No Name Lane (Howard Linskey) (8 page)

There were bits that appeared to be falling off the body of the black Mark Two Ford Escort and other sections that seemed to be held to it only by a stubborn coating of rust but Tom still had a deep affection for the decrepit old heap. He prayed it would start. Journalists on The Paper prided themselves on taking taxis everywhere, claiming back fistfuls of receipts every month, even when it was easier to go by tube, and his car had barely been used lately.

It took four goes and each rasping, scraping turn of the key sounded like the Escort’s final death rattle, but the ignition finally fired and the car suddenly spluttered into life, like an elderly colonel woken abruptly from his afternoon nap. He told himself it was a sunny morning in London and he was being paid to take a holiday. That was the glass-half-full approach he forced himself to adopt.

Tom Carney was heading home.

CHAPTER TEN

The TV reporter surveyed the massed throng of newspaper photographers in the village hall. ‘Bloody paps,’ he muttered under his breath but it was loud enough for Helen to hear.

‘Hurry up,’ he instructed a harassed-looking cameraman who was hurriedly assembling a tripod. Another photographer brushed past the two men in a hurry, barging the TV reporter in the process, ‘vultures, the lot of them,’ he mumbled. Helen watched him issuing instructions to the cameraman ending with a ‘quickly … quickly … quicker …’ as a senior police officer emerged in uniform, followed by a plain clothes detective then finally, Michelle Summers’ mother and stepfather. ‘You’d better be ready …’ the TV reporter warned the cameraman as he continued to line up his shot.

The senior officer sat down in front of a microphone and, before he spoke, the TV reporter had just enough time to give a final instruction to his cameraman. ‘And remember, if the mother starts to cry, zoom in on her face, nice and slow.’

The TV reporter turned then and noticed Helen surveying him with a look of distaste. ‘What?’ he asked. Helen opened her mouth to say something in reply but before she could speak she was drowned out by the first words from the uniformed policeman.

‘I
am Detective Superintendent Trelawe,’ he told them importantly, ‘and this is Detective Chief Inspector Kane. With me are Michelle Summers’ mother Fiona and her stepfather Darren. We will begin this press conference with an appeal from Fiona.’

Michelle’s mother stared nervously out at the ranks of photographers and journalists then down at the table, which contained a half dozen microphones set up by radio stations to capture her words. She had a piece of paper in her hands and she stared at it but did not start to read. Michelle’s stepfather, a bulky man with an impassive face, put a hand on her shoulder for support or perhaps to prompt her, and she managed to begin, her voice quivering with emotion.

‘Michelle, if you are listening to this,’ she read, ‘whatever’s happened, it doesn’t matter, we can sort it out, love. Just come home; please, darling, get in touch with us or just call the police to tell them where you are and they’ll come and get you.’ And she started to cry then. Later, Helen Norton would watch the TV coverage of that same press conference and notice that, as directed, the cameraman would choose that moment to begin a slow zoom into a close-up of the poor woman’s face. Unable to continue, Fiona was helped to her feet by her husband, who led her from the room.

When the distraught mother had gone, Detective Superintendent Trelawe gave the journalists the simple facts, including Michelle’s last known movements before she disappeared and a physical description of the girl, right down to the St Christopher medallion she wore round her neck on a silver chain. Then they took the first question. There
was a flurry of hands and the detective superintendent pointed to a male reporter in the first row.

‘Do you believe that Michelle Summers is Girl Number Five?’

‘We can’t be sure of that at this stage of our investigation,’ answered Trelawe, ‘but there are certain similarities between the previous cases and this one.’

‘So you do believe it?’ the reporter persisted.

‘It is one of several lines of enquiry we are currently pursuing.’ Trelawe quickly pointed to another journalist, hoping for a different line of questioning.

‘Is Michelle the latest victim of The Reaper?’ asked a reporter with a London accent.

‘I think I just answered that question. That is a line of enquiry but we cannot categorically state …’

‘Michelle Summers is an underage girl who has been snatched from a public place without anybody seeing or hearing a thing and she has not been seen since,’ added the reporter, ‘that sounds identical.’

‘The detective superintendent was quite clear,’ interrupted DCI Kane, ‘we are rightly keeping an open mind and pursuing a number of different lines of enquiry, as you would expect us to. We would urge any member of the public with relevant information to contact us on one of the incident room hotlines.’

This just made Kane the focus of reporter’s questions. ‘Detective Chief Inspector, how are you going to catch this man and how can you prevent him from striking again?’ another voice called from the back of the room.

‘We are doing absolutely everything in our power …’ Kane began but he was interrupted.

Reporters
began shouting over each other as they competed to be heard. Trelawe knew he’d lost control. ‘That is all for now ladies and gentlemen, thank you!’ He quickly gathered his papers and got to his feet. ‘You will be kept informed,’ he assured the reporters who did not let up, continuing to call out to him as the police officers left the room.

Tom Carney followed the landlord up the narrow, creaking staircase to a gloomy first-floor landing with four small rooms. It had taken him five and a half hours to get from London to Great Middleton, which included a short rest for a soggy bacon sandwich and a cup of overpriced instant coffee that still tasted faintly of washing-up liquid. He was tired but at least his car hadn’t broken down on the way.

‘You’re at the end on the right,’ Colin explained, handing him the key, ‘bathroom’s opposite.’

