The Night Caller: An utterly gripping crime thriller

by J. M. Hewitt

  ‘We love you.’ She said the one thing she had left. ‘All the things you did, anything you think you might do, we still love you.’

  He pushed himself into the chair, his face in the shadows once more.

  ‘You won’t,’ he said roughly. ‘You won’t love me when I tell you everything.’

  She folded her hands, gripped the fingers of her left hand with those on her right. She was ready to disagree with him; after all, what else could he tell her that was worse than what she already knew?

  Forty-Two

  THE PUSHER

  Four Years Ago

  I drink to deaden what is already dead. I sip and sip and sip and I never get drunk. I wonder if it is this drink, the one that is said to make you drunk again the day after drinking it, that doesn’t get me drunk once, let alone twice. I wonder if it would be different if it were another liquor or spirit.

  I discovered Ouzo in Greece. For a very short time, I thought I had discovered the person I might be able to be while I was in Greece, too.

  It was a summer on my own. I had supervisors, teaching staff who were part of the course, but they didn’t keep a close eye on me or any of the others. They had no need to, we were good kids. In their eyes, on the surface, that was how I appeared to people. Well, to strangers, anyway.

  Away from everything, I felt calmer, calm, relaxed, dare I say… happy?

  It was just a summer of swimming in oceans that were as blue as sapphires, eating good, fresh, locally caught food, and drinking their wine and spirits. I walked the dusty roads, I helped lay tables in the restaurant that belonged to the family I was lodging with. I fished, I swam. I laughed.

  There were no dramas. The families were loving, the women embraced men, all of them; the sons, the husbands, the grandfathers. It was so different to back home.

  And then I went home.

  I wondered if I could carry on my summer, the way I had been living it when I was away. But in order to do that I would need friends, I realised. Real friends, not like the ones I pretended to like at school, the ones who were taken in by my act, by the persona I put on, but real friends, a building block foundation of sorts. And I decided to start with Jade, next door.

  * * *

  But she is not there when I waltz in through the back door. I check the living room, the dining area off the kitchen, and I figure the lights are on, somebody is home.

  I go upstairs, my tread light on the carpeted floor, and when I reach the landing the toilet door opens and Nan shuffles out.

  I step forward.

  She shrieks, horribly, it is the sound of a crow or a wounded dog. One hand goes to her chest, the other reaches out for the handrail at the top of the stairs.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nan,’ I say, because that’s what you’re supposed to do – apologise if you startle somebody.

  ‘Gah!’ she spits the nonsensical word out as she glares at me. ‘What are you doing in here, Jordan?’

  And her tone, and the look of barely disguised hatred on her face makes me frown, and I realise, Nan has never been on her own with me. That all this time, since she broke her arm in the ginnel, she’s made sure it has never been just her and me. It is a startling realisation.

  ‘Out!’ she says, a little of the old tough Nan coming back.

  ‘Out?’ I ask.

  She claps her hands. I saw the mother of the family I stayed with in Greece do this to herd her chickens back to their coop at night so she could shut them away, keep them safe inside, away from the fox.

  In Nan’s eyes, I am the fox.

  I am the fox that got not her chickens, but her cat.

  I know she is thinking that now, as she looks at me hard and flaps her hands. I know she is thinking of that old cat that stupidly ran in front of my bike. It was bloodied, and I tried to save the feelings of those who loved the damn thing by burying it myself, my protestations of an accident unheard, unwanted. That is what Nan is thinking about, and maybe the dead baby that rolled out of Jade after I pushed her off the roof. She was the only one who said the words to me I’d always been thinking but had never dared to say. And she is thinking about her own broken bones and bruised face, caused by me because Jade wanted to stay with her Nan.

  How did I think I could ever live among these people in peace?

  I turn to leave, to tread back down the stairs. I feel I should say something, perhaps apologise again, because wouldn’t that be what normal people would do?

  I halt, I turn.

  ‘Nan,’ I begin.

  ‘No,’ she says, shaking her head and she barrels at me, this old woman who is as tough as old boots, so says my mum.

  I could say that she came at me with such force she just barrelled herself right past me and on down the stairs. I could say that I put my arms out to catch her, her old, wrinkly skin passing through my fingers like paper as she flew past me.

  But that wouldn’t be true.

  I grab her arm, I hold it so hard I wonder if it might snap like a dry twig.

  I don’t push her though.

  I pull her.

  I swing her from the top step.

  She clatters down two steps until she is level with me and I don’t let go.

  I run halfway down the steep staircase of that terraced house, still holding her arm. I hear her feet make two more steps successfully and then they go from under her.

  I pause midway down. Her feet land on no more steps as she flies to land in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

  Here is the test. To walk down, to crouch over her, to see her eyes wide and feel her breath on me, tickling at my cheek as I bend over her.

  Here is the test. If I feel something, now, then maybe there is hope for me.

  But, all I know is that I’ll never be able to live with this thing that I’ve done for the rest of my natural life. Of all the others, this one is the worst. I know in that moment it is all over, and though it will take time and months and even years, that is the moment in time that I know I can’t carry on.

  So I guess you could say I did feel something, in the end.

