The Runner

by P. R. Black

  The train sliced through the valleys towards the coast. Endearingly, before the train reached the end of the line, some of the stations were request-only stops. She had never encountered these before. Perhaps the diesel will morph into a steam train before I get off, she thought. She imagined a leering, demonic face on the front of such an engine, before she could stop herself. Even so, she considered having a drink by the time she got off at the terminus.

  She had had one and was considering another when Mick Harvie showed up. He had on a green military-style jacket with packed pockets, over the top of a black polo shirt, all of which suited his wiry frame. Freya noticed he’d trimmed his beard, too. She wouldn’t have gone so far as to call him handsome, but he was at least presentable. When he came forward to shake her hand, she smelled a pungent aftershave, and then knew for certain that he’d dressed up for her.

  ‘Can’t believe you beat me to the station,’ he said, sardonically. ‘I had a few roadworks on the way, but all the same – well done.’

  ‘Sure you weren’t hiding in the bagel shop?’ Freya said, not breaking the handshake. ‘I saw someone in there with a military coat, you know. Weren’t stalking me, were you?’

  He grinned. ‘You going to buy me one, then?’

  ‘I think we’d best get going. Especially if you’re driving.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  Out in the car park was a pure white vintage MG. She had seen it, and immediately dismissed it. When he pulled out his keys and slid them into the lock, she cocked her head. ‘Seriously?’

  For the first time, Harvie looked hurt. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a gorgeous car… It’s very you,’ she added quickly. ‘Is there going to be space for my backpack?’

  ‘Sure. At your feet.’

  The seats had clearly been re-upholstered, fitting the contours of her body beautifully. He’d clearly worked hard on this car; something of a pride and joy. Or, oh God, he’s trying to impress me.

  The engine was far too noisy as they pulled out into light traffic. Heads turned as they passed. In the close heat of the late afternoon, he triggered the window and laid his elbow on the sill. Time marks everyone, Freya thought. Everyone can see the generation gap but them. Is it a delusion that kicks in in the forties, or later? Maybe even as recently as the 1990s, this set-up wouldn’t have seemed naff; might even have seemed classy. She half expected him to put on racing gloves or aviator shades.

  ‘It’s not too far,’ he said. ‘We’re away from the main resort, out into the retirement zone. Nice place he’s got.’

  ‘Wife there with him?’

  ‘Just him. Wife died, while he was still on the force. No one else for him since then, according to my information.’ He glanced across at her lap, where she was tapping a message into her phone to Glenn. ‘You got something to record him with?’

  ‘I’ve brought a digital voice recorder. Don’t you worry.’

  He nodded. ‘There’s every chance you’ll get a door slammed in your face. Or maybe even worse.’

  ‘You said you were friends?’

  ‘No I didn’t. I said he was a good copper. Friends is a relative term. He was never the type of guy to leak anything to the press. A few of his lieutenants, yeah. Maybe he even put a few of them up to it. But Bernie Galvin always let you know which side of the fence you were on. As I said, I respected him.’

  ‘So why don’t you want to speak to him?’

  ‘It’ll be better all round if you do it. You’re more likely to get a result than me. It’ll be a surprise to him. And there’s every chance he’ll give the time of day to a young thing like yourself, as I’ve said.’

  ‘So where will you be?’

  ‘I’ll be nearby, getting some photos. You won’t even know I’m there. He certainly won’t.’

  ‘It sounds a little bit dodgy to me. What if he invites me in?’

  ‘Then you bloody go in! He’s not going to bite you. He’s too old. Must be pushing seventy, now.’

  Freya glanced at the wattled lines of Mick Harvie’s neck, then decided not to pursue an obvious line of inquiry. ‘What if he chops me up?’

  He laughed aloud. ‘Now that’d be a turn-up for the books, and no mistake. If it happens, well, I want you to know… you’ll be front-page news.’

  *

  Bernie Galvin’s bungalow was at the end of a lovely row of sugarloaf houses, all competing against each other for the most colourful floral display. It hurt Freya’s eyes to look at the yellows, pinks, purples, and especially the reds, so bright they seemed to shimmer.

