Falling Off Air

by Catherine Sampson

  “I told Mike I didn't know where he was,” Becky said, “which was true, but I passed the message on to Ned. I told him exactly what Mike said to me, that a journalist from the West Penwith Herald was trying to track him down to ask him some questions about some boy. Ned said he didn't want anything to do with any journalist, so I wasn't to let on how to contact him.”

  I turned to Amey.

  “That's who wanted to contact him?” I demanded. “A journalist from the West Penwith Herald?”

  “Neil Bovin. I thought nothing of it,” Amey said defensively.

  “Did he say why he wanted to speak to Ned?”

  Amey sighed. He looked a good ten years older than he had that morning.

  “All right. Look, when I told him Ned didn't work for us anymore he wanted to know whether there had been any problem with him. I asked what sort of problem, and he asked whether Ned had dealt drugs. Well, there had never been the slightest suggestion of anything like that, so I'm afraid I gave him short shrift. I did try ringing the producer woman, Milner, because I thought she might have a contact number for him. I think I may even have told her what the journalist had said about Ned, I'd found the allegation so disturbing, but she didn't know where he was either, and I decided there was nothing more I could be expected to do.”

  Amey was red in the face, as though he felt he should have done more to trace Ned Sennet, or as though he should have admitted that he'd been warned about Ned, but it would have made no difference to the substance of what had happened. Sean Morris was already dead.

  “The journalist rang me too,” Becky said quietly. “I told him I didn't know where Ned was, but he didn't ask me about the dealing, or I'd have said something.”

  “For Christ's sake,” Amey exclaimed, “is there anyone else we should know about?”

  “The woman from the TV crew,” Becky said, “the blond one, she rang me too, looking for Ned. I told her I didn't know where he was.”

  “But you passed the message on,” I prompted her.

  “I told Ned,” she agreed. “He said he'd deal with it.”

  Amey drove me to a pub in Newlyn, where the journalist from the West Penwith Herald had agreed to meet us. I was still wet from the rain. My feet were particularly uncomfortable, soggy in my boots. I could feel angry vibrations coming from Amey.

  “Is this how you always work?” he snapped, eventually, unable to contain himself any longer, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

  “I don't know what you mean.” We stopped at a traffic light, and he turned a glare on me.

  “I mean you journalists. Is that how you work, getting boys to kill themselves in front of you? Playing with people's lives? Like children let loose with a camera, meddling in things you don't understand?”

  “Of course not. Something went wrong.”

  I stared out of the window.

  “Went wrong?” He was angrier than ever. “Sean was a good kid with a foul life. People like Sean take heroin because it's a painkiller. There's nothing evil about it, they just want a break from the misery. The dealers boost their profits by cutting the stuff with drain cleaner or cement dust or baby powder. That's the poison these kids end up injecting into their veins. The government washes its hands by criminalizing everyone including the kids like Sean. And then some arrogant do-gooder comes along and says please inject more, so I can have a nice picture. And you tell me something went wrong? In my book that's as good as murder.”

  I stared silently out at the angry sea. If only they had come forward. If only they had come clean about what had happened. But Sean was dead. Their careers would have been in tatters. I wanted to find a way of defending them, but there was none.

  “You're right,” I said at last.

  In the bar, Neil Bovin was waiting for us and nursing a beer. It was still early evening, and he had the place to himself. As soon as he saw us he drained his glass, stubbed out his cigarette, and stood up.

  We introduced ourselves, shaking hands. Bovin looked like a surfer. He had shoulder-length blond hair, hazel eyes, and a tan, and he looked vaguely contemptuous of Amey's obvious anxiety. Still, a journalist is a journalist. He knew the smell of a story, and he knew how to dig.

  I would have been fairly circumspect about what I said, but Amey just blurted it all out. I sat and listened to his account of what we knew, or what he thought we knew. Any sense of loyalty I'd had toward Suzette or Paula had dissipated in a cloud of disgust at what they'd done.

