No Name Lane (Howard Linskey) (49 page)

‘She’s alive,’ the nurse looked at him with something that resembled pride. He wasn’t used to that. ‘She’s poorly but she’ll live, thanks to you. I imagine her parents will want to thank you themselves but we’ll keep them away for now so you can get some rest.’

She made as if to leave.

‘Nurse,’ he called and she turned back to him, ‘what’s her name?’ For some reason that seemed incredibly important to him all of a sudden.

She smiled again, this time kindly. ‘Kimberley Russell.’

‘Kimberley Russell,’ he said it aloud to himself to help him remember. Little Kimberley, he thought then he closed his eyes and slept for nine hours.

Bradshaw woke feeling ravenous but there was no one around so he decided to get out of bed. He had no idea what time it was and his watch and wet clothes had been taken from him but it was light outside. He was in his own room even though he didn’t have private health care, so there was no one to ask. He padded barefoot down the
corridor, feeling groggy, as if he had slept for days, and he decided to look for the canteen, though he had no money. Maybe he could somehow run up a tab for food, he reasoned.

He walked down two long corridors before he came upon an open door that led to a lounge where recuperating patients could watch TV. It was empty but the news was on with the sound turned right down and he saw a picture of a girl who looked vaguely familiar. Was this the little girl he had rescued? It certainly looked like her. They cut back to a newsreader in the studio then and he would have liked to have listened but he couldn’t see a remote control anywhere so he just stood in the doorway, watching. Then his picture appeared.

It was an old photo, taken when he had joined the force and he looked ridiculously young, like a matinee idol from the fifties. Bradshaw watched the rest of the report, which included a film clip of the fast-moving river taken that morning and a short, silent interview with DCI Kane, who looked very serious, as well he might, considering it was one of his own officers who had taken the girl. Bradshaw doubted he would ever be able to come to terms with the fact that his partner turned out to be a madman.

The final piece was another interview but this one shocked him rigid. What the hell was Alan Carter doing in the studio and what was he saying? Bradshaw cursed the lack of volume as he watched the lips move on the expressionless face of his wheelchair-bound former colleague and could only guess what Carter might be telling the world about him.

Ian
Bradshaw was discharged that afternoon. He was surprised to find that a WPC had been entrusted with the keys to his flat and had gone round there to find him some fresh clothes, which she then personally brought to his bedside. His first thought was what a kind, caring and pretty girl she was; his second that it was a bloody awful shame he hadn’t known she was going to go round there in advance, because the place looked like a pig-sty. He was willing to bet she thought he was a right saddo, now that she’d seen the way he’d been living, but she seemed both warm and genuine in her congratulations.

‘You were incredibly brave,’ she assured him. ‘I wouldn’t have jumped into that water.’

Bradshaw certainly didn’t see himself as a hero just because he jumped into the river and got the girl out. What else could he have done? Watch her drown?

‘The DCI wants you to go in once you’re feeling well enough,’ she said.

He was about to question her about Vincent and how everyone in CID was taking it but what she said next stopped him from thinking about anything else.

‘Oh and Alan Carter’s wife has been on the blower,’ the WPC told him. ‘He wants you to visit him.’

‘Thanks for popping round, mate.’

‘No problem, I came as soon as I could.’ Bradshaw wasn’t kidding about that. He’d come straight from the hospital.

‘No, I mean it,’ Carter assured him, ‘I appreciate it, I really do.’ And he smiled. ‘Were your ears burning this morning? I was on the news talking about you. They
wanted to speak to one of your friends to find out what you were like but none of your serving colleagues were allowed to talk to journalists, for some reason.’ Bradshaw knew the reason. He’d heard news reports on his car radio and no one had yet admitted that Vincent Addison was the man in the car or that it was a police officer who was responsible for the girl being in the water in the first place. ‘Anyway, someone suggested me, so they wheeled me into the studio, quite literally,’ and he grinned at that. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything bad about you. Bloody well done as well.’ He regarded his former colleague carefully but Bradshaw didn’t know what to say, so instead Carter changed the subject. ‘I know why you stopped coming, by the way.’

