by Harvey, John
‘If you can call it that.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Oh, he went round asking questions, right enough. Took – what d’you call ’em? – witness statements. Like that copper who were round here. Me, o’course. Jenny’s sister, Jill, she were living in the village then. Few other folk, all local. Of course, nothing come of it. Not his fault, mind, Keith, one bloke on his own, whole bloody country up in arms – what was he supposed to do?’ He shook his head. ‘Nobody gave a bugger, not then, not really, that’s the truth of it.’ He laughed, no humour in it. ‘An’ here you are, thirty years too bloody late.’
Catherine opened her notebook, turned a page.
‘We’ll be talking to Haines, of course, hoping it might still be possible to look at his report. Statements that were taken at the time. But I wonder if there’s anything you might like to add to your previous statement about the circumstances in which you realised your wife had gone missing? Just to give us, perhaps, a little more to go on.’
‘Circumstances?’ Hardwick nodded, wiped his hand across his face. ‘Much like I said before. Friday, that’s what it was. Friday, the twenty-first. I got back off shift half-expecting Jenny to be home, half not. She was off doin’ stuff so much, round that time especially, you could never tell. Any road, instead of Jenny it were Mrs Jepson from a few doors along. Not one of the women as usually kept an eye on the kids at all, but Jenny had asked her as a favour, on account something had cropped up and she weren’t sure when she’d be back. Might be late, might not. Nothing to say what she were up to, nothing like that.
‘So, anyway, I get home and there’s all three kids tuckin’ into beans on toast. Mrs Jepson, she goes off and I think, well, she’ll turn up, Jenny, sooner or later. Not overfussed, you know? But then when it gets towards end of evening, like, and there’s still no sign, I leave Colin in charge and try the Welfare, but no one’s seen hide nor hair of her, not since the day before. Peter Waites, he’s off at some meeting somewhere so that’s no help.
‘I went round to her sister’s, just in case, like, she had any idea where she were, but she’d not seen owt of her. Gave up after that, went back home, put the kids to bed. Thought whatever’s happened, she’ll be here tomorrow, either that or get in touch, that at least.’
He shrugged.
‘There was nothing. Not a thing. Four days off bloody Christmas and, far as I could tell, she’d buggered off without a word. Not so much as a phone call, some kind of explanation, not even a bloody note. Kids all in a state. Brian, crying his eyes out. Course, I know now. I know now why there was no sodding note, but then . . .’
The breath juddered out of him and his voice was quieter when he resumed.
‘She’d wrapped presents for the kids already. Left them the same place as always, top drawer of the wardrobe, away from prying eyes. When I saw them, I thought then, she knew, you know, knew that she was going.’
For a moment, he closed his eyes.
Catherine slowly rose to her feet and Resnick followed suit.
‘Thanks for your time, Mr Hardwick. And for talking to us about something that’s clearly still painful. I dare say we’ll be needing to speak with you again, but for now I think that’s everything. And with regard to releasing your wife’s body, it’s for the coroner to issue a burial certificate after due consultation. The most usual thing, in cases like this, I’m afraid, is for the body to be kept so that the defence in any trial can order a post-mortem of their own. But in this instance the coroner might make an exception due to the passage of time. I’ll try to make sure you’re informed as soon as a decision’s been taken.’
Just a few minutes later, they were back out on the street, the air damp and not without a chill.
‘What do you think?’ Catherine asked, once they were in the car.
‘Hardwick? I don’t know. He seemed genuinely upset. Whatever he thought of her, it must have been tough. And now, having to go through it all again . . . At the end there, he was close to tears.’
‘You don’t think that was an act? The tears?’
Resnick registered surprise. ‘Did you?’
‘It crossed my mind.’
Resnick grinned. ‘So cynical, so early in your career.’
Catherine poked out a tongue, switched on the engine and slipped the car into gear.
11
‘DRINK, DUCK?’
Jenny turns her head to where he’s standing close behind her: donkey jacket, jeans, Doc Martens; smiling. She’s seen him at the pithead these last few mornings, along with his mates. Not much more than lads, the lot of them. Laughing and fooling and lobbing stones. Down from Yorkshire and cocky with it.
