The Night Caller: An utterly gripping crime thriller

by J. M. Hewitt

  Emma heard Jade’s shout as she rounded the corner, suppressed a little smile. She knew Jade would come to the canal that night, knew that the girl was well aware of everything that Emma had done for her, knew her kind, good heart wouldn’t allow her to stay away, no matter how much she didn’t want to do what Emma was asking.

  Briefly, it occurred to her just how many people she was using – Lee, Jade, Martin – but she didn’t feel bad. She had done enough for them, for all of them. When she had found out about her pregnancy she had stepped away from Martin, not told anyone who Jordan’s father was, because once a secret was known by more than one person it was no longer a secret. And she had walked away. By doing so she had kept his career safe and his marriage intact, until it had ended naturally. She wondered about that now; if she’d have known, could they have been together? Could Jordan have had a father-figure in his life? Would he have been different because of it?

  Her thoughts turned back to Jade. Jade owed her. She had practically raised the girl, and Nia too when she came along. If Nan were alive, she would be there, of that Emma had no doubt. Nan would have thought of the bloody plan and she would have been on the front line, right beside the water, when they brought the Pusher down. She would have given him a good bloody crack with her walking stick too, before the police came.

  And then there was Lee.

  Lee owed her nothing. But he wanted to help, because somehow, he loved Jordan. In a very different way from her, his mother, but the love was there all the same, and it was plain to see.

  Lee would be there, and God willing, Martin would be too.

  We need all the help we can get.

  * * *

  The snow crunched under her feet, blanketing the ground already. Emma put a hand on the railing and looked over at the white landscape. There were few people out today; they would all be at home, watching the snow fall outside their windows or heading over to Peel Park with their sledges. They would be out tonight though, here, around the bars and clubs and restaurants. Snow didn’t keep the youth inside. And if they were out, the Pusher would be, too.

  She imagined him for a moment, the Pusher, and to her he was a cloaked figure in a nightmare of a fairy tale, stalking the waterways, the mist concealing him, nipping in and out of the broken-down buildings that lined the canals, a Ripper in modern clothes, an urban legend, a gothic tale, but a very real threat.

  She moved under the cover of the awning of the Copthorne Hotel, pulled out the map she had printed off of the Quays. Large crosses made with a red pen marked all the places where men had gone in, or been pulled out.

  And when had this started? Emma tried to think when she had first seen this in the news. It was gradual, she realised, because the first ones had been presumed accidents, an unfortunate end to a boozy night out. And she hadn’t taken much notice, she remembered now, guiltily. A fleeting thought for the mothers of these young men, a “thank God it’s not me” moment, off-hand words to Jordan to take care, to be vigilant, before she had gone back to her cosy evenings in.

  But now it was her life, now she was the mother of the young man.

  ‘I’ll find you, baby,’ she whispered, and tears blurred her eyes so much she couldn’t even see the map she was holding anymore. ‘And things will be different, I promise.’

  ‘Thank you for coming here, it’s so cold out I didn’t really want to have to cart Nia around in her night clothes,’ said Jade as she opened the door to Mrs Oberman.

  Mrs Oberman sniffed in reply, walked into the hallway. Jade looked at the slippers Mrs Oberman held in her hand and for the strangest moment she felt like she wanted to put her arms around the older woman.

  That would be Nan, thought Jade, if she was going anywhere for longer than a couple of hours, her slippers went with her.

  ‘This is my mobile number, in case you need me. And Nia is in bed already, she’s usually a sound sleeper, she shouldn’t wake up but she knows that you’re here, so she won’t be scared.’

  Mrs Oberman said, ‘Why would she be scared?’

  Jade stared blankly at the woman. Because if I woke up and found you here, I’d shit myself. But she didn’t say what she was thinking.

  ‘Please help yourself to tea, coffee, anything you want.’ Jade paused as she pulled her coat on. ‘I’ll try not to be long,’ she whispered.

