The Shadows in the Street (15 page)

He had a seat reserved on the chopper the next morning and was packed and the cottage tidied. When he was done he thought of walking across to the pub to have a last drink and say his farewells. But whether or not Kirsty knew about the crack Douglas had given him, he decided better not and instead went for a solitary walk along the shoreline and then to bed early, to sleep to the soft sound of the waves turning over and back on the shingle.

At ten thirty the next morning, he looked down and watched grey-green Taransay recede as they climbed away. He had not seen Kirsty McLeod again.

Twenty-four

‘You know, we really could have done with an extra pair of hands last night, Leslie. Three people were down with this stomach bug and it was touch and go whether to call the rehearsal off altogether. If you knew how welcome you would have been – I mean doing anything, but you could have added your voice to the chorus, it was very sparse.’

Ten minutes. He couldn’t go to lunch early. He prayed for a student to come up to the desk with a difficult enquiry that only he could answer, but the library was quiet and those who were here showed no signs of needing anything at all.

‘Won’t you think about it?’

He wondered what his excuse for killing June Petrie would be. Extreme provocation? People killed for less, those whose neighbours had driven them insane with loud music or a ceaselessly yapping dog, and they often met with understanding from a sympathetic judge. June Petrie grinding on about his joining the Lafferton Savoyards to sing in
The Mikado
when he had made it clear to the point of rudeness that he would never do so must count as extreme provocation over a sustained period.

Eight minutes.

‘You wouldn’t have to do a full audition, nothing like that, he’d just hear you sing a few bars of something easy like a hymn.’

‘I don’t know any hymns.’

‘Or even a nursery rhyme.’

Fool. He ought to know better than to start an argument with her because she always had a pat answer to whatever objection he raised.

‘He’d train your voice himself, he’s awfully good at that. You’d be amazed the bricks he’s made out of straw in his time. He even had …’

Six minutes. He could go to the Gents. By the time he had done that and collected his lunch box, it would be one. He didn’t need to go to the Gents but if he did it might spare June Petrie’s life.

Afterwards, he realised he had not even seen them come into the library, they were just there at the counter in front of him, a young man, a young woman.

‘We’re looking for a Leslie Blade,’ the young man said.

‘This is Mr Blade, the Assistant Humanities Librarian.’ June Petrie, in a flash. ‘Who wants him exactly?’

The young man ignored her. Showed a card.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Ben Vanek, this is DC Mead. Is there somewhere we can have a word in private please, sir?’

‘What’s wrong, has something awful happened? Leslie, will you be –’

‘There’s the office,’ Leslie Blade said. ‘But I was actually just going for my lunch –’

‘If you’d show us the way please?’ the young woman said.

‘Is it my mother? Has something happened to her? Her carer should be there now, Hilary, if something has happened.’

‘As far as I’m aware, nothing has happened to your mother. Is anyone likely to interrupt us here?’

‘No, the Chief Librarian is on the late shift and everyone else will be going to lunch. I was going to lunch. If this is about the book thefts, then you would need to speak to Mr Dalton, the Chief Librarian actually, he –’

‘It has nothing to do with book thefts. Do you know a young woman called Chantelle Buckley?’

Somewhere, the name was somewhere, he was groping for it.

‘Is she a student? I don’t know all the new students by name, or even the older ones come to that, we have over –’

‘No, Chantelle Buckley was a young woman whose body was found in the canal last weekend. As far as I know she had no connection with the college. Did you know her?’

He had a flash picture of the girl’s photograph on the television during the local news.

‘Mr Blade?’

‘The girl who … I didn’t know her. No.’

‘You didn’t know her but you did see her?’

They looked hostile and he couldn’t understand why.

‘Do you know Marie O’Dowd?’

Marie? If it was the same one.

‘I know – I have … yes. If it’s the same Marie. I sometimes …’

‘Sometimes what?’

He looked round for a chair. They did not. They did not ask him to sit. They did not sit themselves.

‘I see her. If it’s the same Marie. I don’t know their – her other name.’

‘Their? Their other names? Who are
they
?’ The girl now. She had a look he didn’t care for, a pert, cocky look. Authority, it said. I have authority. But she didn’t, not here. He had.

