No Name Lane (Howard Linskey)

by Howard Linskey

  ‘Well I hope he doesn’t spend all night trying to get that posh bird into bed.’

  ‘She’s not the sort,’ said O’Brien.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Skelton.

  ‘I can tell,’ O’Brien replied, ‘intuition,’ and he tapped his finger against the side of his head.

  ‘Fiver says you’re wrong and he’s knobbing her by the end of the evening.’

  ‘You’re on,’ said O’Brien.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  ‘I’ve been meaning to apologise,’ Helen told Tom when they were seated at a quiet table in the bar.

  ‘What for?’ he asked.

  ‘I feel bad about that conversation we were having,’ and the look he gave her showed he had no clue what she was referring to. ‘You know, on people going missing,’ she reminded him, ‘and your mother.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I’m fine about it. It’s no big deal.’

  ‘What happened?’ she asked then immediately her tone changed. ‘No, it’s none of my business.’

  ‘I’m not defensive about it,’ he said calmly. ‘I think she probably had what is now known as postnatal depression but Nan just told me she couldn’t cope; with kids I mean and life in general to be honest. My dad was working and earning and not drinking much back then. She had a home and two kids. Everybody figured she should be grateful for that but she just kept breaking down in tears all the time. I don’t remember that much about it, or her. Then one day she dropped us with Nan and didn’t come to collect us. She just upped and left.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘My dad was an idiot basically and a sucker for lost causes. He married late, to a much younger woman. He was about thirty-five I think and she was twenty-three or something. It’s a sizeable gap now; it must have been like the Persian Gulf back then. Obviously I wasn’t around to see this but I heard what happened later. I sort of pieced it together from things he said, stuff my nan mentioned when she let her guard down or was feeling particularly bitter about my mother and things other folk said about her because they thought I was too young to understand.’

  ‘Always the journalist, piecing together the story?’ she noted.

  ‘No one had ever seen her before. He just brought her home one day, said he’d met her at a dance and announced they were engaged. God knows how long he’d known her but, judging by how things panned out, I’d say it wasn’t long.’

  ‘A whirlwind romance was not the done thing round here?’ she asked.

  ‘Nooo,’ he shook his head, ‘you had to step out together for ages, endure endless teas on Sunday afternoons with aunts, uncles and all the cousins who got to run the rule over you to see if you were the right sort. She just appeared from nowhere, like she’d fallen from the skies, my nan used to say.’

  ‘They didn’t take to her then.’

  ‘Maybe not but I reckon they’d have given her a chance.’ He took another sip of his beer. ‘She married my dad, got pregnant with my sister pretty much straight away and I arrived a couple of years later.’

  ‘They must have been happy to begin with.’

  He shrugged, ‘Dunno,’ and he said it like it was of no consequence.

  ‘Did she leave a note?’

  ‘Not really. She just wrote two words on a bit of paper and left it on the kitchen table for Dad to read.’

  ‘Two words?’

  ‘ “I’m sorry”.’

  ‘And you never saw her again?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Oh that’s terrible, how old were you when she left?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ and he was struck by the look of genuine distress on her face.

  ‘Hey, there’s no need to cry about it, woman, it was nearly twenty-five years ago,’ and she realised that the thought of the little boy he once was, being abandoned by his mother, had actually made her eyes water. She coughed and wiped them quickly.

  ‘You must have been devastated,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure I was very upset at the time but clearly I was better off without her.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, what kind of woman walks out on two kids aged six and four? The kind you don’t need around when you’re growing up, I’d say.’ Tom shrugged. ‘My sister and nan looked after me. My dad brought home the money. We did all right.’

  ‘She must have been beside herself to leave you like that. I bet she thought about you all the time after she left.’

  ‘How do you know what she was thinking?’ he snapped, ‘If she’d thought about us at any point she could have come back and seen us but she never bloody did.’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she said quickly, ‘I didn’t know her, I’m sorry,’ and she wanted to change the subject but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Helen left shortly afterwards and Tom drank his pint then trudged wearily across the village. He was in a sour mood; annoyed at Helen, annoyed at himself for being annoyed at Helen and all over a woman he could only dimly remember. He didn’t notice the car which sped past him as he walked.

  When he reached the top of the hill, he realised two men were standing by the side of the road. One of them was leaning against a black Ford Sierra, the other standing on the path, blocking his way. As he drew nearer he was able to make them out more clearly. The one on the path straightened when he spotted Tom. It was clear they had been waiting for him. Tom had seen these men before and they didn’t look happy.

  Skelton held up his warrant card.

  ‘Can I help you, officers?’

  ‘Get in,’ O’Brien told him, motioning towards the car that Skelton was leaning on.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Get in,’ echoed Skelton, ‘or we’ll make it formal.’

  ‘You’re going to arrest me?’ chided Tom, ‘for walking down the street?’

  O’Brien shrugged, ‘Drunk and disorderly,’

  ‘Get away. I’ve had three pints.’

  ‘Attempting to drive a motor vehicle while under the influence of alcohol,’ Skelton offered instead.

  ‘Can you see a car?’ Tom protested.

