Hannah seemed confident enough, and Meg was pleased that she was taking her seriously. As they began to make their way up Stocks Road, the car hung back until it disappeared from sight.
‘They’ve gone, I think,’ Hannah said. ‘They might have been lost.’
Meg looked behind. She couldn’t see them. Besides, they’d spot them from a mile off in the cemetery. And there were speed bumps all over. If they did follow the girls in, they’d be able to shake them off.
‘Is the office open on Saturdays?’ Meg asked. ‘We could ring Mum from there if they are following us.’
Hannah looked back.
‘We’re fine, Meg. They’ve gone. Another X-File is closed!’
Meg resented that. She still had a bad feeling about the car. It was new, posh too. None of their schoolmates could afford anything like it. They were all driving bangers if they even had access to cars at all.
‘Okay, let’s go in,’ she said reluctantly.
She was alert, looking ahead and behind all of the time. She couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. There was a young couple in the children’s area. The tiny graves were decorated with small toys – dolls, cars and the like. Occasionally, balloons were attached to vases, indicating the ages that the babies would have been, had they lived.
Meg thought about her own child, and tears formed in her eyes. It had been like a bereavement for her. She’d given birth and her baby had been taken from her almost immediately. She’d seen him: a boy, a lovely boy. She knew she was too young, but she loved that baby from the moment she saw him.
How was what she’d experienced any different from that young couple? She was crying, and he was comforting her, crying too, inconsolable about the death of their young one. It was a fresh grave. It was still raw for them, but it felt raw to Meg too. After the baby had been taken, her body recovered fast. Physically it was as if nothing had happened, but she had lost part of her soul. The home had already stolen her innocence. There was not that much of her left.
They walked past the graves. They knew the path well. Before reaching the headstone, Meg removed the cellophane from the flowers that they’d brought with them and Hannah filled one of the watering cans which were stood next to the taps. They always brought scissors to trim the flowers. They’d learned that trick early on.
‘You’re young to be in here, my dears. Are you visiting your granny or grandpa?’
An old lady, maybe in her eighties but still sprightly, walked up them, throwing her own rubbish into the bin. They had this a lot. People were often wary of two teenage girls unaccompanied in the cemetery. Someone usually did a quick check.
‘Yes, we’re putting some flowers on the grave,’ said Hannah, sounding as polite and reassuring as she could.
‘Poor things, but it happens to us all I suppose. I’m seeing my Ted. He’s been gone for five years now, but I miss him every day. I’ll be with him soon, I’m sure. I won’t go on forever!’
She laughed, squeezed Hannah’s arm, and was on her way. The girls walked over to David’s grave, slowing as they approached.
‘Oh no!’ Meg gasped. ‘What’s happened?’
David’s gravestone had been sprayed with red paint. The words Gone To Hell could be made out, though the paint had run, making a complete mess of the stone. David’s flower vase had been thrown across to the opposite grave, and the dead flowers from their previous visit were strewn across the grass.
‘This paint is still damp!’ Hannah said, touching it and then wiping the paint from her fingers onto the grass. Meg was sobbing. Who could do this to David’s grave? The surrounding graves were untouched. It didn’t appear to be random vandalism. That would have been bad enough, but this seemed to be targeted. Hannah put her arm around Meg and they stood there, looking at the painted message, wondering if it would wash off with water.
They stood there a few minutes, absorbed and upset. Hannah was aware of the movement first. Then Meg saw them approaching: two men in smart coats and shiny shoes, both wearing driving gloves. One of them hung back. He was wearing a hat, and it was hard to see his face.
‘Hello Megan, Hannah. Good to see you.’
‘Who are you?’ Meg asked.
‘Let’s just say that we’re both interested in your welfare. We wouldn’t want something terrible – like this – to happen to either of you, would we?’
