The Heights

by Juliet Bell

  ‘I’m so glad you came.’

  ‘I didn’t come for her,’ Isabelle said. ‘Or for you. I came because I need money to get away. I’m not spending another night in that house.’

  ‘Isabelle, this isn’t the right time…’

  ‘This is the only time.’

  Isabelle’s voice slowly fought its way through the fog that had encompassed Edward since that terrible night. She sounded more resolute than he’d ever heard her.

  ‘He’s gone mad. Ever since Cathy died, Heathcliff just sits in her room. He calls to her. Then he goes running out of the door and up onto the hills.’

  Edward struggled to think clearly. With Cathy gone, Heathcliff had no reason to disturb their lives any more. He’d turned Isabelle away before to protect Cathy, and look what good that had done him. ‘You want to come back home?’

  ‘No,’ Isabelle replied. ‘I need to get away from here. Edward – I’m pregnant.’

  Another baby. Edward shook his head. ‘You need support then. Come home. I’ll take care of you both.’

  His sister laughed a cold, humourless laugh. ‘Like you looked after me when I asked before.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You sent me back to him.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘I’ll be fine on my own. Anyway, he’d find us at the Grange, wouldn’t he? I won’t risk that.’ Her expression softened as she looked at the baby in Edward’s arms. ‘I can’t let him near my baby. I won’t let him ruin another life. A baby’s a chance to make something good out of all of this.’

  The child in Edward’s arms wriggled.

  Isabelle continued. ‘If I’m going to have that chance I have to get away.’

  That was the one thing Edward could easily understand. ‘All right.’

  He gave Isabelle the cash in his wallet, and his debit card. ‘How are you going to get away?’ he asked. ‘I’d drive you but…’

  ‘It’s all right. There’s a coach that goes to Manchester.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Isabelle kissed him quickly on the cheek. ‘Goodbye, Edward. I’ll let you know where I am. Good luck, and you, too, little one.’

  Isabelle touched the baby’s cheek quickly and them turned and walked away. She picked up a bag lying near the churchyard gate and vanished.

  Edward watched her go, then turned once more to Cathy’s grave. ‘I’ll look after our daughter, Cathy,’ he said. ‘I’m going to call her Kate.’

  He carefully placed Kate in her car seat and drove home with equal care. When he arrived at the Grange, the front door was standing open. He frowned. Had Isabelle done that? He carried Kate inside, carefully locking the door behind him. Once the baby was settled in her nursery, he walked into the room he had once shared with Cathy. Whoever had been in the house had been looking for something. Cathy’s things had been disturbed. Clothes had been tossed aside and drawers pulled open. The bed was littered with the contents of Cathy’s bedside table. Mostly jewellery. Whoever had done this, it wasn’t about theft. At least, not theft for money.

  Edward began putting Cathy’s things back where they belonged. As he sorted through the jewellery, he wondered what had been taken. Most of the pieces were gifts from him. The ring he had given her on her birthday wasn’t here. It was on her finger. It was only when he was sliding the last drawer shut that he realised what was missing. He should have known from the start. The gold necklace Cathy had worn when Heathcliff came to dinner was gone.

  Edward shook his head. He never wanted to hear the name Heathcliff again. There was nothing more that man could take from him. He shut the bedroom door and went back to the nursery. Of course there was still something. Cathy’s daughter. She was part of her mother. He stared at the baby in the crib. Maybe Isabelle was right. Maybe getting away from this town was the only thing to do. He stroked the baby’s face. He wouldn’t leave, though. This place was his and his parents’ and Cathy’s. Staying here was all he had to keep them alive. He just had to make it safe for Kate.

  He wouldn’t call the police about the break-in. They’d ask questions and he’d have to talk about his wife and about that animal. Instead, he would take little Kate downstairs and build a fire in the front room. They could sit in the big armchair and he would read to her. He was sure she’d like that.

  ‘Last orders, lads. Last orders.’ The barmaid grabbed the bell rope and tugged it vigorously.