‘No, thanks.’ In the fug and hubbub of the Welfare, she has to lean towards him to make herself heard.
‘You sure?’
‘Sure.’
The smile becomes a grin. ‘Some other time, maybe.’
‘Maybe.’
Edna Johnson takes hold of her arm and begins to steer her away. ‘Cradle-snatching, are we?’
‘That’ll be the day.’
The older woman laughs. ‘Peter Waites, he’d like a word.’
Waites is in the back room he uses as an office, empty canisters stacked against the wall behind him, crates of dandelion and burdock, boxes of salt-and-vinegar crisps. The trestle table he’s using as a desk is busy with scraps of paper, empty cups and glasses, brown envelopes, ashtrays, a map of the local area marked roughly with coloured ink.
‘Jenny. Come on in.’
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Edna closes the door behind her, shutting out most of the din.
‘Knock them papers off the chair,’ Waites says. ‘Have yourself a seat.’
The sound of Duran Duran can still be heard, distorted, through the wall. Waites holds out a packet of Silk Cut towards her and, when she shakes her head, lights one for himself from the butt of the last.
‘Edna says you’ve been lending a hand in kitchen, that and one or two other things.’
‘I do what I can. Kids, you know, and . . .’
‘Don’t think it’s not been noticed, that’s all. Appreciated. Work cut out, Edna has, not just here, but being delegate to Central Group like she is. Meetings to attend. All takes time.’
Jenny crosses one leg over the other, tugs at the hem of her skirt. She feels as if she’s being interviewed for a job without knowing quite what it is.
‘You mentioned the kids,’ Waites says. ‘Three, is it?’
‘The kids are fine.’
‘Your Barry, though . . .’
‘Barry does as he sees fit. Always has.’
‘No luck getting him to change his mind, then? Assuming you’ve tried.’
‘He gets on with his life, I get on with mine.’
Waites taps ash into an empty pint glass.
Jenny recrosses her legs, trying to ignore the bra strap cutting into her shoulder.
‘More you get involved,’ Waites is saying, ‘there’ll be those’ll not take to it kindly. Dirty looks thrown your way an’ likely a sight more. And with Barry still working . . .’ He smiles a lopsided smile. ‘Not exactly stand by your man, is it?’
‘What I’m doing, I thought you’d be pleased. Now it sounds as if you think I’m doin’ wrong thing.’
‘No, lass. Want to be sure you know what you’re lettin’ yourself in for, that’s all.’
‘Well, I am.’
‘That’s good. ’Cause the more you get involved, going out on women’s-only picket, maybe, making the odd speech or two . . .’
‘Do what?’
‘There’s lots of women angry, lass, you know that as well as me. Not afraid to shout and make themselves heard. On picket line, at least. But Edna, at the moment, she’s one of few with bottle enough to stand up in front of a crowd and make ’em listen.’
‘But I can’t . . .’
‘She reckons you can. With a bit of practice. No call to rush into it. Just when you feel you’re ready
.’
‘Well, I don’t know . . . I mean, will they listen to me, specially, like you say, with Barry still working?’
‘Barry still scabbing, they’ll likely listen all the more. But have a chat with Edna. Talk it through. If you do decide, she’ll give you all help you’ll need.’
‘Right.’ Jenny nods; gets to her feet.
‘It’s in a good cause,’ Waites says, ‘you know that.’
‘I know.’
‘Tell the lad behind the bar your next drink’s on me.’
Jenny smiles. ‘Another time. I’d best be getting back.’
If Edna reckons she can do it, she’s thinking, then maybe she can. It was listening to Edna, after all, that got her started, made her want to get involved herself. And if now, in turn, she could do that for someone else . . .
As she nears the door, she sees the young Yorkshire miner watching her from across the room. Dark eyes, red hair. What had her mother told her about men with red hair?
12
FIVE-THIRTY, RUSH hour on the motorway, close to the end of another day. Resnick flicked his headlights at the Range Rover waiting impatiently to overtake and, in response to the driver’s briskly signalled thanks, raised an acknowledging hand. Gentleman of the road.