  She drifted towards the door, was steeling herself to leave the safety and warmth of her own home and meet up with Emma next door, when Mrs Oberman called her name.

  Jade turned, jumped when she saw Mrs O directly behind her. With eyes softer than she had ever seen them, Mrs Oberman took Jade’s hand, pushed something into it. Jade looked down at her palm.

  ‘It is a personal alarm, you press this button. It’s loud, it might be useful.’

  Jade closed her fingers over it. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly. Maybe a heart did beat in there after all.

  Mrs Oberman shrugged. ‘Yes, well,’ she said, and returned to the sofa.

  Jade saw the older woman bend over and sweep the seat free of crumbs only she could see before she sat down.

  Jade smiled, and slipped out of the door.

  * * *

  It was a motley crew, congregated in Emma’s lounge. And who were all these people?

  Martin and Emma she knew, and of course Lee, the boy with the wide, dark eyes. Not just a boy–Jordan’s lover. Jade sneaked a look at him, still finding it impossible to imagine the dispassionate Jordan with this young man.

  Her gaze moved on to the enormous man who dwarfed the tiny woman next to him. He really was huge, and yet, somehow, the woman was clearly the one in charge.

  Jade tilted her head, fascinated.

  ‘My sister, Claire, and her husband, Gus,’ said Martin as he gestured to the couple, his words seeming to Jade to hold an apologetic tone.

  ‘Hi,’ she replied, raising her hand in a brief, embarrassed wave. ‘I’m Jade, I live next door.’

  The newcomers stared at her. This wasn’t a social gathering. In normal life none of these people apart from Emma and Jade would be convened here. And there was something else, a tension evident in the room. Jade cornered Lee in the kitchen.

  ‘I want to make him pay, the Pusher,’ said Lee. ‘Emma realises now that Jordan’s not coming home.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘She’s realised he’s dead, and what I saw, the pain, the hurt…’ Lee swallowed audibly. ‘I want to catch that bastard, the lives he’s ruined…’

  His last words were said loudly, intended for the others to overhear. Martin stepped across the room to Emma.

  ‘So, you understand now?’ he asked roughly. ‘He’s… gone?’

  Emma drew in a sharp breath as though hearing this for the first time.

  ‘So what do you want now?’ Jade asked. ‘Revenge? Shouldn’t the police––’

  ‘No police, they wouldn’t let us do this,’ interrupted Emma. ‘Lee is right, I want to see this man, I want to bring him down. He’s taken everything from me, Jordan was everything!’ Her words ended on a wail. Martin stepped closer to her.

  Jade watched, waited for Martin to take Emma in his arms and comfort her, but he remained a foot away, statue-like.

  Jade pushed past him and drew Emma close, glaring at Martin.

  ‘We’ll do it then,’ said Jade, and she let her gaze rest one by one on the others. ‘We’ll get out there and do this now.’

  ‘It’s early, too early yet.’ Martin broke the silence, looked around the small group of people, none of whom had sat down, all standing, still in their coats. ‘Why don’t we visit a few of the bars on the quay, see if anyone has anything to say about Jordan, or the night he, uh, you know.’

  Jade regarded him seriously. He sounded like he had a plan. He was a thinker, planning their next steps, getting things done. She concentrated on him. Was that what he was, or was it a clever act?

  Surely if he’d had anything to do with Jordan’s disappearance, he wouldn’t have agreed to this whole canal-baiting thing. Or perhap
s that was his plan, to integrate himself so deeply in Emma’s team it would be a travesty to presume he was anything other than a caring, grieving father.

  Jade sighed, unable to keep it from escaping. ‘Let’s go,’ she said.

  Thirty-Two

  THE PUSHER

  The quayside is relatively quiet tonight. Everyone is at home, away from the snow. They are stupid, the best way to see it is to be in it, and earlier I moved away from the water, made for the greener areas of Salford. I crunched through it, waiting for the childlike excitement at this once-a-year phenomenon to catch me.

