Crooked Street

by Priscilla Masters

  She wasn’t looking forward to them living closer. Unlike Eloise, Matthew’s daughter, who couldn’t hide her excitement at having her grandparents nearer. In fact, Joanna was quite touched at how fond Eloise was of her paternal grandparents. She had been fond of her own grandmother but it hadn’t been as close as this. It was, Joanna reflected, one of the nicer characteristics of her stepdaughter, this bouncing affection she had for Matthew’s parents. Work chugged on as normal but at home Joanna felt the alien presence of Matthew’s parents and Eloise, and even Matthew seemed a different person these days, more distant now he had his family around him, and she sensed his anxiety for a son was compounding. Yes, home life was eventful and Joanna sensed choppy waters ahead.

  So she focused on work. Twelve days after Jadon Glover had disappeared she held a meeting with the associated officers to review the case.

  His car had yielded very little forensic evidence. A few fibres from a sweatshirt sold by Tesco’s in their thousands. A blonde hair with no root, which turned out to be Eve’s, and some mud which was found locally around the town.

  The butt of Silk Cut found in the child’s play area proved to have been his. But it was not certain that it had been dropped on the night he went missing. It could, conceivably, have been dropped the week before, been missed by the council workers and discarded on another day. Like everything else it didn’t mean anything. The council workers weren’t absolutely meticulous about cleaning the area; bark was a difficult surface to clear. Even if the cigarette butt had been dropped on the night he went missing it would only mean that Glover had left Britannia Avenue and approached Barngate Street. He might not have arrived there. Again, it was not conclusive and didn’t lead them forward.

  They reviewed the list of Daylight’s customers, combed through the evidence again, checked through statements. They spent days turning over everything they had but by the end of the week they still had no leads to follow.

  And so they watched and waited.

  Friday, 21 March, 1 p.m.

  Joanna and Mike drove up to the moorlands, taking sandwiches and a flask of coffee. She wanted to escape the station, be somewhere anonymous. She wanted to think. Clearly.

  Opening the car window let in a blast of cold air which she welcomed as she surveyed the empty landscape. Up here there was an Arctic microclimate. She could hardly remember a hot day here, open to the elements, high above sea level.

  ‘There’s something we’re missing, Mike,’ she said. ‘Something right under our noses.’

  ‘Well, I wish we knew what it was.’ He was grumpy. He had wanted to chew away on Billy the Basher’s bones. Korpanski’s wife, Fran, had had a nasty prang in his car a couple of years ago and the guy had been an uninsured driver. Since then he felt decidedly sour-faced about insurance fraud.

  Joanna sensed her DS was disgruntled and touched his arm. ‘Gut feeling, Korpanski? What’s happened to our man?’

  He didn’t answer straight away but took in the miles of emptiness – no trees or fields or walls or houses. Just the landscape rolling towards the horizon, the green broken up by dark projections of gritstone. The moorland was an empty area of hundreds of square miles. It didn’t exactly help their case along, mirroring the dearth of information they had gleaned.

  ‘What did you want to come up here for?’

  ‘Because …’ She couldn’t complete the sentence.

  Korpanski turned to face her, his chin sticking out. She knew that attitude. It meant stubbornness, that he was about to say something she wouldn’t enjoy hearing.

  ‘I think he’s dead, Jo.’

  Without looking at him, she nodded. ‘Me too.’

  ‘And somewhere out there.’

  That silenced her. Neither spoke as a buzzard flew across the sun, darkening their windscreen for a moment with its wing flaps. Then Joanna asked the obvious question: ‘So where’s his body?’

  And Korpanski just shrugged but his eyes were scanning the view as though he was thinking, Out there – somewhere.

  But where do you start?

