Buried in the Past

by Bill Kitson

  Once the officer had gone, Perry considered what the man had said. In truth, there was little or no incentive for him to return to London. Everyone he’d known there had either moved away, or passed away. Everything that had happened to him and around him there had been so long ago that it was sometimes difficult for him to remember much about it. Except for the highlights, of course, or in his case, perhaps lowlights would have been more accurate.

  Even the crime for which he had served over twenty years was little more than a blurred, faded snapshot in his memory. He had been all set to tell his story, weak though he knew it to be. All set to explain about the phone call, the Chinese, Callaghan’s statement that he knew who’d killed Max, everything. But then events overtook him, and the warning he received forced him to change his mind.

  So Ray had kept silent, and maintained that silence throughout his trial, his sentencing, and the term of his imprisonment. He’d kept out of trouble and waited patiently for news. News that never came. Day after day, year after year, mail was delivered to the prisons where Ray was held. Nothing came for him. Year after year, visiting time after visiting time, no one came to see Ray Perry.

  Now his release was a matter of days away. Release; which would enable him to find answers to those questions. To find out who had killed Max, who had really killed Dirty Harry and what had happened since then. Someone out there owed him well over twenty years of his life. And he was going to make sure they paid. Besides, there were other things he needed to know, things he had yet to discover, about the past, the present and the future. The search might take a while, but that didn’t matter.

  One good thing was that Ray knew where to start looking. Not in London or anywhere near the capital. He would start in a North Yorkshire town called Harrogate.

  chapter three

  It was a strange sensation, one almost of anti-climax; certainly not one of elation. As Perry walked away he didn’t glance back at the forbidding walls that had enclosed what had been his home for so long. Nor did he look around to see if there was anyone waiting to greet him. He had long since ceased to hope that there would be anyone.

  He did pause and stare as another released inmate was greeted enthusiastically by a buxom young woman who emerged from a dilapidated estate car. She hugged the prisoner with some difficulty because of the infant in her arms, the whole procedure watched from the back seat of the car by two more infants, neither of them yet of school age.

  Perry turned away, this overt display of domestic affection too painful to witness any longer. He continued walking, his expression on the grim side of dour. He stopped a middle-aged woman and asked her for directions to the railway station. He had to ask her to repeat her instructions, the unfamiliar sing-song north-eastern accent defeating him.

  ‘You’re not from round here, pet?’ the woman asked, then her gaze went beyond him to the prison walls. ‘Oh, I see.’ She gave directions and hurried away.

  Perry stared after her. No one had called him pet for many years. Nor, to be fair, had he wanted them to. Not in that place.

  He didn’t notice the car that followed him as he made his way through the town. When it became obvious where he was headed, the occupants discussed what they should do. ‘We can’t afford to lose him,’ Corinna said.

  ‘I suggest I get on the same train then ring you on my mobile when I know where he’s going. That way you can be there before us.’

  ‘Won’t it be better if I go on the train?’

  ‘No, there’s more than an outside chance of him recognizing you. He’s never seen me before, remember?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten that.’

  Perry reached the station, inquired about trains and handed over his travel warrant. The ticket purchase was conducted with only the briefest comment from the clerk. ‘Change at York,’ the man snapped as he handed over the ticket. He’d seen many released convicts; hence his lack of patience.

  Perry sat in the waiting room; watching. He wondered idly if he’d ever get out of the habit. During the journey to York, although he stared out of the window at the ever-changing scenery that flashed by, all the time, part of his attention was taken up with what was happening in the compartment, noting all the passengers.

  As the journey progressed, each stop brought new arrivals, replacing those who alighted. By the time they were nearing York, Perry noted that there were only two who had boarded the train at Durham. One, a young girl he guessed might be a student, and the other a man who had spent a considerable time talking quietly on a mobile phone.

