The Runner

by P. R. Black

  ‘Nope. I know who your dad is. And so does everybody else. Make no mistake about it.’ His smile faded. ‘You’ve changed the hair – probably a good move, given the hassle you might be about to have. As close to a disguise as you can get. Not one hundred per cent sure blonde suits you, but that’s just my opinion. But without that eye make-up, you look so much like him it’s freaky.’

  ‘Sorry for existing. You got any more tabloid advice for me? Any makeover tips? Shall I wear a nice short skirt? Unbutton my top, maybe?’ She gestured towards some bushes, visible through the waist-high fencing about one hundred yards away. ‘Got someone stationed in there? Candid shots? Should I wear a very revealing outfit? Don’t waste my time. Get to the point, Mick.’

  ‘The reason I came to see you was to warn you that I’ve heard some rumblings from my sources at the police.’

  ‘Rumblings? Was it happy hour at the doughnut shop?’

  ‘There’s something about to break in the Woodcutter case. Cold case review team have been going nuts. It was worth passing on, I think.’

  ‘And what do you want in return for that?’

  ‘I’ve come to make you an offer. Another feature – guaranteed two-page spread at one of the nationals.’

  She sighed. ‘I’m not doing this for big offers, Mick. I’m doing this because my dad’s my last living relative, and I think the courts, the police, and the press let him down. I wish you’d understand that.’

  ‘The nationals have been in contact, though. I know that.’ He grinned.

  ‘You don’t know everything. When I mentioned you to the guy at the Sentinel, he burst out laughing. Said he thought you were in the retirement home for embittered hacks. What can he mean?’

  ‘Wowzers!’ He cackled. ‘With a bit of that chutzpah, you could be a star on the nationals!’

  Freya stared at her feet, feeling colour rise to her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. That was totally uncalled for. He didn’t say that. I didn’t mean to be so nasty.’

  He dismissed her apology with an impatient wave of the hand. ‘The Sentinel, you say? Half those clowns don’t know they’re born. They’re hardly out of school. Bit like yourself.’ He could not stop a sneer breaking free of his beard. ‘Think they can control the world through a computer terminal. Get their stories that way, too. Start to see life through pixels, not flesh and blood. But life isn’t quite automated yet. It isn’t all emails and social media. Most of that’s a lie – or a misunderstanding, at best. To get to the truth, you have to speak to people. Get their confidence. That means getting off your arse and talking to them. Face-to-face. Not on a screen.’

  ‘So, when you stalked me and waited outside my front door this morning… what was that, Mick? A charm offensive?’

  ‘I’ve told you my reasoning. You might have ignored me. And at the end of the day – you’re very interesting. But you’re not the story. The Woodcutter is the story. He’s the be-all and end-all. Whoever he might be.’

  ‘You seemed pretty sure the Woodcutter was my dad, the last time we met. Now you’re being vague. Something changed your mind?’

  Harvie took a flask of water from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the cap and took a sip. Somewhat bizarrely, he offered it to her; she shook her head.

  ‘Too early for me, Mick. Not opening time yet.’

  ‘It’s water,’ he said, without a trace of humour. He screwed the cap back on. ‘I’ll say it again. Your dad’s a son of a bitch. He’s not right. And he chopped up June Caton-Bell, and the rest of them. I know it. But he’s got wriggle room, legally. And his appeal has got the cops spooked. That was before the axe and the skeleton turned up in the field.’

  ‘Nobody mentioned an axe,’ Freya said. ‘Just remains. They held that back.’

  ‘I mentioned an axe. I’ve got sources, remember? They found an axe. Added to the appeal, something’s bothering them. Particularly Bernard Galvin.’

  ‘The copper who put my dad away, you mean?’

  ‘One of many. But yeah, him in particular. He took the press conferences. He got his big ball face in the cameras outside court. A good copper, as I say. Not someone you want to cross. But fair. And he got his man, no doubt about that.’

  ‘So, what’s spooked him? What do you know?’

  ‘You up for doing another feature?’

  ‘Maybe. But that means you tell me everything you know.’

  His mock-innocent face was one of the most slappable Freya had ever seen in real life. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. You held things back from me, then sold them on the back of my article. I don’t care about the money. But you ripped me off last time. Spare me the patter.’

