No Name Lane (Howard Linskey) (35 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

They
sat on the floor with their backs against the end of his bed. They’d been going over everything they’d learned about Sean Donnellan and his murder before moving to the disappearance of Michelle Summers and the previous victims of the Kiddy-Catcher.

‘We’re going round in circles,’ Helen admitted eventually. ‘There’s nothing new, is there?’ And when he didn’t immediately reply, she asked, ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve been thinking about your theory on why the girls go with him.’

‘Oh that,’ she said, ‘I could be very wide of the mark there.’

‘And you might be bang on. It could be a woman who lures them to him – but I did have another thought.’

‘I’m sure I’d prefer it, no matter what it is.’

‘I got into a stranger’s car recently,’ he told her, ‘but only because they flashed a badge at me. They were police, but what if they hadn’t been?’ And he turned to look at her. ‘What if you were an eleven-year-old girl and a man with a fake ID told you he was a police officer and you had to get into his car?’

Helen looked at him intently, ‘I’d get in,’ she said finally.

Tom nodded, ‘I think you would.’

Suddenly the volume of the music downstairs shot up. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

‘Good
luck getting to sleep with that racket.’

‘I’ll be all right if Colin doesn’t have a lock-in.’

The unmistakable chorus of ‘Delilah’ could clearly be heard, even though it was muffled by the carpet and floorboards.

‘I’d buy you another drink,’ he told her, ‘but someone’s murdering Tom Jones down there.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said, ‘I’ve got to drive back anyway and it’s a school night, though I don’t know how I’m able to look Malcolm in the eye now that I know about his little …’

‘Side-line?’ and he smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’ll all be forgotten in a day or so. No one takes Malcolm seriously.’

‘I have to. It’s all right for you.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yeah, I’m just starting out but you’ve already made it. You’re in the big leagues.’

‘Not quite.’ Tom wasn’t sure he wanted to be having this conversation because he found to his surprise that he actually cared what she thought of him.

Helen carried on as if she hadn’t heard him, ‘Whereas I’ve been doing this for five minutes and my name is already mud at the
Messenger
.’

‘Only because you caught your editor up to no good.’

‘It’s not just that,’ she admitted. ‘Most of the time I don’t feel like I know what I’m doing.’

‘I used to feel exactly the same way,’ he assured her, ‘still do most of the time. Everybody does. They just act like they don’t.’

‘But you
do
know what you are doing,’ she argued.

‘Not
always and only because I’ve been round the block a few times. I’m a bit older than you.’

‘Only about five years older,’ countered Helen, ‘and that’s not much. You’re hardly the grizzled old veteran.’

‘Reporter years are like dog years,’ he assured her, ‘five years in journalism is a lifetime. Look, don’t worry about Malcolm. I reckon you’re off to a flying start.’

‘So you don’t think I’m a soft, southern princess, living off my parents’ money till I can slope off to get married and have babies.’

‘No,’ he told her emphatically.

‘That’s funny,’ she replied, ‘everybody else does.’

‘No, they don’t,’ he informed her, ‘they’re just unsure of you, that’s all.’

‘Either way, it’s not working out the way I expected.’

‘It will,’ he said, ‘give it time. You’re bloody good,’ and then he added, ‘and I ought to know.’

She smiled. ‘Why, because you’re bloody good too?’

‘Exactly,’ and he grinned at her.

‘Then maybe, in five years’ time, I’ll be doing as well as you.’ And he sighed and got quickly to his feet. ‘What’s the matter? What did I say?’

He was planning to lie to her but instead, for the second time since he’d arrived back in Great Middleton, Tom felt he could trust someone enough to reveal the truth. ‘Things aren’t going that well.’

‘You’re working for the biggest newspaper in the country.’

‘No,’ he told her, ‘I’m
suspended
from the biggest newspaper in the country.’

