Crying Out Loud

by Cath Staincliffe

  I laid out my thoughts to Geoff Sinclair: ‘If we accept that Damien told me the truth, as far as he could remember, then it suggests that Charlie was attacked soon after he reached the cottage, and shortly before Damien found him. The lights were off and the door unlocked. And Charlie’s car was still warm when Damien came out of the cottage.’

  Sinclair frowned at that.

  ‘Damien felt ill,’ I elaborated. ‘He went to steady himself on the car. The metal was hot.’

  Sinclair shrugged. ‘A shock like that, the nausea, makes you sweat, that’s all.’

  ‘But he didn’t just feel it, he heard it, too: the clicking of the bodywork cooling. It only came back to him when we talked. And it is such a specific, bizarre detail I’m certain it’s a genuine memory. That time of year, it would take, what, ten minutes to cool off? Did you have an estimate for the time of death?’

  He made a sound, an exasperated snort. ‘I really don’t think it’s my place—’

  ‘Please, if you can still remember?’ It was a challenge of sorts as well as a plea. I reckoned he would pride himself on knowing the details of his last case. Probably older ones, too. He struck me as a conscientious man.

  He was quiet for a moment, then: ‘The pathologist estimated that Charlie died sometime in the four hours preceding discovery by Libby Hill at six, though time of death is only ever an approximation. We had the last sighting from Heather Carter and Valerie Mayhew at four fifteen. It would take a further fifteen to twenty minutes to reach the cottage depending on the traffic. So that gave us a time frame of an hour and a half, between four thirty and six.’

  ‘Damien got there at four forty. He just missed the killer.’

  ‘Or he was the killer,’ Sinclair said. Wasn’t he convinced by Damien’s last words?

  ‘You don’t believe the suicide note?’

  He shrugged and gave me a baleful look.

  ‘Damien passed two parked cars going up the hill to the cottage,’ I persisted. ‘He passed a man who was coming down, then he heard an engine start soon after. One of the cars, a Volvo, belongs to a resident. The other was a Mondeo; no one in the street owns one.’

  There was a subtle shift in Sinclair’s expression, a flare of interest in his bright blue eyes. Hard to read. Did he think I was on to something? ‘I think the man Damien passed got in that car and drove away,’ I said. ‘There aren’t any houses further up; there are no paths or tourist attractions. Where had he been? I think that was the killer and it could have been Nick Dryden. What about CCTV?’ I said. ‘The cameras at the service station on the main road, those might show Charlie’s car, if anyone was following him, or anyone driving away from the village around then.’

  ‘Wasn’t working,’ he said flatly.

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Broken. The one that covers the shop was the only one working. We didn’t get anything from it.’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake.’ The one thing that might have given credence to my theories and it didn’t exist.

  ‘Did you speak to Nick Dryden?’ Sinclair asked me.

  ‘Not yet.’ I recalled the silent call, the threat of it. ‘Last summer he was wanted for fraud by the Spanish authorities. He disappeared. He’s still on the run. He could be back here. Heather says he continued to make abusive calls. But there haven’t been any since Charlie’s death.’

  ‘Maybe the man has a shred of decency. Look, you’re pointing the finger at Nick Dryden. Last time you thought it could have been road rage,’ Sinclair pointed out. Another of my wild speculations that had gone belly up. ‘But Damien Beswick is still the best fit for the evidence.’

  Resentment burst inside me: I was tired and getting hungry and I still had to drive home and sit up half the night with an abandoned baby and find out if I still had a lover. And Sinclair thought I was useless.

  ‘You don’t seem very interested in finding out who did kill Charlie Carter,’ I said sharply, ‘or are you clinging to the original conviction?’

  His round eyes glittered with anger and when he spoke his words were tight. ‘You know nothing about me but I’ll tell you this: Damien Beswick was dealt with above board and by the book. He confessed to a crime and all the evidence we recovered supported that confession. If justice has not been done, he bears the responsibility. No one else.’ His gaunt face trembled as he finished.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t intend to offend you but that lad deserves to have his name cleared and the real killer should be found and tried. I’m not making things up, I’m just trying to find an explanation for new evidence. I need to pass this information on to the police; someone has to take it seriously.’

