‘He’s not even talking to me in class,’ George said. ‘I mean, I know he wants me there, he sits next to me, follows me around if I leave the room. Doesn’t like getting on the school bus on his own, you seen that?’
Ursula nodded. They had taken to walking him up the drive to the waiting bus, seeing him safely on board and seated. Even taken to asking one of the girls in Ursula’s class to remind him to get off at his stop. She’d thought it funny at first but now she was worried too, Ursula said.
The truth was, most of the time Paul acted like he was from a different planet and didn’t know how this one worked. George had seen it all before and he just couldn’t understand why no one was doing anything about it.
‘I talked to Miss Crick,’ he said. ‘She said they were worried too but …’ He shrugged.
‘I guess they see it as something his parents have to deal with.’
‘They don’t know what to do!’ George was angry, agitated, helplessness making him want to punch or kick or throw something over the cliff and see it arc into the cold, grey sea, watch it sink and hope his troubles could sink with it. ‘Look, he saw an old woman battered to death, he saw her murdered. He couldn’t stop it and he was too scared to tell. He’s still scared and he feels so guilty it’s just tearing him to little bits. How can they know what to do about that?’
Ursula squeezed his arm. He almost pulled away. There were times when comfort hurt almost as much as the lack of it but need won and he leaned a bit closer to her, just for a brief moment, acknowledging that he felt guilty too, not just about what had gone before but because he didn’t want to deal with Paul’s problems either. His new friendship with Ursula had become very close and very precious in a short period of time and he felt bad about that too. Ursula, complex as she was, was easy to get along with and though he knew one day she’d tell him about herself and he’d be willingly weighed down with that additional burden, for now, she was there, willing to take his problems on board without demanding for a fair exchange and George was pathetically grateful.
Ursula flashed the torch around. ‘Looks like we’re here,’ she said. ‘Sure you want to do this?’
‘No.’ George laughed suddenly, the sound carried from them on the rising wind. ‘I just want … just want to …’ He took hold of what was left of the handrail and lowered himself gingerly on to the first section of eroded path.
‘Do you want the torch?’
‘No, shine it down in front of you, then we should both be able to see.’ He froze suddenly. ‘Is that a motor? Maybe the boat is coming in?’
‘Just a car engine,’ Ursula said. ‘With this wind we wouldn’t be able to hear anything.’ Although she was sure she could hear voices, couldn’t she, carried on the fierce wind or was it just the wind screaming and calling?
‘George, we should come back in daylight, when we can see what we’re doing, see the beach at low tide.’
‘The first chance we’ll get to do that will be Saturday.’ Could he bear to wait that long? He took another cautious step, slipped on wet mud, grabbed the rail. From somewhere, behind them? Below? A screech of tyres or a scream of voices or of wind pierced through the noise and bluster.
‘George, I want to go back.’
George did too. He turned awkwardly, trying to keep a hold on the shaking rail for as long as possible. Ursula scrambled back on to the path and held the light so he could see his way back, then the pair of them turned and ran, back the way they had come.
As they reached the curve of the headland and dipped away from view a shadow detached itself from behind the hotel wall and stared after them.
What, the shadow wondered, were they doing? For that matter, what were they doing out alone on the cliff path on a night like this? One slip and that would be the end of either one of them. Just like it had been for the boy’s father. Turning, he walked back to the car and joined his companion. ‘Just a couple of kids mucking about,’ he said. ‘Forget it.’
His companion nodded, losing interest and going back to his paper. I’ll have to tell Coran that the boy was here, Stan Holden thought to himself. Won’t I? Then he pushed the idea aside. He wasn’t sure what he could or should tell Coran any more.
Sixteen
Mac had arranged a brief meeting with DI Kendal after speaking to Rina, but that Wednesday morning Kendal had organized a major gathering of both local officers and members of the major case squad. It seemed that Mac’s intelligence, largely courtesy of James Duggan and Rina Martin, provided additional pieces in an already existing puzzle. It was the first major presentation Mac had made since the Cara Evans case and to say he was nervous would have been a major understatement.
He took a deep breath, assessing the expressions on the ten faces spaced around the conference table. Looked for doubt in their eyes. Doubt that he had a reason for summoning them here; doubt that he was fully recovered or up to the job. Found none. Exhaling slowly, he touched a key on his computer, watching as the image of a battered, sea-washed body settled on the electronic whiteboard, suddenly relieved that he had bothered to attend what had been a tedious three-day course on new technology. ‘Patrick Duggan,’ he said, ‘son of James Duggan. Washed up in Stanton cove, three miles from Frantham. Cause of death, a single gunshot wound to the head.’
He glanced at Kendal who nodded reassuringly. Mac had their full attention. It was all going to be fine.
Sheila Goldman could not keep still. She had paced from sofa to window so many times that she felt as though she’d worn a furrow in the carpet. Her husband sat at the table, staring at nothing. He knew she blamed him, that she couldn’t help but blame him, but he was angry with her anyway.
Sheila didn’t care. Haines had taken her babies. He’d threatened and now he’d done it and it didn’t matter a damn that Roger said he’d promised they wouldn’t be hurt so long as he, Roger, did as he was told.
