by Neil White
‘What else had Henry been getting up to?’ Charlotte said.
‘That’s all she told me. He was always in his study, looking at his computer. I don’t know what things he’d been getting into, but my sister loved him, and that was all that counted.’
And betrayal is a powerful emotion, Sam thought. Was it strong enough to provoke murder?
Fifteen
Joe quickened his pace as he walked through Piccadilly Gardens. It had once been a sunken patch of green used by the homeless and the junkies, a place to walk around, not through. It had been smartened up now, with shiny paving slabs and manicured grass, but still the menace lurked on the pavements. Youths patrolled their small patches outside the shops, mainly newsagents and convenience stores, to catch the commuters rushing to the nearby railway station, looking to barge and intimidate.
Where Joe was headed wasn’t much better. In an alleyway not far from the Gardens was Mother Mac’s, what purists would call a real pub, what others would call an example of why everywhere else had moved on. He’d never been there before, but he knew of it, a haunt for City fans and Irish Loyalists.
Joe was looking for Proctor’s sister. He’d mentioned where she worked, and she was a link to Proctor’s past. If he was going to carry through with his promise, he needed to be sure he was right. He was starting to doubt himself. He’d dealt with so many trials where identification had become confused. He knew too well the mantra about how a mistaken witness can be a convincing witness. Joe was sure he’d got it right, but his legal instincts told him he needed more than that. He’d lived for so long with just a flash of memory, the glance backwards. He needed to know about Mark Proctor, his history, his background, so that when he took his vengeance for Ellie, he wasn’t making a mistake.
As Joe turned into the narrow street that led to Mother Mac’s, litter flapped around his ankles. The walls on either side were smeared with graffiti and sealed off by metal grilles, or else hummed with air-conditioning units that cooled the chain-pub on the other side of the block. Mother Mac’s was on a corner, with green railings over the windows. As dreary as it was outside, it didn’t improve much when he went inside.
The bar was old wood, with four alcoves of worn-out seating that seemed to merge with the carpet. Tankards hung from the ceiling and a quiz machine flashed and beeped in one corner. The tables were scuffed, the chairs old and uncomfortable. Joe knew he stood out in his suit, most of the clientele were old men in worn-out shirts, seeing the world through rheumy eyes and murky pint glasses. There was no free Wi-Fi in this place. One red-faced man held the floor with his beer-soaked opinions, drawing bored nods from anyone pretending to listen.
There were two women behind the bar. One stood with her arms folded, challenging, trying to keep charge of her customers. She was younger, with a pierced nose and a dark tattoo curling up the back of her hand. The other woman was nearer forty, her ginger hair pulled back tightly, high pale cheekbones and pretty, but she looked weary as she changed a bottle on the optics.
‘Bitter please,’ Joe said, when the younger woman approached him. She was suspicious of him as she poured, no word spoken yet. He knew she wasn’t the right woman.
When she put the glass on the bar, he said, ‘I’m looking for Melissa.’
The woman by the optics looked round but the woman serving said, ‘Who’s asking?’
‘I am,’ Joe said. ‘You heard me.’
A man further along the bar put his glass down and looked across. He planted his feet further apart, staking out his territory. He was wiry-thin, his knuckles prominent like his cheekbones, his face hollowed out with the look of a man who kept fit in a boxing gym.
‘I’m a solicitor,’ Joe said. ‘I’m looking for Melissa Proctor.’
‘There’s no Melissa Proctor here,’ the woman said.
‘I was told there was.’
The man further along said, ‘I think you got your answer, pal.’ There was menace in every syllable. ‘Have your drink and go.’
Joe was in the mood for him, tension still wound up tightly inside him, but he wouldn’t get what he wanted by brawling. ‘I’m not here to cause any trouble,’ he said.
The man smirked and looked round to a group of men sitting by the quiz machine. ‘That was never my concern.’
The woman by the optics put the empty bottle on the bar and said to the man, ‘It’s all right, I’ve got this.’ She turned to Joe. ‘What do you want to talk to me about?’
‘Melissa?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’d rather do this somewhere more private,’ Joe said, and he gestured towards an empty alcove surrounded by pictures of old Manchester and a flag exhorting people to SUPPORT OUR TROOPS.
She shrugged and came round to join Joe.
Away from the harsh lights of the bar, Melissa seemed more relaxed. She was slim and tall, elegant in her own way, at least as much as you can be in tight jeans and pumps. Blue eyes that glinted when she smiled, her teeth even and white.
She sat down opposite Joe and said, ‘Don’t pay any attention to the customers. They look after each other, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, it has that feel.’
‘Never any fights,’ she said. ‘They just get suspicious of outsiders. Worried they might be police or something. Maybe even United fans on a wrecking mission.’
