by Roberta Kray
She was still pondering on her next move when the mobile rang again. This time it was Toby Marsh.
‘What happened to you last night?’ he said.
‘Me?’ she replied indignantly. ‘More like what happened to you. You go off to get me a drink and an hour later I’m still waiting.’
‘I couldn’t find you.’
‘Huh!’ she said. ‘The place wasn’t that big. Are you sure you didn’t stumble on some cute thirsty blonde and decide to give her my champagne instead?’
‘I looked for you,’ he insisted. ‘I couldn’t find you anywhere.’
‘You should get your eyes checked out.’ She waited a moment and sighed. ‘Oh well,’ she said forgivingly. ‘No harm done, I suppose.’
There was a short silence.
‘Toby?’ she said.
‘There’s something else I have to talk to you about.’
He sounded serious. Jess pulled a face, hoping that he hadn’t discovered what she was really doing with her leave. If he ever found out about those files she had taken …
‘Yeah?’ she mumbled.
‘Er … it’s about Len,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d want to know. Only it seems that the body’s finally been released. His brother’s arranged the funeral for next Monday; it’s at the local crematorium, eleven thirty.’
It was the last thing she had been expecting. She sharply drew in her breath. The body, she repeated inwardly. Len’s body.
She stared up at the ceiling. A few seconds passed.
‘Hello? Jess? Are you still there?’
Feeling her hands beginning to shake, she tightened her grip on the phone. ‘Does this mean the police have dropped the investigation?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it doesn’t. They just don’t need his …’ He stopped abruptly and gave a small embarrassed cough. ‘I mean, I think they’ve completed everything they need to do, that’s all. And it’s for the best, isn’t it? It’s a good thing. At least he can be laid to rest now.’
Jess shook her head. How he was ever supposed to rest when his killer was still roaming free was beyond her. Still, that wasn’t anything she expected Toby to understand. He was still convinced, like so many others, that Len’s death hadn’t been premeditated, that it was simply down to some crazed junkie, to some stupid random mugging that had happened to go wrong.
‘Are you okay?’ he said.
‘Eleven thirty,’ she said. ‘That’s fine. I’ll be there.’
‘Would you like me to call round, to pick you up? It’s no trouble. I know that you and Len worked closely together, that you were friends.’
Jess closed her eyes. This was hard enough to deal with without Toby going all kind and considerate on her. ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘it’s nice of you to offer but I’ll be fine. Really, I will. I’ll see you there. I’ll see you on Monday.’
She put the phone down and buried her face in her hands. Damn it! Len’s funeral was less than a week away and what had she achieved? Sod all! He’d left her his files, his suspicions and at least some of his accumulated wisdom and she was still pussyfooting around trying not to upset too many people.
Lifting her head, Jess wiped her eyes. She stared down at the address Scott had given her. If anyone held the key to the mysteries of the past it was Sharon Harper. There was nothing to stop her from going round: she had talked to Joan Sewell and got away with it – so why not take the next step?
Before she could change her mind, Jess leaned over, grabbed her brown leather boots and pulled them on. She picked up her bag and dashed out of the flat. She had just got into the car when her mobile started ringing again. Who was it now? Glancing down she saw that the caller was Harry. She was tempted to ignore him – he’d not been in the best of moods last night – but thought better of it. It was his silver grey Audi she was sitting in after all.
‘Hey,’ she said brightly.
‘Are you sick?’ he said.
Jess slid the key into the ignition. ‘Why should I be sick?’
‘Because you were out last night. Because it’s getting on for midday and you’re still not here. I thought we had a deal. I help you and you help me. It’s not too complicated. So, weren’t you supposed to play driver for me today?’
‘Ah,’ she said.
‘What’s going on?’
Jess fastened her seatbelt. ‘Yes, you’re right, you’re absolutely right but I’m a bit tied up at the moment. I can be with you in … say a couple of hours?’
‘Forget it,’ he said brusquely.
