‘That’s fine,’ says Luke, rolling his eyes.
‘My dad’s just moved. It’s all been a bit rushed. I’m surprised he even wanted to go back up north. Anyway – he changes his email address every time he forgets his password, and I don’t want to give out his mobile number without checking with him first.’
Luke grits his teeth. ‘That’s fine.’
‘You could try contacting him on Facebook messenger. He’s always sending spammy GIFs on there anyway.’
‘I couldn’t find him on Facebook.’
‘I should’ve known you’d already tried. He’s called Panhead McPhil on there – don’t ask – and his profile picture is of a Harley Davidson.’
Luke clicks on Olivia’s list of over a thousand friends. He finds her father’s profile and clicks on to his photos. There’s an old picture of him. Luke recognises the thick mop of hair, the bright grey eyes. It’s dated 2010, not that long ago. He doesn’t look that different at all.
‘Found him,’ says Luke.
‘It’s strange hearing you say that about my dad when he’s not even forwarded me his new address.’
‘You don’t think he’s moved back to Preston, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past him.’
There’s shouting in the background in Olivia’s office.
‘I have to go in a minute,’ she says. ‘But I have some photographs of Jenna at home – shall I scan and send them over to you? It might help jog someone’s memory. It’s been horrific knowing her killer is still free.’
‘It must be. The photographs would be great, Olivia. Thanks for taking the time to speak to me.’
‘Oh – I just thought of something that always struck me as a bit strange, but he used to come round to the house a lot when Mum and Dad were out … when Jenna was meant to be looking after me. He was kind to me, I suppose … brought me big bars of chocolate, cans of pop, things like that. I’m sure they used to drink booze up in her room or something – I always turned the telly up loud downstairs or put my headphones on and listened to music.’
‘I guess that’s what teenagers do all the time,’ says Luke.
‘No … I mean, yes they do. But when Jenna went missing, I thought he had something to do with it, but I was wrong.’
‘Who, Craig?’ Luke asked, confused.
‘No,’ she says. ‘I think his name was Jason.’
‘I spoke to Jason Bamber,’ says Luke to Amanda, sitting at her desk in front of him. ‘He’s one of Craig Wright’s close friends – a bit flash … full of himself, but he said he barely knew Jenna Threlfall. Talked to Jason’s girlfriend – who was friends with Jenna at school. She said Craig was seeing Jenna behind Lucy’s back – and she saw him with Jenna the night she disappeared. She reported it to the police, but Erica Wright had given her son an alibi.’
‘Good luck untangling all that, then,’ she says, grimacing slightly.
‘There’s more. I’ve just spoken with Jenna’s sister, Olivia, who said she was sure that the person Jenna was seeing was called Jason.’
‘Shit. Did the police know about this at the time?’
‘Maybe Jason was the second man questioned for Jenna’s murder.’
‘That sounds plausible. So what we’re missing here is …’
‘Evidence. Someone knows where the T-shirt and necklace taken from Jenna are. And I’ve a feeling who that might be.’
‘Hey!’ It’s Derek at his desk next to the window: the ‘sports department’. ‘Check out Granada Reports.’
Luke turns to face the flat screen on the wall as Derek turns up the volume.
‘Local teenager Leanne Livesey has been missing for three days having last been seen with convicted murderer Craig Wright. Let’s go over to Samia Brennan.’
It pans to a large detached house, painted a strange yellowy beige. The reporter stands outside in a beige mac under a large umbrella.
‘Leanne Livesey, who is seventeen years old, was last seen getting in a car with Craig Wright, who has in the last few days been released from prison after serving seventeen years for the murder of his girlfriend, Lucy Sharpe. If anyone sees Craig Wright, the police have advised not to approach him, but to dial 999.’
‘Shit,’ whispers Luke.
‘You can say that again,’ says Amanda. ‘Isn’t that the kids’ home on Mill Street she’s standing outside? I pass that on the way to work. Why aren’t we there? It’s only about a mile away. Bloody Granada Reports, they get everything first.’
