‘So who looked after him between Jack Collier re-enlisting and Stephen being carted off to Springton?’ asked Tom. ‘That’s fourteen years. Did Henry take him in when he married Mary?’
‘Must have done. He had nobody else.’
‘What a sad way to end your life,’ said Helen, ‘in a place like that. What was actually wrong with him?’
Roddy shrugged. ‘Back then they weren’t too big on detail; nerves, probably.’
‘Nerves?’
‘It’s a euphemism,’ explained Tom, his tone impatient, ‘a catch-all people used when they were trying to be delicate. They didn’t like to talk about illness or disability when Stephen Collier was a lad.’
‘Exactly, nerves was used to describe any one of a large number of ailments; from acute shell shock to hysteria, anxiety or postnatal depression,’ explained Roddy, ‘and a hundred other conditions that might fall under what we might now think of as a mental disorder. People didn’t understand those things very well back then, so if somebody went off the rails they were pretty much considered barmy and put away. This was the dark ages. Between the wars they even locked up lasses for having sex before marriage.’ His eyes gleamed mischievously. ‘Imagine that now. There’d be no one left in the village.’
‘There was a stigma attached to mental illness,’ said Tom, ‘the people affected were an embarrassment.’
‘And they call it the good old days,’ said Helen.
‘I’ve got to go back to the office,’ she told him when they left Roddy.
‘Right,’ he said, opening his car door.
‘But I can meet again later if you like?’
‘Sure.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I thought only women were supposed to do that?’ she frowned at him.
‘Do what?’
‘Pretend things were okay when they’re not.’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘I’m sorry if I upset you yesterday,’ she said. ‘You were right, I don’t know a thing about your mother. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘Oh that,’ and he shook his head as if he had already forgotten about it. ‘It’s nowt.’
‘Then why wouldn’t you look at me in there?’ she asked. ‘You were like a bear with a sore head every time I opened my mouth.’
‘Oh come on,’ he protested then he realised she had a point. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night,’ the memory of the five-mile walk back to Great Middleton in the dark still rankled, ‘and I’m under a lot of pressure right now.’
‘All right,’ she said, his apology calming her. ‘Well, if you ever want to talk about it.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’ he was mock incredulous. ‘I’m a Northern bloke, we don’t talk about our problems, ever.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘must have slipped my mind.’
From his vantage point on the higher ground he could see right into the playground without even leaving his car but he wasn’t interested in the horrible older kids, the ones who leaned against walls or play fought with each other on their way to smoke behind the rows of garages at the opposite end of the school. It was the young ones that interested him, only the girls; the little angels who still smiled sweetly and were without cynicism or manipulating ways, the ones who hadn’t changed yet. He so badly wanted to save them.
His window was open and he could hear their laughter and squeals even from here. He looked down at the matchstick figures far below him with a sense of great sadness and he wanted to weep, for he knew two things. He would never be able to save them all and this couldn’t go on much longer.
He’d almost been caught and the shock and sudden realisation of how close he had come to ruin had thrown him. He knew he could do one more, perhaps two or even three but eventually the net would tighten. Something would go wrong and he would be taken.
Perhaps he could just stop and then maybe then they would never find him. He could run away, go so far that nobody would ever imagine he could be the one they called The Reaper. It was an intoxicating thought. But no, who would do God’s will then?
He knew what he had to do. St Augustine had told him, ‘Pray as though everything depended on God. Work as though everything depended on you.’
Helen spent the afternoon talking to a monosyllabic youngster who had just won a regional piano contest then went straight to an interview with the council’s new Chief Executive for a profile piece in the Messenger’s so-called business pages. She arrived at the Greyhound that evening before Tom was down from his room. There was a rough-looking bunch standing at the bar and one of the men scowled at her. Frankie Turner must have belatedly realised Helen had conned him. Either Betty gave the game away the moment she left their house or he’d actually bought the local paper hoping to be in it and seen nothing there about hard-working families.
