I had a couple of meetings. One with Wigwam, who assured me the police weren’t looking for anyone else in connection with Solitaire’s death. They’d tried to find the CCTV footage of course, which would have shown two interesting visitors just before his suicide, but it was a live feed and there was no way of tracing where it went. And Eugene wasn’t putting his hand up to tell them.
He was, apparently, going even more quietly nuts than ever, and giving some serious consideration to hiring a Voodoo priestess from Rochdale – yeah, I know, Rochdale – to try and curse Solitaire beyond the grave. Wigwam was trying to keep that one quiet, or there’d be whispering in the ranks about the old fella going funny. Well, it least it distracted him from Yours Truly.
I’d also learned that Quillian’s expert legal representation had disappeared as fast as that CCTV footage, leaving him shouting and screaming about corruption and set-ups. Nobody paid any attention. That’s what all the scumbags did, after all.
As for Bobby, there wasn’t much anybody could do. He was dead and gone. But Wigwam did let slip that he’d ‘sorted out’ his sister. At first I was worried he meant his accepted form of ‘sorting out’, which usually involved a hatchet and some cheese wire. But no, it was purely financial. She hadn’t been too well since her brother’s death, he said. I hoped it was just grief – but I couldn’t forget Bobby’s face when he told me about the Demon Thing’s predictions about her slow and painful death. At least now she wouldn’t have to worry about money. That Wigwam. Such an old softie.
I’d also been out for a drink with D.I Alec Jones, and filled him in on as much as I could without implicating myself. He might be a tasty morsel, and was fast turning into a friend, but he was a bobby first and foremost, and I couldn’t tell him too much for fear of dropping myself in it big time. We indulged in a gentle flirting session, drank a few pints, and ended the night with a fairly delicious almost-snog outside the Pig’s Trotter. Kind of a goodbye kiss on the cheek that accidentally-on-purpose ended up on the lips. No tongues, though, so it didn’t count. Now wasn’t the time for distractions – but Alec Jones was right up there on my party hit list for when all of this was over. I’d get him drunk and we’d sing Rod on the karaoke together. It’s always good to have firm life plans in place.
Tish had essentially gone underground, and apart from the occasional snatched phone call, I didn’t hear from her. She knew I was okay. She was busy. Therefore she ignored me. She was always the same when she was working on a big story – but usually only for a day or two. Maybe this time she was writing a book. She’d bought a new camera, to replace the one smashed up by ‘demon bitch’, as she called it, and was planning to shoot some background shots. Of what, I had no idea. I warned her off Hart House, hoping she wasn’t as stupid as me. I thought not, from the snort of laughter she gave me. We’d have to drag her kicking and screaming by her Louboutins into that place again.
That morning, I’d woken up late, and realised I had nothing to do. Which is always a dangerous state of affairs with me. I’d make some crack about the Devil and idle hands, but I was a little more cautious about these things now.
There was a knock on the door, which usually meant the postman. I opened it, expecting to sign for a package, and instead was faced by a man the size of a small oak tree dressed in a designer tracksuit and mirrored Ray Bans. Indoors. Always a good look, assuming the look you’re going for is ‘complete idiot’.
‘Delivery from Mr Casey Senior,’ he said, placing a set of keys and a thick envelope of papers in my hand before leaving. Great conversationalist.
I took the lift down to the lobby and walked outside to my parking space, already suspecting what I was going to see. Sure enough, there it was. A bright red BMW Z4. Brand new plates. Smoky glass windows, leather seats. Every gadget known to man in there, and probably a few James Bond hadn’t heard of. I sighed, kicked the wheel, and went back upstairs to get ready. I couldn’t keep it of course, but it did at least deserve one drive. It’d be rude not to.
As I brushed my hair and slapped on a bit of make-up – the car kind of demanded it of me, to be honest – my phone rang. I let it go to voicemail, as I was about to poke my own eyeball out with a mascara stick at the time.
When I checked the message afterwards I recognised the voice immediately. The deep, nicotine-drenched gravel of Lorraine Connelly.
