Gareth Dawson Series Box Set

by Nathan Burrows

  Milly was facing the camera, unsmiling. The photo was cropped, but as far as he could see, her hair was straight. Dark eyes stared back at him, inscrutable. Even though this was his daughter, the woman he’d seen grow from a new-born into an adult, Jimmy had no idea what Milly was thinking when the picture was taken. It was as if she had emptied herself of any emotion when the shutter was pressed. Jimmy swiped at the picture to zoom in on it, and realised that the photograph was ever so slightly off kilter.

  Even though it was unmistakably Milly, the faint scar on her forehead from when she fell off a swing in the front garden when she was five or six was gone. All that remained above her perfectly plucked eyebrow was a faint light smudge where the scar had been. On the left-hand side of her neck, Milly had a tiny mole that she hated. Gone. Even to Jimmy’s untrained eye, it was obvious that someone had tidied the photograph up. Milly’s face was smooth, with none of the usual small blemishes on her face that everyone had, no matter their age.

  Jimmy saved the photo to his iPad, thinking it might be useful to send a copy to the police, before returning his attention to her profile. As he scrolled down, he came to a section marked ‘Friends’. According to Facebook, Milly had thirty-nine friends. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that number. Was it too few for someone her age? Or was it too many? The impression that Jimmy had was that most youngsters on Facebook had hundreds of friends, with the barrier to what constituted a friend pretty low. Perhaps Milly only made Facebook friends with people she was proper friends with? Knowing her, that made more sense to Jimmy. The only problem was, he didn’t think he knew a single one of them.

  He scrolled through Milly’s friends, looking hard to see if any of them looked familiar. His earlier hunch had been right, though. Jimmy looked at some of the profiles, enlarging the photographs, but he didn’t know any of them. They were all about Milly’s age, and from what little information they provided on their profiles, most of them were local.

  Jimmy opened up the note taking software on his iPad and starting composing a message. If he understood the Facebook page properly, he could send a message to all of Milly’s friends. Perhaps one of them knew where she was, or at least reassure him she was okay? It took him ages to write the note because he kept writing a sentence, deleting it, and then re-writing it with a couple of changed words. He didn’t want to concern any of them, but he wanted them to take him seriously.

  Hi.

  I’m Jimmy Tucker—Milly’s dad—and I’m hoping that you can help me. I’ve not seen Milly for a couple of days, and just want to make sure she’s okay. We’ve not fallen out or nothing like that. I think maybe her phone might be broken or something.

  Have you seen her? If you have, and are in touch with her, could you do me a massive favour and let me know that she’s all right or maybe ask her to get in touch?

  Thanks, Jimmy Tucker.

  He added his mobile number below the message and copied it to his clipboard. It took him a couple of minutes, but he pasted the text into a message to all thirty-nine of Milly’s friends. Surely, one of them would know something?

  Chapter 12

  ‘Hey, Hannah,’ Jimmy said, his breath forming a cloud in front of his face. ‘How’s tricks?’ The greeting was a private joke between them, and when he used to say it to her, it would always make her smile. One evening, back when they’d not long started going out together, they’d met in a hotel bar in the middle of Norwich. Hannah had been waiting for him—Jimmy couldn’t remember why he was late, but it was probably because he was fretting over how he looked—and when he’d turned up, she was being pestered by a middle-aged bloke in a suit. Jimmy had given him a look, and the businessman got the message pretty quickly.

  Later on that evening, after a few glasses of wine, Hannah had told Jimmy that the man in the suit thought she was a high-end hooker looking for business in the hotel and had been trying to hire her for a couple of hours. It had mortified Jimmy when she’d told him, and he'd said if he knew that when they were still at the hotel bar, he would have gone after the businessman to offer him some advice with his fists. Which, as Hannah had told him, was exactly why she had waited to tell Jimmy. Later that evening, when they were lying in bed both exhausted, hot, and satisfied Hannah had laughingly demanded two hundred quid from Jimmy for the privilege. Hence the joke about tricks.

