No Name Lane (Howard Linskey)

by Howard Linskey

  Bradshaw certainly didn’t see himself as a hero just because he jumped into the river and got the girl out. What else could he have done? Watch her drown?

  ‘The DCI wants you to go in once you’re feeling well enough,’ she said.

  He was about to question her about Vincent and how everyone in CID was taking it but what she said next stopped him from thinking about anything else.

  ‘Oh and Alan Carter’s wife has been on the blower,’ the WPC told him. ‘He wants you to visit him.’

  ‘Thanks for popping round, mate.’

  ‘No problem, I came as soon as I could.’ Bradshaw wasn’t kidding about that. He’d come straight from the hospital.

  ‘No, I mean it,’ Carter assured him, ‘I appreciate it, I really do.’ And he smiled. ‘Were your ears burning this morning? I was on the news talking about you. They wanted to speak to one of your friends to find out what you were like but none of your serving colleagues were allowed to talk to journalists, for some reason.’ Bradshaw knew the reason. He’d heard news reports on his car radio and no one had yet admitted that Vincent Addison was the man in the car or that it was a police officer who was responsible for the girl being in the water in the first place. ‘Anyway, someone suggested me, so they wheeled me into the studio, quite literally,’ and he grinned at that. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything bad about you. Bloody well done as well.’ He regarded his former colleague carefully but Bradshaw didn’t know what to say, so instead Carter changed the subject. ‘I know why you stopped coming, by the way.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Carol told me. She told you it wasn’t doing me any good but she was wrong,’ he waved a hand dismissively, ‘I mean, it’s not her fault or anything but she was mistaken. Your visits were a good thing, I looked forward to them,’ and he smiled again. It was only a half-smile but Bradshaw had not seen smiles on Carter’s lips since he had fallen twenty-five feet through the plate-glass skylight of that factory and landed on a hard wooden work bench. ‘I know it didn’t look like it and I’m sorry for being such a grumpy bastard but,’ and he half-smiled again, ‘in my defence, I have had a bit on my plate,’ and he tapped the side of his wheelchair.

  Bradshaw didn’t know what to say.

  Carter interjected for him, ‘This is the bit when you’re supposed to say, “No problem mate, I fully understand.” ’

  ‘Oh, God, yeah, I was thinking it, I just didn’t say it out loud, sorry, mate.’

  ‘I’m taking the piss out of you, man. We used to do that quite a lot as I recall. Have you forgotten?’

  And Carter was right, they did; spending all those hours driving round together, ripping it out of each other, but it seemed a very long time ago somehow. ‘Yeah,’ he said. The lack of banter from his fellow officers was one of the things Bradshaw missed most about being persona non grata these days. Back in the day, there had been a lot of near-the-knuckle humour to get them through the stressful days and many of those had ended with long sessions down the pub. Carter was particularly keen on those booze-ups and more than once Bradshaw had to ensure he got a cab home to Carol before his legs gave way or he fell asleep in a corner of the pub.

  ‘Well, I don’t blame you. I haven’t been a barrel of laughs to be around these past months. I admit that. I’ve been an awful dad, a shit husband and a crap mate, no, Ian, I have, hear me out. I just wanted to say thanks for all the times you came. None of those other twats from the station bothered to come a second time. I haven’t seen any of them in a year. You’re the only one.’

  ‘Well, I felt …’

  ‘Obliged?’

  ‘No,’ and Carter raised his eyebrows in a questioning gesture, ‘well maybe a little, no that’s not it, not obliged, no, more …’

  ‘Responsible?’

  ‘Yes,’ and a funny thing happened to Ian Bradshaw then. He started to feel tears in his eyes and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop them, so he didn’t try.

  Carter carried on talking, as if the sight of a grown man crying in front of him was entirely normal. ‘I’ve been thinking about that too. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I’ve wanted to blame everybody for what’s happened to me: the little cunt who broke into that factory and went through the skylight with me but walked away with a few broken bones. I’ve blamed the force for putting me in that position. I tried to blame God but I don’t think he was listening and then there was you. There, I’ll admit it. I’ve even tried to blame you.’

