No Name Lane (Howard Linskey)

by Howard Linskey

  ‘That’s very impressive, Mr Donnellan,’ she told him.

  ‘Why thank you, miss,’ he smiled at her now, ‘but you have me at a disadvantage; you know my name but I haven’t learned yours.’

  ‘This is Mary,’ Betty answered for her.

  ‘Mary,’ and he fell silent as if trying her name on for size.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mary told him, ‘I’ll remind you of it next time we meet.’

  He laughed at her cheek and said, ‘I have a feeling I’ll not be forgetting you in a hurry.’ He seemed oblivious to Betty’s obvious disappointment, even though it was written all over her face. He was regarding Mary as if Betty was no longer there. She felt satisfied that she had read the man correctly. Whatever he had said earlier to Betty, when he stopped her in the village to ask for directions to the river bank, it had been enough to turn her head. Mr Donnellan however had forgotten her a moment later and was now turning his insincere Irish charm on Mary. Well, it wouldn’t have worked on her, even if she wasn’t already promised to another.

  ‘I understand you are here for the river,’ her tone was deliberately formal.

  ‘That’s correct. I have a contract to do some work for an Edward Cummings,’ he told her, ‘or rather, a commission from his publisher.’

  ‘You’re illustrating a book?’ Mary asked him.

  ‘Quite so,’ and there was something about the lyrical tone of his voice that even Mary was forced to admit was endearing. Betty was right about that. It was hard not to enjoy the way he had of making the commonest words sound poetic, ‘More Essays on Nature and Topography,’ he announced, ‘that’s the title of his book; more because there has been one previously and it sold enough for a second to be commissioned, which keeps me gainfully employed at least.’

  ‘It sounds lovely,’ said Mary without conviction.

  ‘Do you think? I’m not so sure. I’m not one for reading essays about anything. I like a good book as much as the next man but I’d want a story in there. Mr Cummings has a terrible dry way with words and there’s only so much a man can take in about rookeries, hedgerows and village characters. However his writing has enabled me to make an honest living, outdoors in the summer time, so who am I to complain? Your countryside is as close to the area described in Mr Cummings’ new book as can be. Apparently he walked here while he was writing it.’

  ‘People do,’ explained Mary, ‘they walk the river banks because Great Middleton was built on one of its widest parts. The water swells here and it floods from time to time, covering the fields during the wettest part of the year.’

  ‘Are you staying with us long?’ asked Betty and Sean Donnellan answered her without taking his eyes from Mary.

  ‘For a time; I’ve been asked to submit a fair few drawings for their consideration. They’ll choose the ones they want and discard the rest. Sure as hell, they’ll only pay for the ones that end up in the book.’

  They talked a while longer, while Sean Donnellan explained the iniquities of the publishing industry and the difficulties of earning a living as an illustrator, with work in short supply and demand so variable. Betty didn’t say much and Mary assumed she felt out of her depth.

  ‘I read a quote,’ Mary told him earnestly, ‘that an artist cannot be a true artist unless he is hungry, because nobody ever created anything truly worthwhile on a full stomach.’

  Sean Donnellan nodded. ‘I know who said that,’ he told her.

  ‘Who?’ asked Mary.

  ‘An idiot.’ Against her better instincts, Mary laughed. ‘It might be true that some artists need to be hungry in order to work, but not me. If I’m not fed I lose all powers of concentration, by which I mean that I’d stop drawing trees and start drawing sausages.’

  Despite herself, Mary found that she was warming to this trivial man, so she decided it must be time to leave and made excuses for both of them.

  ‘We didn’t have to go so soon,’ Betty told her.

  ‘If you feel kindly towards a man,’ Mary replied, ‘then it’s best to leave him before he’s heard everything you have to say or he’ll tire of you.’

  Betty thought for a moment. ‘You really think so?’

  ‘I know so.’

  ‘But you and Henry talk for hours,’ Betty reminded her, ‘on your walks.’