  “So what we need to know from you,” Amey rounded off, “is how you knew about Ned Sennet.”

  Bovin pursed his lips and gave me a little smile.

  “There's someone you need to meet,” he said, “but I need an agreement from you, Robin, that I get to write this first. I mean, without what I'm about to show you, you don't have a story.”

  I stared at him.

  “I'm not interested in writing this for anyone. That's not the point.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I thought you were a journalist,” he said, standing up, “but that's okay by me. You do the police, I'll do the papers. This is one for the nationals. Let's go.”

  Bovin led us to the outskirts of the small town, to a road of small, terraced cement-clad houses.

  The three of us walked up to the front door of one of these—the only house with a garden that had been left to grow wild. With fertile soil and all the sun and rain that it could need, the tiny space had turned into a jungle. The windows were boarded up, the bell hung out of the wall, the wire bare. From inside came the sound of a radio chat show. Bovin rapped on the door. Then he yelled.

  “Kenny, it's Neil.”

  The radio fell silent and a moment later the door opened. A boy with an acne-covered face and bare feet stood there.

  “C'min,” he muttered.

  Amey whispered in my ear, “It's the boy, the friend.”

  We filed past him, and found ourselves in a room that contained only a TV and an armchair, both in a condition that suggested they had been salvaged from a dump. There was a smell of cigarettes and male feet and chips.

  There was nowhere for us all to sit, so we stood in a semicircle, and Kenny came and stood with us, completing the circle, uncowed by his visitors, reaching into his pockets for a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches.

  “This is about Sean—” Neil told him.

  Kenny cut him short. “I know.”

  “I want you to tell them what you told me,” Neil said.

  Kenny lit up slowly, taking the opportunity to give Amey a good look up and down. It was a thorough inspection—face, clothing, general demeanor.

  “Hello again,” he said.

  Amey nodded.

  “Sean was my friend from school,” Kenny said, and when he started to talk he had a voice that was easy to listen to, low and measured, taking the same slow pleasure in his vowels that I heard when Betty spoke. “He was always in trouble, he'd been in and out of detention, then he came to live with me when he got out. His dad didn't want anything to do with him. The moment he got out he started to drink, and he did whatever drugs he could get his hands on. When he began to inject I took him to see you,” he nodded at Amey, “but he wouldn't listen to me. He got sick too. I took him to the doctor, and he said it was a virus, something like glandular fever, but Sean said it was boring being at home in bed. I had some money from a job, so one night we went to the pub. He was going on about how much he wanted a hit, and I told him to keep his voice down, but this guy came over and started talking to us. I didn't trust him, but he's telling Sean how he works at this drug center, and how he can get hold of anything Sean wants. His name was Ned. Sean was over the bloody moon. The two of them got to whispering and I knew they were making arrangements to meet up, but I wanted nothing of it. Next day, Sean goes out, won't tell me where he's going. He comes back high and sicker than ever. Next day he goes out again, only this time he never comes back.”

  “Why didn't you tell the police?” I
wanted to know.

  “Don't want anything to do with them,” he replied, with the same simple directness that had characterized his whole account.

  “He tried to contact me,” Bovin said. “He rang the paper and asked who to speak to about a drug death. They put him through to me, but I was busy on something else, and anyway I thought he was just a druggy with a sob story. When I did agree to meet him, I thought there might be some truth in what he was saying, so I began to try and check it out. I rang you,” he indicated Amey, “because this Ned guy had said he worked at a drug rehabilitation center. And obviously you did know who he was. When you told me to get lost I tried talking to Becky, but she just clammed up.”

  We were all quiet for a moment.

  “Well, Ned found me,” Kenny said into the silence. “Last night. He brought me money.” He fished in his jeans pocket and pulled out five twenty-pound notes. “Told me he hadn't seen Sean since the night we went to the pub. Sorry to hear he's dead, oh and here's some cash. And he'll drop by again soon, and if I'm lucky he'll bring me some more cash. But he's heard I've talked to a journalist, and I'm not to do that anymore because they might misinterpret it. And look what happened to Sean when he got involved with journalists.”