  On the York platform, Ray walked over to the monitor that gave the information he needed for the Harrogate sprinter train that would take him on the final leg of his journey. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that both his fellow travellers seemed to have the same destination in mind. More from habit than any sense of danger, Perry examined them covertly. To the best of his knowledge, he’d never seen either of them before in his life. Their presence was obviously innocuous. Both Harrogate and Durham were large towns, and there must be a considerable number of passengers who commuted between the two regularly.

  Once he alighted from the train at Harrogate, Ray set off to walk in the direction he thought led towards his destination. As he crossed the station car park, he saw the man climb into the passenger seat of a waiting car, the young girl joining a queue at one of the rank of nearby bus stops. Perry reached the main road and hesitated, no longer certain that he was heading the right way.

  Time for more directions, and this time they were easier to understand. The information confirmed his memory and he set off at an increased pace. Not far behind him, in the car that had shadowed the train from Durham, the occupants tried to plan their next move.

  ‘What if she’s here? What if he knows where she is? What do we do if he gets to her before we can?’ Corinna asked.

  ‘We’ll have to deal with them both. There’s no other way.’

  She seemed to accept this, and concentrated on threading her way through the traffic.

  Perry reflected that the houses didn’t seem much different to when he had been here last. Not that he’d paid them close attention back then. His eyes had been fixed on his companion, his mind preoccupied with what was happening to them. Now, with luck, only a few minutes separated him from his objective, and when he reached it, the answer to a question that had occupied his mind every waking minute of his life behind bars.

  Although some aspects of the view had changed, such as hedges and trees being much taller, he knew exactly where to go. Towards the far end of the road there was a short double row of semi-detached houses at right angles to the main thoroughfare. There was no vehicular access to these properties; the only means of reaching them was via a broad pathway.

  Avoiding a couple of small boys on skateboards, who either had less than perfect control or were suicidal, Perry headed for two properties designed and built to contain two flats, one on each storey. He entered the small front garden and as he reached the door, looked for which bell to press in order to summon the occupant of the ground floor flat. Before he could do so, Ray paused, hearing footsteps behind him.

  He looked round, to see an elderly man wearing dark glasses and carrying a white stick. The man was walking up the path towards him. ‘Good afternoon,’ Perry greeted him, anxious not to startle someone with defective eyesight.

  The old man turned in his direction, his expression one of surprise. ‘Do you live here?’ Ray asked.

  ‘Aye, I do that.’

  ‘Are you on the ground floor or upstairs?’

  If the old man found the question odd, he didn’t let it show. ‘Ground floor. Just as well; my missus can’t manage steps any more.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  The old man’s suspicion was now patently obvious. Ray hastened to allay it. ‘I’m trying to locate the woman who used to live here. It’s a long time ago, but with moving hou
se, her address got lost. I’d heard she’s moved. She’s my sister-in-law, you see.’

  ‘Blimey, you are going back a long time. That must be well over twenty years ago. We’ve lived here that long, and more.’

  ‘In that case, I reckon you must have moved in here right after she left. Can you remember where she went? Did you forward her mail, perhaps?’

  ‘Aye, for a while we did. After a bit it stopped coming. Except for the junk – that ruddy stuff never stops coming.’

  ‘Did you keep her new address?’

  ‘No, binned it long since. But I can tell you the name of the village if you want. It was in the dales. Close to Helmsdale.’

  Perry listened as the old man recited the details, thanked him and left. Of course, he thought as he retraced his route down the walkway, there was no guarantee she would still be there, in which case his task could be well nigh impossible. Finding someone who doesn’t want to be found is far harder after such a long time.

  The couple watching Perry reversed their car and swung it to face the row of lock-up garages at the end of the street. Corinna, who was driving, watched Perry in her rear-view mirror. When he turned and headed in the direction of the town centre, she looked at Phil. ‘Now what do we do?’

  ‘We have to find out why he went there. Give me that credit card folder of yours. The one that looks just like a warrant card.’

  ‘You really think that will fool the old man?’