Helen quickly ordered a drink and sat down in a quiet corner. Tom didn’t keep her waiting long but she could feel the atmosphere change slightly as he walked into the bar. There was a tangible sense that something had been brewing here. Some of the men had obviously been discussing them both.
Tom nodded at her and pointed to her drink. She shook her head, having barely started the one she’d ordered. When he ordered his own drink, Frankie Turner straightened and when he spoke, the words were loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.
‘Your bird’s over there.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Tom with a smile that said he wasn’t taking the man seriously, ‘but I’ve only got eyes for you, Frankie.’
Helen was immediately afraid he had gone too far. She wasn’t surprised when Frankie didn’t let it go. ‘I’m surprised at you Colin, serving him.’
‘How’d you mean like?’ asked the landlord.
‘Thought you said you were going to bar all of them journalists,’ he said, while the landlord pulled Tom a pint, ‘you said they were parasites, come to dance on a little girl’s grave. That is what you said?’ he reminded Colin.
‘Aye, well, I wasn’t meaning Tom,’ the landlord replied, ‘we’ve known him for years man.’ Other drinkers were openly watching now.
‘They’re all the fucking same. He’s not even with the local paper any more. I wouldn’t use the one he works for to wipe my own arse.’
‘You’ve started wiping your arse have you, Frankie?’ asked Tom calmly. ‘When was that then?’
There were one or two uncertain laughs from corners of the room but they stopped when they saw the look on Frankie’s face. The big man took a step forwards. Tom picked up his pint and took another sip, a picture of steadied calm. Helen’s heart was in her mouth, expecting him to be viciously assaulted at any moment.
‘The Messenger’s a pile of shite,’ Frankie told everyone in the bar, ‘but it’s nowhere near as bad as that lying Cockney rag he works for.’
‘You didn’t think the Messenger was shite when you won the leek show did you?’ said Tom and Colin smiled knowingly. ‘I’ve never seen anyone so chuffed to get his picture in the paper.’
‘Fuck off, I never …’ but Frankie Turner was already blushing at the memory.
‘As soon as Johnny Patcham got his camera out, Frankie here was stood to attention next to a table piled high with his prizewinning leeks and onions. His shirt was so new it still had creases in the front and he’d even combed his hair, do you remember, Colin?’
‘Aye, I do as a matter of fact,’ the landlord smiled at the memory.
Frankie wasn’t liking this one bit. There was a definite shifting of the balance of power; people were openly grinning at Tom’s recollections. ‘ “Make sure you get me onions in the picture, perhaps I could hold one of them up”,’ Tom mimicked.
‘That’s shite,’ hissed Frankie.
‘You remember Johnny Patcham, don’t you, lads?’ There was a murmur of agreement from the men. ‘Five foot four in his stocking feet but he took one look at Frankie here and said, “Now list
en here bonny lad I’m the photographer, not you, so we’ll do it my way or not at all.” ’ Tom pointed at the humiliated Frankie and said, ‘And this dizzy twat just looked dumbstruck and said “Okay, mate.” ’
Frankie looked round to see everybody laughing at him, even his own mates; especially his own mates. The man seemed to shrink visibly in front of Helen, all the threat gone from him.
‘Fuck off, the lot of you!’ And he marched out of the pub to loud ironic cheers, leaving his half-drunk pint on the bar.
‘You took a risk,’ Helen told Tom when he sat down opposite her, ‘not that you were even aware of it. You were as cool as a bloody cucumber.’
He regarded her oddly. ‘No I wasn’t,’ he told her with a frown. ‘I was bricking it. I thought Frankie was going to glass me. He’s not a nice man, you know.’
‘But you looked so calm.’
‘Outwardly,’ he told her simply, taking another big swig of his beer, ‘inwardly, no,’ and he grinned at her.
