Lost Souls

by Neil White

Laura nodded towards the plastic bags. ‘And she’s writing down her dreams.’

  Pete’s expression didn’t change.

  ‘Do you remember last night?’ she went on. ‘Those people going into that hut.’

  Pete nodded.

  ‘It was a premonition club,’ Laura said. ‘Weekly meetings to talk about dreams.’ As Pete laughed, Laura asked, ‘Did you recognise one of the people going into the meeting?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Billy Hunt. Local oddball. Got himself into a bit of trouble a couple of years ago, when he fixated on a young girl who worked in a bookshop in town. He started waiting around for her, turning up when she went out, things like that. She caught him hanging around in the street outside her house one night, just looking up at her bedroom window. She called the cops, and when we searched his house we found videos of her all over the place. He had even filmed her through a gap in the curtains, getting undressed, things like that. He’s got a restraining order now.’

  Laura took a long swill of coffee and then put the bags of exhibits into her desk drawer. ‘We’ll go and see Billy Hunt, see what he has to say. He can tell us about their little club. If he thinks he’s a suspect, he might tell us more than we expect.’

  Pete stood up. ‘Didn’t you recognise someone there as well?’

  Laura turned away and avoided the question.

  ‘Have you told Egan about these diaries?’ she asked, as she tried to change the subject from Jack.

  He shook his head. ‘That’s your job.’

  ‘My job? Why?’

  ‘Because if I tell him, he’ll dismiss it. He hasn’t got the imagination. However, if you whisper it into his ear, he might just pay attention.’ He winked. ‘Give it a nibble, throw in some sweet nothings, and he’ll do whatever you want.’

  That wasn’t advice Laura ever wanted to rely on.

  As I drove towards Eric’s house, I saw two men in a car further down the street. If it was police surveillance, it wasn’t discreet. At least it wasn’t Laura.

  I wanted to ask Eric about Terry McKay. What did he know? Had he had dreams about him? Had Billy Hunt’s dream been about him? I looked up at the house as I parked my car. It looked just how it had done yesterday, desolate and dark.

  I looked around as I walked up the path, and when I knocked on the door it sounded muffled, the sound deadened by the thickness of the board.

  I listened for a while, but no one came. I banged on the door this time, but still there was no answer. I looked back down to the men in the car, but I couldn’t see them any more. They were obviously waiting for Eric to come out, not looking for who went in. I turned back towards the door and turned the handle. The door started to swing open.

  I looked around, wondering if anyone else was watching. The windows opposite looked empty, no movement behind the nets. It didn’t feel right. A person doesn’t board up his windows to protect his house and then leave the front door unlocked. Nerves crept into my stomach. I pushed the door open a fraction more and stepped inside.

  The house was in darkness, no sunlight penetrating the boarded-up windows.

  ‘Eric!’ I shouted. No response, just my voice as it bounced back at me. I went to the stairs in the corner of the room and shouted again. Nothing.

  Something was wrong. I could sense it in the silence, the echoes.

  I crept up the stairs, one at a time, ready to apologise when he appeared from one of the bedrooms. But he didn’t.

  I looked around. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom. It was clean but bare. One of the bedrooms was empty, nothing there behind the wooden boards. The only light upstairs came from the bathroom, the windows there left uncovered.

  Eric’s bedroom was functional. An old self-assembly wardrobe was in one corner of the room, and on the floor was a mattress, a couple of old blankets cast to one side. I noticed a drawing pad on the floor, and some coloured pens next to it.

  But no Eric.

  I went back downstairs and looked around some more. My mouth had gone dry. The hairs on my arms were up, my hearing straining to pick up any noise as I tried to take in the house, to look for something that had changed.

  I walked towards the back of the house, towards the kitchen, through the living room and into the small recess between the two rooms. I went past the small door, and I remembered how Eric had shouted the day before, anxious for me not to go in there. That it was dark, that people had fallen. But as I looked, I felt my breath escape in a gasp. There was a sliver of light.

  I reached for the handle and wondered whether I should go down. I was snooping around in Eric’s house. What would he think if he caught me?

  But then I reminded myself that I was chasing a story, not making friends, and there was something wrong, I knew that.

  I turned the handle and opened the door slowly. The light made me blink, a sudden burst into the dingy house. There were stairs going down into a cellar, the light from below reflecting brightly off the white walls. I glanced into the kitchen. I noticed a cup on the side, with the string from a tea bag hanging over the edge. It looked like Eric had just abandoned the place.

  I paused by the door. If I went down, I could get trapped, the stairs being the only way out. I thought I heard a creak upstairs, but I knew there was no one there. My pulse quickened, and I went onto the first step carefully, waiting for someone to shout out from below. I coughed, just to give Eric a chance to hear me. I went down one step further. My whole body was on the stairs when I sensed the door behind me swing shut. I glanced back at it, worried that it would lock itself. Or that someone would lock it and leave me trapped.

