by John Barlow
He put his feet up on the desk, lay back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Sam had made a good choice. Medicine’s a safe bet. You can’t teach a computer to have a good bedside manner. Or can you? He closed his eyes and tried not to think about what might await his son in ten, twenty, fifty years. It was too terrifying to imagine.
As Sam had got older, the love that Joe felt for him had changed. What had been fond and natural when his son was a child had slowly turned into a constant worry, a light but noticeable discomfort in the stomach whenever Joe thought about him, and about what the world had in store for his beautiful boy.
The password on Jane Shaw’s phone: 1996. The year Craig was born. Joe wasn’t the only parent who feared for the future. Jane Shaw hadn’t rung the police because she’d needed a fix. She’d rung because she was worried sick about her baby boy. But why? Because he’d taken off somewhere for a few days?
Alex wandered back across the office. It had taken him a staggeringly short amount of time to do a job that Joe couldn’t ever have attempted, despite endless training days in dull, overheated seminar rooms.
‘The photo of the girl was taken on the university campus.’
‘Really? That’s your old territory, isn’t it? You reckon they’ll let me poke around in their student database without a warrant?’
‘Depends on who you ask. There’s some techies up there wouldn’t lift a finger to help the police if the Home Secretary told ’em to, never mind a warrant.’
‘I’d better turn on the charm, then.’
‘Charm? You been on a course? Oh,’ he added as he prepared to leave, ‘I emailed you all the location info I could get off the phone. It didn’t take much time, there’s…’
‘A program, I know.’
Joe expressed his thanks to the empty space where Alex had been, watching as the tatty T-shirt and jeans glided silently away.
He dialled Craig Shaw’s number again. Still unavailable. Two days like that, according to his mum. The mobile provider could be asked for the last active locations. But they’d need a warrant for that. A scumbag like Shaw, forty-eight hours on the loose? Not a chance of that getting signed off.
He opened Alex’s email and read through the location data from Jane Shaw’s phone. It hadn’t left Leeds in a year. It hadn’t been anywhere near the Batley drop-off or any of the other towns on Craig’s professional itinerary. More lies from mum. Craig hadn’t borrowed her phone. Not while he was working, at least. But why would his mum lie about that? Meanwhile, the picture of the girl that had been taken up at the uni was time-stamped nearly five months ago.
One thing was certain: Jane Shaw and Joe were going to have a long and detailed interview tomorrow. As long as she’d not had a liquid breakfast.
6
I can normally come and go without anyone seeing me. I’m lucky like that. With some things it’s just a matter of luck, isn’t it? But you also make your own luck, take advantage of what you’ve been given. It cuts both ways. Good luck, bad luck. Sometimes you’ve just got to reset the balance.
It’s been two days. Two days since everything changed, under the old railway line in Cleckheaton. It’s come back to me in staggering detail, every second of it. Opening the door, his body already slumped against the steering wheel. Hauling him up by the jacket of his nylon jogging suit. His legs looked so skinny through the thin fabric of his trousers.
I was surprised how little he weighed. Even so, it was a struggle, but finally I managed to get him into the footwell on the passenger side, bottom first, so he was sort of sitting on the floor, doubled up. His arms and head were slumped on the seat, his legs somewhere underneath. A phone fell out of his pocket. I picked it up, pulled the back off and took the battery out, tossing it all onto the floor next to him. It was as if I already knew what to do. You don’t have time to think. Not in the normal way. It doesn’t feel like thought at all. It’s automatic, hyper-fast, primal.
I took my jacket off, laid it over him as best I could. Then I got settled in the driver’s seat. I grabbed his baseball cap and put it on, pulled it down as far as I could, until the rim was just above my eyes. For an instant I wondered where his stash was, whatever it was he’d been selling. Did it matter? No, it didn’t. It didn’t matter at all.
I drove away from town. Up past Prospect Mills, then a left onto Whitcliffe Road, avoiding the traffic cameras in town. I had my head down, forcing myself not to look sideways. I took a right, weaving through rows of terraced houses, hoping that no one would recognize the car.