No agreement yet on expenses, he was keeping a note of mileage, petrol. Nottingham–Worksop, Worksop–Nottingham. No car, either, not his own. The VW had been Lynn’s and, after letting it idle in the garage for months on end, he’d taken it along to auction; too many memories, too many trips out to Bradgate Country Park or Rutland Water.
The car he was driving, a Vauxhall of uncertain vintage, he’d borrowed from a friend of a friend who owned a garage out past Mapperley Top.
‘Won’t let you down, Charlie. Mark my words.’
So far, so good. But making that journey day after day for what? Two weeks? Three? Only thirty-five miles, but in traffic it could take more than an hour, an hour twenty. As a prospect it was unappealing. Take a room up in Worksop, that’s what he should do. B & B. Get that down on the expenses sheet, supposing there was one. Somewhere for the duration.
There was a Travelodge on the bypass west of the town, at the junction of the A57 and the A60. It was McBride who’d suggested it, shown him a picture on the computer. Set back off the road but not far enough, to Resnick it resembled an old people’s home twinned with a hostel for young offenders. Due to the closure of the Little Chef restaurant that had formerly shared the location, the website had informed him, takeaway breakfast boxes were available for him to enjoy in his room or on the move.
Perhaps he’d stick with the drive.
Besides, who’d feed the cat?
‘A favour, Charlie,’ Catherine Njoroge had said as he was leaving. ‘The family living in the house where Jenny’s body was found – Peterson – Howard and . . . Howard and Megan. Cresswell and Sandford have spoken to them already, taken a statement, but it wouldn’t hurt if you were to drop in, have another word. Giltbrook, that’s where they live now, more or less on your way home I’d’ve thought. Unless you’ve got something else on, of course.’
Something on? That’d be the News at Ten and before that, with any luck, the next round of MasterChef.
As the sign for junction 26 approached, he lifted his foot off the accelerator and switched to the inside lane.
The house was a small semi-detached a short distance beyond the centre of what had once been a village; now, thanks to the vast retail park the flat-pack giant shared with the likes of Boots, Pets at Home and, of course, Starbucks and Nando’s, it was better known as a suburb of Ikea. He and Lynn had driven out there one idle Sunday afternoon, Lynn thinking she might find something in Laura Ashley to wear to a colleague’s wedding and finding what, to Resnick, for whom shopping for anything other than food or CDs was anathema, came close to a contemporary definition of hell. Several hours he was prepared to spend browsing through the racks in Eric Rose’s Music Inn in the West End Arcade, but as much as fifteen minutes waiting while Lynn worked her way along a line of dresses was enough to bring him out in hives.
Howard Peterson answered the door a little self-consciously in an apron. Resnick introduced himself and showed identification.
‘Best come in . . .’ Stepping back to let Resnick enter. ‘Megan’s on lates this week, my turn in kitchen. No complaints, mind. Just as well one of us is, eh? In work, I mean.’
‘Don’t let me get in your way,’ Resnick offered.
‘Peelin’ spuds, that’s all. Come on through.’
They sat at a round table, Formica topped.
‘I’ve not long mashed tea . . .’
Resnick shook his head, declined. Why was it, whenever a police officer called round, invariably the first thing the person they were calling on did was hustle off to the kitchen to make tea?
Learned behaviour, he supposed, all those cop shows on TV.
Peterson topped up his own cup, dribbled in milk. ‘I told those two lads of yours all I could. Not sure if there’s a great deal I can add.’
He made a face. ‘Livin’ there all that time an’ not knowin’. Not knowin’ what were there. Fair makes your skin crawl.’
‘From what I understand,’ Resnick said, ‘the extension, it had been in place for some time?’
‘Winter of eighty-one, two. Put it up myself with a mate . . .’
‘A mate?’
‘Geoff. Geoff Cartwright. We worked together down pit. Megan’d been on to me to do somethin’ about the wind as used to get into back of house. Whipped round there somethin’ dreadful. Regular whirlwind. She thought maybe somewhere for the washing machine an’ all that gubbins – utility room, that what they call ’em? That’d keep it out. And me, I’d always hankered after a bit of a conservatory. Plants, seedlings, you know. Ended up neither one thing nor the other. More trouble than it was worth, truth be known. An’ that’s without . . . well, without, you know . . .’