  ‘This is where we say toodle-oo,’ Harvie said. ‘I’ll make myself scarce. You may be tempted to look out for me in the line of trees just across the road. You have to ignore this temptation.’

  Beyond the treeline was the sea. They had climbed a long way in the car without Freya noticing, until she saw some distant oil tankers hugging the horizon.

  ‘Remember, don’t get adversarial. You’re trying to get his thoughts on the case. Try to coax him in. It’s not a fight.’

  ‘I think I know how to speak to someone by now, Mick. I’m a full adult.’

  ‘All the same, you’ve not been in this game as long as I have. And that’s almost twice as long as you’ve been alive. So, take a tip.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  Harvie ducked away across the road. Freya, with her digital recorder in her pocket, approached the front door.

  The gate squeaked appallingly, despite a coat of new-looking blue paint. She half expected a dog to bound down the neat little stone path towards her, but none appeared. The door was painted the same shade as the gate. It, and the frame around it, looked fresh, as did the whitewashed walls. A thatched roof might have suited this bungalow perfectly, but instead there was a topping of red tiles and a skylight.

  No car was parked in front; there was no sign of life at the front windows.

  Freya knocked on the door, and waited. There being no response, she knocked harder, then stood back, surveying the windows. Nothing. No sign of anyone home. The sun cast the house in a golden tone that made Freya think of dripping honey. She could think of nothing better than to stay in a house like this.

  She noticed a gate at the western edge of the house. It was ajar. Freya didn’t hesitate, and made towards it. As prescribed, she resisted the temptation to glance back towards the trees, now a fair distance behind her.

  The gate seemed like an open invite. So, she took it. It opened out onto a perfectly kept lawn, with turf that looked like the greens on a golf course. A water feature tinkled somewhere, nearby a squat shed, painted camouflage green.

  ‘Hello?’ she called out, uncertainly. ‘Mr Galvin?’

  She took a step or two inside the gate. Then she heard a clear, definite click.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ The accent was northern, possibly Leeds, or somewhere on the periphery. It came from somewhere over her right shoulder; she dared a look, but still couldn’t see anyone.

  ‘My name’s Freya Bain. I’ve come to see if you’ll agree to an interview.’

  ‘An interview for what, exactly?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know exactly who I’m talking to.’

  ‘The person who owns this fucking house, that’s who. The house you’re trespassing in.’ Finally, he revealed himself. He had changed a lot from the photograph Mick Harvie had shown her earlier – his hair was white, and badly thinning, and he had put on a fair amount of weight. But he still had the shoulders, the build and the hands of a prize fighter, a boxy man with a low centre of gravity – no more than five foot seven – who would have intimidated men much taller.

  He also had a shotgun, pointed straight at her.

  She raised her hands, pulse quickening. ‘I’m not armed,’ she said, ludicrously.

  ‘I know that, Calamity Jane. Had you been armed, I’d have sprayed you over the back wall.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ she said, her throat closing up on her. ‘You’ve jus
t had it repainted, I can see.’

  ‘Which paper you from?’

  ‘The Salvo.’

  ‘The Salvo? You know what I used to say whenever someone from the fucking Salvo called me up? When I was on the force? They’d say, “I’m Johnny Fuckface from the Salvo,” and I’d say, “The Salvo, eh? You’re fucking fired.”’ When Freya didn’t laugh, he lowered the shotgun. ‘Don’t piss your pants. I won’t shoot you. Unless you give me a really good reason.’

  ‘I’m not going to give you any, um, reason to.’ She lowered her hands – slowly. Her head was swimming, a curious draining sensation at her neck. She wondered if this was what it meant to faint. She shut her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them. The world stopped spinning.

  ‘Why’d you come in that gate?’

  ‘Because you left it open.’ She forced herself to look into his wide, hostile grey eyes. It was easier to do now that the shotgun was pointed towards the jet-washed paving stones. ‘And I’ll bet you did that deliberately. See me coming, did you?’

