‘Oh no,’ Stirling sounded wounded. ‘Not him Jeremy, surely not him.’
Ed patted him twice on the shoulder, a little weight behind the contact.
‘Maybe you’ve got your answer,’ he said into Stirling’s ear.
Sam finally looked away from the board, asked where the boy had gone, whether the school might have his picture.
‘I should be able to look up his next school in the records,’ Stirling said. ‘As for a picture, there was a photograph taken each year of all the prize winners. Just find the photograph taken in 1983. They follow each other around the walls in date order.’
They had walked about twenty feet in silent procession before they found it.
The face was a lot thinner, the eyes sadder, but there was no mistaking the skinny kid staring at the camera.
John Elgin, councillor of their parish.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sunday fry-ups were a happy but distant memory for Billy Skinner, the grease-laden full English he clean plated replaced by smoked salmon and scrambled eggs served on top of seeded bread, lightly toasted.
The breakfast tasted better than Marge’s bolognaise but it was still shit, Billy reckoned. All in the quest for lower cholesterol.
‘So Mekins is gone?’ Skinner asked, forking egg and salmon into his mouth with no enthusiasm.
Luke and Mark were sat at the table opposite their father. Marge was upstairs in the shower.
Mark smiled. ‘Sleeping with the...’
‘It’s about time you grew up!’ Billy stopped him dead. ‘We’re not in fucking Hollywood.’
Mark dropped his eyes to the floor, mouth clamped shut.
Skinner wiped flakes of egg and salmon from his face and turned to Luke. ‘Jimmy okay?’
‘Sound,’ Luke said. ‘And yes, Mekins is gone.’
‘And our Mat?’ Skinner asked him. ‘He can’t have just vanished.’
‘No idea,’ Luke told him.
‘What about you Don Corleone?’ Skinner turned to Mark, glowering. ‘Any ideas?’
Mark kept his head down, stared at the table, and silently shrugged his shoulders. Now was not the time for Marlon Brando lines.
‘Well somebody must know,’ Skinner was angry, not loud. ‘Jesus. Ask around. We need him found. Your mother’s going out of her head.’
He sat back. ‘I’m at the cemetery this afternoon.’
‘We’ll come with you,’ Luke said.
‘No you won’t,’ Skinner shook his head. ‘I’ll be okay. I’ll take Stuart. No need for you to come. You never did like your Auntie Irene.’
‘Only because she wasn’t an auntie and mum always said you and her were having an affair,’ Luke said.
Skinner sighed, his mind on a time-trip to a destination he couldn’t quite leave behind.
‘It was years ago,’ he said now. ‘And it was more than an affair, I’ve told you that before. Anyway, no point in you two upsetting your mother, you’ve never been any other year, why start coming now?’
‘Things are a bit different,’ Luke said. ‘A bit more dangerous at the minute.’
Skinner appreciated Luke’s concern, liked the way he was looking out for him, his caution.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he told him. ‘I go there once a year. Hardly a pattern anyone’s going to notice.’
Luke held his father’s eyes, his voice quiet.
‘Except our Mat.’
‘Good morning John,’ Harry Pullman raised a hand in greeting as Elgin walked into Scaramangers. ‘Just.’
Elgin, unshaven but reeking of aftershave, sat at the bar. His bloodshot eyes, sallow face and creased white polo shirt hinted at a late night and a hangover for the ages.
‘Black coffee…and a new head,’ Elgin’s throat sounded sand-blasted.
Harry was already at the coffee machine pressing buttons.
‘That Tara will kill you,’ he grinned. ‘Should be an occasional treat not a regular work out at your age.’
Elgin watched Harry put a cup on the bar and stared through the steam at the still-swirling contents.
‘Sod it you might as well give me a hair of,’ he said, hand shaking lightly as he pushed the coffee away. ‘You choose. A pint of something light.’
Tara was young but legal. That was the difference. Not like that bastard Scott, the way he took advantage of him and the others. They were just kids. Tara was an adult in the eyes of the law. He hadn’t even reached puberty when Scott started.
