The Innocent Ones

by The Innocent Ones (retail) (epub)

  He lifted out the photographs, all printed off into bound bundles, how they’d be presented to the jury. They didn’t show much humanity. It was a corpse, nothing more, Mark’s face bashed in so much that it was little more than squashed flesh, the features unrecognisable, collapsed into a pool of blood and brains. Mark’s body was less damaged, on his back, his legs straight, but like a mannequin, just body parts.

  The victim had turned into a real person, and his client was out of his depth. A petty crook was accused of a murder, and he knew that he wasn’t getting out of prison.

  It would be a strange twist if the victim’s mother secured him his release.

  Dan hoped she was right, for her sake.

  Chapter Seven

  Jayne didn’t realise how much she’d missed the countryside until she drove through it.

  It was the return to her flat that had sealed her decision. Her landlord had been waiting, twirling his car key on his finger as he chatted to one of the neighbours.

  She’d fallen behind on her rent. Only a couple of months, but he’d hinted too many times the options she had to repay it. Payment in kind, he’d called it.

  She’d hidden round the corner until he’d gone, then quickly packed a bag.

  That had been only thirty minutes earlier, and she was on a road that climbed the hills that separated the sprawl of Greater Manchester from Highford, so that the city receded to a grey haze in her rear-view mirror. She passed fields with grazing sheep and cattle, through small stone villages and alongside reservoirs built high on open moorland.

  There hadn’t been a car behind her for more than two miles, much different to the constant snarl of the city. Her exhaust rattled on her blue Fiat Punto, and the wind that rushed through the window that didn’t quite close properly made it hard to hear the radio, but she felt the fumes and stress of her life recede the further she drove.

  She hadn’t called ahead. Dan had called her for a reason, she was sure of that, but by not warning him about her arrival she could back out whenever she wanted and go back to her new life.

  The road crested the hill and, in the distance, lying in a valley, was Highford.

  She pulled over, unsure as to whether she could go ahead, worried it would cancel out all the distance she’d put between that life and what she was doing now. In Manchester, she was Jayne the shopworker. Whenever she was with Dan, she was the acquitted murderer, not the young woman she’d been before Jimmy. She’d gone into her trial as Jade Winstanley. She’d started her new life as Jayne Brett, meaning that she wouldn’t be found in any Internet search. That had been Dan’s suggestion. New friends wouldn’t discover her secret and Jimmy’s family wouldn’t find her.

  She turned off the engine and lowered the window. All she could hear outside was the faint rustle of leaves on a nearby bush. Pure and peaceful.

  That settled it. She wanted a break from the city, and why not renew an old acquaintance? Nothing wrong with a short break. It wasn’t as if she was going to stay there.

  She set off again, taking in the town as she drove past buildings and landmarks she thought she’d never see again. Grand Victorian houses turned into apartment buildings. The old railway station, it’s high entrance too ornate for a station that dealt with two trains an hour. She drove over the canal, fed into Highford by an aqueduct and then curved around the town centre, high on the side of the valley. Old wharf buildings lined the water, some derelict mills further along, grass growing out of the high capped chimneys. In some places, the cotton mills had been knocked down, the gaps either filled in by modern shops and garages, garish neon blemishes, or else allowed to be consumed by nature, grass growing through cracked and crumbling concrete.

  She knew the town, even though she’d only been there for a couple of years. As a private investigator she’d seen its seedier side, although her life had been more about serving court papers than sexy private eye work.

  She checked her watch. Mid-afternoon. Dan might be at court, but she didn’t want to go there. Leave Dan to his theatre. She wanted to see the office instead. She knew there’d be changes, because Dan was his own boss now. Would that have changed him?

  Dan’s office was close to the main street, on a corner and overlooking a nightclub and a taxi office. Jayne pulled up opposite and looked across.

  The firm’s name, Molloys, was still written on the glass in gold leaf. It might be Dan’s firm now, but his old boss lived on in name. Dan had kept his promise.

  She could see Margaret behind her reception desk. Pushing seventy, she’d been at the firm for more than two decades and kept on working because it stopped her from stagnating at home. She was one hell of a gatekeeper, ready to rebuke any clients who got too rowdy or angry because they couldn’t see Dan at their convenience.

  It was a strange feeling, being back. There was that pang for something familiar, for a place that had made her happy. And the weirdness of seeing that life had gone on as before. She didn’t know why, but she’d expected change. Like always, things just carry on.

  Her attention was caught by movement in the window on the floor above.

  Dan Grant, pacing in his room, looking through papers, his top button undone on his shirt, his tie loose.

  She couldn’t help her grin. She owed him her life, because what he’d done for her had kept her from languishing in a prison cell, forever haunted by what she’d become.

  She watched him for a few minutes, wondering what would happen if he looked across and saw her. This was it, she thought, her last chance to back out. She could drive away and he’d never know, and perhaps put down her silence to a changed phone number.

  But she hadn’t driven to Highford to go all the way back again for more encounters with Dickie the Groper.

  She reached for her door handle.

