Lost Souls

by Neil White

  He nodded. ‘Sorry. Was at the nick late last night.’

  ‘Terry McKay?’

  He was about to respond, but then stopped himself. ‘How did you know?’

  Alison went red and looked away. ‘I heard one of the clerks mention him. Why? Is he a problem?’

  Sam tried to gauge whether she was testing him, fishing for something. ‘No,’ he said eventually, watching her carefully, ‘he’s just a town-centre drunk. But he pays the bills.’ He looked towards the open court diary on the corner of his desk. ‘What have you got today?’

  Alison smiled, and looked more relaxed. A flasher. Spends his afternoons dressed in bras and panties, masturbating at his window.’

  Sam smiled with her. ‘What’s the defence?’

  Alison shrugged. ‘He told me that if a man can’t play with himself in his own home, where can he?’

  ‘What about the bras and panties?’

  ‘He’s trying not to think about that. And neither am I.’

  ‘Does he look the sort?’

  Alison nodded. ‘Oh yes. Overweight, single, milk-bottle glasses.’

  ‘Trousers too short?’

  ‘I could see nearly all of his white socks. I reckon he’s got enough porn to make him a champion arm-wrestler.’ She held a hand up. ‘Don’t wish me luck. Just pray that I don’t start laughing.’

  Sam laughed. Alison didn’t look like the sort of woman to be having this conversation.

  Are you okay with doing this sort of case? I mean, don’t you find it embarrassing?’

  She blushed a little. ‘I try not to think about it. I’ve banned my mum from ever coming to court. And I think the defence will sound better coming from a woman. You know, if it’s not a problem for me, then why should it be a problem for anyone else?’

  Sam nodded approvingly. She was already thinking like a lawyer.

  He picked up the court diary.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  Sam had decided to handle the overnight work. There wasn’t much in. A couple of people had breached their bail conditions, some warrants for people who had missed their court appearances.

  But it was Terry McKay who was drawing him to the overnight work. Sam still had the old file in front of him, and he felt compelled to talk to him again.

  ‘Just the cells,’ said Sam. ‘They need emptying.’

  Sam was about to say something else when he saw Alison’s eyes move to the door. It was Harry.

  Harry flickered a smile, a momentary thing. ‘Morning. If I might just have a word with Sam.’ He kept his eyes on Sam all the time.

  Alison nodded. Sam wondered if he saw something, an acknowledgement, a sign. He tried to clear his mind. He was in danger of becoming paranoid.

  When they were alone together, Sam gestured to a spare seat.

  ‘I’ll stand,’ replied Harry, and then, ‘Are you going to court like that? You look a mess.’

  Sam glanced down at himself, saw the dirt and creases on his shirt. Before he could respond, Harry said, ‘I was checking the diary on the computer and I saw Terry McKay in there.’

  ‘He was locked up last night,’ Sam said. ‘He smashed a window and asked for me. He’s been kept in because of an old fines warrant.’

  ‘So why are we doing it? We won’t get paid for a fines warrant.’

  ‘Goodwill.’ Sam looked Harry in the eyes so that he could check for a reaction. ‘After all,’ he said mildly, ‘next time, he might kill someone.’

  From the twitch of his eyes, the quick blink, Sam knew he had hit home. He felt anger start to simmer. ‘I’m over there on something else, so I’ll soak it up in that bill.’

  Harry said nothing for a few seconds, and then he nodded and turned to leave the room.

  As Sam listened to Harry’s footsteps receding down the hall he saw Alison walk quickly past. She had been listening.

  He was about to go after her when his phone rang. It was reception. Eric Randle was downstairs again.

  When she had first arrived in Lancashire, Laura had enjoyed the drive to work.

  Rush hour in London had been a crawl and snarl, one long queue between traffic lights, barely faster than walking. Using the tube had been quicker, but she had stood at the edge of a platform too many times with a crowd behind her, just one surge from a trip onto the tracks, or felt hands on her rear too many times to be a coincidence. Sometimes it was worse than hands, the excitement of nearby commuters pushing into her as the train rocked and rumbled.

  It was different this morning. Jack was interested in the Goldie murder, and that made her nervous. She knew that Jack had to write—they needed the money, they couldn’t live on her salary alone—but she still had her own job to think about. If Egan suspected that her sweet nothings were about work, her move north would be much shorter than she’d planned.

  She spotted Bobby in the rear-view mirror, looking suddenly grown up in the blue sweatshirt and grey trousers of his school uniform. That outfit had wiped out all those years of dependency and cuteness and replaced it with a boy going out to find his place in the world.

  As he chattered in the back, telling Laura about the boys in his class, she noticed his accent, the chirp of the south. She wondered how long it would last. How would her ex-husband cope with a northern son? He was a proud Londoner, had talked about Saturdays at White Hart Lane with his boy. Was she being cruel taking Bobby away from all that?

