The Two Towns (The Lakeland Murders)

by J. J. Salkeld

  ‘Is that it, lass? What, aren’t you busy enough or something?’

  ‘My case load is mental, in every sense.’

  ‘Then why report the kid missing? Christ, when it comes to that family I’d be more surprised if a kid of Sal’s was at school two days in a row, rather than bloody AWOL.’

  ‘No, Ray, you’re wrong there. Dead wrong. Johnny is an amazing kid really. I have no idea why or how this happened, but at an early age he seemed to decide that his mum’s world view, if you can call it that, was utterly and totally shit. So he works hard at school, even though his mum’s idea of a square meal of an evening is some frozen fucking onion rings and a can of fizzy pop.’

  ‘So the bloody system’s actually right for once then? The kid’s got no previous? Not a thing?’

  ‘That’s right, mate. I probably find this almost as hard to understand as you do, but it seems that once in about every five hundred bloody years a kid manages to overcome both nature and nurture. Fuck knows how, like.’

  For the first time in weeks Dixon had that feeling, the one that he both dreaded and welcomed. Like adrenaline mixed with heartburn. Dreaded because he knew that there’d be hard graft ahead, and plenty of it too, but welcomed because he’d get to do what he knew he did best, and that was to be a detective. And this one didn’t feel right, even now. He trusted Kate Straw’s judgement, and she’d made it clear that this was totally out of character for the lad. And that really got his red flags flying. So this time he picked up the phone and dialled Sally Graham’s number without a second’s hesitation, and he let it ring until she answered.

  ‘It’s Ray Dixon, from Kendal nick.’

  ‘Fuck off’ said Sally, and slammed down the phone.

  Dixon dialled again, and waited patiently until Sally answered.

  ‘Do you want me to come round there then, Sal?’ he said calmly. ‘Because we are going to have a little chat this morning, I promise you.’

  ‘No. No way. What do you want, Ray? Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘I thought you’d be getting ready for church.’

  ‘Fuck off. What is it, you bastard?’

  ‘It’s about Johnny.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Why else would you be phoning me at five o’clock on a Sunday morning.’

  ‘It’s after nine. We’ve had a report that Johnny is missing.’

  ‘Who says? That interfering bitch Straw, I expect. Look, Ray, I’ll tell you what I told her. He’s just missed a couple of days of school, that’s all. That’s not a fucking crime now, is it?’

  ‘Actually, Sal, it’s your legal responsibility to see that he’s at school.’

  ‘Shut up. No way. He’s old enough to look after himself, make his own decisions, like.’

  ‘He’s fourteen.’

  ‘Aye, and I was fifteen when I had our Darren.’

  ‘So he’s at home now, is he? Johnny, I mean.’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Is he or isn’t he?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Because you’re his mother, Sally. It’s your bloody job to know.’

  ‘All right. Keep your hair on. You want me to go and check, do you?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Dixon heard heavy receding footsteps, plenty of swearing, and a TV show that he couldn’t identify. Twenty seconds later Sally Graham came back on the line.

  ‘He’s here.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m fucking sure. He’s in his bloody room.’

  ‘And he’ll be at school tomorrow?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘He’d better be, Sal.’

  ‘He will be. Now fuck off, Ray.’

  When he’d put the phone down Dixon sat and thought for a moment. That feeling was still there, despite what Sally had said. He considered going round to the house to see the kid for himself, and later he’d ask himself, with increasing urgency, exactly why he hadn’t. It had started to rain, and he quite fancied another cup of tea, but surely that can’t have been why? But he didn’t get up, and just sat for a minute, until the feeling almost passed. Then he entered the details of the call onto the system, picked up his mug, and made his way to the kitchen. A couple of biscuits from the boss’s private stash would go rather nicely with a brew, he thought.

  Monday, 7th November

  Jane Francis locked the front door of the little cottage that she’d bought on Fellside. She still hadn’t got used to owning her own place, but it felt good and grown-up. It’s what her dad would have wanted, anyway. One of her neighbours, a woman in her late sixties, had knocked on the door within ten minutes of the removal van leaving, and Jane had submitted to a friendly but persistent inquisition. No doubt the answers she’d given would be all along the terrace by now, filtered through the world view of a widowed ex-teacher. But Mrs. Ward had at least seemed happy to discover that Jane was a police officer, although she had expressed doubts about the suitability of the job for a woman.

  ‘I’m a detective now, Mrs. Ward. I don’t have to go and sort out pub fights or domestic incidents.’

  ‘Oh, we don’t get those in Kendal, dear. A respectable town, is this.’

  Jane had kept her doubts to herself, even though she’d seen the statistics and Kendal was, in fact, a fairly typical market town when it came to most of the relevant metrics. But as she unlocked her car, and looked down at the town below her she did wonder, briefly, if the place really was as peaceful as it seemed. Might she have been better advised to stay in the city? What if DI Hall had just talked a good game, and was nothing more than an obviously able man enjoying an early retirement on full pay? After all, he’d told her that he had two teenage kids, and perhaps he was a man who had first achieved and now enjoyed a proper work-life balance. It was something that Jane had never managed. Not yet, anyway.

