Crying Out Loud (19 page)

The sudden release of my wrists and my head was unexpected. I scuttled round, my nerves chattering, expecting a fresh blow.

Dryden, big-boned, florid, corned-beef complexion, was yanking his shirt from his jeans. I froze. Oh, God – he was going to rape me. Saliva flooded my mouth and I wanted to gag. I began to twist, aiming to get the door handle, when he spoke.

‘Look.' He pulled up his shirt to reveal a pasty, swollen belly and, running up from his navel, a rope-like scar, silvery and pink. ‘Double bypass. Bonfire night, last year.' He beamed at me, a deranged, triumphant light in his eyes. ‘Read all about Charlie's murder when I was in the hospital.'

Bonfire night was three days before the murder.

He barked with laughter again, tugged his shirt down and drew the sides of his long black coat around him. Then he lunged back at me, gripping my chin in one meaty hand. As he spoke spittle landed on my face and I could smell his breath: stale fags, the pee-like scent of whisky and something dead. I could see the nicotine stains in the grooves on his long yellow teeth. ‘It's nowt to do with me, petal, and if you ever,' he squeezed my jaw tighter, ‘ever, come sniffing after me or bother my mother again, I'll carve you up. And,' he nodded towards the house, ‘that little bairn an' all.' He let go. My jaw burned. I was trembling, inside and out, unable to control the shakes.

He opened the door and put one foot down on the road. ‘I wasn't here.' He leant back towards me, his voice whispery now. ‘You never saw us.'

He swivelled round and the car bounced at the shift in weight as he stepped out. He slammed the door and walked round to the back of the car. My breath came in jagged gasps, terror and relief, as I followed his progress in the rear-view mirror.

He took a few steps away, still on the road, then wheeled back towards my car. His hand pulled something from his coat pocket: a short metal bar. He raised his arm and slammed the weight against the back windscreen. I flinched as the glass fractured into a thousand pixels and fell, a great wash of crashing, crystal sound.

Then he strode off, his coat flapping, and rounded the corner.

Even then, no one came; just another noise in the symphony of the city.

I sat for long enough, waiting for my heart to steady, for the sheen of sweat on my skin to cool. A sob broke in my mouth, then another. I let them come, releasing the fear and distress, the fury at my impotence, my powerlessness and the vicious bastard's power to hurt me.

When the crying was done I wiped my face, blew my nose and eased over into the driver's seat.

My keys were in the footwell there, where I had dropped them. Picking them up, I wondered who I could call. Not Ray. And Diane was still in Dublin. I looked back at the rear windscreen, the bits of glass fringing the hole like some entrance to an ice cave. She'd appreciate it. There was no one to call.

‘Fine,' I said aloud, my voice husky with tears. ‘Just absolutely fucking fine.'

Then I started the car, took it to have the rear windscreen repaired and went shopping. The world still turned; we still had to eat.

I felt jaded, numb, indifferent even. It was a mask, I think, born of shock, something to get me through the aftermath of being so frightened. And I had to be strong, keep functioning, because there was no one else. I was on my own.

SIXTEEN

W
hile I put the shopping away, I thought about Dryden. He'd left Spain to escape the fraud charges there, and presumably thought I was tracing him for the Spanish authorities or his creditors. His alibi, if it could be proven, was a strong one. And taken with his demeanour, the way he'd sought me out and threatened me meant I no longer considered him a credible suspect. If he was a killer, he'd never have crawled back out of the woodwork like that. He'd have stayed hidden, protected himself.

With Damien gone, and Dryden ruled out, there was no one else who looked guilty. The person most likely to – Heather Carter – had a sound alibi backed up by her respected friend and by third parties.

So, if it wasn't someone who knew Charlie could it have been an act of random violence? My mind returned again to the possibility of it being a road rage incident. Valerie said they'd tailed Charlie's car as far as the turn off, then retraced their route home. Might Valerie have seen any bad driving, any trouble between Charlie and other motorists? Surely she would have said as much when notified of his death. Had she seen anyone else following Charlie's car? Or had Heather? I was reluctant to intrude on the Carters again but plucked up the courage to try Valerie Mayhew. No answer. She might be at the Civil Justice Centre.