  ‘Or how about we just skip straight to “assaulting a police officer”? Would you prefer that?’ asked Skelton. ‘But mind you don’t bump your head while you’re climbing into the car.’

  ‘Jesus, are you two for real?’

  ‘Look, just get in and save us all a lot of bother, will you. We only want a word.’ Skelton was in a bad mood, made worse by the fiver he’d been forced to hand over when they’d witnessed Helen leave the pub on her own.

  ‘She looks pretty un-knobbed to me,’ O’Brien had told him with a grin, then he’d held out a hand for his money.

  Tom reluctantly walked towards the car and DC Skelton held open the rear passenger door. As Tom climbed in, he asked, ‘Where are we going?’

  The only answer he received was their presence as they joined him in the car. They didn’t begin their questions until they had left the village. Tom began to feel uneasy. There were no houses here, just farmer’s fields and he belatedly realised nobody had seen him climb into their car.

  ‘What’s this about?’ asked Tom, trying not to sound concerned but once again his question was met with silence. Skelton increased speed and the car shot down the B road then abruptly took a sharp left turn linking it to another side road. Why weren’t they using the main road that would bring them to the neighbouring town and police station? Instead, they were driving down a rural rat-run known only by the locals. The trees on the side of the road began to thicken and there were no lights overhead. The next time the car took a turning, the road became so small it didn’t even have cat’s eyes and there was only enough room for their car. Skelton was driving far too fast for oncoming traffic. Anything coming at them round the next bend would be forced off the road or it would hit them head on.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Shut up,’ O’Brien told him.

&n
bsp; There were more bends in the road until they finally reached a long open stretch of high ground with a flat section of land that was shielded by bushes. Skelton jerked the car to one side then slammed on the brakes. Tom was thrown sideways. He was about to protest when he realised that both police officers had turned and were now staring back at him from their front seats, looking as if they meant business, so he said nothing.

  ‘Five miles,’ said Skelton and though he was looking at Tom it seemed the comment was aimed at his detective sergeant.

  ‘That ought to be enough,’ confirmed O’Brien and Tom started to get a sick feeling in his stomach.

  ‘What’s this about?’ he asked again, then he glanced around him to confirm his suspicion that they were in a completely isolated spot. A pregnant moon shone down on them and there was a light from the window of a distant farmhouse but that was the only sign of life.

  ‘Your source,’ answered Skelton.

  Tom waited for further information and when none came he parroted back, ‘My source?’

  DS O’Brien nodded. ‘The one who told you about Professor Burstow.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That story didn’t come from the man at the Mirror. We spoke to him and he denied it. He was even a bit pissed off he hadn’t written it himself. We checked out the other journalists too. You are the only one who could have sold that story,’ O’Brien told him, ‘and the information must have come from a police officer.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ Tom tried to deflect them but he could see they weren’t buying an alternative theory.

  ‘Tell us who told you about the professor and you’ll stay in our good books,’ O’Brien told him.

  ‘Yeah, right, I can see I’m in your good books. That’s why you’ve driven me out into the middle of nowhere to scare me.’

  ‘Frightened, are you?’ asked Skelton. ‘We haven’t even started yet.’

  Tom could tell that whatever rule book these detectives had been issued with, it had long since been discarded in favour of a results-are-all-that-matters approach. Had they been watching too much TV or were there always a significant minority like them in any police force, who just assumed rules were for other people? Right now Tom didn’t care and he was certain of one thing. Whatever they did to him, he wasn’t going to give them Ian Bradshaw’s name.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked them defiantly, ‘beat me up? Plant some drugs on me? I’m not some striking miner or bolshie student with a placard. I’m a journalist working for the biggest newspaper in the country and I’ll plaster you all over the front pages.’

  ‘Hear that, Sarge?’ Skelton smiled, ‘I don’t know about you, but I am quaking.’

  ‘I told you we checked you out,’ DS O’Brien said. ‘You’re not the only one with contacts. We know you are a probationer with a contract that hasn’t got a prayer of being renewed. Is that why you sold your story to the Mirror? Don’t suppose your current employers would be too chuffed to hear that.’

  Tom’s heart sank. He had been hoping he was dealing with two thick detectives who liked to throw their weight around but he’d underestimated these two.

  ‘What story?’ answered Tom. ‘I sold nothing.’

  ‘Your name wasn’t on it but we know it was you,’ O’Brien told him. ‘The Mirror reporter up here is covering a court case. Every other journalist would want to give their own papers an exclusive. The only other possibility is that posh bird from the Messenger. She’s bright enough to tap up one of our lot and fit enough to get him to spill but I can’t see her risking her career this early and she hasn’t got the contacts.’

  ‘Which leaves you,’ added Skelton. ‘But you can’t just go round paying police officers to leak information. We are looking for a missing girl here and you are harming our investigation.’

  ‘I didn’t pay anyone but I bet you’ve both taken backhanders from journalists before. Revealing that the police are being helped by a forensic psychologist is not going to prevent you from finding Michelle Summers or her killer. You have been using the media since this case began. We are your best chance of finding that young lass alive and you know it.’