  ‘Maybe.’ A trace of a smile. It seemed an effort for him to execute one properly. His face had a corrugated look, especially around the mouth and the forehead. These were not laugh lines. ‘Maybe you’re not as green as you look. So, Freya Bain, from the Salvo. You on work experience?’

  ‘No. I’m not staff. I’m working on a feature… On the Woodcutter case.’

  ‘Woodcutter case. You probably weren’t fucking born when the Woodcutter was about. What’s going on with that, then? Fucker’s still trying to claim he didn’t do it. Daft bastard. Yeah, I put him away. And that’s where he’s staying. You can quote me on that.’

  ‘It’s him I’m here to talk about – Gareth Solomon. I’m his daughter.’

  The face fell. He seemed confused, for a moment, and looked a lot older than he was. ‘You’re the lass in the paper the other day.’

  Freya nodded.

  He scowled at her a moment, then said: ‘You’ve had a haircut since then. Changed the colour a bit. Yeah… I see his eyes, all right. I could believe that, lass.’

  ‘I want to talk about him… I reckon that he’s not the Woodcutter.’

  Galvin laughed aloud; Freya flinched. ‘Not the Woodcutter? Sweetheart, I don’t know how well you know your daddy, but not as well as I know him. And that fucker is in the right place, let me tell you. He’s a deviant, and for my money, he slaughtered all the others. And a few more besides that we don’t know about. So, don’t try and tell me my business.’

  Freya nodded, hoping she hadn’t turned her digital recorder off when she’d leapt in fright. ‘I understand what you’re saying. I know that he’s a compelling suspect.’

  ‘Compelling? That’s one way of putting it. He’s a cert. Now I don’t know what this new case they’re trying to link with it is, but I can tell you…’

  ‘New case? You mean the old bodies, the ones they’ve found?’

  ‘But I can tell you,’ he continued, blinking, ‘that he killed those five people. He took them somewhere quiet, and he hunted them down. And when he caught them, he chopped them up. He’s a smart bugger, I’ll say that. But Gareth Solomon is the Woodcutter. He’s not getting out of jail. If there’s a copycat out there, then it’s nothing to do with him, I guarantee you.’

  ‘A copycat? Sorry, how do you mean, a copycat?’

  ‘I’ve said all I want to say to you. At least now, I’ve had a good look at you. Now, be so kind as to give your man a shout, and then be on your way. And make it fast?’

  Freya then did what she said she wouldn’t do; she glanced towards the trees. ‘My man?’

  ‘No, not over there.’ And here Bernard Galvin raised his shotgun – using it as a pointer. ‘Over there. In my garden. Other direction. The man in the trees.’

  ‘There isn’t a man in the trees,’ Freya said, desperately.

  ‘A photographer, I’m guessing. Mind you, I saw that prick Harvie’s name attached to your story, the other day. One of my old boys at the nick called me to say he’d been sniffing around. In a way I hope it is him. I really do.’ Galvin stalked towards the treeline at the back of his garden, near the shed. ‘Come on out, son. Best if you come out,’ he called, confidently.

  ‘I’m serious – there’s no one there,’ Freya said.

  ‘Interesting. Perhaps it’s a third party?’ Galvin grinned. ‘We’re going to find out who it is, anyway.’ And he bellowed: ‘Whoever’s in there. You’ve got to the count of five. Then I start shooting. One…’

  The trees rustled. There was an impression of a spindly-limbed spider detaching itself from one of the branches; then a figure dropped to the ground, in front of the back fence, straightened up, and walked towards them.

  30

  Bernard Galvin’s tongue protruded in a grotesque leer as the man in the trees came into view. ‘And here he is, the man for all seasons. Come on down.’ He cackled. ‘The rural life suiting you all right, Harvie?’

  ‘Put the gun down, Bernard,’ Mick Harvie said, striding through the trees. His hands were raised. ‘No one means you any harm, here.’

  ‘Oh, I’m well aware of that.’ Galvin rested the shotgun in the crook of his elbow. ‘If I thought you meant me any harm, you’d be dead already. I was just explaining that to the young lady, here.’