‘Hiya. It’s me. Lorraine. Wigwam’s filled me in on it all. Doesn’t bring her back, but at least now I know. Fucking Solitaire, the bastard. I wish she’d come to me, I’d have slapped some sense into her but… well, that wasn’t the way she was made. Anyway. I just wanted to say ta. Very much.’
Okay, so Lorraine wasn’t on a par with Martin Luther King when it came to making heartfelt speeches. And it was just a little phone message, not even a bunch of flowers or a box of Quality Street. But hearing those words meant more to me than a flame-red Beemer ever could – even one with a built in MP3 player.
The whole thing had been a shitstorm since it started, but I’d done my job, and provided answers to someone who needed them. Now all I had to do was act as glamorous assistant in an exorcism, find an acceptable way to explain that to Rose Middlemas, and then move on. Get back to the humdrum world of insurance fraud and marital strife and missing pets. No demons. No crime lords. And no Dan Lennon.
That last part made me feel a bit sad, so I grabbed up my keys and jogged down the three flights of stairs to distract myself. Why confront awkward feelings head on, when you could so easily avoid them?
I climbed into the car and sat back in the seat, sucking in the smell of showroom-new upholstery. I opened the glove box and found an envelope stuffed with £50 notes. I closed my eyes and resisted the temptation to count it, instead shoving it back in. I’d make sure Betty and Justin had their costs covered, and give the rest to Father Kerrigan. Didn’t churches always need new rooves? In the movies, I’d make some grand gesture – return it, burn it or throw it in the Mersey, making a big speech about it being dirty. But this was the real world, and money helped it all go round.
I started the engine, going gently at first. This was an alien machine, and a lot more powerful than my little Suzuki. Once I was out through the gates and onto the main road that runs through Liverpool city centre, I decided where I was going. First stop, Everton.
It’s not far, just the edge of the city really, but a lifetime away from Wapping and its bevy of young professionals and prosperous retirees taking in dinner and a show every night. Dominated by council blocks, some tall, some squat, some boarded up, some not, it ain’t the snazziest part of town. In fact, if you hear a car backfire, you’re best to duck and wait. My favourite ever small ad was about Everton, back when I was first looking to rent my own place. ‘Three bedroomed house, Everton Brow,’ it said. ‘Big dog and strong nerves required.’ A landlord with a sense of humour. I’d almost gone to view it just to meet him.
It is an area I know well, though, largely due to the prominent location of a funeral parlour where I’d had to attend numerous ‘viewings’ of deceased family members. Always a happy time. There’s also been a lot of regeneration, as there has across the city – new homes, bright new estates with gardens and drives to replace the deterioration that had spread over the decades. And to be fair, there are a lot of really, really nice people living in Everton. As well as some very active Church and community groups – all of which, from the signs outside the parochial centre, seemed to be making their home with Father Kerrigan at St Philip’s.
I’d pulled – well, kind of skidded, truth be told – to a stop in the small car park and looked at the posters in the window. Wow. I could learn how to make my own funky fashion accessories; join a Tai Chi class; meet other young mums; quit smoking; and get free benefits advice. All in the same place. And I suppose if I had time after all that, I could even squeeze in a quick Mass.
As I was making a mental note of the times of the Cooking for Dummies classes, I heard footsteps approaching me and turned
round, slightly too nervily for broad daylight on a busy Liverpool street. What can I say, I was living in a constant state of slightly spooked these days.
‘Thinking of signing up? I’m told the Saturday afternoon Pilates gets particularly busy,’ said Dan. He’d obviously just been for a run, and was wearing shorts and a black Adidas T-shirt with the old-school trefoil logo on the front. Knowing Dan it wasn’t a retro purchase, it was just really, really old.
Sweat was running from his hairline down the sides of his face, pooling in the hollow where his collarbones met. I took a little gulp and tried not to stare. There was just a bit too much of him on show, and he was hot and freshly exercised and somehow still managing to smell really, really good.