‘Thanks Col,’ said Tom, ‘you sure you don’t want any more for the room? I feel bad.’

‘How many times have you put my pub in the local paper?’ the landlord demanded. ‘Karaoke nights, charity do’s, pool contests, darts matches, leek shows and football games; you’ve had them all on your district page over the years. I owe you.’

‘A pint would have done.’

‘I don’t usually let the room out,’ Colin explained, ‘there’s no real demand for it. It’s yours for as long as you need it,’ he shrugged, ‘what you’re paying is covering my costs. I don’t need any more.’

‘Cheers mate.’

Tom
let himself into the room. It was tiny but it would do: containing a bed, an old wardrobe and a wash basin set against a wall. A portable television was perched on a chest of drawers next to a small kettle with two mugs, a few sachets of coffee and some tea bags. Tom put his bag on the bed and walked to the window, drawing a net curtain aside for a view of the street below and the rusting pub sign with a lean grey dog on it and the word ‘Greyhound’.

‘This’ll do.’ He quite liked the idea of staying above a pub.

Tom went down to the bar, where a pint of the Greyhound’s famous IPA was poured for him by Colin. Tom accepted it gratefully. Someone had left a copy of that week’s
Messenger
on a table and he picked it up and read it for the first time since he’d left the newspaper for London. It was strange to read a copy that did not contain a page lead with his name on it and he realised that, like countless other journalists at thousands of other newspapers, his contribution had only ever been a fleeting one and would soon be forgotten. As far as he could see, the
Messenger
seemed to be surviving perfectly well without him.

He took a long sip of beer, finished his pint and paid for another.

Two more pints slipped down fairly quickly and Tom was starting to feel much better about himself and the world. There was nothing like beer to give a man a temporary uplift, even though he was not in the habit of
having so many this early in the day. The bar started to fill up with the lunchtime trade, swelled by journalists who’d attended that morning’s press conference and stayed on looking for an angle.

‘Tom,’ called a voice from somewhere over his shoulder and he half turned to find Mike Newton smiling at him, ‘I didn’t know you were back.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Tom stammered, ‘I’m covering this story,’ he would have been far less bothered about bumping into somebody from the
Messenger
if his position at The Paper had been halfway secure.

‘Your old stomping ground,’ Mike nodded, ‘makes sense,’ and it was clear he believed Tom had been sent back there by The Paper, ‘so how’s it going?’

‘Great, mate, great, absolutely loving it.’

‘Yeah?’

Mike seemed keen to hear all about the legendary Alex ‘The Doc’ Docherty and seemed mightily impressed that Tom dealt with the great man on a daily basis. ‘Hey, it’s good to see you,’ he said. ‘Malcolm took an age to replace you,’

‘That’s because I’m irreplaceable.’

‘Could be,’ Mike smiled, ‘or he was just dragging his heels so he could cut the wage bill while he got the rest of us to do your work?’

‘Sounds like Malcolm. So what’s the new girl like? I heard she’s a bit of a princess, parachuted in from down south?’ Mike’s face froze and he looked deeply uncomfortable then. Tom was just about to ask him what was wrong when a second voice interrupted him.

‘I
drove here actually,’ and Tom turned to see a young, attractive, well-spoken woman regarding him with something like disdain. She was holding a pint of beer, which she handed to Mike.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Tom, this is Helen Norton.’

Tom Carney normally prided himself on his ability to think quickly and dig himself out of any situation but not this time. He’d had no idea Helen was standing behind him. She must have gone to the bar to get the drinks then quietly joined them without introduction. In her other hand Helen held a glass of wine and she took a sip while Tom tried to think of something to say to rescue the situation.

The best he could come up with was, ‘Pleased to meet you, Helen.’

‘I’ll bet,’ she said, without enthusiasm.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When their sandwiches arrived, Helen and Mike took them to a corner table but Tom made no attempt to join them. Instead, he went round the room, chatting to the locals and renewing old acquaintances. He quickly noted that, although some were happy to see him again, others treated him with suspicion now he had graduated to working for a tabloid, as if he had somehow crossed over to the dark side and could no longer be trusted. None of them could tell him anything about Michelle Summers that he did not already know, so he left the pub and let the fresh air sober him up. He needed to speak with someone who actually knew what was going on in this village.

Tom tried the old vicarage but Mary Collier’s housekeeper informed him she had a hospital appointment. Next he went to Roddy Moncur’s house and banged on the door but there was no answer. Tom’s two best contacts weren’t around and he felt he was getting nowhere.

Tom had hoped to spend the afternoon sniffing out new leads on the disappearance of Michelle Summers but he’d drawn a complete blank. He had assumed that contacts and local knowledge would give him a head start over the cloud of reporters who’d descended on Great Middleton but nobody he’d spoken to had anything
to say about Michelle, except how awful her disappearance was.

Tom trudged through the village, trying not to think about Timothy Grady as he took in the surroundings, experiencing the mixed feelings of an exile returning home. He didn’t know if he was gaining comfort from the familiar or feeling the dread of being trapped in a small, provincial place he had spent years trying to escape. The several pints he’d consumed meant that at least he didn’t feel the difference in temperature. It had to be at least three or four degrees colder here than in London. Nothing like a beer blanket, he thought to himself as he headed for the only sensible port of call after the dispiriting day he’d had; the Red Lion.