Keeping to the back roads, I crossed the A58 and drove up through East Bierley (small village, probably no cameras). I went on like that until I reached a stretch of dual carriageway that took me to the M62 junction. I was now travelling in completely the wrong direction, and there’d be cameras there for sure. But I had the cap on.
Then more country lanes, winding back the way I’d just come. Tiny old roads that I knew well, every last bend. Most of them didn’t even have lights, never mind cameras. It took a while. But finally I was home.
The car’s been in the garage since then, its passenger cold and silent. For the last two days I’ve been on automatic pilot at work. And the nights are long and black. But there’s something else. A strange sense of rightness has been bearing down on me, growing stronger, thumping inside my head, smothering my thoughts. What is it? I’m a tight-rope walker, and there’s no safety net beneath me. There’s a staggering majesty to it. The fear is so intense it’s sublime. Someone’s put me up here, on my own, and everyone’s willing me to succeed, holding their breath, knowing that they can’t help me, that there’s no net. No one can help me now.
I wait because I have to. Two whole days, so nobody will know exactly when he disappeared, or where. Not easy, having him at home all this time. But who’s going to come calling? Who’s missing a drug dealer in a beat-up Toyota? Nobody. That’s the truth. The world’s a better place without him. I didn’t mean for this to happen, but it did. And now this is what I have to do.
Nine p.m. and I’m ready to go. I’ve had time to think about how to get this right. You can do a lot of planning in forty-eight hours, however much your world is spinning. My clothes from Tuesday are long gone, dumped in a rubbish container at work that was emptied by the bin men yesterday morning. I watched them do it. Every stitch I had on is now in a furnace or a landfill.
I’ve wiped the car for fingerprints until it shines, as well as his mobile phone, which is still in pieces on the floor. Every inch of the driver’s seat has been gone over with the Dyson. And yes, I emptied the dust down the toilet, then washed and scrubbed the vacuum inside and out. I removed the pencil using pliers and snapped it into three pieces. It went down a drain a couple of miles away. I washed the pliers in bleach.
There was a ten-litre petrol can in the boot of the Toyota. Red plastic with a black nozzle. It’s now full of petrol, syphoned from the tank. The tube I used was then cut into pieces and is now in the can itself.
By nine I’m in dark cycling gear, gloves, all nice and indistinctive. My bike is in the back of his car. I leave a few lights on in the house, ditto the TV. My phone, of course, stays there too.
I get in the Toyota and sit behind the wheel, staring through the windscreen into the darkness. I don’t look at him. But I can feel his presence, the bony body, the nasty eyes. I know if I look down and see him there, the person I killed, I won’t be able to do this. It will have been for nothing.
So off I go. It’s risky. But it doesn’t feel like risk now, as I drive. It feels like a challenge, a puzzle that I’m going to put together piece by piece. It feels like I need to do this.
Birstall is a small town just off the motorway. It’s not that far, although it will take a bit longer than normal tonight, since I’ll be taking the back roads. I drive steadily, head down. My heart’s racing. Nothing can go wrong.
Two days ago, and the knowledge that I could not make a single mistake was energizing, terrifying. I’d never
felt anything like it. In fact, I’m not sure I was feeling anything at all. Someone was saying: this isn’t about you, it’s just what you’ve got to do. But now it’s different. As I drive, I can feel things falling within my reach. Under my control. I’m in charge.
Broadyards Country Park is just outside the town itself. It has a large car park at the bottom, surrounded by trees. I remember seeing a burnt-out car here once. That’s what made me think of it.
It’s deserted when I arrive. I park up in the far corner, close to a line of trees on the perimeter. There are no cameras here. There’s nothing much at all, really, just a place for cars at the bottom of a wooded area that people use for walking their dogs. I get the bike out, keeping my head down as much as I can, just in case I’ve missed a camera. It’s almost too dark to see what I’m doing, though, so it’s certainly too dark to be seen.