‘I didn’t know you run,’ I said, as he wiped the sweat from his face with the back of one hand.
‘I like to retain my air of mystery,’ he replied. ‘Is everything all right? I wasn’t expecting you… what happened to your real car?’
He was staring at the BMW, correctly assuming it was mine, as it was the only vehicle in the car park.
‘It got a make-over,’ I said. ‘Fancy a drive? I mean, if you’re not busy. I thought we could talk about stuff. Demon stuff. And also—’
‘You wanted to cruise round in your new toy, and you couldn’t find anyone else?’
‘No. That’s not fair. I didn’t even ask anyone else. So, you coming or what?’
He nodded, looked at the car again.
‘Do I even want to ask?’ he said.
‘Not unless you want to hear the answer. And it’s a one-day only deal anyway.’
‘Okay. Let’s do it. But I’d rather not talk about demon stuff if that’s okay with you. I was up late last night with Betty planning, and I need some time off. Come and wait inside while I get a shower first. Don’t nose in the cupboards, it’s not my place.’
Bugger. Busted. Deprived of my favourite activity, I instead amused myself by imagining the look on his face if I stripped off all my clothes and offered to scrub his back. And other body parts. I got very caught up in this distraction, to the extent that I didn’t even notice when he walked back into the room. Fully clothed, sadly.
‘What are you smiling about?’ he said.
‘Um… nothing. Are you ready? Do you need to do your hair or put your make-up on or anything?’
He gave me a disgusted look and said: ‘Where are we going, and what do I need to bring?’
‘Don’t know where we’re going. Somewhere the car can stretch its legs. And it’s another scorcher, so can’t see as you’ll need anything other than yourself.’
And a picnic blanket, and a jumbo pack of condoms, I added mentally.
Two hours later, and we’d gone much further than either of us had planned. Geographically speaking, of course. I’d headed through the Mersey Tunnel, and then peeled off towards Shropshire, thinking we could maybe have lunch in Ludlow and climb the castle walls. Instead, a desire to stretch our own legs as well as the BMW’s led us to a National Trust car park near Church Stretton, where we followed signs for the Long Mynd walkways.
I’d been here once, a lifetime ago, with my almost-imaginary lecturer boyfriend. The one with the equally imaginary wife and kids he never told me about. I remember being blown away by how beautiful it was, but had never been back since. Now seemed as good a time as any to exorcise that particular demon, especially as I rarely gave Paul and his contribution to my educational fall from grace a spare thought these days.
If you’ve never been to Shropshire, imagine somewhere wild and beautiful and mystical. The kind of place Druids would hang out on stag weekends. Then take away all the tourists you’d normally find in that kind of beauty spot, and you have it. It’s gorgeous. And very, very hilly. We’d been trudging up a steadily increasing incline for what felt like hours before we hit a brass plaque congratulating us on reaching Pole Bank – the highest point.
I’m in pretty good nick cardio wise, but I was still tired out. In a pleasant way, that would be ideally followed by a slap-up dinner in a country pub and seventeen pints of Guinness. Instead, I settled for sitting next to Dan, eating the butties we’d picked up at a service station and swigging Evian straight from a shared bottle. We were both quiet for a few minutes, taking in the views of Central Wales, and the peaks of Stiperstones. My calf muscles were whining and my mascara was probably hovering somewhere to east of my nose, but I didn’t care. It was a day to sit and enjoy the sunshine and the spectacular scenery – both that in front of me, and that to the left of me.
Then, of course, he had to spoil it.
‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do after we’re finished with all this?’
Of course I had. For all of thirty seconds, before I squashed it and added it to the ever-growing lists of Things To Keep In Attic of Brain.
‘I’d rather get through it first,’ I replied. ‘It’s going to be scary and horrible and potentially fatal. So I don’t want to waste time worrying about the fact I don’t have a pension and my office is haunted by a demented cleaning lady.’
He nodded, took another bite.
‘Hmm. I see what you mean. But it won’t be fatal – I’ll look after you. And you really should get a pension.’