‘It wasn’t money Haines wanted,’ he said. God knows they didn’t have money. What they did have was sunk in the house, in the kids’ school fees, in her credit card bills for designer shoes. It was information and Roger was in the position to get it for him. ‘Financial leverage,’ Roger said. Insider deals.
‘They didn’t have to take our children! You could have just given him what he wanted, he’d have left us alone.’
‘I tried that. Gave him exactly what he’d asked for. He wanted more. I said it was too risky. He just said … he just said that he had ways of persuading me the risk was worth it. I didn’t know what he’d do.’
‘But you suspected. Roger, we should have gone to the police!’
‘And told them what? You don’t seem to realize, I’d have gone to prison for what I did. It’s fraud. It’s a criminal offence.’
‘And allowing that man to take our babies? What’s that then, Roger? I’d rather see you locked up for the rest of your life than know you took a risk like this with our children’s lives.’
She turned back from the window. ‘What’s to stop us going to the police now? He doesn’t have to know. You’ll have to tell them what you did, but they’ll understand. You were scared, you were weak, you wanted to protect your family.’
He shook his head. ‘He’ll know. He always knows. He’ll have someone watching us, maybe even listening in to our calls. We have no option, we just have to wait.’
‘For what? What are we waiting for?’
He sighed. ‘For the deal to be agreed and for me to know the terms. I’ve got to go in to work tomorrow, just like usual. I’ve got to make sure I’m there when everything goes through. Then we’ll get our kids back.’
‘And how do you know that? How do you know he won’t kill them anyway?’
Roger sighed again. He didn’t want to be having this conversation. Didn’t want her to know how deep in he already was. ‘Because he always honours his threats and keeps his promises,’ he said. ‘Sheila, he’s done this before, snatched kids or even adults. Taken them for money or for information or for any other
bloody thing he wants.’
She crossed to the table. ‘How do you know this? You talk about him like you know this man. How can you know?’
Roger sighed, knowing this was the end of everything. Knowing there was nothing more that he could do. She’d hate him forever and she’d teach the children to hate him too.
‘Because I handle his money for him. I manage his accounts.’
‘You what?’ Her voice rose to the point of screeching. ‘How? Why? Roger, I just don’t understand.’
He shook his head. ‘I made a mistake,’ he said. ‘Years ago. I “borrowed” a sum of money from one of the funds I administered.’
‘You did what?’
‘We had cash flow problems. I’m not going to make excuses or … Look, I did something wrong, he found out. He started making little demands at first and then, over time … he organized my last promotion, pulled strings, got me where he wanted me.’
‘But how? How did you know this man?’
‘The money I “borrowed”.’
‘It was his,’ she guessed. She sat down heavily on one of the dining chairs and put her head in her hands. Across the table, Roger reached out his hand to take hers, then let it fall.
I’ll do anything, he prayed, if I just get them back. I’ll go away, leave, give myself up to the police, anything. Just let me get them back.
Paul had not spoken a word all morning, neither had he taken any notes or listened to a single thing anyone had said to him. George even had to reply for him at registration. Miss Crick had frowned, worry creasing the usually unmarked forehead, but she had made no comment even though George had to practically drag Paul from the room to their first class.
Later, he had seen Miss Crick in the corridor. She had intercepted their chemistry teacher outside the lab and was speaking urgently to her, glancing in Paul’s direction as they all queued ready to go in. Mrs James kept nodding, but George knew she didn’t know what to do either.
This was the worst Paul had been.
Miss Crick paused as they all filed in and drew George aside. Paul, lacking his guidance, stayed where he was, halting the queue momentarily until the other kids pushed by. George could hear whispering, a nervous giggle.
‘Everything OK, George?’ Miss Crick asked quietly.
‘No,’ he told her fiercely. ‘No, it’s not. You all know it’s not.’
She looked anxiously at Paul and then nodded. ‘I’m going straight to talk to the principal,’ she said. ‘You keep an eye on him, won’t you? I think his mum will have to come in.’
‘Finally!’ George almost exploded with frustration and relief. She frowned at him, a reprimand at the ready and then she let it go, nodded. George’s anger was deserved and she knew it.
‘Just hang in there till I’ve talked to the principal, OK.’
George nodded, dragged Paul into the laboratory, found them both a seat near the back. Took his own books from his bag and then unpacked Paul’s. Stuffed a pen into his friend’s hand. ‘You got to at least try,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to listen.’
Just for a moment Paul’s eyes seemed to focus and he blinked rapidly, stared at the board and the diagram Mrs James was drawing.
‘Molecular bonds,’ George said. ‘Write it down, please Paul, just try and write it down.’
Mrs James looked their way again, clearly uncomfortable.
I know more than she does about this, George thought. It was not a comfortable idea.
Paul bent his head over his work, pen poised over the paper but he couldn’t seem to get his hand to move.
George glanced towards the door. It was far too soon for anyone to be coming from Paul’s home but he hoped against hope anyway. Looking back at his friend he saw that Paul was crying. Great fat tears rolled down his pale cheeks and splashed on to his book. His hand, still holding the pen, trembled.