  ‘We are on a higher plane,’ and Mary immediately regretted sounding so haughty, ‘by which I mean, we have known each other for a long time and have reached a point of mutual love, respect and admiration.’

  Betty smiled at her then. ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘What is?’ asked Mary, irritated by her friend’s smirking.

  ‘By which I mean,’ Betty reminded her.

  ‘Mr Donnellan does not have sole rights to the English language,’ Mary scolded.

  ‘Doesn’t he have the most beautiful way with words though?’ Betty sighed, ‘and such a talent for drawing. I think he’ll be a great and famous artist one day. Isn’t he just amazing?’ and she hugged herself in excitement.

  ‘Oh come on, Betty. Mr Donnellan may have a certain roguish charm but he’s as common as rain.’

  ‘Well, I like him,’ snapped Betty, ‘and we don’t all have the chance to marry school teachers.’

  After that, they walked the rest of the way back along No Name Lane in silence.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  They listened to the local news as they drove back to Helen’s car but there was nothing new about Michelle Summers, so Tom turned off the radio.

  ‘She is definitely hiding something,’ he said at last, as he guided his car to the side of the road.

  ‘Betty might not be all there but she is more convincing than Mary Collier,’ agreed Helen.

  ‘Thanks for today. It was interesting.’

  ‘Couldn’t have done it without you,’ he told her, ‘literally. I wouldn’t have survived another visit to the Turner clan.

  ‘I want to find out more about this Sean Donnellan. We might need to put his name into play, get it out there. I’m going to have to move quickly on any information we uncover. I can’t just sit on something while I wait for the Messenger to catch up, no offence.’

  ‘I know,’ she admitted, ‘I realise you can’t wait a week so we can share an exclusive.’

  ‘So how do you want to play this?’

  ‘One day at a time,’ she offered. ‘You were right. We learned a lot today by working together, so I’ll keep going,’ then she added, ‘for now. Maybe something will land in my lap at the right time. It’s not ideal but I’m still learning.’

  ‘You learn fast,’ he told her. ‘I didn’t have a clue what I was doing in my first six months,’ and that admission, more than anything else she had learned that day, cheered Helen.

  ‘I am not gay,’

  ‘Okay,’

  ‘I’m not!’ declared Ian Bradshaw.

  ‘Fine,’ said the doctor, ‘though I never said you were.’

  ‘You did,’ insisted Bradshaw, ‘in so many words.’

  Doctor Mellor shook his head, ‘no.’

  ‘You inferred it.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Ian.’

  They’d only been in Doctor Mellor’s room for twenty minutes and already Bradshaw was sitting up in a state of agitation.

  ‘You asked me about my relationships with the opposite sex, you reminded me I hadn’t had one for a while, you hypothesised this might be because of my former police partner and the feelings I had towards him,’ he sent the doctor’s words tumbling back to him, ‘you implied I might be a homosexual man in denial.’

  The doctor regarded him for a moment, as if he was trying to decide whether this argument was worth continuing. ‘Then I apologise.’

  As he often did when he wanted to take some tension out of their sessions, the doctor went to the kettle and turned it on. ‘Since you were good enough to apologise to me,’ the doctor reminded Bradshaw of his earlier humiliating climb-down, forced upon him when his request to end his sessions with the docto
r had been turned down flat by his superiors, ‘for your outburst and premature departure from our last consultation, I would like to repay the compliment.’ He picked up a cup and added a tea bag but did not offer any to Bradshaw this time. ‘I’m sorry if my words were clumsy, Ian. I did not wish to imply you were a homosexual in denial,’ he fished the milk out of the little fridge in his office, ‘though I don’t think everyone would have reacted quite as violently as you did just then.’

  Bradshaw sighed. ‘Meaning I’m a homosexual?’

  ‘No,’ the doctor sounded exasperated now, ‘though perhaps you are a little prejudiced against them.’

