by Harvey, John
‘And your books,’ McBride said, ‘went flying up the bloody charts.’
‘Not of my doing. Out of my hands.’
‘That’s why you’ve been all over the Web this last twenty-four hours – Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter and the rest – lordin’ yourself to the fuckin’ nines.’
‘It’s called earning a living.’
‘It’s called takin’ the fuckin’ piss.’
‘Why don’t we,’ Resnick suggested, giving McBride a warning look, ‘all take a breath, sit down and talk?’
‘Aye,’ grumbled McBride, ‘if we can find somewhere to fuckin’ sit.’
‘First things first,’ Resnick said, once they were all three settled. ‘All that stuff you were feeding me, the photograph of Donna and so on, was that all just bait to get us interested or what?’
‘No. Not at all. Anything I told you, I told you in good faith.’
McBride made a sound of deep disbelief.
‘It’s still all conjecture, though, isn’t it?’ Resnick said. ‘For all your efforts, you’ve not come up with one piece of solid evidence that ties Swann in to either crime.’
‘Not surprising, surely. There’s a limit to what I can do on my own. You’re the ones with the resources, after all.’
‘Meantime,’ McBride said, ‘this side of libel, you can say the first thing that comes into your head.’
Fleetwood allowed himself the beginnings of a smile.
Resnick let the silence hold a moment longer. ‘Just how long was it after we left,’ he said, ‘that Swann made the call?’
‘What call?’
Resnick glanced towards the phone in the bay. ‘You needed his confirmation we were there. Some idea of what we’d asked, what had been said. Without that, whatever story you were spinning to the press, it was never going to fly.’
Fleetwood looked a little less than comfortable; looked away.
‘You want me to check with the prison?’ Resnick offered. ‘There’ll be a record of outgoing calls.’
Fleetwood was already shaking his head. ‘No, no need.’
‘What I can’t help wondering, why he’d be so keen to do that, when you’re busy setting him up for two more murders?’
‘He doesn’t know.’
‘What d’you mean,’ McBride exclaimed, ‘he doesna know?’
‘As far as he’s concerned, any interest the police have got in linking him to further crimes, that’s come from them, not me. If I’m asking him questions, he thinks it’s to refute whatever the police might be claiming, not the other way about.’
‘Leaving you cleaner than a pig shitting in church.’
‘He thinks I’ll help him towards his appeal for parole.’
‘At the same time as putting him in the frame,’ McBride said with a grudging hint of admiration. ‘You’re a tricky wee bastard, right enough. But once he clocks all this ballyhoo about how you’re going to write a book accusing him of two more murders, how’re you fixin’ to wriggle out of that?’
‘I’ll find a way.’
‘I bet you will.’
‘But unless,’ Resnick said, ‘we come up with something tangible linking Swann to those crimes, that book’s not going to get written.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Fleetwood said with a smile. ‘I just write a different book. About a killer and sex offender who paid his debts to society, served his time and got paroled back into the world, despite police attempts to link him to further crimes.’
‘You think you’ve got your bread buttered both sides, don’t you?’ McBride sneered.
‘Using my wits,’ Fleetwood said. ‘Manoeuvring things to my best advantage, no law against that.’
‘No?’ Anger flashed in McBride’s eyes. ‘How about wasting police time, under section five, sub-section two of the Criminal Law Act? You want to suck on that for starters?’
‘You think? The CPS won’t give it the time of day and you know it.’
‘Right,’ Resnick said, rising. ‘That’s us done. Come on, John, I think we’ve said what we had to say.’
As Fleetwood got to his feet, Resnick took a pace towards him, pointed a finger.
‘Word of advice – tread carefully. Any further communication between yourself and Michael Swann, anything germane to any ongoing investigation, come straight to us with it. Otherwise you could see yourself looking at a charge of perverting the course of justice.’
‘It’s always been my policy,’ Fleetwood said, po-faced, ‘to liaise closely with the police wherever possible. And whatever the circumstances.’
‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ McBride said dismissively. ‘No call to get off your fuckin’ high horse to open the door. Besides, I’d not like to see you slip down all them stairs.’
McBride lit up the moment they were on the pavement. ‘What’d you reckon to that?’
‘I can see why they keep you chained to the desk most of the time. Letting a Rottweiler out without its muzzle.’
‘That was nothing. You should see me when I’ve a drink or two inside me.’
Resnick laughed.
‘What?’
‘Just amusing, seeing you steering so close to the stereotype.’
‘Wait till tomorrow, I’ll come in wearing ma kilt an’ a fuckin’ sporran.’ He winked. ‘That’ll give yon Kenyan lassie something to think on.’
Resnick walked around the car. ‘The Kenyan lassie, John, as you call her. Cut her some slack, okay? The job’s difficult enough without you making it more so.’
39
AFTER YET ANOTHER session in the DCI’s office at Central Station, Catherine doing whatever she could to deflect blame for the recent flare-up of publicity on to Fleetwood’s devious machinations and away from Resnick and herself, there was agreement on the way forward. The information, such as it was, linking Swann with the Sheffield area would be handed over to the South Yorkshire Force, where a cold case team was preparing to review the investigation into Donna Crowder’s murder. They would take evidence, Catherine assumed, from Trevor Fleetwood and interview Swann under caution. Anything with possible implications for their own investigation, they would continue to pursue.
She had spoken to Barry Hardwick, taking care to stress that reports in the media of a link between his wife’s death and a convicted serial killer were little more than media rumour and conjecture. They would, as a matter of course, take the possibility of any link seriously, but, as things stood, there was little if any evidence to suggest that Michael Swann was involved in any way in Jenny’s murder.
Bledwell Vale, the Christmas of 1984.
So long ago.
Now Catherine was having tea with the woman who had been Jenny’s daughter’s best friend, only too happy to be sitting there in the relative quiet of a suburban garden.
In a good light, Nicky Parker could pass for a lot less than her actual age, which had to be thirty-seven, thirty-eight, within touching distance of forty. This was a good light. Clear air. The afternoon sun carrying a little warmth for a change and the temperature higher than it had been for days. Weeks, it seemed. The two of them sitting in deckchairs in Nicky’s garden, only the second or third time they would have tried that this year. Nicky wearing a striped Breton top and nicely fitting blue jeans, her hair cut in a neat bob, not a hint of grey, and, unlike her friend Mary, for whom age had done no real favours, looking all of late twenties, not a scrap older.
The house was in an area of West Bridgford called Lady Bay; midway along a street of houses which looked out over the meadows leading down towards the Trent.
Nicky had met her at the door and ushered her through a small, tiled hall – wellington boots, buggies, waterproofs, a scattering of toys – and on through the kitchen into a neat but busy garden: flower beds, shrubs, herbs growing in an old decommissioned sink. A wooden table and chairs.
‘It’s lovely,’ Catherine said.
‘It’s affordable,’ Nicky replied with a quick smile. ‘Just about. And since they built a defence
wall along the Trent a few years back, there’s no call to pump out the cellar every time there’s a flood warning. So, yes, you’re right, it’s lovely. A day like this especially.’ The smile broadened. ‘If you’re foolish enough to buy somewhere sitting on a flood plain, you get what you deserve.’
She left Catherine to her own devices and re-emerged a short time later with a fully laden tray.
‘I’ve brought an extra cup for Richard, in case he gets back from the university and wants to join us. I hope that would be all right? He said something about finishing early.’
‘That’s where he works, the university?
Nicky nodded.
‘Nottingham Trent or the other?’
‘The other. Carved out of Portland stone. Some of it, anyway. Associate professor of culture, film and media.’ She smiled. ‘Sounds grander than it is.’
‘And you?’