  ‘You agreed to the piece in the Salvo. I didn’t mention any other paper. Or what I knew.’

  ‘Your word for the day is “disingenuous”, Mick.’

  ‘And yours is “experience”. You’ve learned something. So – I promise to share the goods, and you give me some words. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’ They shook on it. ‘Now – what have you got to tell me?’

  ‘Something of interest. Something you might know. And something Glenn Allander doesn’t know. If he did, he’d have splattered it all over that miserable website of his, the way he does with everything else. See, this is the thing with the geeks – they don’t know what to put out there, and what to hold back. They just spew everything out. There’s no nuance. No control. Everything’s for show and effect. But there’s restraint in the press. You might not think it, but there is. We have a duty of care. Normally when I say that, people burst out laughing, and point to cases where…’

  ‘What’s the new stuff you’ve got for me, Mick? Be quick. I have things to do today.’

  ‘There’s a site of interest to the cops. It’s not new; from way back. I never knew why. But Bernard Galvin wants it opened up again. Wants the cold case team to look at it. Somewhere he was interested in when one of the other victims vanished. Somewhere a black van had been seen. Near an abandoned quarry. Nothing was found, but he wants it opened up. He still thinks one of the missing bodies is there. Given the timeline, it’s probably Anne-Marie Kittrick.’

  Freya contained her impatience, but only just. ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘You’ll like this.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a ghost town. I’ll send you the location. You can check it out, if you like.’

  ‘You coming with us?’

  ‘Not this time. I’ve got one or two tips of my own I want to follow up. Could be a dead end. Might not be a dead end. Anyway. Stay tuned, Freya.’

  He made his way off – limping slightly. Mixed feelings, Freya thought. There’s a man who deserves a kick in the balls, all right. Then she remembered lashing out. She remembered his face contorting in surprise and pain. That wasn’t her. Martial arts or no martial arts. She covered her face and sighed.

  She would have to ask her dad more about him.

  19

  Gareth Solomon seemed so jocular that Freya would have sworn he was on something. Rather than a bullet-headed wrestler gone to seed, he now more closely resembled the jolly older male relative at a family barbecue he would have been in an alternate reality.

  One-way banter filtered through the air as he was buzzed through the security door; it wasn’t clear if the guard accompanying him gave any reply. Solomon’s eyes were compressed into tight-packed lines of mirth. That was, until he saw her.

  ‘Whoa. What have you done to your hair?’

  ‘I had to make a change or two. The press. Nosy people in general. You know how it is.’

  ‘God, that’s some difference. I mean the mascara and the whole Morticia Addams thing, it was a good look… All said and done, I prefer a blonde, that’s true.’

  ‘Thanks…’ She took a deep breath. Her mouth didn’t want to form the word. She felt herself blushing. This was a risk… And yet, it felt like the right thing to say, so she said: ‘…Dad.’

  He grinned. ‘It’ll take a bit of getting used to, this.’

  ‘Being a huma
n?’

  ‘Well put! Being a father’s close enough, I guess. I didn’t have the best role models in that regard, as I already told you.’

  ‘You heard he died?’

  ‘So they told me. Second or third-hand. I heard he died while I was inside. Someone passed me a death notice clipped out the local paper. “After a long illness,” it said. Cancer, I hope. He never saw the inside of a prison for what he did. No idea what happened to the brothers and sisters, to this day – after I ended up in care. Never bothered to keep in touch, and they certainly didn’t want to keep in touch with me. Especially since I ended up in here. The papers said I had the classic journey – from the firm hand of daddy to minor crime, then bigger crimes, and finally – a great big one. Allegedly.’

  After a pause, Freya said: ‘I’m sorry that happened to you.’

  Solomon shrugged, then said in a startlingly camp voice: ‘Over it, girlfriend.’ He paused for a response. When it didn’t arrive, he said: ‘Is that still something people say on the outside?’

  ‘It’s not quite the same language, but I can work out what it means through the context.’

  ‘That patter’s twenty-five years old, I guess. As old as you are.’ He cocked his head at her, and narrowed his eyes. ‘There’s something you want to ask me. Spill it. Go.’

  ‘I want to follow up on what I mentioned last time. I want to talk a little bit about some of the victims.’