  ‘Rubbish, I’m not prejudiced against anyone. I’ve got nothing against gay men, or lesbian women, come to that. I think you’ll find my generation is a lot more tolerant about that sort of thing than yours.’

  ‘That sort of thing?’

  ‘Gay sex,’ Bradshaw clarified. ‘I don’t give a toss what two consenting adults get up to in their own bedroom, I’m merely telling you I’m straight, that’s all. Christ, half of Durham Constabulary is homophobic. Pick on one of them for a change.’

  ‘I’m not picking on anyone, Ian. This is merely part of your therapy.’

  ‘My private life and personal relationships? Are they really that valid?’

  ‘All human relationships are important,’ countered the doctor. ‘The closer the relationship the more relevant it becomes and currently you do not have a close relationship with anybody.’ The doctor held up his hand in a placatory manner. ‘I am merely stating a fact. You have no one to share the burdens of this life with you. You face them alone. I’m not sure that’s entirely healthy.’

  ‘Look, I wasn’t in a very positive frame of mind when I broke up with Angela. I wasn’t good for her.’

  ‘That was shortly after the incident,’ the doctor reminded him, ‘and understandable. But since then?’

  ‘I just haven’t met anybody.’

  ‘No one?’

  ‘Nobody I really liked.’

  ‘Mmm, yes; well, I can’t help but feel there is a little more to it than that. Have you made any effort to meet anybody?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because …’ he began and realised he had not given the matter any thought himself. ‘… it’s not a great time … I’m busy, I’m always busy and …’

  ‘Too busy to go out for a drink with a lady friend? Surely there’s time enough for that. Even detectives have personal lives, Ian.’

  ‘I just …’ and he ran out of words.

  ‘I think it’s something deeper. I’m wondering if, since the accident, you have been deliberately shying away from female contact?’

  ‘Well I’ve been depressed, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, but maybe there is another reason?’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I think at this point it’s very important for you to be open and honest with yourself and with me. I think if we are to make progress here, if we want these sessions to work, we need to let the barriers come down and I would really like you to tell me the reason. Could you do that, do you think? Please.’

  Bradshaw took such a long time to answer he was expecting Mellor to lose his temper at any moment, but instead the doctor merely waited. He made his cup of tea, sat down and waited some more.

  In the end Bradshaw answered him without being fully conscious that he was doing so. ‘I don’t want any of that right now.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s not something I need.’

  ‘Need or …’

  ‘Want,’ Bradshaw said.

  ‘But why not, Ian? Please tell me. You know it will stay with us, inside this room. No one else will ever know.’

  ‘I don’t think I …’

  ‘Say it, Ian,’ urged the doctor, ‘say what’s on your mind.’

  ‘I don’t think I deserve it,’ and Bradshaw’s face creased slightly in apparent confusion, as if the words had been spoken by someone else, for this was not something he had been consciously aware of.

  The doctor nodded, ‘I thought so,’ he said, ‘you don’t think you deserve to be happy, do you, Ian.’

  ‘No,’ said Bradshaw and he was far more surprised than the doctor to finally discover the truth.

  His heart was racing and he was breathing hard. Was he having a heart attack? Was this what it felt like to die? No, he was just spooked. They’d been so close to catching him.

  The girl was standing outside the village hall, like a tethered goat, just waiting for him when he drove past her. Had she missed her bus or was the adult tasked with collecting her running late? Could he risk approaching her, to coax the girl into his car before anyone saw? Then he remembered Isaiah: The prey of the terrible shall be delivered for I will contend with him that contendeth with thee, and I will save thy children, and this spurred him into action.

  He pulled over by the side of the road and watched her in his passenger side mirror. She was the right age but it was still a risk. He looked about him and the streets were silent and empty. She was entirely alone, so he decided to chance it, his heart thumping as he made a U-turn and drove back towards her. She was shielded by stationary cars so he had to park a little way from her and risk getting out. The girl didn’t notice as he started to walk towards her. She didn’t even look up when he was a few yards away. He opened his mouth to speak to her.

