Splintered Ice

by Stuart G. Yates

  Jon smiled. “Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay.”

  But everything wasn't okay.

  Jed got up the following morning, barely giving the previous night a thought. What had happened had happened, but at least there were going to be no repercussions. Not like the last time. As he went out the front door, he smiled as the bright sun hit him flat in the face. Spring was definitely in the air making returning to school bearable. Even when the patrol car slid up next to him, he didn't think anything was amiss, not even when the door opened and a uniformed policeman stepped out to bar Jed's way.

  “Jed Meres?”

  Jed pulled himself up and frowned. The man didn't look pleased. “Yes.”

  “Do you know a young person by the name of Craig Watson?”

  He should have known. Watson, for all his bravado was nothing but a wimp. A lying, chicken-livered wimp. He'd grassed him up, betrayed the code. Jed's shoulders slumped. “Yeah, I k now him. What's he been saying about me?”

  “Saying?” The man leaned forward, “He hasn't been saying anything. He's dead.”

  15

  The two police detectives sat across the interview table from Jed, Sullivan, looking crumpled, and a fresh-faced ginger-haired detective sporting crisply ironed shirt, immaculately pressed jacket and sensible tie. He seemed keen, in direct contrast to Sullivan whose eyes smouldered under heavy, brooding brows.

  “April 14, nineteen seventy-one, Detective Sergeant Thomas Sullivan and DC Nolan, Wallasey CID. It is…” Nolan pulled back his cuff and peered at his watch, “8.52 am. Interview with Jethroe Meres, known as Jed. Mr Meres has refused legal representation. Is that correct, Mr Meres?”

  Jed nodded.

  “You have to speak, Mr Meres. For the tape.”

  “For the tape?” Jed spat back, voice laced with sarcasm. He sat back, smirking. “That's right, I don't need legal representation – I haven't done anything.”

  “Hopefully that is what this interview will determine. Did you know Craig Watson?”

  “You know very well I did.”

  “Could you just answer the questions, without all the elaborations, please, Mr Meres.”

  “It's Jed, and yes, I know Watson. We went to school together. Same class.”

  “Went?”

  Sullivan had interjected, leaning forward, jaw set hard. Jed frowned, confused. “Sorry?”

  “You said went.”

  “Well, he's dead – isn't he?”

  Jed caught the glare from Sullivan before he turned to Nolan, who blew out his cheeks. Sullivan coughed and sat forward on his elbows, resting his chin on his fists. His eyes never left Jed's. “We know one another, don't we Jed? We've spoken before, about Nurse Willis. You remember that, don't you? What you said? I'm going to ask you some of the same questions, Jed, only this time I want you to be absolutely truthful in your replies. Do you understand that, Jed?”

  “Of course I do, I'm not an idiot.”

  Nolan gave a tiny chuckle and Sullivan shot him a dangerous glance. “DC Nolan is now showing Mr Meres – Jed – some photographs.”

  The younger detective gave a start and hurriedly reached inside his jacket to produce a thin, manila envelope. He opened it, took out a series of black and white photographs and laid them down on the tabletop, one at a time. Jed looked at them. The first one was of the nurse, her face smiling out at the camera. Natural, like a holiday snap. It was a little out of focus and looked as if it had been blown-up, to concentrate on just her head and shoulders. The second was of a tough looking young man, unsmiling, eyes contemptuous. Not taken at any holiday, it seemed to Jed like one of those photographs he had seen on the television, taken on arrival at prison. Full face, then profile. It was Peter Davey, the nurse's boyfriend. The third was of Watson, a school photograph, big chubby face, dimpled chin and cheeks. He looked almost kind.

  “I've seen these before,” Jed offered, feeling bored. He tapped the one showing Peter Davey. “I don't know him, not personally. But you told me last time it was Nurse Willis's boyfriend. That's all I know about him.”

  “You threatened Craig Watson that you would kill him if he said anything more about your mother,” continued Sullivan unabashed, “and last night, he did, didn't he?”

