by J. M. Hewitt
Back then, it was mostly young men, youths, barely out of their teens, some of them, just out for a good night, being picked off one by one, ending up being dragged out of the water. Beautiful boys, with their lives ahead of them.
When they came out their bodies were pale, bloated, blue, with weeds and water plants clinging to their soaked skin. All prints, all blood, all evidence washed away by the water.
Except for one, crucial fact. Carrie was sure that most of the victims had been struck with a punch to the throat. One that left no prints. But the fist that landed the fatal blow was very clearly made by a misshapen hand. A disability, an obvious one, Carrie had concluded, full of hope and awe and thanks. It was a huge step forward in the investigation, a step that discounted so many of the population. Those higher than her, those who didn’t want a serial killer on their turf, dismissed it, explained it away with suggestions that these men had fallen, hit their throat or neck. Carrie knew that the killer had something wrong with his hand, to Carrie and her officers it was as plain as the marks left on the skin of the dead.
They had pulled out a body – the final body, she’d hoped – with no ID and nobody coming forward to report him as missing. Carrie had seen that the third finger of his right hand was gone, all the way down to the base, an old injury, long healed over, possibly even a defect since birth. She had been quietly elated.
The Pusher had met his own watery grave, the same one that he’d shoved countless men into over the years. Carrie was certain of it. She felt it, with a deep, sure, absolute confidence that had nothing to do with police training.
There had only been a quiet celebration with coffee back at the station, just herself, Paul, and a few other members of the team back then who had believed in both her and the Pusher.
It was over, and the citizens of Salford and the connected areas could relax.
Until he had struck again.
* * *
‘I really thought it was him, I really thought we had him back then,’ said Paul now, an unheard-of melancholy clear in his voice as he looked down into the deep, dark water.
‘We did have him,’ remarked Carrie, coming up to Paul’s side to join him.
Her breath puffed out in the icy air as she spoke. ‘Really?’ he said, even though it was a conversation they’d had countless times before.
‘This one, this new one is a copycat.’ She smoothed her hair back, turned to face him. ‘These victims, the last half dozen, look at them, Paul. It’s not just Emma Robinson. All of their friends and family have closed ranks, they won’t tell us about the victim, won’t let us delve into their lives. They’re hiding something, something they knew, or suspected and they don’t want it made public knowledge.’ She paused for breath, swept her hair back again, the tendrils coming free in the harsh waterside breeze. ‘Look at Gary Fisher, and what we’ve managed to piece together about him and his… activities.’ Her nose wrinkled with disgust. ‘Just look at the differences between the first batch of victims and the latest ones. The second Pusher killed the first Pusher, and took over his job,’ she said, nodding affirmatively, so sure in her assertion. As certain there was a copycat as she was that they’d got the original Pusher. ‘And he’s now killing people who, in his mind, deserve it.’
She turned her back on the water and folded her arms.
Copycat. Yes, the similarities were there, but there were differences too. The men they pulled out these days were different to the previous victims. Mostly it was kept out of the press and away from the public, but the latest victims were unlikely to be missed by anyone. They were the lowest of the low; known dealers, pimps, paedophiles, fighters and abusers. The dregs. To Carrie, now, the copycat was a vigilante, picking off the bad guys. Not that she could prove it, and hunches were not an approved line of investigation, however strong and no matter how high up in the ranks she was. And there was something else that went unsaid; she couldn’t officially approve of the copycat, couldn’t commend his actions or applaud them, but privately there was something there, something that almost went as far as respect.
But today her hunch left her with another thought, one she voiced to Paul now.
‘So, if the copycat is a vigilante, some sort of warped protector, and he or she is only killing those that deserve it, that leaves us with another question,’ she said.
Paul answered it for her. ‘We need to find out more about Jordan Robinson, and what he could have done to deserve the Pusher’s attentions.’
Thirteen
DAY THREE
Upstairs, at home, Emma pulled out clothes without looking at them and stuffed them into her overnighter. Vaguely she wondered when the last time was that she had used it. There had been a spa break, not long after Nan had died, that Emma had treated Jade to. And what a weekend that had been, the then twenty-two-year-old Jade had chosen that weekend break to tell Emma that she was pregnant again. Four years ago… could it really be that long since Emma had been on a weekend away? Yes, it could. Jordan had stopped joining her on holidays when he was sixteen. Before that, because there was the summer that he had gone to Greece, some government-inspired exchange thing to spend a season abroad.
Emma smiled wistfully, remembering how she had spent that whole summer panicking, telling herself she was worried about jellyfish stings, pickpockets, kidnappings, strange, foreign sicknesses, food poisoning.
Her smile faded. Jordan had been safer in Greece than here in his old, familiar, lifelong home of Manchester. No, not safer. He had been better in Greece. And that thought, the worrying about him being abroad without her, that had been a lie, too. She had relaxed for the first time since he had been a baby.
As she shoved her phone charger into the overnight bag, she cast a last look around the room. Would it be the last time she stood here?
If they found his body where she was going, then yes, without a doubt she wouldn’t return. She would throw herself in the canal or the Mersey or the fucking Irish Sea if that happened.