  Added to their frustrations, they knew that the Whalley family was regrouping. Pa had been seen around the town, looking as seedy and suspicious as ever. A couple of uniforms had bumped into him and exchanged ‘pleasantries’. The relationship between cop and robber was similar to that of physician and heart patient. A sort of grudging acknowledgment, a mutual acceptance that it was the bum part of the job. Inescapable. Truth was Frederick Whalley had not been looking forward to his psycho daughter coming out either and he had the added responsibility of being her father and worrying what she’d be getting up to. He knew he was getting too old for this cat-and-mouse game and just wanted a quiet life with his Hayley. When PC Paul Ruthin had met Whalley Senior on Leek High Street he had got the distinct impression that Fred would have liked to detach himself from his most worrying family member. During conversation he had assured a sceptical PC that he had absolutely no intention of ever going ‘inside’ again. But disassociation was not possible in the family of rogues.

  ‘They all say that,’ Korpanski had responded gloomily. ‘Right up until the moment they get nicked.’

  It was true.

  They finished their sandwiches and coffee and headed back to the station where DC Alan King was waiting for them. Joanna didn’t have to ask whether he had found anything – the detective’s sparkly eyes and barely supressed grin told her all. She pulled a chair up beside him as he showed her the sites and the results of the phone calls he’d made.

  ‘Sounds like her perfect husband was a mite controlling,’ he said. ‘Eve Glover was a single parent mum to a little boy.’

  ‘What? She kept that very quiet.’ Joanna was frowning. She had not seen or heard anything of a child. Certainly in that bland home there had been no toys, no children’s bedroom, none of the usual paraphernalia. ‘Go on,’ she said drily, wondering where this was about to lead them.

  ‘When she married Jadon he refused to have the little boy with them.’ He paused, his face pained. ‘So he was in the care of his grandmother, a feisty alcoholic who took what she called recreational drugs,’ King continued with disgust. ‘It was obvious she wasn’t fit to look after the boy. And that had tragic results.’

  Joanna interrupted. ‘Didn’t Eve go and visit him to check?’

  ‘Yeah, but he was apparently always crying so they didn’t really bond. Shit happens,’ he said, ‘and …’

  ‘I think I know the rest,’ Joanna said. She felt sick. She was sensing a connection here, blindly reaching out a hand, remembering. An unfit grandmother. The phrase resonated round and around.

  ‘He died,’ King said.

  And it brought it all back. Matthew’s distress at the little boy’s injuries and his throwaway comment that the parents must have been dyslexic to have given him such a name. The chill spread through her body. ‘Was the little boy’s name Rice?’

  King nodded.

  Her next question was so futile she already knew the answer. ‘The father?’

  King simply shrugged.

  And she knew. ‘Matthew did the post-mortem,’ she said. ‘It upset him terribly.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ DC King said with feeling. Then, glancing over, he added, ‘It must be a difficult job.’

  ‘Sometimes.’ It was all she could say.

  So that was Eve’s story. Which threw up the obvious question: how did it fit in with the disappearance of her husband?

  Mike was watching and they both knew that at the very least this information warranted a follow-up visit to Eve.

  But Eve wasn’t at home; neither was she answering her mobile.

  8 p.m.

  She waited until Matthew was home, had taken a shower and eaten. He kept casting glances at her, unable to guess what it was that she ‘needed to talk about’.

  ‘Go on,’ he said finally. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The little boy you did the post-mortem on.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘The man
who’s missing, the money lender.’

  He didn’t even prompt her.

  ‘His wife was the child’s mother.’

  ‘What? She entrusted her son to someone so unfit?’

  Joanna nodded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Jadon refused to let the child live with them.’

  Matthew could hardly contain his anger. ‘She didn’t notice he was beaten, bruised, losing weight, cowed? She must be a psycho.’

  Joanna shrugged. ‘I haven’t confronted her with this yet.’

  ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘if I were you I’d be looking a bit closer at Mrs Glover.’

  She moved next to him on the sofa. ‘Thanks for the tip.’

  Saturday, 22 March, 9.30 a.m.

