The Darkness Around Her

by The Darkness Around Her (retail) (epub)

  ‘Pat is one of a kind. And it changes things for me too.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Pat’s retiring because of his illness, which will leave me without a job if the firm closes. That was always your focus when a mill went to the wall, wasn’t it? The jobs.’

  His father blushed. ‘Some fancy lawyer isn’t the same as someone on the bottom rung losing their only hope for a good job.’

  ‘Not even when it’s your son?’

  ‘We move in different worlds and you’ve sold out. What do you expect me to say? What’s next? The Freemasons?’

  ‘My job is the same as Pat Molloy’s but I don’t get the same pat on the back?’

  ‘Pat is different, because he had the upbringing to do something much better with his life, but he chose us.’

  Dan sighed. He didn’t want to get into an argument. ‘Perhaps I just wanted to say hello.’

  ‘Some time with your old pa?’ He pointed towards the bottle on the bookcase. ‘Pass me that and I’ll give you all the attention you need.’

  Dan stood up and went for the door. ‘Get it yourself. And for your information, I’m thinking of taking over. How will you like that? The son of Highford’s biggest peoples’ champion becoming a boss?’

  His father didn’t respond at first. Dan went for the door, but just as he was about to go through, his father said, ‘You’ve earned it.’

  Dan stopped and looked back into the room.

  His father smiled. ‘It’s a different world today, and you’ve somehow got to make your own way in it. Just promise me one thing, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Treat your staff well. Don’t chase every penny. Look after your people. That’s all we were trying to do.’

  Dan sighed. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do yet, but if it happens, I will, don’t worry.’

  His father raised his glass. ‘Don’t slam the door as you go.’ There was a glint in his eye.

  Dan laughed and shook his head. His father did that to him. Whatever words he used to lash out, he always ended with something softer, revealing the father he could be.

  Once Dan got outside, he had a view of the town and for the first time in his life he knew he could end up being tied to it. He’d have a business, a stake in the place beyond a family history, all so permanent. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  His apartment wasn’t far, down a long hill and over an old stone bridge. As Dan pulled into the yard, the cobbles rattling his wheels, his phone beeped to tell him that he had a message. He parked in his space and read.

  It was from Jayne. It didn’t say much. I followed him. You need to come here. Urgent. She included an address a few miles away.

  He thought about the bottle of wine he’d picked up at the same time as his father’s cider but realised it would have to wait.

  He keyed the address into his satnav, backed his car out, and headed for the motorway.

  Twenty-four

  Sean had been getting ready for a while. Shower, hair-dryer. Trudy sat in the dark living room as the sun got lower, thinking back through the years about all they’d been through together.

  Just over twenty years since they first met. Those times felt so innocent as she thought back, neither knowing what lay ahead. They’d been young and full of hope; the world had seemed so exciting. Now that they were both in their forties, everything felt a little more jaded, even though they still had each other.

  There were the times apart, of course, and those memories hurt: his life with Karen and then the years he was locked away. She’d felt that hurt every day.

  She was jarred from her thoughts by the thump of his feet as he came down the stairs. He was humming to himself, clean clothes on, hair swept back. He was wearing the shirt she’d bought him. Normally, she liked how it looked on him, hiding his growing stomach if he left it untucked, but today he was strutting like a peacock as he stopped in front of the hallway mirror. The smell of cologne drifted towards her.

  ‘Who are you getting dressed up for?’

  ‘I’ve got to look nice if I’m talking in public.’ He flicked his hair as he said it.

  ‘What, for some old dears who’ve little else to do for the evening but listen to you talk about yourself?’

  She saw the flash of temper in the clench of his jaw, but he turned it into an unconvincing smile. ‘We need the sales, and the exposure and the goodwill.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll all think you’re wonderful.’

  ‘We’ve got to pay the bills.’

  ‘And tonight you’ll make a million?’ She regretted it as soon as she said it, but he didn’t respond.

