Mourning the Little Dead

by Jane A. Adams

  He waited for a moment before answering and she could almost feel him getting his thoughts in order. ‘Dick Travers came,’ he said. ‘Asking questions about the Helen Jones case. He said there’s been further evidence and they were going to start digging for the body.’ He paused and in the silence she could hear him sipping his tea.

  ‘He came back twice,’ Geoff Lyman said. ‘Asking questions about who had been involved in the investigation. Any gossip that had gone on. Anything I could remember that would not have appeared in the official records.’

  ‘Like what?’ Naomi wanted to know.

  ‘Oh, God, lass, you know the sort of thing I mean. The conversations between officers that don’t get annotated. The wild guesses and missed hunches. The bad jokes. Any disagreements among the investigating team. Everything. He wanted to know everything.’

  ‘He came on his own?’

  ‘Twice, yes. Once with Superintendent Phillips. Lass, there’s not much I can tell you,’ he added gently. ‘You and I, we’re no longer in the loop, as they say.’

  The phrase was clearly not one of his. Phillips, she guessed.

  It didn’t sound like Dick Travers either. ‘And you resent that as much as I do,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe I do. But this time I’m also glad not to be involved. It’s going to be bad, Naomi. Best prepare yourself.’

  She looked up so sharply that Napoleon stirred. She angled her face so that, had she been able, she would have met his eyes. ‘For what?’ she asked. ‘Prepare myself for what?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. I gave my word I’d let them set the pace.’

  ‘But you saw the confession,’ Naomi guessed. ‘You saw what it said.’

  Geoff Lyman nodded slowly.

  ‘You saw it?’ Naomi asked again.

  He spoke this time. ‘Yes, I saw it. It was a typewritten sheet and it told them where to dig.’

  ‘And you saw the name?’

  ‘I saw the name.’

  She sighed. ‘I wish Joe was here to see this, don’t you? Finally lay it all to rest.’

  *

  Harry stood in the front bedroom looking out through the net curtains at the scene below. The net impeded his vision of the journalists, but he had found that if he stood back a little and gazed obliquely through the gathered net, his view wasn’t bad and he was fairly certain that he himself could not be seen.

  A police car still sat at one end of the road, the other end now having been cleared of bystanders and reporters. The officers stood beside their car and chatted to the assorted neighbours who seemed intent on treating this as some sort of street party, Harry thought irritably.

  The journalists themselves looked about as bored as Harry felt. They talked among themselves, having long since exhausted all input from the neighbours, and the police officer they had spoken to earlier had assured Harry that they wouldn’t stick around for long. It was a slow day news-wise. Digging had stopped at Lansdowne Road and nothing new had broken with regard to the other little girl whose death the police were investigating.

  Harry tried not to think about what Sarah’s parents were going through. He had been there already, to that limbo country which is no place to reside and yet which you cannot leave. The only difference being, he thought vaguely, was that they already knew that their child was dead. No false hope for them. No little glimmer of news appearing for just long enough to give hope, only to be dashed again on the rocks of reality.

  Harry shook himself angrily. Why compare, either way was bad enough.

  He had hoped to be able to see Naomi again today and felt guilty that the majority of his irritation was because this was not likely to happen now. He was frustrated too at the realization that her relationship with Alec was more involved than Harry had first thought. Naomi was the first woman to have really caught his interest since his ex-wife left him and Harry found himself deeply and shockingly jealous of this other man.

  Mildly jealous of his son, too, who seemed to have founded such an easy relationship with this woman. Harry never found social contact easy; especially contact with women and most particularly women that he liked.

  A small movement off to his right caught Harry’s attention. A woman had come into the street from the church end, the end cleared of people. She wore blue and she was alone. She stood, watching, half hidden by the church fence. Her position reminded Harry of his own that morning when he had stood at the end of Lansdowne Road. He watched her curiously. She fitted, vaguely, the description of the woman his mother had seen hurrying away the previous night, but she was not familiar to Harry.

