The Runner

by P. R. Black

  ‘Aren’t you the smart kiddie?’ Levison sipped at a coffee, coolly. ‘So, why did you want to meet him?’

  ‘Funny, he asked me the same thing. It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  Levison shook her head. ‘Not immediately obvious, no.’

  ‘Well… wouldn’t you want to meet your father? If you suddenly found out who he was?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Freya composed herself; every utterance from this woman left her wanting to respond with a cheeky remark. She heard an echo of her mother’s irritation. Too smart for your own good, madam. Learn to keep it buttoned. ‘He mentioned that he’s quite confident about the appeal.’

  ‘That’s true. We may be preparing for a break in the case, in fact.’

  ‘New evidence?’

  ‘I can’t say any more than that, of course. But we are trying to get your father out of prison. You could have a proper reunion.’

  ‘I’ve done some reading on the case,’ Freya said. ‘The evidence against him seems watertight. He was seen in the area, getting into a car, near where the woman’s body was found. Witnessed by one person. They seemed sure. That was the whole prosecution. Are you saying he didn’t do it?’

  Levison grinned. ‘I don’t think he killed June Caton-Bell. That’s what he was convicted of.’

  ‘What about the other disappearances? You don’t think he’s the Woodcutter?’

  ‘As I said, I don’t think he killed June Caton-Bell. Your father wasn’t convicted of anything else, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘But they reckon one person is behind all five killings.’

  ‘The fact is, the CPS didn’t have enough evidence to charge your father with all five murders.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.’ Levison gave Freya a hard look, and didn’t respond. ‘Look, I’d just like to know. I don’t know what to believe.’

  ‘I wish I could tell you more. But one thing I can say is that your father didn’t kill June Caton-Bell. Soon, we’re going to be able to prove it. If he was convicted of the other four cases connected to the person known as the Woodcutter, then yeah – it would be harder to argue the toss. But as I should stress – your father was convicted of one count of murder only.’ Levison frowned. ‘Are you all right, love?’

  Freya had faded out somewhat in a sudden chill. She pulled her coat tighter about her body. ‘It’s been weird,’ she said, shivering. ‘Just a lot to take in.’

  Levison looked uncertain, for a moment. Finally, she reached out, and took Freya’s hand in hers. ‘I’m sorry, love.’

  The street was quiet, even for a benevolent time of the day, after breakfast but well before lunch, and unseasonably cool. ‘It’s… Well… I lost my mother, and now…’ She was going to say ‘gained a father’, but the wedding speech construction seemed ghastly, given the circumstances. ‘There’s so much I want to find out.’

  ‘Bound to be odd.’

  ‘Odd is my stock in trade.’

  Levison slowly withdrew her hand, and took in Freya’s clothes and dark hair. ‘Just before we go… are there any other reasons you want to get in touch with my client? Any possible legal action?’

  ‘I’ve already explained this. I wanted to make contact because I’m curious. No matter who he was, no matter what he’s meant to have done. Wouldn’t you be? Second… I have a doubt. I’m not sure he did it. I want to find out for sure.’

  Levison didn’t respond to that. Instead, she lit a cigarette. ‘You want to go grab a drink?’

  ‘No… Bit early.’

  Levison angled her head. Her smile might have been painted on, her voice seething with irony. ‘What are young people coming to? When I was… what age are you, honey?’

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  ‘Twenty-five… That’s when you’re old enough to call yourself an adult, with a straight face, I suppose. How boring. Anyway, when I was twenty-five, and a barrister offered me a drink or two, I’d have taken it.’

  ‘I thought you said you were meeting a client?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Levison said, brightly.

  ‘No thanks. I’ll grab a coffee later.’

  The older woman shrugged, and took a long draw. ‘Suit yourself. You know, you’re interesting.’ Levison’s moist brown eyes focused on her for a second or two. ‘Very interesting indeed. I like your style, incidentally. Love what you’ve done with your eyes. What is it you do outside of working in a phone farm, honey? You in a band?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure? You look like someone famous. In a band. I bet you get that a lot.’

