Follow the Leader

by Mel Sherratt

  ‘You’re home earlier than planned.’ She went to sit in his lap but he pushed her aside, intent on watching the screen. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Job finished early,’ he said. ‘There was a bloke murdered yesterday.’

  ‘What – you mean here in Stoke?’ Rhian gasped.

  ‘Yes, haven’t you heard? It’s been all over the news.’

  ‘No, I must have missed the bulletins.’ Rhian omitted to tell him she hadn’t heard a thing because she’d been gossiping with friends. She turned to focus on the screen a little better, watching a clip of a white tent over the side of a canal bank. She leaned a bit closer. ‘Ooh, that’s Etruria, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, poor bastard was attacked while he walked the dog. I know him, too. We went to school together.’

  Rhian turned back to him sharply. ‘Please don’t tell me the dog is dead too.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘No, it made its own way home.’

  ‘Oh, the poor thing.’

  ‘We’re talking about a bloke who’s been murdered.’ Joe’s pitch was one of exasperation. ‘Out for a walk with his dog, stabbed and left for dead. I can’t believe it’s Mickey.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘We didn’t keep in touch after school, but –’

  ‘Well, you hardly know him then.’

  ‘Doesn’t make it any better.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Rhian paused. ‘Anyway, what do you fancy to eat for lunch? I got a piece of gammon at half-price – needs to be eaten today, really. Or a couple of ready-meals.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, and I have to go out again soon. That’s why I’m back a little earlier.’

  ‘Do you have to?’ Rhian pouted. ‘I thought we could have some afternoon delight, so to speak.’ She waggled her eyebrows comically, waiting for him to acknowledge her, but he said nothing, just kept his eyes on the screen.

  A few moments later, knowing she wasn’t going to get his attention, Rhian moved away with another sigh. He was good at that – ignoring her, making her feel invisible when he had more pressing things on his mind. Still, taking the rough with the smooth was something she was used to. With Joe, the rough was bad but the smooth was always worth waiting for.

  Day two of the enquiry had been frustrating for Allie. So far there were no leads. No witnesses, no ID from forensics that could put anyone else on the scene. Any CCTV cameras that would have been on the area didn’t reach down and underneath the bridge to show what had happened on the towpath. Finally, she’d tasked Sam with trawling through the ones that panned around the city to see if there was a chance they had been in range, but again, there had been nothing. Despite media coverage on the local radio stations and front-page coverage of the story in The Sentinel, no witnesses had come forward with any further details. They were at a loss at the moment until more forensics came back.

  As her hands flew over her keyboard, her mind went back to the letter E that had been found in Mickey Taylor’s pocket. It wasn’t even the beginning of Mickey’s name: the worst scenario they had been going over in that evening’s briefing was that it might be the beginning of a word. If so, it could be a sign of more to come – which was a horrible thought in itself. Everyone was certainly stumped as to why it was there. Without the magnetic letter, no one would have been any the wiser – the murder would have been taken for a random attack, a robbery gone wrong. But the letter changed everything.

  She finally left the station just before nine that evening. Before heading home, she popped over to Riverdale Residential Home on the off chance that her sister might still be awake. At the main doors, she pressed her key fob to the monitor to allow her access. Walking through the now-darkened reception area and along the brightly lit corridor to Karen’s room always reminded Allie of how long she had been coming there, how seventeen years of her sister’s life had been taken away from them both. Still, it was pleasant, and the staff and the facilities were second to none, and it was only a mile from where she and Mark lived in Werrington. Her sister had the best they could offer her.

  Karen was propped up in bed when she walked into her room. Her dark hair was washed, her fringe held back with a purple clip. Her face seemed a little more puffy than usual but that was because Doctor Merchant had tried a different cream on her psoriasis and it had caused a slight reaction. She noted that the patches looked better than the last time she’d visited, though.

  Allie wiped a bit of dribble from Karen’s chin and bent to kiss her forehead. ‘Hey, Sis. How are you doing?’

  Karen groaned, an angry response, her eyes firmly set on the small television screen behind her.

  ‘Not sulking, are you?’ Allie’s shoulders drooped. ‘I’m sorry; I’ve been busy with a case.’

  Karen groaned, louder this time. Allie breathed a sigh of relief: it was a frustrated groan, not one of annoyance. She turned to look at the television, catching Bradley Walsh walking across it in a crumpled flasher-mac–type coat. She stepped to one side with a smile, realising that she was blocking her sister’s view.

  ‘Well, well, now,’ she teased. ‘I can’t have you missing Law and Order.’

  She drew up a chair and sat down beside the bed, concentrating on her own murder case as Detective Sergeant Ronnie Brooks tried to solve his. Allie hoped Mickey Taylor’s murder wouldn’t be one that remained unsolved – a random attack that hadn’t been witnessed by anyone, with no camera evidence to follow up, a silhouette of a person perhaps disappearing into the distance. This was always the frustrating time on any investigation: either waiting for someone to confess because they couldn’t sleep with their guilt or eventually realising that someone was going to their grave never telling a soul of the wrong deed they’d done. But she and her team wouldn’t give up until all angles were covered. It was early days yet.