  Jimmy leaned forward and brushed some moss off from the top of Hannah’s slate grey headstone. Next Saturday, he would have to remember to bring a brush and some water with him to give it a proper clean. Even though Hannah’s grave was in the middle of the cemetery, it still needed cleaning every couple of months. Jimmy could have understood it if the headstone had been underneath a tree, or something like that, but how it got so dirty in the middle of the cemetery was beyond him.

  ‘I’ve got some news, mate,’ he said as he unfolded his small canvas chair and put it on the empty plot next to Hannah. Jimmy sat in the chair, just as he had done almost every Saturday morning since he’d buried her here, and sighed. ‘Turns out I’m going to be joining you sooner than I’d thought.’ Jimmy glanced at the patch of grass he was sitting on. ‘Good job we planned ahead, hey?’

  When Hannah’s funeral was being organised, the undertaker he’d used had sat down with Jimmy to go through the finances. Their original quote—which was pretty much every penny that Jimmy had in savings—turned out to be far too high, and there was some money left over. They could, the undertaker had explained, buy the plot next to Hannah to reserve it. ‘For when the time comes,’ the undertaker had explained. Jimmy hadn’t thought twice about buying the small patch of land, seven foot by three foot, even though it was nearly a grand for the privilege. It turned out that Norwich was one of the most expensive places in the country to be buried, and while Jimmy would have loved to have had that thousand pounds back in his bank account at the time, it would not get any cheaper.

  For the next thirty minutes, Jimmy told Hannah about his week. About going to the hospital. About being told that he was going to die, and soon. He tried not to cry when he told her how scared he was, about his fear of not being in control. At the back of his mind was the fact that Hannah had chosen the exact time, place, and method of her own death. That wasn’t really an option for Jimmy, but the thought it might be was something that he would not share with Hannah.

  ‘Norwich are at home to Burnley this afternoon,’ Jimmy said. ’Should be a good game. I think I’m on the away end again, which is an arse, but I’m not complaining. I should get to watch most of the game. Not as if Burnley’s got a reputation, is it?’ Hannah had little interest in football, other than the free time she had when Jimmy was stewarding at a home game, but she always seemed interested in how their home team was getting on. Or not, as the case may be.

  ‘Anyway, Hannah,’ Jimmy said with a sigh. ‘Long story short, it looks like we might be spending Christmas together.’ He flicked a couple of stray leaves from the bordered area that marked his wife’s final resting place and got to his feet. As he folded his chair away, his eyes ran across the grass rectangle next to Hannah. What would it look like when he was buried there? He could plan everything—his headstone, a grave border, even what songs would be played at his funeral—but he would never know what his own grave looked like.

  Tears welled in his eyes as he imagined Milly standing on the path next to the plots, perhaps with a pushchair and a grandchild that he would never know. He saw her reaching down and touching two headstones, Hannah’s and then his. Would she be crying? Would she be talking to them both the way that he had just been talking to Hannah? Or would she move away from Norfolk and not visit them at all, with or without a grandchild?

  Jimmy got to his feet, hefted the thin canvas chair over his shoulder, and made his way back to the bus stop outside the cemetery. As he walked along the gravel path, the stones as dark as the sky overhead, he tried not to look at the graves on either side of him. Many of them were dulled, overgrown, obviously not visited despite being fairl
y recent. Even though he and Milly had come to Hannah’s grave most Saturday mornings, there was no guarantee that the tradition would continue when he was gone. Jimmy didn’t know if the money he had paid for the plots also covered maintenance. Even if it did, he thought, that would run out at some point.

  A light drizzle was just starting to fall as Jimmy left the cemetery. His bus stop was a couple of hundred yards down the road from the cemetery entrance, and he trudged his way towards it. Walking in the opposite direction were a couple of teenagers, all hoodies and languid movements. Jimmy moved to the side of the pavement as he approached the pair to give them room to pass, but as their paths crossed, the youngster nearest him lurched into him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy saw the movement a split second before the young man barged into him, but he was able to adjust his weight and brace himself. The other man just bounced off his shoulder. Jimmy started to apologise out of instinct, but stopped himself and stared at the youngster.

