The largest bonfire was nearest the town, on a clifftop, along a wide strip of green, the town glinting further along, the reds and blues of arcade lights shining brightly.
During winter, Brampton stood isolated and cold against the brisk North Sea, its harbour jutting out into the sea. Easter was the time when the town came back to life. The sun got brighter, the sea a little bluer, the flat sands more golden. The water in the long sweeping bay, created by the headland to the north, became dotted with windsurfers and dinghies rather than the cruel white tips of waves that crashed against the sea wall in huge thumps. Seagulls clustered around fishing trawlers and the air was filled with the music and screams of the fairground on the seafront.
Easter Monday always kept the police busy though.
The local children loved the early part of the day, as they munched on candyfloss until the sun started to fade.
It was later that the mood always became more dangerous, when the men who’d been propping up the bars in the town centre made their way to the festival.
Sometimes they were just groups of fishermen spoiling for a fight, those small-town rivalries spilling out over cans of beer and the crackle of burning wood. Other times, it was groups of young men who didn’t know how to limit their exuberance. Those police officers who’d been strolling the crowds and posing for pictures with smiling children retreated to vans and waited for a call to action.
That was the thing with Brampton. It thrived on fighting, and even the pubs had a hierarchy.
Those in the town centre, closest to the harbour, were for the young bucks, those who loved to tumble onto the streets with their fists flailing. In winter, they fought out minor spats, and in summer they banded together to brawl with the groups of men who came over from the working men’s clubs of West Yorkshire.
A young constable spoke up. ‘It seems quiet this year, sir. Do you think it’s because Easter is early?’
Porter looked across. It was John Hodgson, all eager eyes and flushed cheeks, too tall to be squashed behind a steering wheel, the sort of person who felt the need to fill a silence. Someone muttered behind him, four constables itching to join whatever fray erupted. Porter knew they still had the van-door rule in Brampton, something unofficial that said that if they had to open the rear doors, they weren’t closing them again until someone was dragged into it for the short ride to the station.
His presence might change that: no one bends the rules in front of a chief inspector. That’s why he was there. Chief inspectors don’t normally sit in the vans, waiting for the fights to start, but he kept the younger hotheads in check.
If he was honest with himself, he was there because he missed the front line. The winter had been a quiet one and he wanted to do more than shuffle paper back at the station. He’d risen through the ranks at the end of the seventies, before they were sold out by PACE and suspects’ rights. For him, the old rules worked best, because everyone understood them. Yes, sure, some people got a bloody nose, and worse, but no one who didn’t deserve it. But the new rules were the ones they had, so he had to keep order.
Porter turned. ‘You sound disappointed.’
‘Just wondering. It would be good if it passed off peacefully for a change.’
Porter paused before he answered, looking out of the van window towards the flames, sparks caught in the fading sunlight, faces lit up, small children twirling sparklers, writing names in mid-air. ‘The cold might keep some of the idiots inside. Why come up here to drink from cans when they could stay in a warm pub? Leave it to the kids.’
He wasn’t convinced though. He’d worked in Brampton for most of his career and had grown up in the town. He knew what made its heart beat.
There was a commotion ahead. People looking round and then moving to one side, the crowd parting.
Porter leaned forward. ‘What’s going on?’
A man ran towards the police van. Ginger-haired, his face flushed, his eyes wild. Someone in the back gripped the door handle, ready to burst out, but Porter held out his hand.
‘No, wait.’
The man thudded against the van door, his hand banging on the window.
Porter wound it down. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
The man fought to speak, but he was breathing too hard.
‘It’s all right, take your time.’
The man took some deep breaths to calm himself. His voice cracked, and Porter’s routine duty changed when the man said, ‘It’s my son. I can’t find him.’
Chapter Five
Present Day
Jayne was stocking up the tinned tomatoes, making sure the labels were facing the right way, as she had been trained to do when she first started the job. It even had its own description, facing up, as if merely speaking the words make sure they’re facing the right way was insufficient.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. The ringtone was switched off, they weren’t allowed to answer their phones when on the shop floor, but curiosity started to eat at her. She didn’t get many calls, she’d been too much of a loner ever since Jimmy died, so it might be important.
Her manager appeared in the aisle. Just great. That was the part of the job she hated the most, having to suck up to people like him. Cheap black trousers, made shiny through wear, and a corporate shirt and tie. His stomach was too large and his cheeks flushed, and Jayne knew that he watched her whenever she bent over. He stood too close, as if hoping she’d brush against him.
‘Hi, Jayne. How are you getting on?’
‘Oh, you know, filling shelves and all that.’
He watched her as she carried on, her shirt lifting up as she stretched to put tins on the higher shelf. His mouth dropped open as he watched, and he breathed more heavily. She could smell his coffee.
She knew what he would find less alluring.
She grimaced as she turned to him, clutching her stomach. ‘I’m not too good actually. Must be something I ate. I know it’s not my break yet, but can I nip to the ladies?’
He curled his lip and tipped his head towards the door that led to the staff entrance. ‘Just take it off your lunch break.’