  ‘Victims.’ He nodded intently, and faded out for a second or two. ‘OK. Victims. Whose victims, exactly?’

  ‘The Woodcutter’s.’

  He leaned back in his chair and pinched his nose. The silence that followed seemed to portend a detonation of sorts, and she steeled herself for it – as did the guard over his shoulder, who braced himself for an outburst, or worse. But instead, Solomon almost whispered: ‘And why would I want to talk about someone else’s victims?’

  ‘Because you were linked to each abduction. I want to hear you talk about why it wasn’t you.’

  ‘Retrace my steps? OK. I can do that. I know it off the top of my head by now. Could sit an exam. Hit me – who was first? Anne-Marie Kittrick? Underpass girl?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I drove over that underpass four times, two days before she vanished. Apparently on the first day, she was on a training run. But the time of the training run doesn’t quite match the time I drove past. On the second time, she wasn’t there. The reason I drove over that underpass was because I was ferrying car parts from a garage to a go-karting racetrack, would you believe, fourteen miles down the bendy little A-road that fed into the main road. I never clapped eyes on her.’

  ‘What about the day she vanished?’

  ‘Nowhere near the place… in fact, I might have been going to see your mum. That would be about right.’

  ‘No record of you anywhere, though.’

  ‘There is, though. I had to take some repaired computer equipment all the way down the south coast, starting the morning after she was killed. Bit of a stretch that I did it, made a pick-up then drove all the way down, isn’t it?’

  ‘But you were placed close to her. You could have spotted her and stalked her, couldn’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ He stared into her eyes. ‘It’s trumped up. It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Now… Coleen Arden.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Good-looking girl. I saw enough photos of her. In the papers, you know. Looked like someone on Coronation Street or EastEnders. Wasn’t me, before you ask.’

  ‘You had checked into a hotel close to the train station, which was the last place she was seen before she vanished on the Downs.’

  ‘And I had checked in with a woman. Police know who she was, and spoke to her.’

  ‘She said she was blind drunk the night it happened and can’t swear if you were there or not. No CCTV cameras showing you going in or out, back then. You parked on the street.’

  ‘But I was there, and I woke up next to her the next morning. It’s true she was drunk. She was like that. Next.’

  ‘Max Dilworth. Tyre tracks, near the canal track. Van found burnt out – similar to the one you drove. You didn’t have any work that week.’

  ‘But not the one I drove. I didn’t own any other transit vans. I reckon that boy was killed by the IRA – nothing to do with the Woodcutter. I think the Woodcutter was into girls. If the police have got anything linking Max Dilworth to the Woodcutter cases, they haven’t made it clear to me or anyone connected to my case. Fishing trip, that one. You want my opinion, the security services are embarrassed about it. Pin the tail on the serial killer.’

  ‘Danielle Pearson. The wheatfield. Dog walker. You were helping drive tractors on a farm.’

  ‘A farm… fifty miles away. And it was hard work on those farms, let me tell you. Some rough boys work there. I didn’t go back there. I lasted a couple of weeks then moved on.’

  ‘Yes… They couldn’t trace the men you worked with, on the evening she vanished.’

  ‘They were casual workers, backpackers, seasonal bods… drifters. I couldn’t tell you their names, confidently. One of them might have been from Lithuania. I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘And June Caton-Bell.’ Freya folded her arms. ‘The night you were with Carol Ramirez.’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t have anything to say about that. It wasn’t me – that much I can tell you. I can’t say anything more. I can’t say anything about Carol, either. So don’t ask.’

  ‘It’s the one they got you for.’

  ‘I didn’t do it. That’s all I’ll say.’ He smiled.

  ‘You seem in a good mood, talking about dead girls, I have to say.’

  Solomon leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. He thrust his chin downwards, and cast his eyes upwards. ‘Aren’t I just? I’m bouncing up and down about the stuff I read in the papers. So, why don’t you fill me in – you might know more than me. Skulls and axes in a field, would you believe it? The cat is among the pigeons. How’d you find out about that?’

  ‘Someone tipped me off.’

  ‘How? If you don’t mind my asking.’

  Freya smiled, but his unblinking stare caused the hairs to stand up on her arms and the back of her neck. If I’m wrong… This might have been the last thing some of them saw. Maybe it’s what his expression was, right before he snatched them. Before he started snarling. ‘Anonymous tip-off. You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?’

