‘You never know,’ says Luke, slamming the car door, ‘the person of your dreams could’ve been in your inbox.’
‘Just because I’m single, doesn’t mean I’m looking – or desperate.’
They make their way to a man with gelled hair straight out of the eighties. Luke’s surprised he’s not wearing a casual white blazer and a pink T-shirt but concludes that it’s too cold for that get-up – even for Damian.
‘Lukey boy,’ he says. ‘The force still with you, eh?’
Damian gives a wheezy laugh – he’s on the fags again by the sound of it. Same old smug bastard he always was. Luke feels a strange urge to kick the other man’s knees.
‘Did I ever tell you, you look nothing like a Luke?’
‘Countless times,’ says Luke. ‘Thought you’d moved to Yorkshire.’
‘Yeah,’ says Damian. He looks around, but no one else is listening. ‘Thought there was more action back in the North West … turns out I was right.’
Damian frowns for an instant and Luke recalls the awful events in Rotherham. They would’ve been covered on Damian’s patch; the guy’s putting on a front. If Luke remembers rightly, Damian has daughters himself.
‘So,’ Luke says, nodding towards the reporter preparing for camera. ‘What happened to Geoff? Didn’t he used to do most of the OBs. Samia Brennan, eh? Poached from the BBC?’
Damian shrugs.
‘Not just one person reporting any more, Lukey boy. Gotta keep up with the times. Have to include the fairer sex in everything now.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ says Amanda. ‘What a chauvinist b—’
‘It’s lovely to meet you, too,’ says Damian.
‘So, what’s happening here?’ says Luke. ‘Know anything more than they’re reporting?’
‘Not much. CCTV picture of what appears to be Craig Wright in a red car … bit of a banger … old Peugeot, I think. Leanne Livesey gets in the back seat. But all we have to go on is a shit, grainy picture.’
‘Why would she get in the back seat?’
Damian shrugs.
‘Does Leanne live here?’ Luke gestures to the brightly coloured building behind Damian.
‘Yeah … has been here a few years from what I gathered from those kids over there. Haven’t made that official, though, as children aren’t the most reliable of sources … as you well know.’
‘Think they’ll talk to us?’
‘They’ll talk to anyone … they’re loving it. Think one of the matrons – or whatever you call them – is over there, so perhaps clear it with her first. Don’t want you to get into trouble.’
‘Well, obviously I wouldn’t take what they say as fact … I’ll check before printing.’
‘Yeah, course you will. “A source close to the missing girl” … we all know that means we’re making it up.’
‘I’m a serious journalist.’
‘I know that for a fact.’ Damian salutes him. ‘Good write-up of Bombay Spice last week … though I’d recommend the Jalfrezi.’
‘Fuck off, Damian.’ Luke smiles and pats Damian’s arm, before walking towards the low wall where about ten kids are sitting. ‘See you around, mate,’ he shouts behind him. You need to keep on the good side of everyone – Luke never knows when he might need Damian again, unfortunately.
‘Just so you know,’ Amanda says from the corner of her mouth, ‘I’m not very good with kids.’
‘Don’t worry … they’re like normal people but smaller … and more honest.’
Luke approaches a woman in an oversized skirt and cardigan. Her hair is short and grey, which makes her enormous orange butterfly earrings more prominent.
‘Hello, there,’ says Luke, holding out his hand. ‘I’m from the Chronicle. Are you OK to talk?’
The woman looks at his hand before shaking it. Her hand is cold and dry. She folds her arms and bites her bottom lip.
‘I’m afraid I won’t be of much help,’ she says. ‘I can’t talk about Leanne – she’s only seventeen. And a young seventeen at that.’
‘Is it all right if I have a chat with the older kids? We want to try to help get Leanne found … we can put something on Facebook … get a wider audience … a lot of people don’t watch the news these days. We’d only ask the same questions as they would ask.’ Luke gestures to the crew, and bets this woman was swayed by the famous face of Samia Brennan.