She opened her mouth to answer but any words she might have uttered were drowned out abruptly by an ear-splitting din from the opposite end of the bar. A man in his mid-thirties was clutching a microphone and staring determinedly at a screen mounted on a nearby wall as words began to scroll along it to the accompaniment of very loud music.
‘Bloody karaoke,’ shouted Tom, so she could just about hear him, ‘it’s everywhere these days. Whatever happened to coming to a pub for a quiet pint and a chat?’ he added, sounding like an old man for a moment.
The singer was already destroying Neil Diamond’s, ‘Sweet Caroline’ and as soon as hands started touching hands, Tom called to Helen, ‘Come on!’ and he rose from his seat, ‘bring your drink!’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
They sat on the floor with their backs against the end of his bed. They’d been going over everything they’d learned about Sean Donnellan and his murder before moving to the disappearance of Michelle Summers and the previous victims of the Kiddy-Catcher.
‘We’re going round in circles,’ Helen admitted eventually. ‘There’s nothing new, is there?’ And when he didn’t immediately reply, she asked, ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve been thinking about your theory on why the girls go with him.’
‘Oh that,’ she said, ‘I could be very wide of the mark there.’
‘And you might be bang on. It could be a woman who lures them to him – but I did have another thought.’
‘I’m sure I’d prefer it, no matter what it is.’
‘I got into a stranger’s car recently,’ he told her, ‘but only because they flashed a badge at me. They were police, but what if they hadn’t been?’ And he turned to look at her. ‘What if you were an eleven-year-old girl and a man with a fake ID told you he was a police officer and you had to get into his car?’
Helen looked at him intently, ‘I’d get in,’ she said finally.
Tom nodded, ‘I think you would.’
Suddenly the volume of the music downstairs shot up. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
‘Good luck getting to sleep with that racket.’
‘I’ll be all right if Colin doesn’t have a lock-in.’
The unmistakable chorus of ‘Delilah’ could clearly be heard, even though it was muffled by the carpet and floorboards.
‘I’d buy you another drink,’ he told her, ‘but someone’s murdering Tom Jones down there.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, ‘I’ve got to drive back anyway and it’s a school night, though I don’t know how I’m able to look Malcolm in the eye now that I know about his little …’
‘Side-line?’ and he smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’ll all be forgotten in a day or so. No one takes Malcolm seriously.’
‘I have to. It’s all right for you.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yeah, I’m just starting out but you’ve already made it. You’re in the big leagues.’
‘Not quite.’ Tom wasn’t sure he wanted to be having this conversation because he found to his surprise that he actually cared what she thought of him.
Helen carried on as if she hadn’t heard him, ‘Whereas I’ve been doing this for five minutes and my name is already mud at the Messenger.’
‘Only because you caught your editor up to no good.’
‘It’s not just that,’ she admitted. ‘Most of the time I don’t feel like I know what I’m doing.’
‘I used to feel exactly the same way,’ he assured her, ‘still do most of the time. Everybody does. They just act like they don’t.’
‘But you do know what you are doing,’ she argued.
‘Not always and only because I’ve been round the block a few times. I’m a bit older than you.’
‘Only about five years older,’ countered Helen, ‘and that’s not much. You’re hardly the grizzled old veteran.’
‘Reporter years are like dog years,’ he assured her, ‘five years in journalism is a lifetime. Look, don’t worry about Malcolm. I reckon you’re off to a flying start.’
‘So you don’t think I’m a soft, southern princess, living off my parents’ money till I can slope off to get married and have babies.’
‘No,’ he told her emphatically.
‘That’s funny,’ she replied, ‘everybody else does.’
‘No, they don’t,’ he informed her, ‘they’re just unsure of you, that’s all.’
‘Either way, it’s not working out the way I expected.’
‘It will,’ he said, ‘give it time. You’re bloody good,’ and then he added, ‘and I ought to know.’
She smiled. ‘Why, because you’re bloody good too?’