I get the petrol and give the silent passenger a good soaking. I try not to get any on my clothes, but in the end I’m just waving the can about, my body shaking so much that petrol is going everywhere. By the time the can slips from my hand every inch of the car’s interior is drenched, front and back.
I open the window in the passenger door for ventilation, then close the door as quietly as I can. My hands are trembling so badly that they knock against the door, as if I’m beating a drum. Then I turn and make sure there’s an easy way through the trees and out onto the road, which is practically unlit. It runs up towards the centre of town. I’m going to have to risk it on the main road at some point, but I have a dark brown beanie hat on and I can ditch my cycling gear as soon as I’m done.
Plus, the bike looks completely different. I’ve covered all the distinctive paintwork with black insulating tape, and there are now yellow bands on all three shafts of the frame.
It takes a few matches before I get one to strike properly. I drop it through the window and throw the box in after it. Then I’m away. I hear a faint whoosh as I scurry through the trees with the bike, a snap of flames as I go over the wall.
I’m halfway up the road before I turn to look. And there it is, a faint yellow glow amid the trees. Vomit courses up my throat and fills my mouth. It’s watery, but incredibly acidic. A little bit trickles out through my nose. But I sniff it back up, clamp my mouth shut and swallow. After all this planning, I’m not going to spatter the road with my DNA.
Head down now, racing mode. I get to the main road. The traffic is light, and I don’t see any cameras, although I know that there must be some. My legs are pumping like pistons, but I never let up. A couple of miles on the main road, then I turn off, still pumping, full-tilt. I’ve planned the route carefully, a series of winding country lanes that lead me all the way to safety. I don’t stop pedalling, not for a single second.
Home. First thing: I wash my hands for traces of petrol. I drink a glass of water. Then I go outside and peel all the tape off the bike, rolling it into a ball and stuffing it into the kitchen bin. I put all my clothes in the washer on a sixty-degree cycle and have a shower.
Wrapped in a towel, I go through into the living room. I sit on the sofa and check my emails, searching for a flight to Paris, a hotel on Tripadvisor… Could be anywhere, anything. Just to make sure I’m digitally engaged. An old episode of House is coming to an end. It started at nine. Luckily I’ve already seen it. I make a mental note, just in case anyone asks.
Finally, I lay back and close my eyes, feel the cold air on my body.
It’s over.
I never asked for this to happen. But it did. And I made it right.
A dead drug dealer?
One down, is what I say.
I can’t stop now.
Friday
7
He followed a double-decker as it stop-started its way up towards the Headrow. There were massive, glass-fronted office blocks on both sides of the street, plus an array of older, more ornate buildings, each one pristine, the Victorian brickwork dazzlingly bright. The city of Leeds was resplendent and bustling, a place that managed to be shiny and smart, going about its business with a minimum of fuss.
Not like Manchester, just fifty miles away, with its irritating self-regard, still twatting on about a handful of bands it once had, and a nightclub that’s now a block of yuppie flats. If a city could be an aging, loud-mouthed bore, Manchester was it. Quite literally the Liam Gallagher of cities, a pimped-up Subaru of a place, a cronut covered in cream. And don’t even mention the football…
He amused himself with the faux-rivalry of Pennine provincialism as the traffic crawled along. Crossing the city centre at nine in the morning? Yes, it had been a little optimistic. Then again, he told himself, optimism always used to be his greatest quality, even when it was completely counter-intuitive. Where would we be without a bit of counter-intuitive optimism, without a misplaced sense of the possible in our back pocket?
Three years ago Joe Romano had been a Detective Sergeant with just over a decade’s service. As a late starter, he’d done well. He’d already passed his inspector’s exams, and was biding his time, waiting for a DI position to open up. Then an ad in the Federation newsletter: Interpol was recruiting multilingual British police officers for a new unit, based at their headquarters in France.
