Chasing the Dark

by Sam Hepburn

  The ground fell away, taking my stomach with it. This was either a sick joke, or some kind of warning – you know, like in the movies when the mob kills someone then sends a truckload of flowers round to the church to make sure everyone knows it was them. I hurled that wreath so hard it bounced off the gate, then I ran over and stamped on it till all that was left was a tangle of wire and a squashy mess of petals. Did it make me feel better? No. It didn’t. And if I hadn’t realised it before, I realised it now. The only thing that was ever going make me feel even the tiniest bit better was catching Mum’s killer.

  I got this tight, prickly feeling on the back of my head. I turned round and caught a bloke watching me from a silver Volvo parked on the grass verge. He was scratching his stubble and talking into his mobile. He must have seen me going crazy. I didn’t care. He should mind his own business. I glared at him. The way he stared back unnerved me. After a bit he pocketed his phone, slipped the car into gear and slid off down the road. I waited for the uneasiness to drain away, annoyed when it hung around like scum at the bottom of the bath.

  I walked back to Mum’s grave and smoothed away the mark left by the wreath. I had to find Yuri. Only he could tell me if the ‘bad people’ trying to silence him were the same ones who’d silenced Mum and Lincoln. And only he could tell me why. But I wasn’t going to find him by hanging around Saxted trashing over-the-top floral tributes. I had to go to London. That’s where Yuri had been headed and that’s where Mum had died. I’d start with the Trafalgar Arms. So what if the thought of walking through that door sent a thousand volts of pain through my guts? There was just a chance that one of the bar staff had overheard what Mum and Ivo Lincoln had been talking about.

  I was dying to go straight up to my room and start packing but Doreen had other ideas. The minute I walked in she sprang out of the kitchen yelling.

  ‘I just got back from the farmer’s market and what did I find? The house empty and the back door hanging wide open. I knew you couldn’t be trusted.’

  I spun round to check the door.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the lock,’ she snapped. ‘Plain thoughtless, that’s what you are. Just like your mother. It’s a wonder we weren’t burgled. Anyone could have waltzed off with the television, all my jewellery, George’s computer and heaven knows what else. And as if that wasn’t enough you’ve been traipsing mud all over the house. Don’t deny it. There were footprints in the hall, on the stairs and in our bedroom, when I’ve expressly forbidden you to go in there. So what have you got to say for yourself?’

  How about It wasn’t me, Doreen, I’m not that stupid? But she’d never have believed me so I mumbled I was sorry and raced upstairs, praying that Ivo’s laptop would still be there.

  ‘I haven’t finished with you, young man!’

  I burst into my bedroom. The laptop had gone. It only took one look in the drawers to see they’d been searched by someone who’d been nowhere near as sneaky about it as Doreen. I was sweaty and shaking. Maybe it was kids. Maybe they’d slipped into the house on the off chance and only bothered with the room that had kids’ stuff in it. Yeah, that would explain everything; the mud, the rummaging and the fact that none of Doreen and George’s things had been nicked. There were just two small problems with that. One – I’d definitely locked the door when I went out, and two – there was no sign of a break-in. Whoever had got into Laurel Cottage had made a neat, professional job of picking the lock and gone straight for Lincoln’s laptop. It had to be someone who’d been hanging round the village, waiting for me to go out. The prickle in my scalp flared up again and fluttered down my spine. Someone like that shifty bloke who’d been watching me in the graveyard.

  ‘I said, I haven’t finished with you!’

  I went back downstairs, trying to convince myself I was imagining things and that Doreen had faked the whole thing to give herself an excuse to turf me out. Either way, my immediate future wasn’t looking great – I’d either be spending it in care or dodging the gangsters who were trying to stop me discovering Lincoln’s secrets.

  Close up, Doreen’s anger seemed pretty genuine. I mean, keeping her face the colour of cherryade and making a noise like a leaky piston every time she looked my way can’t have been easy. She was working herself up to have another go at me when the phone rang. She grabbed the receiver. Her voice changed quicker than a flicked switch.

