If It Bleeds

by Bernie Crosthwaite

  “Has anyone come forward?”

  “Not yet.” His stroked his tie. “If there are no more questions…”

  I stepped forward. Laverack couldn’t miss me. We were practically eyeball to eyeball. I could tell by his cool gaze that he recognised me. “I suggest that you’ve made barely any progress since Tuesday morning, when Lara’s body was found. That was more than forty-eight hours ago.”

  “An investigation into a serious crime of this nature is rarely simple. Detective work takes hours, weeks, months of painstaking effort.”

  “What if we don’t have that long? What if this killer is planning his next murder right now?”

  There were angry mutterings of support.

  “Obviously we don’t want any more victims,” Chief Superintendent Rollins said smoothly. She was looking at me with considerable hostility but I refused to give up. Their united bland front only made me angrier.

  “There’s a dangerous sadistic psychopath out there. He killed my son’s girlfriend and then mutilated her body — a black-magic symbol carved on her chest — a pentagram, I think it’s called — and blisters round her mouth. This suggests someone seriously deranged!”

  The mutterings became louder. Laverack and Rollins appeared to be in a state of shock.

  “You didn’t tell us about any mutilation,” called out the Sun’s local rep.

  “How did you know about that?” Laverack asked me quietly through clenched teeth.

  “That doesn’t matter. What matters is, what are you doing about finding this killer?”

  Laverack addressed the room. “We’re following up several promising new leads.”

  “What are they?” shouted several people at once.

  “I’m afraid I’m not able to reveal anything that might compromise our investigation.” This was greeted by jeers. He gave me a filthy look. The commotion grew to a deafening level so that individual questions were lost in the uproar.

  Chief Superintendent Rollins stood up. She waited until the racket stopped. She spoke gravely about the need for everyone, especially women, to take sensible precautions. “But at the same time, it’s essential to avoid hysteria. We have no reason to believe this person has been involved in other crimes or will kill again.” She quelled the reaction to that with another patient wait.

  “I’m calling an end to this conference now,” she said eventually. No one argued with her. She gestured to Laverack, who stood up and headed for the door. Realising I’d taken no decent pictures yet I hastily snapped a couple of shots of their departing backs. Tony was going to be thrilled with those. I unscrewed the lens from the camera body.

  Matt’s mouth hung open.

  “What?” I said.

  “What have you done?”

  “I promised Daniel.” Matt was unimpressed by that explanation for my outburst. “I was just trying to wipe the smug self-satisfied looks off their faces.”

  “You did that all right.”

  Over Matt’s shoulder I could see the stringer from the Sun pushing through the departing crowd towards me.

  “Let’s get out of here.” I led the way up a side aisle. The TV people were blocking the way with their heavy gear and progress was frustratingly slow. I dodged all questions thrown at me about mutilation and ducked through every gap in the crowd I could see. I hoped Matt was close behind.

  He was. Out in the street he grabbed my arm.

  “Jude, you’re letting this business get to you.”

  “What do you expect? I’m involved in this thing whether I like it or not. I promised Daniel, and all I’m doing is letting him down.”

  “That’s nonsense. You’ve done your best. Now it’s time to stop, for your own sake. Leave it to the police, Jude. They’ll get the bastard.”

  “You heard Laverack. Not exactly a mine of information. What if they haven’t got the faintest idea?”

  “You really hate this psycho, don’t you?”

  “Yes. And if the police don’t find him, I will.”

  “Do you know something, Jude? You’re amazing.” He brushed my lips with his. A brief pause, then another kiss, longer and deeper. “There’s just one thing.”

  “What?” I said unsteadily. It was a long time since I’d been kissed like that.

  “You photographer, me journalist. Comprendo?”

  “Scared I might be better at it than you?” I pulled his face towards mine once more.

  Over his shoulder I saw a two people, escorted by someone I recognised as a family liaison officer, emerge from the police station. They crossed the pavement in front of us and walked towards a waiting car. Lara’s parents.