Luke grabs his keys from his desk and his coat from the back of the chair. As he’s putting his arm in the first sleeve, his phone rings.
‘Leave it,’ says Amanda.
‘It won’t take a minute,’ says Luke.
Amanda folds her arms as he picks up the handset.
‘Luke Simmons, the Chronicle.’
There’s a few seconds’ silence before a quiet voice says, ‘Luke? It’s me. It’s Erica Wright.’
‘Erica?’ Luke grabs a pen and points to the phone. Amanda gives him a thumbs up. ‘How can I help?’
‘I have a name that I’ve been researching. Pete Lawton. I hope you’re writing this down. He was with Craig when Lucy disappeared. He was having work experience at the garage. Craig said it was called Anderson & Campbell in Ashton. I thought you might do a better job of tracing the man. It would clear Craig’s name. It’s very important.’
‘Erica, have you seen the news?’
‘Well, I saw the girl … I mean I saw a girl on the news … they mentioned Craig, but they’ve got it all wrong.’ She talks slowly, as though choosing her words carefully. ‘I know you think I’m only saying that because he’s my son … that I’m burying my head—’
‘Erica,’ says Luke. ‘The police know he’s taken a young girl … taken her away in a car. She’s only seventeen.’
There’s a clatter down the line, like she’s dropped the handset – or has she fallen?
‘Erica!’ Luke shouts down the phone. ‘Shit, Amanda. I think she might’ve collapsed or something.’
She grabs the handset from Luke’s hand.
‘Erica, love. My name’s Amanda. Can you hear me?’ She looks to Luke. ‘She’s crying, wailing. She’s not unconscious.’ She turns to face the desk. ‘Erica. Come on. Talk to me. I’ll have to phone an ambulance if you don’t talk to me.’
Luke watches, holding his breath as Amanda stands still.
It seems the whole newsroom is listening to the silence.
Amanda’s shoulders drop and she turns to face Luke.
‘Thank God, Erica. You had me worried, then. Do you want us to pop round? … Oh really? Well, I’ll let you get that. We’ll come and see you in an hour or two … check you’re all right.’
Amanda holds the handset away from her ear.
‘She hung up … said there was a knock at the door.’
‘Police.’
She replaces the handset. ‘Well, yeah. Most likely.’
‘Come on,’ says Luke. ‘Sunningdales, then Erica’s.’
Luke walks across the office, the adrenaline pumping down his legs, his arms. This is the best he’s felt in years.
18
Jenna was a lot feistier than Lucy. She didn’t really want to come out with me that day.
‘Tell her we’re only popping to the shop,’ I said to her.
‘But she’s thirteen,’ she said. ‘I can’t leave her on her own.’
‘Thirteen’s fine. Kids walk home from school from eleven years old. Listen … she won’t know we’ve gone – we could sneak out. We’ll only be a few minutes.’
‘But what’s the point of going out if it’s only for a few minutes?’
Jenna was a loose end. She was the one who could get me into trouble. I wanted to know if she’d keep quiet for me.
We drove to somewhere different than I went with Lucy. They still hadn’t found her. I should’ve pointed them in the wrong direction, but then I’d look like a grass, wouldn’t I?
I’d put vodka in a SodaStream bottle and she’d been drinking it on the way there.
‘Don’t worry, Jen,’ I said. ‘It’s six o’clock now. Your mum and dad will be home.’
‘What? What time is it? Have I been asleep?’
‘No, no.’
She sat up straight in the car.
‘The police came round the other day,’ she said. ‘They asked about you.’
‘I’m sure they didn’t, Jen.’
‘They know a lot about you.’
‘But you didn’t say anything, did you? Because I know a lot about you, too, Jen. About how you betrayed your friend. And you wouldn’t want that to get out, would you?’
She shook her head, but there was something in her eyes. Back then I thought it was guilt, but looking back, it was probably fear.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Did you take Lucy somewhere? Have you hurt her?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘As if I’d do a thing like that. I loved – I mean I love her.’