Falling back into automatic, George stuck up his hand.
‘Yes, George?’
‘Miss, Paul isn’t feeling well, I’m taking him to the nurse.’ He slid down from the high wooden lab stool and practically dragged Paul from his. Mrs James was making her way across the room, weaving between benches. All eyes had turned their way. George saw the moment of indecision as she looked at them both. She wasn’t supposed to leave a class unattended in the lab. That was a major rule. What was the superior need here?
‘Can you manage him on your own? I’ll send someone with you?’
She looked around at the assembled kids. Who was reliable?
George wished that Ursula was there. ‘I’ll be OK,’ he mumbled. ‘He ain’t going to run off or anything.’
She nodded but looked deeply uncomfortable. Paul was shaking now, barely able to stand without George’s support and then he began to cry properly, not just the tears but the sobs, ripped from him, deep and heart-rending and very, very frightening. George knew he couldn’t cope with this alone, so did Mrs James.
‘Everyone outside,’ she said. ‘Make an orderly line, and stay quiet. There are other classes going on.’
She helped George get Paul into the corridor, paused briefly at the next classroom to request an eye be kept on her lot and then they were off, passing the silent queue of classmates, leading the now distraught boy down what seemed like a never-ending corridor.
George could only feel anger. Fury. It rose from his toes and accumulated like hot bile in his mouth.
‘It shouldn’t have got this bad,’ he said. ‘No one did anything. It shouldn’t have got this bad.’
He felt, rather than saw, Mrs James’ pitying look.
‘It’s not your fault, George. Definitely not your fault.’
‘Who said it was?’ George was aghast, amazed. She just wasn’t getting it, was she? He clamped his mouth tight shut on all the things he wanted to say to her. It wasn’t her fault either, she only saw them once a week. What did she know? She was probably just glad when kids were quiet in class and not causing trouble.
And then they were at the nurse’s office and Paul was taken inside and George was left standing in the doorway and then gently ushered out and told to wait like he knew nothing and wasn’t a part of all this.
He squatted down in the corridor with his back against the scuffed green wall and blinked back tears of rage and pain. He could hear voices from inside the nurse’s office. Mrs James and the nurse talking and then the sound of her speaking on the telephone and Paul still crying like he didn’t know how to stop.
George’s mam had cried like that. George remembered it. They’d been in one of the nameless, all-alike hostels that had formed the backdrop to so much of his childhood and she’d just been let out of the hospital again. A young policewoman had come to see her, been trying to persuade her to press charges and his mam had just started to cry, just tears at first and then sobbing and then screams like all the tension inside of her just had to get out. George had been very young then and he’d been scared, had run away and hidden from it all and then Karen had come to find him, put her big-sister arm round his shoulders and just sat there, waiting for him to talk or not talk or whatever he wanted to do.
He needed her now. The need sharp as a knife stuck in his belly.
Seventeen
Joy Duggan just couldn’t bear the atmosphere in the house any longer. It had been bad enough before, but now Patrick was dead and her dad gone off, bent on revenge and her mum worried sick about it all, well, Joy just had to get out.
It was OK for her older brother. Brian was running things while their dad was away. He was busy being the boss. Organizing. He was good at that sort of stuff, had a good business head their dad said, same as Patrick had a good head for the learning stuff.
Joy, well, Joy knew she was no brainbox. She was popular and pretty and knew how to dress and do her face and her dad always said she was a sweet thing, lovely nature. She’d heard him say the same about the thoroughbred racehorse he had a share in. He thought that was dim too. Pretty to look at but nothing going on between the
ears.
It wasn’t that Joy felt unloved. She knew she was Daddy’s princess and that both brothers worshipped the ground she walked on and she’d even made friends with Patrick’s girlfriend. They’d gone shopping together, giggling like Joy did with her usual group of friends and Pat had told her after that Jess had really enjoyed herself.
‘It’s good for her to unwind,’ he said. ‘I sometimes think she forgets how to have fun.’
That was the trouble though, wasn’t it? They all had things to be serious about. Pat and Jess had their studies and they both knew that they were training to do something that would make a difference to people’s lives. Brian was a businessman, through and through. He was slowly steering their dad’s affairs on to a more legitimate level so a few years from now, so their mum said, he’d be a respected member of the community and people would forget where he had come from.
Joy knew that was important to her mum.
But what could she do? What part could Joy play in the family business seeing as her dad said a definite ‘no’ when she asked if he would let her dance for a profession?
She missed Pat. He’d been a good friend. They’d fought like cat and dog when they’d been kids but as they’d both grown up all of that seemed to slide away. It was like when they’d packed away the Lego and the dolls, they’d packed away their differences. It was thanks to Pat that Joy had passed any of her exams and he’d encouraged her to go to the local FE college and get a diploma. She’d done a year of complementary therapies and been accepted on to the advanced class. Not that it was all that hard, she thought. Mostly it was all about making people feel good about themselves, all that head massage and aromatherapy and crystals and stuff. She wasn’t sure she believed in any of it, but she knew that giving people a bit of time made them feel more positive and she figured when it came down to it, that was why things seemed to work.
Fragile Lives Page 13