I watched Bobby as he watched television. Parenting was all new to me, but I loved Laura McGanity, and she and Bobby came as a pair.
Ambition had taken me to London a few years earlier, and I had fulfilled that, carved out a small niche in the crime circuit: Jack Garrett, crime reporter. It had come at a price, though, most nights lost chasing down drug raids or shootings, or writing exclusives on scams and gangsters, losing sleep as I waited for the door to crash in.
But then my father was killed a year ago. We had grown apart before that; we were like strangers when I went south, but since his death I had needed to come home to Lancashire. I didn’t know why, couldn’t work it out. Maybe it was as simple as guilt, trying to make up for the years when I had been away, chasing excitement, chasing dreams. Whatever the reason, I was back in Turners Fold, the small Lancashire cotton town where I grew up, all tight alleys and millstone grit; the town I had worked so hard to escape from.
It was harder for Laura, though. We’d met on a case
-she was one of the detectives, while I was the reporter prying for a story. She was London to her boots, at home in the noise, the movement, the youngest daughter of a City accountant. I had given up a lot to move up north: my social whirl, my contacts, my new life in the city. But Laura had given up everything familiar.
I sat down next to Bobby. His eyes stayed fixed on the television—
SpongeBob SquarePants—
and I wondered how the move would affect him. Laura had divorced Geoff, Bobby’s father, not long before we got together and contact had been sporadic at first. As soon as I’d arrived on the scene, things had miraculously improved. But now I had dragged Bobby two hundred miles north, away from the urban clutter of his toddler years and into the open spaces of Lancashire moorland. We had settled in an old stone cottage, with a slate roof and windows like peepholes. At night the cottage seemed to sink into the hillside, the lights from within like cat’s eyes flashing in the dark.
I looked towards the window. I could see old redbrick mill chimneys in the town below us, the lines of terraces like slash marks in the hills. The town-centre streets were still cobbled in places, the edges worn smooth by the Lancashire rain. I’d forgotten about the rain. It was the reason for the cotton industry, the moist air good for working with cloth, but the cotton had gone now, leaving damp streets, dark and foreboding against slate-grey skies. Between the town and us was a rich green hillside, broken by dry-stone walls and clusters of trees. This was the Lancashire that people didn’t expect, the rolling open spaces. Only the brooding shadow of
Pendle Hill at the other end of the valley broke the mood.
I checked my watch. Bobby had to be at school in half an hour. It was my turn today, Laura had been snatched away by a murder in Blackley, the next town along.
I felt my fingers drum the table. Was there a story in it? I needed something, because a child was still missing. They usually stayed away for a week, sometimes longer. Connor Crabtree had been gone for six days, and the nationals in town were all on countdown. It made it harder for me. I was just a freelancer, trying to sell stories to newspapers who had their own people at the scene, like I was a dog at the dinner table, waiting for scraps. I did best when the press weren’t there and I could get the early quotes.
I had sold a few stories though, small articles on the people affected by the abductions, and on the town itself, but they were just padding. Now Laura was at a murder scene and I was at home, doing the school run.
‘Are we going to school soon, Jack?’ asked Bobby, his voice quiet, almost a whisper.
I looked around, the sound bringing me back. I checked my watch. ‘Ten minutes,’ I said.
There was a pause, and then Bobby asked, ‘How long is ten minutes?’
I sighed, still not sure how to answer these questions. I’d had no training for this. It had been okay when I was just Mummy’s boyfriend who sometimes stayed over, but this was different. Now we shared the same house, vied for attention from the same woman.
‘A
Postman Pat
story,’ I said. He looked happy at that and turned back to the television.
As I watched him, I realised that this wasn’t a game any more. Bobby wasn’t just the noise in the house. He had to be nurtured, cared for.
I was about to stand up, to finish getting ready, when Bobby said, ‘Where’s Mummy?’
I stopped, thought about that. As always with children, a version of the truth was best. ‘You know she’s a police lady,’ I said, my voice soft.
Bobby nodded.
‘Well, sometimes police ladies have to go and help people. That’s where she is, helping someone.’