  She had little traffic to cope with, and the views as she drove, the green of the Ribble Valley, the fringes of trees, reminded her why she had moved to Lancashire. The town of Turners Fold dipped in front of her, the lines of terraces different to the streets from her own childhood. The doors opened straight onto the street, and they all ran towards the town, down steep hills, marking out the route to work for the cotton workers of years gone by. Now they were starter homes, the first step on the ladder before people graduated to the open-plan estates on the edges of the town.

  As they passed Victoria Park, a small collection of large trees which horseshoed around sloping grass, cut neat, broken by flowerbeds, Bobby shouted, ‘What’s that boy doing in the flowers?’

  Laura’s eyes flicked to the mirror, and noticed Bobby look back towards the park.

  ‘What boy?’

  Bobby turned back. ‘There was a boy, lying down near the flowers.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  Bobby shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’ His interest had already waned.

  Laura drove on for another few seconds, but then she slowed down, her tyres scraping against the kerb as she stopped.

  ‘You’re not messing around, are you?’

  Bobby shook his head. ‘I saw him.’

  She checked her watch. She was already pushing her goodwill at the station to be taking Bobby to school, everyone working long hours on both cases.

  She had no choice, she knew that.

  She turned around and drove back towards the park. She stopped by the war memorial, a stone needle on a wide plinth etched with the names of the fallen, and looked among the green.

  She couldn’t see anything at first, just grass and trees and coloured dots of flowers, but then one of the colours slowly moved.

  She stepped out of her car, locking it to keep Bobby safe, and began to walk slowly towards the moving shape. Then, as she got nearer, she started to run. It was a boy, around twelve years old, dressed in just T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. He looked like he was just waking up. But what was he doing there?

  She knelt down, tried to see if he was injured. Then, as he turned over, she saw his face and recognised him.

  It was Connor Crabtree, the boy who had been missing for a week. As he rolled over, something slipped out of his pocket onto the grass. It was a business card, showing large hands over a small head, protective, healing. The same as the ones found with all the other boys.

  She glanced over to her car. Bobby had his face pressed against the window, looking out.

  Laura reached for
her phone and dialled 999. Bobby was going to be late for school.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I sat in my car and looked at the piece of paper in my hand, the painting given to me by Sam Nixon the day before. Eric Randle painted dreams, he had said. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, but I got the sense that Randle was getting himself involved in the case, and that usually meant something. He’d found Jess Goldie’s body and then bothered the lawyer acting for the first suspect. He had involved himself with Darlene Tyler. People like that don’t give up.

  I needed to speak to him. What type of feature depended on his co-operation, but I knew one thing: I was going to write it.

  So I waited in my car in a parking slot, just thirty minutes allowed, and kept watch for Nixon. Maybe he could provide the link.

  I didn’t have to wait long.

  Sam bounded down the steps to the street, an old man shuffling behind him. I got just glimpses, the pavements busy with lawyers walking towards court, buff files tucked under their arms, weaving between builders and workmen eating breakfast from a sandwich bar, but I saw the old man produce a piece of paper.

  I jumped out of my car and walked over to them. I heard Sam say to the old man, ‘I’ve told you: this is not a legal problem.’

  I thought Sam looked harassed, his voice tetchy. The old man looked disappointed.

  ‘Hello, Mr Nixon,’ I said.

  He turned round and looked at me in exasperation. ‘Here,’ he said to the old man. ‘The press are here. They’ll listen to you.’

  Sam thrust a piece of paper back into the old man’s hands and walked away, bumping into my shoulder as he went.

  I looked at the old man and knew straightaway that I was looking at Eric Randle. I recognised him from the Tyrone Tyler article.

  I smiled to myself, unable to believe my luck. The old man looked forlorn as he stared down at whatever Sam had thrust back at him. I saw that his suit was shabby, cheap and grey, with the cloth worn around the pockets and shiny along the arms. He looked like he’d had a shave, though, judging from the pieces of tissue with dots of red stuck to his neck. The collar on his shirt was frayed, but he looked more like someone who had made a special effort than someone who didn’t care.

  He looked up as I stood in front of him, peering at me through thick lenses, the bridge of his glasses held together by clear tape.

  ‘Hello, Mr Randle. I’m Jack Garrett.’

  He shrank back, suddenly scared. ‘How do you know my name?’ He looked around and started to inch away along the pavement.

  I did my best to look friendly. ‘I heard about the poor woman you found yesterday. It must have been a terrible shock.’

  Eric looked down and I saw his chin tremble. And I wondered if he was shivering. He wasn’t wearing a coat and he looked like he was trying to stay warm. He was thin and frail.

  ‘We could go somewhere,’ I said. ‘Get some breakfast maybe?’ When he looked unsure, I added, ‘On me.’

  He stopped and gave me a thin smile, his eyes weak and yellow-tinged. ‘I don’t know you. Why should I trust you?’