‘You do?’

‘Carol told me. She told you it wasn’t doing me any good but she was wrong,’ he waved a hand dismissively, ‘I mean, it’s not her fault or anything but she was mistaken. Your visits were a good thing, I looked forward to them,’ and he smiled again. It was only a half-smile but Bradshaw had not seen smiles on Carter’s lips since he had fallen twenty-five feet through the plate-glass skylight of that factory and landed on a hard wooden work bench. ‘I know it didn’t look like it and I’m sorry for being such a grumpy bastard but,’ and he half-smiled again, ‘in my defence, I have had a bit on my plate,’ and he tapped the side of his wheelchair.

Bradshaw didn’t know what to say.

Carter interjected for him, ‘This is the bit when you’re supposed to say, “No problem mate, I fully understand.” ’

‘Oh,
God, yeah, I was thinking it, I just didn’t say it out loud, sorry, mate.’

‘I’m taking the piss out of you, man. We used to do that quite a lot as I recall. Have you forgotten?’

And Carter was right, they did; spending all those hours driving round together, ripping it out of each other, but it seemed a very long time ago somehow. ‘Yeah,’ he said. The lack of banter from his fellow officers was one of the things Bradshaw missed most about being persona non grata these days. Back in the day, there had been a lot of near-the-knuckle humour to get them through the stressful days and many of those had ended with long sessions down the pub. Carter was particularly keen on those booze-ups and more than once Bradshaw had to ensure he got a cab home to Carol before his legs gave way or he fell asleep in a corner of the pub.

‘Well, I don’t blame you. I haven’t been a barrel of laughs to be around these past months. I admit that. I’ve been an awful dad, a shit husband and a crap mate, no, Ian, I have, hear me out. I just wanted to say thanks for all the times you came. None of those other twats from the station bothered to come a second time. I haven’t seen any of them in a year. You’re the only one.’

‘Well, I felt …’

‘Obliged?’

‘No,’ and Carter raised his eyebrows in a questioning gesture, ‘well maybe a little, no that’s not it, not obliged, no, more …’

‘Responsible?’

‘Yes,’ and a funny thing happened to Ian Bradshaw
then. He started to feel tears in his eyes and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop them, so he didn’t try.

Carter carried on talking, as if the sight of a grown man crying in front of him was entirely normal. ‘I’ve been thinking about that too. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I’ve wanted to blame everybody for what’s happened to me: the little cunt who broke into that factory and went through the skylight with me but walked away with a few broken bones. I’ve blamed the force for putting me in that position. I tried to blame God but I don’t think he was listening and then there was you. There, I’ll admit it. I’ve even tried to blame you.’

‘I know,’ Bradshaw was crying openly now, weeping like he hadn’t done since he was a small child, ‘it was my fault. You told me we shouldn’t go up on the roof, you said it wasn’t worth the bother, we were right near the end of the shift, you said to just leave the call for someone else, the uniforms, but I wouldn’t listen. If I’d listened to you … if we’d done what you said …’

‘I never would have gone through that bloody skylight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Maybe,’ Carter admitted, ‘and that’s why I blamed you at first, along with that robbing little bastard whose fall I cushioned, but you didn’t push me through that skylight, Ian, and I didn’t have to try and grab him when he made a break for it. I did it without thinking, it was instinct and if I could go back in time and replay it I would have let him dash past me and get away,’ he said, ‘or maybe I’d just trip the little idiot up and he’d go through the skylight on his own this time.’ He smiled again. ‘Yeah, that’s what I’d do.’

Bradshaw
didn’t know how to respond so Carter continued.

‘I want to tell you something, Ian, and I want to do it now because I think you need to hear it from me, then I don’t ever want to talk about it again, you hear?’