Meg felt Hannah tense. She moved her arm from where it had been resting across Meg’s shoulders.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
This man was cold and used to speaking like this. He understood how to scare people. He knew what to do to control them. This was like what happened at the home on those horrible nights. Hannah wanted to run. Meg was pinned to the spot, terrified. They knew men like this already. She knew this man, but couldn’t place him.
‘You need to think very hard about your time at Woodlands Edge. I’m certain that when you think really hard about it, you’ll understand that they were perhaps the happiest days of your life.’
Meg felt a sickness deep in her stomach, and Hannah’s face was white. The man with the hat stepped forward. The girls were petrified. They wanted to claw out his eyes, beat him to death and spit on his corpse. This was one of the men who had taken them in the night. He was one of the men who ... They hated him. They were paralysed in his presence.
‘Hello Megan, Hannah. Good to see you again. We’ve missed you at our little parties. We’d love to see you again. Feel free to drop in at any time. In fact, depending on what you say about your time at Woodlands Edge, we might be getting acquainted again.’
Meg was actually sick. On David’s grave too. She couldn’t help it. She looked around for somebody to call to. All she could see was the old lady who’d chatted to them earlier. She had her back to them. She was talking to her dead husband probably.
‘Oh Megan, Megan, that’s not very nice, is it? And on your boyfriend’s grave too. You know that I know who has your baby? In fact, I rubber-stamped it personally. He’s not so far from Blackpool. You might even walk past him some days without knowing it.’
Meg wiped her chin, looking at the man with hatred in her eyes. Hannah took her arm, sensing that she might do something foolish. The man with the hat spoke again.
‘How old are you now, girls? Sixteen and seventeen? You must be about that now. Still young enough to be wards of court if, say, your new mum and dad were found to be doing something nasty to you … Even if it was just an allegation made by, say, some interfering neighbour. You might even end up back at Woodlands Edge. Maybe only six months or so for you, Hannah. Much longer for you, Megan. But long enough for both of you.’
Hannah went to move this time. Meg took her hand and squeezed it. They had to get through this as they had all those times before. Shut it out. Think of something else. It would pass. The other man spoke.
‘Life can be sweet, girls. You need never see us again. But you know what you have to do. Make sure you do the right thing – for the sake of your mum and dad too.’
The men turned to leave. The man in the hat looked back towards the girls.
‘Somebody ought to do something about the vandalism in this cemetery. It’s appalling. I must remember to mention it to the police.’
As they walked away, the one wearing the hat stopped to exchange pleasantries with the old lady who’d been tending her husband’s grave. He even put his arm around her, giving her a reassuring hug.
The girls stood in silence, barely daring to move. They didn’t know what to do. Who could they speak to? Nobody would believe them. They’d be written off as two silly girls who’d been in care. But they’d both recognised the men. They’d worked out who the one in the hat was straightaway. It was Russell Black, the social services man, the one who was in charge. They’d seen him in the home. He had power. He really could return them to Woodlands Edge.
The other man had taken a little longer to identify. They’d seen him, but didn’t know his name. One thing was for s
ure, his face had burned an imprint on their minds. They would never forget either of them. The second person was Tony Dodds, the man who ran the local police.
They’d felt this fear before. It was the helplessness of being at the mercy of others, of having no ability to influence a situation. But as they stood there watching those two men casually walking off into the distance, both girls vowed that someday, somehow, they would have their revenge on those monsters. However long they had to wait, they would have their revenge.
I cut it a bit fine getting to June Dodds’ house. I could see that Pat Green had the satellite van connected up outside the property and ready to go on air. June’s house was gated so I had to park along the road. It was the usual media scrum: newspaper reporters, TV camera teams, radio journalists, the lot. This story had real legs now that Ray Matiz’s body had been found. The press had caught the scent of blood. And, for the moment, that scent led them to Tony Dodds’ former residence.
I walked up to the gates and the assembled reporters began shouting for my attention. A couple handed me pages torn out of notepads on which they’d written the questions that they wanted me to ask on their behalf. The media hate arrangements like this one, where one outlet gets the exclusive and has to ask questions on behalf of everybody else. These guys needed to get me on their side, but they also hated me for landing such a great gig.
