Lost Souls

by Neil White

  ‘And what about Jess Goldie, the girl who was killed yesterday? She’s in the picture.’

  ‘You found her, Eric. You saw how she looked.’

  He looked down. I knew more about him than he realised.

  ‘How do I know you haven’t seen those things and made up the pictures afterwards?’ I pressed.

  ‘You’ve got good contacts,’ he snapped.

  We considered each other for a while. ‘I want to write about you. But if you’ll let me, you’ve got to be honest with me.’

  Eric swirled the tea around in his mug thoughtfully ‘I just want people to know that I’m telling the truth, and one day they will.’

  I nodded towards the piece of paper in his hand. ‘What did you paint?’

  Eric passed it over.

  As I unrolled it, I saw that the paint looked fresh, the colours bright. The main image was of a young boy. I couldn’t make out his age, but he looked small, scared. He was pictured sitting in a park, a line of trees behind him, tall conifers, with small dots of colour denoting flowers peering through the green. There was a block in the background, like a square building, but everywhere else was just green.

  I looked at Eric. ‘When did you dream this?’

  ‘This morning, in the early hours. It came in flashes, like when someone takes a picture. A bright flash, catching the boy like I’ve painted him. Nothing else. I thought I could hear crying, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from.’

  ‘I thought you had a dream about Sam Nixon.’

  ‘I did, but I didn’t paint it. I painted this and fell back asleep. That’s when I dreamt of Sam.’

  ‘But you didn’t paint Sam?’

  He shook his head. ‘I was too frightened. I thought I would come and tell him about it first.’

  I held up the painting. ‘Can I keep this?’

  Eric nodded grimly. ‘Keep it somewhere safe. You might recognise the picture one day.’

  I smiled my thanks. ‘Tell me about yourself

  And he did. He told me how he had grown up in Blackley, had worked as a hospital porter before he’d lost his job. He had a daughter, but she lived with her husband on the other side of Blackley. He wasn’t very good at filling his days since his wife had died.

  As he talked, I sensed how lonely he was, fearful at how his life was going to end. He must have had some hope at some point in his life. When he paused, I said, ‘Tell me more about Jess.’

  Eric’s eyes narrowed and he looked down. ‘I paint my dreams. Jess wrote hers down.’

  ‘So who was she? What did she see?’

  Eric sat back. I thought he was going to cry. He took a breath and composed himself.

  ‘She was a lovely, sweet young woman, not like a lot of them you see now. She liked books and flowers and beautiful things. She came to our group a few months ago.’

  ‘Group?’

  Eric looked down, embarrassed. ‘People like me, we meet every week, just to talk, so we don’t feel alone. Jess had been having awful dreams, and not just when she was asleep. She worked in the library, and sometimes, when it was quiet, once all the college kids had gone, she would get flashes, just images, pictures. But each one frightened her, made her sit up. She told me that it was like she was doing something, and then for a few seconds she would forget where she was. Then the images would be gone, and she would be left gasping, scared, sweating.’

  He smiled.

  ‘She was terrified she had a tumour or something at first, even went to see a doctor, but then she just knew to come to our meeting. Most people we have at our meetings just come along, something tells them to. We don’t advertise.’

  ‘Why were you there, at her house?’

  Eric lifted his glasses to wipe something from his eye. ‘I had a dream, but this time I knew it was happening right then. I could feel it. When I got round there, Jess was already dead. I called the police and that was it.’

  ‘You know that Sam Nixon represents Luke King? He could make out you’re the killer to get him off.’

  ‘So you think he killed her?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said “get him off”. If you thought he hadn’t done it you would have said “prove his innocence”’.

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know any more than you do.’ I pulled out my press cutting. ‘What about Darlene Tyler? And Tyrone? Did you dream about them too?’

  Eric looked betrayed, hurt.

  ‘This is your chance to get your story across,’ I reminded him, ‘but you’ll understand my interest.’

  He looked at me for a few seconds. No, it was more than that. He studied me.

  ‘I had been dreaming of boys, helpless boys. I thought I might be able to help.’

  ‘The police might think that you’re just a glory hunter.’

  ‘There was no glory in finding Jess like that.’

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  Eric looked down, and it seemed like he now regretted talking to me. I knew I had pushed it as far as I could, but also that I might have to speak to him again.

  ‘Can I get back in touch?’ I asked.

  Eric nodded uncertainly, but he gave me his address anyway. I reached into my pocket and produced a ten-pound note. ‘And have lunch on me.’

  Eric sat back, unsure, too polite to say no, too polite to accept. Then I saw his reality take hold and he took the note, whispering a quiet, ‘Thank you.’

  I turned to leave when I remembered the group Eric had mentioned. ‘When do you meet, this group of yours?’ I asked.