Jayne said, ‘Thank you,’ and set off slowly, as if she’d been taken over by a sudden illness, knowing that he was watching her.
Once in the cubicle, she put the lid down and sat with her foot propped on the door handle. She dug her phone out of her jeans and was surprised.
Dan Grant. He’d kept her number.
She tapped her lip with her phone. They hadn’t spoken to each other since she left Highford almost a year earlier, a pact they made because Jayne wanted to change her life and her friendship with Dan would hold her back.
She almost laughed at that. How far had she advanced since she’d left Highford? Living in an inner-city slum and being leered at by an over-promoted slob. Her rise was hardly meteoric.
Her finger hovered over the call button as she wondered whether she should call him back. What did she have to lose?
She stopped herself. No, it would be wrong to go back. That’s what they always say, that it’s never the same, and you discover quickly all the reasons why you left in the first place.
Ignore him, she told herself. She couldn’t expect her new life to be too thrilling straight away. Don’t be impatient.
It might not even be good news. Why would Dan be ringing her? Was it his father? Had something happened to him and Dan was turning to the one person who knew him well?
She shook her head. Dan wouldn’t need to turn to her if it was as awful as that. Ignore the call, get on with her life. Highford was behind her.
Jayne flushed the toilet, just for appearances’ sake, and went back to the shop floor. The pallet containing the tomato tins was still there, with beans and spaghetti tins too. Her manager stood with his hands on his hips, waiting. It wouldn’t have killed him to put a few on the shelf.
Not in his world. Not someone of his rank.
As she got closer, she put up her hand. ‘Thank you, Richard. It
must be a bug or something.’
She bent down to pick up some more tins. She felt a hand on her back.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ He moved his hand slowly, caressing.
She gripped the tin and fought the urge to smash it into his face. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
‘Actually, I’m not sure,’ she said, and clamped her hand over mouth, her eyes wide, as if she were about to vomit.
Richard stepped back, alarmed, panic in his eyes. ‘No, no, not here. Go. You’re ill. Go home.’
Jayne held up her hand and ran towards the staff entrance, her free hand slamming against the door as she went.
Once on the other side, she slowed down and moved her hand. As she passed the security room, where there was a guard watching the monitors, another one having a tea break, she said, ‘Can you save the footage from aisle four for the last thirty minutes? I might need it for something.’
The one drinking his tea put his mug down. ‘Why?’
‘Dickie the Groper’s at it again.’
He saluted and said, ‘Will do,’ as she headed for the exit.
Chapter Six
There were papers strewn across Dan’s desk as he looked for a mention of Brampton or any clue he’d missed about why Mark Roberts had died.
Dan’s focus had always been on putting forward Nick Connor’s defence: that he was an innocent passer-by, the murder unexplained. If what Barbara said was correct, though, there might be a way to explain it. Jurors like an alternative theory, because it makes them feel better if they think the person is innocent, but they need something to base it on. The prosecution has to prove the case beyond any reasonable doubt, but in murder cases no one likes to see a killer walk free just because of a clever angle thought up by the defence.
He’d asked the receptionist, Margaret, not to put any calls through. He needed to concentrate. No calls. No clients.
Nick Connor’s file had grown since his arrest. Dan kept it in the corner of the room, like he always did with his bigger cases, so that he was always reminded of it and never let a deadline slip. Even after a guilty verdict, the cases never went away. There were appeals, constant quests to turn them into a miscarriage of justice, the stain of taking someone’s life too hard to bear, even for the guilty. Dan knew that everything he did would be scrutinised in years to come, clients willing to blame anyone for their plight. If he ignored Barbara’s visit, there was a negligence claim waiting to be started.
He threw the papers he was leafing through onto the floor. There was no mention of Brampton or what he’d been doing in Highford. Dan’s mind flashed back to the beginning of the case, when he was called to the police station.
The call came in the afternoon and, as soon as he heard what it was for, Dan knew he’d have to strike everything out of the diary for the next few days. The police take their time on murder cases, able to get all the extensions they need, and Nick’s case was no different. Dan had to be ready whenever the police were.
He knew Nick Connor before that call. Like most of his clients, he’d graduated through the petty stuff, like taking cars and breaking into warehouses, the gateway offences for more serious criminality. Not everyone moved up, but some did, and Nick was one who’d seen crime as a lifestyle choice, stealing from cars and burgling sheds, never quite realising that the rewards never outweighed the risk.
Not that it had stopped him.
Nick wasn’t his usual self when Dan arrived though.
Dan was used to his swagger, his spluttered denials, his kicks at the cell door, enjoying the battles with the police. That day, he was quiet, something else in his eyes, dragged into the police station the afternoon after the murder, Mark’s body discovered by an early-morning jogger.
As Nick was shown through into the small cubicle on the other side of a glass screen, Dan’s notepad rested on a shelf that wasn’t quite wide enough, he looked as if he’d shrunk. His eyes were red, his skin drawn, his tongue darting to his lip, nervous, skittish.
Nick’s usual mantra was that he wasn’t saying anything, and he’d repeat it with a smirk. That day, he leaned into the glass and said, ‘I was just walking past, that’s all.’
