by Liz Mistry
James looked at Jane who was slumped, her gaze blank, her pallor worrying. Every muscle in his body tensed. Each and every emotion that he’d subdued since the previous evening, began to bubble just beneath the surface of his chest, causing a tightness that threatened to explode in a tirade of uncontrollable grief, anger and frustration. He closed his eyes and attempted to count to ten, knowing that if he let go, just for a second, no, even a nanosecond, all hell would be deposited on this irritating woman’s head.
His skin crawled with nervous energy, an excess of caffeine and lack of sleep. From the depths of his fuzzy eyes, he glowered as she flicked through a magazine. As if she’s at the bloody dentist’s. Each rustling page clawed at his head like chalk on a blackboard, but, oblivious, she continued. Holding his head, he made a dart for the door, still, she managed to get there first, wedging her ample proportions between him and his sanity. A feral cry left his lips and he visualised himself stretching his fingers to breaking point round her flabby throat and throttling her. When the door opened, and DI McGuire walked in, he sagged against the wall, breathing in fast pants, his chest tight, his heart racing.
As soon as he entered the room, Gus saw three things. The first was that James Proctor was having a panic attack. The second was that, apart from fear, on the man’s face, there was an almost feral expression that was directed towards the FLO. The third was that Jane Proctor was disassociated from the former two. Gus wished he’d paid more attention to his misgivings the previous evening. This FLO was a mismatch for the Proctor parents. Instead of soothing the proceedings, making things easier, she had alienated her wards and that was no good.
‘I’ve got it. Just leave.’ Gus directed his words to the FLO and held the door open for her to leave, his lips tight, and his eyes boring into her. Her cheeks flushed as she stood and, without looking at either of her charges, left the room.
Gus shut the door and went to direct James to a chair. No stranger to panic attacks himself, he spoke in calm tones and began to breathe, slow and easy, synchronising his own breaths with James’, conscious all the time that Jane hadn’t reacted at all. Once James’ breathing had normalised, Gus moved to the seat opposite the couple. ‘Feeling a bit stir-crazy? Can’t say I blame you.’ He jerked his head toward the door. ‘She’s a bit too cheery for my liking, too. I’ll call her off, if you like.’
James gave a single barking laugh. ‘God, please do, before I strangle her. We don’t need minding. We just need to do something. It’s the sitting around doing nothing that’s killing us.’ He leaned across and took his wife’s lifeless hand in his and squeezed.
At last Jane re-engaged. She blinked a few times, looked down at their entwined hands and then placed her other hand on top of her husband’s. ‘That awful woman gone now, James?’
Gus released a silent sigh. Thank God. Thought I’d have to call a doctor in.
With a slight smile, her husband concurred. ‘Yes, she’s gone. We need to talk to Detective McGuire now, Jane. Can you focus for a bit?’
Jane looked at Gus and then straightened. Despite her bloodshot eyes there was an alertness about her. She leaned over and picked up a bag that lay at her feet. From it she took out a carrier bag and unwrapped an A4 sized picture frame. For a moment she held it in both hands and looked at it before raising two fingers to her lips, kissing them once and then pressing them to the glass. Without uttering a word, she handed the photograph to Gus.
Gus took it. The glass was broken and the frame was sticky to touch. Jane Proctor must have taken it from the bombsite on Sunday night. He couldn’t blame her. Gus had already seen pictures of Simon Proctor, however this one seemed special to her. It was also recent and would be excellent for media usage. In it, Simon was standing with his dad, a football under one arm. He was laughing right into the camera, head thrown back, even teeth glinting in the sunlight. He looked happy and carefree. His dad was also grinning and had his arm round his Simon’s shoulder. Presumably, Jane Proctor had taken the photo. Simon stood, just an inch or two shorter than James. A faint fuzz of designer stubble stood out on the boy’s chin. His hair, the colour of mahogany, was short at the sides and a bit longer on top. The acne that so plagued his friend Matty was absent from Simon’s skin. He was a good looking young man. Gus hoped he wasn’t also a dead one.
‘Tell me a little bit about Simon. We know he was friends with Jake and Matty, but what about his interests?’