It had been easy getting Curtis to open up. They both had an interest in the piano, although neither played anymore, and all Elgin had done was tell Curtis how he had been a victim of the same pervert.
What were the chances? Him and Jill’s son abused by the same man all those years apart? Astronomical.
As they bared their souls it became obvious Scott had used the same techniques on Curtis as he had on Elgin and his fellow pupils. He hadn’t bothered with grooming. That took time. Scott just used a full-on assault with the threat of death if they said anything, bending them over the piano stool, the pain unspeakable. That was the bastard’s forte. Setting their bodies on fire but not in a nice way. Not like Tara.
‘Try this,’ Harry said, putting a pint in front of him. ‘New brewery. Decent though.’
Elgin sipped the light coloured beer and nodded his approval. ‘Any joy with the tape?’
Harry told him it was in hand, wheels were in motion.
‘You’ll have it this week,’ Harry confident, relaxed.
He held a tumbler under the Glenmorangie optic, pressed twice, and put the double on the bar in front of Elgin. ‘What you up to today?’
Pixie Carlton was laid on his back staring at the damp canvas and replaying his conversation with Declan Doherty.
He had told him everything he knew about Skinner’s operation. No benefit at all in remaining loyal to him, not now. His ruined hand would always remind him what he owed Billy Skinner. Loyalty wasn’t high on the list.
Doherty had told him not to worry, that Skinner and his boys would be sorted.
Now Pixie wanted out. Playing the Big-I-Am with his cocaine mates had been stupid. Getting mixed up in all of this was a plain death wish and no way was Pixie ready to meet his maker. Even thinking of the ways the Skinners might call time on his fucked-up life made his bowels go ballroom dancing.
If he’d just put the money back in time…
The ties on the tent flap were unpicked by nimble fingers and her blonde hair - brushed now - popped through the opening.
Christ she’s as dangerous as the Skinners.
She looked him in the eyes. ‘You still want a cuppa?’
Even a simple question sounded loaded.
‘I’m fine thanks,’ Pixie feeling heat on his neck.
Just leave me the fuck alone!
She inched her way into the tent and refastened the flap once she was inside.
‘Do you fancy talking?’
‘What about?’ Pixie said, claustrophobic and clammy.
‘Anything.’
She brushed his thigh with her fingers.
‘I think you’d best be going,’ Pixie jolted back. ‘This isn’t a good idea.’
‘Don’t you fancy me?’
‘You’re 15 for Christ sake!’
‘Granddad will be okay about it.’
‘I doubt it,’ Pixie tried to imagine Declan Doherty clapping him on the shoulder, telling him it was fine and dandy. ‘Anyway I’ll be going in a couple of days.’
‘You’ll be here for the wedding won’t you?’ the girl trying to inch closer.
‘We’ll see.’
He had never been to a gypsy wedding before and was sure the other young men wouldn’t want him anywhere near.
She slipped back out of the tent and left the caravan door open.
‘Of course he can come to the wedding princess,’ Doherty’s voice carried easily.
Pixie closed his eyes and muttered ‘fuck’ under his breath.
; Mat Skinner, head bowed, hands in the pockets of his wax jacket, ambled along the beach. He would have felt less conspicuous if he had a dog, the beach as busy as Crufts.
A tennis ball flew past his head, the oldie with the yellow sling launcher nodding an apology as he looked up, a panting Jack Russell sprinting past in pursuit.
Bamburgh Castle, the chosen location for the meet, dominated the skyline to the left.
He had changed the SIM card on his phone before he contacted his two trusted men, the brief orders to drive north of Bamburgh, double back, and wait in the small car park adjoining the beach at the end of The Wynding. The single road was narrow enough to notice anybody following.
Mat shook his head as they approached.
Twit and Twat.
He might not have a dog but these two meat heads couldn’t have looked more out of place if they were wearing top hat and tails on a nudist beach.
