Far Cry

by John Harvey

  'Of course. My little one's Susie. After Lorraine's grandmother. Susan. No one glamorous, I'm afraid.'

  'Lorraine, that's...?'

  'My wife, yes.'

  Helen returned, balancing two Styrofoam cups of coffee and a bottle of still water with an empty cup over the neck.

  'I don't want you to get the idea I always do this,' Helen said. 'Go get the coffee.'

  'True enough,' Will said, playing along. 'Usually she sends me.'

  Janine rewarded them with a wan little smile.

  'You remember that scene in Working Girl,' Helen said, 'where Melanie Griffith's just been promoted and this woman who's going to be her assistant says, "Coffee," and Griffith starts to get up as if she has to fetch it, because that's what she's always been used to. You remember that?'

  'Yes,' Janine said uncertainly. 'I think so.'

  'And then she tells her—Griffith this is—she tells her assistant she doesn't ever expect her to fetch her coffee unless she's going to get some for herself. I always liked that scene.'

  Will prised open his coffee and took a sip before pressing the lid back into place. 'So,' he said, letting it hang in the air...

  Janine twisted the top of the bottle, breaking the seal. Despite the double glazing, there was a constant rise and fall of traffic from the street, and from beyond the door, only slightly dulled, the sounds of footsteps, telephones, voices, other doors being opened and closed. 'When we ... when we talked before,' she said, 'and you showed me those photographs ... what I said about not knowing him, it wasn't true. I knew him. Of course I did. As soon as you showed me. But I didn't want ...'

  Hand shaking, she poured some water into the cup and held it close to her face.

  'You said he'd done something, something else, something similar, and you thought he might again ... I thought about that afterwards, I couldn't get it out of my head. What you'd said about that and my daughter ...'

  Setting down the cup, she took a tissue from her bag.

  'The photos ... he was younger then, of course, and his hair—he had more hair, I think—and his face, it was a nice face. I remember thinking that, that day, the way he looked at me from the van. "You lost?" he said. Local, that's how he sounded. "You lost?" Smiling with his eyes. And he had this dog with him, a collie, on the seat alongside. Only young, a puppy. I reached in to stroke him and he growled a little, I remember, and the man said, "Go on, he's just showing off, he won't bite," and so I stroked him and he licked my hand and the man asked me where I lived and when I told him he said, "Hop in, why don't you? We'll give you a lift down the turn, me and Ezra here."' She closed her eyes. 'He seemed so nice. Friendly and nice. A bit like my dad.'

  There were tears now, the beginning of tears, but she choked them back, twisting the tissue tighter and tighter.

  'It's okay,' Will said quietly. 'Take your time.'

  She sniffed and drank some water and waited until her breathing was more under control.

  'I wonder,' she said, 'thinking back over that afternoon the way I have—it must have been a thousand times—I wonder how I could have been so gullible. So stupid. I mean, I knew. I knew about men like that. Oh, not in any detail, but I knew about, you know, not taking sweets from strangers, getting into cars, my mum had drummed it into me enough times. And I heard things on the news. I wasn't some ignorant totally innocent kid. I knew.'

  The tissue shredded apart in her hands.

  'I knew.'

  She lowered her head and Will and Helen exchanged a quick glance.

  'Just to be absolutely certain,' Helen said, 'the person Inspector Grayson showed you in photographs previously is the same person who drove off with you in the van? Held you prisoner?'

  'Yes.' Not looking at her when she replied. 'Yes.'

  Will placed the photographs—one, two, three—on the desk. 'This person here?'

  'Yes.'

  'Mitchell Roberts?'

  'If that's his name, yes.'

  'And you'd be prepared to swear to that, in court if necessary?'

  'Yes.' This last little more than an exhalation of breath.

  Janine lifted the cup of water, took a couple of sips, and then set it back down.

  'You sure you wouldn't like a coffee?' Helen asked. 'If you're going to make a formal statement you might be here for quite a while.'

  'All right then, if it's no trouble.'

  'I'll go this time,' Will said and Helen laughed.