  “Oh, Mr Pritchard. Hello. Joe tells me that everything went very well last night . . .’

  ‘What?’ Her eyes locked on to mine like a couple of heat-seeking lasers. ‘There must be a misunderstanding . . .’

  ‘But I . . .’

  ‘Supposing I . . .’

  ‘I realise that, but . . .’

  ‘Yes . . . I’ll send my invoice.’

  She slammed down the phone, the cherryade flush took on a nasty tinge of Ribena and her breathing went so weird I was scared she was having a heart attack.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Don’t you play innocent with me. That was Norma Craig’s lawyer calling to terminate her contract.’

  This was all I needed.

  ‘Do you have any idea of the trouble George’s business is in or how much a contract like that meant to us?’

  ‘It’s not my fault. I did everything you said but she’s insane.’

  ‘Are you trying to blame my cooking? I’ve never had a complaint, not in twenty years of catering. It must have been you. Turning up in jeans and talking like a lout. I knew it would end in disaster.’

  ‘So why d’you make me do it then?’

  ‘You think I wanted to? It was her idea. Some crazy notion about wanting a fresh young face around the place. But you had to mess it up, didn’t you, because you’re a selfish, inconsiderate taker just like your . . .’

  ‘Don’t you dare say another word about my mum. Don’t you dare! You think you’re better than she was but you’re not. You’re just a dried-up snobby old cow who doesn’t care about anyone but yourself. I don’t know how George puts up with you.’

  ‘I won’t be spoken to like that in my own house. Go to your room. Now!’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m off. And you know what? You can stick your stinking house and your stupid rules. I’m going back to London.’

  ‘Back to that sleazy boyfriend of your mother’s? Last I heard, he didn’t want anything to do with you. And I can see why.’

  ‘I’d rather sleep on the streets than stay here!’

  ‘That’s just where you’re headed, Joe Slattery, and don’t come grovelling to me when you end up in trouble.’

  I ran upstairs and started stuffing clothes into my rucksack and shoving everything else into a carrier. By the time I’d finished, both bags were bulging but I wasn’t going to leave any of Mum’s stuff behind for Doreen to chuck out. She was right about Eddy, though. If I turned up at our old flat he’d slam the door in my face. I’d stay with Bailey and his brother Jackson – they’d see me all right for a bit. After that, who knew where I’d end up? I didn’t care. Right now the only thing that mattered was catching Mum’s killer.

  CHAPTER 11

  I was edgy all the way to London, trying to shake off the feeling I was being watched. Trouble is, once you start worrying about something like that everyone you see looks dodgy. By the time I got to London I only had three quid left of the twenty George had given me. I knew I should have saved the fare and walked from the tube to the Trafalgar Arms but I took the bus, reckoning it was the best way to avoid the crash site. Wrong. When the driver pulled up at the stop before the pub, my gaze had already clamped on to the manky bunches of flowers hanging off the lamp post in crinkly cellophane wrappers. Even when I wrenched my eyes away they flew straight up the narrow concrete column to the CCTV camera that had videoed the accident. The old couple standing beside me stepped back as if I’d made a weird noise or something so I grabbed Oz, got off and ran the rest of the way.

  I’d sat on the steps of that pub enough times as a kid with a Coke and a
bag of crisps waiting for Mum and Eddy, but I’d never been inside. I hadn’t missed much: red vinyl seats, a sad-looking stage, a few old codgers sitting round the telly watching darts and a fat landlord with dark wiry hair and small suspicious eyes who looked like a bear that’d just been woken up from hibernation and wasn’t too pleased about it.

  ‘No kids or dogs in the bar,’ he grunted, without taking his eyes off the TV.

  I was shaking and it was making me stammer. ‘S . . . sorry . . . I . . . my mum . . . I’m S . . . Sadie Slattery’s son.’

  His little eyes slid round to look at me. ‘I’ve already paid Eddy what she was owed.’

  No danger of the old sorry-for-your-loss arm-squeezing routine then.

  I couldn’t let him get to me. ‘I . . . I’m not here about money. I . . . I want to talk to whoever was behind the bar the night of the crash.’