  But I had to keep going. I knew that. Something was making me go on, almost as if I was drawn to go down.

  I edged my feet down the stairs, as they opened out into a bigger room. The noise of my shoes rustled like I was stepping on sandpaper. I saw something, a shadow. I crept down another step. I saw a foot, someone asleep. One more step and I would be able to see all of the room.

  I took another step, my hand against the wall. Then the whole room came into view.

  I took a sharp breath, and then I slumped back against the wall. I fumbled for my phone, but then I sat down. I could tell it was no good, that it was no emergency. Too late for that.

  There was a boy on the floor, lying down, grey, lifeless. There was no colour to his cheeks, and his lips looked pale. He was dead. His body looked unnatural, posed. I’d heard about the missing boy on the car radio. As I looked at the figure in front of me, I knew that I was looking right at him.

  But it wasn’t just that.

  As I looked to one side of the boy, there was a chair, a rickety wooden thing, cast to one side on the floor, as if it had been kicked over. But it wasn’t the chair that grabbed my attention. It was what was swinging above it. Or rather, who.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I was in the garden of a nearby house when I saw Laura arrive.

  A young woman with a swarm of kids had made me a cup of sugary tea. Other neighbours stood at their gates as they smoked cigarettes and enjoyed the ringside view.

  I watched Laura get out of her car with a gruff-looking man in a leather coat. I guessed that was Pete Dawson. She’d talked about him. Nicer than he looks, or so she said. The officer further along the road pointed me out to them. Pete began to stride over, but I watched as Laura slowed when she saw me.

  I smiled sheepishly. Laura took a breath and clenched her jaw.

  As Pete got close, he looked suspicious of me. He scowled.

  ‘Nice to meet you, DC Dawson, how are you?’ I said.

  He looked surprised. He was about to respond when Laura intervened.

  ‘It’s all right, Pete,’ she snapped. ‘I own this one.’ She had her hands on her hips. ‘This is Jack Garrett, and, for better or worse, he’s my partner.’

  Pete looked me up and down, and then glanced at Laura. ‘What were you doing in Eric Randle’s house?’ he asked, but his voice was more shocked now than angry.
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  Laura spoke quietly, but it came out in a hiss, her eyes fiery. ‘Yes, what the fuck were you doing in Eric Randle’s house?’

  I thought back to our conversation earlier in the day, and I knew what Laura was doing. She was angry, but she was asking me to protect her, to let everyone know that it had nothing to do with her. I didn’t have Eric to protect any more, and so, apart from Laura, there was just the story to look after. I knew which was most precious to me.

  ‘Chasing up Eric’s story,’ I said to her, made sure that Pete could hear. ‘I’d told you all I knew. I was trying to find out more.’

  Pete smirked. ‘Your boyfriend is your informant?’

  I gave a little laugh. ‘I know, it sounds stupid, but he told me that he dreamt the future and painted it. It was a good story.’

  I noticed Pete and Laura exchange glances. Then I saw movement over Laura’s shoulder. ‘Looks like the big chiefs are arriving,’ I said.

  I saw Pete and Laura deflate. I heard Pete whisper, ‘He’ll love this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  Pete nodded towards Eric’s house. ‘We had him the other day, when we found Jess. Now this. Turns out that he’s the Summer Snatcher, and we let him slip away. Worse than that, if we hadn’t been looking for hoodies for attacking a wino, we might have caught him in the act.’

  ‘If it was him,’ argued Laura.

  ‘What, you think someone else is hanging from that rafter? A case of mistaken identity? And I heard there is a small pile of calling cards, just by Randle’s feet.’

  I interrupted them. ‘Is this Egan?’ I asked.

  Pete sighed and nodded.

  Laura had told me all about him. Just an ego and pinched, rat-like features. ‘Look, I know you’re both angry with me,’ I said, ‘but if I get back to you with something, will you talk to me?’

  As Egan approached, Pete watched me, and then looked at Laura. ‘It depends on what you’ve got,’ he said, and then snorted a laugh. ‘It might need to be career-saving.’

  Egan sauntered his slow way towards us. Other people stood at their gates, intrigued by the new developments. From the words painted on the boards that covered Eric’s window, I guessed that not many people around here would mourn him. As Egan got closer, it seemed like the residents just melted back into their houses.

  ‘I’ll cut him off,’ said Pete, and he left me with Laura.

  There were a few moments of silence, and then she said, ‘Be careful, Jack, for both our sakes.’ When I didn’t respond, she asked, Are you all right?’

  ‘Most dead bodies I see are in photographs,’ I said. ‘Even as a seasoned crime reporter, most corpses are bagged and gone by the time I get there.’

  Laura softened. ‘Never been to a post mortem?’ she asked.

  I shook my head. ‘It’s weird, but it never seems real when it’s part of a story. Maybe it’s inhuman, but the bodies are just a detail. Until you see one.’

  ‘Was Eric Randle a killer?’ asked Laura.