‘I suppose … if you could run everything past me first before printing? I can’t have any of the children named, or any sensitive information printed.’
‘I’m only going to ask them if they saw this man.’
Luke gets the iPad from his inside coat pocket and taps an icon on the home screen to bring up the mugshot of Craig Wright.
‘They think it might be him who was driving when Leanne was taken.’
‘OK,’ she says. ‘I think that should be all right. You’ll take everything you hear to the police, won’t you? Every minute counts. That’s what they say, isn’t it?’
‘It is. Thank you …’
‘Fran. Fran Harrison.’
‘Thanks so much, Fran.’
‘You bloody lick-arse,’ Amanda whispers in Luke’s ear as they move towards the wall.
‘It worked, didn’t it?’
‘Isn’t it every second counts?’
‘As if I was going to correct her.’
Luke’s still holding his iPad.
‘Afternoon,’ he says to the kids lined up on the wall, his pulse quickening at the thought of speaking to streetwise teenagers. ‘I was wondering if you recognise this man.’
‘Well, fuck me,’ says a lad of about sixteen. ‘Are you some paedo showing little kids dirty pics?’
He nudges the younger lad next to him who gives a fake laugh. Luke knows it’s fake – he used to do it all the time with his mates when he was the same age.
‘I’m Luke Simmons. I’m from the Chronicle. It’s a local newspaper.’
The lad runs his eyes from Luke’s feet to his face.
‘I know what the Chronicle is. I’m not stupid. I’m well versed in current affairs, don’t you know.’
His mate gives a genuine laugh this time. ‘Nice one, Dec,’ he says.
‘Dec?’ says Luke. ‘Is that a nickname?’
The lad’s not laughing any more.
‘No,’ he says, his face contorted as though smelling something putrid. ‘It’s short for Declan.’
‘Oh … right.’
Luke used to feel as though he could mix with people of any age. He remembers being a teenager, thought he’d be approachable, empathic to anyone under the age of eighteen, but clearly he has no street cred at all (and they probably don’t even call it that these days).
‘If you could take a quick look at this photo,’ says Luke. ‘It could help find Leanne.’
Declan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of glasses – his face is transformed in an instant. He takes the iPad and Luke feels slightly apprehensive. Just because he wears glasses doesn’t mean the lad wouldn’t thieve a £500 gadget. Luke scolds himself, again, for being so judgemental.
‘Yeah,’ says Declan. ‘I saw him. He doesn’t look like that any more. Hey, Jaden.’ He shouts to the smaller boy sitting at the end of the line. ‘Didn’t you get a picture of that bloke the other day – the one that was talking to Leanne?’ Declan looks at Luke. ‘Jaden loves taking pictures … everyone who comes here.’
Jaden, who looks to be about eight or nine, walks over to the older lad with a digital camera covered in scratches.
‘My memory card only holds about a hundred,’ he says to Declan.
‘Give it ’ere.’
Jaden does as he’s told, and Declan scrolls through the pictures.
‘That’s him.’
He gives the camera to Luke. Amanda peers over his shoulder to get a look.
‘Bloody hell, Craig’s changed,’ she says.
The man in the photograph seems twice the size of the man Luke remembers in the
courtroom – the same man he saw on the street corner. He’s wearing jeans, a plain black T-shirt and a bomber jacket.
Luke takes the iPad from Declan and brings up a photograph of Jason.
‘Have you seen this man, too?’ Luke asks.
Declan shrugs. ‘Nah. Not seen him before. But you do get a few dodgy blokes hanging about this street. If Franny McPhee over there caught them, they’d soon fuck off.’
‘Why would they hang around here?’
‘Why do most weird blokes want to hang around young girls?’
Luke looks up at Declan, surprised at the frankness and wisdom that just came out of his mouth.
‘Did Franny Mc— I mean Fran. Did she never report anything to the police?’