‘Is it the case that you go to meet prostitutes on the streets, Mr Blade, that you often go out to where they’re working and talk to them?’

‘I take them food – I take them hot drinks and food. Someone should. They shouldn’t just be ignored. People ignore them because they don’t want them to be there. People treat them like scum.’

‘How do you treat them, Mr Blade?’

‘I take them food and drink. I try to befriend them.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Why? I would have thought it was obvious.’

‘Not to us,’ the girl said.

‘They shouldn’t be treated as if they were untouchable.’

‘I’m sure that’s right – but there are voluntary organisations that go out there to befriend them and take them food. You could join them, do your bit that way.’

He didn’t reply. He did not want to volunteer on the Reachout van because he was not a churchgoer, not religious at all, and they were religious, they had an agenda. He didn’t.

‘Do they pay you?’

‘Of course they don’t pay me.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of anything financial.’ The young man was staring at him hard, trying to embarrass him, but the odd thing was, he was the one who had coloured up at the implication.

‘No,’ Leslie said.

‘No? No, you receive no payment or, should we say, no favours from the girls?’

‘No.’

‘When did you last see Chantelle Buckley?’

‘I’ve never seen her. I don’t think so … well, yes, her photograph on televison, and it was in the paper. I’ve seen her there.’

‘But not on the streets to chat to, not to give sandwiches and coffee to?’

‘Her photograph – she isn’t one of the ones I know. One of the regular girls. I don’t think so.’

‘You were stopped by one of our patrol cars, Mr Blade.’ The girl. ‘What was all that about?’

‘If you know they stopped me, you’ll know what it was about, won’t you? They made a mistake.’

‘What sort of mistake?’

‘They thought I was … they followed my car. I was down that road, where the girls go.’

‘They mistook you for a punter. A kerb-crawler.’

‘Yes. I said. They made a mistake. I told them they had, and then one of the girls, Abi, she knows me, she told them. She put them right.’

‘Was Chantelle there that night?’

‘No. Nobody. Just Abi. I said, I have never to my knowledge seen the poor girl, this Chantelle.’

‘But you have seen Marie?’

‘I know Marie.’ He felt suddenly giddy.

‘Right, Mr Blade. Now I’m not entirely happy with what you’ve told me or that you’ve told me everything. I’d like you to come down to the station with us, please.’

‘What for? I’ve told you everything I could possibly tell you. I can’t just come down to the police station … I … have to get my lunch and be back at work. I can’t just leave.’

‘I’m asking you to come voluntarily, sir, but if you don’t, we can arrest you.’

‘What for? You can’t arrest me for nothing.’

‘It wouldn’t be for nothing.’

There was a sound at the door. June Petrie, eyes everywhere, trying to see right into the room, trying to see Leslie.

‘I just wondered if – if there’s anything I can do? I wondered –’

‘Thank you, Mrs … ?’

‘June Petrie. Is everything all right, Leslie?’

He should have killed her. Then there would have been a reason for them to take him to the station.

‘Thank you, there’s nothing for you to do.’ The policewoman closed the door in June Petrie’s face. Good on you, he thought. Shut the door in her face. Good.

‘Do you have a coat, Mr Blade?’

‘Yes. A jacket. I have a jacket. A grey jacket.’ He heard himself babbling.

‘Right, we’ll get that while DC Mead goes to start the car. Lead the way please.’

‘But … I have to give – I have to tell someone, explain … what do I say?’

‘That you’re coming to the police station, sir. That should do it.’

June Petrie was hovering at the end of the passage. He could see a bunch of students at the desk, another couple by the bag check.

‘I … Could we –’

‘Just get your jacket, Mr Blade.’

Head bent, eyes down, he walked to the staffroom, the policeman at his heels, then following him in, then watching, as he took down his jacket.

‘My lunch box …’

‘Bring it.’

He brought it.

Twenty-five

Abi Righton’s face was as pale as Cat remembered, the circles beneath her eyes darker, and she had spots round her mouth. The child sat on her lap quietly.

‘She just isn’t herself, know what I mean? She’s just not right, she hasn’t been right since that tummy bug thing.’

‘Is she still being sick?’

‘Not really.’

