Random Acts of Unkindness

by Jacqueline Ward

  He takes a used car salesman stance, palms upturned.

  ‘You’ve been in my flat? Why didn’t you just ask?’

  ‘I tried to call you, but I expect you were too busy pretending to be a film star.’

  He touches his newly cut hair and ridiculous makeup.

  ‘But you still haven’t answered me. Where did you get those from?’

  ‘Aiden’s sports bag. Side pocket. Pencil case.’

  ‘Impossible. Your lot searched that room.’

  I weigh up the situation. Sal knows perfectly well that the whole case has hinged on if he left prepared or not. Yet it looks like he’s kept back this evidence. He’s clever enough to turn it back on me, saying I had them all along. Pull the madness card, like he did when he divorced me.

  ‘Not well enough, it seems. Haven’t you even looked in that bag, Sal? You must have, because you washed his clothes.’

  He sits heavily on a chair.

  ‘Yes. Of course. I went through it with a fine-tooth comb. But I must have missed it. It couldn’t have been obvious. And the police, they looked too. They searched the whole room.’

  Maybe he is telling the truth. He rubs his eye and a bit of orange makeup smudges across his temple. I automatically want to go and wipe it away, but I can’t touch Sal any more. He’s a bastard. And he’s no longer mine. There’s a knock on the door and they’re ready for us. Now Sal looks more realistic, the agitated father who had just been crying. I look like some middle class hippie who insists on wearing shades indoors. The journalists file in and the cameras roll. The producer sets the scene.

  ‘OK, people. This is an appeal for a boy who has been missing for six weeks now. Concerns are growing for him. We’ve got a press pack that you can take on your way out.’ He turns to us. ‘These people are Aiden Margiotta’s parents. There will be a short appeal then time for questions at the end.’

  Sal has prepared and begins to read from a single, lined sheet of paper.

  ‘Aiden. We miss you a lot, son. Please come back, or get in touch, even if it’s only to let us know you are OK. We love you, son, and whatever has gone on in the past, we can put it right.’ I turn my head slightly. Whatever had gone on in the past? Aiden’s had a great upbringing, apart from us divorcing. Nearly half of couples divorce, but their kids don’t unusually go missing. ‘Me and your mum here are upset and miss you loads. Please come home, son.’

  I clear my throat. The journalists are on the starting blocks.

  ‘Aiden, I just want to say that I love you and if you are watching this, please let us know you are OK. You can ring any of the help lines, even if you don’t want to come back. And to anyone who knows anything about this . . .’ I pause as I see Jim Stewart’s face at the back of the crowded room. ‘Anyone who’s taken Aiden, who might be holding him, or has harmed him, for whatever reason they might have, let him go or tell us where he is. I’ll gladly put myself in his place. Please don’t hurt my son.’

  There’s a flurry and some questions shouted out.

  ‘Who do you think has him, Mrs Margiotta?’ ‘What’s gone on in the past, Mr Margiotta?’ ‘What’s so bad that a fifteen-year-old would run away and not come back?’ ‘Why didn’t you make an appeal when he went missing?’

  The producer quietens them down and Susan Smith from the family liaison department explains the case to them, and then they leave hurriedly.

  ‘Pack of rabid dogs,’ I say to no one in particular. Sal’s still sitting beside me.

  ‘Don’t go in my flat again. It’s my space. Get it, Janet? My. Space.’

  I snigger.

  ‘You left the key in an obvious place. Good job I’m not a burglar.’

  He nods.

  ‘You might as well be, though. In and out of my fucking life whenever you feel like it. You made it perfectly clear what your priorities were. You couldn’t even be bothered to change your fucking name. Then you think you can just walk into my flat.’

  I don’t look at him, even now.

  ‘You cheeky bastard. You walk into my house whenever you feel like it.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, it’s the marital home.’

  ‘Fuck off, Sal. I bought you out. It’s mine now. You stay out of mine and I’ll stay out of yours. OK? Oh, and by the way, someone will be over to talk to you later on. Another crime professional, not the one you fucked over.’

  He scrapes his chair back noisily.