  “Have you got that photo?” I demanded.

  “Is this the best time?”

  “Give it to me.”

  Matt reached into his capacious pocket and pulled out a brown reinforced envelope. I grabbed it and hurried towards the Ramseys.

  Mr Ramsey was tall and stooped. He twisted towards me as I approached, his eyes wild. Patricia Ramsey stood perfectly still, just a pulse beating in her neck like a ticking metronome.

  I held out the envelope.

  “What’s this?” said Mr Ramsey, reaching out a trembling hand.

  “It’s our picture,” said Patricia. “She’s the one who stole it.”

  “Actually, no, I didn’t.” I was getting heartily sick of covering up for other people. Then I remembered Matt’s glittering career, the one he hadn’t had yet. “That is, I took it, but I can explain —”

  “How could you do such a thing? My wife was heartbroken when she found this picture missing. She searched high and low for it. Never for a moment did she imagine that someone had stolen it. Then when the paper was delivered, and we saw it printed for all the world to see… That was the last holiday we ever had as a family.” He angrily brushed his tears away. “Patricia knew it was you who had taken it, someone she thought was a friend. As if we didn’t have enough to cope with right now.”

  “I know, and I’m very sorry. It’s just that I…”

  He shook his head with weary despair. I’d never believed all that nonsense about auras, but there was a force-field of grief surrounding this man that was almost tangible. It repelled all my feeble excuses.

  “No, you’re right. It was unforgivable. I know what you must be going through. I nearly lost my own son.”

  Mrs Ramsey pulled herself even straighter. “Nearly?”

  “He had a very serious asthma attack. He almost died.”

  “Almost,” she repeated. “It’s not quite the same is it? Nearly. Almost. You nearly lost your son, but he’s alive, isn’t he? My daughter is dead.” Her voice became strangulated, her shoulders slumped forward, then like a dam bursting, her sorrow flooded through the breach. She was bending over and gulping air as if she was retching. Great dry sobs came from deep inside. Her husband caught her before she fell, but she thrust him aside. Her sharp nails reached for my face. I felt the skin tear as she clawed at me. I reared back but she clung to my neck, an astonishing strength in her bony wrists. I had nearly blacked out before Matt, Mr Ramsey and two police officers pulled her off me. I sank to my knees on the ground, gasping for breath.

  I heard the car door slam. Her banshee wailing stopped abruptly. Matt knelt beside me.

  “Jude — are you OK?”

  I couldn’t speak.

  “You should press charges. She assaulted you. I was a witness. I’ll testify.”

  I shook my head. Let the Ramseys blame me for the small wrong of taking the photo. It wasn’t important. It might even help them cope with the huge and irreversible damage that had been done to them. Patricia Ramsey was right. Daniel was alive, Lara was dead. Even though we were both mothers, we existed in totally different emotional worlds. I was simply grateful I wasn’t Patricia Ramsey.

  “I think you need a drink.”

  “No, Matt. I haven’t time.”

  “Don’t argue. When did you last eat?”

  “Can’t remember.”


  “So what’s the best pub round here?”

  *

  I took a bite of my tuna sandwich. It tasted like fishy sawdust, but Matt had said I wasn’t getting out of The Crooked Man alive until I’d had some lunch.

  “To be fair to Laverack, he did say they had some promising new leads,” I said. “Apart from the blood they found.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” Matt was tucking into an enormous plate of burger and fries. He took a swig from his bottle of Belgian beer. “That’s police-speak for we haven’t got a frigging clue.”

  “There’s something odd about that blood.” I tried to recall Lara’s body, lying stiffly against the park bench, her denim jacket wide open and the huge splash of red on her T-shirt. “But I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “And all that stuff about Lara being a pillar of the community.” He put his knife down with a clatter. “We know that’s not true. I hate it more than anything when people lie to you. I suppose that’s why I’m a reporter. I need to know the truth.” He ruffled his dark curly hair. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get heavy.”