  ‘Watch yourself, Grandad.’ Underneath the hoodie, Jimmy could see a set of dark eyes, pimpled skin, and rat-like face. He glanced at the other boy who was stockier than his companion, but about the same age. Late teens? Early twenties at most, but no older than that. ‘Yeah?’ They stood, regarding each other in silence for a few seconds. ‘What you looking at, old boy?’ The younger man’s face was full of bravado, and a nasty smile played across his mouth.

  ‘Nothing important,’ Jimmy replied, wiping the smile away with his words. ‘I think you knocked into me,’ Jimmy continued in a quiet voice. ‘Maybe you should apologise?’

  The two men in hoodies looked at each other and laughed. The stockier one looked over his shoulder, up the road towards the cemetery, and then nodded at the other man. Sensing what might be about to happen, Jimmy let the strap of the canvas chair slip over his shoulder.

  ‘See, I’m thinking a spot of compensation might be in order, bruv.’ Jimmy saw the man’s right arm move, and a glint of steel appeared in his hands. The canvas chair wouldn’t be much of a weapon, but he could use it as a block if he had to.

  ‘Bruv?’ Jimmy replied, rolling his shoulders underneath his jacket. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Come on, old boy,’ the first youth replied, ignoring Jimmy’s question. ‘Watcha got? What’s in your wallet?’

  ‘A bus ticket back to Norwich,’ Jimmy said. ‘Why are you asking?’ He saw the knife shifting in the young man’s hand.

  ‘Stop messing about and hand it over.’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Come on, now. Don’t make me use this.’ He jiggled the knife in his hand. From what he could see of it, it looked like a standard kitchen knife.

  ‘Does your mum know you’ve got that?’ Jimmy nodded at the weapon. ‘She might be looking for it to cut up your school lunch.’ A flash of anger crossed the youngster’s face, and Jimmy thought for a second he was going to make his move when the other man made a tutting sound with his teeth and nodded over Jimmy’s shoulder.

  Behind him, Jimmy could hear a car approaching, and he saw the knife disappear back into its hiding place underneath the youngster’s sleeve. The three of them stood in silence as an old Honda made its way past them, its elderly male driver oblivious to the drama that was unfolding on the pavement. No chance of any help from him, then, Jimmy thought. It wasn’t a problem. He didn’t think he would need it. Jimmy rolled his shoulders again. It had been a while since he’d done this.

  As the small car passed them, the youth with the knife followed it, his head turning to watch as it slowed to turn into the cemetery entrance. When he snapped his head back round, Jimmy’s fist was already coming towards him like a sledgehammer.

  Jimmy didn’t even wince as his fist impacted the young man’s nose, but felt the welcoming crunch of cartilage under his knuckles. The knife dropped to the pavement as the young man crumpled to his knees and raised his hands to his face, covering his nose as blood started to stream from it. Other than the soft crump as Jimmy hit the lad, the whole episode took place in complete silence. Fair play to the boy for not screaming, Jimmy thought as he kicked the knife as far into the road as he could. Having your nose broken was bloody painful. Not only that, but Jimmy knew from bitter experience that your eyes instantly filled with tears, and there was nothing you could do about it.

  He turned to the other young man whose eyes were flashing between his wounded friend and Jimmy. His hoodie had slipped back from his head, and Jimmy got a good look at his face. He was much younger than Jimmy had first thought. Perhaps his comment about school lunches wasn’t that far off the mark after all? Jimmy had seen people freeze before when confronted with violence. That was why his mantra had always been hit them first and hit them hard.

  ‘If you want my wallet, matey boy,’ Jimmy said under his breath, ‘why don’t you come and get it? No knives, no nonsense.’ Jimmy dropped the canvas chair and balled his fists. ‘Just you and me, man to man. Like back in the old days. First man on the ground loses.’

  Even though he was stockier than his companion, this young lad was perhaps not as full of bravado. Or, Jimmy reckoned, perhaps he was more sensible. But if that was the case, why was he hanging around with the loser who was blowing blood puddles out of his nose on the pavement?