  ‘Pointless. I don’t know anything about the passport or the bank card. I don’t know how they got there. They could have been there all along. I just don’t know.’

  He’s gone and I’m relieved. As relieved as I can be anyway, with the growing realisation that if Aiden didn’t take his bank card or passport, it looked more likely that something bad had happened to him. I walk back to the operations room and knock on Jim Stewart’s door. He waves me in.

  ‘Good job in the appeal. Not too hysterical.’

  I nod.

  ‘Yeah. Difficult under the circumstances. There’s been a new development.’ I drop the passport and the bank card on the desk. ‘I was in Sal’s flat this morning and I found these. They were in a bag that had already been searched. Granted, in a fairly discreet side pocket, concealed in a pencil case. I found them immediately. How come neither Sal or uniformed found them?’

  Silence. He’s thinking.

  ‘Right. So. He’s out there without ID and money. Changes things a bit. I’ll alert the comms people, tell them to get the word out there. And pull the appeal to prime time.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bit worried about Mike and that. Those guys he’s working with got a good look at me yesterday.’

  He nods again.

  ‘I’ll take a chance. We need to do this for once and for all. Oh yeah. You mentioned yesterday that you’d seen two dead people. So that would be the boy, and who else?’

  I try to head him off.

  ‘The boy. What did the report give? Anything?’

  He nods.

  ‘Looks like a typical Northlands suicide. Cause of death unestablished, probably exposure due to collapse from drugs overdose. Some recent bruising, looks like he’d been in a fight about a week ago, but not the cause of death. Traces of amphetamine and diamorphine found on his skin, awaiting toxicology, which will take a couple of days. Contents of stomach were fried chicken eaten the day before. Complexion pallid, muscle wastage, typical of Xbox generation sitting in front of the bloody telly all day drugged up and eating takeaway food while they wait for their Giro. Checked on the family. Mum divorced from Dad, who lives nearby, four younger brothers. We’re not looking for anyone else. Accidental death or suicide, depending on toxicology.’

  He’s tapping his pen on the desk, waiting for me to say something. When I don’t he asks me again.

  ‘So who was the other body?’

  ‘Yeah. An old woman. Heard some intelligence saying a bad smell was coming from a house and I went there to wait for uniformed.’

  ‘So you called it in?’

  ‘Not immediately. It could have been a blocked drain. It’s all in my report.’

  He takes a sip from a bottle of water on his desk and I badly need a drink.

  ‘Was it one of Connelly’s houses?’

  I nod.

  ‘Shit, Jan. Stop, will you. How did you get in?’

  I think back to Bessy’s home and the unlocked door. And the birds in her kitchen. And her face. The baby. The money.

  ‘The back door was unlocked. I went in to see what the fuss was about, found her, and phoned it in. Actually, I asked Mike to phone it in because he called me to tell me about the meeting time.’

  He stands up now, and it’s my signal to leave.

  ‘Look, I’m on the verge of removing you from this case. You’ve only got one more chance, and if you make a mess of this you’re back on regular. OK? I just want you on obs. Just around Old Mill and Northlands estate. Small cog in a big engine. Important to keep it running, b
ut don’t run too fast. I’ll keep the obs on your house too, just for a while. Go and do your job. I’ll let you know what’s decided on the appeal. Oh, and I’ll be keeping a closer eye on that husband of yours. Just in case he knows anything more about the passport and the card. I’ll get him in here and ask him.’

  I can’t tell if it’s a reward or a challenge.

  ‘Ex-husband.’

  Yes. Ex-husband. If he’s lying, he’ll be sorry he was ever born. But why would he lie about it? He was the kind of man who, if he was innocent and really didn’t know anything about it, to suspect me.

  The first thing he would have normally said was that I did it, it was my fault. That’s Sal’s favourite, turning the tables. But the police had searched his place and found nothing, no trace of Aiden, so why would he pretend not to have Aiden’s ID?

  CHAPTER SIX

  So I go home. When I get there I see a police car parked outside, a different one from last night and facing the other way. There’s no one in it and I pause at the gate. I can see the outline of someone standing in my lounge, and two heads popping up above the sofa. I sigh and open the door. Three policewomen turn to stare at me.

