Random Acts of Unkindness (7 page)

Everyone was off the bus now and I still looked at the birds. I wondered if Thomas is somewhere watching them, perhaps just beyond the market. I often stood at the back door in the dark, wearing just a nylon underslip, my hair loose and long down my back, and felt the most free I could under the circumstances.

Like a girl again, except for the lack of any emotions, or love. I’d stand at the door smoking Park Drives and staring at the sky, mine and Thomas’s sky, because everywhere he goes he couldn’t help but see the moon, the same moon I was seeing now, and that was our link.

Whatever had happened to him, he had to see the sky and think of his mum. Was that too much to ask? I knew him. If he was alive, he would think of his mum.

I dragged my body off the bus, my mind returning from the birds to Florrie Taylor. Four children disappeared, all linked? I desperately needed to talk to Inspector Little. Walking over to the police station took ten minutes, across the market square and through the Victorian Market Hall. Lots of people said. ‘Aya, Bessy’ but I was in a hurry.

I practically ran the last few hundred yards, and pushed the door dramatically. The counter bobby looked up from his paper.

‘Eyup, Bessy, what can we do for you?’

‘Can I talk to Ken Little?’

He folded his
Daily Mirror
in half and I sat on the wooden bench opposite. I could see PC Dodds—Lennie to me and Colin—talking and smiling.

‘He’s gone out on an investigation down Hattersley. Won’t be back anytime soon, love. Welcome to wait if you want.’

I stared at him.

‘What’s happening in Hattersley? It’s not Ken’s part is it? I mean, doesn’t he do Ashton?’

‘Yep. But somat big’s happened. Don’t know what. They’ve all trooped down there. No idea what it is. Do you want a cup of tea, Bessy, love?’

I turned and walked out. Colin’s told me I’ve got an overactive imagination, and now I’m thinking all sorts. If there’s four gone missing, maybe there’s five? Or ten? Maybe Thomas is one of them? Who’d do that to kiddies? Leading onto the obvious conclusion of ‘and where are they now?’

I walked back into the sunlight again, my eyes narrowing. I was kind of glad Ken Little wasn’t there, otherwise I’d have had to repeat the demand I had made almost every day since Thomas went missing; that they treat this as a murder investigation. I knew I was pushing him to his limit, because he’d shouted at me more than once.

‘There’s no body, Bess. No body.’

I’d carried on even though I could see a huge vein in his forehead throbbing, always a danger sign when my dad was going to belt us.

‘But what do you think, Ken? What do you think? Do you really think he’s just gone off? Do you? Hmm?’

‘It doesn’t matter what I think, Bessy, love. It’s the evidence. My boss won’t let me go and dig next door’s garden up on hearsay. Or arrest everyone who was on Ney Street that day. This isn’t Cluedo, it’s real life. I need some evidence. And all the evidence we have points to Thomas being a restless teenager who likes a pint and was after the lasses. I can’t say why he did what he did to you and Colin, but we can’t investigate a murder on the basis of that, can we?’

It was the same old story. And I had to admit I was backing my odds both ways, or else why would I bother setting the table for him every night? So I wandered out of the police station and I slipped back into my usual shopping routine.

Because that’s what it’s like, two lives running together, side by side. The life you have from day to day, where you have to cook and clean and wash and iron and go on the market, and the one where your son is gone, and you constantly wonder where he is and what he’s doing, hoping he’s not dead and if he is, that he didn’t suffer. Then dying a little bit yourself because you couldn’t be there with him to save him, or at the end. Was he shouting for his mum?

Then you remember that might not be the case, and he is shacked up with a girl somewhere, using another name, and you get angry because how could he do this to you?

Then there were the times I thought I’d seen him. Everywhere I went. I’d thought I’d seen him lots of times, on buses going the other way and in cars. Even in peoples’ houses, I’d stared through the windows to get a better look, and people had drawn their curtains when they saw me.

I was quite used to it now, the enquiring looks from strangers, the pity. I just couldn’t help it. One thing I had done was to start to look for smaller signs it might be him. He had a mole on his forehead, on the left-hand side, and a small scar on his chin. I usually tried to check for these as well as the obvious height and hair colour, but it wasn’t always possible.

