by Neil White
The landlord was rescued from any further questions by the arrival of Tony.
Tony went straight to a secluded table in the corner. He sat so he could see out of the window, so I got him a beer and we went to join him.
I introduced Laura to him. She gave his jumper a quick glance, bright green and brown hoops. He smiled and nodded. I’d called him after I’d spoken to Duncan McAllister, told him what I wanted.
‘How did you do?’ I asked.
He smiled, looking pleased with himself.
‘I did all right.’
‘What have you two been cooking up?’ asked Laura suspiciously.
Tony flashed a look at me, and when he saw my eyes he turned to Laura. ‘Jack asked me to bring in some clippings from ten years ago.’
‘What else has he told you?’
Tony looked at me, but when I nodded that it was okay, he said, ‘Everything.’
He pulled out a large envelope, which he had kept hidden under the table.
‘These are the clippings from Annie Paxman’s murder.’
He took one from the top of the pile. I remembered his legendary organisation. Everything looked a jumble, but it always seemed to fall into some kind of order.
‘This is the one from the day after the killing,’ he said, and he pushed it across the table towards me.
I looked down at the yellowed paper. It looked fragile and dusty, but the headline was still as stark as it had been ten years ago: ‘KILLED.’
The headline didn’t say anything more than that. It didn’t need to. As I looked at the photograph, I wondered how much different tomorrow’s edition would be. The discovery of my father’s body had arrived too late to make that day’s paper, but tomorrow the picture would be pretty much the same: a stone ground, a corpse, police swarming around. Only the year and the victim had changed.
‘Are you all right, Jack?’ It was Laura. She must have seen something cloud my eyes.
I looked up and smiled. ‘I’ve got to do this.’
She smiled back, but the clipping underneath drew my attention. I pulled it closer to me. It showed Annie Paxman on the night of the party, in the last few hours of her life. She was smiling broadly, surrounded by other laughing, happy faces, high school now behind them, the future ahead. Her face was the only one in the picture, the rest reduced to arms on either side of her and a couple of collars of the men stood behind her.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Tony said quietly. ‘I thought the same thing.’
I knew what Tony had been doing. He’d been through the picture archive at the Post.
‘Okay, show me,’ I said.
And he did. He produced another envelope and spilled some old photographs onto the table. He quickly rummaged through and pulled one to the top. When he turned it over, I saw a bigger version of the picture from the newspaper. And as I looked, I saw him. David Watts. Ten years younger, and just some kid from the north, but definitely him. Only one other person was between him and Annie. In the picture, he looked relaxed and confident, sure of himself, where he was going and what it all meant. It was a happy shot, just a bunch of kids eager to get started in life.
I looked up.
‘Look again,’ Tony urged.
I realised straight away that I hadn’t looked closely enough. I picked up the photograph again and peered into the image. Then I saw it, just a glimpse, a line against his neck, and the more I looked, the more I thought I could see links, a chain.
Tony passed over another photograph and I felt my thoughts swirl, the reality of what I could see rushing at me.
In the second photograph, evidently taken just after the first, Annie Paxman was looking away, out of shot, as if something had distracted her. David Watts was looking towards her, a beer bottle in his hand. As he looked, he was straining, and as he strained he was pulling his shirt open.
I felt my hands go damp when I saw it. There it was, the thin line in the first picture exposed as links, just as I’d thought. And right in the middle, stretched across his throat, was a circle. Something was etched on it, and I saw that it was enough. Three curls, in a Celtic design. It was enough. It had to be.
He passed me another photograph.
‘One of the graphics guys enlarged that part,’ he said.
As I looked, I saw the Celtic curls come to life.
I passed the photographs to Laura.
‘Anything like yours?’
I watched her eyes as she looked at the photos, her pupils enlarged, taking in every detail. Laura stayed quiet at first, and then said, ‘Oh shit.’
‘Any doubts left?’
Laura shook her head slowly.
‘And these pictures were taken on the night of her death,’ I continued, before sitting back and thinking about how my life had changed so quickly. A few days before, it was simpler, just the life of a jobbing journalist, chasing page-fillers. Now I had a dead father and was about to break the biggest story of my career.
‘You don’t need to write the story,’ Laura said quietly.
Tony looked at her, surprised. ‘What, just pretend like we never knew it, and let the shootings go on?’
‘No,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘There’s a hundred thousand pounds reward on this woman. You could go to the police with what you have and claim the money. I’ll back you up. You could retire, Tony, and Jack, well, you could afford to chase the stories you wanted to chase instead of working nights for rent money.’
Tony shook his head. ‘Jack will never have a bigger moment than this. Afterwards, he could just about pick his career.’
‘It’s not just that,’ she said. She took a deep breath. ‘Do you think I’m going to ignore what you’ve found out? I’m a policewoman, and all I want is for this killer to be caught. I’m going to call my office now and tell them what I know.’
I caught a look from Laura, and I wasn’t sure if it was sadness or apology. I felt disappointed, as if she was going to take the story away from me, but I sensed that she felt the same thing, because my need to write the story came before catching a murderer.