  His mother had stated firmly that the woman she saw was not local and Harry saw no reason to distrust her opinion. His mother had a radar instinct for such things and Mari had insisted that the woman she had seen was ‘not from round here’.

  A brief flurry of movement off to Harry’s left pulled his attention back to the other end of the street as another police car arrived. When Harry looked back, the woman had gone.

  Seventeen

  It was nine in the evening when Alec arrived at Philby to rendezvous with the plain clothes unit who had been keeping Gary Williams under observation. Williams had left home an hour before and driven to Philby, parked on the promenade—permitted after seven—and then wandered down on to the beach.

  He seemed to have no eventual destination in mind. The tide was out, the wet beach ribbed with ripples left by the retreating waves. Gary Williams didn’t follow it. He stood for a while above the high-water line, gazing out to sea, the evening thickening around him as the mist rolled lazily inland and the sky darkened and blurred through the slow moving fog.

  He had turned inshore just before nine and Alec had arrived just as Gary Williams turned into the end of Palmer Road and stood outside number 23.

  ‘What’s he doing now?’ the officer, DC Stoppard, standing beside Alec wondered. Gary Williams had been easy to follow. Walking slowly, with his hands shoved deep into his pockets and a distracted air about him, he had looked neither left nor right—certainly not back—and though Alec and DC Stoppard now stood in shadow some distance away, Alec got the impression that they could have come right up to him and he still would not have turned around.

  ‘His old address,’ Alec said.

  There were no lights burning at number 23, the family who lived there presumably out or having an early night. Next door, Phyllis Mole was sitting in her chair, watching the television. She had her back to the window, the top of her grey head just visible, and Alec wondered what he would do if Gary knocked at the old lady’s door. He had no reason to prevent Gary Williams from visiting an old neighbour, but all the same, he didn’t like the idea.

  As though she had heard him, Phyllis chose that moment to move, get up from her chair and cross to the window to draw the heavy curtains.

  She saw Gary Williams and he saw her and for a second or two they stood, looking through the glass, frozen. Then Phyllis drew the curtain closed and blocked the man from view. Alec decided it was time to move.

  ‘Nice evening for a walk.’

  Gary Williams turned. He seemed unsurprised and unconcerned by Alec’s presence.

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘You know them, do you? The new people?’

  ‘What? Them that live there now? No, I don’t know them. I just wanted to look.’

  ‘Is that I really don’t know them?’ Alec asked him, ‘or I don’t know them like I didn’t know Sarah Clarke?’

  Gary scowled at Alec and began to walk back down the street. ‘I don’t...didn’t know Sarah Clarke. I told you that.’

  ‘She used to play with your kids. Visited your house.’

  ‘So did lots of kids. Mine were popular. Had plenty of friends. How the hell am I expected to remember one?’

  ‘Oh, I’d have thought you’d recall this one, especially considering what happened to her.’

  ‘And I told you, I’m sorry for the kid. Sorry for her people. I know what they’re goin
g through.’

  ‘So you deny knowing the Clarkes?’ Alec persisted. ‘You don’t recall little Sarah coming round to play? She’d have been a little thing, only just having started school. A child that age would need supervision, I would think, especially with your two being small as well. Maybe you played with them? Your two and Sarah. Her mum and dad came to pick her up, maybe. Or you dropped her home. Come on, Gary...why lie about something we could check as easily as that?’

  Gary Williams swung around so swiftly that Alec took an involuntary step back. ‘Check, did you? I can tell you how you checked, copper. You came and talked to that nosy old fart we used to live next door to. Always poking where she wasn’t welcome. Stirring it.’ He swung away again and resumed his walk. Striding now so that it took Alec a step or two to catch up with him.

  ‘What’s your hurry, Mr Williams? Worried about something she might have said, are you? I’m surprised you’re here at all, Mr Williams, considering what happened to your flat last time you were away.’

  ‘And whose frigging fault was that?’ He halted suddenly. ‘Look, you. Charge me, arrest me again. Take me in, but you’ve got sweet FA. I came out, I needed some air. Fresh air, without you stinking it up. Now arrest me, or push off.’