‘I work at a local nursery in the mornings. With the really little ones. Our Lottie goes there, which makes everything a lot easier. William’s at primary.’
‘Following in your mother’s footsteps, then?’
‘In a way. Though with me it’s more changing nappies, reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? until I can recite it in my sleep. And do.’
She poured the tea, held out a plate of scones.
‘Yours?’ Catherine said, slipping one on to her plate.
‘I wish. Birds Confectioners, on the Avenue.’ She smiled. ‘More of a proper West Bridgford mum, I’d have baked them myself.’
‘Your mum, is she still teaching?’
‘Joyfully retired.’ Nicky glanced at her watch. ‘Just settling down to a hand of bridge round about now.’
‘It was through her you met Mary, I suppose? If she hadn’t been teaching there, in the Vale, you wouldn’t have gone to the same school at all.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And, from what Mary said, you used to spend a lot of time there, at the house?’
‘Almost every day.’
‘So you must have seen quite a bit of her parents, too?’
‘Her mother, yes. Jenny. I was really upset when I heard what had happened. It was horrible.’ She took the butter knife, split a scone. ‘I didn’t see nearly as much of her father. Most of the time he was off at work – at least, I imagine that’s where he was – and when he wasn’t, well, I think he kept well out of our way. Two giggly girls, who can blame him?’
‘You were a handful, then?’
Nicky smiled. ‘I’m sure we were. Racing around, shrieking. Singing. What was that song? “Girls Just Wanna . . .”’
‘“Just Wanna Have Fun.”’
‘That’s right. Singing it at the tops of our voices, bouncing up and down on the settee. Sooner or later, Jenny would come in and ask us to calm down. Mary’s dad’s sleeping, that’s what she’d usually say. And then we’d tiptoe round, hush, hush, hush, you know, all exaggerated, creeping past the bedroom. Pretending there was some kind of monster the other side of the door.’
Nicky’s eyes were bright, remembering.
‘He came out once, suddenly. Out of the bedroom. Just, you know, in his pyjamas. Pyjama trousers. Almost fell over us. We’d been crawling along the floor, right outside the door. He picked Mary up – she was the nearest – grabbed her, really. Lifted her off the floor as if she weighed nothing, as if she were a doll or something. Really angry. Shouting and swearing. I’d never seen anyone so angry.’
Her expression had changed. The brightness disappeared; replaced, Catherine thought, by something akin to fear. Real remembered fear.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. I thought – at the time I thought, I don’t know, that he was going to swing her round, round his head, throw her against the wall. The way he was holding her. I really did. But he didn’t. Didn’t do anything of the sort. After a few moments, he put her down. Just, you know, gently. Went wherever he was going without saying a word. Off to the bathroom, I suppose.’
Catherine waited, drank some tea, giving Nicky time to recover.
‘Did you talk about it afterwards?’ she asked then. ‘You and Mary?’
‘No. Never. Stopped playing monsters, that was all.’
‘And that was the only time you saw him lose his temper?’
Nicky nodded emphatically.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Never with Jenny, Mary’s mum?’
‘No.’
Catherine leaned away. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘All those leading questions. As if I’m giving you the third degree.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Back to interviewing class for me.’
‘Are there such things?’
‘More or less.’
‘Passed yours with flying colours?’
‘Scraped a C.’ Catherine laughed, took a bite out of her scone. ‘It’s just, Mary and her brothers aside, you’re the only person we’ve found who was in that house over an extended period – one of the few people who can give us a sense of what it was like.’
‘Apart from Linda.’
‘Linda?’
‘Yes. She lived opposite.’
‘And she and Jenny, they were what, friends?’
‘I suppose so. I mean, I don’t really know. But she was in and out of the house a lot, I know that. Her little boy – I should be able to remember his name – David? He must have been the same age as Brian, Mary’s younger brother. They went to nursery together.’ She pushed a hand up through her hair. ‘They could’ve taken it in turns, I suppose, her and Jenny, you know, collecting the little ones, taking them in. It happens all the time.’ She smiled. ‘What mums do.’
