by Jason De'Ath
“Y’u’re upt’somefin’, I know you are.” she asserted.
Dickie lowered his newspaper and looked Mary in the eye: “Wha’d’y’u mean?”
“I know you. Y’u’re up t’somefin’.” she maintained.
“Just a bit o’ business, tha’s all.” he answered after a pause, before resuming his study of the sport pages.
“You a’n’ got anuver woman ‘ave y’u?” She was semi-serious.
“Don’ be fuckin’ daft, woman.” he instantly complained.
“So, what are y’u up to?” she persisted whilst shoving his plate of coronary inducing greasiness under his paper.
“Fuck sake, woman.” he moaned and briskly folded the paper, before slapping it down on the table. She remained leaning on the table glaring at him mistrustfully. “What?” he continued to refute.
“‘Ave it y’ur own way.” she eventually conceded, “I just ‘ope it a’n’ anyfin’ too dodgy.” Dickie was determined to ignore her and carried on eating his dinner. She tried a different tack: “So, oo’s this geezer y’u seein’ tonight?” Dickie slammed his knife down on the table and stared ahead with fire in his eyes. “Ooh, touchey.” she taunted, before nonchalantly putting the frying pan in the sink and turning on the tap.
“Aren’t you ‘avin’ any?” Dickie enquired, somewhat puzzled.
“I’m gonna ‘ave some chips wiv the girls down the bingo.”
“Oh, right.” He continued eating his fry-up, thinking he had now subverted the interrogation.
“Carol said some odd bloke came ‘round earlier, when I was at the launderette?”
Dickie maintained his ignorance of the whole matter, saying dismissively: “Did she?”
Tired of the subterfuge, she put on her cardigan and grabbed her handbag: “Right, well, I’m goin’ out... Don’ expect me to bail you out.” was her parting valediction. Dickie heard the front door slam and breathed a sigh of relief. He quickly finished his dinner and departed for his beloved Red Bull.
Anne Mason sat at the dinner table with face like thunder, looking distinctly like she had just been sucking a lemon. Gregg did his best to ignore this and eat his pork chops, while the two children had a little spate over the gravy jug. After a sustained period of silent tension, Anne finally posed the question that had been eating away at her all day:
“Are you still going to the club, tonight?”
“Yes. Have I indicated anything to the contrary?” he sarcastically replied.
“This rally is taking a lot of planning.” she acerbically contended.
“Yeah, well we like to do it right.” His response was deliberately ambiguous, which induced an audible growl from Anne. She decided to wait until the dinner was over and the children were ready for bed, whereupon she ushered them a little prematurely to their shared bedroom. Now she confronted Gregg more openly:
“Are you seeing that little tart, tonight?”
Gregg reeled at the directness of her accusation: “What...? If you mean, is Vera involved, then yes.”
“Sounds like a Freudian slip.”
“What? What does?”
“The use of ‘involved’.” she smugly insinuated.
“For Christ’s sake, Anne... Don’t make every time I go out into an inquisition.”
“Every time!” she complained vehemently, “I hardly ever say a word.”
“Keep it down – you’ll upset the kids.”
“I’ll upset the kids? What are you doing: making them feel secure?”
“It’s just a rally meeting – okay?” Gregg gently grasped her shoulders, realising that he needed to a pacify her, but she just shook him off. “Don’t get all het up. I’ll only be out a few hours.”
“Last time, you didn’t come back until gone midnight.” she reminded him sniffily.
“Well, okay. I’ll try to get back earlier this time. Okay?”
“Not really.”
“Look, I’ll take us all out at the weekend for a treat. Have a nice family day...We could go to London Zoo.” He suggested optimistically. “Come on, cheer up. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Anne didn’t look entirely convinced, but the tactic did seem be to having the desired effect. He kissed on the forehead and used his beguiling smile to soften her neurotic disposition. “I’ll be back by eleven – I promise.” She was mildly reassured.