  There was a pause. ‘I’ll make a couple of calls,’ he said. ‘Get you a name.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Our parting was stiff, still taut with anger on both sides. I understood it must have been hard for him, seeing the case he’d worked so hard on crumble, have me spouting my pet theories. It would be hard for the other officers and those who would review their work. A job well done gone rancid.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ray said. ‘I couldn’t talk; I was still trying to take it in. Still am.’

  ‘Did you tell your mother?’

  ‘God, no!’

  Small mercy. We were in the kitchen, the favoured venue for most of our family crises. The table was between us. It was getting late.

  ‘So what did Laura say?’ I felt shivery, raw, drained.

  ‘She doesn’t want me involved.’ He was stung, his face drawn. ‘She doesn’t want my help or any maintenance, nothing.’

  Some men might be relieved. But Ray? ‘What do you want?’ I asked quietly.

  He clenched his jaw, swallowed. I looked down and saw him press his fingertips hard against the surface of the table, his nails whitening. ‘I want to know him,’ he said. ‘I want Tom to know him.’

  ‘Did you tell her that?’

  Outside a fierce wind had blown in from the west, buffeting the trees and roaring down our chimneys.

  ‘She’s not interested.’

  ‘Maybe in time—’

  ‘I’m not even on the birth certificate.’ He spoke quickly.

  I tried to imagine their discussion. Recalled Laura as self-contained, quiet; biding her time. Amenable but no pushover. ‘Was she angry, or upset?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ he said dismissively.

  ‘Or not showing it? She might be doing this to punish you. You dropped out of her life just as she finds she’s having your baby. You dropped her like a stone, Ray.’

  He glowered at me, his lips pressed tight together.

  ‘All I’m saying,’ I went on, ‘is that she must be hurt. It’s natural she never wants to see you again. You had been happy together,’ I reminded him, though it made my throat ache.

  ‘You think she’s right?’ he demanded, his temper rising.

  ‘Not about the baby. But I understand why she’s taking this tack. You need some advice – legal advice,’ I said.

  ‘What’s the point? It’s all stacked in her favour. You see it all the time, don’t you? Fathers for justice, whatever – and those guys were married.’

  ‘So you do nothing? Roll over and let her decide? You say you want to be part of Oscar’s life, so fight for it.’

  Ray sighed and put his hand to his head.

  ‘I know some lawyers,’ I pointed out, ‘I can ask around.’ Relief was seeping through me now I knew the facts of the situation. Ray and Laura had not played out the great romantic reunion. She didn’t want him. Did he still want me?

  ‘Did you see him – Oscar?’

  ‘Yep.’ He stood swiftly, overcome by emotion. I rose, too, wanting to console him, wanting him to comfort me. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m going up, I’m knackered.’ He turned away. ‘Night.’

  My eyes pricked, my stomach contracted. I needed his touch. Physical confirmation that things were still good between us. I stewed on this for quarter of an hour and t
hen went to his room. He might not want sex, that was fine: just to lie together would be enough. I went in and crossed to his bed. He was fast asleep. I’d like to say I looked on him with fond sympathy and left him to rest but in truth I stalked out of there aflame with fury, and before I gave in to the impulse to smash something over his pretty black curls.

  Monday morning Ray stayed in bed with a temperature and aches and pains. After I’d taken the kids to school I dialled Abi Dobson.

  ‘Tell me you’re not busy,’ I said.

  ‘Your friend not back?’ she asked.

  ‘No, they want to keep her in a bit longer,’ I lied, feeling heat in my face.

  ‘Well, I’m not busy. Give me ten minutes.’

  ‘You’re a lifesaver,’ I said.

  ‘It’s great for me,’ she replied, ‘some extra cash.’

  ‘I’ll bring her round to yours,’ I said. ‘I’ve some calls to make there and then I need to go to the supermarket. Not sure how long I’ll need.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, I’ve nothing else on today.’