  ‘We’ve seen you drinking with Bradshaw,’ Skelton said. ‘You were with him tonight.’

  ‘He’s an old mate from school,’ said Tom, ‘and I barely exchanged three sentences with him tonight.’ He was telling a version of the truth because it was easier to stick to if they kept on interrogating him. ‘I don’t have a source in Durham Constabulary but if I did, I wouldn’t be naming him, particularly to bent coppers who threaten me.’

  Skelton’s face set into a snarl but O’Brien simply asked Tom, ‘Is that your final word?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said it with more conviction than he was feeling.

  ‘Get out of the car,’ O’Brien ordered and when Tom didn’t move, he repeated it slowly and more menacingly, ‘Get … out … of … the car!’

  Tom reluctantly complied. He opened the door and stepped out onto the grass verge by the side of the road, readying himself for the beating.

  The two detectives got out of the car as well. Skelton put a firm grip on Tom’s arm and pulled him out in front of it, leading him a few yards from the vehicle then spinning him round so he was facing the headlights, which had been set to full beam so that Tom was dazzled by them. Tom held a hand up to his eyes to block the light and Skelton retreated. Tom could just make out two shadowy figures either side of the car.

  ‘Last chance,’ DS O’Brien told him. ‘Name your source and we forget all about this. Nobody gets to know that you told us; Scout’s honour.’

  ‘It’s either that or you don’t come back at all,’ DC Skelton told him and there was something so chilling in those words that, for the first time, Tom started to feel that these two out-of-control police officers might actually be seriously thinking about killing him.

  ‘Fuck off,’ he managed weakly.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Skelton told him and there was a change in the light as Skelton moved away from the car. Tom was completely dazzled by the headlamps and he braced himself for the first blow. When that did not immediately happen, Tom blinked at the car. He could no longer see either man. A moment later, he heard a door slam and then another. He listened as the car’s engine started and got ready to run before they could mow him down then the headlights spun in an arc as the car reversed at speed. Tom watched dumbly as the car completed a perfect three-point-turn until it was facing back the way they had come. He watched in disbelief as the car abruptly drove away, leaving him standing there in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘You are kidding me,’ he said to himself and he finally realised the significance of Skelton’s comment. ‘Five miles,’ he repeated idiotically.

  Tom watched the rear lights of the car until it rounded a bend then disappeared. He waited to see if they were bluffing but soon realised they were not and he faced a very long walk back to Great Middleton.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Day Seven

  Tom stifled a yawn as Roddy scanned his notes for the relevant passage. Helen and Tom sat in silence, waiting for him. Helen felt sure Tom was avoiding her eye.

  True to his word, Roddy had been ringing round and asking questions. He’d called them both that morning and arranged for them to drop by but now seemed to be having trouble locating the information he’d promised.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said finally, tapping his notes with a Biro, ‘Jack Collier re-enlisted in his old outfit, the Durham Light Infantry, in 1937,’ Roddy told them, ‘they’ve a record of the date,’ and he looked at them both significantly, ‘about six months after Sean Donnellan disappeared.’ Then he corrected himself, ‘was killed I mean.’

  ‘Why would he re-enlist if his brother was back with Mary,’ asked Helen. ‘From what Sam said, Jack’s problems should have been solved?’

  ‘Guilty conscience,’ answered Tom, as if it was obvious, and his tone irked her.

  ‘Who knows,’ answered Roddy.
‘Jack was part of the British Expeditionary Force that fought a rearguard action in Dunkirk in 1940. More than three hundred thousand soldiers were rescued from that beach. Jack Collier wasn’t one of them.’

  ‘To think he survived all that combat in World War One and came home for twenty years only to be killed in another bloody war,’ observed Tom.

  ‘His luck finally ran out,’ agreed Roddy.

  ‘So he didn’t get away with it,’ he said pointedly to Helen.

  ‘And the younger brother; Stephen?’ Helen asked, ignoring Tom.

  ‘Dead too, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I was hoping there was someone left alive who might know the truth about all this apart from old Mary Collier,’ Tom said, ‘because we won’t get it from her.’

  ‘We might,’ protested Helen, ‘if we can show her we know more than she thinks,’ and she turned to Roddy. ‘What happened to Stephen Collier?’

  ‘Like Sam said, Stephen was institutionalised,’ and he let the tip of the Biro float above his words until he found the necessary passage. ‘In 1951 he was taken to Springton.’ He put down his pen and looked at Helen. ‘It wasn’t far from here. When Stephen was taken there it was officially known as the mental asylum. I’m ashamed to say that when I was a kid we called it the loony bin. By the time it closed, about ten years ago now, it was a psychiatric hospital.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Progress of sorts, I suppose.’

  ‘And Stephen died there?’ Helen asked.

  ‘I phoned someone who works at the council office in Durham where they keep all the old patient records,’ said Roddy, ‘nice lady, a bit of an amateur historian like myself, goes to the same meetings,’ Tom resisted the temptation to drum his fingers on the table in impatience. He always wanted to edit Roddy’s conversation to get him to come to the point. ‘She called me back later,’ continued Roddy, ‘and said that Stephen was there right up until the end.’