  ‘Much as I would love to pretend to be an evil puppet master pulling the strings from in here… Nope. Not me. It was the real Woodcutter. You must suspect that.’

  ‘I’m keeping an open mind.’

  ‘It’s him, don’t doubt it. Now… What does he want with you, daughter of mine?’

  ‘You want my opinion… He’s seen you in the papers. He wants to draw attention back to himself. Maybe he wants to come out of retirement. I’m not sure. It draws the scent away from you, though. Helps your case.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Anyway. Plod looking after you?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘You’re in danger.’

  ‘I know I’m in danger!’ she blurted out. ‘Sometimes I can’t think about anything else! I’ve got a panic alarm set up in the house, since the bones were found in the field. The police say they’ve been patrolling, but… I can’t be sure. They’ve been saying elsewhere the police haven’t got money. They aren’t investigating crimes. They can’t post sentries at my door, exactly. Sorry.’ She brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. ‘It’s been weird. It’s been stressful. I know, it’s been my fault… For getting involved. Sticking my nose in. I could have let it go, just kept it a secret. But it didn’t feel like the right thing to do. It’s not me as a person.’

  He raised his hand. ‘I’m sorry. Please stay safe – whoever it is out there, they might mean you harm, if what you say is right. Don’t take chances. Maybe you shouldn’t come here again.’

  She sh
ook her head. ‘No. I’ve come too far for that.’

  ‘They assigned a detective to you?’

  ‘One has been in contact.’

  ‘God help you if it’s Bernie Galvin.’ Solomon twitched, alarmingly. ‘Seriously, try not to spend a lot of time alone. I don’t want to find out I have a daughter, then find out I… don’t.’ He blinked, suddenly, then looked away. Solomon didn’t look as if he was upset, exactly, just deeply uncomfortable. How does a psychopath process emotion? Can they process emotion? ‘Anyway. Let’s not lower the tone,’ he continued. ‘It’s been a trail of good news this week. Sweet little crumbs.’

  ‘You had some more good news?’

  ‘Oh, you betcha. Glad tidings tickle my ears. We’re in court soon. And I’m very, very confident I’ll get a result. Could be that the next time we have a chinwag, I’ll be a free man.’ He paused. ‘I mean, isn’t that exciting? We could have a proper father-daughter relationship. Whatever that is.’

  She felt an absurd feeling of warmth and contentment at these words – she struggled to keep it from her face. ‘If you’re cleared, then yes. We can have that. I’ll do that for you. What’re your glad tidings, then?’

  ‘Well, ordinarily I’d be wary of opening my gob about anything in here, but… You promise not to tell?’

  ‘Cross my heart. Hope to die.’

  ‘It seems old Bernie Galvin’s getting a bit worked up. Something’s turned up. Well, apart from that dead guy with the axe in his skull. It seems that there’s something they found in the grave alongside that jigsaw puzzle they found in the farmer’s field. Something that led them to the old quarry. A place of interest, they call it. It seems that they might have found an old black van in there. One that might have been used in the Woodcutter cases. Yes. Must have been there a good while. Out in all the old caves and what have you. Surprised it hasn’t rusted away to a shell. And you know the really strange thing about the black van they may or may not have found in the caves? It’s got absolutely nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You scrapped your black van. Not long before you were arrested.’

  ‘That’s right. See, I’m not a Mensa kid. I won’t lie to you – I was very stupid, and also a bit panicky and desperate, when it turned out a witness had seen me creeping out of Carol Ramirez’s house. And describing a black van. And June Caton-Bell turning up in those woods. So I took what I thought was a logical step. I had my black van scrapped. Got a mate of mine to do it. Pledged to put it in the crusher. Twenty quid, cash in hand. Owed me a favour. Except he wasn’t that much of a mate, as he sang like a bird to the coppers right after it. Where things get really juicy is that Bernie Galvin claimed he turned up some evidence. Hair strands, he said, from June Caton-Bell. Only, June Caton-Bell wasn’t anywhere near my old van in her life. Now, if the real black van should turn up in an old quarry, down the bottom of a shaft somewhere, and if there should be genuine evidence in there… Things might get a bit awkward for Bernie Galvin. Wouldn’t you say?’