I almost slipped up – Lucy was only missing then.
‘But what about me?’ said Jenna, relaxing into the seat. ‘I thought you loved me.’
It was the stuff in the vodka I gave her that made her less resistant. It didn’t take as long as with Lucy.
I knew that she knew, as soon as I saw her face.
Once she got in the car, she wasn’t coming out alive.
I made sure she was totally clean.
And now, I’ve done it again.
19
Erica
I’m still on the floor after hanging up the telephone and the thuds on the door are getting louder, stronger.
‘If you don’t answer the door,’ a woman’s voice, stern, ‘we have a warrant to forcibly enter the premises.’
‘Wait, wait,’ I say. ‘I’m here. Just give me a minute.’
She’s looking through the letterbox now, and I’m sitting against the wall of the hallway.
‘Are you all right, Erica?’ she says. ‘Has Craig hurt you?’
‘What? No, of course he hasn’t.’
Why aren’t I moving? It’s like my bottom’s been glued to the wooden floor.
‘We don’t want to break your door, Erica,’ she says. ‘Can you get up? Or is your back door open? Have you had a fall?’
Those last five words seem to be louder than the others. I’m not at the foot of the stairs and I’m not bloody deaf.
‘I’m getting up,’ I say. ‘It’s just that my knees …’ I try to get purchase on the telephone table, but it’s too high up and the legs are too unstable. Instead, I rest my left hand on the bottom step of the stairs and the other on the floor. Jesus. When had getting up from the ground become so difficult?
I’m dizzy when I stand, but shuffle to the front door to unlock it.
As soon as I open it, about six or seven police officers dressed in black storm into my house – half go upstairs, the rest check the rooms downstairs.
‘He’s not here,’ I say to the woman in a black suit and white shirt. Her hair is short, blonde. Her skin olive and covered in freckles. ‘I heard about it. I was talking to Luke …’
‘Luke?’
‘A reporter at the local paper. He said it was on the news about Craig. It can’t be him, though. He hasn’t got a car … he’d have had to tell his supervising officer if he bought a car … I found the leaflet ten minutes ago—’
‘Well,’ says the detective – I presume she’s the detective as she’s not in uniform. There’s a man behind her that I’ve only now noticed. Young, in a smart suit that must have cost a few bob. It doesn’t have that sheen that cheap suits have … that’s what he used to tell me. ‘He won’t necessarily have told them if he’d borrowed one, will he? When did you last see your son?’
‘On Saturday … he’s been spending time with his friends.’
‘He’s meant to be staying here, though, isn’t he? Has he been in contact with you since?’
I think about the phone call I made to him, the strange banging and the swearing. But it could be nothing – he won’t be stupid enough to take a young girl away – not straight after getting out of prison.
‘No. I didn’t want him to think I was checking up on him.’
She raises one eyebrow.
‘That’s not a bad thing … considering. Is it?’
Smart alec.
‘I’ve been trying to find Pete Lawton,’ I say. ‘I’ve asked the police countless times, but you’ve only got back to me once. He’s out there somewhere – he can prove my son’s innocence. No one can just disappear like that.’
‘Ah,’ she says, briefly glancing upwards. ‘The elusive Mr Lawton. No, Mrs Wright, there is still no trace of the Peter Lawton who worked in a garage. No one recalls him ever working there. You do know that, don’t you?’
She thinks I’m making him up, doesn’t she? I hear the others upstairs, opening and closing wardrobes and then I remember the letters from Leanne. The blood rushes from my head; I grab hold of the end of the banister.
‘Which friends has he been hanging around with?’
I take a deep breath – does she register my hesitation?
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t know their names.’
‘Male? Female?’
‘Male probably … he’s been going to the local pub, I think.’
Am I saying too much, or not enough? I feel I’m being pulled apart, my conscience examined.
‘Boss.’ It’s the young man in the sharp suit. ‘The car’s been found … near the docks.’
‘And?’
He shrugs. ‘That’s all they said.’