  I looked up towards the Parsons offices, at the gold-leaf letters on the windows. ‘I know Sam Nixon.’

  Eric nodded slowly, as if I had said enough, and then turned to walk in front of me. As I got alongside him, I tried to sound like I was making idle conversation.

  ‘What’s that in your hand?’ I asked.

  He looked at the paper as if he had forgotten it was there. ‘It’s just a painting.’ His voice seemed quiet, unsure.

  ‘Of what?’

  There was a long silence and I didn’t push him. Then he said quickly, ‘I paint my dreams.’

  I feigned surprise. ‘That sounds interesting.’

  He looked up at me, and his wariness started to fade. I pointed him into a café behind a Victorian shop-front, with sauce bottles on the table and stewed tea served in chipped white mugs. He looked hungrily at the menu, displayed on white plastic behind the counter, so I ordered two teas and a full English for Eric. I stayed silent as he ate, his eyes never leaving the plate, the beans and tomatoes mopped up by thick white bread, until eventually he pushed the plate away and adjusted his glasses. He looked sheepish, as if I had caught him at a weak moment.

  ‘Why do you paint your dreams?’

  He looked embarrassed. ‘Because they come true.’

  I laughed politely. ‘If only we could all say that.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, not like that. These are bad dreams, and later on, they come true.’ He licked his lips and rubbed his forehead. There was a film of sweat there.

  ‘Why does that concern Sam Nixon?’ I asked.

  He studied me, as if he was trying to work out how much I knew.

  Then he smiled properly, but I detected sadness, his eyes moist, and he looked away.

  ‘He’s in them,’ he said quietly. ‘In my dreams.’

  I paused for a moment as I remembered Sam’s reaction when he’d seen the television pictures, a replay of the painting he had given me.

  ‘How did you know it was Sam?’

  Eric stared blankly at me and said, ‘I’ve seen him on the news before, on the court steps, things like that.’

  ‘What was he doing in your dream?’

  ‘I see him running,’ Eric said, his nervousness disappearing, his eyes becoming more focused, direct. ‘Through doors, one after the other. It’s dark, but still he just keeps on going. He is panicking. I’m chasing him, running harder than I’ve run in years, but I can’t catch him up. I’m screaming, screaming really hard, stop, stop, stop, but no one listens.’ Eric banged his fist hard on the table, a flash of emotion, and his drink spilled onto the faux marble surface.

  He looked up at me, panting, and then he wiped his mouth on a dirty white hanky he’d dragged out of his pocket.

  ‘I’m scared, Mr Garrett,’ he said.

  ‘Scared of what?’

  Eric gulped, his gaze flickering around the café. ‘I don’t know. Scared of what I see, I suppose. Of what I hear.’

  ‘How long have you had these dreams?’

  ‘For as long as I can remember. It was only when I started painting them that I realised they were coming true.’

  As he spoke, he looked lost, bewildered.

  ‘How long have you been dreaming about Sam?’ I asked gently.

  Eric exhaled and looked about us again. The tables around us were full, but no one was talking or smiling. They just stared into a dead space in front of them, as if this was just part of wishing the day away.

  ‘A few months.’

  ‘Why have you come forward now? Why not earlier?’

  He swallowed. ‘The dreams are brighter than before, noisier, more vivid.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I’m scared to go to sleep now, but I always do—until I wake up shouting.’

  ‘And Sam Nixon is in those dreams, when you wake up?’

  He nodded. ‘And I am too, but when I’m there, I always bolt awake, and I feel like I can’t move, my stomach churning, my throat tight, like I can’t breathe. I feel scared.’

  ‘But you’ve had similar dreams before?’

  He nodded. ‘But not like this.’

  ‘Why are they different?’

  He adjusted his glasses again, a stalling tactic. ‘They just are,’ he said.

  I was interested. Not because I believed what he was telling me, but because it was an interesting story. The truth is only ever a bonus.

  ‘Sam Nixon won’t listen?’

  Eric shook his head. ‘Most people don’t.’

  ‘I’ll listen,’ I said, my voice low, reassuring, ‘and I’ll write about it if you like. I’ll tell the world about your dreams, and show them your paintings.’

  Eric held up his hand. ‘I’ve only got this one with me.’

  I smiled and pulled out the piece of paper from the day before. ‘And what about this one?’

  He looked at my hand, and then at my face, and looked scared again.

&n
bsp; I leaned forward. ‘Don’t worry. Sam gave it to me.’ When he didn’t answer, I said, ‘So you drew a picture of Sam and Luke King in front of that statue. That doesn’t prove anything.’

  ‘It proves you recognised the picture,’ he said.

  That stalled me. I took a drink so I could think. ‘You could have drawn that after seeing him being interviewed in the street,’ I said. ‘You could have guessed they would show it on TV later.’