  ‘I know,’ Bradshaw was crying openly now, weeping like he hadn’t done since he was a small child, ‘it was my fault. You told me we shouldn’t go up on the roof, you said it wasn’t worth the bother, we were right near the end of the shift, you said to just leave the call for someone else, the uniforms, but I wouldn’t listen. If I’d listened to you … if we’d done what you said …’

  ‘I never would have gone through that bloody skylight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Carter admitted, ‘and that’s why I blamed you at first, along with that robbing little bastard whose fall I cushioned, but you didn’t push me through that skylight, Ian, and I didn’t have to try and grab him when he made a break for it. I did it without thinking, it was instinct and if I could go back in time and replay it I would have let him dash past me and get away,’ he said, ‘or maybe I’d just trip the little idiot up and he’d go through the skylight on his own this time.’ He smiled again. ‘Yeah, that’s what I’d do.’

  Bradshaw didn’t know how to respond so Carter continued.

  ‘I want to tell you something, Ian, and I want to do it now because I think you need to hear it from me, then I don’t ever want to talk about it again, you hear?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Bradshaw was bracing himself.

  ‘You’re not to blame for what happened to me. You were there with me when things went pear-shaped and I am fucked for life as a result of it. You could have done things differently but then so could I. I hate myself for trying to tackle that bloke on the roof. If you think I have blamed you for being paralysed then you have no idea how many times I’ve blamed myself. But, when it comes down to it, it was an accident. I fell. End of story. What I am trying to say, Ian, is it wasn’t your fault. The fact that I am in this chair is not your fault.’

  Ian Bradshaw let the words wash over him before taking a number of deep breaths. Only then could he summon the strength to say ‘Thank you,’ before he broke down and cried like a baby right there in the room.

  At that exact moment, Carol walked in with a tray of hot drinks. She stopped suddenly, took in the sight of their good friend Ian Bradshaw weeping uncontrollably in front of her husband, who perversely looked more calm and serene than he had done for months, and she froze. Bradshaw hadn’t heard her, his back was still to her and his head was down, face in his hands, a wretched, pent-up, strangled, sobbing sound coming from his mouth. She looked to her husband for guidance and he quickly shook his head. Carol silently retreated from the room.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Day Fourteen

  ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ demanded Helen. She’d been walking past the Greyhound and glanced through the window. She was stunned to see Tom sitting there.

  ‘You sound like my Nan,’ he made a point of looking at his watch, ‘is it past my bedtime or something?’

  One or two heads turned at the bar, regulars who were amused to see Tom finally getting it in the neck from this fiery young woman who’d been looking for him for days.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘I had to send the mobile back,’ he said, as if there weren’t any other phones in the world that he could have used.

  ‘You’ve been gone for days.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he admitted, ‘and it looks like I missed all the fun.’ And when she stared blankly back at him he explained, ‘They caught him; the Kiddy-Catcher.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, calmer now, ‘they did.’

  She joined him at the table and her voice was lo
wer now, causing the boys at the bar to lose interest in them. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘London,’ he explained, ‘sniffing out a couple of jobs.’

  ‘Anything good?’

  ‘Maybe; the Mirror like me but I’m not sure if I want to be tied to a tabloid contract again.’ And he told her about his phone conversation with the Doc.

  ‘Blimey, I saw your name on the Mirror’s front page,’ she said. ‘At least they ran something on Michelle Summers and the school teacher.’

  ‘Did Malcolm spike your story?’

  ‘No but he edited it … with a chainsaw,’ she admitted, ‘we were left with Missing Girl Found Safe in Village but precious little else.’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, ‘something … anything … more than that. You were right about him and the Messenger. As soon as I can I’m going to leave and work for a proper newspaper.’

  ‘Good for you,’ he said.