  The harsh metallic ring sank into Mick’s brain, and he lifted his eyes from the damp stain on the old wooden table. Slowly he forced his eyes to focus as he staggered to his feet in Pavlovian reaction to the call.

  The glass in his hand wasn’t quite empty. He downed the last inch of liquid and lurched across to the bar.

  ‘Pint of Bass.’ He slammed the glass down on the bar in front of the blonde barmaid.

  She grabbed the glass before it could topple to the floor, and frowned. ‘I think you’ve had enough, Mick.’

  ‘Get me another.’ He reached into his pocket for the cash. He pulled out a few coins. Not enough for a pint.

  The barmaid looked uncertain. Mick glared at her. She was another empty-headed blonde. That’s all the girls were these days. Not worth a man’s time. Not like his Frances. She had been better than him. Better than all of them. And she had died giving birth to that worthless son. He felt the familiar stab of grief, which he had for years cradled to his chest in place of the woman whose face he could no longer remember clearly. And now his sister, Cathy, had died too. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he knew that today was her funeral. He should have been there. He had walked down into the town, planning to go to the Protestant church. But instead he’d come here. Cathy didn’t belong in some proddie graveyard. And he wasn’t about to go and watch them put her there.

  ‘Where’s my beer!’ he said loudly, looking around for the barmaid.

  ‘It’s all right, Mick.’ The landlord appeared in front of him.

  ‘Get me a beer.’ Mick couldn’t remember the man’s name. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was getting a drink.

  The landlord shook his head. ‘Time to go home.’

  Mick pushed back from the bar, tripping over a chair. He almost went sprawling to the ground, but a couple of hands grabbed him and hauled him upright.

  He shook off the helping hands and turned towards the door. On the TV, there were yet more pictures of that new Tory bloke, John Major. At least Thatcher was gone. Too late for this town, though. It was stuffed. They were all stuffed. And Cathy was dead.

  Outside, the fresh air hit him like a slap in the face. It was still freezing. He sighed deeply and coughed as he reached for a cigarette. Time he was in bed. He hesitated. Normally he’d take the shortest route, but that involved crossing the creek along the fallen log. He’d been doing that since he was a kid. But it would be icy and slippery. And he was feeling the beer. Better take the bridge.

  By the time he had walked to the main road, the fresh air had cleared some of the fog from his brain. His step was steadier, if not completely under control. As he walked over the bridge, he glanced to his left to see the remains of the mine – dark shadows against an inky sky.

  A deep sadness overcame him. His steps turned away from the Heights and towards the place that had always been his real home. After his dad died, Mick had been welcomed there. He had always known that loyalty after his father’s death was behind him getting the job, but the men had welcomed Ray Earnshaw’s son. True, he hadn’t actually worked at the coalface, but still he could say he’d done his time in the pit and, with the glow of memory, it seemed to him those had been the best days of his life. Working with the men. Coming home to his Frances, who had food on the table waiting for him. Food he had paid for with his own work.

  He stopped in front of the rusting gates. Images began to flash through his mind. The picket lines. The police. That poncey southerner with the guitar who had come and played protest songs for them as they stood around fires burning in old oil drums. The wom
en with their bags of food. The rain. The freezing rain and sleet. He shuddered and tossed away his cigarette butt before pushing through the broken gate.

  The buildings were deathly quiet, but in Mick’s mind he could hear the roar of the machines and the clamour of men’s voices. Those had been the days. He pushed against the rusting tin barrier that covered the open doorway to the pithead building and walked through. It was dark inside, but he thought he could hear men’s voices. He staggered slightly as he made his way along a walkway above the conveyor rising up from the depths. The world began to spin, and he grabbed a railing. The rail gave way and he fell down into the tangle of broken machinery.

  It sounded like an animal in pain. Harry listened carefully. It was coming from the old pithead building. Harry knew the building as well as he knew his own home. This was where he came to play and look for bugs when his dad was in a bad mood.

  He heard the noise again as he got into the building by tugging aside a piece of corrugated iron wall. It was dark inside, but the moon made patterns through the holes in the roof, allowing Harry to skip and run between the dead machines. And when he found what was making the noise, the moonlight meant he could see it all quite clearly.

