Who Is She?

by Ben Cheetham

  He stooped to kiss her cheek. “I didn’t want you worrying. I know you don’t like it when I get called out in the middle of the night. Your hair looks nice.”

  “Aunt Laura did it.”

  “She makes a much better job of it than me.”

  Naomi glanced around as if to make sure Laura wasn’t behind her. “I like the way you do it better,” she whispered.

  Jack smiled at the compliment even though he knew it wasn’t true. Whenever Laura was around, Naomi pestered her to plait her thick black hair into all sorts of styles. “Where is your aunt?”

  “She’s getting changed for work.”

  That reminded Jack. He grabbed a clean t-shirt and jeans from the linen basket in the kitchen. After changing out of his damp clothes, he made toast for Naomi and himself. They were munching on it at the table when Laura appeared in her nursing uniform. Her light brown hair was neatly pinned up. Black-rimmed glasses that gave her a stern look were perched on her nose. “I didn’t expect to see you,” she said to Jack, pinching a slice of toast from his plate.

  He spread his hands as if to say, Well here I am. “Did you manage to get some sleep?”

  “A couple of hours. How was your night?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Jack mouthed with a meaningful glance at Naomi.

  “Someone’s been killed, haven’t they?” said Naomi.

  Lines gathered between Jack eyes. “What makes you say that, sweetie?”

  “You’ve got that look on your face. The one you always get when something really bad happens.”

  Jack smiled faintly. It was pointless trying to get anything past Naomi. She had his gift for reading people. Although there were times when he thought of it more as a curse. Everyone had their hidden side. The dark corner of their mind where they stowed the things they didn’t want the world to see – secrets, fears, desires. It gave you a cynical view of life when the slightest tic, blink, frown or grimace laid those things bare. “Someone got hurt, but they didn’t die.”

  “Did you help them?”

  “I’m trying to.” Jack felt that tug of guilt again. It was followed by a sense of urgency. “Right, come on, let’s get you to school.”

  As Naomi grabbed her coat and rucksack, Jack said to Laura, “I’ll call you later.”

  “Watch your back out there.”

  Jack rolled his eyes at her. “You’re as bad as Naomi. It’s just a run-of-the mill case.”

  “I’m not talking about the case.”

  Laura didn’t need to say more. They both knew she was referring to Paul. She’d never had much love for Jack’s boss and oldest colleague. As far as she was concerned, Paul was a snake in the grass, a backstabber.

  With a nod, Jack headed for the front door.

  As usual, the roads around Chorlton Primary School were snarled up with traffic. Stressed-looking parents were competing for parking spaces and hustling their kids through the school gates. “Oh the joys of the school run,” Jack said sarcastically.

  “Next year I’ll be old enough to walk to school with my friends,” said Naomi.

  He glanced at her uncertainly. “We’ll see about that.” His instinct was to coddle her, shield her from all possible harm. But he was aware that in doing so he himself might inadvertently harm her. At some point you had to allow them a measure of independence or they became resentful and rebellious. Or even worse, they became over-dependent. He couldn’t see that happening with Naomi. She was already straining at the leash. The question was how much slack to give her. He’d seen time and again what too much freedom too soon could lead to – delinquency, alcohol, drugs, underage sex. Being a parent was a fine line and walking it alone was no easy thing.

  Naomi pecked Jack on the cheek and jumped out of the car. “Bye, Dad.”

  “Have a good day. Love you,” he called after her.

  He watched her and a friend run smiling into the school. He never got tired of seeing her smile. It made everything else – getting up before the sun, the school run, the job, even dealing with Paul – worthwhile.

  As Jack accelerated away, his phone rang. It was Steve. “Where the hell are you?” Steve demanded to know.

  “I’ve just dropped Naomi off at school. Where are you?”

  “Where do you think? I’m still in sodding Clifton. You need to get your arse back over here ASAP.”

  “Why? Have there been any developments?”

  “Yeah, I’m getting a cold from walking around with wet hair.”

  “You haven’t got enough hair for that.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Jack chuckled. “See you soon.”

  Chapter 6

  ‘Soon’ turned out to be longer than expected. A jack-knifed lorry transformed the M60 into a car park for an hour or so. By the time Jack arrived at Clifton, Steve and the constables under his command had moved onto neighbouring Kearsley – a small town within the Metropolitan Borough of Bolton. Jack found Steve on Manchester Road chatting to a heavily made-up blonde in a beauty salon. Steve didn’t appear to be in any rush to get through his questions. He seemed more interested in how much it would cost for a session of massage therapy. Jack moved things along by showing the beautician a photo of the red wing tattoo. She shook her head, saying, “I’ve lived in this area all my life and I’ve never seen anyone with a tattoo like that around here.”