  I caught Monica Meehan, Damien’s lawyer, on the phone before she left for court. When I’d explained why I wanted to see her, she hummed and hawed over her diary, finally squeezing me in early on Friday morning. She also cautioned me that there would be a long way to go before anyone could start talking about quashing the conviction. And the possibility of reopening the investigation would be up to the CPS.

  I rang Libby. ‘How are you bearing up?’

  ‘OK,’ she replied. ‘Apart from some jerk from the tabloids who had fun shouting through the letter box.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday. He gave up after a few hours.’ The sarcastic edge disappeared from her voice as she added: ‘He said the police will want to interview me again. Just the thought of that—’

  ‘They have no evidence against you,’ I reminded her. ‘They hadn’t back then and they still don’t. You were close to Charlie and you found him. That’s why they had to consider you.’

  ‘I know. It was horrible, though. It’s so frightening to be in that situation, I don’t think people have any idea. It’s really scary.’ There was a tremor in her voice. I couldn’t help but think of Damien and how he’d chosen to lie, to sentence himself to time behind bars rather than endure the interrogation.

  ‘He was just trying to get a reaction from you – something to quote in the paper,’ I said.

  ‘Bloody hyenas,’ she complained.

  ‘Have they been back?’ I checked.

  ‘No. But I’m lying low for now. So, is there any news?’

  ‘Things aren’t going to move quickly,’ I told her and outlined what I was doing.

  ‘Should I do anything?’ she asked. ‘Write to the police and demand they reopen the investigation or whatever?’

  ‘Good idea. The more pressure there is coming at them the more likely they’ll have to be seen to be doing something. Address it to the chief constable.’

  ‘Right. I’ll do that.’

  ‘But don’t get your hopes up,’ I warned her.

  ‘You’re saying all I might end up with is that they charged the wrong man.’

  ‘I hope it’s more than that but these things can take years. And there’s a limit to what I can do. The ball needs to be back in the police’s court. They have jurisdiction. They have the authority.’

  After I’d sorted my mail and email messages, I locked the office and went upstairs. Abi and Jamie were in the living room. Jamie was dozing and Abi was watching TV.

  ‘I’m off to the supermarket now,’ I said, ‘then I might try and do a bit more work if that’s OK.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Do you want anything bringing?’

  Abi grinned. ‘Ice cream – chocolate fudge.’

  ‘You got it.’

  As I opened the car door, there was a blur of movement beside me. A flapping of material. Black wings obscuring my vision. Hands grabbed my wrists, forced them behind my back, gripping them both in one large fist, strong as a vice. Acid rose in my throat and my heart thumped with fear.

  ‘Get in,’ a voice hissed, hot breath in my ear.

  I resisted, digging my heels into the ground, locking my knees, but the man held on to my wrists and used his other hand to push my head down and shove me forward. I sprawled across the front seats, bruising my chin on the handbrake. My feet were still outside the car and I kept kicking out, hoping to connect with his shin or kneecap. He leant in after me and yanked my hands up; pain tore across my shoulders.

  ‘Get in,’ he repeated. Kicking at my shoes, pushing my legs out of the way with his foot, thrusting me up against the passenger door. He followed me inside the car and slammed the door shut.

  I tried to kick out but there was no room for manoeuvre. My knees were in the footwell, legs bent, my feet crushed against the gearstick. He belted me across the head with his free hand. The blow rang in my temples, sickening. Then he pressed my head down against the far edge of the passenger seat. He was very strong. The hard plastic moulding of the door bit into the right side of my jaw.

  ‘You’ve been looking for me.’ A gravelly voice, a Geordie lilt. ‘You’ve been harassing my mother.’

  Nick Dryden. ‘No.’ I fought to sound calm, my voice was muffled, distorted as my mouth was pushed out of shape, pressed against the fabric weave of the seat. ‘I just wanted to contact you.’

  ‘Who for?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who are yous working for?’

  I wasn’t going to tell him. It seemed like a peculiar question, anyway. ‘Talk,’ he demanded. ‘Who are yous working for?’

  ‘It’s about Charlie Carter,’ I managed. It was hard to talk with the weight on my head.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ he said brutally. ‘The bloke ’as did it topped hisself?’ Any charm Dryden might have had was definitely switched off.