‘Pete, Pete, ask her if she knew about her husband’s secret property deals.’
‘Peter, push her about Russell Black and his cronies. She must have known Black’s wife socially?’
‘Look guys, wait a minute!’ I shouted out. ‘If I don’t get through those gates sharpish, none of us is getting anything out of June Dodds. I’ve heard your questions. I know the story. I’ll do my best.’
Charlie Lucas was there. Of course he was. He leant into me and spoke quietly in my ear.
‘Make sure you ask this one, Peter. Ask it on behalf of me, please. It will help me to fill the column inches which might otherwise have to be used for some other story – perhaps an exclusive about a TV presenter and her bad habits, or maybe one about a local reporter who likes things a bit spicy in the bedroom. Say these exact words and nothing else: “Are you still in the black?” Just ask her that. Not on air – ask her that, and then make sure you tell me her answer. Understand?’
I nodded. I wanted to punch the little shit, but I had more than myself to consider. I had to think about Alex.
I walked up to the gates, which were guarded by two police officers. I showed one of them my radio station ID and she let me through.
It was a long gravel drive. Pat heard me before he saw me.
‘You cut it a bit fine,’ he said. ‘They’re shitting bricks back at the station.’
‘It’s okay, Pat. We’ve got ten minutes. Where’s Mrs Dodds? How is she?’
‘Considering everything that’s happened, she seems remarkably calm. A warning though – it looks like she thinks she’s coming out to do a prepared statement. I don’t think she’s expecting an interview.’
‘Bollocks. Has she been nobbled?’ I said, thinking aloud rather than asking for Pat’s opinion.
A well-dressed woman walked through the front door, which had been partially ajar. She looked professional and severe. Lawyer, I thought.
‘Hello. Mr Bailey? I’m Mrs Dodds’ representative, Evelyn Scott. She’s going to give a short statement, and then you can ask a maximum of three questions. Do you know what you’re going to ask yet? I’ll need to vet them beforehand.’
This was a journalist’s nightmare: controlled questions. It was a stitch-up. There would be no journalism required. I reeled off three simple questions. I didn’t want to frighten the horses.
‘How are you coping after your husband’s tragic death?’
The insertion of the word tragic indicated empathy on my part. That would play well.
‘Your husband was a very well-respected leader in this community. Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?’
Again, the respect and reverence was always good, with a bit of a probing question sneaked in at the end. She’d just say something boring, such as her husband would have made many enemies keeping Blackpool safe from the criminal element … blah, blah, waffle, blah. I’d heard it a million times before.
I needed to come up with a final question, something which would offend.
‘How confident are you that you’ll get the support of the police in hunting down your husband’s killer?’
That would be another blah, blah, blah answer. The guys in the office would play word bingo with that. Some smart arse would bet a tenner on her saying the words ‘I have every faith in’ and make some easy money off the younger reporters who hadn’t worked out yet how the world spins.
Evelyn made a note of my questions and then returned to the house to run them by June Dodds. Pat handed me my headphones and a microphone and I spoke off air to the technical operator back at base.
‘Hi, this is Peter Bailey reporting live from the Dodds’ residence in Lytham St Annes ... How’s that for sound level?’ I asked.
‘All good!’ came a chirpy voice over the talkback. It was Sue. Good. I liked Sue, she knew what she was doing.
‘What’s the betting like on word bingo? Did I get beaten to my favourite phrases?’
‘Sorry, Pete. All the good ones are gone. I’d hang onto your money if I were you!’
‘I want you to keep recording, Sue. Okay? Even if you think the interview is over, get it all recorded.’
‘Will do!’ came the voice in my headphones. ‘We’re all set to go here, Pete. They’re going to news as normal, and then your cue line is “Reporting live now from Lytham St Annes, here’s Peter Bailey”. Got it?’