A slight smile on her lips, Jane brushed her hair back from her face. It looked like she hadn’t brushed it this morning and she seemed oblivious to the stain on the front of her shirt. Gus made a mental note to get an officer to get them some basic supplies. They only had the contents of their weekend bags and they wouldn’t go far.
‘Simon’s a good lad. He enjoys his football. He was on the school team for a while. He plays rugby too, although that’s only recent. He had a growth spurt when he hit puberty, until then he’d been small for his age. Afterwards he played the odd game of rugby; football was his passion, though. Other than that, more often than not he had his head stuck in front of that computer of his or mixing tracks on his laptop. Fancied himself a bit of a “Naughty Boy”.’
Gus frowned and Jane laughed. ‘Naughty Boy’s a DJ and record producer. He’s quite famous. Simon wants to do IT at uni. Sees himself as the next Mark Zuckerberg or, failing that, Simon Cowell.’
Gus had seen the computer set up in the lad’s room, yet until he saw Compo’s face light up when it was delivered to the incident room, he hadn’t realised just how sophisticated it was. Maybe the lad would see his dream come true if Gus could find him in time.
‘DCI Chalmers has arranged for you to do a television appeal, if you’re up to it? You can either write your own statement or we can do it together. It’s just a simple straightforward appeal for Simon to come home and for anyone who’s seen him to contact us. I’ll get someone to come in when we’re done here.’
Gus noticed that the prospect of being proactive had removed some of the tension from their faces. He wished he didn’t have to venture into the area he was about to. However, time was of the essence and he needed as much information as he could get. For the time being he’d decided to hold back the MILF information. After he had a grip of the overall picture, he’d venture down that avenue, for now though, he was content to explore other areas. ‘I’ve just finished talking to Matty and Jake and some information has come up.’
James Proctor frowned. ‘What sort of information?’
‘It appears that Simon smokes marijuana on occasion. Did you know that?’
Jane looked at her husband, the anxiety lines reappearing across her forehead. Mr Proctor replied. ‘Not for certain, no. I thought a couple of times I could smell it. He denied it.’ He shrugged. ‘All the young lads seem to do it these days. Long as it didn’t affect his studies, I was happy to turn a blind eye.’
‘Hmm, it seems that, on Saturday night, he also had possession of some blues, or vallies as they’re called.’
Jane Proctor looked puzzled. ‘No, no I don’t believe it! Simon wouldn’t take drugs. Not hard stuff. Where would he even get them?’
As his wife spoke, James Proctor bowed his head. He remained silent, although the hand that wasn’t holding his wife’s clenched on his thigh until the knuckles whitened.
Gus directed his gaze to him, ‘Does it surprise you that Simon may have had possession of drugs, Mr Proctor?’
Mr Proctor glanced at his wife and then shook his head, ‘Simon’s a good lad. He wouldn’t do that sort of thing. I think you’ve been misinformed.’
Gus continued to observe the other man. The colour on his face darkened and a sheen appeared on his top lip. Gus decided to push a bit more. ‘Well, we were hoping maybe you’d have some idea. As yet it’s unclear if this was a one-off on Saturday or not.’
Jane sat forward, her new-found animation a stark contrast to her earlier demeanour. ‘I’m certain it was a one-off. Simon’s a good boy. He’d never do
anything like this. Are you sure it wasn’t Jake or Matty? Matty in particular, he’s not as… well… similar to us as Jake is.’
Gus’ previous sympathy for the woman faded. He’d no time for snobbery and truth be told, Matty seemed more petrified than guilty. ‘According to the other two, Simon was the one who bought the marijuana and the pills. Matty doesn’t have access to that sort of money, apparently.’ A white lie here and there was sometimes called for and Gus had no qualms if it got results. He was sure Jake would confirm Matty’s story in the end.
Jane screwed up her face, ‘Who knows where that sort of lad could get money from, DI McGuire. I’m quite sure he could, if he wanted to.’
Mr Proctor laid a hand on his wife’s knee, ‘Jane, come on now, that’s really not fair. Matty’s always been very polite and his dad is on his own bringing him and his sister up.’
Jane snorted, ‘Well, I’m convinced those two are a bad influence on Simon.’
Gus stood up. ‘We’ll bear that in mind, Mrs Proctor. Now, are you alright at The Mansions for now? I’m not sure when you’ll be free to return home.’
