Lost Souls

by Neil White

  I noticed the SIO steal a glance at the men on either side of him before he continued. It seemed like a pause for effect, although I detected a slight tremor in his voice.

  ‘Kyle Shadsworth was found in the cellar of a house on the Ashcroft estate. Also in that cellar was the body of a man known to us as Eric Randle. His death appears to have been caused by hanging. However, we are not ruling out any possibilities, and at this stage we must keep an open mind. We pass on our thoughts and condolences to Kyle’s family in this time of grieving, and I would ask that you respect their privacy.’

  There were murmurs around the room, and the constant noise of camera shutters. The SIO took a drink of water, and then invited questions from the audience.

  ‘Did you know of this Eric Randle before today?’ one of the radio reporters asked.

  The SIO swallowed, barely visible, but I noticed.

  ‘We will go through the information we have in our possession, and we will check whether we have missed something we shouldn’t have.’

  Delaying the bad news, I thought, but it sounded like he believed that Eric was the abductor.

  ‘So you think this is it then?’ asked another. ‘You think the Summer Snatcher has finally been identified, and that he is dead?’

  ‘That is a tag used by the media, not by the police. As I said earlier, we are keeping an open mind.’

  So far, so predictable. I stood up quickly and managed to attract the SIO’s attention. When he nodded at me, I directed a question at the man who I knew would not keep quiet.

  ‘Detective Inspector Egan, as an experienced and senior officer, do you have an opinion on whether it looked like the suicide of a desperate murderer?’

  I saw Egan clench his jaw as he recognised me, but I could tell he wanted to answer, to have his fifteen minutes of fame. He leaned forward and eagerly took the mike. ‘As my colleague has said, we are keeping an open mind, but,’ and then he smiled, too pleased with himself to stop the words, ‘we have no other suspects in mind at this stage.’

  I thought I heard someone chuckle behind me as the SIO butted in, ‘Although I must stress that we don’t know for sure what caused the death of Eric Randle.’ I spotted the rebuke, and I saw the flush it brought to Egan’s cheeks.

  ‘So, Detective Inspector,’ I continued, ‘why didn’t you stop Randle when he befriended Darlene Tyler when her son was still missing?’

  Someone next to me winced.

  One of the other detectives opened his mouth to speak, but Egan butted in.

  ‘Eric Randle had been a suspect,’ he said, ‘and now those suspicions have been confirmed.’

  ‘But not before Kyle Shadsworth died,’ I said, running with the scent. ‘That could have been prevented. And am I right in saying that he was also a suspect in the murder of Jess Goldie, the young woman found dead a few days ago?’

  The SIO held up his hand and tried to force out a smile. ‘I can understand the extreme media interest in this, but we are very early into the investigation.’

  I had said what I wanted to say. I let the other questions go on without interruption. As I looked at the officers on the podium, I sensed smugness, a certainty that the problems of the summer were coming to an end. I didn’t see it that way. There was something not right, but I just couldn’t nail down what it was. All I knew was that someone I had spoken to in the previous twenty-four hours was dead, and another man, Terry McKay, was seriously injured. Even the most committed pessimist would see that as too much of a coincidence.

  As the press conference came to an end, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. It was a number I didn’t recognise.

  ‘Jack?’ an anxious voice said. He sounded slurred. ‘It’s Sam Nixon.’

  ‘Sam, what can I do for you?’

  There was a pause. All I could hear was him breathing. Then he said, ‘I was sorry to hear about Eric Randle. I know I put you on to him. It wasn’t too upsetting finding him, I hope.’

  I grimaced when I thought of the scene.

  All in a day’s work,’ I answered flippantly. When Sam didn’t respond, I asked, ‘Is that all you wanted?’

  There was another pause, and then he said, ‘I’ve just had a call from Eric’s daughter. She wants to speak to you.’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘She wanted to talk to me, but I told her that you had spoken to him more recently. Is that okay?’

  I was a reporter. It was always going to be okay. ‘Thanks, Sam,’ I said, and he gave me the number. Before I had a chance to respond, I realised that he had hung up.

  I smiled. The story was starting to write itself.

  Sam clicked his phone shut and closed his eyes. Eric was dead. He didn’t have time to think about it, as the court usher tapped him on the shoulder and told him that the magistrates had come back into court.

  Sam went into court and sat at the front, on an old wooden bench that was screwed to the floor, the ornate back uncomfortable to lean against. The prosecutor looked him up and down, saw his clothes, creased and unkempt, and whispered under his breath, ‘Been doing the gardening?’