As Arthur walked down the road towards Washington Parade, he noticed a cherry red Jaguar S-type, (the 3.8 litre version), parked rather incongruously in the shabby street. It stuck-out like a proverbial sore thumb. Arthur surreptitiously ambled around it, looking for any sign of the driver, either in the car or nearby. The street was remarkably quiet, with no one else in sight. He could not resist trying the driver’s door – it opened. Not quite believing his luck he slunk inside, still keeping out a beady eye for the owner. Astonishingly, the keys were in the ignition – it was a gift from God, or perhaps, Satan. He started the engine: it purred beautifully. Still there was no sign of anyone in the street, so he casually pulled away and drove off rather sedately. He was soon opening up the engine on the M62 and then the M6. About two and half hours into the journey, he stopped at the Watford Gap Service Station and bought a bottle of Coca-Cola. While he was wondering around the station, he noticed a public telephone and decided to ring The Red Bull in the hope that Dickie would be there. “Hello?” enquired Dickie a bit nonplussed when the barman handed him the pub phone.
“Dickie – it’s me, Arfur...Look, fings went to cock in Liverpool, but I should still be able to make it. I best meet y’u at the pub.”
“Right...Okay – just be there by about nine.” insisted Dickie a little fretfully.
“I’ll do me best.” Arthur put the phone down. The pressure was back on and he needed to change route. He bought a road atlas with his last few shillings, took a couple of pills and then devised the most practicable course to his target destination.
Chapter Forty-Five
(6 - 11 March 2007)
Although mild for the time of year, there was a heavy down pour of rain that morning. Joanne sat at her desk in the estate agents office in Huntingdon High Street where she worked; she was on her own this morning, the other agent who worked out of the small office had called in sick and the manager was on a course; however, the miserable weather ensured there was little business to be done, anyway. It was cold, quiet and the air was impregnated with the smell of rain; as she sat there bored to tears, she contemplated the demise of her father: she had not heard from him since he had disappeared over three months ago, and the local police had been thoroughly disinterested in a missing ex-con who had apparently left his bungalow of his own free will. Though she suspected that he could look after himself fairly well, he was now 66 years old and presumably running out of money. There had been no word from the Metropolitan Police.
At about 10.30, a customer finally entered the premises. It didn’t look too promising, however, as the man was clearly well into his seventies. After closing his umbrella and giving Joanne a sideways glance, he began perusing some rather large detached houses, which seemed a bit peculiar; Joanne wondered if he had won the lottery, or was just a time waster.
“Good morning, sir. Is there anything you’re particularly looking for?” she asked in her most articulate parlance.
“Er, well...I’m not sure.” the man answered very unpromisingly.
“House, flat, maisonette?” she attempted to assist him.
“Actually, I’m not looking for a property.” he informed her with an unnerving stare. Joanne started to feel decidedly uncomfortable. “Are you Joanne?”
“Er, yes...why?”
“Joanne Paris?”
“Er, yes...Well, Clayton these days. Do I know you?”
“Very unlikely. I have some news about your father.” he informed her mysteriously.
“My father...? Is he okay?”
“Um, to be honest, I couldn’t tell you. Don’t you know?”
“Look, I’m sorry, but wh
o the hell are you?”
“I’m...a shadow from the past. My name is Ewan Williams.”
This was getting stranger by the second – she had no idea who he was: “I’m sorry; I don’t know who you are. My father never mentioned you.”
“No, he wouldn’t have: we’ve never met...” Joanne now looked extremely perplexed. “I think I need to explain.” “Er, yes.” agreed Joanne.
“We had a connection a very long time ago, through your grandfather – Dickie.”
On hearing this, Joanne realised that this man was undoubtedly serious: “Right...Look, would you like a cup of tea or something – I could lock up shop for a bit; I don’t think there’s going to be a rush anytime soon.”
“I think that might be a good idea.” Ewan concurred with the gentle smile of a seemingly harmless old man.
Joanne directed him to a customer chair by her desk, before going out the back to make some tea. When she returned with the mugs of tea, she sat down opposite Ewan; she was noticeably agitated.