  She sighed, got out her phone and sent a message to Mark. She wouldn’t be long but she wanted him to know that she had left work. He’d probably be expecting her to be at the station all evening.

  ‘I can’t believe the Christmas break is over already, Kaz,’ she said, sitting forward to rest a hand on her sister’s arm. ‘It was good to just catch up with Mark – and do normal things, you know. Watch TV, do a bit of shopping in the sales, go for a pub lunch or two. I swear we must have eaten our weight in chocolate, though.’ She patted her stomach with her other hand. ‘I need to get back to the gym.’

  She stretched her aching neck from side to side, her eyes catching a group of framed photos on the opposite wall. They’d found most of them when clearing out Karen’s flat after the attack. They were of family and friends, happier times. Allie wondered if Mickey Taylor would be in any of these photos. There was one with a group of teens; she got up and moved closer to check it out, looking for the flash of red hair. Yes, over on the left side: three boys. The middle one looked like Mickey. Over on the right stood three girls, arms round each other’s shoulders – one of them was Karen. Allie ran a finger over her image. She’d recognise that smile anywhere, even though she hadn’t seen it in such a long time.

  She peered closer. Was one of the girls Kath Clamortie? Removing the frame from the wall, she took out the photo. Written on the back in blue ink were the date and the school name: Reginald High School – 1989. Under that was a list of names: Me, Sandy, Mickey, Gray, Kath and Nath. She looked at the boys again. One of the others looked familiar too, but she couldn’t place him.

  Allie put the photo back on the wall and sat down, giving Karen’s hand a squeeze. She’d give anything to have one last chat with her sister, even if only to make sure everything was okay for her. It was such a sad existence to be in the home all day, every day, for the rest of her life.

  ‘I miss talking to you so much, Sis,’ she said quietly.

  Noticing that Karen’s eyes were closing, Allie watched her for a moment before pushing herself forcefully to her feet. Sometimes, seei
ng her lying there, unable to respond, felt just as bad as if she had been taken away altogether. Just like someone had taken Mickey Taylor from his family.

  Allie would stop at nothing until they had justice for him too. Because she never gave up thinking that one day her sister’s attacker would be caught. One day, he would get exactly what he deserved.

  And she hoped, more than anything, that she would be there to see it.

  This old man, he played two.

  He played knick-knack on his shoe.

  With a knick-knack, paddy-whack

  Give the dog a bone.

  This old man came rolling home.

  1989

  ‘What do you think, girls?’ Sandra Seymour pouted and looked at the group before her. ‘Don’t you think I’m the best looking out of all of you?’

  ‘You’re so full of yourself!’ Johnno laughed at her.

  ‘I was joking,’ she retorted.

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to be listening.’ Sandra prodded him in the chest. ‘But if you must know, we were having a competition to see who had been out with the most boys. Surely that proves who is the best looking, then?’

  ‘More like who is the biggest tart.’

  ‘Why, you cheeky bugger!’

  Johnno grinned. ‘That can’t be right anyway, because you haven’t been out with me – and I only go out with the best.’

  ‘Ha, as if. Who’d want to go out with you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Karen Baxter shouted over. ‘Who would want to go out with you?’

  ‘Well, you, for starters, Kaz.’

  ‘In your dreams.’ Karen huffed and folded her arms. ‘You’re so full of yourself, Johnno. I’d rather shoot myself in the head.’

  ‘You’d go out with me, though, wouldn’t you?’ Mickey took Karen’s hand.

  Karen pulled it away quickly, blushing furiously. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Ooh – ooh.’ A chorus rang up from the boys.

  A few feet away from them but hidden safely indoors, Patrick listened through an open window of the corridor. The gang were in the upper school playground, congregated around the doors to the main building, the low-walled flower borders a perfect place to sit. It was where the cool kids hung around – and where anyone who wasn’t cool kept out of their way.

  He heard everything – all their flirty comments, all their putdowns with the double-entendres. He glared at them. If they ever spoke to him, they meant every one of the spiteful things they said to him. There weren’t any jokes, just nasty comments that held true meaning.

  He’d stayed behind after the last lesson to chat with the teacher. History – he couldn’t get enough of it and they were learning all about the Industrial Revolution. But now he was late to get to the playground, and he’d have to walk right through the people he hated the most. He was safer in here, although he was pushing his luck to be inside during a break.

  A minute later, his luck ran out when Mrs Turner, the arts teacher, came round the corner.

  ‘Come on, Patrick,’ she said, beckoning him over to the door.

  ‘Don’t feel very well, miss,’ he fibbed. ‘Feel a bit sick.’

  Mrs Turner nodded. ‘Get some fresh air. It’ll make you feel much better.’

  Dragging his feet, Patrick went outside and found himself in the middle of the group. They all turned to see – Johnno sporting the biggest grin as he caught his eye. He grabbed Sandra’s hand and pulled her near.

  ‘Can you settle a problem for me, Shorty?’

  Patrick wouldn’t look at them, kept on walking down the steps.

  ‘You reckon I should go out with Karen or Sandra?’ Johnno said loudly. ‘I thought I’d ask you, seeing as you’re the one that every girl in the school wants to go out with.’