  Sam closed his eyes at that. He felt like he was somewhere else, distracted. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see Terry McKay’s hand. He heard someone arrive in the dock. It used to be small and wooden with a brass rail, but there had been too many jumpers. They always came back, though, the escape bids ending when they realised that they hadn’t planned what to do when they returned to the streets. They were normally found at home, waiting to be collected. But one escaper was dragged back in by a couple of prosecutors, and when he woke up in a prison cell the next day, he killed himself. After that, the high glass boxes went in. Now, no one got out.

  Sam could hear voices, and then banging noises. He heard someone say his name. He looked up. It was the chairman of the magistrates, a car salesman in a pinstriped suit whose reputation for toughness made for long mornings for defence lawyers. There were two women on either side of him.

  Sam stood up slowly. ‘Can I assist your worships?’ His courtesy was on auto-pilot.

  The chairman nodded towards the glass box. ‘Your client wants a word.’

  Sam looked back to the dock. The chairman had made his views known. The defendant was a client, not someone with a name.

  Sam shuffled out of the bench and went to the dock. He put his ear to the small slit in the glass, just big enough to hear through, sometimes just big enough to pass small white packages through.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Is my girlfriend here?’ the prisoner asked.

  Sam looked around. The public gallery was empty. ‘This is fucking glass,’ he snapped back. ‘Have a look yourself.’

  ‘Mr Nixon!’

  Sam looked around. It was the chairman.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ asked Sam, the snap of his voice showing little respect.

  ‘Your language, Mr Nixon, is not what we expect to hear in a court of law.’

  ‘I was having a private consultation with my client, and its contents are privileged. If you want me to speak to him more privately, please stand the matter down and I will do so.’

  Sam saw the shocked look in the court clerk’s eyes. The prosecutor looked amused. He had a large pile of files in front of him, and all day to wade through them in court. Sam was adding entertainment.

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Nixon,’ said the chairman, his eyes angry, his voice full of censure. ‘We’ll get this over with.’

  ‘Oh, fucking nice one, Nixon,’ came a growl from the other side of the glass. ‘Piss him off, well done, you prick,’ and the prisoner sat down with a slump.

  Sam turned back to the dock. He was angry now. He could sense it was unstoppable, too many late nights working and fragmented sleep suddenly surfacing.

  ‘Look, shithead,’ he shouted through the slit in the glass, ‘if you stay in, it’s nothing to do with me, or him,’ and Sam tilted his head towards the chairman, who he could hear shouting his name loudly. ‘They gave you a chance
, put you on bail. You were supposed to stay in, you had a curfew, but you couldn’t even manage that.’

  The prisoner was up on his feet again, his face at the glass, the white-shirted security guards trying to pull him back.

  Sam stepped away and bowed theatrically at the chairman, who now just stared at him. ‘This defendant’, said Sam, ‘no longer has a solicitor. At least, not this one.’ And then he picked up his files and stormed out of the courtroom.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Laura was sitting at her desk when Egan walked back into the Incident Room, her attention drawn by a murmur. He looked nervous, his eyes darting around the room as he saw all eyes turn to him. Laura saw the press officer behind him, her face flushed and angry. It was obvious that they’d had words.

  Laura looked over at Pete, who had been thumbing his way through incident reports and logs of crank calls. Pete smiled, just a twinkle.

  They both turned to the front of the room as they heard Egan clapping.

  ‘Can I have everyone’s attention?’

  No need to ask, thought Laura. You had it as soon as you walked in.

  Egan let the murmurs die down and then cleared his throat.

  ‘Some of you may have seen the press conference,’ he said, ignoring the smirks around the room. ‘And some of you might have wondered why I said what I did.’

  No one said anything. It was like watching a public suicide.

  ‘Although I told the press conference that it looked as if the person who had been abducting children was now identified, you will remember that I didn’t confirm any link between the abductions and the murder of Jess Goldie. There are two reasons. Firstly, there is no real proof of a link. We can speculate and guess, but there is nothing but coincidence so far. And secondly, and more importantly, by not publicly linking them, we might draw the real killer out. He will want to take his bow.’

  There was a murmur again, but louder this time. Then Pete shouted out, ‘Is drawing the killer out another way of saying that we let someone else die just so that we can get some fresh forensic?’

  Laura watched Egan take a deep breath. He was angry with Pete, but she guessed that he was angry because he knew that Pete was right, that Pete had guessed the truth: Egan had messed up, and he was covering up to protect himself.

  ‘If you have any queries about the publicity decisions,’ Egan said, the words coming out slowly, ‘speak to the press officer here, but I have come here to explain the strategy. Privately, we consider a link. Publicly, there is no such thing.’

  Are we keeping the two teams separate then?’ someone asked.

  Egan’s lips twitched. ‘Yes, for the moment, but that is being kept under review.’

  Pete sat back, irritated now. Laura guessed that he was angry because Egan had landed on the best solution by chance.

  Egan smiled and thanked everyone, and then left the room.