  But the moment she walked into the police station her fears faded, because it looked, sounded and even smelt just like the one she’d come from in Manchester. She gave her name at the front desk, and waited for DS Mann to come and collect her. She’d only met him briefly, after she’d accepted Hall’s job offer, and she remembered a broad-shouldered, quiet man. The type, she’d thought, that you’d probably rather have alongside you in a fight than in the interview room.

  Twenty minutes later her opinion had changed considerably. Hall was in his weekly meeting with the divisional Superintendent, so she sat and had a coffee with Ian Mann at his desk. He seemed friendly, funny and very, very tough. It wasn’t anything he said, because he didn’t tell a single war story. It was just something about the way that other officers, especially the blokes, were around him. As if they were measuring themselves somehow.

  ‘Are you a betting lass, Jane?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I had a bet online on the Grand National once, but my horse fell and had to be shot. I was gutted.’

  ‘Why? How much did you lose?’

  ‘No, because the poor horse died.’

  She glanced up at Mann, and saw that he was grinning.

  ‘Very funny’ she said.

  ‘I only ask because I bet I know what the boss is going to get you started on today.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Aye. A pound to a pinch of snuff he’ll ask you to review a case, first up, like. Just so he can see how you operate.’

  ‘That sounds sensible.’

  ‘Aye, and I’d even be willing to guess what the case is. This one.’ He passed a file to Jane. ‘Why not have a read of that before he gets back? At some point some health and safety numpty will turn up and spend about three hours telling you where the bloody fire exits are, but at least this’ll give you something interesting to get your teeth into.’

  ‘Thanks, Ian. It’s appreciated.’

  ‘No problem. I remember my first day out of uniform. I was keen as mustard to make a good impression.’

  ‘An
d did you?’

  ‘Not really. A pissed up teenager who’d assaulted and robbed some old dear threw up all over my new suit just as I was nicking him. Never the same after, that bloody suit.’

  Jane laughed, and Mann smiled back.

  ‘And one other thing, Jane. Don’t take any notice of Ray Dixon. He’s the only bloke in this station, and quite possibly the whole bloody country, who makes me sound like a bloody new man. You know, a metro-whatsit?’

  ‘Metrosexual?’

  ‘Aye, one of them. And here’s my final prediction for today, and I bet you that I’ll be right on this one too. I’ll bet you a biscuit that DC Dixon will walk through that door in three minutes time, at 0859, and that he’ll come straight over to you and makes some remark about me. You just watch.’

  ‘I will. And thanks for the file.’

  ‘No problem, lass. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.’

  Jane was already entirely absorbed by the time Ray Dixon reached her desk, even though his Hush Puppies were by far the quietest thing about him. His tan clashed with his jacket, which was at war with his shirt. He introduced himself, and they shook hands.

  ‘Seen the boss yet?’

  ‘No. Ian has been looking after me.’

  ‘I bet he has. Has he asked you back to see his medals?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘He will. Then it’ll be the old war wound.’ Dixon glanced round. ‘Speak of the devil’ he said, as Mann bore down on him.

  ‘Haven’t you got any work to do?’

  ‘Aye, Ian. As a matter of fact, I have. Why, do you want some of mine, like?’

  Half an hour later Jane had finished her first reading of the file, and she had two pages of neatly handwritten notes, questions and ideas. And it was the ideas that excited her. The feeling, almost forgotten, that what she thought, deduced or just plain guessed might actually make a difference to something. That her mind could influence an outcome. She was so engrossed that she didn’t even notice Andy Hall walk into the open office. So it was a surprise when she saw him handing out cups of tea to the team.

  ‘I remember that you take black coffee with one sugar, Jane’ he said. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, boss, thanks.’

  ‘Can you spare me ten minutes?’

  Jane picked up the file, put her pad on top of it and followed Hall into his office. They sat on opposite sides of his meeting table.

  ‘Let me guess’ said Hall. ‘That file under your pad is the Clark case.’

  ‘It is, yes.’

  Hall smiled.

  ‘Which proves that you should never judge a book by its cover.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s been ages since we had a new start on the team, but Ian knows that I like to ask people to have a look at an open case, just to ease them in. So that wasn’t a particularly impressive guess on his part. But to choose that case, now that was good work. Because it’s not the most recent open file that’s been sitting in the middle of what I call my problems pile, not by a long shot.’

  ‘So he did guess right then, Andy?’ She tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the eagerness out of her voice.

  ‘Would you be pleased if he had?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’d love to review it.’

  ‘Really? I’d say that this one is about as frustrating as they get, to tell the truth.’

  ‘No-one said it would be easy though, did they?’

  ‘Indeed not.’

  ‘And I remember what you said, about the two different types of offender. The regulars and the first timers. Well this one might be a genuine first-timer, mightn’t it?’

  ‘The husband you mean? Phil Clark?’

  ‘Who else?’

  Hall let the question hang in the air unanswered, and looked out of the window.