Joe looked down at his suit. ‘Do I look like a football hooligan?’
‘You’d be surprised,’ she said, smiling now. ‘So what can I do for you?’
He handed her his business card. ‘My name’s Joe Parker.’ As she scrutinised it, he said, ‘I need to speak to you.’
She tapped it on her knuckles. ‘Is this from Peter? We’ve agreed everything, the flat has been transferred, there’s nothing he can do.’
‘Peter?’
‘My ex-husband. Has he changed solicitors to you?’
‘No, I’m sorry, it’s nothing to do with him.’
She looked confused. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘It’s about your brother, Mark.’
As soon as he said it, her jaw set and the warm gleam in her eyes turned cold. She started to stand when Joe reached across the table and held out his hand. ‘No, please don’t. I need to talk about him.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say.’
‘You might be able to help.’
Her eyebrows shot upwards and her head tilted. ‘Help? You’re kidding me. He’ll get no help from me. Ever.’
She stormed back behind the bar, suddenly finding plenty to do.
Joe watched her go. He hadn’t achieved much, except he knew now that Mark Proctor wasn’t attracting much family loyalty.
He left his beer and didn’t look behind as he left the pub, the creak of the door and clink of glasses replaced by the deep rumble and fumes of a passing bus. But he knew he’d be back. Whatever family secret engendered such hostility, it was one worth knowing.
Sixteen
Sam and Charlotte were walking towards the babysitter’s house, hoping to find out exactly what had gone on with Henry Mason that was so bad that Claire had walked out. They’d called the FLO, who’d got Molly’s address from Claire.
‘We go back to the station after this visit,’ Sam said. ‘We’ve followed a trail but we can’t keep away from the squad all day.’
‘Agreed,’ Charlotte said. ‘I just hope this might give us something to go back with.’
That was always the hope. The first day of a murder investigation was always like this: poking around lives, hoping for the quick answer. Most often, things slowed down until the forensic hits started to arrive and versions of events given by the guilty at the start of the case began to unravel.
The address was a small terrace on the other side of Oldham, one in a long line of gleaming redbrick houses broken only by the regular pattern of a door and one window. Cars blocked both pavements and speed bumps did their bit to slow traffic down, but the steep slope made it a magnet for young men tryi
ng to recreate car chase scenes. Parking was hard to find, so Sam had left his car a few streets away.
Charlotte knocked softly on the door. It was answered straight away by a woman in her early thirties, in black jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, her mousy hair tied loosely.
Sam identified himself and asked, ‘Molly Benson?’
‘No, I’m not Molly. What do you want with her?’
‘We need to speak with her.’
‘Is it about Henry Mason?’ Before Sam could say anything, she said, ‘People were talking about it on Facebook. I can’t believe it. I really can’t.’
‘Is Molly in?’
The woman thought for a moment but then stepped aside.
The door opened straight into the living room, where a leather sofa was pushed against the rear wall. The back room held a dining table, visible through the open door, with the stairs going from a small door in the corner of the room.
‘She’s only just come in,’ she said. ‘I’m her mum, Hazel.’ She went to the stairs and shouted up, ‘Molly! Someone to see you.’ As footsteps sounded through the ceiling, Hazel said, ‘I’m not going to say I’m sorry about Henry, because I didn’t like him, but I’m sorry for Claire and the boys. I work with her. She’s my manager. She’s a nice woman.’
As Molly arrived in the living room, panting, Sam and Charlotte exchanged glances. Molly was a child. She was still wearing her school uniform of black trousers and white shirt, although the shirt wasn’t tucked into her trousers and the top button was undone.
‘It’s the police,’ Hazel said. ‘About Mr Mason.’
Molly’s eyes widened and she went to sit down. She looked up at her mother, who sat on a chair opposite. Charlotte sat down next to Molly as Sam leaned against a wall.
‘How old are you, Molly?’ Charlotte said.
‘Fourteen,’ Molly said, her voice quiet and nervous.
She was a young-looking fourteen, Sam thought. If something had gone on with Henry Mason, he couldn’t have made a mistake about her age.
‘Have you heard about Mr Mason?’ Charlotte said.
‘He’s been killed,. Mum said.’
‘That’s right. So we need to find out what we can about him, to work out why someone would do this.’
Molly fidgeted but didn’t respond.
‘What did you think of Mr Mason?’
Molly looked at her mother, who nodded for her to continue.
‘I used to think he was all right, because he was funny. When I babysat for him, he’d drive me home and tell me jokes. But then, well, that thing happened.’
‘What happened?’
Molly blushed. ‘We weren’t going to tell the police.’
‘It’s all right, it’s different now,’ her mother said.