“Thank you...” Ewan sipped some tea, “You remember giving those DNA samples last year?” “Yes.”
“I take it they haven’t contacted you, yet?”
“No.” she said tentatively, her face full of anxiety.
“No. I suppose they might not, with your dad missing an’ all.”
“What do y’u mean? How do you know that?”
“I know a lot of things, Joanne; and none of them are going to make you very happy...I’m sorry to have to inflict this on you – it’s nothing to do with you, really...”
“Come on – spit it out.” Joanne was beginning to get stressed.
“They compared your DNA sample with the sample obtained from evidence kept from 1965...It was a murder and rape case.”
“I know. My dad was acquitted.”
“Yes, but that was before DNA fingerprinting...Your DNA has a familial match with the DNA from that crime. So, it was either your dad or one his brothers – his brothers are known not to have been involved. There was only ever one realistic suspect...” Joanne was appalled and had to place her hand over her mouth, as she felt physically sick; “I know this is a shock...”
“Who the hell are you!” she demanded with sudden indignation.
“The man he killed was Gregg Mason; Gregg was married to my sister, Anne Williams... The police notified Anne of the result of the DNA analysis. There will be something in the news about it, soon. He’s a wanted man, Joanne.” She struggled to digest this information. “I never met your father, but my hands aren’t completely clean of my brother-in-law’s blood...Forty odd years ago, Gregg was having an affair with a secretary at his works – Vera Fable. Anne was falling apart over this particular affair, though it wasn’t the first...Anyway, she wouldn’t let anyone intervene, so I took it upon myself to try to put a stop to it, without her knowledge; she never knew I set it up...He wasn’t supposed to kill anyone; there wasn’t even supposed to be any violence. All he had to do was scare them and rob them; basically, humiliate them and leave them stranded in the middle of nowhere... Your grandfather enlisted your dad for the job; I reckon that had something to do with his suicide...” Joanne was stunned to silence. “This man you call dad, was a low life crook who stepped over the line into...sick acts. He killed Gregg Mason in cold blood; he raped that girl and then chased her down like a dog and tried to kill her. He’s evil, Joanne. I wouldn’t be surprised if he raped your mother, too – that’s probably why she killed herself...”
“What?” Joanne frantically interrupted, “No, no. She died in child birth – my mum told me that.”
“No, Joanne. She had an accident: that’s what killed her...I can’t prove it was suicide; maybe she just wanted to abort...I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you, but you should know the truth. Your...father, for want of another word, is a lying scumbag; he can’t be trusted.”
“If this was all going to come out, anyway, why are you here? To gloat?” she asked resignedly.
“Hardly...Like I said: I‘ve had to live with my own guilt all this time. I just want a chance to speak to him. I need to resolve this before I die.”
“And what exactly are you planning to do?” she asked with obvious suspicion.
“Look, I’m a 75 year old man. I’m not exactly capable of that much... I just need to speak to him; exorcise my demons.”
“Well, I can’t help you – I don’t know where he is. He hasn’t been in touch since he scarpered.” she explained with bitterness permeating every word.
“I see...Well, if he does get in touch...” Ewan handed Joanne a business card, “I’m retired, but you can reach me on the mobile number on the back.” She turned the card over to see a number scrawled on the back. “Please...If he gets in touch, try and arrange a meeting, and then let me know.”
“What makes you think I ever want to see him again?”
“You don’t have to. Just arrange the meeting.”
“Shouldn’t I just tell the police?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll do that; after I speak with him... Please?”
“One thing.” she said as was about to leave, “How did you find me?”
“Oh, I’ve known where you were for a long time...I just didn’t know where he was.”
Three days later, Joanne was at home and getting ready to go out with her friends on a Friday night pub crawl, when the phone rang; she assumed it would be one her friends, but it wasn’t:
“Hello!” she answered chirpily.
“Joanne...? It’s me – y’u dad.” Initially, Joanne froze; “Hello? Are y’u there?”