Jess scowled at the windscreen. This was all she needed, Harry Lind having a sulk at her expense. ‘Hey, I’m sorry, all right? I should have let you know. But if it’s that important, I’ll drop what I’m doing and come round straight away.’
‘What I meant,’ he said, ‘is that there’s no need to rush over. How about we make it this evening instead? I need a lift to Vista. About nine thirty. You think you could manage that?’
‘Oh,’ Jess said, relieved. ‘Of course I can. Ray Stagg won’t be too pleased though. I thought he fired you.’
‘He missed me so much that I’m back on the pay roll.’
‘Must be that fabulous wit and charm,’ she said.
He ignored the comment. ‘I need to see him. Then I have to talk to the girls, try and find out what they know about Agnes.’
‘Well, good luck with that,’ she said.
‘Nine thirty,’ he reminded her.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said. ‘I heard you the first time. I’ll be there.’
‘Oh, and Jess,’ he said, before he hung up, ‘you will take care of the car, won’t you?’
‘I’ll treat it like my own.’
He gave an exaggerated groan. ‘Yeah, that’s what I was worried about.’
Burnley Avenue should have been a short ten-minute drive away but the traffic was snarled up and moving at a snail’s pace. Jess, stuck behind a bus, spent the time murmuring expletives and stressing over how she was going to get Sharon Harper to agree to speak to her. With Joan Sewell it had been relatively straightforward – Michael was always going to be her weak spot – but she didn’t have the same leverage with Sharon.
It was twenty-five minutes before she finally arrived at her destination. She counted off the numbers on the front doors and after she reached forty-nine pulled into the first available parking space and switched off the engine. For a while she sat and gazed out through the windscreen. Burnley Avenue consisted of two rows of identikit dark brick semis, cleverly designed to blend in with the general grime of the area. The houses, box-like, bland and featureless, looked like they’d been built by a five-year-old with a set of Lego – although that was maybe an injustice to the creative flair of five-year-olds.
From where she was seated, Jess could see a couple of properties with their windows boarded up. One of them had a forlorn For Sale sign tilting sideways by the gate. It was December already but there was little sign here of any enthusiasm for the festive season. Not even a hint of tinsel. To her left the pavement was littered with fast food containers, fag ends and squashed tin cans. The road didn’t appear to have been swept in the past year or so.
Jess dug in her bag, found her cigarettes and lit one. Winding down the window, she shivered in a blast of cold air. She peered towards number sixty-one. It didn’t look any different to the rest of the houses. There was no obvious sign of life.
She still hadn’t decided what to say.
A woman pushing a toddler in a pram strode past. A pair of teenagers came next, their blue jeans slung low and their faces buried in their hoods. Warily, she watched them in her rearview mirror, aware of her probably unjustified prejudice but still unable to prevent a few niggling doubts. They turned left at the corner and the street was quiet again.
She finished her cigarette and threw it on the ground outside. She felt faintly guilty – it wasn’t exactly improving an already shabby environment – but would have felt even worse if she’d stubbed it out in the
perfectly pristine ashtray. Mr Lind had his standards.
‘Time to go,’ she muttered out loud. ‘Move it, Vaughan! Shift!’
Quickly, before she could change her mind, she jumped out of the car but then stopped again, taking care to lock it. Across the road a dark blue Ford, minus its wheels, was jacked up on a heap of bricks. She felt a momentary qualm about abandoning Harry’s pride and joy but what else could she do? She shouldn’t be too long. She’d just have to cross her fingers and hope for the best.
Walking towards number sixty-one, Jess looked round again. Wasn’t an avenue supposed to have trees? There wasn’t a single one in sight. It was as if the local council had decided to ban anything with an inclination to turn green. Most of the front gardens, small mean squares, had been concreted over. Grey was the only enduring colour, from the sky to the ground.
Jess paused at the place where a gate had once stood, hesitated, then took a deep breath and strode up the path. She pressed the bell but couldn’t hear any accompanying sound. She tried it again. Was it working? She took a step back and stared up at the house. It was in the same state as the neighbouring properties, the basic structure dilapidated, the brickwork crumbling, the exterior paintwork dull and flaking. It appeared, however, to have one exclusive feature: the front door had a wide crack running up the right-hand side as if someone had recently tried to kick it in.