  ‘I don’t want to go out with him!’ Sandra pointed rudely at Patrick. ‘I have a reputation to keep up. It’s not going to get wasted on some smelly, creepy swot that daren’t say boo to a goose. I want a man, not a mouse.’

  ‘But you’ve just been going on about how many boys fancy you.’ Johnno swung Sandra round by her hand until she was in front of Patrick. ‘I reckon you should kiss him.’

  Sandra baulked. ‘You have to be joking!’

  ‘I’m not. Kiss him.’

  ‘No way!’

  Patrick tried to get past but Johnno pulled him back. By this time, the group had crowded behind him. Johnno pushed Sandra towards Patrick but she tried to squirm out of his reach.

  She screwed up her face. ‘No!’

  ‘Leave me alone.’ Patrick tried to push through them again but this time was stopped by Mickey.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he said.

  With Johnno holding on to Sandra, and Mickey blocking Patrick’s way, the two were pushed together as the chants around them deepened.

  ‘Kiss him. Kiss him. Kiss him!’

  Soon Patrick had someone holding on to each of his arms. As Sandra was pushed towards him, she squealed in dismay. Johnno, still behind her, held her wrists tightly down at her sides. Screwing up her face, she turned it to the side. Patrick did the same as he saw her getting nearer. He pulled back his head but they were pushed together all the more. Behind the group, he could see more kids laughing, more coming to see what was going on.

  ‘Shorty has a crush on you, everyone knows that,’ said Johnno, snidely. ‘Kiss him.’

  ‘No!’

  When she was an inch from his face, Sandra drew back her foot and kneed him in the groin.

  Patrick dropped to his knees, then onto his side, groaning as he rolled around the playground. He felt a kick in the back, at the base of his spine, that made him groan even more. He couldn’t see who it was. Another two kicks and then a shout.

  ‘Mr Stewart’s coming over!’

  The crowd dispersed as quickly as it had formed. Patrick gasped as he tried to ignore the pain between his legs. She’d done a proper job, had Sandra Seymour.

  ‘Right, you lot.’ Mr Stewart clapped his hands. ‘Nothing to see now. Come on, move along!’

  From the ground, Patrick watched Johnno run to catch up with Sandra, who had marched off in a huff. Watched as he whispered something in her ear, heard her laughing. She glanced back at him for a moment before pushing Johnno playfully. Then Johnno slung his arm around her shoulders and they continued to walk away.

  No one else gave a backward glance.

  Chapter Seven

  Suzi Porter opened the front door, entering the house with the same foul mood that she’d left it with that morning. She’d had to get up at the crack of dawn to make sure she was ready and in the studio in Manchester for eight o’clock. She’d been planning on going out to dinner in the white shirt she’d been wearing: damn the clumsy make-up artist for squirting foundation all down the front of it. Suzi was sure she’d done it deliberately after she’d caused a fuss about not wanting to cover her clothes with a robe. And damn the incompetent stylist for bringing her the wrong size clothing so she’d had to resort to wearing her own top in the first place – she was a size twelve, everyone knew that, not a ten. Bigger sizes could always be pinned to suit. Not that it mattered too much, for minutes later it would be whipped off for more revealing photographs. It was all just bloody politics.

  It was just before six p.m. on Wednesday afternoon when her driver dropped her off. The journey back via the motorway had been horrendous. An accident had blocked two lanes, causing two miles of tailbacks. Now her head was pounding with the stress of sitting around doing nothing.

  Seeing her husband’s car parked in the drive, she shouted to him as she went through to the kitchen.

  ‘Kelvin?’

  ‘Up here!’

  Suzi flipped off her heels, left them where they dropped in the middle of the floor and tiptoed over marble tiles to the fridge. Re
aching inside for a half-empty bottle of wine, she poured herself a large glass, gulped it back greedily and poured another. Even the taste of it did nothing to alleviate her mood. She could feel a migraine coming; her arms were aching after the photographer had insisted she have them up in the air while she draped herself around a pole, and her right eye was beginning to puff after the wrong sort of cream had been used to remove all the paraphernalia needed to make her look half-decent. Shit, what she put herself through to earn a decent crust.

  She lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, moving to stand at the back door before Kelvin caught her smoking in the house. She let go of the smoke with a sigh; the cool air blasting in did nothing to invigorate her. God, she was knackered, and she had another shoot tomorrow. At least she didn’t have to worry about picking up the kids. Ollie and Jayden were staying over with Kelvin’s mum and dad that evening. She sighed again as she blew more smoke out. That was, if Kelvin wasn’t still sulking after their argument last night.

  When Kelvin came into the kitchen minutes later, she was sitting at the table, wine glass in her hand.

  ‘Don’t knock too much of that back if you’re coming over to me later,’ he said.

  ‘It’s only my first!’ Suzi lied.

  ‘You’d better make it your last. It’s at least a double measure.’

  ‘Stop nagging. You don’t have to start on me the minute I get in.’

  ‘You don’t have to grab a drink the minute you get in.’

  Suzi prickled. ‘Look, I’ve had a shit day so I’m in a mood already. Don’t make things worse.’