  ‘You know who she is?’ Harvie’s face was set, tense.

  ‘She mentioned it.’ Galvin moved a little closer to his shed – only a few paces away from Harvie, but at an improved angle to keep them both covered. He studied Freya closely, now. The sense of gruff amusement faltered a little. ‘Yeah, now I see her in this light… Little doubt about it. You’re his daughter all right, lass. I don’t need to see any DNA test results to know it. God. How does that feel?’

  ‘No one’s asked me that yet,’ Freya said.

  ‘Pretty sure I did,’ Harvie muttered.

  ‘Stop gibbering, both of you,’ Galvin said. He gestured towards Freya with the shotgun; she fought the urge to run. ‘Now, you say you’re here to ask some questions. I might even have answered a few, had I not spotted this evil little chimp scuttling around the front of the house. He working with you, I take it?’

  Freya said nothing.

  ‘I’ll assume that’s a yes. OK. Yeah, interesting times with the Woodcutter case. First you pop up in the papers, asking all sorts of questions… Then you find one of the bodies… Then I hear that you find another.’

  Harvie frowned. ‘Second body? When was this?’

  Galvin chuckled. ‘Listen to him! Always the innocent, is Mick Harvie. I’ll give you some free advice, Miss Woodcutter Junior or whatever they call you. Don’t listen to anything this sewer rat tells you.’

  ‘Missed you too,’ Harvie said. His voice was steady but Freya could discern a slight tremor in his hands.

  ‘Aren’t you two old friends?’ Freya said.

  ‘No we are not,’ Bernie Galvin said, very quietly. ‘Never were, never will be. Not in a million years.’

  Harvie made no response to this.

  ‘Anyway… I’ll answer a couple of questions, miss… was it Freya? Yeah. Go for it. I’m in a forgiving mood, even though you’re trespassing. Did you know… if you trespass in someone’s house, you’re giving them a right to kill you?’

  ‘You left your gate open. I was just coming around the back of the house, to see if you were home.’

  ‘Sure you were. Like you’d do that in anyone else’s home. Y’know, the press… it’s changed since my day – since the days this ferret-faced carbuncle did his thing at press conferences… All technology, now. But you people don’t really change, do you? You just find new ways to invade people’s privacy.’

  Freya could feel the colour rising in her face. She cleared her throat, then said: ‘You mentioned something else that was going on – before you mentioned the second body. What was it? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Don’t play the fucking innocent. You, and that little Murder Supper Club you have going. What is i
t – Red Ink? You’re up to your necks in something. You’ve got information coming from somewhere, and I promise you – I still know some boys, real hard nuts, the lads who were coming up in the world round about the time I dropped out. And I can promise, whatever you know, they’ll get it out of you. Whether you make it easy or hard, they’ll find out. And they’ll find out whether you’re linked to the new carry-on.’

  ‘What carry-on? This is the bit I don’t get. What new stuff do you mean?’

  ‘The body they found. Or, the bits of the body they found. Oh come on! All those access to sources you boast about, and you don’t fucking know? You will, in about twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that they’ve found another body? Out of the final two that’re missing?’

  ‘Jesus, maybe you don’t know. Well, you’ll soon find out.’ He smirked.

  ‘Slow down a minute,’ Harvie said to her. ‘Unless my maths is out, you’re telling me that you’ve found another one of the missing bodies? In the space of a few fucking days? And you didn’t think to tell me?’

  ‘You didn’t ask,’ Freya said simply.

  ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ Harvie growled.

  ‘Don’t talk to the lady like that,’ Galvin told him, again, in the peremptory tones of a bored, experienced teacher who yearned for the days of corporal punishment. ‘Hey, Freya – whatever he’s promising you for these gigs at the Salvo, I promise you he’ll be on at least double. Tip for you – call the office, make a few inquiries, speak to accounts, if it isn’t run by a spreadsheet these days. He’s probably diddling you. He diddles everyone, when he can.’