Giving up on the bell, she rapped directly on the door instead. This time there was a definite movement from inside. After a further thirty seconds a teenage boy pulled open the door. He was pale and slight and looked about fourteen. His hair was a mousy brown. The wires of an iPod were trailing round his skinny shoulders.
‘Yeah?’ he said.
Jess smiled sweetly. ‘Hi. Is Mrs Harper in?’
‘Mam,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Someone here to see you.’
‘Who is it?’ she yelled back.
The voice came from a room that wasn’t too far away. The TV was blaring out, some midday chat show with accompanying waves of manic applause.
The boy looked at her again. ‘Who are you?’ he said, as if she might not have heard his mother’s bellowing reply.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Can she come in?’ he relayed back.
‘Who is it?’ his mother yelled again. Actually standing up and finding out for herself was clearly too much of an effort.
‘My name’s Jessica Vaughan,’ she said, loud and firm enough for her voice to carry. ‘I’d like to talk to your mother. It’s important.’
The boy opened his mouth as if about to repeat it but then, smart enough to know that he was wasting his energy, immediately closed it again.
About twenty seconds passed before Sharon emerged. She was in her mid-forties and her hair was a bright artificial blonde. She was wearing a short red skirt, a black sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of sequinned flip-flops. Her legs were long, bare and ivory white. A cigarette hung between the fingers of her left hand. She looked Jess up and down with the kind of contempt she probably reserved for social workers. ‘What do you want? If it’s about our Darren,’ she said, ‘he’s had the flu, that’s why he’s not been in school.’
Jess glanced towards the boy. ‘He looks okay to me.’
‘Yeah, well,’ she said. ‘He’s getting over it.’
Discomfited, or perhaps merely bored by the exchange, Darren turned and scuttled up the stairs.
Jess remained standing on the doorstep. ‘I’m not here about your son.’
‘What then?’
‘I’m a writer,’ she said. ‘I’m putting together a series of articles on unsolved cases and the impact they’ve had on the relatives involved.’
Sharon stared blankly back at her.
‘I’d like to talk to you about Grace.’
At the mention of her daughter’s name, Sharon’s eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened into a thin straight line. ‘What?’
‘I’m sorry to call by uninvited.’
Sharon’s brown eyes darkened. She glared at Jess. What she saw obviously didn’t impress her too much. ‘Fuck off!’ she said. She reached for the door.
Jess was back in the same position she’d been in with Joan Sewell. She knew that she had to say something persuasive – and fast. She only had a few seconds. What sprang from her lips was a shot on the dark. ‘That’s okay,’ she said, stepping back and raising her hands. ‘That’s fine. I understand. Joan said you wouldn’t want to talk to me.’
Sharon stopped suddenly and scowled. ‘You’ve been talking to Joan?’
‘Oh yes,’ Jess said. ‘She’s been very helpful.’
‘What’s that old bitch told you?’
Jess shrugged and did her habitual trick – the trick Len had taught her – of glancing to the left and right as if the neighbours might be watching. She lowered her voice. ‘Perhaps if I could come inside …?’
Sharon hung on to the door, struggling to make a decision. She might not want to talk about Grace but she did want to find out what Joan had been saying. Curiosity finally won the day. She stood back and gestured with her head for Jess to follow.
‘Suppose you’d better,’ she said grudgingly.
Jess followed her inside, closing the door behind. Don’t blow it now, Vaughan. Tread carefully. Don’t say anything stupid.
The living room was to the right off the narrow hallway. It was about fifteen foot square and over-cluttered with furniture. It also looked like a tornado had blown through several months ago and no one had got round to clearing up the damage. The whole place stank of wet dog, stale cigarette smoke and booze, a gut-wrenching combination that made Jess glad she hadn’t over-indulged the night before.
