by Mari Hannah
They examined each other closely for what seemed like an age. Beth’s faked preoccupation wasn’t fooling anyone. With great effort, her mum leaned forward and stroked her cheek with the back of bony fingers, a touch so gentle it made Beth want to weep. She was of a mind to climb in bed with her for a hug, like she used to when she was a kid in that awful women’s refuge, over a decade ago.
Safe haven, my arse . . . He’d found them, hadn’t he? Followed them along the road, begging for forgiveness for the umpteenth time. Not because he was sorry. Out of concern for his sodding job. Using her as currency. A daughter needs a dad. Pathetic.
‘You’ve been crying,’ her mum said.
‘So have you.’
Regretting her words the moment they left her lips, more especially the harsh way in which they were delivered, Beth looked away, her eyes seizing on the next bay, where a well-dressed lady was visiting her daughter. Like Beth, she was doing her utmost to be cheerful. Not quite pulling it off. Beth guessed her age at around sixty. Behind that thin-lipped smile was the face of a woman with a broken heart.
Beth knew the feeling.
She continued to stare at the woman, her mood plummeting further. There was something terribly wrong with the picture. Like someone had cast characters in the wrong roles, or they were reading each other’s scripts by mistake. They should swap places. Revert to the norm. Daughters weren’t supposed to die before their mothers. That was never meant to be. It wasn’t right. Beth wondered who would care for the woman when she grew old – who would care for her when her mother passed away. She felt selfish even thinking it.
‘Sweetheart, what’s wrong?’
Beth looked at her mum. ‘Nothing . . .’
‘Honestly?’
‘I’m fine—’
‘You and your dad haven’t been fighting, have you?’
‘No!’ Beth lied. ‘He might pop in later.’
Diane Casey’s face lit up. ‘He’s in Ashington?’
‘Morpeth. He was called into work this morning. Said it might be a late one, so don’t count on it. I’ll text him to bring you some juice if he’s coming. If not, I’ll bring it tomorrow.’
Beth would have loved to tell her mum why her dad was at work, to share her fears about her best friend, Elliott. She couldn’t bring herself to utter the words.
Her attention shifted to events going on through the window. In the grey drizzle, people were going about their business: working, playing, generally having a laugh. Nurses too, despite having to care for sick people all day long. How they did it was a mystery to Beth. She was due some fun too.
The way things were going it was a long way off.
‘You sure you’re OK?’ her mum said.
Beth managed a half-smile. When she was growing up, Elliott was always round to play. Her mum loved him, like the son she’d always wished for, but never had. To heap more grief on her in her condition would be cruel. Besides, her dad would surely have mentioned it if Elliott had been the victim. Wouldn’t he? Beth must have got it wrong. She prayed she’d got it wrong.
6
Rubbing at the stubble on his chin, Hank flipped the sun visor down and peered into the mirror behind it. ‘I could do with a hot shower, a shave, a change of clothes,’ he said, flipping it up again, trying to iron out the creases in his suit. ‘I’m hardly in a fit state to interview anyone, am I?’ He made a meal of running his eyes over Kate’s whole body. ‘You either – no offence.’
‘None taken, you cheeky bugger.’
‘Not a good impression though, is it? Half asleep and dressed like a couple of bloody tramps. One glance and eye-witnesses will look for a begging bowl.’
‘Murder is bloody inconvenient sometimes. Don’t concern yourself. We’ll be hard pushed to find anyone at home in Alwinton now the show is over. They’ll be in the show field, all pitching in with the massive clear-up job. Sundays, especially this one, aren’t exactly rest days when you live in the sticks. Farming communities are at it round the clock.’
‘Like us then.’
‘Just like us,’ she echoed. ‘What time is it?’
Checking his watch, he lifted a hand to his mouth to cover an enormous yawn, for which he apologized. ‘It’s quarter past roast beef and Yorkshire pud. I’m assuming Alwinton has a pub and they serve Sunday lunch. I’m famished.’