  As searches and the legal team lined up to facilitate the sale of Waterfall Cottage, on the instruction of Monica Pagett, current address Brooklands Nursing Home, another country cottage came to the attention of estate agents Burton & Shaw. It fell to Rory Forrester to drive out to the moors and value the building and its surrounding land. He found the cottage easily enough on that grey Saturday morning. It was the only property for miles around but even so it blended in so perfectly with the surrounding moorland he might have missed it if its presence hadn’t been announced by the strange name, amateurishly painted, on the gate. He stood for a while, wondering how it had acquired it. Against the stormy grey of the clouds it seemed to enact a drama of its own. He opened the gate and looked around. The neglect of the house was plainly visible, the home of an elderly lady. Next he assessed its farming potential. Fourteen acres was a difficult acreage to sell – not big enough for a farm but too large for a garden. The plan was to package it up as a small holding and see who or what nibbled at the bait. Farmers would always buy land but it wouldn’t do for a speculator. There was not a hope in hell of obtaining planning permission in these precious and protected wild lands on the Staffordshire/Derbyshire border. Having completed this part of the job Rory Forrester turned his attention to Starve Crow Cottage, surveying it with a professional’s eye. It didn’t take him long to assess the building. It was basically a two up, two down house hardly touched since the early twentieth century and it appeared to have few modern amenities. A brief survey revealed it had been built on poor foundations, no damp course, et cetera, et cetera. It would have to come down and be completely rebuilt. That would take time but the Staffordshire Moorlands Council would grant planning permission – provided the materials used were locally sourced, the footage didn’t exceed the old one by more than forty per cent and the design of the new edifice was not ‘out of keeping’ with the surroundings. In other words it should be built in the vernacular – no glass-and-concrete futuristic angular design to mar the lulling ambience of the place. The object was to further the illusion that on entering the moorlands the traveller had time-travelled backwards into the nineteenth century. He smiled to himself, glancing back at his gleaming Toyota Auris. Not exactly the Tardis but there was little doubt that up here time did travel at a different pace.

  Already he was penning the phrase: in need of some modernisation. Any prospective purchaser would read between the lines, take a look and work it out for himself.

  He worked his way through the house, taking measurements and making notes as he went. No mains running water, just a well, no proper toilet facilities, no electricity, no gas. The garden might once have been cultivated but no longer. Nettles grew in the corner of what might once have been a vegetable plot. There were animal droppings everywhere, even in the front porch. Broken glass in one of the windows had been inadequately stuffed with newspaper. He looked up. Slates were missing from the roof. It had only been empty for a month or two but houses need attention – particularly up here, exposed to raw elements. A tree planted or self-seeded too close to the building was using its roots to argue who took pride of place. It was a fight and it wouldn’t be long before nature won. The old lady had been struggling well before she’d broken her hip.

  Forrester took some more measurements and assessed the forty per cent ruling. Someone could build a very nice and secluded residence here. Through the bedroom window he photographed the panorama to prove his point. Then he needed to check the sanitary arrangements. He stepped up the garden and opened the corrugated tin door. Just a crack. Just enough to make an assessment. As he’d thought – a most rudimentary earth closet dark as the grave. The smell persuaded him not to investigate further. He pulled the door shut behind him.

  Time now to step out to the acreage. This was the bit he liked, breathing in pollution-free air, taking giant strides in his wellies through field after muddy field, the only sounds a shriek of a hungry buzzard and the baaing of new-born lambs.

  Heaven. He set up his camera, took some shots and stopped. How to market this place was the real problem. Starve Crow Cottage was a rural idyllic fantasy but the reality was grim. It needed pulling down. In winter it might well be cut off by snow drifts. The roads up here were often blocked for days at a time. There really were no amenities and worst of all it was in national parkland so any plans to demolish or develop would have to be run past the national park administrator. As he was listing all these problems the rain came sweeping up the valley – a gusty, hostile warning that up here nature was both king and queen. He climbed back into the car, glad to be protected from the elements but already anticipating trips up here with disappointed would-be buyers. The only thing to recommend it was isolation and peace and, he thought as he swung the car around, a certain lordliness over the landscape.