  ‘Please don’t say I look like Siouxsie Sioux.’

  Levison frowned. ‘Who the hell’s that?’

  ‘…Siouxsie and the Banshees?’

  ‘Sorry, I think I peaked at Duran Duran. Never really kept in touch since. Full disclosure – I am still in love with Nick Rhodes. So, you’re just… knocking around? Running, you said?’

  ‘Just keeping myself to myself.’ Which was true. And always had been. It never occurred to Freya that she was lonely; just alone. ‘I was thinking of getting into journalism.’

  ‘Journalism. Now that’s a weird career. Especially the parchment and quill wing. We all need it, we all read it, but that’s a whole industry that’s on death row. Fancies a dirty weekend in Dignitas. Don’t tell me you want to be in newspapers?’

  ‘Well, yeah,’ Freya stuttered, more defensive than she’d anticipated. ‘Like you say, it’s an important job.’

  ‘So much media’s all done for us now, though. Clicks. The internet. Social media.’

  ‘And that’s why proper journalism’s important.’

  ‘Very true. So, you looking to study, you said?’

  ‘I was. Part of me wants to make a more direct approach, though.’

  Levison took a long draw of her cigarette. ‘That’s often the best way. And you don’t have to study to be a journalist. I mean, there are things you have to know. Sub judice, that kind of thing. I’m assuming you can spell, and type really fast.’

  There was something about this woman that got under the skin; she was being needled, but had no idea what purpose it served. ‘As I say – I’m taking steps. I was lucky enough to inherit my mum’s flat, and a little bit of money. So I’m assessing my options.’

  ‘If you’re breaking into journalism, then you might need a scoop. Something to break through with. You know what you can do? You can talk to a guy I know.’ Levison fished out a battered moleskin-upholstered notebook, and riffled through to the back. She tore a sheet out, and handed it over. ‘Here you are. There’s a name to check. Give this guy a call.’

  ‘Mick Harvie? Writer? What do you know about him?’

  ‘Very famous man, in his field. What they used to call a crime correspondent. Like you, he’s at a bit of a loose end.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was at a loose end.’

  ‘That’s true. You didn’t have to.’ Levison grinned. ‘Give him a call. Say who you are. I think he’ll be interested.’

  Freya stuffed the torn sheet into a zip pocket in her jacket. ‘Thanks. I think.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Levison stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Sure you won’t have a drink? Last chance.’

  ‘No thanks. I’d best be going. Thank you for your time.’

  Levison got up, slipping the thin strap of her bag about her shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t bother with the coffee in here. Or the prosecco, come to think of it.’ Levison winked as she put on a blazer. ‘Must dash. I think we’ll speak again, Freya. Sooner rather than later. I’ve got your number. I’ll be in touch.’

  7

  Mick Harvie’s house was at the end of a farmer’s field left fallow. Sparse green spaces were overgrown with cornflowers with their heads turned away from Freya, while much of the churned earth surrounding these were seeded with stones. A dusty brown path, cracked in the warm sunshine, led all the way to a place that was called ‘The Pines’, for no good reason. Had there been pines anywhere near
that place, they had long been cleared. Two sycamores stood some way behind the property, close to the main road rendered invisible by a drystone wall.

  He lived in a bungalow that, from a distance, looked derelict. Thorn bushes and wild privet choked every reasonable approach but the front gate, with only a hint of a roof and skylight visible above this unruly line of vegetation.

  The house wasn’t the first thing Freya spotted. That was the boat, of course, a twenty-foot craft whose beige paintwork with brown trim dated it from some time in the 1980s, if not slightly earlier. It was called ‘Contessa’, according to the lettering slashed along the side in what was presumably a facsimile of red lipstick. ‘Eighties, then,’ she mumbled to herself.

  The boat was perched on top of a trailer missing its truck, parked in front of the house much as a car might be. If there was water anywhere nearby, Freya would have had to consult a map to find it.