  * * *

  Dan threw his papers on the desk and exhaled loudly. He’d gone through the whole file and it had come to nothing. No hint at all about what Mark Roberts had been looking into during his time in Highford, nor what he had been researching before he arrived. Now what should he do?

  He could ignore Barbara, that was one option. After all, she was an unusual ally.

  He shook his head, frustrated. That wasn’t an option. What if she was the key to his defence? His failure to investigate it would come back to bite him at some point.

  But did he have the time? He had a law firm to run, and cases to manage, and just too many damn things he had to do.

  He checked his phone. No reply from Jayne.

  That shouldn’t be a surprise. She’d made it clear that she had to move on in her life. He couldn’t blame her. Getting her to move to Highford after her acquittal had helped her recover from her murder case, but staying too long had meant that she was forever in its shadow.

  He missed her though. He loved her chat, her fun, and that little bit of chaos she brought into his life. Without her, Dan felt like he’d succumbed to greyness. He worked all day, spent nights and weekends at the police station, and any spare time was spent on doing his accounts or other bits of office administration. He needed her brightness back in his life.

  They’d made a pact, though, that they wouldn’t contact each other and Jayne would make a new life for herself. He’d broken that promise and he was angry with himself. Because he knew that whatever he thought about needing her for the case, that wasn’t what had made him call her. The case had been an excuse.

  He remembered how she’d been when they’d first met. Jayne was being booked into the police station, her clothes bloodstained, not yet removed. She was scared, distressed, sobbing as she gave her name, the sound raw. Dan had been at the station for someone else and he’d watched out of morbid curiosity. When she was asked if she wanted legal advice, she’d looked to Dan, fear etched on her face, and asked him to be her lawyer.

  That had been the start of everything, but it had been complicated. He’d wanted her to be more than just a client or a friend so many times, but he couldn’t allow
that to happen. She’d been his client. It shifted the power balance, and exploiting that didn’t feel right.

  His phone rang. He’d asked Margaret not to disturb him. He picked it up and put it back in its cradle, cutting off the call.

  It rang again, so he repeated the procedure. He gave Margaret a silent apology, but he knew whatever it was, it would distract him and he needed to decide what to do about Barbara.

  There were footsteps on the stairs. Not Margaret, too quick, too soft.

  Before he had chance to object, his door flew open and Jayne stood there, grinning.

  He laughed, taken aback. He had an urge to rush to her, hold her, but he held back. Instead, he confined himself to returning a grin, filled with a flush of excitement. ‘I thought you were ignoring me.’

  She pulled a face. ‘I’ve only come here to stop you harassing me.’

  ‘You look really well,’ he said, before he had the chance to stop himself.

  He meant it though. Her hair was shorter, barely onto her shoulders, but otherwise she looked just the same. Still in jeans and army jacket, pumps on her feet, tall and slim; it was as if she’d stepped out of the previous year. There seemed more bounce to her mood though, more life in her eyes.

  ‘And you look like you need a good night out,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You look pale, too much time indoors. Don’t worry though, I’m here now, to shake things up a bit.’ And her eyes twinkled with mischief.

  ‘Don’t make me regret calling you.’

  She came into the room and perched on the edge of his desk, her arms folded. ‘I know you’re all business, but you can hug me, you know. It’s been a long time and, well, we were close.’

  ‘We were.’ He went to her, and he laughed as she wrapped her arms around his back and put her head against his chest. ‘It’s really great to see you.’

  She pulled away. ‘Right, that’s the hug out of the way. Why did you call?’

  ‘Do you want some work?’ He gestured towards the papers strewn across his desk.

  She followed his gesture. ‘Don’t make it sound like you’re doing me a favour. It looks like you need me, not the other way around.’

  He sighed. ‘You’re right. Well, do you?’

  ‘I have a job. Jayne Brett Investigations has been closed down. For the moment, anyway.’

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘I’m working in a supermarket, working the tills and stacking the shelves. And before you say anything, it’s just until I find something better.’

  ‘Dust down your private eye skills then and help me out. Don’t you miss your old job?’

  ‘Some of it. I liked the freedom, being my own boss, but not always the hours.’ Jayne turned to look at the papers and leafed through. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mark Roberts was a journalist who was putting together a true crime book and ended up in Highford. His stay wasn’t a long one though.’ Dan reached for the bundle of photographs he’d been looking at not long before Jayne arrived. ‘He ended up in a park with his head bashed in, found by a jogger in the morning.’

  Jayne grimaced as she flicked through. ‘And you represent his alleged killer?’

  ‘Yes. Nick Connor. Just some local loser who’s spent his life thieving, but that’s the thing. This isn’t his style. He’s a thief and a burglar, but he isn’t violent. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘How wrong?’

  ‘He was the first to find the body, except he didn’t tell anyone. Instead, he took the guy’s wallet and went home, leaving behind bloodied footprints and traces all over his flat.’

  ‘You’re asking the jury to accept the word of a man who has spent his life being dishonest, who has stolen from a corpse?’

  Dan shrugged. ‘You make it sound weak, but yes.’

  Jayne put the photographs back on the desk. ‘Why do you need me?’

  ‘The victim’s mother thinks Nick Connor is innocent.’

