The Moth Man (Alex Hastings Series)

by Jennie Finch

  Ada folded her arms and gave both the goat and Tom her best hard stare.

  ‘There ’ent no way I’m shouting for no goat called Marmaduke,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll be calling him Pongo on account of how he smells so awful.’

  ‘If you says so Ada,’ said Tom hiding a smile. He had wondered, after a journey in close proximity to Marmaduke, if Ada would agree to have the animal at all. She could christen the goat ‘Lollipop’ if she wanted, he thought. He was just relieved she was going to keep him.

  Brian Morris dressed in his best clothes for the visit to the hostel. His leather jacket was brushed and polished as were his black Doc Marten boots. He had even put new laces in, carefully threading the fourteen eyelets and tying them with a neat bow at the top. His shirt was ironed and was a crisp white and his hair stood up proudly in its full Mohican. As he walked down the path to the front door he had an almost overwhelming desire to strut.

  The reception he received left him startled and bewildered.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, coming in here done up like that?’ demanded the warden, rising from his desk and barrelling towards the office door.

  Brian stepped back, away from the figure advancing towards him.

  ‘I was just comin’ to see someone, Pete,’ he said.

  ‘Not like that you’re not. And it’s Mr Marks to you.’

  Brian found himself out in the hallway, moving backwards as Peter Marks barged through the office door, his face twisted into a furious scowl.

  ‘There’s no gang uniforms allowed in here. I expect all my lads to dress decently – and that goes for you as well, if you want to come in. Now clear off and come back when you’ve found something respectable to wear. And wash that stuff out of your hair!’

  Brian retreated down the path, hurt and angry by the man’s words. He had spent a long time getting ready for this visit, hoping to impress the hostel warden with his diligence. Instead he had somehow alienated him completely. To add to his misery, it began to rain and his wonderful Mohican was starting to droop. Brian made a dash for the bus shelter a hundred yards down the road and huddled under the safety of the sagging roof until the shower passed. He couldn’t afford proper hair spray, especially now his dole was about to be stopped and he’d resorted to soap in an effort to make his hair stand tall and proud. A glance at his reflection in the glass panels confirmed his worst fears. His head was covered in bubbles, soapy water was dripping on his jacket and he looked a complete mess. Nothing, it seemed, was going his way at the moment.

  Samuel Burton stood at an upstairs window in the hostel, watching as the skinhead in the ridiculous get-up scuttled out of the front door and ran for the dubious shelter of the bus stop. Amused by his predicament, Samuel hovered for a moment too long, hoping to witness the complete collapse of the lad’s hair. There was a sound behind him and he swung around to see Bennie Sands, the deputy warden, glaring at him from the top of the stairs.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘I thought you had an appointment at the Job Centre this morning.’

  Samuel regarded her bleakly. He didn’t particularly like women – not as people anyway – and it was particularly galling to find himself under the supposed supervision of two such inferior creatures as Bennie and bloody Alex Hastings. Interfering bitches, the pair of them. None of this was made obvious as he kept perfectly still, hands relaxed at his side and his face expressionless. Only the spark of blue in his flat eyes betrayed his fury.

  Bennie climbed the last couple of steps to the landing and stood for a moment, hands on hips as she waited for an answer. When it became apparent there wasn’t going to be one, she stood aside and gestured down towards the front door.

  ‘Go on, out with you. You know the rules – unless you’re in a class or on the rota you’re not allowed inside during the day.’

  Samuel stalked past her, close enough to just brush shoulders as he stepped on to the stairs. Bennie tried, unsuccessfully, not to flinch at his touch. Samuel was considerably more successful in hiding his satisfaction at her reaction.

  Bennie watched as he strolled across the lobby and out of the front door, shaking her head in frustration. Samuel was becoming a real problem. He was bright enough, that was obvious. He was clean – perhaps almost too clean for he took two showers a day and sometimes three if the weather was hot or he had been at the day centre workshop. He dressed well and took care of his clothes yet there was something unpleasant about him.