  “That’s OK. I understand.”

  “What do you hate most in the world, Jude?”

  I didn’t need to think about that one.

  “Injustice. The big things — the stuff that hits the headlines — racial attacks, the whole Palestinian mess, women falsely accused of murdering their cot-death babies. And the other things too, the ones that don’t get reported much. Kids being bullied in school, all day, every day. Animals tortured for fun or profit. People like my neighbour who fell off a ladder at work, got no compensation and lives on benefit.” I didn’t explain that that was one reason I’d climbed that tree and rescued Hayley’s ferret — I knew her dad couldn’t. “Actually, those things make me even madder than the big stuff.”

  Matt put his hand on my arm.

  “All right, I know,” I said. “Calm down.”

  “Yes, but I also want to tell you… I think you’re amazing.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  “I mean it. You’re not like most women your age.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  He went back to his meal, dipping each chip in ketchup before eating it with relish. I realised he was just a slightly older version of Daniel. He must have been thinking something similar, probably comparing me to his mother.

  “How old are you, Jude?”

  “Thirty-seven. And you?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  We looked at each other and I knew we were both doing the maths. Twelve years. It was nothing. Alternatively, it was a hell of a lot.

  “We’ve got so much in common. We seem to see the world through the same eyes.”

  “Excuse me? I do not approve of stealing photos.” I put my hands to my face and felt the raised weals where Mrs Ramsey had raked my cheeks. “How do I look?”

  “Like a tribal warrior, complete with battle scars.” He sat back in his chair. “You’re not going to forgive me for this, are you?”

  “I’m just saying, we don’t see everything the same way.”

  “OK, but the important things, like truth and injustice, we agree on those.”

  “That’s not difficult, is it? Doesn’t everybody?”

  Matt frowned. “No. Think of Tony Quinnell.”

  We both started to laugh. For a few brief moments I remembered what fun was like. I enjoyed being told I was amazing, but I couldn’t totally relax. Not while Lara’s killer was still out there somewhere.

  “Talking of Raging Bull Quinnell, shouldn’t you get back to work?” I asked.

  “We’re allowed an hour for lunch. That’s the law. And you haven’t finished your sandwich.”

  I chewed some more sawdust. “It must seem pretty different here after living in Manchester.”

  “I like it. I used to open my curtains on a crumbling tower block, all boarded up and derelict. Now every morning I stand at my window looking at the smart new houses opposite, and I can just catch a glimpse of the castle on top of the hill.”

  “Are you renting somewhere?”

  “Nope. I’m buying.”

  “On a reporter’s wages?”

  “It’s just a small town house. Hardly bigger than a match box. I went to that estate agents in the market square… what’s it called?”

  “Ravenbridge Properties?”

  “That’s the one. Luckily for me, the previous owner wanted a quick sale and dropped the price, so I got a bargain. I can just about manage it.”

  “Then you’d better get back to work and earn the money to pay for it.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” He stared at my plate. “Come on, Jude, that’s pathetic. Now eat the other half.”

  “It’s so dry, and I’ve finished my beer.”

  “I’ll get you a coffee.”

  “I really haven’t time.”

  “You look pretty knackered. A shot of caffeine’s just what you need.”

  I sighed. “Just a quick one, then.”

  Matt’s eyebrows rose.

  “Dream on, Matt. I’m too —”

  “Don’t say you’re too old.”

  “I was going to say I’m too amazing for you.”

  Over coffee, Matt lit a cigarette and talked about the big stories he had worked on with his previous title. “A lot of small-scale crime stories, especially vandalism, car theft, joy riding — you get the picture. Then there was some shady stuff to do with the council. But nothing as big as this. I’ve never worked on a story that’s gone national before.” His eyes shone. He glanced at me. “Sorry. I keep forgetting. That was a crass thing to say.”

  “At least you’re honest.”

  “I’d never lie to you, Jude.”