He shrugs. ‘Must’ve done. That’s why they’re searching for Leanne.’ He takes off his glasses. ‘She’s all right is Leanne. She helps Jaden a lot … he likes animals, you see. They make him feel safe at night. She helps him clean out the cages and stuff, doesn’t she, Jaden?’
The little kid sniffs and wipes his nose.
‘Can I have my camera back, please?’
‘Course. I’ll just try to take a picture of this on my phone.’
Luke hands the camera back to Jaden.
‘There’s been another bloke driving past … only the past week or so,’ says Declan. ‘Really slow, like a proper kerb-crawler. Must think we’re so stupid that we don’t notice. But this bloke was older … about forty … or sixty … It’s hard to tell when people are that old.’
‘I’m nearly forty,’ says Luke.
‘Oh right. I thought you were about fifty,’ the lad says, looking at Luke’s belly.
Amanda covers her mouth, but her shoulders shake.
‘Thanks, Declan, Jaden,’ says Luke.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed,’ says Amanda as they head back to the car.
‘Just because I’m a bloke doesn’t mean things like that don’t hurt.’
‘Come on, he’s only a kid.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ says Luke, opening the car door.
When Luke pulls out on to the road, Amanda’s still looking at the kids sitting in a row on the wall.
‘You weren’t lying when you said you weren’t good with kids, were you?’ says Luke. ‘You didn’t say a word to them. You weren’t scared, were you?’
‘A bit.’ She gives a little laugh. ‘But admit it. You were afraid, too.’
‘Yeah. Ant or Dec was a bit intimidating, wasn’t he? I wasn’t that confident at his age – I was slightly terrified of grown-ups I didn’t know.’
‘Luke, you’re not even that confident now.’
‘Can’t hear you.’
‘Can you believe what Craig looks like now?’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t have recognised him. He looks so different … so intimidating.’
‘I don’t think those kids know that Craig’s a convicted murderer. Can’t see them being that blasé about the bloke if they knew that.’
‘Maybe. Where to next?’
‘Erica’s. I want to check she’s all right.’
21
Erica
The dining room door is still open from when the police barged their way through it. I walk in, bending to resurrect the wicker laundry basket that’s on its side. They didn’t move the small chest of drawers in front of the fireplace; they wouldn’t think to look there – why would they? I doubt there are any remnants from the burnt clothing anyway.
When I found the blood-soaked blue T-shirt in Craig’s dirty laundry, I washed, dried, and hid it. It was only a little thing – it must’ve shrunk in the wash. I ironed it as flat as I could and zipped it flush under a cushion cover.
They searched the whole of the house after Craig was arrested for the murder of Lucy. I stayed with Denise while they did it. Afterwards I went back, and it was as though someone had taken a demolition ball to the place. The contents of every cupboard had been taken out and thrown back in, leaving the floors clear for them to pull up the boards. Jenna Threlfall was still missing, you see. They didn’t know where she was. I shuddered at the thought of her being hidden in my house – I’ve often had dreams about a body hidden somewhere. But those nightmares are nothing compared to what her parents will have gone through … are still going through.
Why is this happening again? Am I being punished for what I did?
I move a few bits at the side of the chest of drawers then push it out of the way so the fireplace is clear. I take the letters out of my pocket and kneel before it.
I run my fingers through the ash in the hearth (why on earth didn’t I get rid of it?). I shake it off, rub my hand on the rug I’m sitting on. Does blood turn to ash or does it evaporate? Whose DNA would be on my fingers if it lingered in the remains? The thought of it appals me. When had I turned into this person – a person who burned potential evidence? But then I realise that I’ve always been that person, a person who would do anything to protect her child. I didn’t think he would be capable of such dreadful deeds, but I can’t bury my head if it happens a second time. What’s that phrase … Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice… The shame. An emotion I’m familiar with – so familiar it’s there from the moment I wake.
There’s a pile of newspapers next to the hearth – they’ll have been there for years. I reach for the top one; it’s dated Monday, 21 December 1981. Its headline reads: In 70 minutes, the lives of these brave men SHATTERED.