‘And this Linda, you can’t remember her other name? Surname?’
‘No, I’m sorry. But then I probably never knew it in the first place. Just Linda.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Catherine said, ‘someone will know.’
‘You’ll talk to her?’
‘If we can.’
Nicky added jam to half a scone. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘That bump, there on your forehead . . .’
Catherine’s hand started to move towards it instinctively. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. I slipped, that’s all.’
‘What? On the pavement? They’re treacherous, sometimes.’
‘No, indoors. My own kitchen.’
‘Too much wine?’
‘I wish.’ She dipped her head. ‘Olive oil. On the floor.’
The rear door opened and a tall man in tweed jacket and jeans stepped out and raised a hand in greeting. Older than Nicky, Catherine guessed, by a good few years.
‘You want some tea, Richard? There’s some in the pot.’
‘No, thanks. You carry on. I thought I’d go and collect Lottie.’
‘Okay.’
‘William comes home on his own,’ Nicky said, somehow feeling the need to explain. ‘It’s not far. Just the one big road to cross. But you have to let them, don’t you? At least that’s what I think. Be independent. How else are they going to learn? Mums driving round in great four-by-fours, picking their kids up at the school gate, shepherding them everywhere. Frightened to let them out of their sight, almost. As if there’s some bogeyman out there.’
Looking at Catherine, she slowly shook her head.
‘But that’s not where it happens, is it? You must know that better than anyone. Children, anything bad that happens – abuse, whatever – most times it happens in the home.’
40
EVER SINCE IT happened she’s tried to wipe it from her mind. Scrub it clean away, just as she washed every trace of him from her body, hot water, washcloth and sponge. But still she feels his hand on her shoulder when she turns; in bed, when she edges away from Barry, it is his – Danny’s – mouth on her breast, so real, this, that it aches, the nipple erect.
Sometimes, when she goes into the kitchen, gone
to get more squash for the children, or to check if the potatoes are boiling, she sees the pair of them, Danny and herself, wrapped around each other on the kitchen floor.
No one to talk to about it, it’s driving her crazy.
She’s thought about telling Edna, but fears her disapproval. Hears Edna telling her to get a grip, cast it out of her mind and think about the real issues instead. Time enough for slippin’ around when this lot’s over. Not that I’m sayin’ you should.
She thinks about telling Linda, but that’s a non-starter. Nice enough, but a bit strait-laced where some things are concerned; too embarrassed, almost, to knock and ask if she had any spare tampons when she’d run out herself and the shop was closed. Talk for England, could Linda, as long as it didn’t mean talking about her bits.
She thinks about asking Jill . . . and realises she hasn’t the least idea how her sister would react.
Close when they were little, aside from the usual covetous spat over this or that comic or doll, after going up to the big school they had drifted apart.
Chalk and cheese, their mother had said.
Jill the more studious, the one who’d invariably be found stuck in the corner with a book, while Jenny was outside playing hopscotch, taking turns with one end of the washing line she and the other girls used as a giant skipping rope; Jenny teasing the boys.
Yet it was Jill who had a boyfriend first: a quiet lad with National Health spectacles who trailed Jill everywhere, waited for her after school and then walked home five paces behind. One Sunday evening, she had shocked them all by asking if Gordon – Gordon, that was his name – could come to tea the next weekend.
Their mum had got out the best tablecloth, best chinaware, bought a nice piece of boiling bacon from the butcher, made a trifle. Poor Gordon had scarcely eaten a thing, hardly said a word.
‘Well,’ their dad had said when it was over, ‘he’s a poor thing and no mistake.’
Jill had fled the room in tears.
Gordon never came to tea again and when Jenny asked, somewhat maliciously, it’s true, if they were still going out together, Jill had told her not to be so stupid, she had more important things to do, like passing her O levels. Unlike you.