  'He's just showing off,' she said.

  Janine allowed herself a smile. Try as she might, she could not stop looking back at the photographs, one glance after another.

  'Mitchell Roberts, you said? That's who this is?'

  'Yes.'

  'This other time, the one the Inspector mentioned...'

  'A young girl. He assaulted and sexually abused a young girl. She was twelve years old.'

  'Like me.'

  'Yes, like you.'

  Janine slid her face down into her hands and, this time, when she started to cry there was no holding back.

  Helen waited, then offered fresh tissues.

  Will came back into the room with coffee in a borrowed china mug. 'I didn't know if you wanted sugar?'

  Janine shook her head.

  Will slipped the photographs back into their envelope and out of sight.

  'I'm sorry,' Janine said, wiping away the tears.

  'No need.'

  She took another tissue and dabbed at her eyes, her make-up blurred.

  'I'm okay now, it was just ... you know ... having to remember.'

  'I understand.'

  'There was one thing I wanted to ask,' Helen said. 'If that's okay? In the reports of what happened, you mentioned hearing someone else's voice?'

  'Yes, that's right.'

  'Another man?'

  'Yes.'

  'But you didn't see anyone? Other than Roberts?'

  'No. And whoever this person was, I don't think he was there all the time. Maybe only towards the end.'

  'And how did he sound? What kind of voice? Young? Old?'

  'Not young. Just ordinary. Middle-aged, I suppose. Maybe a little older.'

  'Older than Roberts?'

  'Possibly.' She lowered her head. 'I'm sorry, it's all such a long time ago and I've spent so long trying not to remember, shut it out of my mind.'

  'Yes, of course.'

  'It could have been this Roberts talking to himself. You've got to remember, I was frightened. Terrified. I could even have made him up, this other person.'

  'Why? Why might you do that?'

  'Because it would mean I wasn't alone there with this man, with Roberts. Because if there'd been somebody else there, he might not have done the things to me that he did.'

  Helen looked away.

  'The one time I'm sure I did hear someone else was towards the end of the second day, the day before he let me go.'

  'What happened?'

  'There was an argument. Men shouting. Just two of them, I think. But I suppose it could have been someone going past.'

  'You can't remember what they were shouting about?'

  'No, I'm sorry.'

  'And was this the second day, you said?'

  'Yes. I remember being frightened because he—Mitchell—he sounded so angry and I thought ... I thought when he came in it would be worse. I thought he'd be angry with me.'

  'And was he?'

  'No. That was the funny thing. He kept asking me was I all right, was I all right? And he was less rough, almost ... gentle. When he ... When he ...' She looked away.

  'It was after that you were released?'

  'The next morning, yes. He put a blindfold round me and led me out to the van. The dog was there. Ezra. I heard him barking, really close, and then he pushed his nose up against me, but the man shooed him away. And then he picked me up and put me in the back of the van. I wanted Ezra to come with me, but he wouldn't let him.'

  She looked at Will directly.

  'Will you catch him, do you thi
nk? Before he does it again?'

  'Yes,' Will said. 'Yes.'

  No doubt in his voice at all. This time they had to get it right.

  38

  They were in Will's car, Helen driving, his request.

  'Just as long as you don't get it into your head I'm some kind of chauffeur.'

  'Chuff-er,' Will said.

  'What?'

  'Chuff-er. That's what Jake called it. It was in this little book he was reading. Chuff-er.'

  'He's reading already?'

  'Ages now.'

  'Off to university soon, then.'

  'Not exactly.'

  'Some kids nowadays, they can't read when they leave primary, never mind start.'

  Will grinned. 'Takes after his old man.'

  'His mum, you mean.'

  She changed down for a slow right-hand bend, one of the few twists on an otherwise straight road. Deep ditches on either side, fringed with reeds. Above them, the sun leaked here and there through a grey wash of cloud.

  'I should have brought Roberts in last week,' Will said. 'When I had the chance.'

  'Nothing to hold him on, he'd've walked. Mind you, that might have been preferable to thumping him one.'