‘It happened the last time he drove me home,’ Molly said. ‘He seemed different. Like, way more intense. He was telling me how pretty I was, and how he liked seeing me so grown up now. And he started asking me about boyfriends and things.’
‘Did you tell him?’
‘There was nothing to tell. I tried to laugh it off but he kept on. Then he stopped.’
‘What do you mean, stopped?’ Charlotte said.
‘I hadn’t realised but we’d gone a longer way home and we were down this quiet street. He turned off the engine and got real intense, like way more than before. He stroked my leg and I didn’t know what to do. I clamped them together, but he carried on. Then…’ She looked at her mother again. ‘Then he got his thing out.’ Molly’s blush deepened. ‘He tried to make me touch it but I wouldn’t. So he did it himself. Once he’d, you know, finished, he zipped himself up and set off driving. He didn’t say anything after that, until we got here. Then he said I shouldn’t say anything because he’d get into trouble, and it wouldn’t be fair on his boys.’
‘When did you tell your parents?’
‘When Claire asked me to babysit again a few weeks later. I started crying, because my parents wanted me to babysit so that they could go out too, and it seemed like I was spoiling their night. I had to tell them.’
Sam looked across at Hazel, who was sitting forward, her jaw set. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, exactly.’
‘What did you do?’ Sam said to Hazel.
‘I called Claire and had it out with her,’ she said. ‘It would make it hard at work but no one touches Molly like that or does what he did.’
Molly looked up. ‘Mr Mason’s murder, is it anything to do with what happened to me?’
Sam thought about that and guessed at the anger inside the house when they’d found out.
Hazel must have guessed at his thoughts, because she said, ‘My husband works at Dewhursts. He’s been on the night shift at the factory all week. I know you’ll want to check. He’s either there or in bed.’
‘And you?’
‘Here, watching television.’
Sam scribbled down details of the programmes she watched, to check the listings. He knew it would come to nothing, though. Henry Mason’s murder seemed to have some planning to it, the meeting in a park, so Hazel wouldn’t get her alibi wrong. All she had to do was record the programmes and watch them when she got in. Who would ever know?
‘Will I have to go to court?’ Molly said.
‘I hope not, but you’ve helped,’ Sam said.
‘Have I?’
‘Yes, very much.’
Sam and Charlotte said their farewells, Sam leaving his business card behind. Once they were back in the car, Charlotte said, ‘That changes things. Henry Mason liked them young. Very young. His world is starting to look a bit murkier.’
‘Could that be our motive? An angry father? Molly might not be the first person he tried it on with.’
‘And Molly’s father?’
‘We’ll call Dewhursts from the station. Right now, it’s time to report back. Let’s see how everyone else has done.’
Seventeen
Joe was waiting at the end of the alleyway that led to Mother Mac’s. It gave him enough of a view in case Melissa Proctor turned the other way but with a busy street to lose himself in if she came directly towards him. He didn’t mind waiting. He’d been waiting ever since his eighteenth birthday. A few hours in a dirty back street would be no hardship.
More than an hour passed before he heard the door go at Mother Mac’s. Joe peered along the alleyway, wondering if it would be one of the daytime boozers, and was relieved to see that it was Melissa. She was heading his way, looking down, sorting out the contents of a small handbag.
He slunk back behind a long-defunct doorway, now just a backdrop of fly-posters advertising upcoming gigs. He wanted her to reach the main street before she saw him. If she saw him too soon, she’d retreat into the sanctuary of the pub.
As she came onto the street, Melissa was looking through her purse for money and didn’t glance towards Joe. He stepped out of the doorway, ready to follow. Her purse went back into her handbag as a black cab rumbled along the street, the yellow light shining. Her arm went into the air.
The cab pulled into the kerb to pick her up. As she opened the door to climb into the back, Joe came up quickly behind her and followed her in.
Melissa sat in the seat with a jolt, her eyes wide with alarm. ‘You?’ she said. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘I need to talk,’ Joe said.
A voice from the front said, ‘Everything all right back there?’
‘You know where I work, you kept my card,’ Joe said. ‘You know you’ll be safe.’
Melissa frowned, her lips pursed, before she said, ‘This ride is on you.’ She leaned forward and said, ‘Ancoats, Blake Mill.’
Joe settled back in the seat as the taxi set off.
Melissa’s arms were folded. ‘This had better be good. Do lawyers normally chase down people like this?’
‘No, not normally,’ he admitted. ‘This isn’t a normal situation.’
Melissa stayed silent as the cab turned into the streets that
would take them towards Ancoats. Joe let her stay that way, because for as long as he wasn’t saying anything, he wasn’t upsetting her.
Eventually, Melissa said, ‘So are you helping him, or working against him?’