  Maybe ideal for an artist was his last thought as he turned back out on to the main road, unaware of what he had left behind.

  Instead of switching the car radio on Forrester spent the journey writing phrases in his head: In need of … was the obvious one. A difficult property to value …

  Modernisation indicated … Maybe they should put it up for auction.

  And then he looked around him at a view which even on this sombre day could only be called majestic. And he rephrased his vocabulary.

  A unique opportunity. Fabulous views. Unchanged for centuries. Unspoilt. Untouched. In its raw state. He revised his asking price and added, Acreage plus potential.

  An auction could draw them in. Let them slug it out!

  He spent the afternoon putting the details of Starve Crow Cottage and fourteen acres of virgin moorland on the Internet site that dealt with small holdings and attracted would-be farmers as well as people who wanted to open kennels and catteries, have horses and other such country pursuits. By 5.45 p.m. he was ready. He pressed the button and off it went into the ether.

  Coincidentally, as Waterfall Cottage and Starve Crow Cottage joined the market under the capable hands of Burton & Shaw, Dr and Mrs Peter Levin, Matthew’s parents, found a lovely bungalow and completed the sale of their own house.

  Matthew and Joanna’s offer just needed to be accepted on the Buxton Road property and Waterfall Cottage sold and it would be all change.

  And Eloise now had a boyfriend called Kenneth, a strange, bespectacled medical student in the same year as her. He was quietly intelligent and both Joanna and Matthew were finding him hard to get to know. He had a curious smile, part mocking, part cynical, and neither of them was quite sure what it meant. Was he smiling with them or at them? Even Matthew, who was the most indulgent father ever, wondered aloud whether Kenneth was being patronizing.

  ‘Do you think,’ he demanded one evening after they had left, ‘that all the way home he’s making negative comments about us? Taking the piss, Jo?’ He looked so hurt she felt sorry for him. ‘Who knows?’ she said gently. ‘Anyway, it mightn’t last.’ Truth was she wasn’t sure she liked Kenneth any more than she liked Eloise.

  She was glad Eloise had another male to command her attention but she could see that Matthew’s discomfort with his daughter’s boyfriend was making cracks in their relationship. He was less confident with his daughter, slightly guarded.

  She hadn’
t yet tackled Eve Glover with her newly acquired knowledge and Matthew and she hadn’t discussed it further. She knew the subject of the little boy’s death dredged up disturbing memories but privately she spent some time trying to work out where the little boy with the strange name fitted in with Eve and Jadon’s lives and his disappearance. Did Eve blame her husband for her son’s murder? Or was she completely heartless? She certainly had a reason to hate her ‘perfect’, selfish husband. So she remained silent. For now.

  Wednesday, 26 March, 8 p.m.

  Leroy and Jeff were doing the Wednesday round together. Though they wouldn’t have admitted it there was something about retracing their vanished friend’s footsteps that made them uncomfortable so they had decided two was safer than one. They had uneasily mocked themselves for such a wimpy attitude but they were spooked by Jadon’s disappearance. This falling through a black hole was unnerving. To know nothing was worse than the truth spilling out – whatever it was – at least they’d know what had happened. But for now they grudgingly fell in with working together. Just on Wednesday evenings. Just in that area. And the folk who inhabited the five streets appeared to be behaving themselves and paying their debts on time without demur, handing over the money with nothing more than a sullen, sometimes mocking look. But every time they knocked on a door they were aware that one of these people was the last person to have seen Jadon alive.

  It wasn’t much better when they knocked on the doors of Barngate Street and Nab Hill Avenue, threaded through the passageway between the two rows of houses, walked swiftly behind Big Mill or cut through the children’s play area. Even on the bright, pretty nights of early spring they constantly checked behind them, wondering if someone was watching.

  I’m waiting. Waiting to pick you off one by one.