Bobby turned to look at me again. He didn’t look convinced, and already I sensed that his parents’ divorce had toughened him up too much for a boy of four. I found myself smiling, though. I could see so much of Laura in him. From the flickers of dimples to his mop of dark hair, stuck up around his crown, and the twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
I winked at him and ruffled his hair. This needed to work, I thought to myself, as much for Bobby as anyone else.
But then I remembered Laura, how she had looked this morning as she threw on her clothes in silhouette, the smell of her warm in my bed, the soft brush of her lips as she’d kissed me goodbye. No, I needed it to work for me, not just for Bobby.
As I thought about Laura, I realised that I needed to start looking for some more work. I’d built up crime contacts in London, people who would look at the stories
I was selling, loose tongues in the police stations and hospitals. I was back at the start again, building up an address book, looking out for the angle the local papers might not report. The abductions would end eventually, but we had a mortgage to pay until then. Laura was at a murder. And where there is a murder, there is always a story.
I picked up my phone and dialled her number. After a few rings I heard her voice.
‘I can’t talk about the case,’ she said quickly.
I laughed. ‘Maybe I was calling to hear your voice.’
‘You heard it this morning.’
‘I’m a reporter, Laura. I’ve got to report, and I’ve got a source on the inside.’
‘Sorry, Jack, that ended when you saw me naked. It’s a rule of mine.’
I whistled. ‘Quite a price, but worth every penny.’
I heard a soft giggle, but when she asked about Bobby I knew that I’d had my final answer on the subject.
‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. The school is new to all the kids. Bobby will be no different.’
‘What are you doing today?’
‘I don’t know. I might have a creep around Blackley, see what I can find. Apparently there’s been a murder.’
‘Jack!’
I laughed. ‘If you won’t tell me anything, I’ll just have to find out myself
‘How long will you be out?’
I sensed the worry in her voice. Bobby needed collecting from school.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back.’
I sensed her relax. ‘Okay, thanks, Jack,’ she said. There was a pause, and then, ‘I’m sorry about all this.’
‘I knew you didn’t do nine-to-five when we met,’ I said. ‘Anyway, it’s good for me. I’ve gone straight to the school run and skipped the dirty nappies.’
She laughed. ‘I love you, Jack.’
‘I’ve always loved you,’ I replied, and then the phone went dead.
I looked down at Bobby, who had been watching me as I spoke. I nudged him lightly on the arm. ‘Come on, soldier. Let’s get you to school.’
And the glow I felt when he smiled at me took me by surprise.
Laura had gone to a quiet corner of the police canteen to answer her phone, but when she ended the call she turned round to see a grinning Pete holding two mugs of coffee. He was keeping her caffeine levels high.
‘That was beautiful,’ he said. ‘I feel all warm inside.’
Laura blushed and grabbed a cup from him. The canteen was small and busy, the tables filled by the extra uniforms, the footsoldiers, drafted in to help with the murder inquiry. The abductions were still the main focus though. There were posters on every wall and on the door, glossy blow-ups of a small business card, a simple image of large hands over a small head, protective, caring. One had been found in the pocket of each abducted child. The press knew about them but had agreed not to report them. In return they got daily updates. Every police officer in Blackley knew about them too, and had
been told to keep a lookout. Every time someone was searched, their wallet and pockets were checked. If someone was brought into custody, their property was double-checked.
‘C’mon,’ Pete said. ‘Leave the bacon for these boys. Egan is about to address his generals.’
It felt quiet in the Incident Room when they walked in. Egan had pulled in a few more muscleheads from the proactive team, those officers who liked patrolling the alleys, watching the active criminals; burglars and dealers would be getting an easier time for the next few days. They found some seats at the back of the room, and as Laura sat back in her chair she looked around.
The police station was showing its age. The walls had been painted many times over, the current version of cream uneven and flaking, with large radiators beneath sash windows. The ceiling was high so everything below it looked jumbled, untidy, just a clutter of desks and paper. There was talk of a new station being built on the edge of town, but that was years away yet.
Egan paced at the front of the room and stroked his chin. He looked tense. He had watched Laura and Pete walk in, the last ones to arrive.