‘But
I thought …’

‘I’m not broadcasting the fact.’ And she listened while he told her the whole sad story of Timothy Grady and the hookers, the barrister wife and her threats of litigation then about the Doc and what he was likely to do about it all.

When he’d finally finished Helen must have felt pressure to offer him a crumb of comfort. ‘You’re still young,’ was all she could manage, ‘you can bounce back.’

‘I’m pushing thirty.’

‘You’re twenty-eight.’

‘
That’s
pushing thirty,’ he informed her, ‘anything north of twenty-five is pushing thirty.’

‘What’ll you do?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. This is all I’ve ever wanted to do. I mean I knew it wouldn’t be easy and I know that editors sometimes lie or do stuff that’s morally dodgy, I’m not naïve, Helen, but I believe that newspapers are a good thing, on the whole. I really do. Without them, rich and powerful people would do whatever they wanted, completely unchecked by a government that doesn’t give a damn. We expose those people, hold them up for censure. Look at Grady. There have been rumours about that bloke for years. He’s one of those people that everybody knows is bent but no one can quite prove it. There are business men, celebrities, football managers and politicians like that who all have the whiff of corruption about them. If we didn’t keep at them until we’ve uncovered something dirty then they’d just continue to ignore the rules and trample on everybody.’

‘You’re
still an angry young man then?’ she said but not without kindness.

‘If you lose the anger, what have you got left? You end up like Malcolm.’

She got to her feet then and regarded him carefully. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘He’s not fine with it,’ she said suddenly, ‘the journalism.’ She looked tense. ‘My boyfriend Peter, I mean,’ she shrugged, ‘since we are sharing.’

‘Why not?’ he asked her. ‘What’s wrong with being a reporter?’

‘It’s not the actual job. It’s me being away and the possibility I might never get back, if I get opportunities elsewhere, if I choose to take them,’ she added as if that might still be open to doubt. ’I think he worries about that. I reckon he’d be fine if I was working for his local paper.’

‘Right,’ he said, ‘long-distance relationships can be tricky.’

‘Don’t say it like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like we’re doomed or something.’

‘I didn’t,’ he protested.

‘He isn’t horrible to me or anything, he’s lovely most of the time. It’s just …’

‘Just what?’

‘I sometimes think he wants me to get this out of my system then come home.’

‘Oh,’ he said.

‘What does “oh” mean?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘It
just means “oh”,’ he said, ‘I didn’t dare say anything really controversial like “long-distance relationships can be tricky”.’

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to be … I’m just a bit … it’s difficult sometimes … I get so …’ and she let out a noise that was an exasperated groan.

‘I understand,’ Tom told her.

‘You do?’

‘Yeah?’ he assured her, ‘I’m not fluent in
woman
but I speak just enough of it to get by.’

‘Cheeky sod.’

‘You’re not the first to say that,’ he admitted cheerfully, ‘come on, I’ll walk you to your car.’

‘It’s all right, you know,’ she said, as they left the Greyhound together, ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘It’s late,’ he reminded her, ‘and there are some unpleasant people in this village.’

The high street in front of the Greyhound was a double yellow zone, so Helen had been forced to park a couple of streets away. When they reached her car she said, ‘Thanks and I promise I won’t tell anyone what we talked about,’

‘You sure?’ he smiled. ‘It would get you back in Malcolm’s good books. He’d love it.’

‘I think I can resist the temptation,’ she assured him, ‘and don’t give up. I know it’s really tough right now, but it’s often when life is at its lowest ebb that things suddenly start to take a turn for the better.’

‘Thanks,’ he said and she kissed him on the cheek, lingering there for just a second. Tom put his arm out and
placed his hand on her waist. She glanced down but didn’t move from him and when her head came back up again he leaned in and kissed her.

Helen did not push him away or fight him off, she allowed the kiss to happen, even returned his kiss, but suddenly it was as if a spell had been broken. Helen broke free from him and took a step back. ‘What are you doing?’ There was hurt and confusion on her face and he was shocked by it.