  He was still in a four-bed room and after almost a month had made absolutely no progress as far as the hostel programme was concerned. Bennie didn’t think a great deal of her boss’s ‘Ladder of Achievement’ but the idea of making the lads earn their little privileges was a sound one. Samuel, however – he didn’t seem to care. Standing at the window looking down onto the road below, she found herself hoping his attitude wasn’t catching. There were some difficult and potentially dangerous men in the hostel and Peter Marks’ ‘Ladder of Achievement’ was a very flimsy shield indeed.

  Responding to Lauren’s call, Alex left her office and hurried through to the reception area, stopping only to warn a couple of lads hanging around the pool table about their language. For a moment she thought the lobby was empty but then she spotted a hunched, lonely figure slouched in the far corner. Brian Morris was a sorry sight, streaks of soapy water running down his face and spotting his leather jacket and a pool of grey water forming at his feet.

  Lauren was at the counter, leaning on the edge as she craned forwards to see what was going to happen next. From the glint in her eyes, it was obvious she was on the verge of laughing aloud. Alex caught her eye and gave a tiny shake of her head in warning. There was a lot of bad feeling between Brian and Lauren, most of it Brian’s fault, but as she looked at the wretched figure in front of her Alex felt nothing but concern for the boy. All the fight, all the spark had gone out of him. She’d seen people look like this before and rarely had there been a good outcome.

  ‘Come on Brian,’ she said gently, walking over and touching his shoulder. The boy flinched slightly but didn’t answer or lift his head to look at her.

  ‘Lauren, can you see if you can find a towel please?’ said Alex over her shoulder. There was a scraping sound as Lauren clambered down from the high stool and headed, somewhat reluctantly, in the direction of the office.

  ‘Come on,’ said Alex more forcefully. She shook Brian’s shoulder, trying to get his attention. ‘Brian! You came here for a reason. You’ve come to see me – right? Now, we’ll go into my office where it’s quiet and private. I’ll make you a cup of tea and you can tell me what’s wrong.’

  Slowly, as if every movement caused him pain, Brian rose to his feet and began to shuffle after her, his head still bowed. He looked like a statue by Giacometti come to life, thought Alex. Tall, horribly skinny with spindly legs and those great big boots …

  The lads at the pool table glanced up as she led her charge through to the office and one of them opened his mouth to say something, only to shut it again at her fierce glare. All of them suddenly developed a fascination with the game in front of them and she hurried Brian through to the room down the corridor without mishap.

  After mopping himself off with the towel produced, eventually, by Lauren, Brian muttered and rambled his way through a tale of woe.

  ‘So – let me get this straight,’ said Alex. ‘You found this metal detector thing and bought a new battery. Then someone else – you think it’s Charlie Dodds – found the metal detector. So you’ve got the battery and he’s got the metal detector. Right?’

  Brian nodded glumly.

  ‘Well, the solution is obvious,’ said Alex. ‘Talk to Charlie and both of you share the metal detector. After all, neither part works on its own.’

  Brian scowled at her. ‘’Tis mine,’ he said. ‘Don’t see why I should share nothin’ with no thief as took it.’

  Alex sighed. Sometimes it was very hard to reach any common sense
solution with her clients and Brian was one of the most stubborn people she had ever encountered. And she included her own family in that calculation.

  ‘You found it in the first place,’ she pointed out. ‘What if the original owner came to you and demanded his metal detector back?’

  ‘Was just thrown away,’ Brian protested. ‘Let under a pile of junk an’ stuff. Fair game, that is – don’t see as how I should be givin’ it back.’

  ‘Charlie found it buried in a hedge,’ said Alex. ‘There was no battery in it so it was obviously scrap as far as he could see. What’s the difference?’

  She watched as Brian struggled with the logic of this argument, a range of emotions flitting across his face. Finally he shrugged and said, ‘Well, Charlie ’ent so bad. Leastways, is not some stranger.’

  Taking this for acquiescence, she picked up the phone and dialled the workshop, summoning Charlie to her office. It was nice, she thought, when common sense prevailed. Unusual but rather nice.