  Jed's stomach lurched as the memories of the previous came rushing back to him. Suddenly, he felt ill. His face must have betrayed his feelings because Nolan sprang forward, eager to strike. “You attacked him, didn't you? Just like you did at school, only this time you went further, didn't you? This time you killed him, in a fit of rage.”

  “No, I—”

  “You've got one hell of a temper, Jed, Sergeant Sullivan can vouch for that. Touchy about your mum, aren't you? Don't like anyone saying anything about her, do you? So, when Watson starts bad-mouthing her, you hit him. And then later, when he comes out of the pub, you follow him and you murder him, just like you did Nurse Willis. Just like you did Peter Davey.”

  Trapped, a rabbit in the spotlight, Jed snapped his face from one policeman to the other. “No, you're wrong.”

  “Wrong? I don't think so, do you Sergeant Sullivan?”

  “No I don't. You murdered him, Jed. In cold blood.”

  “No, no, it's not like that,” Jed blurted out. “All right, I argued with him in the pub, I hit him. Too right I did, he's a shit and he deserved it – but kill him? No, I couldn't – I wouldn't do that. I didn't go back to the pub; I didn't follow him. All of that, none of it ever happened.”

  “So what did happen, Jed?” Sullivan voice quiet this time, not angry like Nolan's. They had a deal, didn't they? An arrangement, an understanding? Sullivan knew the truth. And there was another connection.

  It hit Jed right in the face, the full glare of the flood lights switching on, hurting his eyes. He saw it all so clear. Sullivan, Brian Randall and his mother Hannah – and his own dad. There was the link, the connection. Sullivan was working them all in some wildcat scheme, and now he wanted Jed out of the way. Jed shook his head, rubbing his fists into his eyes. “This is madness,” he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “I went straight home; my dad will vouch for me.”

  “We've spoken to your dad,” said Nolan, continuing to sneer. “Nice man, your dad. Cares. He said you got in around midnight.”

  Something gripped Jed, something cold and terrifyingly strong, squeezing him tight. Slowly he dragged his hands from his face and gaped at Nolan. “No,” his voice tiny, very afraid. “No, that's not true. I got home no later than nine. I left the pub and went straight home. Dad was watching tele and I went to bed – Christ, I'm supposed to be at school today.”

  “You waited outside the pub and followed Watson. He went along the prom, past the Floral Pavilion. It was there you confronted him, hit him again, dragged him into the theatre gardens and there you bashed his head in with a hammer.”

  “Just like Peter Davey,” said Sullivan. His voice sounded almost sad.

  Jed's eyes darted from Nolan to Sullivan. His mouth now so dry he could hardly speak. He was behind the wheel of a runaway vehicle, no brakes, careering out of control. There was nothing he could do, nowhere to go, no one to help.

  “You still sure you don't want legal representation?”

  Jed put his face in his hands and tried to gather his wits, escape from the nightmare all around him. Why would Dad say he didn't come in until after midnight? Why tell a lie – for what reason?

  He stopped. A horrible thought reared up inside.

  What if it were true? There was the blackout he'd suffered over the meeting with Jon, and Jon was with him at The Clarion. What if he'd suffered another bout? Had he actually done these terrible things without realizing it? Could he truly be a schizophrenic, his mind detached from his actions?

  Sullivan placed a plastic cup full of steaming tea in front of Jed, then sat down with a sigh. Nolan had gone off somewhere and the tape machine stood silent. “I can't protect you if you don't tell the truth.”

  Jed looked up. He felt
exhausted. The questions had continued, on and on, without let up. Eventually he chose to clam up and that was when Sullivan had called for a break. An opportunity, he had said, to get your brain in gear!

  “I didn't do it.”

  “I hope not. But it's not looking good. Both Davey and Watson murdered in almost identical manner, your alibi as weak as dishwater – you've got motive and opportunity, Jed.”

  “But we had a deal.”

  “That was before you started falling apart, Jed. I thought I could use you to help me find a way in…” He shook his head, his face looking sad. “I'm not sure it would work now.”

  “Why? Why wouldn't it work?” Jed threw out his hands, despair welling up inside. “You know I didn't do any of this, I'm just not capable. You're framing me, and I think I know why.”