The detective tuts, briefly looks to the ceiling and mumbles, ‘Give me strength.’
‘Craig’s not there, is he?’ I ask, but she ignores me.
The five officers from upstairs come down empty-handed, but my heart is thumping.
‘To the docks,’ the detective says, and they leave as fast as they barged in.
I close the door and slowly walk to the living room, holding the walls then the settee for support. I look through the gap in the curtains. They quickly get into the three police cars and speed off. I look to the houses around and see a silhouette of someone in the house opposite. I don’t know the name of the person who lives there, but it’s a man – early thirties. He’s looking at me, I can sense it.
I pull the curtains fully closed, take a few breaths to help stop my shaking, and go upstairs to Craig’s bedroom. The wardrobe doors are open, but his drawers are shut. Was it a manhunt then? His bag’s still there. I grab it and fling it on to the bed, lifting up the flimsy plastic base to retrieve the letters. They’re innocent enough, but what would the police read into them? That he was grooming her, probably; a phrase that’s used a lot these days.
Seventeen! What the hell does he think he’s doing? Doesn’t he realise how young she is? I hope she lied about her age to him – otherwise I don’t know what to think.
I take the letters downstairs into the kitchen, laying them next to the cooker. The back door is standing open where they checked the shed in the backyard – its flimsy lock is pulled to pieces. They’d have found nothing quickly in there as it’s empty. I go out to pull the shed door to, to try to fix the lock, and see that there is something inside.
I step on the flimsy wooden floor; it gives way slightly under my feet. Who would put tins of paint in my shed? The police ignored them – they’re items usually found in outdoor buildings. They probably thought nothing of them. I lift them and they’re not heavy. I shake them and something lightweight hits the metal inside. I try to prise the lid off, but my nails are too weak. I grab the other and step out, kicking the shed door closed with my foot.
I glance up at next door. Mrs Eckersall is standing at the bedroom window. Her gaze is unwavering. I don’t nod, smile or wave; she doesn’t either. I feel a shiver down my spine. She obviously saw the commotion outside and now I’m creeping around with cans of p
aint.
Inside the kitchen, I place them on the counter and lean against it, steadying myself from the dizziness. My chest feels tight; I can barely breathe.
I shouldn’t have lied to the police today. I should’ve learnt from my mistakes all those years ago. I should’ve told them that Craig only has one friend: Jason. And they would both do anything for each other. Where will that loyalty take them both? I recall the conversation I overheard before Craig went missing: Jason said, ‘Don’t worry … We’ve all got our little secrets.’ Did he mean himself or Craig – or was it both of them?
I grab a butter knife from the kitchen drawer. The tins of paint are rusted around the rim, so I easily prise open the first one. The smell hits me first: pungent, earthy. The leaves are dried and in lots of little bags.
I hold one up: cannabis.
I open the rest. There are three tins crammed with the drug.
If the police were to come through the door, I’d be guilty as charged. Always the quiet ones, people would say. Did you know Erica was a drug dealer? they’d say. I’m not surprised in the least, Pamela Valentine would reply.
What am I meant to do with it? I can’t burn it like I did the T-shirt – the whole street would smell of the stuff – a red arrow pointing to my chimney. I could put it back where I found it, pretend to be oblivious to it.
I grab the three handles and take them upstairs to the bathroom, placing the tins in the sink. One by one, I open the little bags and shake the contents into the toilet.
20
Luke
Luke stops his car a few doors down from Sunningdales where a white van is parked outside.
‘Oh bollocks,’ says Luke. ‘It’s that twat Damian Norris. He was on my journalism course – I thought he’d moved to Leeds … got a job at Look North.’
‘You sound jealous,’ says Amanda.
‘Of him being a twat? No.’
She wrinkles her nose and opens the car door. ‘Come on then, Lois Lane. Let’s see what we can find out for our wonderful readers. I’ve had to change my Facebook name, you know. I got twenty-five private messages last week after reporting about that football scandal. Didn’t read most of them after opening the first couple. The rage targeted at me!’
Only a Mother Page 13