‘They do. It’s called the Rose and Thistle and we’re not stopping to eat. I’ll buy you a bag of crisps.’
‘You’re heartless, you know that?’
‘So ask for a transfer.’
Hank feigned interest. ‘Y’know, that’s not a bad idea.’
‘Better the devil you know, Hank. You might end up with Atkins permanently.’
He went quiet at this, his attention straying out the side window. Kate’s eyes drifted in the opposite direction, to the valley, where pockets of mist floated above dewy ground even though the sun was doing its best to burn it off. She loved the Upper Coquetdale. She used to ride here often on her motorcycle, then on to Rothbury to meet up with biker mates for fish and chips, something she couldn’t possibly mention to Grumble Tum sitting next to her.
The scenery was superb as the valley gave way to the Harbottle Forest and eventually a view of the Simonside Hills. The silence in the car was interrupted by the sound of a text message arriving. She gestured for Hank to take it. Grabbing her mobile from the dash, he read a partial message on the home screen without accessing the rest.
‘It’s for you.’ His tone was bordering on hostile.
‘I know that, you divvi. It’s my phone.’ Kate waited, assuming, wrongly as it turned out, that the message was from Atkins. Maybe he’d had a change of heart and wanted her to interview their finder after all. Well, tough. ‘Are you going to tell me who it’s from? Or shall we play twenty questions? What does it say?’
‘It’s from Fiona. She—’
‘Give it here.’ Kate snatched the device from his hand and put it in her pocket to read later. Fiona Fielding was a gifted artist with whom she’d had a brief fling while she and Jo were pissing about, trying to decide if they were on or off, a situation that had lasted for far too long.
It was one night only with Fiona . . . but what a night.
A physical reaction to the memory surprised her. Kate could feel herself blushing. As curious as she was to know what the message said, she wasn’t about to ask Hank to read it for her. He was sulking again. Having put in time and effort as matchmaker to her and Jo, believing them to be a perfect fit, he’d taken against Fiona, mistaking her for the competition.
It tickled Kate to see his reaction to a simple text.
Like an obstreperous teenager in danger of losing his pocket money, he crossed his arms, sulking. He liked Jo a lot. That was good. So did she. At times she and Jo had come very close, only to be ripped apart by circumstance, which was why their holiday was so important. What Kate needed, more than anything, was to distance herself from her job and concentrate on their relationship. Though she didn’t know it, Hank’s brush with death had been the trigger for a change in how she intended to lead the rest of her life.
‘How much further?’ he asked after a few more twisty miles. ‘It’s not even signposted.’
‘You’ve never been to Alwinton?’
‘I’ve had no reason to.’
‘It’s beautiful, peaceful.’
‘Sounds a blast.’ He was still brooding.
Finding his strop more and more amusing, Kate changed the subject. ‘I wish the council would sort out these bloody potholes. They’ve taken months off the life of my tyres.’
‘How big is it?’
‘The council?’
‘Alwinton.’ Not even a smile.
‘Not very.’ She began to laugh. ‘At a guess, I’d say population of no more than around fifty or sixty – not that that makes our job any simpler. There were a lot of people at the show yesterday. It’s the last show of the year, so hugely popular.’ Easing off the accelerator going into a bend, she put h
er foot to the floor on a long stretch of road coming out of it. ‘Folks come from far and wide. It’ll be a nightmare tracing everyone. What we need is to find the show photographer.’
‘Was there one?’ Finally, a flicker of interest.
‘Why don’t you try and find out?’
‘I’ll call the Chronicle.’
‘Look!’
Kate pointed through the window. On the left-hand side of the road a flock of black Welsh mountain sheep were grazing on land she assumed belonged to Holystone Grange, a nineteenth-century listed building that rose majestically above them as they sped by. Hank made a snide remark about her feeling right at home among the animals.
Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he made a call, immediately drawing a blank. After a short conversation, he hung up. ‘They didn’t cover the event,’ he said. ‘Should have, but their reporter rang in sick.’
‘They didn’t send a replacement?’