  His eyes swivelled back to the TV. He opened his mouth and bellowed, ‘Shauna!’

  A voice yelled back that she was busy. He shouted again, crosser this time, and kept it up until a fair-haired woman, younger than him but not by much, wearing a red dress, a lot of make-up and yellow rubber gloves stuck her head through the door behind the bar.

  ‘Someone to see you,’ the landlord said, working a cocktail stick between his front teeth. ‘Sadie’s kid.’

  It was the woman’s turn to look at me. Her face softened.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ I sounded like a detective off one of the cheesy cop shows Mum used to watch.

  She nodded towards the back. I whistled to Oz and squeezed past the landlord, who barely shifted his baggy backside to make room.

  ‘Don’t mind Don,’ she said, leading the way upstairs. ‘He’s always in a mood in the mornings. Cuppa?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The kitchen in their flat was bright and cheerful after the gloom of the bar, and loads cleaner. Oz was squinting up at her with his tongue hanging out. As she filled the kettle she poured him a bowl of water.

  ‘What’s this about, Joe?’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘Sadie’s been singing here for years. Course I know your name, she talked about you often enough. I’d have come to the funeral only Eddy left it to the last minute to tell me when it was and Don couldn’t spare me from the bar.’ She took a couple of tea bags out of a jar. ‘She was a good woman, your mum. A good friend and a good singer.’

  I could see she was about to get teary so I said quickly, ‘I want to know about that bloke Lincoln who was driving the car. What happened? Did he just go up to her after the gig or had they been chatting before?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  I gave her the line I’d prepared. ‘It’s weird she was in his car when she never got lifts from strangers. I just wondered if there was anything . . . going on.’

  She closed the door. ‘How do you get on with Eddy?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  She curled her lip. ‘He’s big mates with my Don. Personally, I never worked out what Sadie saw in him.’

  I nodded, though from what I’d seen of Don, Shauna and Mum were running neck and neck in the dud bloke stakes.

  She dropped her voice. ‘It makes me sick the way he comes in here accusing your mum of everything under the sun when I know for a fact that the only time she ever clapped eyes on Ivo Lincoln was the night of the crash.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  She eyed the door and leant across the table. ‘Because he rang the pub that morning and it was me who took the call.’

  I tipped forward on my seat, heart beating fast.

  ‘What did he want?’

  She frowned and looked down.

  ‘Please, Shauna. Mum used to tell me everything; she’d have wanted me to know.’

  She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘All right. He gave me his number, said he was a journalist and he wanted Sadie to call him urgently. I got straight on to her and told her she must have come into money. To tell you the truth we had a good laugh about it. Anyway, when she rang him back he said it was too important to be discussed over the phone. She was a bit suspicious and arranged to meet him here after the gig where she knew there’d be lots of people around, and we looked his photo up online so we’d know if it really was him. There was a big crowd in that night but I spotted him just as the band started playing. He was nice-looking, very polite, took his pint over to that table in the corner and waited till Sadie had finished her set. Then he bought her a drink, they talked for a while and he showed her something . . .’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I couldn’t really see from the bar but she had her head down for a long time like she was looking at it. Then I’m pretty sure she put it in her bag. Whatever he was telling her it must have been interesting because she barely said a word, just sat there listening.’

  That didn’t fit with my idea of a journalist. ‘Are you sure he wasn’t asking her questions?’

  ‘Didn’t look like it.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea what he said?’

  ‘I caught her up as they were leaving and asked if she’d inherited a million. She was white as a sheet and said no and made me swear not to tell anyone about Lincoln, ’specially not Eddy. Said she needed time to think things through. Then they left and . . . well, you know the rest.’

  ‘Think what things through?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘And she only had one drink?’

  ‘A glass of wine. I don’t know who told the papers she was tipsy but it wasn’t true. Still, I kept my promise to Sadie and till now I haven’t told anybody what really happened.’

  ‘I’d give anything to know what Lincoln told her.’