‘I thought that …’ but he already knew no words could dig him out of this one.

‘I have a boyfriend!’ she insisted, as if they had not just been talking about the idiot. ‘I thought you …’ And she shook her head angrily as if to clear it. ‘Unbelievable … just unbelievable.’

Helen climbed into her car, slammed the door and drove off.

‘Oh shit,’ he said as he watched her go, knowing that he had just ruined everything but still clinging to the not-entirely-certain notion that she had kissed him back. He was sure she had kissed him back.

As he ambled back to the Greyhound, he caught himself absentmindedly putting a hand up to his lips. ‘Idiot,’ he cursed himself for that and the kiss that preceded it.

The wind was up, bending the branches of the trees at the edge of the common and rustling the leaves noisily, so he didn’t hear the footsteps until the man was almost upon him. Tom managed a half turn but wasn’t quick enough. The blow to the back of the head was delivered with such force it sent him sprawling forwards. He barely had time to put his hands out in front of him before
crashing onto the concrete. Tom’s palms took some of the force of his landing and he fell sideways on impact, with a searing pain in his head and a sick feeling in his stomach. Before he could pick himself up a boot went into his side, knocking the wind from him, leaving him sprawled helplessly on the pavement.

‘Fucking bastard!’ shouted Frankie Turner and there was another furious kick from the man he had humiliated. As the pain moved from his stomach to his ribs with the new impact, Tom was dimly aware that Frankie must have waited outside in the cold all this time, hoping he would leave the pub, which told him everything he needed to know about the man’s fury.

‘Don’t you ever … take the piss out of me,’ Frankie hissed, kicking Tom every few words, ‘else I’ll kill you … got that!’

For Tom, the fight had been over before it had even begun. This was not about having the will or the courage to fight back, he couldn’t even get up. All he could do was use his arms to try to defend himself against the kicks while Frankie railed at him.

Then Frankie landed a kick right on the end of Tom’s chin and the blow almost knocked him unconscious, ending his ability to even put his hands up. Frankie wasn’t finished. ‘You’re leaving tomorrow. If you don’t, you’ll get more of this,’ then he stamped hard on Tom’s hand.

Frankie spat on the floor inches from Tom’s head and walked away muttering to himself, ‘Fucking mess with me, you little prick.’

It was minutes before Tom felt able to roll onto his
front then gingerly press down onto the concrete path with his undamaged hand, so he could push against it and attempt to haul himself to his feet. Everything hurt; his head, ribs, stomach, both legs and arms and especially his hand. There was sheer hatred in Frankie’s blows and the man’s retribution had been thorough.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Day Eight

Tom
woke in his room at the Greyhound the next morning. As he opened his eyes the memory of the one-sided fight with Frankie immediately came back to him, along with the pain, and he groaned. Every bit of him ached. The next thing he recalled was Frankie’s threat: leave town or face another beating. As if he didn’t have enough problems already. What was it Helen had said to him just before it, about life often getting better when you were at your lowest ebb? Surely his ebb couldn’t get any lower than this.

He thought of Helen then and their aborted kiss. What had he been thinking? He’d probably blown it with her too. Was there no end to his troubles? He climbed out of bed, gingerly surveyed the vivid bruises on his torso in the mirror then turned on the television to catch the news. With typical bad luck, the first voice he heard was Timothy Grady’s.

‘I met with the Prime Minister this morning to tender my resignation from the cabinet,’ he told a reporter standing outside the Palace of Westminster. ‘I did this to prevent any distraction to the business of government. The Prime Minister reluctantly accepted my resignation but agreed with me that, until this matter has been satisfactorily
resolved, I will be unable to devote myself fully to my ministerial position. The Prime Minister has made it clear that I continue to enjoy his full confidence and he has not ruled out an immediate return to government. That is all.’ And Grady walked briskly away from the camera, ignoring the questions that followed him.