  “You've been watching too much TV, Jed. We don't frame people, not in the real world. We don't have to. We deal with evidence, witnesses, proof.”

  “Are you sure about that, Sergeant?”

  Sullivan cocked his head to one side, “What does that mean?”

  “You know I know. That's what this is all about, isn't it? It has nothing to do with Watson or anyone else, because if it had you would have charged me by now.”

  “That could still happen. We're just waiting for the lab results. Once we match the blood on your jacket to that of Watson, you're going down, son. It's as simple as that.”

  Smiling, Jed shook his head. “Well, his blood will be on my jacket, won't it? I knocked him out, in the pub. You know that, so don't try and scare me into confessing something I didn't do. Like I said to your sidekick, I'm not an idiot.”

  “You're too damned cock-sure, that's for certain. No wonder you haven't got any friends.”

  “I've got friends, Sergeant Sullivan.” He smiled. “Like Brian Randall.”

  “Yeah, well, like I said, that's not going to happen now. The deal has ended. Things have moved on.”

  “With Brian's mother, you mean?”

  Sullivan's face went white and he swayed, as if struck by something. For a moment Jed thought the policeman was going to faint. Then Sullivan recovered, gave a little laugh. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Brian told me all about it, but I didn't know who she was and what the connection was until my own dad told me what had happened. You see, he had a fling with her too.” Jed nodded, gaining courage from Sullivan's ashen face. “Yeah. The same woman. Whilst I was in Risley, Brian told me a story about you, how you'd become involved with his mum. And whilst I'm in there, listening to all of this, my own dad has a fling with the same woman. And now, here I am. Bit of a coincidence, don't you think?”

  Whether coincidence or not, less than an hour later, Jed was standing in front of Mr Phillips' desk, crestfallen as his Headteacher berated him about time-keeping, responsibility, hard-work, endeavour and perseverance. He listened to it all, without saying a word. He took it on the chin because he knew he had no other choice. Then he slinked off to his next available lesson and sat at the back, unable to concentrate, just going through the motions. At break time, he got a message to return to the Head's office. He knew what it was about. The little panda car was in the school car park. As Jed went through the door, he had to step aside to allow the uniformed constable to squeeze past. He didn't say a word. But Phillips did, after he'd spent a long time looking at his fingers drumming on his desk top.

  “My God, Jed, my God…”

  “I didn't do it, Mr Phillips. I swear to you.”

  Phillips looked up. Had he even heard what Jed had said? His lips were trembling. “My God, the papers are going to have a field day.”

  16

  He was waiting for Jed as school finished for the day. Brian Randall. He stood opposite the main gate, sitting on a garden wall, smoking a cigarette. No doubt he felt it made him look tough – school was behind him; he could do what the hell he liked. Two fingers up to authority. Jed wasn't impressed.

  “Hello Brian. You waiting for me?”

  Randall threw the cigarette away, half finished. “I need to talk to you.”

  “I'm all ears.”

  “Not here, dickhead. Let's walk down to the park.”

  The local park was just a under a hundred yards from the school, a large, uncared for space where no one ever visited. A few broken swings hung there like skeletons, dead and useless. No children played there, the broken tarmac ground waiting to cut open knees and graze hands. Jed thought it should be bulldozed over.

  Brian Randall found a rickety bench and sat down, wringing his hands, staring at the ground. “I got out yesterday. Court appearance at nine, case dismissed by half past.”

  “That's great.” Jed frowned because nothing about Randall seemed to speak of celebrations. “Isn't it?”

  “I got home about eleven. Mum was out, as always. No one came to meet me at prison – I had to get the bus home. You ever been to Birkenhead Magistrates' Court?” Jed shook his head. “It's horrible. Cold. When I came out I just wanted someone to be there, you know? Someone to say, 'well done mate!' But there was no one. Not even my bloody mother.”

  “Brian, I'm sorry, if I'd known…”

  Randall looked up, his eyes hard, “I wouldn't have expected you to be there. This isn't what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “You're back at school, everything all rosy in the garden, eh?”

  Frowning, Jed struggled to keep his anger under control. “What the hell are you on about?”