And if it doesn’t? she asked herself. If they don’t find him?
She shrugged, as though having a conversation with herself.
That was a question that she didn’t know the answer to yet.
* * *
The knock at the door startled her, a happy bang, almost a tune. Emma recognised it immediately. Rebecca banged on the door to their reception office every morning in the same way for Emma to let her into the secured area.
She hurried down the stairs, pulled the door open.
‘Emma.’ The younger woman moved inside, pulled Emma into a hard hug.
Emma let herself sink into it, gripping Rebecca’s shoulders as she laid her head against her friend.
It had never been this way round. There had been break-ups, all Rebecca’s, where Emma had made the girl hot tea and once Rebecca’s tears had dried they had bitched about men together. It was low key, unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Their friendship was light and laughter and in the hours that Emma spent at work Rebecca brought out the best side of her. The fun side. The side that she didn’t really have the chance to show in other areas of her life.
Emma pulled back. Was this it now, was the happy side of her gone forever? Lost, she stared at the floor. An arm found its way around her shoulders. Emma let herself be led into the lounge.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ said Rebecca, her long brown hair falling across her face. Impatiently she brushed it away and slipped her coat from her shoulders.
Emma stood up. ‘I’ll make it,’ she said, suddenly desperate for normality. ‘Everyone has been making me tea, I’d like to do it.’
Rebecca nodded, followed Emma into the kitchen. ‘So, you haven’t heard anything yet? Your son is still missing?’
Does Rebecca even know his name? Emma wondered. She’s my only friend who doesn’t know him. Jade is my friend because of us both being teenage mothers. Nan was a big part of Jordan’s life and I was only friends with Tina because sharing childcare was mutually benefic
ial for both of us.
‘No news yet,’ she said as she stared at the kettle, willing it to boil.
Rebecca sighed deeply, looking around the house that Emma had never previously invited her to.
The kettle clicked off, the house fell into silence once more, the only sound the spoon chinking against the side of the mugs.
She should be exhausted, Emma thought as she walked alongside the canal. Salford Quays – where it had happened – was behind her now. The lights of Media City faded in the sky. Rebecca had left soon after they’d had their brew. The visit had been slightly awkward, nothing like the time they spent together in the medical centre.
‘I’ll come back,’ promised Rebecca, regardless of how uncomfortable it had been.
If I’m still here, thought Emma. But she didn’t say it, and she was grateful to the girl. After Rebecca had driven away Emma had grabbed her overnight bag and started the long walk.
She wasn’t tired though, her body fuelled by a desperate need to keep on the move, stay active. If the tides had taken her boy she would catch him eventually, before he got into the Irish Sea.
How long would it take to walk there? Days, weeks perhaps. She would reach the Mersey first, and then she would follow that too until she reached Liverpool and it tipped out into the ocean. If she hadn’t found him by then…
The thought faded before coming back strongly.
Then you can just carry on walking into the sea and join him.
Hours passed, the weak sun moved in the sky and Emma stopped, put the overnight bag down. She realised it was stupid to have bought it. It slowed her down. She rubbed at the marks the handles left on her palms.
‘All right, love?’
A voice jolted her, close, behind. Emma whipped around, a hand to her chest. She surveyed the wizened-looking man.
He held a hand up. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you, love.’ He smiled, revealing gaps and stumps. ‘Just thought you looked a bit lost, is all.’
‘I’m not lost,’ she replied.
He raised his other hand, which held a flask, she saw now. ‘All right then.’ His eyes twinkled as he moved past her down to the water’s edge.
‘Excuse me,’ she called, hurrying to catch up with him. ‘Is this your boat?’
He turned around, surveyed the small vessel behind him. ‘It’s my barge,’ he answered with a smile.
Barge, boat, whatever. Emma drew in a breath, impatient now. ‘So you know these waters. Tell me, can a body really float all the way along this water, all the way to the Mersey?’
‘And even further.’ His voice was positively cheerful now. It grated at her, pain suddenly in her muscles, her skin, even her teeth. ‘Fact is, I once came across a floater. I was taking the old girl down the river—’ He stopped. The smile vanished as his toothless mouth closed. The brown, weathered skin paled.
Emma swallowed. He recognised her after all the news coverage. It was the first time, but she realised it wouldn’t be the last. And that look on his face, that sadness, as though he could cry. She turned away.
‘Hey, missus, would you care to share a drop of my brew with me?’ He shook the flask, a smile back on his face, though his eyes, watery and blue, sagged unhappily.
She shook her head, unable to stand the kindness and began to walk again.
‘Missus! You forgot your bag,’ he rasped out after her.
‘I don’t need it,’ she shouted as she upped her pace.
In Carrie’s office, she sat across from Paul, both of them quiet as they painstakingly cross-referenced the few witness statements they had managed to get so far.
‘It’s pitiful, really,’ she said. ‘All those people by the canal yet nobody has anything helpful to add.’
‘Did you speak to Emma?’
Carrie shook her head. ‘She’s not at her house. I left a voicemail on her mobile.’
The phone on her desk buzzed; an internal call. ‘Flynn,’ she said, cradling the receiver under her chin as she moved onto the next small pile of statements.