  He grabbed his car keys.

  Just as the door was about to slam, she shouted, ‘Your books!’

  There was a pause before he came back into the living room. She pointed to the box in the corner of the room. ‘You’ll need your books, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. Yes, thank you.’ A flicker of a smile. ‘I’m new to this author game.’

  He collected the box and left the house. She didn’t move as the engine started and he pulled away, the sound slowly fading, leaving her with just the steady clunk of the grandfather clock.

  * * *

  Dan’s satnav alerted him that he’d arrived as he turned into an estate of new houses, all the windows bright and clean, the doors white PVC. He’d driven faster than he should have done, growing worried about Jayne’s mysterious text the more he thought about it.

  He scanned the street, but it was as ordinary as any he’d ever seen. The evening was drawing in, the sun fading to a burnt red in the distance, and lamps and flickering televisions lit the windows.

  A door opened, casting a faint light over grey tarmac. The man in the doorway was backlit, his face in shadow. Dan recognised the frame, though. It was the man who’d been at the court earlier in the day.

  Dan looked around himself as he approached the house, cautious in case it was a trap. The man didn’t move or speak until Dan reached the door, when he stepped aside and said, ‘You’d better come in.’

  ‘Where’s Jayne?’ Dan said, not moving.

  ‘Upstairs.’

  ‘What –?’

  Jayne’s voice filtered down from above. ‘Dan, come up.’

  ‘Jayne? You all right?’

  ‘Just come in, Dan.’

  The man gestured again for Dan to go in, which he did, and looked up the stairs. Jayne was peering over the landing rail, a line of wooden spindles painted white, her long dark hair hanging down.

  He looked back at the man, who pointed towards her. ‘Go on up.’

  Dan did as he was told, Jayne watching him all the way.

  When he got to the landing, he said, ‘What’s going on?’

  She went towards a room at the back of the house. ‘You’ve got to see this.’

  The man shouted up the stairs, ‘Do you want a drink, Mr Grant? Coffee?’

  Dan was confused but said, ‘Yes, coffee with milk would be great.’

  The room he followed Jayne into was a small study, with a desk and computer against one wall and a bookcase filled with black files on the other. Maps, photographs and scraps of paper were taped over the walls, hints of green paint showing through whatever small gaps there were, so that the whole room looked like a giant scrapbook. When he looked closer, he realised there was more order to it than a scrapbook. Dates typed on sheets of paper went around the walls at the top, with the cuttings and other papers arranged in columns underneath.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Dan said.

  ‘Peter Box’s defence.’

  Before Jayne could explain, the man came in with a tray containing three mugs of coffee and a small plate of biscuits.

  ‘I don’t have much in. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

  ‘My fault,’ Jayne said, sitting down on the computer chair. ‘I’m not as good at subterfuge as I thought.’

  Dan took the mug he was offered and put it on the
desk. ‘I don’t know when you two became best buddies, but someone needs to tell me what’s going on here.’

  ‘I’m Bill Maude,’ the man said, picking up a framed photograph from the desk and handing it to Dan. His eyes clouded. ‘This is my son, Tom. He was murdered three years ago.’

  A man in his early twenties stared out from the frame, a selfie taken high on a hill, his grin bright and wide, his dark hair cropped short. There were traces of Bill in him, but now Dan looked up he could see that Bill looked worn out, his pale skin marked by the broken veins in his cheeks.

  ‘He took that picture a week before he was killed,’ Bill said.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but what –?’ A thought occurred to Dan. ‘If you’re interested in me because I represented his killer, I’m sorry, but that’s what I do for a living.’ Dan handed the photograph back to Bill, who put it back on the desk, turning it so that it was in the same position as before.