I bought some carrots and shin beef, and wandered back to the bus station, nodding at people I knew and, hopefully, appearing normal. Whatever that was. Ashton was a funny place back then. You’d hear the Beatles ‘Help’ on the radio on the market stalls, and duck beneath the swathes of net curtains that blew about in the wind.

Old men would sit on the wooden benches smoking dog ends and whistling in the sunshine. They really did wear flat caps, and some of them did have whippets. Funny now, because that’s what the North is known for these days, what with Coronation Street and Andy Capp, but back then it really was like that.

Women in rain Macs and headscarves tied around their chins would congregate outside the Town Hall and chatter, exchanging the news of the day before rushing off to spread the word. Not many of us had telephones, because we didn’t need them. Our system, the Market Telegraph, was faster and more efficient than any telephone.

I saw them that day out of the corner of my eye, about ten women huddled together, listening intently to the storyteller, spellbound as they committed the details to memory. They reminded me of a group of sparrows that visited my yard to grab at the crumbs then carry them off.

I hurried over, wondering what they were chewing over today, whose life they were dissecting. The etiquette was that a newcomer to the group would touch an elbow and space would be made at the back of the group. A loud cough would tell the group that someone had more recent details than the story being told.

I approached and touched Alice Smith’s elbow and she turned, her face ashen. Her blue eyes widened and she shouted loudly:

‘Bessy. It’s Bessy. She’s here.’

Etiquette was ignored and I was hustled to the front of the group, where Ettie Groves was standing silently. The whole market became silent and I felt like a spotlight was shining on me. I hadn’t felt like this since I got stage fright in the school play, and that had been stopped by an air raid warning.

I looked up at the Market Hall tower, at the huge clock. It was coming up to three and I should really be at home making Colin’s tea. Ettie started to speak.

‘Look, love, I don’t know how to put this, but a body’s been found in Hattersley. A boy, seventeen. In a house up there.’

I stared at her.

‘Well, it can’t be Thomas. He’s eighteen. Eighteen.’

Handkerchiefs were raised to mouths and the tears began. A woman’s hand rested on my shoulder and I was guided toward a bench, where three old men moved to let me sit down.

‘We thought it was best that you knew as soon as possible. I was sending Alice to tell you. Sally Jones saw the panda cars outside the house and someone said a bloke had been arrested and took away.’

I sat and tried to take the information in.

‘I’d better go home and see to Colin. He’ll have heard by now. I’d better go home.’

I stood up and walked to the bus stop, Alice and Ettie flanking me, and the other women looking on, their heads bowed and tears flowing. We got on the first number nine bus and sat down. I stared at the seat in front of me, my mind a funny mixture of dread and pain, stopping me thinking about any details. I wondered if Colin was in, if he’d been sent home from work.

We got off at the stop at the end of my road, and I expected to see a panda car outside my house, the kids climbing on it and the neighbours out. But the street was deserted. I opened the front door and the house was empty.

‘Colin? Colin?’

I turned to Ettie and Alice.

‘You can go now, I’ll be all right.’

Alice shook her head.

‘No. I’ll wait with you till Colin gets home. I’ll make a pot of tea.’

I didn’t argue. What would be the point? I’d lost control over every piece of my life. And I suppose they were supporting me, in their own way. I’d no idea where my son was, whether he was dead or alive. Me and Colin hardly spoke, and he slept in the small bedroom on his own.

My parents lived away and never came to see me, and I had no brothers or sisters. Colin’s mother clearly thought Thomas going away was my fault; they had convened a little blame club where they would huddle together and talk about what a bad mother I was. I had no friends, except these women who alternated between gossip and hand-holding. Thomas and Colin had been my life.

The next layer of people I knew were women like Ettie and Alice, not quite friends, and dreadful gossips. So, all in all, I had not a soul to talk to. No one at all. When you’re in that position, and lots of people think they know better than you, you have no choice but to keep it inside yourself, build the shell even stronger, and just keep hoping.

We sat and had a cup of tea, Ettie and Alice trying to start a conversation and me knowing whatever I said would be on the market in the next few hours. They meant well, but I said very little. I just waited and sipped my tea. Eventually, Colin burst in.