‘Exactly,’ and he grinned at her.
‘Then maybe, in five years’ time, I’ll be doing as well as you.’ And he sighed and got quickly to his feet. ‘What’s the matter? What did I say?’
He was planning to lie to her but instead, for the second time since he’d arrived back in Great Middleton, Tom felt he could trust someone enough to reveal the truth. ‘Things aren’t going that well.’
‘You’re working for the biggest newspaper in the country.’
‘No,’ he told her, ‘I’m suspended from the biggest newspaper in the country.’
‘But I thought …’
‘I’m not broadcasting the fact.’ And she listened while he told her the whole sad story of Timothy Grady and the hookers, the barrister wife and her threats of litigation then about the Doc and what he was likely to do about it all.
When he’d finally finished Helen must have felt pressure to offer him a crumb of comfort. ‘You’re still young,’ was all she could manage, ‘you can bounce back.’
‘I’m pushing thirty.’
‘You’re twenty-eight.’
‘That’s pushing thirty,’ he informed her, ‘anything north of twenty-five is pushing thirty.’
‘What’ll you do?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. This is all I’ve ever wanted to do. I mean I knew it wouldn’t be easy and I know that editors sometimes lie or do stuff that’s morally dodgy, I’m not naïve, Helen, but I believe that newspapers are a good thing, on the whole. I really do. Without them, rich and powerful people would do whatever they wanted, completely unchecked by a government that doesn’t give a damn. We expose those people, hold them up for censure. Look at Grady. There have been rumours about that bloke for years. He’s one of those people that everybody knows is bent but no one can quite prove it. There are business men, celebrities, football managers and politicians like that who all have the whiff of corruption about them. If we didn’t keep at them until we’ve uncovered something dirty then they’d just continue to ignore the rules and trample on everybody.’
‘You’re still an angry young man then?’ she said but not without kindness.
‘If you lose the anger, what have you got left? You end up like Malcolm.’
She got to her feet then and regarded him carefully. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘He’s not fine with i
t,’ she said suddenly, ‘the journalism.’ She looked tense. ‘My boyfriend Peter, I mean,’ she shrugged, ‘since we are sharing.’
‘Why not?’ he asked her. ‘What’s wrong with being a reporter?’
‘It’s not the actual job. It’s me being away and the possibility I might never get back, if I get opportunities elsewhere, if I choose to take them,’ she added as if that might still be open to doubt. ’I think he worries about that. I reckon he’d be fine if I was working for his local paper.’
‘Right,’ he said, ‘long-distance relationships can be tricky.’
‘Don’t say it like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like we’re doomed or something.’
‘I didn’t,’ he protested.
‘He isn’t horrible to me or anything, he’s lovely most of the time. It’s just …’
‘Just what?’
‘I sometimes think he wants me to get this out of my system then come home.’
‘Oh,’ he said.
‘What does “oh” mean?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘It just means “oh”,’ he said, ‘I didn’t dare say anything really controversial like “long-distance relationships can be tricky”.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to be … I’m just a bit … it’s difficult sometimes … I get so …’ and she let out a noise that was an exasperated groan.
‘I understand,’ Tom told her.
‘You do?’
‘Yeah?’ he assured her, ‘I’m not fluent in woman but I speak just enough of it to get by.’
‘Cheeky sod.’
‘You’re not the first to say that,’ he admitted cheerfully, ‘come on, I’ll walk you to your car.’
‘It’s all right, you know,’ she said, as they left the Greyhound together, ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘It’s late,’ he reminded her, ‘and there are some unpleasant people in this village.’
The high street in front of the Greyhound was a double yellow zone, so Helen had been forced to park a couple of streets away. When they reached her car she said, ‘Thanks and I promise I won’t tell anyone what we talked about,’
‘You sure?’ he smiled. ‘It would get you back in Malcolm’s good books. He’d love it.’
No Name Lane (Howard Linskey) Page 25