  His father was lying against the side of one of the old machines. No, not lying. Hanging. A shaft of metal was sticking into his side. His shirt was covered in blood and a dark patch in the dirt beneath him was getting bigger as blood ran down the metal and fell in fat drops. Harry had seen his dad fall down drunk before. On the floor of their kitchen. In the yard. And once he’d found him lying at the church, near the cross that marked the grave where he knew his granddad was buried. But this was different. This time, his father was hurt, like the fox he’d found by the riverbank one day. It had been hit by a car, and had that same broken look his father had. The fox had died.

  Harry stood in the shadows, listening to his dad’s whimpers. Every now and then his body twisted and a new cry came from his lips. Harry watched. He was used to his dad making him hurt. He was used to him saying he wished Harry had never been born. He was used to not crying then, so he didn’t cry now. After a while Mick lay still. Harry wondered whether to go closer. Perhaps he was dead like the fox, but before he could move, someone else did.

  Harry recognised the man who walked over to his dad. Heathcliff’s tall, straight back and long, dark hair stood out. Harry didn’t mind being with Heathcliff, but sometimes Heathcliff seemed cross with him for no reason, as if he had so much anger towards Harry’s dad that sometimes it spilled over onto Harry too.

  Heathcliff stopped a few feet from Mick, his head tilted slightly to one side as if curious about the animal that lay bleeding in front of him. Mick moved slightly, whimpering in pain. He must have seen Heathcliff. Maybe he was asking for help. Heathcliff stood dead still, watching, doing nothing.

  For a long time, all three of them seemed frozen in time. Then Heathcliff turned away. Harry stayed behind long enough to see that the drip of blood to the ground had stopped. Then he turned away to follow Heathcliff home.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  2008

  ‘And there was no suggestion it was anything but an accident?’ Lockwood’s voice clearly showed his disbelief.

  ‘None at all,’ Dr Sangupta said. ‘With the amount of alcohol he’d consumed, the only surprise was that he managed to walk that far. It was clear he’d simply fallen onto the old machinery. If someone had found him earlier, he might have survived. But it was a cold winter. Nobody was hanging around up there in that weather, so it was a few days before he was found. A drunken accident. The coroner agreed.’

  ‘I’ve read the report.’ The investigation was a joke so far as Lockwood was concerned. ‘There was evidence that someone else was there in that building.’

  ‘Inspector, there are always signs of people in that building. The teenagers go there to… do what teenagers do. Children play there. Some of the older men go there to remind themselves of the lives they used to have. That old pit is dangerous and everyone knows it. But that doesn’t make a difference. It’s a wonder there haven’t been more accidents like that one.’

  ‘If it was an accident.’

  ‘Look, Mick Earnshaw was a man who had nothing. His wife was gone. He had no job. No money. Nothing. He was an alcoholic. It was the day of his sister’s funeral.’

  ‘So you think it could have been suicide?’

  The doctor was no longer trying to hide the irritation in his voice. ‘No. I think it was an accident. Everything else just explains why he might have wanted to have a skinful more often than was good for him.’

  ‘And you don’t think anyone else was involved?’ Lockwood was testing the doctor’s patience and he knew it.’

  ‘Seriously? Who’d even bother to kill Mick Earnshaw?’

  According to the doctor this was another dead end. The Lintons had died. Frances Earnshaw had died. Cathy had died. Luke Earnshaw. Mick. It was like an episode of a bad police drama, where there were so many bodies the detectives just arrested the last man standing.

  Lockwood took his leave from the good doctor and walked back to his car. Life wasn’t like a police show. The last twenty-five years had taught him that. Murder was violent and messy. Ninety per cent of the time it was drugs or gangs or domestics. This wasn’t any of those. It was an obsession that seemed to have wrapped itself round a whole family. And now it was wrapping itself around DCI Lockwood himself.