‘Is it him? Is it, Bessy? Is it? What’ve they said?’ Alice and Ettie jumped when he shouted, but I was used to it. He often turned nasty these days and I didn’t turn a hair. ‘Come on, you two, out. You’re like bleedin’ vultures, waiting for the bloody prey so you can go and gossip it. Out!’

They scuttled away and onto the street and he slammed the door.

‘Well?’

I looked at the floor.

‘I don’t know, Colin. I only just found out about it.’

He came closer, so close that I could feel his spittle on my cheek.

‘Don’t know? But I thought you knew bloody everything? More than me and me mam, eh?’

It was the usual argument, but I couldn’t believe he would do this now.

‘It’s not the time for this, Colin. We just need to find out if that dead lad is our Thomas. Then we’ll decide what to do.’

He pushed his hands in his pockets, like he did when he felt like he was going to hit me. I could see it in his face. I suppose he needed someone to blame, and I was here, completely alone, his best option.

‘Do? What do you mean?’

‘Let’s just see if it’s Thomas.’

I’d fallen asleep reading the first part of Bessy’s story. My imagination had gone off on a tangent that was familiar these days, one that stretched away from logic and common sense into the unknown.

What were the chances of me finding Bessy’s notebook, with her son missing as well? What were the odds of that? It seems like a coincidence on the surface, something freaky that I could dwell on and wonder about. But underneath it isn’t, and logic kicks in. There’s a common denominator, and it’s Connelly.

This is why I’m so sure that he has Aiden. I don’t know what it means, but I hold it in my mind as I become more drowsy. Then, as I finally teeter on the edge of sleep, I realise that all this happened five decades ago and anyone could have found the letters. Anyone to do with Connelly because, after all, he owned this house.

I’d followed up a tentative lead and got a result. Not a coincidence at all, a link in a place where no one else was looking. Bessy must have known that someone would have found the book after she had gone. Someone who found out about the box upstairs and its contents.

But lots of people have missing relatives. Don’t they? Yet I’ve been in the police long enough to know that somewhere in this fucked-up mess there’s a link. Estranged. That was the final word as I fell into a deep sleep.

Now I’m in the car, ready to drive to Coal Pit Lane to meet Mike. I want to read more of Bessy’s notebook, but I don’t have time. I’ve been on autopilot this morning, with Percy winding through my legs as I tried to make coffee, and now I can hear him meowing. I could have sworn he was in the house on Aiden’s bed. I look in the rearview mirror, but there’s no sign of him so I set off.

Mike had texted to say he was going to be late, and I was glad of the leeway. Bessy’s story had made me feel less alone. Harrowing though it must have been for her, at least it showed that something was eventually done about her case.

The Moors Murders. I’d policed this area long enough to know that they were what she was caught up in. Famous worldwide, any discussions always came with the qualification that cases like this were few and far between, that serial killers didn’t crop up that often, and that children were relatively safe.

This is what I had believed until Aiden disappeared. Even with my privileged knowledge, that people were possibly less safe than they thought, and a keen eye for how rife crime actually was, I’d still believed my son was safe. At fifteen, wasn’t it fine to let him go out with friends, travel alone across town to his father’s flat?

It had been six weeks now, and Bessy’s story made me realise that I had never actually checked the crime stats on missing children. Boys. Normally, that would be the first thing I’d do, to see how unusual a case was, who were the usual suspects, what it had in common with other cases.

But I hadn’t done it. Not yet. I hadn’t done it partly because I was still in shock and partly because, if I’m honest, even I made the assumption that the crime stats around teenage boys were correct. That stereotype of missing boys being from rough homes, running away from trouble to trouble. I hadn’t bothered because I thought my son was different. But what if he was the same? A seed grows in my mind and I store it for later.

I spot Mike’s car parked up on Coal Pit Lane. I lock up my car and jump into his.

‘Mornin’. How’s tricks?’

He looks tired.

‘OK. You know. Onward and upward.’

He nods. He’s not looking at me, a sure sign that he’s about to tell me whatever’s on his mind. I’ve known him long enough to be able to read his expressions.