  This time Alec did not follow as he walked swiftly away. Stoppard mooched up behind him. ‘Mortimer’s on him, sir, reckons he’s back in his car. Likely he’s going home.’

  Alec nodded, debating in his mind whether or not he should take up Williams’ challenge or let him be for the night.

  ‘What’s his game, d’ you reckon?’ Stoppard asked him. ‘There’s more to this than just wanting a little walk.’

  ‘Sure of it,’ Alec agreed. Wearily, he rubbed at his face. The fog had poured inland now, filtering down the narrow streets and chilling his skin. ‘I think another chat may he in order,’ he said. But, he decided, he would talk to Travers first.

  *

  Naomi was alone. She had dragged one of the sofa cushions on to the floor and sat on it with the dog close beside her on one side and a bottle of red wine on the other. She had already made her way through three-quarters of the bottle and had every intention of finishing the rest.

  She had hoped that Alec would come round or at least call, but when the phone rang earlier, it had been Harry.

  She found that she had little to say to him, too absorbed in matters that she could not discuss with him. The journalistic presence had diminished during the afternoon and by evening had dissipated entirely. He hoped it would stay that way.

  ‘I’ve been trying to persuade Mam to go away for a few days,’ he said and Naomi knew that he wanted some input from her. Something reassuring or encouraging, though whether she thought they should stay or go, she wasn’t sure and couldn’t really be bothered to work out. She felt too distracted with her own thoughts to pay any mind to his and, though she felt guilty when the call ended and Harry was clearly put out by her attitude, she didn’t have the will to call him back and try again.

  Naomi wasn’t sure exactly what had put her in this mood, but suddenly the whole situation seemed so utterly overwhelming.

  The dog licked her chin and whined inquiringly. She lay her head against the dog’s soft neck. His fur was thick and soft beneath her cheek. She wept softly, crying alternately over the dog’s neck and into her wine.

  *

  Harry and his mother were watching the ten o’clock news. Patrick had already retreated to his room to play on his PlayStation and think about getting ready for bed. He was clearly bored—he had voluntarily spent part of the day doing school work—and Harry couldn’t blame him. Harry himself was feeling at a loose end. There was so little to do here and Harry was used to being busy. When he had come home, it had seemed the only and obvious thing to do. Now he was here, Harry wasn’t sure either what use he was or what Mari needed from him. Never terribly eloquent where emotions were concerned, he knew that his mother was probably getting more support from her long-time friends and neighbours than she was from him. Guiltily, he admitted to himself that he would be so relieved when Helen’s body was finally released for burial and things could get back to something like normal.

  He trapped the thought before it could be allowed to develop, shifted in his chair, trying not to look at Mari when she glanced curiously at him, afraid that by looking into his eyes she might guess his thoughts and feel ashamed by his lack of feeling.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t care, Harry argued with himself, as he watched some aspect of the Middle Eastern war filter into his consciousness; more dead and dying for their families to mourn. It was simply that all his adult life he had been compelled to care in a way that should not have been demanded. It was as if the murderer had not just denied Helen the right to grow up, become a woman, have children and a future of her own, but that he had somehow imprisoned all of them, refused to let them move on, or forgive or even forget...just a little. Just occasionally...just for a brief time.

  Harry shook himself mentally, but was really jolted from his thoughts when someone rapped hard on the front door.

  ‘Who the devil’s that?’ Mari asked. ‘At this time of night.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Harry told her, glad of the excuse to move. It was probably, he thought, either a late-working journalist hoping to get a jump on the rest, or a neighbour, come back for another round of late talks.

  They had already locked up for the night and it took a moment or two for Harry to unchain the door and fiddle with the deadlock. When he pulled the door open, it was neither his neighbour not was it an errant reporter. The woman who stood there was dark-haired and dressed in blue and Harry was taken aback by his shock of recognition.

  ‘I had to come,’ she said. ‘Forgive me, but I just had to see you.’