  Randall turned away and spat onto the ground. “I got home and the house was empty. Well, at least I thought it was. I got myself something to eat, then I heard something upstairs. At first, I thought it was the floor boards creaking, the way they do. But then I heard laughing.”

  “Laughing?”

  “Yeah. More of a cackle. So I went upstairs, careful like. I took the bread knife with me, for protection. There was someone up there.”

  “It was probably your mum.”

  “Let me finish.” He blew out an angry breath. “So, I go upstairs, checking her bedroom first because I'm sure that whoever it is, is in there. Nothing. Then the box-room, which is next to Mum's. It was empty, filled up with all sorts of crap. My room was the same. And the bathroom.” He gave Jed a measured stare. “The house was empty. I was the only one there.”

  Jed nodded, trying not to jump to conclusions too soon. “All right. So … Let's just take this slow. Brian, you'd been locked up in Risley, just got home from a courtroom appearance, so it's it was entirely natural that you should imagine things that weren't real. You were upset your mum hadn't been there to pick you up – she is selfish, unfeeling perhaps, or perhaps she simply didn't know. It's all perfectly understandable, mate. What I don't get is why you would think I—”

  “You think I imagined it, don't you?” As Jed went to speak, Randall held up his hand, cutting him off. “Don't worry – I felt they same. At first. Anyway, I go downstairs again, thinking that it must have been outside, so I check the back garden just in case. We've got an outhouse, so I take a look in there. There isn't anyone anywhere in the whole house except me. I go back inside and sit down at the table. Then I hear it again. Laughing. I didn't hang around anymore, I just ran out. It wasn't until I got to Marlowe Road church that I realised I still had the bread knife. Anyway, there's a phone box there, so I rang my mum's friend, Joan. Mum wasn't there, but Joan said I could go round and sit with her for a while. So I did, and she gave me some cheese on toast and we talked.”

  Without warning, he stood up, breathing hard. He kicked a stone across the ground and went to the rusted swing a few feet away. He settled himself into the hard wooden seat, slowly swinging himself backwards and forwards. The iron chains creaked loudly. Jed watched him, waiting, knowing that there was more to come.

  Bringing the swing to a halt, Randall stared into the distance, and spoke again. “She got home around six. Joan spoke to her on the phone and then I went round. M
um seemed happy enough to see me, apologising for not being home. She'd been to Birkenhead shopping, but hadn't seen me, or even thought of me. But, as I thought about it, I realised how stupid I'd been. How was she to know that I'd be getting out, that I even had the hearing? She gave me a big hug and it was all forgotten. Stupid.” He fished inside his denim jacket and pulled out a crushed packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Jed, who refused. “So, we sat down for our tea and watched a bit of tele. I was so tired, didn't want to go out. Anyway, I went to bed early, crashed out straight away. But something woke me up – and you can guess what it was, yeah?”

  “Laughing.”

  “Right first time. I sat up, rubbing my eyes, really worried now. My heart was like a hammer, banging away at my chest, trying to break out. I swung my legs out of the bed-clothes and sat still for a long time, trying to get my thoughts together, calm myself down. But I was so afraid, I couldn't think straight. Then I saw him, in the corner of my room. It was so dark he was nothing but a shadow, but I knew it was a man. And he was laughing at me, quietly, mocking me.”

  “A man? Jesus, Bri, in your room? What the hell did you do?”

  “Nothing. What could I do? I just sat there and waited for something to happen. I mean, he could have just come over and cut my throat and I wouldn't have been able to do anything about it. I told you, nothing was working. My legs, they were like jelly. I couldn't even shout out to my mum.” He threw his cigarette away and put his face in his hands. He was shaking. Jed wanted to put his arm around his shoulders, but resisted, unsure what Brian's reaction might be. So he sat and waited.

  Randall dragged his hands down his face, pulling at his skin, exhausted and afraid. “I don't know how I did it, but I reached out and switched on my bedside lamp. Instantly, I could feel the strength coming back into my legs. Funny that, isn't it? The dark, how horrible it can be.”

  “And the man, Brian? What about the man?”

  “That's just it. There was no man. There wasn't anybody there.”

  “So – so, it was a dream?”