Tony sensed what was going on so he coughed lightly and asked, ‘So how much more do we know?’
That stalled Laura for a moment, but then she stood up. ‘A damn sight more than I knew yesterday.’ She picked up the photograph. ‘And we’ve got David Watts with the neck-chain just before the killing.’ And then Laura looked at me, ‘And on the crime-scene photographs I could see marks on Annie’s hands, like the imprint of links, made as she pulled. I bet they match perfectly with the links on that neck-chain. And I saw a circle, just part of the imprint.’
‘I didn’t notice that on her hands,’ I said.
Laura smiled. ‘You’re a journalist. You were looking at the story, the tragedy, taking in the face, the youth. I’m a cop, and I was looking for evidence.’
Tony and I stayed quiet as Laura walked out, her hand flicking open her phone even before she reached the sunshine.
‘Is that your exclusive being phoned through to London?’ he said.
I glanced out of the window and shook my head. ‘I’m keeping some things back. I just need to see someone. Will you look after Laura until I get back?’ When he started to preen, I said, ‘Don’t get too excited. Not in that jumper.’
I had one last look out of the window and then made myself leave, walking quickly towards the side door of the pub. It took me into a cobbled alley, which brought me out just a few yards from where I had parked my car.
As I drove past Laura she looked up, and when she saw me I thought she cursed. The phone dropped away from her ear as she became small in my mirror, and then she was blocked out completely by a car pulling out just after me.
I knew where I was going. It seemed the car behind me was going the same way.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I stopped my car outside a small redbrick bungalow. It was too new to be pretty. The lines of the house were too straight, too sharp. They hadn’t started to creak ye
t, no sign of the house wearing itself in. But it was neat and tidy, with white window frames, quarter panes, and a single garage at one side. The driveway was short and uncluttered.
I didn’t get out of the car straight away. I felt nervous, much more than I’d expected. I’d done house calls before, unsure of the reception, but this felt different. Maybe because I cared more about the outcome.
Then I remembered the conversation I had had with my father when I first came back to the Fold, when we had talked about the shootings. He’d said it was all about a ransom, that these things always are. I’d thought he was wrong for a while, because no one ever mentioned one, but I realised now that a ransom doesn’t have to be about money. This one was about atonement.
I set off walking up the driveway and noticed the curtains twitching in the house next door. A face appeared at the window and seemed to watch me. I smiled out of politeness. The curtains moved back and the face disappeared.
I rang the doorbell. I was met with nothing but silence for a while, but then I saw a shape through the net curtains. The shape got larger and then there was a fumble with the key. The door opened and I smiled. She looked suspicious, wary, as if she had got used to receiving bad news.
I pulled out my press ID and flashed it at the face peering through the part-opened door. I kept my finger over my name.
‘Rose Wood?’
‘Can I help you?’ Her voice was quiet, nervous, her eyes still wary.
I waved my press ID again. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I want to talk to you about Colin’s case.’
The American put the binoculars down as the door closed. He looked around. This was a neighbourhood without excitement, not aimed at young families, none of that family rattle to act as a distraction. He looked at the house. The street kinked just after it, so that the houses further along looked at the front of the house even more, like the front row of an amphitheatre. He reckoned on there being at least twelve homes with a view of the front of the old woman’s house.
He picked up his mobile phone and dialled Glen Ross. The delay in answering was longer than he expected. The voice that eventually came on the line sounded quiet and withdrawn.
‘Inspector, good to hear your voice. I need your help.’
There was no response at first, and then a dry voice asked, ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m at an address a couple of miles outside of town. The street name is,’ and he looked around for the sign. He was parked just on the next street, near the junction. He spotted the street name on a lamppost. ‘It’s Green Meadow Close. That cop’s son is in there, the journalist, inside number eight. I need to know who he’s seeing. Who lives there?’ A pause. ‘That’s all.’
No response.
‘Can you do that?’
‘Okay,’ Glen Ross replied, sounding jaded. ‘Give me ten minutes to run some checks.’
He wasn’t long. When the phone rang again, the American listened carefully. He recognised the name.
He knew his list of targets was getting longer, but he realised he couldn’t ignore her. He sat back and waited.
When I was shown into the house, I was surprised. It was neat and clean outside, and I’d guessed it would be the same inside. It wasn’t.
Clothes were all over the back of a chair near the front of the window, with cups and glasses dotted around the room, some with dried stains that must have been days old. And there was a smell, cloying in the heat, strong and pungent. Rose Wood either thought everyone lived like this, or else she had stopped noticing.
She offered me a drink. ‘That would be great,’ I said. That bought me at least twenty minutes with her.
When the tea came, it was in a stained mug and looked stewed. I made a point of taking a sip, but turned the mug around to get to a clean part.
Rose sat back. ‘Why is Colin important again?’ she asked, her eyes filled with missing him.
‘Tell me about him,’ I replied.
Rose took a deep breath at that. I saw her flick a glance at the photographs along the mantelpiece, and I could tell they were of Colin, just from the way he held his mother. She was leaning into him in all the pictures, her arms wrapped around him. He wasn’t doing much, just looking at the camera, unsure, confused. But he gripped his mother, his big arms surrounding her. He had been a big man. I guessed that Rose loved him to death and fed him just as well. I couldn’t imagine that the prison would be as generous.