They were identical, photo negatives in black blouson jackets, black trousers, and black shoes, each 6’ plus tall and as wide as the ice-cream vans that patrolled the streets in the summer.
‘Jesus, you’re not working the doors,’ Mat greeted them. ‘Couldn’t you have worn something to blend in a bit with this lot?’
He turned to look over his shoulder and swept an arm to indicate the posse of dog walkers and random beachcombers.
‘We never thought,’ one of them said.
‘Yeah well pardon me for expecting you two to think.’
Mat turned and walked back towards Seahouses, the chastened heavies like dim but faithful Rottweilers either side.
‘Anything about Geoff?’ Mat asked.
Their silence told him everything he needed to know. He wiped his left eye and cleared his throat.
‘There was nothing I could do about Geoff,’ Mat said, voice thick. ‘I only got away because my old man would have had to think of something to tell my mother if I went missing.’
Mat looked at the sand dunes, remembered rolling down them with his brothers, his mother sat on a tartan blanket surrounded by orange juice and their favourite sandwiches; chopped egg and tomato loaded with salad cream.
‘We used to come here as kids….’
The Rottweilers waited for him to continue.
‘He’s had time to think now, come up with some shit about who killed me,’ Mat let his hurt and loss fuel him for the task at hand. ‘I’ll get in first. Harry Pullman’s got John Elgin on board so everything’s sorted with the planning applications. Once we’re done it’ll be business as usual.’
‘What about Luke and Mark?’ one of the Rottweilers asked.
Mat was satisfied with the plan he had in place.
He had booked into a pub on Holy Island so he would be well away when Billy Skinner was taken out.
‘Luke might suspect I’m involved but I’ll be nowhere near,’ Mat said now. ‘I’ll even FaceTime my mother, show her where I am.’
His smile didn’t wash the cold hate from his eyes. Luke wasn’t the only one who could plan.
‘I’ll make sure I talk to a barmaid until the tide’s in then anyone who checks will know I couldn’t get across the causeway,’ Mat told his men.
He turned to face the sea, spread his arms out wide, and breathed in deep.
‘The tide will be my alibi,’ he said to the waves that never listened. ‘I’ll be out of the frame, mum will tell me, Luke, and Mark to sort out whoever killed the old man, and there’ll be plenty of choice.’
Mat walked to the water’s edge, staring at the Farne Islands and the cormorants diving into the sea.
‘No point in you two walking too far from your car,’ he turned his head. ‘Everything all set?’
The Rottweilers nodded as one.
‘The unfaithful bastard will be at the cemetery this afternoon,’ Mat sent his words across the water. ‘You know what to do.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ed settled back into the driver’s seat. Service Station Sunday was hardly haute cuisine. The tuna sandwich, the only thing on offer without mayo, would repeat more often than ‘Only Fools and Horses’.
He reached across and opened the passenger door as Sam sauntered across the car park, two coffees in hand.
‘Do you want me to drive?’ she said, bending down and passing him the cardboard cups.
‘I’m okay for now.’
He rejoined the A34 signposted The Midlands and Newbury, shook his head, and moved into the outside lane.
‘I remember a time when you hardly saw a wagon on the roads on a Sunday,’ Ed grumbled. ‘Now it’s like a truckers’ convention.’
Sam turned her head and pushed her cup into the drink holder beside the gear stick.
‘That’s the problem with being a miserable old goat,’ her voice was teasing. ‘You’ll still remember pubs closing at three, shops all shut on Sundays and even the notion of a takeaway still a twinkle in Colonel Sanders’ eye.’
She started to sing Dvorak’s “New World” Symphony.
Ed laughed. ‘Alright, alright but I’m telling you there weren’t many lorries driving on Sundays back in the day.’
Sam sighed. ‘It’s called progress.’
‘Not always a good thing,’ Ed muttered. ‘Mind that tuna might have tasted better in old fashioned Hovis.’
Sam turned on the radio and channel hopped through Christmas perennials and mind-numbing talk shows before she gave up.