  ‘You said there were a couple of jobs?’

  ‘There’s another one working for a new magazine. It’s a completely new concept. They’re calling it a lads’ mag and aiming it at young males; lots of photographs of girls in bikinis and interviews with minor celebrities. I’ll be doing the interviewing, not the photographing of girls in bikinis.’

  ‘Are you going to take it?’

  ‘I think so. The money’s pretty good, so why not?’

  ‘But I thought you were a proper journalist,’ she said.

  ‘I am,’ he protested, ‘I was … it’s just too bloody hard sometimes. The last few weeks have worn me out. This would be easy money and my articles won’t get spiked or changed beyond recognition.’

  ‘Good luck with it then,’ she said, ‘no, I mean it,’ before adding sullenly, ‘I thought you’d gone already.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have preferred that?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  He watched her for a moment. She seemed unhappy and on edge. Like him, Helen had been scarred by their recent experiences. Without giving it any thought he suddenly blurted, ‘You could come with me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come to London,’ he urged her, ‘you’d get something down there easily.’

  ‘I can’t just drop everything, leave everyone and come to London with you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I have a life. I have a job and a family and …’

  ‘A boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes, a boyfriend.’

  ‘And you love him?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘I think it is my business, under the circumstances.’

  ‘You can think what you like.’

  ‘And you can do what you like. It’s allowed. People go off and do things they want to do. They don’t have to stay where they are if they are unhappy.’

  ‘People don’t just abandon other people like that.’

  ‘Yeah they do,’ he said drily, ‘believe me.’

  ‘And I can’t believe you are seriously suggesting it, after what you went through,’

  ‘I was four, he’s twenty-four. He’ll get over it!’

  ‘Do you realise how cold you sound when you talk like that?’

  ‘And do you realise how wrong it is to stay with someone if you are not happy with him? It’s unfair on him and it’s not fair on you.’

  ‘Who says I’m not happy with him?’ Tom let out a snort of derision and she rounded on him then, ‘You don’t know everything about me!’ Helen stormed out of the Greyhound, causing every head at the bar to turn in her direction.

  When he left Alan Carter’s home, Ian Bradshaw felt completely drained. All he really wanted to do was go home. Reluctantly he drove to the cop shop and went straight to Kane’s office.

  ‘We could do with a bit of good news at the moment,’ the DCI told him, once he had established that Bradshaw was basically okay, ‘what with Vincent Addison about to give every police officer in the country a bad name, so you’re going to be made a DS,’ Kane told him, ‘acting, to start with, obviously.’

  Bradshaw wasn’t expecting that. He had half-expected a telling off when Kane called him in, for breaking some ill-defined, unwritten police rule about health and safety when he took off after Vincent then dived into that river.

  ‘The chief constable wants his picture in the paper with you,’ Kane added wryly, ‘so you are going to get a commendation too. He reckons we could use a few heroes right now and I can’t argue with that.’

  Bradshaw said nothing. It felt as if Kane was discussing somebody else, not him.

  ‘Anyway, you did well out there,’ and when Bradshaw still did not respond, he added, ‘well done.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ he managed.

  ‘I’d say this is your chance, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘To put things behind you and turn your career around,’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘So don’t fuck it up,’ Kane told him, ‘there’s a good lad.’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Anyway,’ and he regarded Bradshaw thoughtfully, as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was indeed the officer about to be honoured and promoted, ‘that’ll be all for now.’

  This time Tom had to run to catch up with her and their argument continued all the way down the hill, until they reached Roddy Moncur’s house. It was just beginning to get particularly heated when Roddy, showing a level of poor timing and insensitivity that even Tom would not have given him credit for, opened his kitchen window and leaned out to call to them.

  ‘Oi!’ he shouted, ‘I’ve been looking for you two! Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Don’t you bloody start!’ Tom shouted back at him and Roddy belatedly realised that he and Helen were both red-faced and looked furious with one another.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘well, maybe this won’t interest you then but I thought it was important.’