  ‘No one has represented his killer,’ Bill said, his eyes staying on the picture. ‘Whoever killed Tom hasn’t been caught, and he’s not alone. Look around.’ He turned in a circle as he gestured towards the walls. ‘In the last twenty years, over a hundred people have been killed or have gone missing around the northern canals, all unsolved. Or so the police say.’ He wagged his finger. ‘There’s a serial killer on the waterways and no one seems to care.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘My son was murdered. I don’t joke about that.’

  ‘All right, I’m sorry, but why does this involve me?’

  ‘Because there is one case where the killer has been found. That’s your man. Peter Box.’

  Dan rubbed his eyes. He was too tired for this. ‘Are you saying my client is a serial killer?’

  ‘Possibly, unless he’s innocent, of course. That’s why I was there today, to hear the evidence, to find out what it was about, to see whether Peter Box is in fact the killer. If he is, he might also be the man who murdered my son, because he’s killed someone by a canal. But the police won’t go looking unless they see a link.’

  Dan’s mind flashed to Pat’s revelation that Peter had confessed to Rosie Smith’s murder that also happened by a canal. ‘And how do you feel now, after hearing what the case is about?’

  ‘There isn’t any direct evidence. All I heard from the prosecutor was about blood on a shoe, but what if they’ve got it wrong?’

  ‘That’s the defence case, in a nutshell.’

  ‘And if they have got it wrong, the real killer is free to do it again. And all of this carries on. More murders. More unexplained disappearances.’

  ‘What do you think, Dan?’ Jayne said.

  Dan turned slowly as he took in again the displays around the walls. ‘It’s the second day of the trial tomorrow, and you want me to start uncovering a whole series of attacks that no one believes are linked, in the hope that the jury thinks that it might be all true? I mean, come on, over a hundred?’

  ‘That’s my fault, I’m sorry. I should have come to you before today, but I was scared about what you might say. I was even outside your apartment yesterday, but I lost my nerve.’

  ‘How do you know where I live?’

  ‘I followed you from your office.’ He held his hands up. ‘I know how it looks but I was desperate. No one takes me seriously.’

  Dan considered Bill Maude for a few seconds and then looked around the walls again. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry but it’s not going to happen. Peter Box is on trial because there is physical evidence against him. If the jury start wondering if there’s a serial killer out there, they’ll look at the dock and come to one conclusion: that it’s him.’

  Jayne held her hand out. ‘Don’t you think you should at least hear what Bill has got to say?’

  Dan picked up his mug and leaned against the door. ‘All right. I started this, I suppose, and I trust your instincts, Jayne, but it’s been a long day.’ He took a sip. ‘Bill, tell me about your son. He looks like he was a good man.’

  ‘He was. I was very proud of him. He’d just finished an English degree at Leeds. He wanted to go into teaching and was a real outdoors type. Walking, climbing. Caving and potholing were next on his list, but he never got the chance. He went out for a drink in Manchester and missed the last train.’

  ‘Who did he go for a drink with?’

  ‘Just friends from university. They’d promised each other that they’d stay in touch, and this was the first reunion. They’d chosen Manchester because it was an easy train ride for some, but Tom hung on too late. He knew Manchester, so he reckoned he could walk part of the way. He texted me, told me he was walking home but could I collect him. I told him to wait where he was but he said he’d already set off, to get away from the city centre to make it easy for me, but I don’t get how he could have got lost and ended up where he did. His phone must have run out of battery, or else he was attacked before he had a chance to answer, because that was the last time I heard from him. They never found his phone.’

  ‘Where was he found?’

  Bill went to a large map on a wall and jabbed at it with his finger. ‘By the Bridgewater Canal, close to Castlefield.’

  Dan stared at the map. Castlefield was practically central Manchester, and not on the way out towards rural Highford. He could see the need in Bill’s eyes and forced himself to ask the obvious question, though he could already guess the answer. ‘What was the cause of death?’

  ‘The post-mortem said drowning. But how could he drown like that unless he was held underwater? Young, fit men don’t just fall into canals and drown.’

  ‘Any other injuries?’