“Yes...Yes, I’m here.”
“I suppose y’u saw the papers?” Arthur enquired hesitantly.
“Yes, of course. Thankfully not many people connect me with that name.”
“Joanne, please, I’m innocent. They’ve faked it, some’ow...”
“Then turn yourself in and they can check your DNA.”
“They’re settin’ me up, jus’ like before.”
“Why? Why would they do that?”
“Because, it makes ‘em look bad; they wanna prove Ackroyd wasn’t wrong.”
“It was forty odd years ago – why would anyone care, now? This Ackroyd ‘ll be long dead – isn’e?”
“I know...Jus’ trust me; they’re fittin’ me up, again.”
“Well, I dunno what y’u expect me to do?”
“I just need some money...I’m skint. Please, Joanne...I can’t do time at my age.” he implored.
“I could put some money into your bank account.” she suggested rather unhelpfully.
“They’ll trace it, won’t they? Even I know that...I need cash.”
“And how exactly do I get you this cash?” “We could meet somewhere... Please?” “Where?” she finally agreed.
“I’m not that far away...Do y’u know the Country Park – it’s near the ‘ospital?” “Yes, I know that.” she snapped.
“There’s a small parkin’ area, just after where the f’rensic lab’ is.” “Yes, I know where y’u mean.” She couldn’t hide her agitation.
“Are y’u okay?” Arthur was slightly worried that his daughter had turned on him.
“Yes...Look, you’re askin’ me to ‘elp a wanted man...I could get in trouble.”
“Don’t worry... Meet me on Sunday at midnight, where I said.”
After a lengthy pause, she said: “Okay... How much do y’u want?”
“As much as y’u can get...At least free ‘undred.”
“What makes y’u think I can afford that?” she complained.
“Please...Jus’, jus’ bring me what y’u can.”
“Okay.”
“Make sure no one follows y’u.” he instructed before abruptly putting down the phone.
The parking area for the country park had no lighting, as it was intended for use in daylight hours, and it was pretty well hidden, too; even the path that ran down the side and all the way to a mini-roundabout, providing access to the
hospital and a new housing development, did not have any streetlights. Consequently, the whole area was pitch-black and pretty foreboding. No one who wasn’t up to any good would be frequenting that place at midnight.
Arthur had hidden in some bushes that ran down the centre of the parking area, splitting it into two separate sections; this gave him easy access to both sides. At the stroke of midnight he observed a car’s headlights, which had clearly turned off the roundabout and on to the approach road to the car park. In the darkness, the headlights were like blazing arc lamps – it was impossible to see the shape of the car, let alone the colour or type. The car pulled into the middle of first parking area. For a few minutes there was no sign of the driver; the lights remained on and the engine was kept running. Arthur had in fact stolen a car earlier in the day and parked it on the other side of the car park: he decided to return to the car and desperately tried to hot wire the old Rover, but its starter motor was a bit temperamental. Then he heard the ominous sound of a sharp tapping sound on the driver’s side window. He struggled to make anything out in the blackness, so he decided to get out of the car, taking a large metal steering lock with him as a weapon. For a few seconds he just stood there next to the stolen car, clutching the steering lock; the other car’s engine was still running and its lights still burning brightly through the bushes, causing a slight spread of dim light. Then he heard a click; he instinctively recognised that click as the cocking of gun hammer and immediately became aware of the barrel of a .38 Enfield revolver (rather appropriately) pointing directly at his left temple at a range of a few inches.
“Drop it.” instructed the elderly voice, with its hint of a welsh accent, “Or I’ll blow your head off.” it added for good measure. Arthur did as instructed.
“What d’y’u want? I a’n’t got no money.”
“Money? You wouldn’t be here, if you did, would you?”
“Who the fuck are y’u?”
“A skeleton from your past... We never actually met. But I was the fool who hired you...to do a simple little job. One you completely fucked up. I never wanted anyone hurt; why did you do it?”