  But it didn’t. Cold, I returned to the shadows deep in my warehouse. I stared at my gas heater, knew it was cold enough to light it, but I didn’t. I let myself get colder and colder until the tips of my fingers went white. Fascinated, I stared at the wonder of the human body and I thought about the past.

  My city of Manchester had a ‘pusher’ long before I came on the scene. A few kinds of pushers. There were drug pushers, but they never interested me. I don’t do drugs. I find it hard enough to hold on to a semblance of a normal persona every day. With illegal substances, I would tip over the edge. I would no longer push people discreetly into the canal, I would walk into an office block, a gun under my arm, spraying bullets at co-workers indiscriminately. I don’t drink, for the same reason.

  But we had another pusher, someone who had been reported in the press as a myth, as an urban legend, because the gate-keepers of Salford and the surrounding areas didn’t want to admit there may be a murderer in their midst.

  I thought he was a myth too, until the night I caught him in the act.

  The waterways of the canals were my playground; the abandoned buildings that lined them my second home. I came here to think, to read, to reflect on what was wrong with me and if it could be fixed. That was what I was doing at 2 a.m. that morning when I saw him.

  He was dressed in black, as a villain should be, but he was a modern-day wretch, with a labelled beanie-cap and well-made clothes. I watched as he approached one of the young rent boys, waiting for business by the water’s edge.

  There were no words exchanged, not that I heard anyway, from my shelter a few metres away. There was a smile on the young man’s face.

  With one single motion the man in black grabbed the lapels of the youth. Using the momentum he’d gained from pulling him forwards he pushed him back. I heard the crack of his fist connect with the man’s neck before he was moved gently towards the water’s edge. He went over, barely a sound was made. He bobbed on the surface for a moment before sinking down.

  It was all over in less than a minute.

  I let the man in black go on his way. He walked away without a care in the world, and I identified with him.

  I had walked away from things I had done, things that I knew inside were bad and wrong and wicked, but I only knew that because that was how normal people acted. I didn’t feel that they were bad or wrong or wicked. I felt something quite different, in the moment, in the very heart and centre of whatever terrible thing I had done, I felt satisfied. I felt a rush. I had never before witnessed anyone else doing the sort of thing I dreamed about.

  As the man in black vanished into the shadows of the pre-dawn, I sat back and thought, not about the now-dead rent boy, but about how it had made me feel. I touched the crotch of my jeans and I adjusted myself, stretched out the denim until I was more comfortable. My hand came away sticky.

  That was how it made me feel.

  Thirty-Three

  DAY EIGHT

  Carrie stood on the balcony in the dark. The cold caught at her, making her shake involuntarily. Still she remained, standing motionless, the only movement her eyes as she scanned the canal waters below.

  At times like this she wished she had a vice. Sometimes she envied her colleagues who congregated around the metal cigarette bin out the back of the police station, the worried or harassed expressions that seemed permanently etched onto their faces fading away for the few minutes they chatted and dragged on cigarettes. But Carrie couldn’t afford a habit. Sure, she could pay for the cigarettes or beer, but it was the control that was a problem. Ingrained since childhood: don’t be dependent on anyone or anything.

  Unable to stop shivering now, Carrie retreated inside to the warmth of her apartment. She pulled Jordan’s file out of her case and spread the papers on the table along with the other poor souls claimed by the Manchester canals. Simon Granger, the most recent victim, the one that Emma had been brought in to identify. Twenty-four years old, living in a crack-den in Deansgate, identified yesterday through prints from a prior conviction. The most recent man to go into the water, the most recent one to be pulled out. His case was tied up neatly, and yet, there was still a missing man. A break in the chain that Carrie was sure linked them all.

  She read through the witness statements relating to Jordan’s case, frowned at how sparse they were. There was nothing in them, nothing of help, nothing that had been seen. Nothing that amounted to anything.

  She pulled the rest of the file towards her, read through the physical description. Six feet tall, 132 pounds. Slim with a dark complexion, black hair. No scars, no tattoos, no identifying features.