  ‘His cheekbone was fractured, with tiny shards of stone in the cut. The coroner said it was accidental, that he tripped and hit his head on the canal bank and fell in.’

  ‘Perhaps he did.’

  Bill went to the wall furthest from the window. ‘Like he did?’ He pointed to a newspaper clipping showing a young man in a graduation gown. ‘And him?’ He pointed at another. ‘Do you know how many people have died in the canals around Manchester in just the last seven years? Sixty-one, that’s how many. Can you believe that?’

  ‘It sounds a lot, but if that was unusual, the police would be doing more.’

  ‘So you’d think, but they’ve just written them all off as accidental drownings. But that number? Too high, so I expanded my research and I looked beyond Manchester, and went back further, to twenty years ago.’

  ‘Why twenty?’

  ‘Because 1998 was the year the Internet really took off, so the newspapers started to get websites, which gave me somewhere to search. The thing with canals is that people travel on them, so if someone wants to remain undetected, they keep moving. That’s why I looked further afield.’

  ‘Is that figure high though? Over a hundred in twenty years means just five a year as an average, and there are a lot of canals.’

  Bill wagged his finger. ‘You were surprised at the figure, and these are only the ones I’ve discovered so far. I’ve only just started to look beyond Manchester, so there’ll be more, you can trust me on that.’ He pointed at a clipping further along. ‘Take her, for example, Tammy Riches. She was walking her dog along the canal in Todmorden but never made it home. Just like your case, Lizzie Barnsley.’

  ‘Sexually assaulted?’

  ‘Yes. She was found in the bushes near some canal locks.’

  ‘How can it be the same person, then?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Dan said. ‘If this was the work of a serial attacker, there’d be a pattern, specific traits, you know, a clear motive. This is all too random. Lizzie Barnsley wasn’t sexually assaulted.’

  Bill shook his head. He sounded impatient when he said, ‘You’ve got to look at the numbers. Why can’t anyone else see it? I thought you’d be different, but you’re just like the police, talking about patterns and behaviour. I’m not saying they’re all by the same person, but isn’t a high numb
er a pattern too?’

  Dan sighed. He could see that Bill was trapped in grief and had no desire to trample over it. He looked around the clippings again. ‘Tell me how some of the men died?’

  ‘What, the Manchester ones? A lot of those were men.’

  ‘No, the ones nearer here.’

  Bill pointed to some photographs further along. ‘These two were slashed and dumped. These other two’ – he tapped the pictures as he spoke – ‘were beaten to a pulp, and the last one was drowned but found on the canal bank, not in the water.’

  ‘And the women?’

  ‘Like Tammy, four were sexually assaulted or raped, and another one was strangled. Then there was Rosie Smith and Lizzie Barnsley.’

  Dan exchanged glances with Jayne and said, ‘Rosie Smith?’

  ‘Yes. Sean Martin went to prison but got out on appeal.’

  ‘Yes, I know it all right,’ Dan said, not wanting to give anything away, ‘but it’s too random.’

  ‘But don’t you see how it’s too much of a coincidence, all these people found by or in the canals?’

  ‘Canal towpaths are dark and quiet at night. Just the right kind of place for someone to be killed. The numbers sound high, but they’re over twenty years.’

  ‘There’ve been other people who’ve disappeared too, on top of the ones I’ve mentioned. What about them?’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Just in Lancashire? Seventeen people in the last twenty years who’ve left their houses and never returned, and who all either lived by the canals or were heading that way. Men and women. It’s getting worse too. Eight in the last five years compared to the nine before then. The killer is gathering pace.’

  ‘If there is a killer. People run away and start new lives for many reasons.’

  ‘I thought you at least might listen, since it might help your client.’

  ‘How can it help Peter Box? If I turn up with your cuttings, I’ll be laughed out of the courtroom.’ Bill looked hurt, so Dan softened his tone and said, ‘What happened to your son is awful, but I just can’t see any connection to my case.’