‘He was all I had,’ she said. ‘My husband was taken away from me when Colin was very small, hurt in an accident at work, so Colin just became everything.’ She smiled at me, although I didn’t think she was focused on me. ‘I know people would make fun of him because he wasn’t very clever at school, and he didn’t want to go out and play football, but he was always a very good boy for me. He looked after me.’
‘Tell me about the night he was arrested.’
Her smile faded. ‘He’d gone to the pub. He went there most nights. Everyone knew he wouldn’t hurt anyone, not ever, but they all think he’s a killer now. And that isn’t right.’
She wiped her eyes, the lashes damp with tears.
‘He was arrested for being drunk, and then he came home. A few days later, Glen Ross arrested him, said that he’d raped that girl.’ She shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t rape anyone. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.’
I thought that she was bound to say that, she was too close to Colin; but didn’t that also apply to me when I thought about what my own father had said?
She wiped her eyes again and focused on me, as though she had remembered where she was. ‘So why is Colin important again? You didn’t tell me.’
I ran my fingers through my hair, tried to think of a way to phrase it. I realised that she would appreciate me being direct.
‘I think I may have found some evidence that wasn’t brought up at his trial. It might help get him out of prison.’
Her chin trembled, and I saw rings form in her tea as she started to shake. I took the cup off her and placed it on the small table next to her. I held her hands, and when I looked into her eyes I saw years of loneliness. For a moment, I resented my father, even the day after he died. Annie Paxman hadn’t been the only life destroyed.
‘It’s not much,’ I said, ‘but it shows that someone else was seen running away from Annie that night.’
She took a deep breath and then dropped my hands. She turned her face away, and I followed her gaze to the mantelpiece and back to the line of photographs.
When she turned back to me, I saw that her eyes looked harder.
‘I’ve heard this before,’ she said, her voice quiet.
‘When?’ I asked, startled.
‘Oh, for the last five years.’
‘What have you heard?’
She sat back, and I thought that she looked suddenly dejected.
‘About David Watts.’ She was looking at the ceiling.
I said nothing for a while, feeling disappointed, and then I nodded.
‘Who told you?’ I asked.
She looked back at me, her eyes narrowed. I could see her weighing me up, wondering what she could tell me.
‘A girl called Liza Radley,’ she said.
I looked at her confused. ‘Liza Radley? James’s daughter?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, whatever that useless drunk of a policeman was called.’
I tugged at my lip. I hadn’t seen Liza Radley for years. My father had been friendly with her father, I remembered that, but they had drifted apart. And then he’d died in a house fire. I’d heard the rumours that he was a drinker, and that he had fallen asleep in his chair after putting on the chip pan. But he had been at the scene with my father. He had seen Annie Paxman, and he had seen David Watts as he ran from the scene.
‘He used to come to the house,’ she said, ‘all drunk and crying, saying he was sorry. I felt pity for him at first, but then it seemed like it wasn’t me or Colin he cared about, just himself. He was selfish. Drunks are like that. He said h
e cared, but he didn’t do anything to help Colin.’
‘So why did Liza start coming round?’
My mind started to work fast, filled with images of young Liza. I had only met her two or three times, just a noise in the back of her father’s car, but that had been years ago.
The old lady shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She just turned up one day and started to tell me how her father had seen David Watts when that girl was found. She was always talking about getting Colin out of prison, like it was her job to rescue him. But there was no new evidence. It was just her, dreaming. She was like that, a dreamer.’
I started to feel excited. Liza Radley knew. And, more importantly, she might have known about the necklace. I felt my heart beat faster, my mouth dry up.
‘When did you last see her?’ I tried to sound relaxed, but my mind was whirring, a collection of images coming together. Liza as a young girl. The security camera picture. The neck-chain.
Rose put her head back and started thinking. ‘About a year ago. She said she was going to make it right, and then she stopped coming round.’
That came at me like a door slamming shut. She was going to make it right.
‘What was she like?’ I asked, my voice sounding keener.
Rose smiled. ‘Something not right about that girl. It seemed like she was too busy having rows with herself to get out and make friends.’
‘Did she talk about her parents much?’ I knew I was sounding too eager, snapping the questions out, but I couldn’t stop myself.
Rose shook her head. ‘If I ever mentioned her father, she would just look sad. She said once that he was always drunk, and it seemed like she hated him for it.’
‘Do you know where she is?’ I was leaning forward, my eyes wide.
Rose looked at me, vacant for a moment as her mind went back in time. ‘She moved away. She got some insurance money, and she sold the house, what was left of it, to a builder, and then she left.’
‘Her address. I need her address. Do you have it?’ My nerves were taut, my breath getting short.
Rose thought for a moment, and then stood up. ‘Wait there,’ she said, and she shuffled over to a roll-top bureau in the corner. When she opened the drawer, silhouetted against the light coming in through the window, I could see papers spilling out, springing up like a jack-in-a-box.