I’m working on autopilot as I grab a sheet from it and scrunch it into a ball. Soon, half the newspaper’s turned into a little pile of boulders. I pick out pieces of kindling from the basket at the side – surprisingly, it’s still dry after Lord knows how long in this damp room.
I grab the box of Cook’s Matches, take one out and strike it three times before it powers into a small flame. I throw it on to the newspaper and it gradually lights. I strike another, and another, spacing them out so soon all the paper has taken alight. The kindling begins to glow, then steadily starts to burn.
I unfold the first letter, but it’s one I’ve already read. Should I read them all before I cast them to their grave? Would it be disrespectful not to?
I should stop acting like this is some sort of sacrifice. No one has been found; no one is dead. Not yet.
I throw it onto the burning fire – but there are no logs, nothing substantial: this fire won’t last long. I watch as the letter glows around the edges before crumpling into black.
Some of the smoke is coming back to me – the chimney’s not been swept for years. The smoke hurts my eyes. I cover the hearth with a sheet of newspaper, but that makes the fire erupt fuller into life.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
I turn to see Craig in the doorway.
‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ I say. ‘Where have you been? I’ve not seen you for days!’ I get up from the floor, grabbing the mantelpiece to pull myself up. I must stink of smoke. ‘I’ve had the police round here looking for you … that young girl’s missing – the one who came round the other day.’
‘I heard on the radio,’ says Craig.
He’s not looking at me – he’s staring at what’s in my hand.
‘They say she got into your car.’
‘I haven’t got a car, Mum. Don’t you believe me?’
‘I didn’t say I didn’t believe you, I said it was what they said. And you wouldn’t be here if you were with her, would you?’ I snap.
‘What have you got there?’ he asks, stepping closer to me.
He snatches the letters from me – an edge of one of them cuts into my skin. He seems to tower over me. ‘Have you been going through my things?’
‘It’s better me finding them than the police, don’t you think?’
‘The police wouldn’t be interested in these.’
‘But they would, Craig. She’s only young. Did she tell you her age?’ My voice shakes, and my hands are cold, sweating. He’s looking into my eyes now, glaring at me. There are beads of sweat ab
ove his top lip.
‘Stop it, Craig. You’re starting to scare me. I’m only trying to protect you.’
‘You really shouldn’t have gone through my things, Mum.’
‘Everything will be OK if you tell the police the truth.’
He gives a short bark of a laugh. ‘Like I did last time. No fucking way.’ He takes a deep breath, then steps away from me. ‘I only came home for a few things.’
‘You need to stay here. They’ll recall you to prison if you don’t stay here.’
He bangs a fist on the wall.
‘Will you stop it?’ His voice is loud; his eyes are bloodshot, wide. ‘All your interfering didn’t help me last time, so why don’t you just keep your nose out. I already had an alibi for Jenna. A concrete one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That I was with Lawton at the garage, but you lied for me.’ He steps closer to me. ‘Did you think I meant something else?’
‘I … I …’
He grabs the top of my arms.
‘You’re squeezing too hard,’ I say. ‘Why are you doing this to me? I’m on your side – you’re not thinking straight.’
‘What did you do?’
‘You’re not making sense.’
He shakes me once.
‘I’m your mother – you shouldn’t be doing this to me. What’s happened to you?’
‘Tell me what you did!’ he shouts.
‘I burned that top … seventeen, eighteen years ago … the one in your laundry basket with blood on it. I panicked … Lucy was missing … I’d never known you to have nosebleeds before … so I took it out … washed it … hid it, then burned it after the police didn’t find it.’
He lets go of my arms.
‘What are you talking about? What top? Why are you talking about nosebleeds?’
‘It was a blue top … a plain T-shirt … one you bought with your own money. You were acting so strange that week. When Lucy and Jenna went missing I didn’t see you for days … then you—’
‘But that could’ve helped me.’
‘What do you mean?’
Slowly he brings his face closer to mine. I can’t stop shivering; the tears are pouring down my face, dripping on to the floor.
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