  ‘Every Wednesday at eight. Sometimes there is only me there, but I like to go just in case I’m needed.’

  ‘Today is Wednesday.’

  He didn’t answer so I stood up to leave. I thought I saw movement just outside the window. I looked back to Eric. He hadn’t seen anything.

  I walked quickly out of the café and looked down the street. There were people milling around, but nothing unusual. Pushchairs pushed by young girls in tracksuits, blue-ink tattoos on their forearms like broken veins. But no one who might have been watching us.

  I looked back into the café. Eric had gone.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  When Laura walked into the Incident Room, she was met by applause.

  She smiled as she saw Pete coming towards her, holding a silvery plastic statuette, a poor replica of an Oscar.

  Laura put her hands on her hips and scowled playfully. ‘Go on,’ she said warily. ‘For what am I owed this dubious pleasure?’

  He tilted his head, amusement twinkling in his eyes. ‘We award it for fuck-ups, you know, like forgetting to caution prisoners when they are interviewed, or losing exhibits, and we think you’ve done just enough in your first fortnight in the job to deserve it.’

  ‘Like what?’ she said, punching Pete on the arm.

  ‘How about losing the number-one suspect? Or pissing off Jimmy King?’

  ‘Hey, that was you as well.’

  ‘But what about pissing off the abduction squad? Overnight heroine. On this misfit squad and then you just stumble over the missing child.’ He grinned. ‘Priceless.’ He thrust the statuette into her hands.

  Laura didn’t know what to say. She looked at the statuette and saw all the scuff marks from previous recipients.

  She looked up.

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without Pete Dawson,’ she said, in mock acceptance. ‘He has taught me how to fuck up royally in my brief time here.’

  The room roared with laughter and Pete put his hand up in appreciation.

  ‘And I know I couldn’t have got by without you lot,’ and her hand swept the room. ‘The biggest bunch of fuck-ups I have ever worked with.’ She grinned and bowed. ‘Thank you.’

  As Laura carried the statuette to her desk, she felt slaps on her back, whispers of ‘nice one’. She felt good. Fitting in was hard but she finally felt like she was getting there.

  Just as she got to her desk, she heard the room go quiet. ‘McGanity. C
ome and see me, please.’

  She recognised Egan’s voice. When she saw Pete’s scowl, she said, ‘Hey, at least I got a “please”.

  It was mid-morning before Sam walked out of the police-station yard with Terry McKay.

  Terry’s fines had been cancelled. He had been a few hundred pounds in arrears, but the court weighed it against the night he’d spent in a cell. It was the way the justice system worked, trapped by targets. People like Terry made the court look bad, because he made the books look bad, so they helped him, found shortcuts to make the figures work.

  But still Terry didn’t seem happy. Maybe because he knew that he would run up a few more fines soon, whenever he next took a trip on the justice roundabout.

  ‘Did you speak to Harry?’ he asked, as he wiped his nose on his hand.

  Sam stopped. ‘Look, Terry, will you just drop this.’ His voice was raised, and people outside the court looked round. ‘I’ve done my part, the legal part. Anything between you and Harry is nothing to do with me.’

  Terry shrugged. He was holding a plastic bag, bound at the top by a red tag, his belt in there, along with the scraps of change he’d had on him when he was arrested.

  ‘Is that it?’ Sam asked, and stepped closer. He could feel his temper rising. No sleep and too much coffee. ‘You drag me out at midnight and pester me, and you end it with a shrug? For fuck’s sake!’ He stormed off.

  He heard someone outside court jeer. He stopped. He took some deep breaths, tried to tell himself not to do anything, not say anything. But he couldn’t stop himself. He could feel his heart beating, the adrenaline racing through him.

  He turned back to Terry. ‘Don’t make me a laughing stock,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Do you know what it is like to be with you in the middle of the night when I should be at home?’

  Terry didn’t say anything. He looked at Sam and swung the bag he was holding over his shoulder.

  Sam stepped closer. Terry didn’t flinch. Instead, he stared back at him and said, ‘I’d swap my life for yours.’

  Sam looked at him, surprised. Then he looked down at Terry’s worn-out shoes, at the skinny arms, legs, the boozy flush to his cheeks. He felt ashamed, embarrassed. What was he doing, shouting at people like Terry McKay, at his clients?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sam. ‘It’s just been busy lately, you know, I’m a bit tired. If there’s anything else I can do for you, you know where the office is.’

  Then he stopped when he realised that Terry wasn’t listening.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Sam. He saw that Terry was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched, his cheeks paler than before. Sam turned to where he was looking. Luke King. He was leaning against a wall, his arms folded. He was smirking.

  Terry swore under his breath and then turned to walk away.

  Sam walked towards Luke, angry. ‘You could have made an appointment,’ he said sharply.