  “He threatened you?”

  “Not in so many words, but he kept saying what a pity it was when boys got involved with the media and died of overdoses and the police just weren't interested.”

  “So this guy threatens you, and you take his money?” That was Bovin, getting the facts straight for his story.

  “I'm brighter than Sean was,” Kenny said. “I thanked him.”

  Chapter 33

  IT was past nine by the time I returned to Betty's B and B. She greeted me like an old friend, but something in my face must have told her that I was not in the mood to chat. My only thought was that I must speak to Finney. My embarrassment at the thought of talking to him, after what had happened between us, was now outweighed by urgency. In my room I emptied the contents of my pocketbook onto the bed, swearing when I realized that I had not brought my mobile phone charger with me.

  There was no phone in the room, so I ran down the stairs in search of a pay phone. I found it in the lounge, then sought out Betty who sold me a telephone card. She did not comment on my trembling hand as I handed her a banknote, except to ask whether I had eaten. I shook my head. I had not eaten and I was terribly hungry, but I was also nauseous with anxiety. I felt light-headed and shaky, and not entirely in control. Still, food was low on my list of priorities.

  I returned to the lounge and started dialing. I would speak to Finney, but first I must try one last time to find Suzette. I worked my way through all the numbers that Jane and I had found for her—including her increasingly irate ex in Australia—all without luck. Then I rang Maeve at home. She was in the middle of a dinner party and didn't want to speak. No, she knew nothing about the whereabouts of Suzette, hadn't seen her for weeks. Why, I could hear her thinking, was I bothering her with this? I tried ringing Jane, but her phone was busy. I got through to Terry. He was pleasantly surprised to hear from me. No, he hadn't seen Suzette.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked. “You sound distressed.”

  I took a deep breath. This was not the time to break down.

  “I'm fine, Terry.”

  “May I take you for dinner soon? I feel I need to apologize for my behavior … I've had Jane reading me the riot act, and of course she's quite right. I'm afraid I handled the situation badly.”

  “Of course we'll have dinner,” I told him, and found myself feeling better despite everything as I hung up.

  I rang Suzette's mother last of all. I had not wanted to worry her, but by now I had no choice. Her voice was distant, and I was not sure how much of what I said to her she was capable of grasping. As far as I could gather she did not know where exactly Suzette was, but she was not worried.

  “Suzette rings me every week on the telephone,” she told me. “I'm sure she would tell me if there was something wrong.”

  I asked when Suzette had rung last, and although her mother couldn't name a day it was clear that it could have been as much as a week ago, perhaps more, but she clearly hadn't done the math.

  “May I take a message and get her to call you?” she asked.

  I closed my eyes.

  “Would you?” I asked. I left my name and the hotel number, but I feared it was hopeless.

  I hung up and turned away from the telephone. Betty had placed a bowl of steaming soup and a bread roll on the table. Betty herself was sitting in a reclining armchair, her feet up, the TV remote control in her hand. She was watching the news, but the sound was muted.

  I smiled at her gratefully and began to spoon the soup greedily into my mouth. It was mushroom, from one of the better class of cans. The bread was fresh and warm, and the butter melted into it. I didn't speak for several minutes, just concentrated on getting nourishment into my blood.

  “Thank you,” I said to Betty eventually, mopping my mouth with a napkin. “I needed that.”

  “That's what I thought.” She nodded her satisfaction.

  I turned back to the telephone and hesitated, but Betty made no move to leave. I rang my home number, but the phone was busy, and I hung up. I had a strange compulsion to explain to Betty.

  “I wanted to check the children are all right,” I told her, “but I can't get through.”

  “Little mites, you must miss them.”

  I nodded, hesitated. The question burst out of me. “You know I'm the woman in the newspaper, don't you?”