She leaned back into the seat and closed her eyes, her mind back on the case.
Stirling told them the records showed the young maestro John Elgin had transferred to a school in Seaton St George. He was definitely one and the same.
Ed seemed to be reading her thoughts.
‘Elgin doesn’t look like he could set fire to a BBQ never mind a bloke, even if the bloke just happened to be a paedophile who abused him when he was a boy,’ he stretched his back and wiggled his ankles behind the wheel.
Four more hours of this. I’ll have to be carried out.
‘But he’s well connected,’ Sam said. ‘Even Curtis said he’s scared Elgin’s involved with Billy Skinner.’
The problem, both of them knew, was how far to trust the information.
Another resting in the ‘unconfirmed’ box was whether Elgin and Curtis knew the other had been one of Scott’s victims.
Ed said it was possible but any of the victims could have been involved in his execution.
‘Who’d be more capable than two military men, especially one in the Special Forces,’ he said, Stirling’s revelation a striking new element.
‘What worries me,’ Sam said, stretching her legs, ‘is since we started looking into the backgrounds of Scott’s known victims we’ve already discovered another two that never reported, three if we count Elgin. How many more are still out there?’
‘More don’t report than do,’ Ed said, glancing in the rear view mirror and indicating to overtake yet another HGV.
Sam watched the giant wheels of the truck as Ed accelerated past, the noise and closeness making her uneasy.
‘Elgin’s a potential victim of historic child abuse so we need to think about how we come at him,’ Sam said. ‘And let’s see what we’ve got locally before we go running all around the country chasing new victims and potentially new suspects.’
She felt her mobile vibrate before she heard the ring tone and only pulled it from her pocket after an expletive-laden fight with her seatbelt.
‘Hi Bev.’
Sam listened. ‘Really? Christ, the plot’s thicker than Bisto…look we’ll not be back until late. Keep it under your hat. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
She put the phone in the centre console.
Ed glanced at her. ‘What’s up?’
‘No obvious kiddie porn on Julius Pritchard’s computer.’
‘Pity but he was savvy enough with the tech to cover his tracks,’ Ed said. ‘So what’s with the Bisto?
‘An interesting document that is on the computer,’ Sam told him. ‘A pre-nup d
ated before their marriage saying his wife gets nothing if they divorce.’
‘They’re not worth the paper they’re written on,’ Ed said.
‘Maybe but a family like the Pritchards, all that legal stuff in the gene pool, would just keep the case in court for years,’ Sam tried to imagine just how hard Granny Pritchard would fight to stop shop girl Linda snatching the family jewels.
‘But more interesting…’
‘What?’ Ed all ears.
‘In her email box there’s a nice series of photographs of our grieving widow snogging in the park.’
Ed indicated and moved out to pass another truck, Sam making a conscious effort not to look this time, saying the pictures had been taken by a retired cop turned private investigator.
‘So maybe granny was right,’ Ed said. ‘Do we know the lucky man?’
‘Seaton’s resident lothario,’ Sam paused for effect. ‘John bloody Elgin.’
Cold, stiff and cursing his luck, the man peering over the hedgerow breathed out his own swirling fog. Thirty minutes squatting in a field would have been bad enough in the summer; in December it was a nightmare.
His thick leather gloves had given up the fight with the plunging temperature and his fingers were now welded around the binoculars. To his left, a straight road descending towards him gave an unobstructed view of approaching vehicles.
The BMW appeared in the magnifying lenses as it travelled down the hill, nothing in front of it.
He bent down, pulled open the hand-held marine distress flare and ran towards his rendezvous point. Orange smoke rose upwards, a much better means of communication than a mobile in the countryside where the signal might be a bit dodgy.
Passing the billowing smoke and fleetingly curious about the source, Helen Larney slowed as she drove towards the red traffic light. Coming to a stop she swore under her breath.
She and her 13-year-old daughter Maisy were headed for the cemetery - flowers for her mother’s grave on the back seat - before heading home and tea with Helen’s in-laws.
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