  A man emerged from below deck when she appeared. He wore a short-sleeved plaid shirt, turquoise shorts that gave the air surrounding them the tone of an optical illusion, and flip-flops. He was about average height, lean and well-muscled at the calves. His face contrasted with the lines of his body – it was bearded, in an attempt to hide red marks and blemishes that she saw creeping up his cheeks, even from a distance – the signal of a drinker, perhaps. Freya knew this from a lifetime’s observations of some of the characters her mother served in the pub.

  He said nothing when she approached, but viewed her frankly. A grin split his face, when it became clear Freya was not simply passing by. ‘Well, someone’s dressed for the weather,’ he said. There was a touch of an Irish accent in there, but the voice seemed dusty, unused.

  Freya ignored the jibe. ‘Are you Mick Harvie?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ The grin remained.

  ‘My name’s Freya Bain. I’ve come to you about a story I’m preparing for the national press. I was looking for your help.’

  ‘I’m retired.’

  ‘I know that. I think you’ll be interested in my story, though. I need your help. You’ve got the contacts in the business, I’ve been told.’

  ‘Most of them are dead, or retired. But they managed to find their sons and daughters jobs, I suppose. What’s your story, Freya Bain?’

  ‘It’s about Gareth Solomon.’

  Harvie said nothing. He wasn’t grinning any more.

  ‘You wrote the best book on the case. It’s the bible, really, for anyone studying it. In fact, I went over it again on the train down here.’ She pulled the book from her backpack – Hunting the Woodcutter.

  ‘You want an autograph or something?’ He wiped his hands on an old dishtowel, already discoloured with oil, and draped it over a rail. ‘I can give you an autograph. No problem. But, unless you’ve found something linking that bastard to the missing people he’s topped over the years, then I’m not really interested. I hope you haven’t come a long way.’

  ‘I don’t have any new evidence as yet. Although I have been told he’s preparing an appeal.’

  ‘Course he is! He’s always preparing an appeal. I bet he’s been gibbering about some magical new evidence he’s got, or some witness or other he’s about to pull out of a hat, or his own suspect. I’ve heard it all before. To my face. He’s lied so much about the people he killed he’s started to believe it himself. This guy’s a class-A liar, if nothing else. Look… I may not look it, but I am busy here. What’s your story?’

  ‘Gareth Solomon is my father.’

  He wiped his hands again, reflexively, on the oily rag, as he sized Freya up. Then he clucked his tongue and said: ‘How do you take your tea?’

  *

  The bungalow was tight-packed with a lifetime’s belongings, but it wasn’t untidy. Books and nautical ornaments crammed the available shelf-space across a number of wall units, but Freya had to admit she quite liked it. With its plain whitewashed walls offsetting the riot of the book spines, it had the feel of a university professor’s office or a cosy den. An ornate marble fireplace completed the snug feel of the place, although there wasn’t a speck of ash or any other hints that a fire had been lit there any time in the past year.

  Freya blew onto the surface of a strong, thick cup of tea. Harvie sat in front of her in a battered but sturdy leather armchair with brass studs up and down the arms. ‘When did you find out?’ he asked.

  ‘My mother told me. She’s dead now.’

  ‘Deathbed confession?’ His eyes gleamed over the lip of his own cup as he took a drink.

  ‘Not exactly. She hinted at telling me before she died – then put it in writing, for when the solicitor read out her will.’

  ‘Dramatic enough, I guess. And is she quite sure it was him?’

  ‘Seemed certain.’

  ‘You do look like him. Or, you’ve got the same eyes, that’s for sure. Difficult to tell with all that make-up. But I’ll be candid with you – and I guess you’re old enough to be wise – just because someone tells you who your father is, well… it doesn’t necessarily mean they’re your father.’

  ‘I’ve given a DNA sample to his lawyer.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Harvie asked, sharply. ‘Not Levison, is it? Blonde, big hair, looks like she starred in Dallas?’

  ‘Yes, her name was Levison.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He clucked his tongue again. ‘Can’t decide if that’s a smart move, or not. Probably not, knowing her.’

  ‘She seemed a bit of a mess, to me. Looked like she’d come back from a dirty stop-out. Looked about ready for another one, in fact.’