  ‘Andrea!’ someone called then and the girl turned towards the voice, ‘what are you doing?’ asked a man who was approaching her from a path that ran down the side of the village hall, ‘I told you I’d pick you up at the back.’

  ‘Sorry, Dad.’

  ‘Come on, let’s get you home,’ her father said impatiently.

  Neither of them paid him any attention as he went by. He made a point of walking round the block so it looked like he was just out for a stroll but his heart was pounding. He made sure no one was watching when he returned to his car. He didn’t want anybody reporting a suspicious man or recording his licence plate.

  The girl would never know how close she’d come to being saved but he knew how close he’d been to being trapped. He’d almost given himself away and he vowed to be far more careful from now on. He wasn’t ready to be caught.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Tom went back to his room in the Greyhound and wrote up his story in longhand. He had to admit it didn’t amount to much but he was now convinced Sean Donnellan was the body-in-the-field. On re-reading it however, the piece lacked authority. So far all he had was the word of a half-batty old lady.

  This wasn’t good enough for The Paper, or anybody else. What if Tom was wrong and it wasn’t Sean after all? He’d look like a complete idiot. If he had still been at The Paper, he could have done some digging. Remaining members of the victim’s family could be traced to see if he really had disappeared back in 1936. There was no way Tom could manage to do that on his own though, with no contacts and a mobile phone that could barely manage a signal.

  Tom just couldn’t risk calling the story in as it was. It was too damn flimsy. For all he knew, Sean Donnellan could be sitting in a pub in Dublin right now, nursing a Guinness.

  Helen had a cover story but as they left the news room not one of her colleagues asked her why she stayed. She decided to wait half an hour in case a reporter or photographer returned late from a job.

  When the time had elapsed she stood up and tentatively approached the cabinets, which contained Malcolm’s famous cuttings’ files. Helen opened the drawer of the first cabinet and peered in. She then tackled the alphabetised filing system and withdrew the necessary documents one after another until she had a small stack of files, each one relating to a missing girl. She opened the first and began to read when she heard a sound from the reception area just beyond the newsroom’s double doors. Helen froze. She could dimly make out a muffled conversation. Someone was heading her way.

  She quickly pushed the heavy drawer closed a
nd ran back across the room, still clutching the files. She was halfway to her desk when the buzzer sounded to indicate that someone had swiped their pass across the electronic lock of the newsroom door. Helen threw herself into her seat, wedging the files between her knees and the underside of her desk so they could not be seen then sat straight in her chair just as the door opened.

  Malcolm was standing in the doorway and he did not look at all pleased to see Helen, nor was he alone.

  Ian Bradshaw bought a pint of bitter and walked to a quiet corner of the pub. He sat down heavily and pondered the fruitless day he’d just spent investigating an ancient murder nobody seemed to know anything about. His strange session with Doctor Mellor, which had actually forced him to think about his personal life for the first time in a long while, had been sandwiched between several hours of knocking on doors and getting exactly nowhere,

  Being a police officer, Bradshaw was used to hostility from sections of the general public and not just the criminal element. There were a fair number of folk who should have known better; including left-leaning students and even some of their tutors, who routinely labelled him and all of his colleagues as ‘fascists’, without ever stopping to contemplate what their world would actually be like if they were left unprotected by a police force. Bradshaw could live with that, but Great Middleton was an unusual place to make door-to-door enquiries. Nearly everyone seemed suspicious of him and his routine questions. Some refused to talk. Others didn’t even bother to hide their contempt. There were a few who were friendly enough, usually the younger ones with small children, but they were in a clear minority and, importantly, none of them had any information. Everyone, young and old alike, denied knowing anything about the identity of the body-in-the-field, much less the reason for its presence there.