She shuddered, and a tear rolled down her cheek. ‘We’ll never go back there. I couldn’t ever live there again. It’s tainted. Our beautiful home is spoilt for us now.’
Biting his lip, Gus resisted the temptation to say that the lives of the families of two young innocent girls were forever tainted, not just bloody bricks and mortar and a designer Jacuzzi bath.
‘We’re moving out of the hotel today,’ said James. ‘Fortunately, a friend’s mother died recently.’ he paused and wafted his hand in the air. ‘Not fortunate at all. I don’t know what I’m saying. Anyway, we’ll move into her house this afternoon on a temporary basis. It’s on Quarry Street, near the allotments.’ He handed Gus a paper with the address and phone number. ‘You will let us now if you hear anything, won’t you.’
30
11:30 Outside The Fort
Fighting with a brolly, torrents of rain trickling down the inside of her loosely fastened coat in the middle of a gale, was not Alice’s idea of a relaxing break. Hair sticking to her scalp, fingers slipping on the metal handle and droplets of water trickling down her cleavage, all conspired to make her want to throw a tantrum and flounce back inside the police station.
Adding insult to injury, the sudden appearance of a much sturdier brolly, held aloft by a hand she was all too familiar with, had her cursing under her breath. This was the last person she wanted to set eyes on and certainly not when she wasn’t at her best. The urge to kick the umbrella’s owner in the shin was almost too much for her. One bloody shag in a weak moment and he thinks he can pounce on me, holding bloody brollies up and no doubt expecting a repeat performance. He’d be damn lucky!
With remarkable self-control, Alice ignored the momentary relief from the pounding rain and persevered with her own inferior telescopic umbrella. When it finally complied with her frantic button-pressing, it was, by sheer chance, aimed at her unwanted saviour’s grinning face. Feeling the recoil of a discharged weapon hitting its target, she made no attempt to hide her smirk.
Alice side-stepped the reporter Jez Hopkins, who, eyes watering, was pressing his nose with gentle fingers. ‘Haven’t you learned, bigger isn’t always better?’ Ridiculously pleased with herself, she pulled her coat round her, all annoyance with the rain and her wet condition dissipating. Almost as an afterthought, she turned back, one hand resting lightly on her hip. ‘Mind you, in your case I suppose that analogy doesn’t apply. That’s probably why you feel the need to indulge your macho egotism in oversized toys and gadgets.’ She turned and continued across the road to The Chaat Café.
However, seconds later, umbrella discarded and jacket streaming with rain, Jez ran past her, spun on his heel and began walking backwards in front of her, hands out in front of him. ‘Oh, come on, Alice, give us a chance, will you? I’m not the enemy and I have never used anything you’ve told me in print. I swear.’
Alice glared at him. ‘What the hell are you on about? I’ve never told you a damn thing, now get out of the way, you idiot. It’s pouring down and I want to get indoors.’
She made to dodge round him, but he was too quick and anticipated her move. She tried to side-step him and again he jumped in front of her. Lips set in a thin line, Alice raised her head and glared at him. Then, seeing his usually perfect hair matted to his skull and his pleading expression, she stopped and laughed. He was persistent, she’d give him that. He’d been pursuing her for weeks, now. Ever since in a moment of sheer stupidity, after the thing with Gus’ mum, when she’d let her guard, as well as her knickers, down and indulged in an adrenalin releasing shag, he’d hounded her. Not enough to call it stalking… just enough to flatter a girl. He seemed different. Maybe a near-miss with a serial killer had made him grow up a bit. Not that she was prepared to find out. If Gus ever got wind of her ‘indiscretion’, he’d be less than impressed and her job was worth more to her, than a dalliance with Jez Hopkins, no matter how satisfying said dalliance had been.
Jez frowned and then looked down at himself. ‘Okay, okay, I look a mess,’ he looked up at her, lips twitching, ‘I did get rid of my over-inflated macho ego and I ditched my rather large tool.’
She laughed and then sighed. ‘One drink, Jez, okay? Just one drink and that’s all, so don’t be getting any ideas.’
Linking his arm through hers, he dodged under her brolly. Alice hoped nobody was watching her and tilted her brolly in a vain attempt to hide from any prying eyes in the station. Just then a large red Vectra passed close to the kerb and a tsunami of mucky water washed over them.