  ‘I sometimes think that there are two Kendals, two whole worlds maybe, existing side-by-side, and the inhabitants of each are totally unaware of the other. They just kind of glide past each other, like ships in the fog. And the only people who know the truth are us cops. Because in one world people get on with their lives, pretty much obey the rules, and don’t cause or get into any trouble. Not once in their whole lives. Not even when they’re provoked, or desperate. But the people who live in the other place only obey rules that they think they’ll get caught breaking. Otherwise anything goes in that world, absolutely anything. They just don’t give a shit about how their actions impact on the lives of others, including their own families. And us cops are the only people on earth who get to cross over between the two worlds. One we live in, and the other we work in. Or at least usually that’s how it is. Because I agree with you, Jane. I think our Mr. Clark may very well have bought a one-way ticket from one world to the other, and that’s an unusual occurrence. But where’s the evidence?’

  ‘So you want me to find the evidence?’

  ‘Not necessarily. There might not be any, remember. What I want you to do is carry out the twelve month follow-up. It’s due next month anyway, isn’t it? I’ll review what you do, and we’ll use this as a way of easing you into the systems and procedures that we follow here. They’re bound to be a bit different from Manchester. We only got electricity in 1970, you know.’

  Jane smiled.

  ‘Fantastic. Can we talk about the case now?’

  ‘Yes. You start by talking me through it, then ask me any questions you like. After that we’ll agree on the deliverables. I’ll need your report wrapped up by Friday, unless you unearth any new evidence of course. In which case the drinks are on me on Friday night, and that’s not something I say very often.’

  ‘Well, the facts are clear enough,’ said Jane, without recourse to either her notes or the file. ‘Phil and Ann Clark, both aged 47 and from Burneside, had a static caravan on the shores of Windermere. They were in the habit of using it at weekends, winter and summer, as a base for walking and a bit of sailing. There’s no evidence of marital disharmony, affairs, work or financial problems in either case. They both worked in insurance, and had done for years. No kids. On the night of November 14th last year they stayed in the caravan, and at about seven PM Phil went out for a walk. He’d taken to going for moonlight strolls, apparently. An hour later he returned, and found his wife’s body. Carbon monoxide poisoning. SOCO found that the outlet from the heater, outside the mobile home, had been blocked with a potato. They also found that the outlets of three other caravans, fortunately all unoccupied at the time, had been similarly tampered with. The husband denied all knowledge, and he, along with several other caravan users, mentioned that kids had been seen around the site, causing a low-level nuisance. Five of these children were traced and interviewed, and all denied any involvement. A verdict of unlawful killing was returned at the inquest. Is that about it?’

  ‘Yes. That’s a good summary. So why do you think that the husband did it? Why wasn’t it kids pissing about, not realising the danger that they were putting Mrs. Clark in?’

  ‘There had been no previous reports of those vents being blocked.’

  ‘Maybe it was a new prank. The first and last time they tried it.’

  ‘There were no sightings of the kids that evening.’

  ‘Perhaps they just weren’t spotted. Only one other caravan in that part of the site was occupied at the time. Or maybe they did it the night before, and no-one noticed.’

  ‘SOCO said it was probably that night that the vents were blocked. Judging by the state of the potatoes when they were examined.’

  ‘Probably isn’t the same as definitely though, is it? Sandy Smith’s reports are always models of precision. And she says that the potatoes were all placed on the outlets at the same time, were all from the same batch in that they were genetically identical, and had probably been placed on the outlets after 6pm on the day of the incident. But not definitely. She didn’t say definitely.’

  ‘Point taken. So what makes you think it was him then, Andy? A hunch? Surely you can’t believe in that
sort of mumbo-jumbo?’

  ‘Not really, no. But I do think that there’s something approaching evidence that it was the husband.’

  ‘I must have missed it. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I only said ‘approaching’. And I’m not even sure how explicit the file is on the point. It’s about the other caravans that were tampered with. Which were they again? Plots six, seven and eight, isn’t it?’

  Jane looked through the file.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Well, just look at those plots against the site map. They’re outlined in blue, and the Clark’s caravan in red. Have a look at the photos too, the general shots of the site. I think there’s an aerial one in there somewhere. Notice anything?’

  Jane looked carefully at the site plan, and the photographs. Then she saw it.

  ‘I get you. Why didn’t the offender put a spud on the caravan opposite the Clark’s one? Because although the offenders did do sequential numbers they’re not actually closest to each other, are they?’ Hall nodded encouragingly, and Jane thought about the possible significance of her observation. Hall was about to speak again, but stopped when Jane held up her hand. ‘Don’t tell me’ she said quickly. ‘The caravan that didn’t get done is the one that had people in it that night.’

  ‘Yes, exactly’ said Hall, raising his voice slightly. ‘Now I asked Clark during our interview if he knew that the people in that caravan were there that weekend, on site I mean, and he admitted that he did.’

  ‘It doesn’t prove anything though, does it? Maybe the spud on that outlet fell off, or was carried away by an animal or a bird.’

  ‘It didn’t just fall off, I promise you that. One of the SOCOs, we call him Tonto, searched the whole area. No other spuds. And no abandoned bags of spuds in the bins. Nothing.’

  ‘But the potatoes that were used didn’t match the ones in the Clark’s caravan.’