  ‘Whatever it was, pet, it can’t make any difference now. If you ask me, we should let Sadie and her secrets rest in peace.’ She got up from the table. ‘I’m going to grab a quick sandwich, do you want one?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘Ham and cheese, all right?’

  ‘Great.’

  Shauna might have blown my Mum-giving-Ivo-information theory but she’d confirmed that Lincoln had tracked her down to talk about something important. Shauna passed me a sandwich and topped up our teas.

  ‘It’s a shame Eddy hasn’t managed to get in touch with Lizzie. Who is she, an old friend?’

  I bit into the sandwich. ‘Who?’

  She looked flustered. ‘Didn’t Eddy tell you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘The fireman, the one who . . . cut your mum out of the car. He went round your flat the day after the crash. I thought you were there.’

  ‘Me and Oz went down the canal. I couldn’t stick Eddy shouting and carrying on. What did this fireman want?’

  ‘To say that . . . that . . . when he got there Sadie was still conscious. He said she grabbed his hand and said something over and over . . . like it was really important.’

  I got this spasm in my throat that made it hard to speak. ‘What was it?’

  ‘“Tell Joe and Lizzie.”’

  ‘Tell us what?’

  ‘That’s it. Just, “Tell Joe and Lizzie.”’

  ‘The fireman . . . he must’ve heard her wrong. Mum didn’t even know anyone called Lizzie.’

  ‘You sure? He got your name right.’

  Suddenly I was seeing Mum trapped in the wreckage, reaching out to a stranger, struggling to send me a last, gasped-out message and running out of life before she could finish it. What was it, Mum? What were you trying to tell me? I dropped my head on the table, feeling the burning taser pain give way to a dizzying drop into endless nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry, Joe. I could wring Eddy’s neck for not telling you.’

  I felt her hand on my head and pulled away. ‘If he finds her, can you give me a call?’

  I grabbed her phone pad and scribbled down Bailey’s number.

  ‘All right pet,’ she said, frowning. ‘But as for the rest of it, as I said, maybe it’s best to let things lie.’

>   Don started yelling at her to come down and bottle up.

  I said goodbye, slipped out into the street and started walking to Farm Street. Lizzie, Liz, Elizabeth. I felt a stab of jealousy, like ice on a tooth. Who is she, Mum? And why was her name the last word you ever spoke?

  CHAPTER 12

  After posh, uptight Saxted, the estate looked even scruffier and crazier than before. Eight identical low-rise blocks slashed with stained concrete walkways, arranged around a pathetic excuse for a play area, and surrounded by a sea of overflowing wheelie bins. Whoever picked the name Farm Street must have been having a laugh. The only crop growing round there was the weed Bailey’s brother Jackson sold by the ounce. Though you won’t catch me knocking Jackson Duval. If it wasn’t for him I’d have been diced, skewered and barbequed the minute we moved in. And now I needed his help again.

  Oz was scampering around, barking and lifting his leg against every bin bag in sight. He was ecstatic to be back and I have to admit, the thought of swapping Doreen’s company for Bailey’s was starting to cheer me up too. Me and Bailey first got to know each other because we both spent our lunch breaks in the ICT suite. Only unlike me he wasn’t hiding, he just liked computers. I’d been at the school a couple of days, having the usual trouble settling in, when this other new kid, Trevor Mitchum, decided to show the world how hard he was by dropping by and giving us a hard time. The downside was that me and Bailey got well and truly thrashed. The upside was that we shared our pain and became friends. That night Jackson and a couple of his crew went round to welcome Trevor to the area. There were lots of upsides to that. Trevor got to meet the neighbours, learned not to throw his weight around till he’d checked who he was messing with, and never bothered us again.

  I’d been keeping a constant look out for a silver Volvo and a man with stubble and I went on running my eyes around as I walked through the estate. The lights were on in our lounge which meant Eddy was up there with his mates, drinking beer and dropping fag ash on Mum’s cushions. A woman with long dark hair and a brown coat hurried past. For a minute I could have sworn it was Mum. I shouted, ‘Hey!’