Sharon slumped down on a tattered beige sofa. She stubbed out her fag and immediately lit another. Guessing that if she waited for an invitation she’d be standing there forever, Jess shifted a pile of magazines to one side and lowered herself on to the edge of an easy chair.
The TV was still on, blaring out loudly. ‘Would you mind?’ Jess said, glancing towards the set. ‘Just for a minute.’
Sharon shrugged, picked up the remote and put the TV on mute. For a few seconds she continued to gaze at the picture as if she might be missing something of vital importance.
‘I realize how difficult this must be,’ Jess began. ‘As I mentioned, I’ve been looking into—’
‘Just tell me what the stupid bitch said,’ Sharon interrupted. ‘Told you it was my fault, did she? What a rubbish mother I was?’
‘I think she was more concerned with how Michael had been treated after—’
‘Him?’ Sharon said incredulously. ‘That waste of space! How he was treated? Don’t make me laugh. He only got what he deserved. That bastard came home wrecked every night, shouting the odds, acting like a fucking animal. Pissed all his wages up the wall, didn’t he? Treated us like dirt. Don’t suppose she happened to mention any of that.’ She stopped to draw breath, sucking bitterly on her cigarette. ‘They should have locked him up and thrown away the key.’
‘You never thought about … er, leaving him?’
‘Leaving him?’ Sharon repeated. She stared at Jess as if she was from a different planet. ‘You don’t leave men like Michael Harper, love. Not if you want to keep on breathing.’
There wasn’t much Jess could say to that so she fell back on the failsafe response of sympathetic understanding. ‘God, it must have been awful for you.’
As if violent husbands were simply an accepted part of life’s trials and tribulations, Sharon lifted her shoulders in a bored shrug. Her gaze drifted towards the TV again. Before she lost her attention, Jess quickly returned to the subject of her sister-in-law.
‘Mrs Sewell … Joan … seemed kind of resentful that you wouldn’t let Grace spend time round there. She claimed you deliberately kept her away.’
Sharon didn’t bother to dispute it. ‘You bet I did. You think I’d want any kid of mine spending time with that flaming freak?’
�
�Well, I can see how she might be difficult.’
‘Not her,’ Sharon said, ‘although she was bad enough. That mad son of hers.’ She paused and grinned. ‘She didn’t tell you about him, did she?’
It was news to Jess. She shook her head.
Sharon leaned forward, slapped her hands on her knees and cackled. ‘There! What have I been saying? That witch wouldn’t know the truth if it came along and bit her on the arse.’ Then, as if this was a cause for celebration, she jumped up and walked over to a table in the corner. Picking up a bottle of vodka, she poured out a hefty measure. She took a large swig, refilled the glass and turned to Jess. ‘Fancy one?’
Jess didn’t. All of the glasses, opaque with grime, looked like breeding grounds for fatal bacteria. ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘Thanks very much.’
Sharon passed her a drink and then sat down again. ‘I wouldn’t let our Grace within a hundred miles of that house, not on her own, not with that weirdo hanging about. There was no knowing what he might do.’
In the spirit of the moment, Jess raised the glass to her lips but didn’t drink anything. ‘Tell me about him.’
Sharon laughed again, a nasty mirthless sound. She raised a finger to the side of her head and made a twisting motion. ‘Not right upstairs, was he? Should have been put away somewhere but Joan wasn’t having any of it. Francis he was called, a right little spastic.’
Jess flinched at the word. It was a long time since she’d heard anybody use it and a frown creased up her forehead. ‘Dangerous?’ she said, hoping that Sharon hadn’t noticed her reaction.
Sharon shrugged again. ‘I wasn’t taking no chances. I mean you can’t, can you, not with your own. World’s full of nonces and what do the cops do about it? Fuck all! In and out of nick in a couple of years, roaming the streets, free to do whatever they want again. It’s a bloody disgrace! If I had my way, I’d—’
Before she could embark on what could prove to be a lengthy discourse, Jess swiftly interrupted. ‘So you think Francis was a … a nonce, then?’