‘Walking past what?’
‘The body. What do you think? That’s how they got me.’
‘Where was the body?’
‘Haven’t they told you?’
‘Just that the deceased was murdered in Queensgate Park and that there’s evidence that ties you to the body.’
‘But when? How do they know when he died, and what time I was there? They can do tests, can’t they?’
‘The pathologist won’t do a time of death now. Too many variables.’
‘So how do they know when he died?’
‘That’s easy. Sometime between when he was last seen alive and when he was found dead.’
‘This isn’t funny.’
‘I know, but it’s the truth. You’ve got to tell me where you were and what you were doing.’
Nick sat back, his arms folded, and looked to the ceiling. When he looked down again, he said, ‘I was delivering something.’
‘What were you delivering, and to whom?’
‘Bullshit, I can’t tell them that.’
‘You’re not telling them. You’re telling me. I’ll advise you whether to repeat it.’
Nick thought about that. ‘Some paste. A few thousand quids’ worth, but I’m not saying where I was taking it.’
Dan sighed. That made it difficult. Nick had been acting as a delivery boy, taking amphetamine paste to a drug dealer, a middleman between the rungs. It would make it dangerous to say where he’d been and why.
‘We can skirt around that, keep it simple. Did you go through the park?’
‘I was waiting in there for the all-clear, because where I had to take it was nearby and the police might be around. I didn’t want anyone to see me, so I stayed to the path at the top of the park. Then I felt it.’
‘Felt what?’
‘Something under my foot. I slipped in it. Didn’t go down or nothing, but it was sticky, like a puddle, and I thought someone had spewed. I used my phone to look, wanted to know what was on my trainers. That’s when I saw him.’
‘What did you see?’
‘He was just mush, lying behind the bench, and it was like all his blood and brains had pooled, and I’d stood right in it. Oh man, I almost spewed myself.’
‘What did you do?’
‘At first, nothing. There was a sock next to his head, like a football sock, with rocks in, really heavy. I lifted it and there was blood all over it. That’s when I panicked. I ran.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Home. I was bricking it. There might be someone waiting in the bushes, and I could be next. But when I got near home, I realised something else: that they’ll think I did it.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Burnt everything. All my clothes, even my trainers. Good ones, too. Vapormax. I’ve got a barrel in my yard that we use to make a fire in summer, sit round and have a few tinnies.’
‘What about your phone? Did you burn that?’
‘No. It was an iPhone. I’m not going to burn that.’
‘Have the police got it?’
‘It’s in my property.’
Dan knew the answer. It would be seized as an exhibit, the data revealing his exact whereabouts.
‘I didn’t do it, Dan.’
‘You’ve given them enough reason to think that you might have done. At the scene. Burning clothes. Burning trainers. Not reporting it.’
Nick nodded, his shoulders slumped. ‘Yeah, I can see that.’
‘Did you take anything from the scene?’
Nick tensed, his lips pursed. ‘What do you mean?’
Dan leaned forward. ‘Whenever I’m in court and someone answers a question with another question, I know they’re just avoiding the answer. What did you take?’
Nick swallowed and let out a long brea
th. ‘A wallet.’
‘I thought you were feeling sickened, couldn’t wait to run.’
‘It was just there, man, on the floor. It’s not as if he needed it.’
‘What did you do with it?’
‘I took the cash, obviously, but I burnt the wallet.’
‘Cards?’
‘Tried to pass them on, which was stupid, because that’ll be how they got me. Some grass who blabbed when he tried to use them. I’m not stupid enough to use them.’
‘Now’s not the time to talk about whether you’re stupid. What was the wallet made from?’
‘Leather.’
‘That’ll be in with your shoes, charred but recognisable.’
‘I didn’t do it.’
‘Yeah, I get that, but this is how we play it. You make a written statement, saying how you saw the body and panicked. You ran, but you had no part in his murder.’
‘Why don’t I just say nothing?’
‘Because making a written statement stops the jury from thinking your silence makes you guilty. That’s the law.’
‘Will it get that far?’
‘You better hope that they find whoever did this, because right now you look a good fit. I’ll write the statement. You sign it, and don’t say anything else. No comment to everything. Can you do that?’
‘You know I can.’
‘This is different, Nick. It’ll go on for longer. They’ll challenge you harder. You’ll want to persuade them you’re innocent.’
‘Why don’t I just talk then?’
‘Really? You need to ask that? One slip or bad answer and you’re sunk. And your refusal to name where you’d been.’
‘Okay, I get it. I can handle this.’
And that was how it had gone. Interview after interview, putting new scraps of evidence to him. The charred wallet. The burnt trainers that were the same make that had made bloodied footprints. The CCTV showing him running. The police saw it one way, as a robbery gone wrong, and it was easy for them to think that.
As Dan thought about it though, he realised that Barbara was right. Until she’d walked into his office, Mark Roberts had been just a name in a file, a label attached to a body. Knowing more about him made him seem more real somehow.
The Innocent Ones Page 3