‘How are her nappies?’

Abi shrugged.

‘Is she eating and drinking as usual?’

‘Yeah. Well – maybe a bit off her food. Not – she just seems not right.’

‘How’s your little boy now?’

‘He’s OK, he’s at the nursery.’

‘Would you like to sit Mia on the couch then? I’ll have a look at her. Has she seemed feverish?’

Cat watched her carefully. The child smiled. She was clearly not in any pain, her stomach was not tender, neither throat nor ears were pink and there was no sign of any rash. The small eyes watching Cat with some suspicion were bright, the whites clear with a healthy blue tinge.

‘Good girl, Mia. You’re a star.’ Cat stroked the child’s hair.

‘Shall I put her back?’

‘Yes, I don’t need to examine her any more.’

Abi bent over, strapping Mia into the buggy, then handing her a plastic beaker. Mia drank.

‘Has she still got this bug then?’ Abi asked.

‘I don’t think so. Sit down a moment, Abi – when you’ve got her settled.’

Abi hesitated, then did so, but when she sat, she looked down at Mia and then towards the window blind. Cat waited. She had long ago learned that if a patient had something to ask about other than a routine physical symptom then being silent and waiting to listen was the only way to give them enough confidence to do it. The little girl sucked on her beaker. Abi Righton sat twisting her fingers together. Sometimes, the silences lasted a lifetime.

‘I want to know how to get out of it. I don’t want …’

Cat nodded slightly, still said nothing.

‘Did you know about Marie, Doctor? And that other one.’

‘I know what I’ve heard on the news, yes. Like everyone.’

‘I knew Marie, I didn’t know that other one, Chantelle, well, I met her once, she …’ Abi looked desperately at the window, as if she might find a way out there. ‘Maybe if she’d listened to us, Marie – we’d all said, we’d told her. Chuck that useless Jonty Lewis. And now look. It’s not just him. I want out of it and I can’t get out of it, you know?’

‘Yes,’ Cat said gently. ‘I do know and you’re right. It’s no life, Abi.’

‘The thing is …’

Once she had opened up, she went on, talking about life on the street, about the children, about her own childhood, her bedsit, Hayley, things that had happened, things people did, and then what she wanted, what she was planning. She talked very fast, as if she had never done so to anyone before. Cat had only to listen.

The allotted ten minutes ran to twenty-five, the queue in the waiting room would be building up, Mia whimpered a little, then went to sleep in the buggy – and none of it mattered beside Abi Righton’s distress and fear and her determination. When she stopped talking she looked limp, as if all the life and energy had drained out of her, and she had cried too, but her eyes no longer seemed dead and the air of defeat had lifted a little.

Cat pushed the box of tissues over to the other side of her desk. Abi took a couple and blew her nose.

‘How do you feel now?’

Abi looked at her and shrugged, but then said, ‘Better.’

‘Yes. It always helps.’

‘Sorry.’

‘What on earth are you sorry for?’

‘I mean – I’m not, like, ill or anything.’ She nodded at Mia. ‘She’s not ill either.’

‘I’m still the right person to come to – at least at first. But I’d like to make a suggestion, Abi. Would you talk to a counsellor? I could find someone who had the time to listen and advise you, support you while you get out of all this. She could help with access to courses or whatever it is you decide you want to do – when you feel ready? You could see her every week or so. I think it would help a lot.’

The wariness was back even as Cat had started talking.

‘I don’t know … not sure about that. What sort of a person would it be? I don’t want social services poking their noses in, I know all about them, they might want to take my kids away.’

‘It wouldn’t be social services and no one would have any reason for taking the children. You’re a good mother, Abi.’

Abi gave a short laugh.

‘You are – those aren’t just empty words. You love them, you care about them, you feed them properly and it’s their future that matters to you. All of that makes you a good mother in my book, and you should be proud of yourself. It’s not easy. But you know that you’d be an even better mum if you weren’t working on the streets. I really want to help, Abi, and you can always come and see me, of course, but I think you deserve more than I have time for.’

‘Where would I have to go?’

‘I’m not sure – I want to find the best person for you. Can you leave me to find out and come back next week? I’ve got someone in mind but I need to check if she can take on anyone else.’