  ‘Oh, don’t swallow that act. I bet she pretended she was busy on her phone when she spoke with you. Or gibbered about how great the cocktails were.’

  ‘She did seem kind of distracted, considering she’d set the meeting up.’

  ‘Yep. Ding! That’s what she does. Of course, if you’re of the opposite sex, she’s got other ways of throwing you off guard. Don’t be fooled. Every great conjuror has that kind of act down to a fine art – they act the fool, or they pretend to be clumsy, or they start stuttering and telling bad jokes. It’s all to deceive you. One hand starts waving, you should pay attention to what the other one’s doing. She’s got a lot of scalps on her mantelpiece, that one. Her front path is paved with the bones of people who underestimated her.’

  ‘You have experience of this?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ He snickered. ‘You say she put you onto me?’

  ‘Yes. Said you could help. Told me you had the contacts, and the knowledge.’

  ‘I guess I do. I could make a couple of phone calls. But I’m wondering… what does Cheryl Levison get out of it? Or your dad, come to think of it?’

  ‘She said the appeal is being heard. Takes time going through the courts. So I presume her putting me onto you has got something to do with that.’

  ‘That’s about right. You’ll be useful to them. She’ll have spotted that right away.’ Harvie set down his cup, very delicately, then rested his head on his fist. ‘I’ll say this, it’s unsettling.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The more I look at you, the more I see a resemblance. You’ve got those inky black eyes. They don’t seem to reflect the light. He was like that. So you remind me of him… but you’re also pretty. It’s a bit like back in my courting days. I’d meet a girl I liked, and then find out she’s the spitting image of her old man. Images you don’t want in your mind, you know?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ She almost burst out laughing. But she was all too aware that she was with a strange man, in the strange man’s house, in a very lonely spot.

  ‘You’re kind of Spanish-looking, if that’s not too offensive a thing to say. Hispanic, that might be the term to use. That Goth stuff doesn’t work on everyone, but it suits you down to the ground. You were made for mourning. I could see you fluttering a Sevillian fan in front of that pretty face.’

  ‘Did we just time-warp fifty years into the past or something?’

  He held out a placatory hand, but se
emed unruffled for it. ‘Just being honest with you. Old Fleet Street eye. I know what sells the papers. If they still sell papers. You take a nice picture, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I…’

  ‘And that is what will sell your story. Everywhere.’

  ‘I just want to write a piece. I’m not bothered about pictures.’

  ‘If you want to be paid for it, properly, then you should be bothered about pictures. This isn’t the time to get shy. If you give them a tip, and say: “Guess what? I’m the Woodcutter’s daughter”, then your face is going to appear in their papers whether you want it or not. Because they’ll find you. They could be sat on a park bench half a mile away, but they’ll get some pictures of you in the street. You would never know. Some joker might doorstep you, and you might even tell them to bugger off. But they’ll get what they need out of you – and if not you, then your friends. And maybe even not your friends. Work colleagues, people you don’t like. Exes. They might decide to take an unfriendly line of inquiry. It’s more fun that way. For them, and the morons who read it. Then they’ll run the story you wanted for yourself, except you had nothing to do with it, and you don’t get a bean. They have ways of finding you. The dark arts, they call it. I’m a long time out the game, but that kind of stuff is easier to sort out in the digital era compared to what I worked with.’

  Freya sighed. ‘I’ll have to think about that.’

  ‘Suit yourself. I’m just telling you how it is. So what kind of piece are you aiming for, then? Magazine feature? “What it’s like to have a dad who’s a murderer”?’

  ‘No. The opposite. One for the news section.’

  ‘Yeah? What’s your angle?’

  ‘I don’t think he did it.’

  ‘You what?’ Now it was Harvie’s turn for incredulity. ‘He’s a killer, love. Don’t doubt it. I worked on a few serial killer cases. They were much more common in the Eighties and Nineties than they are now, with a camera on every bloody corner. Much harder for them to get away with it, these days. With the really bad ones, you get to know them. You can separate the truth from the lies. And I know your dad’s a killer. Many times over. Bet your life on it.’