Egan turned to address the room, announced his presence with a cough and started with a summary of the case so far: how Jess’s body had been found, the usual list of inquiries. Boyfriends. Money. Stalker. He was a flipchart cop. He had done all the leadership stuff, put pictures of the dead woman on the wall,
jotted down suspects and ideas. The others in the room had short attention spans, and Laura could sense their restlessness, as if they knew they wouldn’t get the resources to do the job properly. They had to get lucky, and quickly.
And it might take luck, because crime scenes had already reported back and the forensic sweep was looking slim. There were DNA tests to run, fingerprints to compare, but, for a bloody murder scene like that, nothing stood out yet. No bloody handprints on the walls or the doors, or any footwear marks on the floor. The evidence might be there once everything was looked at, but nothing instant had shown up.
Egan paused to look at Laura. ‘You spoke with the old man. How was he?’
‘Tired and emotional, I suppose. I told him I would call on him later to get a statement. Neighbours confirmed that he was banging on the door not long before the call was made, so we didn’t think we had enough to bring him in this morning.’
‘But what did
you
think?’
‘I don’t know. He was there, he was upset, but other than that, I’m not sure.’
‘Still no alibi?’
Laura shook her head. ‘None. Just that he was at home, dreaming about her.’
Egan looked eager at that. ‘Eric Randle has to be our target suspect. I want to know everything about him by the end of today. Where he worked, who he knows, where he goes. I want someone to keep an eye on his house. See who goes in and who goes out.’ And
then he pointed at Laura and Pete. ‘And you two can go get his statement. Once you leave, he might think that’s it.’
Laura and Pete exchanged glances. It seemed mundane after the pressure of the murder scene.
‘What about Luke King?’ asked Pete. ‘He was in the area and left in the middle of the night.’
‘Make some discreet inquiries,’ answered Egan. ‘That’s your job once you’ve finished with Randle.’
Pete seemed unconvinced. ‘How long do we wait if he realises we’re watching him?’ he asked. ‘There may be the deceased’s DNA on him right now. If we wait, it’ll be gone.’
Egan took a deep breath, looked as if he was trying to control himself.
‘I’m aware of that, but he has no idea that we know about him yet. Let’s just keep an eye on him, see what he does.’
Pete didn’t reply. He just clenched his jaw and stared at Egan.
Laura knew what Egan really meant: that if they got it wrong against a powerful family, only a confession would save them from a shift back into uniform, riding the Saturday night van for six months, fighting drunks.
Egan split everyone up into teams of two, gave them all a task, and then broke up the meeting.
As the room had emptied, Laura watched Pete as he walked past Egan.
And what are you going to be doing, Dermot?’
Egan looked him up and down, and then said curtly,
‘Taking responsibility,’ before he turned and walked out of the room.
When he had left, Laura asked, ‘Do you two have a history?’
A smile played on Pete’s lips for a few seconds. ‘Just flashpoints,’ he said.
He sounded calm, but Laura noticed an angry flush on his cheekbones. ‘You know what it’s like with cops,’ he continued. ‘You think you’ve got trust, but as soon as the shit hits the fan, cops like Egan point the finger like they’ve just seen the end of the fucking rainbow.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘C’mon, I’ll tell you about it another time.’
Laura made a mental note to find out one day. The day was getting long enough without having to spend it dodging bruised egos.
‘But what if he’s right about Luke King?’ she said. ‘Maybe Eric Randle should come first.’
‘Yeah, if he’s right he’ll take his applause. But if he’s wrong he’ll make sure we cop the flack. Just me and the new girl.’
They were turning to walk out of the room together when someone shouted from the back of the room, ‘What’s the old boy’s name again? The one who called it in?’
Laura turned around. Yusuf, a young Asian officer with a soul patch on his chin and thin-rimmed glasses, was sitting in front of a computer screen. ‘Eric Randle,’ she shouted back.
‘In his sixties? Scruffy? Lives on the Ashcroft estate?’
Laura nodded.
‘I might be wrong,’ he continued, looking up now, ‘but I think his name came up in the abduction cases, when the children first started disappearing.’