At reception, they told me which court Valerie Mayhew was sitting in. I slipped into her courtroom and her eyes flicked my way, freezing for a moment in clear displeasure when she saw who I was.

They were considering a case of non-payment of council tax. Mayhew, sitting in the centre of the panel of three, instructed the man concerned that he would be expected to pay his arrears off at a given rate. She gave him a brief lecture on the powers of the court to act if he failed to comply. The man was dismissed and there was a break between cases. Valerie Mayhew whispered something to her colleagues and they gathered their papers and left. She made her way over to where I was sitting.

I saw her pause and narrow her eyes as she made out the bruising already flaring on my jaw and cheek. Underneath my clothes I could feel a whole bunch more of them emerging.

‘I hope you won't be making a habit of this,' she said crisply. ‘I have work to do.'

‘And I'm trying to do mine,' I said calmly. ‘I won't keep you long.'

She inclined her head but didn't sit, reinforcing the impression of a strict teacher.

‘It's about when you followed Charlie in the car.'

She blinked, frowning. I don't know what she'd expected me to ask but it wasn't this.

‘Did you see anything happen on the way? Any near misses, any trouble between him and other motorists?'

‘No,' she replied.

‘You could see him all the time? Were you immediately behind him?'

‘At first, then there was a car between us. Why?' she said.

‘Weren't you afraid he'd recognize you, or the car?'

‘A little, but it was dark. I don't suppose most of us pay attention to who's behind unless there's a problem.'

‘Was there anyone following you?'

She frowned, shook her head. ‘I've no idea.'

‘The car that came between you – did it turn off with Charlie?'

She thought for a moment, ‘No, it carried on.'

‘And you never lost sight of him? You'd no problem keeping up?'

‘None at all. The traffic was slow moving. I wondered if he'd noticed us. That's why I let the other vehicle in. What's all this about?'

I wasn't sure any more. Maybe Charlie had annoyed a motorist further along into his journey. Maybe there was no road rage incident and Sinclair was right. I was scrabbling for theories.

‘Just background,' I smiled. The gesture hurt my cheekbone.

She didn't smile back. ‘I really must get on,' she said. ‘And I'd rather not be interrupted at work in future.' And with that she walked off.

Ray was still in bed. I'd put my head round his door to see if he wanted a cup of tea, figuring that an amiable approach from me might improve things between us more quickly than if I left it up to him (Ray's default mode during conflict was to sulk). He was still asleep.

Abi asked me about my face when I swapped ice cream for Jamie, and I'd told her I'd managed to collide with the back door on the hatchback when I was loading the shopping. ‘I'm always doing it,' I said. ‘Never learn.'

After grabbing something to eat, I fed and changed Jamie. I talked to her and watched her mimic me: trying out shapes with her mouth as I babbled on. ‘What are we going to do with you?' I rubbed her tummy. ‘What are we going to do?'

It was a good job Ray was out of it; otherwise he'd be back on my case, telling me it was now day seven and we needed to alert social services to the situation. The prospect made me queasy. How would they regard the week-long delay in contacting them? Might they turn the spotlight on me, my motives, examine my circumstances? I'd probably be treated with suspicion at the very least, or as a nutter. With a squirt of anxiety, acid in my stomach, I wondered if they'd question my ability to care for Maddie. Would they want to assess me as a parent? A frightening prospect. Now I was getting paranoid. Wasn't I?

The doorbell went at one o'clock. I was cautious, jittery, still shaken by the attack and so I checked through the glass before opening the door.

It was a young woman. She'd long hair, dyed an artificial crimson colour, the vivid tone contrasting with the pallor of her face. She was of slight build and wore a bright green coat with three-quarter length sleeves (a style that would make my wrists ache in the cold), black leggings and fake Ugg boots.

‘A'right,' she said.

Did I know her? There was something familiar in the shape of her face, the narrow planes, sharp nose, the cast of her eyes. She snorted, shook her head and the light glanced off the sheen in her hair, she cut her eyes away and back at me. ‘Leanne,' she announced. ‘Yeah?'