  ‘No homes to go to, ladies?’

  Sheila’s still here and she jumps up.

  ‘Oh, sorry, I thought . . .’

  I wave my hand in the air.

  ‘It’s fine. Just don’t eat all my chocolate biscuits.’

  She looks at the others.

  ‘Oh. Right. The thing is, we did and we noticed that you didn’t have much food in really. So Sharon went to Asda. Before her shift, of course. I radioed it through. I thought I’d stick around as I managed to get a kip last night.’

  I look at the TV. They’re watching Sky Movies.

  ‘Fine. Like I said, fine.’

  She carries on regardless.

  ‘Only we know you have a lot on your plate, what with IDing that lad and your son. We saw the appeal by the way.’

  I nod.

  ‘Yeah. Did they find out who the dead boy was?’

  Sharon drags herself away from Sleepless in Seattle to answer.

  ‘Darren Lewis. Local boy. Cause of death uncertain, so far. But he was found by a stream near the Clough. Near the train lines.’

  They’ve even got popcorn. She shoves a handful in her mouth. The third WPC chomps on a packet of ginger nuts, breaking only to make a further announcement.

  ‘Third one this year.’

  I sit on the arm of the chair.

  ‘Third what?’

  ‘Third young lad. Two more. One of them a suicide, they say. Found underneath a motorway bridge, impaled on railings. Nasty wound to the chest. Others seemed to have fallen asleep on some grass. Full of drugs. Family liaison put it down to depression in young men and the high suicide rate. But Don Worral pointed something out. They were all found within Northlands.’

  All found within Northlands. Northlands being Connelly’s gang area.

  ‘I fucking knew it. I knew it.’

  I suddenly feel weak. The third WPC shakes her head.

  ‘Don’t read too much into it. Don Worral also said that they could well be suicides. But funny, isn’t it? I mean, after Sam Fulton?’

  Fulton is Connelly’s nephew. Nine months ago he was found badly beaten in a car park. He’d been scarred for life, a huge V carved into his cheek. Rumour had it that it was something to do with Operation Hurricane, that the whole business had got to some of the duty cops and they had taught him a lesson.

  I’d half believed it, because when no one found anything at the warehouse, nothing incriminating, the frustration was palpable. Plenty of petty crime around Connelly’s estate, breaking and entering, violence, but no sign of any drugs going in and out. No sign of anything at all.

  Yet Connelly appeared to be getting wealthier. He’d bought up more houses and was now driving around in a top of the range Audi. So was Mrs Connelly. Moira. Someone had been tailing her and watched as she bought twenty grand’s worth of designer clothes in one shop and fifteen grand’s worth of shoes.

  She’d taken them back to their knocked-through Council house and left them in her car for three days, finally remembering them only when she opened the boot to push in a bag full of diamond jewellery bought in cash at Manchester’s most expensive designer jewellers.

  There wasn’t that much money in kitchens. Or protection racket, which we also knew he was into. It had to be something bigger. All the signs were there; we’d scrutinized his bank account. It had to be something around the importing Connelly was doing. I pull out my phone go into the back garden to ring Mike while Sheila makes everyone a cup of tea.

  ‘Mike. How’s it going?’

  I hear him breathe and say the password for him being able to talk.

  ‘Dapper.’

  ‘Right. So?’

  ‘Fucking hell. It’s fucking impossible. These guys have got the most open and transparent system I have ever seen. There’s a bloke overseeing all the work done for Connelly by these freelancers. He’s got every single import, every single container, marked down here. All the customs notes, everything. Nothing’s locked away. Nothing’s passworded on the PC. A freight came in today and they even let me get inside and check it out with them.’

  I almost laugh out loud.

  ‘Oh my God. So what was in it?’

  ‘Kitchens. Fucking kitchens. Seriously. He’s importing loads of kitchens.’

  Unbelievable. It just can’t be right.

  ‘Did you try to get under their skin?’