‘Yeah.’ Bradshaw was bracing himself.

‘You’re not to blame for what happened to me. You were there with me when things went pear-shaped and I am fucked for life as a result of it. You could have done things differently but then so could I. I hate myself for trying to tackle that bloke on the roof. If you think I have blamed you for being paralysed then you have no idea how many times I’ve blamed myself. But, when it comes down to it, it was an accident. I fell. End of story. What I am trying to say, Ian, is it wasn’t your fault. The fact that I am in this chair is not your fault.’

Ian Bradshaw let the words wash over him before taking a number of deep breaths. Only then could he summon the strength to say ‘Thank you,’ before he broke down and cried like a baby right there in the room.

At that exact moment, Carol walked in with a tray of hot drinks. She stopped suddenly, took in the sight of their good friend Ian Bradshaw weeping uncontrollably in front of her husband, who perversely looked more calm and serene than he had done for months, and she froze. Bradshaw hadn’t heard her, his back was still to her and his head was down, face in his hands, a wretched, pent-up, strangled, sobbing sound coming from his mouth. She looked to her husband for guidance and he quickly shook his head. Carol silently retreated from the room.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Day Fourteen

‘Where
the bloody hell have you been?’ demanded Helen. She’d been walking past the Greyhound and glanced through the window. She was stunned to see Tom sitting there.

‘You sound like my Nan,’ he made a point of looking at his watch, ‘is it past my bedtime or something?’

One or two heads turned at the bar, regulars who were amused to see Tom finally getting it in the neck from this fiery young woman who’d been looking for him for days.

‘Why didn’t you call me?’

‘I had to send the mobile back,’ he said, as if there weren’t any other phones in the world that he could have used.

‘You’ve been gone for days.’

‘Yeah,’ he admitted, ‘and it looks like I missed all the fun.’ And when she stared blankly back at him he explained, ‘They caught him; the Kiddy-Catcher.’

‘Yes,’ she said, calmer now, ‘they did.’

She joined him at the table and her voice was lower now, causing the boys at the bar to lose interest in them. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘London,’ he explained, ‘sniffing out a couple of jobs.’

‘Anything
good?’

‘Maybe; the
Mirror
like me but I’m not sure if I want to be tied to a tabloid contract again.’ And he told her about his phone conversation with the Doc.

‘Blimey, I saw your name on the
Mirror
’s front page,’ she said. ‘At least they ran something on Michelle Summers and the school teacher.’

‘Did Malcolm spike your story?’

‘No but he edited it … with a chainsaw,’ she admitted, ‘we were left with
Missing Girl Found Safe in Village
but precious little else.’

‘What did you expect?’

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, ‘something … anything … more than that. You were right about him and the
Messenger
. As soon as I can I’m going to leave and work for a proper newspaper.’

‘Good for you,’ he said.

‘You said there were a couple of jobs?’

‘There’s another one working for a new magazine. It’s a completely new concept. They’re calling it a lads’ mag and aiming it at young males; lots of photographs of girls in bikinis and interviews with minor celebrities. I’ll be doing the interviewing, not the photographing of girls in bikinis.’

‘Are you going to take it?’

‘I think so. The money’s pretty good, so why not?’

‘But I thought you were a proper journalist,’ she said.

‘I am,’ he protested, ‘I was … it’s just too bloody hard sometimes. The last few weeks have worn me out. This would be easy money and my articles won’t get spiked or changed beyond recognition.’

‘Good
luck with it then,’ she said, ‘no, I mean it,’ before adding sullenly, ‘I thought you’d gone already.’

‘Wouldn’t you have preferred that?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

He watched her for a moment. She seemed unhappy and on edge. Like him, Helen had been scarred by their recent experiences. Without giving it any thought he suddenly blurted, ‘You could come with me?’

‘What?’

‘Come to London,’ he urged her, ‘you’d get something down there easily.’