  'I should never have told you.'

  'Guilt.'

  'You think?'

  'Either that or you were showing off.'

  It had made him feel better, Will thought, and that was the truth. Even if, the moment after he'd let fly, he'd known it to be a mistake. Losing control, that was for other people—people he looked down on, even despised—not himself. And Roberts knew. Enjoyed it even as he experienced the pain. The grin that had spread, snag-toothed, across his face.

  'You ever hit your kids?' Helen asked.

  'No,' Will said, too quickly, 'of course not.'

  'Not even Jake?'

  'No. Least, not really.'

  'Not really? You mean as in pretend?'

  'I mean maybe, you know, a quick clip round the back of the head sometimes to gee him up. But not hard. Nothing serious.'

  He could see her looking at him from the corner of her eye, the kind of look she shot suspects when they thought they'd put one over on her.

  'Once,' Will said, 'just once. He was throwing this real tantrum—oh, two, close on two years ago—screaming and yelling and just wouldn't stop. No idea now what had set it off. Thrashing his legs and kicking his feet on the floor. I told him and told him. In the end I whacked him twice across his backside hard.'

  'What happened?'

  'What happened? He stopped.'

  'And you've felt bad about it ever since.'

  'Not really.'

  'Not much.'

  Will found something interesting to look at through the side window; a tractor, dark rusted red, making its slow way across a field, a small flock of gulls in its wake. There were times now, if he lost his temper, when Jake would look at him in real fear.

  'It must be hard,' Helen said. 'Bringing up kids. The whole discipline thing, trying to teach them what's right or wrong. Everything.'

  'S'okay for you, you're not...' He stopped. 'You're not seriously...? You and Declan?' He laughed. 'You might've picked someone who'll likely still be around for the christening.'

  'Very funny, Will. And, anyway, that's over.'

  'Since when?'

  'Since I told him.'

  Will looked at her sideways-on. 'You had a row?'

  Helen shook her head. 'Just got fed up with being pissed around.'

  'Not before time, some would say.'

  'Yes, well, we haven't all got your clear mind and great self-control. Now can we just drop it? Change of subject? Okay?'

  'Okay. Kids, though ... seriously.'

  'Will ...'

  'No, it'd be good. I can just see it, you and a little one.'

  'Will ...'

  'Best not leave it much longer, mind.'

  She brought her fist, knuckles extended, down hard against his leg, just behind his knee, and Will cried out.

  'Hey! You didn't have to do that.'

  'Yes, I did. Now you want more or are you going to shut up once and for all?'

  'I'll shut up.'

  'Good.'

  They drove the rest of the way in silence.

  Though she'd never for one moment seen Declan Morrison as the prospective father of any child of hers, it had been Declan who'd brought the subject, most recently, to mind. They'd been at her flat one evening, post-coitally quiet and nicely buzzed; close to one another on the sofa and watching, for God's sake, Match of the Day.

  Helen never watched Match of the Day.

  'You ever think about having kids?' he'd said, apropos of nothing, unless it had been the sight of Theo Walcott shimmying his way between a bunch of hapless defenders, then slotting the ball home from the edge of the D.

  'Not really,' she'd said, not strictly true. She did think about it from time to time. Of course she did. Seeing some baby go past in a sling; a toddler wobbling his first uncertain steps. And her friends, some of them, had been nudging her lately, how her biological clock was ticking, counting down.

  'You should,' Declan had said. 'You'd be a great mum.'

  'Like bollocks, I would.'

  'No, I mean it.'

  'Declan, you're drunk.'

  'Doesn't mean I'm wrong.'

  On the television, Walcott was brought down inside the area and the penalty was converted, four-one; Declan poured them both a generous shot of Black Bush to celebrate and the remainder of the evening blurred into incoherence, but, come morning, the thought was still there.

  So did she want children or not?

  Children of her own.

  Just one, surely? One would do.