‘Too many events happening elsewhere, apparently.’
‘The feature was pulled?’
He nodded. ‘It was the least high profile. There was no one available to fill in at short notice. “Hardly earth-shattering news” was the way the editor put it. Now he’s keen to know why we’re so interested—’
‘You tell him nowt.’
‘I didn’t!’
‘Okaay. Don’t scowl. I’m just making the point that he has a bloody big spade.’
Hank stared at the red battery indicator on his phone. ‘This thing is dying. I need to charge it. Pull in at the next Internet cafe, will you? Unless . . .’ He let the sentence hang, one eyebrow raised, eyes trained on the pocket that held her mobile.
Kate smiled. ‘Use mine. You may as well, seeing as I have no secrets any more. Not that Fiona and I are up to anything . . .’ She sensed doubt. ‘We’re not!’
‘I believe you.’ He clearly didn’t.
‘Er, hello? Private life. Best not go there, eh?’ She handed him her mobile. ‘Access to text messages is restricted until I say otherwise. Try my address book: Helen Compson.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘Just one of the many women I’m sleeping with.’ They were both laughing now. ‘Relax, Hank. She’s as straight as they come and happens to be the features editor at the Hexham Courant. Call her.’
‘And say what?’
‘Nothing personal. She’ll have your balls in a vice if you do. Ask her if she was at the show. I happen to know she loves it. If she wasn’t around in a professional capacity, she may still have gone along or know someone who did. Don’t hold your breath. I certainly didn’t see her.’
‘Jo with you, was she?’
Kate felt her cheeks burning. He was spot on. Whenever Jo was around, others tended to fade into the background. Still grinning, he punched in Helen’s number.
‘Engaged,’ he said. They rounded another bend, only to find a similar snaking strip of tarmac in front of them. ‘It really is the back of beyond out here. You sure this place even exists? We’re not lost, are we?’
‘Ha! You sound like a kid: are we nearly there yet? Have you really never been?’
‘Nope.’
‘You must have. Everyone goes once.’
‘After a journey like this, I bet not many go twice.’
She chuckled. ‘Try Helen again before we lose the signal.’
Pressing the call button, Hank offered to leave the phone on Bluetooth so it would play in the car.
‘No, you deal with it. I need a few minutes.’
Hank listened as the number rang out. ‘Can I disclose the reason I’m calling?’
‘Absolutely. Tell her it goes no further until I say so.’
‘You trust her to keep her mouth shut?’
‘I do.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Two words: Gillian Garvey.’
He was referring to a journalist Kate had fallen out with spectacularly over her mishandling of sensitive information in another case, a point-scoring battle that took place in full view of local and national press, not to mention Detective Chief Superintendent Bright.
Not her finest hour.
‘Not the same animal,’ she said. ‘So be nice. Helen’s a friend.’
‘I’m always nice!’
‘I know.’ Another chuckle.
Hank held up a hand as Helen picked up with a friendly, ‘Hi, Kate.’
‘Actually, it’s Hank here. I’m her—’
‘DS. I know. She talks about you often.’
‘Does she?’ Hank explained what he was after and why.
His voice faded out of Kate’s head as she negotiated a tricky incline. After a short conversation, he hung up, letting out a long breath as he placed her mobile on the dash.
‘No joy?’ Kate glanced in his direction.
‘Quite the opposite. She covered the event and has interviews, pictures – all we need. And she’s prepared to share. She said she’d call you later. Can’t talk now. She was with someone. Only picked up because it was you. Are you sleeping with her?’
Kate pulled a face. ‘We’re mates. Nothing more.’
He grinned. ‘She said to tell you there was an ex-copper there – also taking pictures. Might be useful. Alan Tailford. You know him?’
‘Vaguely. Nice chap.’
‘Your mate seems to think he’s a keen photographer.’
‘Worth talking to then – make a note of it.’
The light seemed to leave his eyes.
‘You OK?’ Kate took in his nod. ‘So why the sad face?’
‘Elliott Foster won his bout.’
‘Helen told you that?’