‘Good to go!’ I replied. ‘Mrs Dodds is coming over now.’
June Dodds looked very poised, considering her husband had just been murdered. She was a chief constable’s wife. She’d probably known her husband since he was on the beat. There wasn’t much that June Dodds wouldn’t know about real life, however posh she looked now.
I introduced myself, expressed my condolences and talked her quickly through what I’d be doing, while keeping one ear on the radio station’s output in my headphones. I heard the news jingle being played and held up my hand to indicate to June that I’d need to listen – my cue was coming. The news was introduced, I got my cue and I was away. I knew that the press pack at the end of the drive would have it blaring out on a car radio. They’d all be urging me on to ask their questions.
I stuck to the plan. I let June read her statement. I’d done so many of those in my career that I knew exactly how it would play out: ‘Shock … horror … respected member of the community … dear husband …’ June used them all. I made sure that I was respectful on air, of course I did, but I knew how to rattle a guest and get a good answer out of them. First, I had to make sure that we got a few questions in the can. I’d be lynched by the reporters outside the gate if I didn’t get some quotes that they could use.
I watched Evelyn tense and move closer to June as I linked between her prepared statement to my own questions. I’d seen this many a time before. The hovering adviser waiting to end – or sometimes even spoil – the interview if they lost control of it.
I started with the first question, as agreed, word-for-word. That helped to lull Evelyn into a false sense of security. I was playing nice, sticking to the script. I got a good, full answer. Great.
With question two, I reworded the phrasing that I’d agreed with Evelyn. I saw her tense as I began to speak, but she relaxed once again when she realised that I’d only changed the order of the words.
June had given me two good answers. We’d got plenty recorded back at the radio station to go straight into the special live news bulletin. Sue whispered in my headphones.
‘We’re getting this all loud and clear. Squeeze what you can out of her.’
Now was the time to take my chance. I began by asking the quest
ion, as agreed, and watched Evelyn as she looked away, thinking that this was now simply a case of coming into land.
‘How confident are you that you’ll get the support of the police in hunting down your husband’s killer?’ I began, exactly as agreed. Then I slipped in an extra question. ‘Because it seems very likely, Mrs Dodds, that your husband was involved in some small part at least in the scandal at the Woodlands Edge children’s home in the nineties. Are the deaths of Ray Matiz and your husband linked in any way to the alleged cover-up in the Woodlands Edge inquiry?’
I caught about thirty seconds of June Dodds hopping about on the proverbial hot coals. She blustered away, but had been caught entirely off her guard.
Evelyn Scott intervened the minute that she realised what I’d done.
‘That’s enough now, Mr Bailey. Mrs Dodds is in a very distressed condition ... Please stop now, Mr Bailey ... Mr Bailey!’
She tore the microphone out of my hand and pulled out the cable. Sue laughed afterwards that the last words that you could hear in the interview were June Dodds saying, ‘Will you please leave my property now, Mr Bailey!’ and then an electronic thud as it all went quiet.
‘Classic!’ I heard Sue laughing over the headphones. ‘Absolute classic, Pete! Everybody’s happy here. It’s all recorded. Better get your arse off Mrs Dodds’ property!’
Pat was lowering the satellite dish already. He’d realised that we’d overstayed our welcome and would probably be escorted out by the police. Much of this is par for the course when you’re a reporter. You get used to people getting stroppy when they can’t get it all their own way.
Evelyn was flustered and June was irate but I still had one more question to ask. Evelyn put her arm around June’s waist and began to steer her towards the front door.
‘Mrs Dodds, one more thing!’ I called after her. ‘An additional question from Charlie Lucas: “Are you still in the black?”’
She stopped dead and turned around. She looked as if she’d seen her husband’s ghost.
‘Fuck Charlie Lucas!’ she replied. ‘Tell him he can go to hell!’
Don't Tell Meg Trilogy Box Set Page 62