  ‘Didn’t you notice? He was blind, or near enough. He was wearing dark glasses and carrying a white stick. He won’t be able to tell the difference between a warrant card and a lottery ticket.’

  Inside the flat, the old man entered the lounge. His wife was listening to the radio. Her favourite programme was on, and he knew better than to interrupt. ‘I’m back,’ he told her. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’ As he walked towards the kitchen, the doorbell rang.

  ‘Good afternoon. DS Holgate, North Yorkshire Police,’ the caller stated. He held up a small blue wallet.

  The old man peered at it, then at the man holding it. He listened with increasing curiosity to the caller’s tale. ‘We’ve had several complaints about a gang of thieves who are targeting senior citizens. They operate with a front man who calls with some sort of spurious questions, which enables them to check out the property. Have you had any strangers calling on you recently?’

  ‘Aye, we have. Only a few minutes back. I’m surprised you didn’t bump into him.’

  ‘What reason did he give for calling?’

  The old man explained.

  ‘Interesting. That’s a new one on me. Were you able to tell him anything?’

  ‘No, I said we’d only moved here a couple of years back, and he lost interest after that.’

  ‘Best to keep your guard up, and if you get any more suspicious callers, report them. They’re very cunning, these conmen, cunning and extremely plausible.’

  ‘Aye, they are that; extremely plausible.’

  As he walked back down the path, Phil Miller wondered why the old man had placed such emphasis on that final sentence, then dismissed the idea as his imagination. He climbed into the waiting car.

  ‘Perry’s set off back the way he came. What happened back there?’ Corinna asked as she accelerated after Perry.

  ‘He asked the old man where the woman who used to live there went after she moved. Obviously that has to be the sister.’

  ‘Did you find out where?’

  ‘No, the old man says he’s only lived here a couple of years.’ He paused.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, something’s wrong. I’m not sure if I trust what the old man said or not. Just a feeling, so I may be completely wrong.’

  ‘Where does that leave us? What do we do next?’

  ‘We can’t let Perry get to her, that’s for sure. If the old man was lying, he could have told Perry where she lives. Whatever happens, we can’t allow him to get to her first. And if we can’t get there before him,’ he took a deep breath, ‘that’ll be it, game over, and we’ll be ruined.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘We have to make sure he doesn’t get there – ever. I also think it’s time to go visiting and try to get what we need via Perry’s bastard. At least we now know where he is.’

  ‘Look, there’s Perry at that bus stop. What does it say on the stand? Can you see?’

  From behind the net curtains of the ground floor flat, the old man had watched the caller get into the car. Only when he saw it drive off did he turn and complete his tea-making promise. He carried the mugs through into the lounge as the signature tune denoted the end of the radio programme. He set one down on the table next to his wife’s chair. ‘There’s your tea.’

  ‘Who was at the door?’

  ‘Some conman pretending to be a police officer. Showed me a credit card and claimed it was his warrant. I’ve a good mind to report him.’

  As he spoke, the old man bent down to stroke the Labrador lying alongside his wife’s chair. ‘It’s a grand day outside, I needed my sunglasses. Oh, by the way,’ the old man added, ‘whilst I was in town I had a new ferrule fitted on your white stick.’

  It was almost dark, which at that time of the year meant it was getting late. Ray Perry wondered if he would reach his destination that night, and what his welcome would be if he did. He had long since ceased to hold out any hope of an open-arms greeting; the door slammed in his face was far more likely. But he had to know for certain, one way or another; all doubt removed.

  He had to find out the truth, not for his own benefit but for the sake of others. He’d had his chance and blown it, blown it in the biggest way imaginable. Now he had to discover if others had made the most of their chance in life, or even if they’d been given one.

  If he didn’t reach his destination, he’d have to find somewhere to spend the night, an empty barn, a hedge-back, wherever he could. He smiled, a bitter expression lacking all amusement. Even if he did reach the village, he still might have to settle for a night in the open. He wasn’t used to the countryside, wasn’t used to walking, wasn’t even used to being outdoors.