‘Last thing she said. She’s friendly with someone on the show committee. He emailed all the results hoping she’d put a piece in next week’s paper.’ Hank paused, Elliott’s ghost wrestling with him one last time. ‘There are times when being a copper sucks,’ he said. ‘Did you notice how much he looks like our Ryan?’
Kate hadn’t made the connection. ‘Is that what’s bothering you?’
Hank sidestepped the question. ‘The poor bastard wasn’t in the limelight long, was he?’
‘I knew I’d seen him yesterday.’ Kate wasn’t sure if the lad’s win made her feel better or worse. She’d watched some of the Cumberland wrestling but, with Jo by her side, chatting excitedly about their vacation, she’d not been paying attention. She’d let the boy down. It wouldn’t happen twice.
7
The village of Alwinton was ghostly quiet as they drove in. A stone-built garage was directly ahead, beyond which were the steep inclines that only yesterday played host to the fell racing for those brave or daft enough to enter. Even the stone bus shelter had a pretty display of geranium pots outside.
There was no one about as they stepped from the car. Kate heard a barking dog and caught a glimpse of a man on horseback. He cantered up the right fork of the road, disappearing before she had time to attract his attention, the sound of hooves on tarmac fading to nothing as she walked the other way.
As she’d predicted, practically everyone who lived in the village was busy with the fallout from the show. Those that weren’t involved weren’t answering their doors. A dark cloud had descended on this peaceful community. Kate knocked at several houses before deciding, against her better judgement, to enter the Rose and Thistle public house.
Hank’s face lit up at the suggestion.
‘You get a pint and nothing else,’ she warned. ‘No arguments, it wouldn’t be right. We’re here to chat with the locals, not feed our faces.’
He didn’t try to change her mind. Despite their dishevelled appearance, they were the public face of Northumbria Police. He understood that. No matter how low he was on fuel, he’d never bring the force into disrepute or show insensitivity to the bereaved. They were his first and only priority.
The barmaid eyed them as they entered, throwing a forced smile their way. She seemed visibly relieved to talk to strangers, a chance to escape the misery that pervaded the pub an
d do something useful. Bad news had spread quickly. From the look on customers’ faces, it had reached every single inhabitant despite a press blackout until the victim’s brother was advised of his death. In a technological age of texts, tweets and a host of other ways to communicate, it was nigh on impossible to stop the jungle telegraph.
Everyone, these days, was an unofficial reporter.
Kate knew the pub well. It was the focal point of the neighbourhood, usually full of fun and friendly banter. Why wouldn’t it be? The view through the window was stunning, the best you’d find from a public house anywhere in the country. The purple heather on the fells was particularly vibrant today, inviting visitors to stop a while and take in its beauty. Look at me, it seemed to say. Not that the regulars were taking any notice. Most were staring blankly into their drinks. Uncommunicative. Even the dogs on the floor appeared depressed, indifferent to the smell of Sunday roast emanating from the kitchen; no human was remotely interesting in ordering.
Hank was practically drooling.
After a brief chat with the barmaid, Kate dragged him outside to carry on their mini house-to-house, confident in the knowledge that she’d not run into the dead boy’s parents. According to Control, ID was confirmed and they were still in Newcastle awaiting an interview with DCI Atkins.
Kate was about to discover that some of her information was flawed. A local dog-walker told her that Elliott Foster didn’t actually live with his parents but with his maternal grandmother, who lived down the road. This piece of intelligence hadn’t come her way.
That changed everything.
Picking up on the DCI’s concern, the man pointed to a cottage where an elderly lady was sweeping leaves from her garden path.
‘That’s her?’ Kate asked.
He nodded. ‘Her name is Jane . . . Gibson. I don’t think the news has hit her yet.’
‘A grandparent’s worst nightmare,’ Kate said quietly, to no one in particular.
‘Indeed,’ the man said. ‘She’s a tough old bird. Different generation. Not one to let tragedy defeat her, if you know what I mean. Believe me, she’s had her fair share.’