  Eighteen

  It was late, but Naomi’s lights were still on and Alec rang the bell, hoping she would still be awake. She came to the door with Napoleon in tow, dressed in a nightshirt and robe. Her feet were bare and her short dark hair rumpled and untidy. She had been crying, her eyes red-rimmed and her face blotched with tears and when he kissed her, her mouth was heavy with the flavour of wine.

  ‘Naomi?’

  She leaned against him. ‘I hoped you’d come.’

  Awkwardly, he reached behind him to close the door, Napoleon trying to help and sniffing expectantly at his pockets. ‘Sorry, old man,’ Alec told him. ‘No snacks tonight.’

  He turned Naomi around and steered her back into the living room. An empty wine bottle stood beside the sofa and she had started on a second. Alec sat her down in the nearest chair. He hesitated for a moment, choosing whether he should get another glass and join her in finishing the bottle or make them both some coffee. He decided from the look of her that she’d had far more than enough already.

  ‘Stay put,’ he told her. ‘I’ll get us both a drink.’

  ‘Wine over there.’

  ‘Not wine. You’ve had enough of the red stuff. Have you eaten by the way or did you down all that grape juice on an empty stomach?’

  She giggled like a child.

  ‘Not a good sign when you laugh at my jokes,’ he told her. ‘Now be good, let go,’ he added as she reached for him again. ‘Let’s get you sobered up a bit and then you can tell me what you’ve been drowning.’

  She was asleep by the time he had made the coffee, curled up in the chair with her bare feet sticking awkwardly from beneath her robe. He went through to the bedroom, fetched a blanket from the cupboard and draped it gently around her, then stood in the kitchen doorway, mug in hand, watching her sleep.

  Napoleon sat back on his haunches, his back end wagging so that he shuffled across the polished floor.

  ‘What’s going on, old lad?’ Alec asked him. ‘No, I don’t suppose you’re any the wiser either.’ He sipped his drink. ‘You hungry,’ he added, ‘or is that a stupid question?’

  He returned to the kitchen, fishing bread and sandwich ingredients out of the fridge. Honey baked ham—
half a slice for the dog—smoked cheese, cranberry sauce and chopped dill pickle. She had two kinds of bread—squashy supermarket white and kibbled wholewheat. He took a slice of each and spent time arranging the filling artistically between them. He ate, sitting on the sofa, watching Naomi and thinking about Gary Williams and Phyllis Mole.

  ‘God, how long have I been asleep?’

  ‘About an hour. You missed the most wondrous construction, didn’t she, old man? Ham and cheese and cranberry and a little dill pickle, very finely—’

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ she protested. ‘It was all right up until the pickle. Any coffee left?’

  ‘I’ll make fresh. You go and have a shower, make yourself feel better.’

  ‘Thanks. Sorry, not good company, am I?’

  He kissed her gently. ‘I’d rather be here with you asleep than...well...than.’

  ‘Mmm...Bad day?’

  ‘I’ve had better. Yours?’

  ‘On a scale of...I’d say I hit a minus ten.’

  ‘That good? Shower, coffee, tell me about it? Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. No. Alec,’ she ran her hands through her already tousled hair. ‘God, but I’m going to feel rough, aren’t I?’

  ‘Probably.’

  The phone began to ring. Alec glanced at his watch. It was half past one. ‘Who the hell’s that?’

  ‘Can you get it, Alec? I don’t want to talk.’

  ‘This time of night, it’s bound to be for me.’ He snatched the receiver from the cradle and barked into the phone. ‘Friedman. Oh, Harry, it’s you. Sorry, I thought...’ He fell silent and listened, glanced at his watch again. ‘We’ll be there. Half an hour.’ He glanced at Naomi, taking in her tousled hair and still reddened face. ‘Forty minutes, max.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Naomi asked him as he lowered the receiver, an odd look on his face.

  ‘We’re going to Harry’s,’ he said.

  ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘Yeah, and you might want to shower and tidy yourself up. Penny Jackson’s there. Joe’s daughter.’