  On leaving the hostel Samuel turned left and headed out towards the canal path. The rain began to fall steadily and he had left his jacket behind in his room. The water seeped through his thin sweater and gathered in his hair, forming drops that ran down his face and neck. Ignoring the discomfort, Samuel fell into a fast trot, his arms swinging as his feet sped along the increasingly muddy path out beyond the town. Turning on to the Levels just beyond the canal bridge, he headed for the airfield and the shelter of his hiding place.

  The path was slippery underfoot and after about a mile the strain was beginning to make his ankles and calves ache. Despite the growing discomfort Samuel increased his pace, his clothes now damp from the inside as he started to sweat. By the time he reached the bunker on the airfield he was hot and breathless, his legs burning from the effort. I’m getting soft, he thought as he sat on the floor, his hands trembling slightly from fatigue. After a few minutes his breathing slowed to a more normal rate and he shivered a little as his clothes clung to his body, clammy and cold from the rain.

  He rose to his feet and walked to the doorway, peering out into the grey morning. The rain fell steadily, a fine mist of water obscuring the surrounding countryside so he could scarcely see to the end of the runway. Wrapping his arms around his body in a futile search for warmth, he retreated into the interior and settled once more on the bare concrete floor. For a moment he thought of the pineapple drum with its stash of dry clothes, gloves and shoes. Then he put it out of his mind. Far too risky, he thought. It would be stupid, chancing everything just to avoid a few minutes’ discomfort. That sort of thing was for fools and weaklings. He waited, leaning back against the wall, for the rain to stop, brooding all the while on the wrongs he was forced to endure from the hostel and the staff at Highpoint probation office.

  Alex hummed to herself as she walked along the tow-path by the river on her way home. The weather had cleared up half an hour before she finished work and the bright evening sunlight caught the water droplets on the few remaining daffodils, sending rainbow sparkles glittering across the river bank. She had waved Brian and Charlie off to collect the various pieces of their metal detector and Bert, who had been an electrician before ‘retiring’ to the post of evening janitor at the probation office, had offered to help them repair it in the workshop. All in all, she thought, a very good outcome.

  Her good mood lasted less than thirty seconds after stepping through the back door and into her kitchen. Dorothy was busy, slamming a huge lump of dough around on the main work surface, muttering to herself as she pummelled at the bread. This was a bad sign. From her earliest years, Alex could remember her mother retiring to the kitchen to cook up a storm on the rare occasions she and her husband had ‘had words’, as Dorothy had put it.

  ‘Um, how was your day?’ Alex asked rather tentatively.

  Dorothy gave a decidedly unladylike snort, ripped the dough from the board and flung it down again, tearing and pulling at it before dropping it back into a large mixing bowl.

  ‘Your father,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘Your father has seen fit to deprive me of my right to have a say in who will rule this country.’ She turned on the tap and washed her hands before flinging a towel over the bowl. ‘And close that door. I’m trying to get this to rise and that won’t happen in a draught.’

  Alex opened her mouth, ready to respond angrily, then closed the door and followed Dorothy through to the dining room. Her mother removed an envelope from the apron pocket – an apron, Alex noticed. Where the hell did that come from? – and was smoothing it out on the table in front of her. Trying not to be too obvious, Alex sneaked a look at the back. It was addressed to her mother, at this address, and was undoubtedly written by her father. Alex recognised the handwriting – firm, controlled and almost excessively neatly formed. Rather like the man himself, in fact.

  Dorothy hesitated and then pushed the letter over towards Alex who picked it up, suddenly reluctant to intrude on a private argument. She sensed this was an important moment, a place of no turning back and after a moment she reached out and placed the letter in front of her mother.

  ‘You are perfectly welcome to read it,’ said Dorothy stiffly.

  ‘It’s between you two,’ said Alex. ‘Just tell me what’s the matter.’ She sat down opposite her mother and leaned her elbows on the table, trying to take the sting out of her refusal.

  Dorothy snatched at the envelope, stuffing it into her pocket and gave Alex a sharp look. For a moment Alex thought her mother was going to tell her to sit up straight and stop slouching, but instead she sighed heavily and her own shoulders began to slump.

  ‘It’s this wretched election,’ said Dorothy. ‘It seems it is too late to change my address or apply for a postal vote and so the only way I can vote is to go back … go to Essex.’ She refrained from saying ‘back home’, Alex noted.