  He started the car, but didn’t pull away. He didn’t know where he was going. His head said it was getting close to time to walk away. There was no evidence, nothing you could take to the CPS. But his gut said something else. Heathcliff had been the one with the nail gun that night during the strike. Lockwood was sure. And he might not have had anything to do with Cathy or Frances or Mr and Mrs Linton. But Luke Earnshaw? And Mick? Heathcliff Earnshaw hurt people. Lockwood knew it. So it was his job to bring him to justice. And if he couldn’t do that, what had the last twenty-five years been for? Why hadn’t he quit when he was still young and gone off to do corporate security? He could have found a nice wife and had two nice kids. But he hadn’t. Everything he hadn’t allowed himself – it had to be for something.

  He thought back over the interview with the doctor. There had to be something. And there it was. Mick Earnshaw was a man who had nothing. That’s what Sangupta had said. He was wrong, though. Mick Earnshaw did have one thing left. He had a son. A son who would have been five or six when his father died. The police couldn’t have been the only authorities involved. He set out in the direction of Ellen Dean’s office.

  ‘We didn’t see any point in getting involved,’ Ellen said. ‘It was tragic a boy that young with no parents, but Heathcliff was his uncle, so the boy stayed with him.

  ‘But he wasn’t, was he?’ Lockwood pressed. ‘Not legally. And the boy must have had other family. On his mother’s side.’

  ‘They weren’t involved.’

  Lockwood frowned. ‘What do you mean, weren’t involved? Surely they didn’t just abandon the boy.’

  ‘Like I said. They weren’t involved.’

  ‘They were never notified, were they?’

  Ellen Dean’s face closed down. ‘DCI Lockwood, I’ve given you a lot of my time lately. I’ve not told you how to investigate whatever you imagine went on here, so I’ll thank you to leave the social work to the professionals. Harry Earnshaw had never met his maternal grandparents, whereas he was living with his uncle already. It was in the boy’s best interests to leave him where he was.’

  Lockwood nodded.

  ‘Now if we’re done here?’

  They were. Lockwood stepped out into the afternoon sun. Even Ellen Dean thought he was chasing shadows. But there was something here. His hand went to the gnarled nail in his pocket. His gut was right. He needed to keep pushing.

  Mick Earnshaw was buried in the Catholic churchyard, so Lockwood turned in that direction. He didn’t know why he felt the need to visit the man’s grave. There was
nothing he could learn there, but it seemed the right thing to do. It was, he realised, the only grave he hadn’t been to see.

  Mick Earnshaw had been buried near his father, under a simple stone. Lockwood read the inscription: Husband of Frances, father of Harry. Rest in Peace. No mention of his sister or brother, but there often wasn’t. Maybe Lockwood was looking for meaning where there was none to be found.

  Lockwood was still by the gravestone when the priest appeared, striding swiftly towards him through the oldest section of the graveyard.

  ‘The wages of sin is death,’ Father Joseph said as he glared at the grave through hooded eyes.

  ‘What sin?’ Lockwood asked.

  ‘The drink took him.’

  ‘The death he had seems like harsh punishment for a few pints.’

  ‘Prepare slaughter for the sons because of the guilt of their fathers, lest they rise and possess the earth.’

  ‘So it was his father’s sin?’ Lockwood was humouring the old man, rather than really listening.

  ‘He brought the devil among us. The child of his lust and fornication.’ The priest raised his head to glare across the valley towards the estate. ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire.’

  The devil? Heathcliff might be mad and Lockwood still suspected he was a murderer, but the devil among us?

  ‘The iniquity of the fathers shall be visited upon the children and the children’s children, to the third and the fourth generation.’

  Iniquity visited upon the children’s children? When he’d first been a DI he’d worked on domestic violence cases. There they’d talked about cycles of abuse. It all meant the same thing in the end, didn’t it? It was always the children who suffered.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  May, 2003

  Kate underlined her answer at the bottom of the row of figures, and turned the page in her exercise book. Normally on a Wednesday morning she had English and art sessions with Dad. But this morning was different. A cross-looking woman with horrible grey hair and an armful of papers had come to the house and Dad had shooed Kate into the conservatory with her maths book.