  Luke laughed. ‘Good performance. Do you treat all your clients like that?’ Before Sam could respond, Luke looked past him and said loudly, ‘Maybe it isn’t you I’ve come to see.’

  At that, Terry looked back again and quickened his pace.

  ‘Stay there, Terry,’ Sam barked, but McKay was not going to stop.

  Luke watched Terry McKay disappear around a corner and then he turned back to Sam. He smiled arrogantly. ‘Of course it’s you I want to see.’ Luke nodded to where Terry had gone. ‘He seemed twitchy.’

  ‘Next on your hit-list?’ asked Sam sarcastically.

  Luke shook his head. ‘I’m your client. You can’t speak to me like that.’

  ‘No, not any more you’re not,’ Sam said firmly. ‘You stick with Harry.’

  ‘But it’s you I want, Mr Nixon. You helped me.’

  Sam felt his fingers tighten over the file he held in his hand. He could feel anger surge through him again. He pushed past, felt his shoulder hit Luke’s. He didn’t look back, his mind racing. What did it all mean? He had seen how Luke had looked at Terry. To Luke, Terry wasn’t just another down-and-out.

  Sam walked quickly, wanting to get away from Luke. The route took him past the court again and then along a small parade of shops: an insurance broker’s, a sandwich bar, and then, just before a small roundabout, a television shop.

  He walked past the shops deep in thought. But then something caught his eye, made him stop. It was the television shop. No, more importantly, it was the television in the window, showing images of a park behind crime-scene tape. It looked familiar.

  Then he heard a voice behind him.

  Egan closed the door as Laura entered. He sat on a desk in front of her, one leg on the floor. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to find it alluring. She didn’t.

  Laura stood, and Egan realised that she was towering over him, so he went and sat behind the desk.

  ‘I just wanted to check on how you are doing,’ he said, and pointed towards the Incident Room. ‘You need to keep away from that canteen culture crap.’

  Laura smiled as sweetly as she could muster. ‘Thank you, sir. It must be worse up here than the ten years I had in the Met. For you to warn me like that, I mean.’

  Egan paused, trying to work out if Laura was laughing at him. His lip twitched.

  ‘I want you and Dawson to watch Eric Randle today. You lost him yesterday. He’s been found. There are two officers watching his house. You know, the same one you went to yesterday. Relieve them, and stay on him all day. Follow him, wherever he goes. Report back to me every hour.’

  ‘What about Luke King? Is he still a suspect?’

  ‘I’ll look after Luke King. I think that situation needs a bit more, shall we say, finesse.’

  As she re-entered the Incident Room, she realised that it was universal, the yin and yang, that for every Pete there had to be an Egan. Laura knew which one she preferred.

  ‘Looking for a new one?’ I said to Sam, as I saw him transfixed by a bank of televisions in a shop window, all showing the same image. I had been to the library, and my hands were full of photocopies. I had been checking the other abduction stories for links to Eric Randle, but there were none, and I felt frustrated.

  Sam turned around, and I was shocked by his appearance. There was stubble on his cheeks and his tie wasn’t quite straight. But worse than that were his eyes. They were red-rimmed, and as he looked at me I thought I saw something in them, just for a moment. Sam looked scared.

  He looked down, stumbled for a response, but then the image on the screens caught my eye. It showed a park in Turners Fold. I recognised it straightaway, from the brick block of the old burnt-out aviary to the sweep of the trees along the top of the park.

  But it was something else that caused the flutters of excitement in my stomach. I pulled the painting from my pocket, the one given to me by Eric. I looked at the picture and then back at the television screen. As my eyes were drawn back to the painting, I began to recognise things in it. The square block in the middle. The trees, the way they curved around the top of the park in a high crescent. The shape of the lawns.

  I held it out to Sam. ‘You recognise it, don’t you?’ When Sam ignored me, I pushed it nearer to him. ‘You saw it this morning, when Eric showed it to you.’

  He looked at me, his eyes wide. ‘It’s the ramblings of a silly old man,’ he said quietly, and then he walked off, head down.

  I rushed into the shop and barely noticed the looks of the shop staff as I went over to one of the televisions inside and searched in vain for the volume control. Why did everything have to be on a bloody remote? It was the tail-end of the report, and I recognised Turners Fold, but it was all in silence.

  I looked at the painting again. It looked like the same park, and there was a small figure lying down.

  A spotty youth in a shirt and tie appeared at my shoulder.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  I looked around and pointed at the television. ‘What’s this about?’

  He looked confused. ‘About twelve hundred
pounds. To be exact, eleven hundred and ninety-five.’

  ‘No, the news item. What have they been saying?’

  He shrugged. ‘We sell them, we don’t watch them.’

  Then a picture of Connor Crabtree appeared on the screen. I realised that either Eric was telling the truth, or I held in my hand a painting by the kidnapper.