  ‘There’ve been a few complaints about that,’ Alex said carefully. ‘A friend of mine says some of her older clients tried to get postal votes but by the time they got the forms, filled them in, got them signed and then back to the office, the deadline was passed. She had one old lady in floods of tears over it. It’s a bit of a mess this time.’

  ‘It’s an utter disgrace, that’s what it is!’ snapped Dorothy. ‘Think of all the people most likely not to vote for the incumbents. Those are the people who need their postal vote and they’re the people who won’t be able to vote at all.’

  Alex raised her eyebrows at this. If she had thought about it at all she had assumed her parents were generally Conservative. The sort of ‘blue rinse’ Tories who would never dream of voting Labour, considered supporting the Liberals a wasted vote and were generally content to let the status quo rumble on without too much fuss. It was amazing what a few weeks in an open prison could do for an individual’s political consciousness. She rather wished something similar would happen to her brothers, Hector and Archie.

  ‘What will you do?’ she asked. A part of her was secretly hoping this would help push her parents back together again, though from Dorothy’s reaction this seemed a vain hope. Alex loved her mother dearly but she also valued her independence and the freedom having her own home brought her. It had never mattered before, but now, with the arrival of Margie in her life, Dorothy’s continuing presence was threatening to cramp her style a little.

  Her mother shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I suppose I can’t stay here for ever. No …’ she held up a hand to forestall Alex’s protest, ‘you have been so kind, you and Sue. But I need to talk to your father and as he shows no signs of speaking to me, I will go to him.’

  Don’t let him push you into it,’ said Alex. ‘Just because of the election. After all, it doesn’t seem to make much difference who we vote for. They’re all a bunch of scheming, lying bastards,’ she added bitterly.

  ‘Well, I want to at least have some say in which scheming, lying bastard represents me in parliament,’ said Dorothy.

  Alex gazed at her mother in asto
nishment. Never had she heard her calm, lady-like mother talk like this.

  ‘Oh don’t gawp at me like that,’ said Dorothy crossly. ‘I have opinions, you know. I’m not totally blind to what is going on and how badly it affects so many people. Now, I think we should hurry up and colonise the kitchen before Sue gets home. She said something about taking her turn to make dinner tonight and quite frankly I don’t think I’m strong enough for that at the moment.’

  Tom bent over the fireplace in Ada’s front room, deftly feeding sticks into a small fire that smouldered and sulked in the grate.

  ‘Anything yet?’ he called.

  There was a scuffling behind him and Ada poked her head through from the kitchen.

  ‘Not as I can see,’ she said, eyeing the fire suspiciously. The smoke was starting to roll across the room, making Mouse cough from behind the sofa.

  ‘Shoo!’ said Ada flapping the hands at him. ‘You ’ent supposed to be in here neither.’ The dog lowered its head and sauntered out, the picture of injured innocence.

  ‘So, what you think then?’ Ada said as she struggled with the window. The latches were stiff after the long winter and even when she released them the frame squeaked a protest at being forced open.

  ‘Hard to say without poking around,’ said Tom, scattering the wood to extinguish the fire. ‘How’d you cope in the winter?’

  Ada shrugged. ‘Don’t often use it much now,’ she said. ‘Was a bit smoky last time but not so bad as is now.’

  Tom wiped his hands on his trousers and grinned at her. ‘Reckon I’ll pop out, have a look an’ see if’n there’s something come loose on the pot,’ he said. ‘Otherwise is maybe a bird’s nest. Unless you’s got some poor dead body up there?’ He raised an eyebrow and scooted out of the room before Ada could retaliate, chuckling as he went.

  Ada watched him go, wondering at how comfortable she felt in his presence. After so many years of having to rely on herself – because her late husband Frank, let’s face it, had been no use whatsoever – she was beginning to enjoy having someone around who seemed willing to share her small sorrows and triumphs. She realised she looked forward to Tom’s visits, catching herself peering out of the window at the rare sound of a car or van making its way along the path next to Kings Sedgemoor. Once this would have worried her but now it seemed so natural.