  He was so deep in thought he failed to notice the car. He was walking on the correct side of the road, facing the oncoming traffic. Not that there was much. He’d been on this country road for almost an hour, he guessed, and all he’d seen was one tractor pulling a trailer. What the trailer contained, he didn’t need to guess; the stink was bad enough to give him a clue. The sound of the car engine broke into his daydream. It was the rudest of awakenings. He looked round in time to see the radiator grille, like the open jaws of a metallic monster, bared teeth ready to devour him. He tried to leap to one side, but was too late. The car picked him up and hurled him backwards, to crash against the low stone wall of the field.

  DI Mike Nash was about to leave his office at Helmsdale police station when the phone rang. Even without the receptionist telling him the caller’s identity, he’d have recognized the voice of his old boss, Superintendent Tom Pratt, now a civilian support worker helping out at either Helmsdale or at Netherdale HQ.

  ‘Mike, are you busy?’

  ‘No, as I’ll be in Netherdale all day tomorrow I was about to go home. Anything I can help you with?’

  ‘I wondered if you had anything planned for the weekend?’

  ‘I have on Saturday. I’m going through to visit Daniel at school. He wants me to watch him in the nets.’

  ‘He’s a bit young for that, surely.’

  There was a trace of paternal pride in Nash’s voice as he replied, ‘I thought that too, but his teacher and the cricket coach both think he’s got potential.’

  ‘What about Sunday, then? That was the day I was more interested in.’

  ‘No, I’ve nothing planned that I know of, unless I’m needed here. What’s this about, Tom?’

  ‘I wondered if you’d care to go for a walk on Sunday morning. In the woods by the Winfield Estate. I’ll explain why
later.’

  Nash was intrigued, and pressed Tom for details, but Pratt would say no more. ‘OK, Tom, what time on Sunday?’

  ‘Ten o’clock, if that’s all right? I’ll pick you up at your house.’

  Nash and Daniel had enjoyed their afternoon. Not only had Nash been able to support him during the cricket trials he had been able to spend some time with his son, time which they rarely had, Nash mused as he was driving home. He missed eight-year-old Daniel, brought from France to live with him when his mother had died three years earlier. There was no option but for the boy to go to boarding school, not with a single parent who never knew where he would be from one day to the next.

  Sunday morning was bright and clear, the sun promising another hot day. At precisely ten o’clock, Pratt’s car pulled up outside. Tom had always been a stickler for punctuality, and that hadn’t changed.

  From the passenger seat, Nash was able to admire the constantly changing panoramic views of the dale, from the chessboard patterns of the arable fields in the lower dale, to the many-hued greens of the forests; the dark, forbidding slopes of the high moorland on the sides of Black Fell, and beyond, to the even more precipitous Stark Ghyll.

  Pratt brought the car to a standstill at the side of the road, bumping slightly as the nearside wheels mounted the grass verge. The nearside was heavily wooded and it was to this forest that Tom directed him.

  ‘This is it.’ Pratt opened his door and got out. He walked round to the back of the car and opened the boot. To Nash’s surprise, Pratt lifted an expensive-looking bouquet from inside and joined him, clutching the flowers by their stems. He gestured towards the forest where Nash could just discern a path leading into the dense undergrowth. ‘This path’ – Tom gestured towards the woods – ‘leads to the site of one of the few unsolved murders in this area, the only one I was directly involved in.’

  They had been walking for over fifteen minutes before Pratt turned to an even less well marked path. ‘Along here is where the remains were discovered.’ He took him a short distance to where the bowed trunks of a variety of trees formed a vaulted ceiling over the path. ‘In there,’ Tom said, ‘that was where it was found. That,’ he added slowly, ‘was more than twenty years ago. I was new to CID then. Jack Binns was on duty answering the phone whilst the duty sergeant was dealing with the overnighters. He put the call through to me.’