  “What about anyone in camouflage clothing?” asked Steve.

  “You mean a soldier?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe just someone who dresses like a soldier. Someone big. At least six foot.”

  The beautician shook her head again. Steve gave her his card. “Call me if you think of anything. Anytime, day or night,” he added smarmily.

  Steve shot Jack a scowl as they headed outside. “Thanks a fucking bunch, mate. I was almost in there until you waltzed in and–”

  “What was that about camouflage clothing?” interrupted Jack.

  “The DCI sent out an updated description of the ‘big figure’ the lads saw.” Steve showed Jack the message – ‘Between 6’1’’ to 6’4’’, wearing camouflage trousers, a hooded camouflage jacket and possibly green netting’. “Didn’t you get it?”

  “No I didn’t,” Jack muttered darkly. He’d grown accustomed to being left out of the loop by Paul, but this was getting beyond ridiculous. His thoughts turned from Paul to the Little Owl showering on its branch. “What did you used to wear when you went birdwatching?”

  “Depends. If you’re in a hide, you can wear what you want. If you’re outside, you need to blend in with your surroundings. Why, what’s on your mind? Are you thinking of taking up a hobby?”

  “I don’t have much time for hobbies these days. I used to do a bit of birding myself down in Sussex.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah well.” Those two words spoke volumes about Jack’s discomfort at talking about his life in Sussex. “I never took it all that seriously, but some birders wore all sorts of camouflage.” He frowned in thought, then said, “Grab a couple of constables. I want to check something out.”

  Steve accosted the nearest two officers – a burly, bearded sergeant and a female constable who looked fresh out of Police College. As Jack drove the four of them back to Clifton, he explained what was on his mind. “What if the camouflaged figure is some bloke who goes to those woods to watch birds? He takes the victim to see the owl–”

  “Then shoots her in the head,” Steve put in dryly.

  “He could be a married man having an affair with the victim. She gets pregnant and threatens to tell his wife, so he decides to kill her. Maybe he owns a small calibre rifle. The sort of thing used to shoot rabbits, which could explain why the bullet got lodged in her skull.”

  “Birders don’t tend to go around shooting wild animals.”

  “Generally speaking, I’m sure your right. But I know an odd little coincidence when I see one. You remember that nice old lady who invited me in for a cuppa? Well she had a stack of birdwatching
books on her table. She might know the perp.”

  “Sounds pretty tenuous to me, Jack. But then again, we’ve got nothing better to go on right now.”

  Chapter 7

  The car juddered along the potholed lane, splashing through puddles. To the west were the woods where one life recently came into the world and another almost departed it. An old man was digging on the allotments. A mechanic was working on a car in a breezeblock garage. They paused to eye the strangers. The row of pebbledash and redbrick houses overlooked a meadow that ended after a hundred or so metres at the M60, where streams of traffic generated a wall of white noise.

  “Hang back for now,” Jack told the uniformed officers. “We don’t want to scare her.”

  Jack rapped on the front door. As before, it took Doreen a couple of minutes to get to the door. “Who is it?” she asked through the letterbox.

  “It’s Detective Inspector Anderson,” replied Jack.

  Doreen opened the door. She was wearing brown trousers and a knitted jumper. Her skin looked sallow in the insipid morning light. Her gaze moved slowly from Jack and Steve to the constables and back. “What can I do for you, love?” she asked. Jack noted that this time she didn’t invite him in. Her demeanour wasn’t quite so open and friendly. She looked as if something was bothering her.

  “Sorry to disturb you again, Mrs Salter, but I forgot to ask whether you live alone.”

  “My son, Neil, lives with me.”

  “And how old is Neil?”

  “He’s fifty one.”

  “Is he a big bloke?” put in Steve.

  “He’s six-foot odd and built like a shire horse,” Doreen said proudly. “Like his dad was.”

  “And is he interested in birdwatching like his dad was too,” asked Jack.

  “Oh yes. Bill used to take him all the time.”

  “Does Neil own a rifle or any other kind of firearm?”

  Doreen’s thin grey eyebrows bunched together. “Of course he doesn’t,” she said, as if the answer should have been obvious to them. “Neil wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Is Neil in the house?”

  “He’s in his room.”

  “Can we speak to him?”

  For the first time, Doreen hesitated to reply. “Do you really need to?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “He won’t be of any help.” Doreen lowered her voice as if admitting to something shameful. “You see, I had a bad time giving birth to him. They call it a...” She searched for the right words, “nu… nuchal cord. The umbilical cord was caught around his neck. He couldn’t get any oxygen. It damaged his brain.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jack. A baby almost killed by the very thing that nourished it. The irony was too cruel. “Can Neil talk?”