  ‘Did you ever hear such crap?’ spluttered Pete.

  Laura shrugged. ‘It didn’t sound like a bad plan.’

  Pete threw down his pen. ‘He always comes up smelling of fucking flowerbeds.’ He looked at Laura, and then held up a pile of incident logs—the crank calls and witnesses were growing by the hour. ‘And we have to wade through this shit, without any help,’ he barked.

  Laura toyed with her pen for a few seconds as she thought. ‘I’m going to look at Jess’s dream diaries.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she had dreams of the future as well. The key to all of this is what connects it all: their dreams.’

  Pete shook his head. ‘The world is going mad,’ he muttered to himself.

  When Sam left court, he knew where he was headed. He was going to help Terry. He knew he was in the right place when he saw two policemen smoking in the hospital car park. He walked over to them and tried to look relaxed.

  ‘You here for Terry McKay?’ he asked.

  They exchanged glances and looked at Sam’s grubby shirt and bristled chin. ‘Been working too hard, Mr Nixon?’ one said, his mouth in a smirk.

  Sam looked down at himself. He knew how he looked. He started to walk away, his fists clenching, knowing that if he started to say something he could spend the rest of the day in his own cell.

  ‘If you speak to him,’ the other one shouted back, ‘tell him to make a complaint.’

  Sam turned around, shocked. ‘He hasn’t made a report?’

  ‘No, and I don’t get it. Someone burnt his hand off. It looks like a fucking lacrosse racquet, just spindles and bits of flesh.’

  Sam turned away quickly. He felt light-headed again. Terry wasn’t making a complaint. Had someone got to him?

  He rushed into the hospital reception and found out the name of Terry’s ward. Visiting hours were nearly at an end, but Sam negotiated the corridors quickly; the hospital was Blackley’s new monument, and so the signs were all bright and bold. When he found Terry’s ward, he stopped. What if Terry remembered that he had left him? He took some deep breaths and looked at the ceiling. Don’t be a coward.

  He walked through the ward. He could see Terry at the end, a heavily bandaged hand raised in the air. He was about to say something when he saw that Terry had a visitor already. He slowed down as he recognised the person by the bed. It was Luke King. He was talking to Terry, and Terry looked like he was listening attentively.

  Sam walked up to the bed quickly and grabbed Luke by the collar. He spun him round fast.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ spat Sam.

  Everyone on the ward turned to look.

  Luke shrugged off Sam’s hand.

  ‘Don’t touch me, Nixon.’

  ‘Checking up on your family’s dirty work?’ and he nodded towards Terry, who looked away, fear in his eyes. Sam turned towards the rest of the ward. ‘Take a good look,’ he shouted. ‘This is what you get when you cross his father.’

  Luke didn’t react.

  Sam looked at Terry, but Terry was still looking away.

  ‘Don’t let them get away with it,’ warned Sam.

  When Terry didn’t respond, Luke smiled, his eyes narrowed. ‘Looks like you got your answer,’ he said.

  Sam looked around the ward again, all eyes still on him, and he saw the white shirts and shoulder flashes of two security guards heading for him. He held his hands up and walked out.

  When he got outside, the two officers were still there. ‘Any joy?’ said one.

  Sam shook his head. ‘None at all,’ he replied.

  Back in his car, he looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He glanced in his mirror and saw Luke King watching him from the hospital entrance. Sam could see that he was smiling.

  He was about to turn the ignition when his phone rang.

  ‘Helena, everything okay?’

  Sam sat up straight when he heard that she was crying.

  ‘Helena, are you okay?’ he repeated. His hands were clenched around the steering wheel. ‘The boys, are they all right?’

  ‘I’ve had a crash in the car,’ she said, the words coming out between sobs.

  Sam gasped.

  ‘We’re not hurt, but they say I was drunk. But I wasn’t, I promise.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  There was a pause. ‘At the police station.’

  ‘Have you been on the intoxilyser yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice almost inaudible. ‘Blew eighty-five.’

  Shit, that was high, he thought. The legal limit for alcohol in breath was only thirty-five.

  ‘Wait there, I’ll come and collect you.’

  He drove off, leaving Luke standing there, staring.

  Chapter Forty

  I met Eric’s daughter in the Eagle and Child, an old Tudor pub on the road out of Turners Fold, tucked into a dip, away from the dark grids of the nearby towns. Smoke drifted from the cluster of chimneys in the middle of its roof.

  Mary Randle was sitting at a table in a corner when I arrived. I wasn’t sure at first if it was her, but
as I watched her I saw traces of Eric. Her voice on the phone had been quiet and scared, and she seemed the same in person, looking around as if she was prey, her eyes darting, wary, alert.

  I introduced myself and sat down, but when I saw how quickly her smile flickered and died I knew I would have to do most of the work.