Leanne! The hair had changed from the mousy rats tails I remember and she was a few years older, but now I knew her. The first time we met she'd been a homeless waif plaiting bracelets to make a few pounds, squatting in an abandoned warehouse. She'd been part of a case I was working on. She'd had a traumatic life in care, horribly abused by the people supposed to be looking after her. The boy I was searching for had been violated in the same way. Parties in the care homes, the young and the vulnerable easy pickings for the powerful men who got pleasure from raping children. I didn't know all that until it was almost too late. Leanne helped me out at first, then blamed me when things went wrong. I took her out for a meal and to pump for questions and she stole from me. The last time I saw her, she was in fear for her life. I watched her shoot a man dead, vengeance and damage etched on her face, and run away. She was thirteen years old, then. She probably saved my life. I'd never expected to see her again; I'd doubted she'd survive. I'd expected her to disappear into a world of addiction and dispossession. Die alone, in some squalid squat.

‘Leanne,' I said, still fumbling for comprehension.

‘Where is she, then?' She had a huge sports bag by her side and hoisted it over her shoulder, stepping inside. She smelt of cigarettes and fabric conditioner.

‘Jamie.' Connections were sparking, fizzing and rearranging in my mind. I felt dizzy.

‘Jamie?' Leanne dumped her bag in the hall and pushed the door shut. ‘She's not called Jamie.' She sounded disgusted, her lip curling at the thought.

‘I'd no idea what she was called,' I retorted. ‘You didn't put that on the note, did you?'

‘Oh, soz. It's Lola. Jamie's a boy's name.'

‘Not always,' I argued.

‘Jamie Oliver.' She flung back the name of the celebrity chef. She glanced around the hall, moving into the playroom. Quick, nervy, still a wild quality to her. Questions crowded my head; where to start? She turned to me, her face narrowing with suspicion. ‘Where is she? You didn't put her in care?' Her eyes shimmered with anxiety and her voice shook.

‘She's here.' I led Leanne into the lounge.

‘Lola.' She scooped up the baby, hugged her close and kissed her head, then her cheeks, repeating her name and hugged her close again. Her own eyes closed, Lola kicked her legs, chuntered.

‘Where've you been?' I asked Leanne. ‘What on earth made you leave her? Why here?'

Leanne continued to cradle her daughter, swinging her hips slightly from side to side.

‘What's going on?' Ray came in, still in his pyjamas.

Leanne opened her eyes. ‘Cool jim-jams.' She nodded.

‘Leanne,' I tried to stay on track, ‘I didn't even know it was you. Why didn't you explain?' I looked over to Ray. ‘Leanne, Jamie's mother.'

‘Lola,' Leanne corrected. She patted the baby's bottom. ‘What's she wearing?'

‘Reusable nappy,' I said.

‘Ugh, gross.' She curled her lip.

‘Where've you been, Leanne?'

‘You know her?' Ray asked me.

‘She was a friend of J.B. – the guy who had Digger.' J.B., a homeless lad himself, had been a kind friend to Leanne and other homeless youngsters. He had been killed when he got too close to the paedophile ring I was investigating. I found his body.

‘You kept Digger.' Leanne nodded. Then her face altered: sudden worry again. ‘He all right with the baby?'

‘Keeps out of the way,' I said. ‘Why didn't you come in and tell me what was going on? Instead of just leaving a note. I'd no idea who the baby was, who'd left her.'

‘You might have turned us down,' she said with a shrug. ‘And I put my name on, anyway.'

‘It was illegible,' said Ray coldly.

‘Sorry,' she said, sounding anything but.

‘Why leave her?' I asked.

‘It's complicated,' she said.

Ray sat down in one of the armchairs; he looked horribly serious. ‘So, explain,' he said.

‘Go on.' I sat on the sofa.

Leanne sighed. ‘I had to make myself disappear for a bit. I didn't know where I'd end up. I couldn't take her with me.'

‘Why did you have to disappear?' Ray asked.

‘Who's he?' Leanne complained to me. She was a teenager still, trying to play us off against each other.

‘Answer the question, Leanne.'

‘This bloke, he's bad news, he won't take no for an answer. He's been inside and he was coming out, expecting to play happy families.'

I heard Ray groan, dismayed at the scenario.