  I looked over to the house, with the word ‘peedo’ daubed across the front.

  ‘Do you think the people around here know more about who is doing what than you or I will ever know?’ I asked.

  Laura followed my gaze. ‘If you mean do they know who is dealing drugs, or beating their wives, or selling stolen car stereos, then I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘It’s sat-navs now, so I hear,’ I continued. ‘They look for the sucker marks on the windscreen. If a car has those, there’s a sat-nav in the glove box.’

  Laura smiled. ‘It has a certain poetry to it, doesn’t it, that people who don’t go anywhere have all the means to get there. What are you getting at?’

  I exhaled loudly. ‘I don’t know really. I suppose I’m just thinking how I thought I knew about crime, knew all the cons, the tricks, and then this.’ I looked at Laura and I knew that my eyes betrayed my sadness. ‘I believed him. No, it was more than that. I believed in him. I thought he was a nice old man who maybe thought some strange things. I would never have guessed this.’

  ‘Did he say anything to you that made you think he could have done this?’

  I shook my head. ‘Just that he had dreams, and his dreams came true.’

  Laura raised her eyebrows at me, and I sensed that we both saw the road ahead getting stranger.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Laura leaned against the wall at the back of the training room at the police station. It was like a classroom, with chairs set neatly in rows and a whiteboard and flipchart at one end. It was also the room they used for press conferences, so there were hoardings at the other end, large foldaway boards in bright white, emblazoned with the Lancashire Constabulary logo, the helmet crest against a blue ribbon. In front of those was a table, the tablecloth bright white and supporting a microphone in the middle. A reporter was attaching his own to the front of the table. Framed against the backdrop was Egan, taking a drink of water. Laura saw him gargle, and it seemed like he had been home to get changed. He hadn’t been wearing that suit at the crime scene, and she was sure his hair was neater, a bit glossier.

  ‘I’m not sure about this,’ she said, almost in a whisper.

  Pete didn’t answer at first. He just watched the reporters as they got ready for the official press conference. They had been looking tetchy for the last few weeks, just a succession of worried parents to fill the pages, and then the relieved parents as the child was returned. But they had to be ready for the capture shot, the news of someone under arrest. They couldn’t leave, couldn’t rest. There was a buzz now, as they sensed something had changed, that there was something more than just another anxious mother. The television cameras were set up at the back of the room, and the seats were full, all of the nationals represented.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Pete eventually, ‘I overheard the press officer. They’re not going to say much.’

  ‘No, just that Eric Randle was the abductor and that he hanged himself.’

  ‘Is that wrong?’

  Laura looked at Pete. He could tell from the uncertainty in her eyes that something wasn’t right.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  Laura chewed on her lip. ‘I don’t know, but something is too neat here.’

  A flash of my press badge got me into the news conference.

  I took a seat at the back, not too far from Laura, and she watched me sit down.

  I heard footsteps behind me, and then I smelled something familiar. ‘Are you going to behave yourself?’ whispered Laura into my ear.

  ‘I’ll try.’

  I heard Laura sigh. ‘Just remember me, that’s all,’ she said, and then she backed away to the corner of the room.

  I looked to the front as I heard the other reporters come in. I could smell the cigarettes on them, the last-minute smokers. It reminded me of nights in the pub with the journalists I knew in London, back when a drink made my clothes smell and my eyes red.

  The room was packed, the air-conditioning working overtime. The abductions had taken over the media, daily updates on the news, conspiracies and guesswork on the internet. Seemed like everyone knew someone in the police who knew the real identity of the kidnapper. It was all bullshit, just speculation to keep the story in the headlines. The abductions sold newspapers. Any angle would do, the truth of it the least important thing. The usual television and radio reporters were there, all thinking of the killer question that might get their name on the national news. The internet leeches were also there, as usual. It seemed like everyone had cheered up, like there might suddenly be a purpose in staying in this backwater Lancashire town. But I had the best story of all: I had found the last victim, and spent time with the chief suspect.

  But as I remembered the last victim, young Kyle Shadsworth, his features grey and lifeless, it didn’t feel like much of a victory.

  My musings were interrupted by the arrival of the detectives from the abduction squad. The Senior Investigating Officer, Mark Vaughton, had been at a
ll of the press conferences so far, along with two of the assistants. He had been the voice of the abductions throughout the summer, giving the updates needed to keep the story in the public eye. Egan looked round at them and straightened his tie, beaming. The other three men looked less delighted to be there and did their best to keep the mood sombre.

  Everyone settled themselves down at the table, and when the press chairs were quiet, the SIO spoke.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. As some of you have become aware, a young boy was found this morning. With the greatest of regret, I have to inform you that he was dead when we found him. We cannot say too much this early into the investigation, except to confirm that the little boy is believed to be Kyle Shadsworth, who went missing last night. This press conference will mainly take the form of a statement, and then a very brief question and answer session.’