I looked at him, then gazed back out over the hills.
‘Oh shut up,’ I said. ‘Stop acting like my dad. You’re not my dad. You’re my—’
‘What?’
‘A person who isn’t my dad. Can’t we just enjoy the day without having life-coaching sessions thrown in? We can’t even get mobile reception up here, I lost it down in the valley. So let’s pretend we’re normal people, at least for a bit.’
‘Normal? Not sure I know how,’ he replied.
‘Okay, then I’ll settle for you shutting up,’ I said. And he did.
Not long after, we started back down, stopping for numerous ‘photo opportunities’ on the way. Okay, so we didn’t have a camera – but my life had been pretty short on the picturesque recently, and I wanted to make the most of it. The camera was in my head, capturing every moment and tucking it away.
By the time we reached terra firma, ye olde tea shoppes were closing up, and the car park was emptying. Diehard walkers were bashing their boots on the trunks of their cars, and packing up their foldable chairs. It was starting to go dark – as it should in late September. Even a stupidly sunny one like this.
Dan strapped his seat belt on, and I noticed his nostrils flaring. That showroom smell strikes again. Shame I wasn’t going to be able to keep it.
‘Are you going to keep it?’ he asked, reading my mind.
‘No. Of course not. It’s from Eugene, as I’m sure you figured out. But it’s mine, all the paperwork came with it. So I’ll… give it away. Maybe I’ll give it to Father Kerrigan. He can sell it on and use the funds for the Church roof, or the women’s and children’s group, or whatever. Do some good with it. There’s a big bag of cash as well, so if you or Betty or Justin need any—’
He opened his mouth to reply, but my phone started to beep, skittering around on the dashboard from the vibrations. We were back in range, and I had what looked like a million messages.
One was from a nice lady at Vodafone, wanting to tell me all about their exciting new tariffs. Erase. Another was from the BMW garage, informing me the car came with a free service package and I should call for details. Erase. A third was from my mum, telling me my gran was coming over for Sunday lunch and had requested not only my presence, but Dan’s. Too scary to comprehend. Save for later. The next was from Adam, so I actually listened to it the whole way through.
‘Hi Jayne,’ he said. ‘Adam here. Did some extra work on your problem last night. Supposed to have been out at footie training, but the Dewey Decimators’ goalie dropped a very heavy reference copy of an Albanian dictionary on his foot and broke his big toe – occupational hazard. So I did some research, and I found something interesting. The child disappearances didn’t stop once Hart House was built.
And when I looked earlier, they were there too. Not a pattern unless you’re looking for it, or if you’re a library superhero like I am… anyway. I got all the details. Cross-reffed them to the information you had about the other Deerborne buildings in the city… and guess what? They all match. Before, for Doe Hall in Roby, and after, for the Stag Building down by the Victoria Dock. As the foundations were laid, missing kids all over the shop. Anyway. Might be nothing, but I thought I’d let you know. Call me back later.’
I handed Dan the phone, telling him to listen to the message. He was silent afterwards, thinking so hard I could almost hear his brain whirring. I started the car and got us back onto the main road out of town. Time to get back to reality; traffic fumes and noise pollution and little red cars with tiny engines and 120,000 miles on the clock. Bliss.
‘What do you think?’ I said.
‘I think we need to look into it more. Talk to Will, talk to your friends at the police, see if there’ve been any incidents reported at those buildings as well. We’ll get onto it when we’re back.’
I nodded and flicked on the Z4’s headlights. I always thought they gave them the appearance of evil little imps. You know, if cars were people. Which they’re not, I’m fully aware.
While we drove I turned over Adam’s news in my mind. I’d not picked up on anything vile happening at the other Deerborne buildings, and I was sure Will would have mentioned it if it had. Doe Hall, as far as I knew, was barely used these days – it was a file storage facility while they transferred all their archives onto digital records. Then I think the plan was to transform it into yet more of the ubiquitous Luxury Flats that Liverpool has so many of.
Fear No Evil (Debbie Johnson) Page 26