  ‘Yeah. Course. I implied that I’d be up for anything and they seriously didn’t know what I was on about. Just the fucking kitchens. They’re making a load of money, fetching them from the docks to the factory. That’s all.’

  It can’t be. He must have it wrong.

  ‘So did you look at the dockets? What was the worth, was it about right?’

  ‘For a kitchen, yes.’

  ‘And did you check everything for anything hidden? Seems like there might be a lot of places to hide stuff in fucking kitchens.’

  He laughs.

  ‘Course. You won’t believe it. They unlocked the container, told me to check off the delivery note while they went for a brew. Not just round the corner, over the road to a caff. They left me on my own with the fucking kitchens for more than an hour. Believe me, there was nothing funny in that or any of the other consignments. I even went most of the way to Connelly’s with my guy. Right up to the gates, before I made my excuses and fucked off home. I’ll go again tomorrow but . . .’

  ‘Right. Might be a dead end. But if it’s not the containers, what is it?’

  ‘Search me. I’m out of ideas now. You’ll have to think of something. Sane. Something we can take back to Stewart and not get sacked.’ I laugh and he laughs. We’re OK again. ‘By the way, you know that woman you found yesterday in Connelly’s house, I heard there was a young baby’s skeleton upstairs. Turned into a murder enquiry. You’ve uncovered a right can of worms there.’

  I look up at the sky. It’s late afternoon now and I see a scourge of starlings. Scourge. I wonder for a moment where that came from, where in my memory I had filed that one, but then I realise it was Aiden’s English homework. The starlings swirl round and round, hypnotizing me, pulling my attention from the phone call, from Sheila tapping on the window with my cup of tea, even from Aiden, just for a second.

  ‘They’d pecked out her eyes.’

  Mike tuts.

  ‘What? What did you say?’

  ‘The birds. They’d pecked out her eyes. That woman yesterday.’

  Bessy, I think. But I don’t say her name, it feels like a betrayal.

  ‘Bloody hell. No wonder you were acting a bit strange. What else?’

  ‘Nothing. She was just in the chair, dead. With a load of birds in her house. And the back door open.’

  He tuts again.

  ‘That’ll be why they’re treating it as a suspicious death. They’re doing full
forensics.’

  My stomach lurches and I feel like I’m going to be sick. The money. It’s hidden under the sink and there have been three policewomen in the house all day.

  ‘I’d better go, Mike. Ta for the update, see you tomorrow.’

  I rush inside and all three of them are sitting on the settee with hot beverages, watching P.S. I Love You. None of their eyes leave the screen, and I wonder what would really happen if one of Connelly’s henchmen tried to break in or fired a shot outside.

  I pull the money out and go upstairs. What had I been thinking? I’d taken it to pay a ransom that hadn’t been demanded. For a son who could have just walked away. Although that was looking less likely now, and the undercurrent of my soul tells me that it isn’t the case.

  I push Aiden’s passport and bank card behind the fitted cupboard in the corner of my room. I couldn’t put the money back even if I wanted to, as Ney Street is now a crime scene. Too risky. Shit. I hide it in the ceiling space, behind some laminated tiles.

  I go back downstairs and make small talk with Sheila, Sharon and, it turns out, Caroline. I can tell that they resent me sitting there, a distraction from the movies, but I need to find out what they will be doing tonight. I need to know who will be here when.

  ‘So when do you clock off?’

  Sheila appears to be the ringleader and chief tea maker and she answers.

  ‘These two reprobates are off at seven and I clock on then with Sue. We’ll be here until morning. If that’s OK? We bought quite a lot of provisions to see us through. It’s that or sit outside in the car.’

  I nod. I’ve already looked in the cupboards. Looks like they could be here awhile.

  ‘Fine. I can’t thank you enough. You girls make me feel safe. Very safe.’

  There’s smiling and synchronized dipping of chocolate biscuits in tepid tea.

  I go up to my room and get ready. Black trousers, black top. Black hat. Black pumps. Tonight’s the night. I need to see what’s going on in Old Mill, find out once and for all exactly what Connelly’s doing there. If it is flogging kitchens, at least I’ll know it’s a dead end. Dead end.