  Slipping Jordan’s photo out of the envelope, she looked into the young man’s eyes. He was handsome, good-looking and clear-skinned. His hair was the blackest of black, his skin was a rich caramel colour. One would be forgiven for thinking this boy was Italian, or Spanish or even mixed race like Carrie’s own sister.

  The photo fell from her grasp at the sudden thought of her sister. Carrie balled her hands into fists and closed her eyes. Where had that thought come from?

  She pushed it aside, grabbed the picture again and stared. Another unbidden memory arrived, one from just over a year ago. The young man, known well to Carrie and her colleagues. Ashlan Patel. They were in Canal Street, and that man… that other man. Carrie closed her eyes again and in an instant, she was back there.

  * * *

  The figure wore no coat. Extreme in the harsh November winter. But he had a hat, a woollen beanie pulled far down over his face. The soiled T-shirt, the mark. Oil, mud, blood?

  And the briefest flash of a tattoo on his upper arm. Black ink, not a sleeve like so many young men wore now. A Chinese symbol, perhaps?

  * * *

  In the summer months Carrie scanned every man’s arm for a hint of that unusual shape. With every fresh body pulled out of the water it was the first thing she looked for. After all, the first Pusher had got his comeuppance, was it so impossible the second one could end the same way?

  It was wishful thinking. She had never seen that arm, or that tattoo again. But it had pulsed inside her. It had her stalking the streets with a list in her hand of all the registered tattoo parlours in Greater Manchester. Alongside her, Paul had stared, caught between fascination and horror at the decorated tattooists as Carrie questioned them about black, possibly Chinese symbols that might or might not have been a circle design. The artists gestured to their walls that boasted the work they’d done and she pored over them. She saw a thousand possibilities but nothing that quite matched the single second glance of the half-design she’d seen.

  Carrie leaned forward, bringing her nose almost to touch the print of Jordan’s photo. The physical report had claimed no identifying features, but those eyes, those jet black, starless night eyes were remarkable. There was no way of distinguishing where the pupil ended and the iris began. And it was more than just the colour, it was the expression in them, or rather, Carrie thought, the lack thereof. What did you do? What did the Pusher want with you?

  Uncomfortably, she pushed the photo away. Despite the cold she’d felt on her balcony the flat was suddenly stifling. Carrie glanced at the clock; almost 2a.m. There would be no sleep tonight. Shoving the files back in her briefcase she snatched it up, grabbed her car keys and left the apartment.

  * * *

  Salford was empty, the streetlamps off as Carrie drove to the polic
e station. On a whim she diverted through Richmond Street, the car crawling alongside the water where Patel had been hauled out. Carrie slowed to a stop, stared out into the black nothingness. She got out of the car, and stared at the dark water. Back there to that night when it all could have been over, the killer caught.

  * * *

  She’d been just passing through with Paul on their way back to the station that night. They’d made a habit of it back then, walking the dangerous paths, giving out words of warning about the fenceless waterways to youths who didn’t care to hear their advice. She had walked right up to the couples who lined the shadows of the water. No hesitation, just blunt, cold words as she told them what had been happening to people like them. Paul hung back, uncomfortable at the sight of the pairs of men, arms around each other, a gesture of tenderness, in the cold, black night.

  She and Paul had continued on their way, eyes and ears everywhere, satisfied that nothing was going down in this area tonight, when a piercing yell had broken the still air.

  Running, they’d rounded the bend of the canal and stumbled upon a woman. She stood motionless on the bank of the water. She screamed, loud, whooping cries as she watched the action in front of her. A man stood waist deep in the canal, pulling at…

  A body.

  As Paul leaned over and helped the bystander to pull the heavy form onto the bank Carrie recognised him immediately. Ashlan Patel. They knew him of old, had arrested him before. Patel was a dealer and Canal Street was his patch. His body was fresh, still with blood trickling from where he had bitten his tongue. His throat was an angry red from a recent punch or blow.