  The desire was there, mostly deep down, but so were the doubts. The fear. She thought of five-year-old Carl Carey, orphaned and growing up with ageing grandparents in their neat little semi-detached; growing up to the knowledge of what his father had done. Paul—he was besotted, he really was. So besotted he had slashed the mother's throat almost from ear to ear then hanged himself rather than risk losing the son he loved so much.

  She thought about what had happened to Martina Jones, Christine Fell and all the rest. The responsibilities were too vast, the possibilities of failure, of loss, too great.

  39

  Vernon Lansdale's garage came into sight on the near side of the road, a rusting circular sign, advertising speedy tyre and exhaust repairs, swinging slightly in the breeze. There were four pumps, arranged two and two, the last marked diesel only. Currently no customers. A single-storey shop and reception stood square-on to the forecourt, with a double-length workshop beyond. Logs were stacked to one side of the shop door, sacks of potatoes on the other.

  From his perch behind the counter, two cushions on a low-backed stool, Lansdale looked up as the car turned in, then went back to his paper. Only when Will and Helen entered did he relinquish his interest in the sports pages, that day's racing from Uttoxeter.

  'He's not here.'

  'Who?'

  'The man you're looking for.'

  'Day off?'

  Lansdale shook his head. 'Quit.'

  'When was that?' A frown on Will's face.

  'Couple of days after you beat the shit out of him.'

  'He give any reason?' Will asked, ignoring Helen's glance.

  'Other than that?'

  'Any reason at all.'

  'No. Took what was owing, bought some tobacco, packet of Rizlas and left. Not seen him since.'

  'You're certain of that?'

  'No cause to lie.' Lansdale coughed something into a piece of rag. 'Told him I'd go witness if he wanted to swear out a complaint, assault, but he said he weren't interested.' This looking straight at Will, as if daring him to contradict.

  'How about friends?' Helen said. 'When he was here. He ever mention any names?'

  'Not a great talker, Mitchell, you got to understand that. Did his job, kept his mouth closed pretty much.'

  'But did h
e ever meet anyone here? Anyone call by to see him?'

  'Not as I noticed.'

  'You would, surely?' Helen said. 'Place this size.'

  'Not here all the time, though, am I? Off site once in a while, have to be. Pick up parts, supplies.'

  'And you'd not close down?'

  'An' lose trade?'

  'So, what? You'd leave Roberts in charge?'

  'Why not? He can work the till as well as me. And, yes, before you ask, I checked it after. First few times at least. Not a penny short.'

  'But you think,'Will said, 'when you were off away, he might have met someone here, that's what you seemed to imply.'

  'I'm not implyin', as you put it, nothing of the sort. What I can't see, I can't swear to. That's all. No more'n that.' Lansdale treated him to a lopsided grin.

  'If I find out you're holding something back ...'

  'What? You'll thump me too?'

  'Come on, Will,' Helen said, seeing him tense up. 'Let's go.'

  'You think he's lying?' she asked, once they were back at the car.

  'I think he likes pissing us around. Whether it's any more than that, I don't know.'

  Helen reached for her bag and found her cigarettes. 'What's his story anyway?'

  'Lansdale? Did some time a while back, selling on vehicles he knew to have been stolen, something of the kind. Clean since, by all reports. Seems to like having the odd ex-con around, working.'

  'Reminds him of happier times.'

  'Maybe.'

  Helen snapped her lighter shut. 'So, Roberts, what now?'

  'We can check his lodgings, home address.'

  'You think he'll still be there?'

  'I know,' Will said. 'Don't hold my breath.'

  The landlady was tall and beanpole thin, greying hair pinned back from her face, fifteen years or more since she'd seen Govan, but the accent would still take the shine off a coat of good paint. 'Mitchell, aye, he's moved on right enough. Good few days now. Shame, too. Not a whit of trouble, not like some. Sneaking this and that into their rooms. Manners, an' all. There's some ...' this with a sharp glance towards Helen, '... as don't hold with men opening doors and the like, not any more, but to me it shows respect.'

  'He'll have left an address,' Helen said, straight-faced.

  'Somewhere.'