  The second youngster took a step backwards as Jimmy leaned forwards a couple of inches. As Jimmy pulled back one of his fists as if he was going to hit him, the youngster back-pedalled and started running up the road. Leaning over the youth on the ground, Jimmy whispered.

  ‘Not so hard now, are you sunshine? I would rob you, but I don’t want to get my hands dirty, and I doubt you’ve got anything I’d want.’ Jimmy stood back up, grabbing his chair from the pavement as he did so. ‘You could be dead now, you know that? I could have put the boot in, or gutted you with your own knife. And I’m an old boy. Imagine if you’d met me when I was your age?’

  The youngster on the pavement looked up at Jimmy through teary eyes filled with hate. Jimmy was struck by how young he was. Maybe he’d think twice before trying to mug someone next time, Jimmy thought as he walked off towards the bus stop. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t.

  Jimmy listened carefully for the sound of running feet behind him, but couldn’t hear anything other than his would-be assailant trying to cough blood up from the back of his throat. Just as Jimmy got to the bus stop, rubbing the back of his head at a dull ache that had appeared, the Number Twenty-Four back to Norwich pulled around the corner a few hundred yards away.

  When Jimmy got on the bus, the driver nodded at the youngster on the pavement who was just beginning to get to his feet.

  ‘Did you see what happened to him?’ the driver asked as he inspected Jimmy’s return ticket before glancing at the blood on the back of Jimmy’s left hand.

  ‘Too much ambition, not enough talent,’ Jimmy replied.

  ‘Bloody kids,’ the driver said as he put the bus into gear. ‘All fucking mouth these days, so they are.’

  ‘Yep,’ Jimmy said, making his way into the bus.

  Chapter 13

  When Jimmy got back to his house, the first thing he did was hop into the shower. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, for personal hygiene reasons but to wash the incident outside the cemetery from his skin and his mind.

  ‘Little shit,’ he muttered under his breath as he shampooed his hair before smiling as he imagined how the youngster would explain away a broken nose and, in a day or so, two belting black eyes to his mates. Especially when one of his mates had seen him get clobbered by an “old boy”.

  He got out of the shower, dressing as quickly as he could. Saturdays were all about football, despite whatever else was happening in his life, and today was no exception. If Norwich were at home, then he would work the game as a steward. If they were away, then he would listen to it on the radio or, on the odd occasion they were on the telly, watching it round at Robbie’s. His friend didn’t have satellite television, but knew a way to watch the games, anyway. Jimmy
had never thought to ask him how.

  Jimmy picked up his watch and slipped it on, mumbling as he realised that he would be cutting it fine to get to the brief before the game. He hurried into his bedroom and finished dressing as quickly as he could before heading for the bus stop. By the time the bus arrived only a few minutes later, he was breathing hard and sweating uncomfortably. The fact that the bus driver had the heating on full blast didn’t help, so Jimmy sat as close to the doors as he could.

  The briefing room underneath Carrow Road football stadium was almost full by the time Jimmy arrived. It was a large room, the roof made up of the stepped terrace floor, and they had put no effort at all into decorating it other than a few posters on the walls that promised to “Kick Racism out of Football”. The head steward nodded at him as he found a seat, not caring that he was almost late. The whole stewarding arrangement was pretty informal, and as long as you were where you were supposed be—when you were supposed to be there—it was all cool. Jimmy saw Robbie sitting near the front of the room, already wearing his bright yellow fluorescent jacket even though the game wasn’t due to kick off for another hour and a half.

  At the front of the room, a bespectacled police officer peered at them. Behind him on the wall was a large screen, lit up by a projector on the ceiling, with the crest of Norfolk Constabulary in high definition. A few seconds later, the policeman cleared his throat and began the brief.

  ‘Afternoon, gentlemen.’ He peered at the crowd again. ‘It is just gentlemen, is it?’ The assembled stewards laughed politely. Every week there was some variation of the same joke. ‘Welcome to the pre-match briefing. My name is Police Constable Simpson, and I’ve got some mug shots to show you. Burnley doesn’t have a big problem or history of trouble, but there are a few rascals among them.’