He shook his head.
‘My fault, most like, mine and Geoff’s. Foundations never set right. Slabs we’d used on surface, paving slabs you know, always uneven, kiddies trippin’ over ’em, hurtin ’emselves. And then there was that performance with the drains. Went out there one morning afore work and the whole bloody lot was under half a foot of water. Not just water, neither.’
He paused to sup some tea.
‘Coal Board sent somebody round eventually. Sorted drains, at least. Took their time, mind.’
‘This was when?’
‘November, would have been. November of eighty-four. Not a time I’ll bloody forget, not ever.’
‘And after the drains had been fixed, it was you and Geoff set the place to rights?’
‘When we could. Still working, both of us, down the pit. No reason not. Been a ballot, we’d’ve been out, no two ways about that. But as it was . . . mortgage to pay, kiddies to clothe, Megan just with this bit of a job, mornings, pin money, nothin’ more.’
He looked across at Resnick, as if wanting confirmation he’d done the right thing.
‘At the end though, it was just Geoff more or less on his own. Plus whatever help he could get.’
‘You’d had enough by then or what?’
‘Away, weren’t we? That Christmas. Strike, it were getting Megan down, affecting her health. Her folks, they had a caravan, North Wales. We went there. Time we got back, around New Year, everything was shipshape out back. Bristol fashion. Geoff pleased as punch. Never have managed it all on his own, but, back then especially, no shortage of blokes grateful for a few days’ graft, cash in hand. Did a good job, mind. Never give us a bit of trouble, not till the day we left.’
‘And that was to come here?’
Peterson nodded. ‘Not a lot of choice in the end. Joined the UDM, didn’t I? Eighty-five. Oh, not just me, plenty of others. Union of Democratic Mineworkers. Thought to secure jobs, jobs for life. Load of bollocks that turned out to be. Government, Coal Board, used the UDM to screw the rest of the miners and then scre
wed us in turn.’ A wry smile crossed his face. ‘At least I got redundancy, more than most of those other poor bastards. Helped buy this.’
He glanced around. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever really got used to it, but staying where we were . . . long memories, some people. Resentments, buried deep. One minute folk’d be nodding at you in pub, asking after the missus, the kids, next they’re lobbing a brick through front window, painting Scab in foot-high letters on your door.’ He sighed. ‘None of that here. Kingdom of bloody Ikea. Nor much else, either. Not that I should be complaining. Give Megan a job, right off. Part-time, mind, but work all the same. Kids off our hands long since, it’s enough.’
He pushed back his chair. ‘Leaves me time to go fishing. Peel spuds.’
‘And Geoff?’
‘Buggered off, didn’t he? Canada.’
‘Bit more extreme than Giltbrook.’
‘That’s for certain. Kept in touch at first, you know, sent the odd postcard or two. Christmas card one time.’ He gave a shake of the head. ‘Must be getting on twenty years since I heard. Could be anywhere by now. Could be dead.’
‘And those cards . . .?’
‘Long gone. I wrote back just the once, I remember. Always meant to keep in touch, but you know how it is.’
‘A long time ago, I know, but you wouldn’t still have the address? Written down somewhere? An old address book?’
‘Unlikely. But if you think it’s important, I could look around. See what I can find.’
‘Thanks. I’d be obliged.’
‘I will do then.’
He walked Resnick to the door. ‘No disrespect, but you must be near retiring age yourself, I’d’ve thought. Runnin’ a pub somewhere, corner shop, that’s what they do, coppers, isn’t it, when they pack it in? Used to, any road.’
Resnick shook his hand. Turned the car around and headed back towards the motorway. No shortage of blokes grateful for a few days’ graft. What chance was there of finding out who had worked with Geoff Cartwright at the rear of 20 Church Street, all that time ago? Cartwright and whoever else had been giving him a hand. Laying paving stones: safe, neat, secure. Those days between Christmas and New Year, 1984. Nights when the site would, in all probability, have been left unguarded and open.