The designated helpline agent spoke, a thin, whispery voice fluttering down the line.
‘Detective Sergeant Flynn, I have a caller on the line, a Mr Tom Hughes. I haven’t taken any details, but he said he’s calling about the missing victim.’ A meaningful pause. ‘The gentleman is a fisherman.’
Carrie’s hand went to her head. She wound her fingers into her hair. The emphasis on the word fisherman spoke volumes. Like dog walkers always found dumped bodies, fishermen were the equivalent where water was concerned.
‘Thanks, Constable, put him through,’ said Carrie through gritted teeth.
She pressed the loudspeaker button, raising her eyes at Paul across the desk.
‘Mr Hughes, this is Detective Sergeant Carrie Flynn. I understand you have some information regarding Jordan Robinson?’
The voice that came through was that of a talker, Carrie could tell. She grimaced as the old man launched into the reason for his call, then offered a brief smile to Paul as she saw the corners of his mouth twitch.
‘… I was chatting to her for a while, and it struck me, it’s the boy’s mother,’ finished Tom Hughes.
Carrie blinked, having missed the vital information in the long thread of storytelling. ‘Emma Robinson? I’m sorry…?’ Carrie rubbed her brow.
‘I just came across her where my barge is, on the Salford Western Gateway. She’s dumped her bag.’ Tom’s voice lowered. ‘She’s looking for the body of her boy. She might do something stupid.’
Carrie nodded, speaking even as she dragged her coat on. ‘Okay. Western Gateway you say, which side?’
‘Headed westbound, on the bank where that monstrosity the Sportsdome is.’
‘Thank you, Tom. We’ll be there before you know it.’
Tom was still speaking when Carrie hung up the phone. ‘Coming?’ she said to Paul, but he was already out of his chair and heading for the car park.
* * *
They didn’t put the siren on, but Carrie’s hand was poised to push the button should they hit traffic.
‘She walked this far?’ Paul said, incredulous.
‘My fault, I told her about the divers and people we’ve got checking further down.’ She clenched her jaw. ‘I mentioned Widnes.’
‘She intends to walk to Widnes.’ Paul shook his head.
‘That’ll be Tom,’ Carrie said, swerving to a stop on the embankment, causing a car to hoot behind them in annoyance.
She thought briefly about flashing the siren on her unmarked car, give the driver something to think about. But Tom was clambering up to the driver’s side, dragging behind him a red bag which he thrust through the open window.
‘She went that way,’ Tom said, gesturing to his right. ‘And she’ll need looking after,’ he added, glaring at the pair of them.
Carrie shoved the bag onto the back seat, started the ignition, eager to get away before she got caught up in a conversation with the old fisherman.
‘Thanks, Mr Hughes,’ Paul called out of the open window, as Carrie pulled into the flow of traffic.
Two miles along, under the noise of the M60 ring road, Carrie caught a glimpse of a hunched figure walking carefully along the narrow towpath. She pulled the handbrake on, jumped out of the car.
‘I’ll lead,’ she muttered to Paul as they scrambled up the verge.
They walked softly along the narrow walkway, the noise of the river covering the sound of their approach.
‘Emma,’ she called, when they were only metres behind her.
The figure moved faster, no longer warily picking her way past the brambles but shoving through them, snagging her clothes and wrenching her arms and legs free of the thorns.
‘Emma!’ Carrie called again, and broke into a run.
* * *
Shit. Emma swiped at the branches, moved faster, knowing they wouldn’t want her doing this, knowing they wouldn’t approve of her marathon walk to find her son. She began to jog.
‘I have to find him!’ she shouted, turning her face so they would hear her, unflinching at the tears and spit that whipped at her cheeks. ‘You can’t stop me!’
But they could. Carrie sprinted, the thud of her feet loud in Emma’s ears. For a second, she thought Carrie might rugby tackle her, take her down into the beds of stinging nettles and thorns. But Carrie pulled up as she reached her, circled her arms around Emma’s shoulders. Even though her hold was strong, there was a gentleness in it. Emma came undone. Heedless of the wet grass she sank down, allowed herself to be rocked by Carrie.
* * *
They helped her to the car. She was surprised to see her red bag on the back seat and she slid in next to it. Carrie passed Paul the keys, and got into the back with Emma.
‘Emma, what’s going on?’ Carrie asked. ‘What were you doing out here?’
Emma paused. ‘I need to find him. You’re not doing your job, so I need to find him.’ Her voice cracked. ‘He’s my son, my only son, he’s all I’ve got.’
Carrie paused. ‘Emma, I’m so sorry. I know to you it looks like we’re not making progress, but I promise you – I will find out what happened to your son.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re doing nothing! You called off the divers, you’ve given up on Jordan!’ Emma’s voice rose to a shout. Her fingers were on the door handle, when Carrie interrupted her.
‘Emma, listen to me. You won’t find Jordan by yourself—’
Emma gasped, she felt winded. ‘How dare you! How dare you imply—’
‘But you can help us.’ Carrie spoke over her. ‘I need to get to know your son, I want to understand him. The Jordan you knew, the Jordan you loved. Please. We can do this together.’