  “Good. Eat up, Matt. You really do need to get back and file the press conference story.”

  “What about you?”

  “Laverack may be lying about new leads, but I’ve got some ideas I want to explore. There was something Lee Maddox said…”

  “Who?”

  “Just a boy I spoke to in the street.” I drained my cup.

  “Jude, you do realise you’re getting totally obsessed?”

  “Someone has to.” I stood up.

  “What do I tell Tony?”

  “Tell him… tell him I fancy him. That should shut him up.”

  Twelve

  A large Alsatian dog lay on its haunches just inside the rusty wrought-iron gate. It had a drooling mouth, a huge lolling tongue and a manic gleam in its eye. When I whistled, its ears pricked up. I’d probably whistled the command ‘Destroy’ in dog speak, but I had to do something. It had started to snow while we were in the pub. I couldn’t stand out here in the freezing cold all day.

  The dog stood up. I whistled again and pushed at the gate. It lumbered backwards, giving me just enough room to squeeze through. I muttered, “Good dog, nice dog, good dog…” all the way up the short path. It followed me like a shadow, growling softly when I knocked on the door.

  “Nice dog, lovely dog…” It stood right beside me, staring up, mesmerised, saliva dripping from its jaw, the desire to please me conflicting with the urge to tear me to pieces. I had a few seconds to take in the garden features — a television with a dark hollow where the screen had been, a waterlogged mattress and a motorcycle with no wheels — before the door was pulled open. A rich mix of stale cigarette smoke, stale beer and stale bodies flowed out around the young man with the shaved head who stood there. He was an older, harder version of his brother.

  “Scott Maddox?”

  His eyes narrowed as he took in my damaged face. “So?”

  “My name’s Jude Baxendale. I’d like to talk to Lee. Is he in?”

  Scott looked furtively up and down the street. “Are you police?”

  “No, I’m a photographer. From the paper.”

  “The Sun?”

  “The Ravenbridge Evening Post.”

  His face fell, and for a moment the hard-man image went with i
t.

  “What’s it about?”

  “About Lara Ramsey.”

  “So why do you want to take a picture of Lee?”

  “I don’t. I just want to talk to him. Privately. It’s nothing to do with the paper.”

  “Waste of time.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was referring to my enquiries or to his brother. The door began to close. “I think he could help.”

  “Lee? He didn’t even know Lara Ramsey.”

  “He knew her by sight, and he spoke to her at least once.”

  “So? She knew a lot of people, that bitch.”

  I remembered that Scott had been in the same year in school as Lara and Harrison. “Including you?”

  He worked the saliva in his mouth, and before I could blink, a gob of spit landed a few inches from my right boot.

  I took a deep breath. “Were you one of her boyfriends?”

  “No. But she had plenty. She’d do it with anyone.”

  I glanced in the doorway, at the piles of old newspapers, the discarded dirty clothes, the peeling wallpaper. “But not with you?”

  “I did ask her out once, when we were in Year 11. Everybody did. But I got knocked back and never bothered with her again. I’ve got a girlfriend. I didn’t need to go after that stuck-up cow.” His face hardened. “If you want to know what I think, she had it coming.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She wasn’t straight.”

  “Straight?”

  “I don’t mean she was a lezzie. But you never knew what she really thought. She must have got up someone’s nose big time and they killed her, that's my opinion.” He folded his arms over his broad chest.

  “You may be right.”

  Scott looked surprised, as if he wasn’t used to having his views taken seriously. But he had a point. Lara’s promiscuity in the past had surely stored up trouble for her. Any number of spurned lovers could have taken their revenge.

  “So, is Lee around?”

  “He’s at school.”

  “Really? He told me he doesn’t go to school anymore.”

  Scott scratched his shaven head. “Oh yeah. He got chucked out of art, had to do extra maths instead. That was the final straw. He’d had enough. It was that teacher’s fault — Mr Keele — the one who topped himself.”