  ‘He didn’t do it,’ I said thickly.

  ‘So . . .?’ He barked a laugh as though he’d just got a joke. Then again. ‘So that’s what this is about?’

  I thought about raising a foot, trying to hit the horn, draw attention and get help, but I would have to swing round and raise my knee from the floor to get any leverage. Impossible. If he relaxed his grip on my wrists, I could fling the passenger door open and scramble out on to the pavement. But while he held me so tight, I couldn’t do anything. I do self-defence classes but we’d never learnt any moves that I could use in this particular situation.

  ‘You think I’m mixed up in that? You stupid little bitch.’

  At least he didn’t come in the Dobsons’ house, I thought. The image of him menacing Jamie or Abi threatened to unseat me. Tears scorched my eyes. I squeezed them back, focused on my rage at the man, my anger.

  ‘Aren’t you?’ I asked him. ‘You’d been friends and then you ripped him off, practically ruined him.’

  ‘Bastards,’ he swore, ‘him and his bloody wife. Stood by while my family was kicked out on the streets, destitute. Totally ruthless they were and she was worse than him. Fair-weather friends they were,’ he banged on, ‘they never give us a chance.’

  But Selina had attended Charlie’s funeral, she had kept in touch with the Carters, obviously siding with them in the dispute with her ex-husband. Dryden had his own world view, styled to suit himself. A narcissist. He saw himself as the victim in all this. Probably the only way he could live with himself.

  ‘You stole from the business, you smashed up their car, made abusive calls.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean I swung for the bloke.’

  ‘You expect me to believe you?’

  The sudden release of my wrists and my head was unexpected. I scuttled round, my nerves chattering, expecting a fresh blow.

  Dryden, big-boned, florid, corned-beef complexion, was yanking his shirt from his jeans. I froze. Oh, God – he was going to rape me. Saliva flooded my mouth and I wanted to gag. I began to twist, aiming to get the door handle, wh
en he spoke.

  ‘Look.’ He pulled up his shirt to reveal a pasty, swollen belly and, running up from his navel, a rope-like scar, silvery and pink. ‘Double bypass. Bonfire night, last year.’ He beamed at me, a deranged, triumphant light in his eyes. ‘Read all about Charlie’s murder when I was in the hospital.’

  Bonfire night was three days before the murder.

  He barked with laughter again, tugged his shirt down and drew the sides of his long black coat around him. Then he lunged back at me, gripping my chin in one meaty hand. As he spoke spittle landed on my face and I could smell his breath: stale fags, the pee-like scent of whisky and something dead. I could see the nicotine stains in the grooves on his long yellow teeth. ‘It’s nowt to do with me, petal, and if you ever,’ he squeezed my jaw tighter, ‘ever, come sniffing after me or bother my mother again, I’ll carve you up. And,’ he nodded towards the house, ‘that little bairn an’ all.’ He let go. My jaw burned. I was trembling, inside and out, unable to control the shakes.

  He opened the door and put one foot down on the road. ‘I wasn’t here.’ He leant back towards me, his voice whispery now. ‘You never saw us.’

  He swivelled round and the car bounced at the shift in weight as he stepped out. He slammed the door and walked round to the back of the car. My breath came in jagged gasps, terror and relief, as I followed his progress in the rear-view mirror.

  He took a few steps away, still on the road, then wheeled back towards my car. His hand pulled something from his coat pocket: a short metal bar. He raised his arm and slammed the weight against the back windscreen. I flinched as the glass fractured into a thousand pixels and fell, a great wash of crashing, crystal sound.

  Then he strode off, his coat flapping, and rounded the corner.

  Even then, no one came; just another noise in the symphony of the city.

  I sat for long enough, waiting for my heart to steady, for the sheen of sweat on my skin to cool. A sob broke in my mouth, then another. I let them come, releasing the fear and distress, the fury at my impotence, my powerlessness and the vicious bastard’s power to hurt me.

  When the crying was done I wiped my face, blew my nose and eased over into the driver’s seat.