  “Of course I do, my darling.” Her voice was soothing. The term of endearment was no such thing, just habit, but at least it suggested that friendship was a possibility.

  “And you don't mind?”

  “I don't believe everything I read in the newspapers, my love. Besides,” she waved her arm around the empty lounge, “business is business, and my husband did inform the officer from the local constabulary that you were here.”

  I nodded.

  “Shouldn't you be ringing your policeman friend now?” she inquired.

  “Yes,” I told her, “I should.”

  I was about to dial Finney's mobile, when the phone rang. I started with surprise, then took up the receiver.

  “Robin?”

  “Suze, where have you been? I thought you were dead.”

  “Don't say that!” Her voice was high, verging on hysteria. “Robin, he's stolen my car, I'm stuck here all alone in the middle of nowhere—”

  “Suze,” I interrupted her, “where are you?”

  “I've rented this place on the road to Mousehole,” she wailed, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I'm only a couple of miles from you, but I can't drive anywhere because I haven't got a car, and he's going to come back and—”

  “Suze,” I took a deep breath, “who's going to come back?”

  “He's called Ned.” Suzette's voice became falsetto. “He's a lunatic.”

  For a moment I didn't reply. Sean Morris's death returned to me with a force that took me by surprise.

  “Were you there when the boy died?” I demanded.

  “What?” For a moment I had shocked Suzette back to baffled normality. There was, after all, no way she could know that I knew. Her voice was a full octave lower.

  “Were you there when he died? Amey knows he died. Did you see what you'd done?”

  I heard Suzette whimper, and then she broke down. She was talking, but I couldn't make head or tail of it: She was speaking into the phone, then away from it, her voice a sobbing, shrieking mess. Eventually the words got clearer, and I understood that she was denying my allegation, and that she was angry.

  “How can you think I would do that?” Her voice was low, intense, accusatory. “You are my friend, you should believe in me. Did I ever accuse you of killing Adam? Did I?”

  I was silent, and she carried on speaking, fast and furious.

  “Even when every
one else thought you did it, I didn't. Did I even ask you? Did I show any doubt?”

  I thought back to our meeting in the Corporation canteen after Adam's death. No, Suzette had not doubted me. Everyone else had wanted something from me, either a denial or an explanation, even Jane.

  Suzette was still speaking.

  “You think you're better than me, that you have some moral high ground? You think I'm some sort of sleaze, capable of murder, and you're not?”

  “Suzette, where are you?” I broke in. She was right. I owed her more than this.

  “Why do you care?” She was fanning the flames of her own anger.

  “We should talk,” I said. “You're right. I want to talk to you.”

  She didn't exactly warm to me, but she calmed down enough to give me an address. When I hung up I checked the directions with Betty and she drew me a map. I was to head for the esplanade, drive toward Newlyn. In Newlyn I was not to head inland, but instead keep to the coast and go from Fore Street to Cliff Road. Somewhere along that road Suzette had said I would see a painted sign to the house. Finney would have to wait.

  Chapter 34

  SOMEHOW, in the dark, I found her. It was a tiny place, a one-story converted barn, set back all on its own, about fifty yards inland from the coastal road. I stepped out of the car onto earth and took a deep breath of night air. The rain had stopped but the wind was still up, and it made me shiver. Above me I could see the stars, around me the hills, behind and below me the sea. Nowhere could I see a car. I banged on the door, which was a two-piece affair that had once belonged on a stable, and Suzette let me in and hugged me. The entrance hall was lit by a glass lamp overhead, and it cast a ghostly pallor over her face. Suzettes eyes were red-rimmed and her hands were shaking. Even in good lighting she would have looked a wreck.

  “Christ, I needed to see a friendly face,” she said to me, and she teetered on the edge of tears again, biting her lip and shaking her head. She headed through a door into a kitchen beyond. It was a cozy room. A pine dresser was filled with willow pattern plates and a red cloth covered a dining table that could have seated six. There was an open fireplace with logs of wood stacked next to it.