but Henry didn’t. He thought she was the best thing since sliced bread and so did she,’ and he took a big sip of his whisky. ‘He set his stall out to land her from day one, started studying like he was off to Oxford or something. Most of the other boys thought it was pointless. They were all going to end up in the mines anyhow, so why bother. All the young men in the village went there once they left school. I would have gone too if we hadn’t had the farm. Don’t get me wrong, farming’s a tough life but it’s better than the mine. At least the air is fresh and you’re not underground worrying about the roof caving in on you all the time.’

  ‘How did Henry avoid the mine?’

  The farmer smiled ruefully. ‘Got a scholarship, didn’t he? Turns out he had a brain on him after all but it was her that encouraged him and her father who put a word in for him at the school. They were respected back then, you see; the vicar and headmaster, nobody questioned them, so if they thought Henry Collier was bright enough to teach the kids in the village that’s just what happened. He started teaching the little ones at first, worked his way up to the bigger kids, till he finally became headmaster back in the fifties.’

  ‘Tell me about this brother of his.’

  ‘He had two brothers in point of fact; Jack and Stephen, Stephen was the middle brother but he was touched.’