Several weeks of excited conversations followed with his wife and son. It would be an adventure, an amazing opportunity to try something totally new. Joe had a degree in French and Italian, and Sam had a few years of French under his belt at school. Jackie was also keen, as if she’d simply been waiting for an excuse to leave the life of a primary schoolteacher behind. A fresh start in France for the three of them. They’d buy an old farmhouse, do it up, live the rustic dream. It was perfect, the chance to spread their wings and eat pains au chocolat.
A couple of difficult years later and he was back in his old job at Leeds CID. Still a DS, and now working missing persons cases and the low-level stuff that no one else fancied. Je ne regrette rien? It wasn’t his theme tune, not exactly. On the plus side, his French was amazing.
Ten minutes later he was on the university campus. Having ditched his plan to do battle with the university’s Lords of Data, he was going for the personal touch.
He made his way down a long, warm corridor in the Faculty of Arts, Humanities and Cultures. Things didn’t seem to have changed much since he was at Nottingham University, a quarter of a century ago. There was the same air of subdued vibrancy, colourful posters announcing everything from a performance of Death of a Salesman to karate classes. Perhaps this was where he should have pursued a career. A university. None of the ridiculous alpha-male game-playing that could make CID so tedious.
Student loans clearly hadn’t killed off the spirit of youth. Even in the absence of students, who he assumed were either in lectures or still in bed, the building felt naturally and effortlessly optimistic. Would he choose to study French and Italian now? Ten grand a year in tuition fees, plus living expenses? Not a chance. Perhaps kids were simply braver when it came to facing life with a massive debt. Or they just didn’t care anymore. At least Sam’s degree in Medicine was a step towards a decent salary. But a Humanities degree these days?
He knew when he got to the French Department, because everything on the notice board had a tricolour on it.
He cleared his throat.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle.’
She was putting up a poster.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur!’
She turned slowly, arms held high, still holding the poster. Mid-thirties, or perhaps a little older, she wore faded brown jeans and a black T-shirt. Nothing very out of the ordinary, but if he’d seen her walking down the street he would immediately have known she was French.
Her tone was friendly, but also a touch quizzical, as if Joe’s presence was slightly amusing but she wasn’t sure exactly why. She looked him up and down in that way he’d become accustomed to in France, part flirt, part accusation, the kind of feminine once-over he hadn’t experienced a single time since returning to the British Isles
.
‘Pardonnez-moi,’ he began, the best French pronunciation he could muster, ‘je suis policier. Crimes graves.’
He held up his warrant card and gave her time to read it, which she did, frowning with concentration until she was convinced that he was indeed a policier.
‘D’accord, sergent.’
‘Sergent-détective.’
‘I’m sorry, Detective Sergeant,’ she said, switching to English for no obvious reason, which he hoped was not a comment on his French. ‘There are bilingual police officers in Leeds?’
‘Yes. We’re few in number, but extremely eloquent.’
She nodded. He couldn’t quite tell whether she’d sensed his attempt at humour.
‘Are you looking for an interpreter? We sometimes…’
‘No, to be honest I’m here for a bit of help. I’m trying to trace a young woman who might be a student. I came to your department first because I wanted to see if I could still speak the lingo.’
‘I wish my students had your pronunciation!’
He felt a frisson of adolescent pride.
‘I lived in Lyon for a while, couple of years. Anyway, I’m looking for a woman, and all I have is a photo that was taken on the campus. I thought perhaps she might be a student.’
He showed her the image on his phone. She glowered at the screen, allowing her eyes to refocus as she moved her face closer to it.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I know everyone who’s studying French, and I don’t recognize her. Is she in danger?’
‘No, we don’t think so. But we believe she could help us with an ongoing investigation. She’s not in any trouble, as far as we know.’
The woman nodded, seemed to consider her options. He watched as she took her time. He liked that in a person. Observe all, judge nothing. Who said that? He’d forgotten, but it had always struck him as a sound philosophy. Make no judgement, until you get to the point where you simply have to judge. The skill is knowing when you’ve got there.