‘Fuck… that car’s been parked up the entire time I waited for you and now he decides to drive off! What was his rush that he couldn’t have slowed down through the damn puddle?’
Alice laughed. ‘Come on, stop moaning or you’ll put a dampener on my lunch break. We need to go somewhere I won’t bump into anyone from work.’
‘Anybody would think you’re ashamed of me.’
Alice looked at him. Was that genuine hurt in his tone or was he just playing her? She’d be careful to make sure she didn’t let anything slip about the case.
31
11:45 Quarry Street
The house was cramped compared to what they were used to, yet James Proctor found himself appreciating the feeling of being enclosed. It felt safe. When Jane was in the kitchen, he could see her through the arched door separating it from the living room and there was only one double bedroom and a box room upstairs, just big enough for Simon when he came home. James ran his hands through his hair – if he came home. What if whoever killed those girls had their boy? What would he be doing to Simon? Was Simon already dead? It was a damn mess and it wasn’t as if Simon had had an easy life.
Listening to Jane, pottering in the kitchen, making more tea that either of them would drink, he stood by the living room window and looked out over Heaton Hill. On many occasions when Simon had first joined their family, he’d brought the lad here. He’d taught him how to kick a football, how to hold a cricket bat… and, he hoped, how to trust. Now, in one huge catastrophe, Simon was in jeopardy once more.
It hadn’t been easy for them, since the adoption. At first, Simon had been introverted and lacked trust. Not surprising, considering what he’d been through. First abandoned by his birth mother, then shunted through the foster system, never staying in any one placement for long and then all the other stuff too. Too much for one young kid to have to deal with. He and Jane understood he was ‘difficult’ when they’d taken him on. They’d been told about his history and they’d been prepared to take a chance on the boy. It had been hard. Sometimes near impossible, yet they’d done it.
Simon had been the victim of abuse in two separate foster homes. Then, just as he was about to be taken to safety from the foster parents who had abused him last, tragedy had struck. Poor kid had been hospitalised for weeks and undergone intensive psychiatric treatment for trauma. No wond
er he found it hard to connect, to trust.
Over the five years they’d had him, Simon had changed. He loved them. Showed them affection. On occasion he was distant, needing his own space. He and Jane had worked round that – they gave him his space. James turned as his wife walked in carrying an old-fashioned tray with a picture of Salts Mill on it. It was a little strange, using a dead person’s things, even though they had no choice. They were homeless and this small contained house was preferable to the anonymity of Lister Mansions. He took the tray from her and guided her to the sofa. She sat resting her hand on the yellowing antimacassars that covered the sofa arms.
‘How much should we tell the police about Simon’s past, Jane?’
Her startled blue eyes looked up at James and her lips tightened. ‘We tell them nothing, James. Not a damn thing.’ Her fingers picked the fringe of the antimacassar. ‘You know how judgemental people can be. That McGuire thinks he killed those girls and if we tell them about Simon’s past, his anger management therapy, he’ll be an easy target.’
James agreed with Jane, still, his stomach clenched. The last thing Simon needed was to be blamed for that. He was damned if he’d allow Simon to be held to account for something he was incapable of. James picked up his phone. He’d call DI McGuire three times a day until he brought his son home to him. No way would he let him forget they had a missing lad to find.
32
12:05 Bradford Royal Infirmary Mortuary
According to his dad the second PM had been more complicated than the first, although cause of death was finally ascertained to be severe stabbing to the abdomen.
Gus and Taffy were perched on uncomfortable seats in Dr McGuire’s cramped office. They’d declined his offer of a wee dram in favour of coffee and Gus was relieved that, in here at least, the mortuary smells were non-existent. Piles of paperwork balanced at an acute angle on his dad’s desk among discarded cups and pens. Pride of place, though, was a photo of Gus, Katie and their mum in their garden. His parents’ dogs lay at their feet. Katie’s long legs were stretched over their mum’s knees and Gus hung over her shoulder. All three had stuck their tongues out. He remembered the day well. He’d been around sixteen, around the same age as the Proctor boy… and the two girls whose autopsies his dad was about to tell them about.