  “When he wants to, but he won’t talk with this lot here.” Doreen gestured to Steve and the constables. “He doesn’t like being around people. He prefers his birds and badgers.”

  “What if I come in and talk to him alone?”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” said Steve.

  “My Neil wouldn’t hurt a fly,” repeated Doreen, giving him a sharp look with her gentle brown eyes.

  “We’ll leave the front door open,” said Jack. “If that’s OK with you, Mrs Salter?”

  She sighed. “It’s alright with me, love. But I’m telling you, you’ll be lucky to get a word out of Neil.”

  “No harm in trying. Where’s his room?”

  Doreen pointed to a scuffed white door at the top of the steep stairs. Jack motioned for her to lead the way. Using two bannisters to precariously haul herself upwards, the old lady ascended the stairs. She tapped on the door and said a touch breathlessly, “Neil, love. There’s a man here wants to talk to you.”

  Silence.

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Neil,” said Jack. “I just want to ask you some questions.”

  More silence.

  Doreen tried the door. The deep lines on her face became even deeper. “It’s locked.”

  “Does he normally lock his door?”

  “No. Only when something’s upset him. Last month some children called him names. He locked himself in his room for two days.”

  “Has anything happened in the past couple of days that could have upset him?”

  “Not that I know of.” Doreen knocked again. “Come on now, Neil, love. Let me in and tell me what the matter is. Have those horrible children been calling you names again?”

  There was a soft whimper from beyond the door.

  “Something’s really bothered him,” said Doreen.

  Jack wondered if it was Neil crying. It didn’t sound like a grown man. It sounded more like a child. Possibly even a baby. “Do you have a key for this door?”

  “Neil has the only key.”

  “Could you stand aside please?”

  Doreen gave Jack an alarmed look. “You’re not going to break down the door, are you?”

  “Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.” Jack examined the lock. It was an old-fashioned mortice lock. Not the kind he could pick. The key was in the other side. He looked at the bottom of the door. There was a gap of two or three centimetres. “Do you have a newspaper and a wire clothes hanger?”

  Doreen nodded and shuffled off through one of the other two doors on the little landing. She returned with the requested items.

  Jack untwisted the hanger. He slid a sheet of newspaper under the door directly below the lock. At the same time, he prodded the wire into the lock. The key came loose and clattered to the floor. He pulled the sheet of paper back, bringing the key with it.

  “Eee, you’re a clever one,” Doreen said admiringly.

  Jack inserted the key into the lock, turned it and started to open the door.

  “No!” boomed a deep voice from inside the bedroom. The door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the walls. Steve was at Jack’s side in a few heartbeats. The detectives pushed with all their strength. The door didn’t budge.

  “Christ, this bugger’s strong,” gasped Steve.

  “Neil, stop playing silly buggers and open the door,” reprimanded Doreen.

  “No!” the voice boomed again.

  Jack stopped pushing, gesturing for Steve to do likewise. “Neil, my name is Detective Inspector Jack Anderson. You’re not in any trouble. A woman’s been hurt. Her baby is missing. All I want to do is find her baby. Do you like babies, Neil?”

  “He loves them,” said Doreen. “When Sally from two along had her twins, Neil couldn’t stay away from them. He fed them their bottles, changed their nappies, the lot.”

  “Then you understand why I need to find this baby so urgently, don’t you, Neil? It needs milk and clothes. It might need medicine. You wouldn’t want any harm to come to the baby, would you, Neil? Of course you wouldn’t. You love babies. So help me find this one.”

  There was a creak of floorboards on the other side of the door.

  Jack turned the handle again and pushed. This time there was no resistance. Motioning for Steve to stay back, he stepped into a bedroom that was a shrine to wildlife. The walls were plastered with photos of birds, foxes, badgers, hedgehogs, deer, mice and the like. Shelves were bowed beneath the weight of birding books. A camouflage jacket, trousers and green netting lay in a heap on the floorboards. A tripod with a camera on it was propped against a wall. A huge slab of a man was standing by a single bed that looked barely big enough for him.

  Neil was wearing an old grey tracksuit, its underarms stained with dark sweat patches. His hair was thinning and almost as grey as his mum’s. Facially he looked like any other man in his early fifties, except for the eyes. There was something missing from his close-set eyes. Some spark of awareness. His stubbly cheeks glistened with tears. His rounded, bearish shoulders trembled like those of a child afraid of being scolded. There was no baby in the room.

  “Now then, what’s got you so riled up?” asked Doreen, approaching Neil, her expression both concerned and annoyed. />
  Neil whimpered – that same incongruous mewl that Jack had heard moments ago. Eyes lowered to the floor, Neil pointed at the camera. “Is there something on the camera that you want me to see?” asked Jack.

  Neil nodded. Jack picked up the camera and searched for the On/Off button.