  Jayne’s eyes widened. ‘Whoa, that’s a strange twist.’

  ‘It surprised me. She sought me out today, thinks it’s connected with whatever her son was writing about, except no one knows what it is.’

  ‘And you want me to find that out?’

  ‘You’d be great at it.’

  ‘When does the trial start?’

  Dan grimaced. ‘Monday.’

  ‘Shit, Dan! Don’t you ever do things in time?’

  ‘I think she’s come to me because she was getting desperate, because if Nick Connor goes to prison, the real killer is still free, which isn’t justice.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘First of all, check Barbara out. I’ve never met her before, so I don’t know if I can trust her. Follow her, see where she goes.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘For now, at The Oaks hotel.’

  ‘Do I get a room there too? I’ve brought a bag of clothes.’

  He blushed when he said, ‘You could always stay at mine.’

  ‘Won’t I get in the way of any women in your life?’

  ‘There are no women in my life. Although, of course, if there’s a boyfriend who’d be jealous about it?’

  She raised her hand. ‘No boyfriend. Is it the usual arrangement?’

  ‘Wine and takeaways? Of course.’

  She glanced towards the window and her car parked outside. Manchester waited for her, if she still wanted it. Along with Dickie the Groper, and the overdue rent.

  She laughed. ‘Oh, what the hell. I know I’ll regret this, but I’m in. Tell me what I’m looking out for.’

  ‘Is Barbara all she seems? My job is to look out for Nick. She’s right, that if she holds the key to what happened to her son, I can’t ignore her, but it’s too neat. A mother wants to get involved in the case of the man accused of her son’s murder? If that doesn’t sound wrong, I don’t know what does, and sometimes, well, things just sound wrong because they are.’

  Chapter Eight

  Easter 1997

  Chief Inspector Porter climbed out of the police van, gesturing to the other officers inside to stay there. The man who’d banged on the window was pacing, one hand on his head, his eyes wide with fear. He was young, late twenties, in jeans and a ragged jumper.

  Porter took the man to one side and placed his hand on his arm, tried to calm him down.

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t find your son?’

  The man gulped some deep breaths. ‘Like I said. He was here, just here, and now?’ He held his arms out, tears running down his cheeks.

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Six.’

  Porter let out a breath. He looked around. The crowd had swelled to over a couple of thousand, with a few hundred grouped around the bonfire and others still making their way along the clifftops, sparklers twirling, torches blinking, lining the way ahead, the whole headland a mass of bobbing heads and flashing lights.

  ‘All right, stay calm, we need to know more.’

  ‘Stay calm? You’re kidding?’ The man turned on the spot, his hand clasped to his forehead, his eyes frantic.

  ‘Please, sir, you have to be calm for the sake of your son. When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Thirty minutes, maybe more. I’ve been looking for him since then. I’ve been everywhere.’

  ‘Was he just with you?’

  ‘It was my contact day.’ He closed his eyes at that. ‘We argued over it; she wanted to bring him here because he likes it, but I put my foot down, said it was my turn because she had Christmas. I had to fight to see him, like really fight, but now? She’ll never let me see him again.’

  Porter put his hand out. ‘It’s not about you, it’s about your boy. What’s he called?’

  ‘William.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Like a six-year-old. What do you expect me to say?’

  ‘Hair colour? Small for his age or tall? Skin colour? Clothes?
’

  ‘I’ve got a picture.’ He took his wallet from his jeans and pulled out a crumpled photograph that showed a small boy with ginger hair and freckles across his nose, a school photograph, nervous in a blue sweatshirt against a mock-cloud background. He passed it to Porter. ‘That was last year, his first school photo.’

  ‘What’s he wearing today?’

  ‘Blue jeans. A blue shiny jacket. I didn’t like him wearing it so close to the fire, scared that he’d go up like a firework, but it’s what she sent him in.’

  Porter forced himself to avoid rebuking the man for making it about his dispute with William’s mother. ‘Where did you last see him?’

  The man pointed towards a cluster of food vans, brightly lit, all in a line against a fence. ‘He wanted a hot dog. I gave him the money and he went to get one.’

  ‘And where were you?’

  ‘I stayed by the fire. I was talking to someone and William’s a good kid, streetwise and all that, so I knew he’d be okay.’

  Porter detected the faint whiff of alcohol and he guessed the story. He wanted his son for the day but didn’t want him to disrupt his own social life, so he’d stayed with his friends and his beer as William ran off into the dark crowd.

  Porter went to the van and said to PC Hodgson, ‘Alert everyone. We’ll be going into the crowd in a moment, but I want the officers down there to stick to the edges. If we find anything, we can contain the crowd.’

  Hodgson climbed out. ‘Are we closing it down?’

  ‘No, not yet. He might have just wandered off, or playing a stupid game, or perhaps his mother has come up here and taken him home.’

  The man appeared on his shoulder. ‘Yeah, she’d do that.’

  ‘Have you called her?’

  ‘What, and tell her that I’ve lost him? If William is just sitting in the dark somewhere, eating food, and I let her know, she won’t let me have him again.’