  ‘What is?’ demanded Helen, ‘for God’s sake can’t you just explain yourself for once, man!’

  Roddy seemed taken aback at being shouted at by Helen, but he recovered sufficiently to say, ‘I dropped a bit of a bollock.’

  Roddy looked agitated when he opened his front door to them.

  ‘I saw her, you see,’ he began to explain, ‘at a meeting,’ and they followed him into his kitchen.

  ‘Who?’ asked Helen, not bothering to hide her exasperation.

  ‘Wendy, my contact who works at the council records office, the one who told me all about Stephen Collier.’

  ‘Right,’ she said.

  Roddy hesitated before continuing. ‘And it turns out I made a mistake. A pretty big one, actually.’

  ‘Go on,’ Tom urged.

  ‘I asked her if there was anybody still alive who might remember Stephen, someone who might be willing to talk to you, so you could learn a little more about him and what happened.’ Roddy seemed embarrassed at the recollection.

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She said, “Why don’t you just speak to Stephen?” ’

  It took a moment for Tom to take this in. ‘Talk to Stephen? You mean he’s alive?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘But you said he was dead.’

  ‘That was the mistake,’ he admitted, ‘when I spoke to her on the phone, I thought that’s what she was telling me. She said “Stephen was housed at Springton right up until the very end,” so I took that to mean he was there until he died.’

  ‘Right,’ Tom was trying to keep the excitement from his voice.

  ‘But she meant the end of Springton, when it was closed in 1980. When Springton was shut down, Stephen was transferred.’

  ‘Transferred?’ said Tom, ‘Transferred where?’

  ‘Milton Mews.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Newcastle. It’s a residential care home for the elderly, which houses low-risk mental patients.’

  Tom blinked at Roddy, ‘So you’
re telling me the one person left alive who might be able to fill in the gaps of the Sean Donnellan murder is living in a care home a few miles from here?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Roddy, ‘that’s exactly what I’m saying.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Tom was striding towards the car, Helen struggling to keep up with him.

  ‘Do we even know if he’s compos mentis?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ He was almost at the car. Helen had never seen him move with such purpose.

  ‘He could be completely senile,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Or just not all there to begin with,’ she said, breathlessly.

  ‘True.’

  ‘He might not know anything about what happened that night,’ she concluded.

  Tom climbed into his car and started the engine, just as the passenger door opened and Helen climbed inside. Tom turned to look at her. ‘You’re coming then?’

  ‘Too bloody right I’m coming.’

  They thought they would need a cover story so they worked one out on the way there: they were cousins from a branch of Stephen’s family and had only just discovered they had a relative in the care home. Luckily they were met a by a young, trusting employee who let them into Milton Mews as soon as they announced they were there to see Stephen Collier.

  ‘He’s in the lounge,’ the young girl told them as she led the way along a corridor carpeted in threadbare Axminster. ‘I’ve never known him have a visitor before. I didn’t know he had any family left,’ she told them and Helen just smiled back at her disarmingly but made no comment. They walked silently along three narrow corridors until the girl said, ‘Here he is.’

  They entered the room and Tom silently prayed they would find somebody capable of engaging with them. Half a dozen old ladies were seated here, dozing or reading newspapers half-heartedly. They followed the girl up to an old man who was sitting on his own. He was staring through a large window that overlooked rose bushes and a freshly mown lawn, ‘Stephen, you’ve got visitors,’ she said to him, but he didn’t react.

  Stephen Collier was a small man dressed in ancient carpet slippers, baggy grey trousers and a cardigan that must have been hurriedly done up by a carer that morning because the buttons were askew. His skin was grey from years without enough sunlight and he had liver spots on a face that was lined but bony, giving Helen the impression that he did not eat enough. The young girl persisted. ‘There’s someone here,’ she told him, ‘family to see you!’ she called as if he was deaf. She placed her hand gently onto Stephen’s arm to gain his full attention, ‘That’s nice isn’t it?’