  Forty-Three

  DAY ELEVEN

  Carrie sat in the shadowy dark of her apartment. The corner lamp cast a dull glow across the coffee table, illuminating the photograph of Jordan Robinson. Alongside sat the picture of the boy’s arm and the tattoo. She flipped her laptop open, watched again the CCTV image of the unidentified man walking alongside the eleventh victim, Gary Fisher. She looked not at the man they had pulled out of the canal, but the one who walked in step beside him. Tall, lean, dressed in black. In other words, nothing to go on. Only suspicions, and they were not an acceptable form of evidence.

  Sighing, Carrie pushed the laptop away and moved to stand by the balcony doors. Across the water, surrounding apartments pulsed with Christmas lights. Red, green, white ones; they flashed in a steady beat, highlighting the trees and decorations inside the homes. Carrie glanced back at her bare room. Christmas wasn’t for her. It was just a day that was made for family and loved ones. Just one more day made all the more painful for the fact that Carrie had neither of these.

  She should visit her mother, though, she thought. It had been a week or more, not that her mum would realise or care.

  Carrie snapped the heavy drapes closed against the festive scene and retreated back to the couch to stare at Jordan’s photo.

  They were no further forward in the case of the boy actually being missing, in spite of the new information that had trickled through. A drowned body should have surfaced by now. Jordan Robinson was all but forgotten, all except that little circle of family who loved him enough to protect him. And except for Carrie. The media and the public had moved on, most of the police officers had moved on. New cases had come in, the officers put on the team for the missing boy were being shifted away to other, newer crimes. Carrie pushed on with the case, determined as ever.

  She had something other than evidence; instinct. She had Ashlan, the memory of last winter and the stained T-shirt
of the boy with the circle on his arm.

  It was over without being over. Because this boy was still out there somewhere.

  Carrie tapped her finger on the photo.

  The more she thought about it, the less doubt there was. Jordan had ended the Pusher. Jordan had stepped up, stepped in, and killed a man who deserved nothing less. Then why had he carried on the Pusher’s reign of terror? For Carrie was certain now, sure that was what had happened. And now the Pusher part two continued on, and no matter what the new victims had done, it couldn’t be justified, not by Carrie. She was in charge of following the law and ensuring that others adhered to it.

  She had to find Jordan before he struck again. Because he would, Carrie knew. Once you got a taste for it, there was no way out.

  Emma widened her route to take in canals away from Salford. It was a mammoth task now. Her journey was so long she had to do it in three parts. Salford in the early hours, like now, the Ordsall area at midday and China Town and Canal Street in the evenings. DS Flynn had mentioned Canal Street, said she could have seen Jordan there last year. She went there every night, hung around, her stare piercing all the young men who stood in the shadows. It occurred to her now that she could do some good, while she was waiting to either die or find Jordan. She could be warning them, pleading with them to stay safe, to stay in well-lit areas.

  She continued to walk, towards Deansgate now, keeping by the canal, but switching direction whenever she came across a building that looked like it could house a rough-sleeping and lost nineteen-year-old boy.

  She had a new occasional daydream that he had fallen and hit his head, and he couldn’t remember who he was or where he lived. It was her favourite, because nobody would be to blame. She’d read articles about it happening, some John Doe turning up at a police station thousands of miles away from home, unable to recall their name or even how old they were. She clung to it, her daydream, kept it in her pocket along with the mobile phone that she never used anymore. Occasionally she remembered Martin telling her of his strange fantasies about his parents.

  She never went into these abandoned buildings that she passed. Instead she peered through the broken windows. Sometimes, the jagged glass in the frame caught her eye, and she imagined rolling up her sleeve and dragging her wrist across the shards. The thought made her wince, and that, she realised, was something else new.

  She could start again, because she was only thirty-five, and plenty of women were choosing to have their babies now, and some even later, forty, fifty in some cases. She thought about it for a moment, but the idea left her cold.

  But Jordan had had a child, a baby, and Claire had said… She lost the thread, reached out and caught at it before it vanished completely. A strange conversation she had only half listened to between Jade and Claire.

  Purpose.

  Nia.

  The little girl’s name roared into Emma’s head with all the intensity of a freight train.

  Purpose.

  Nia?

  Emma’s heart thumped in her chest. How long ago had that been? Where had they been – at breakfast? No. Her mind rewound slowly, like an old video cassette. They were in Emma’s house, they had been talking, Claire had commented on Nia’s name. It flew at her now, the memory, beating at her insides like a butterfly spreading its wings. More memories, more recall; Jade had been ashamed, or embarrassed, or something. And so she would be, because Nia was fouryearsold, and Jordan was only nineteen himself.

  Jade and Jordan and Nia.

  Jade and Jordan. And then came Nia.

  ‘Oh my God.’ Her words puffed out into the cold air. Her breath a speech bubble. ‘Oh my God!’

  She pushed off the railing, running now, and finally she knew where she was running to.

  * * *

  He was there, she saw, and she almost missed him as she ran, legs and arms pumping. She slowed a little, still a little way from him, wondered what he was doing here, if he had been inside. He looked lost and sad.

  ‘Lee,’ she gasped, and he reached out to steady her as she staggered on the spot where she stood.

  She put her hand on his arm, and pulled him into a hug. She breathed deeply; this embrace was not her son’s, but it felt good to hold this young man close. She closed her eyes, wishing hopelessly, pretending, wanting.

  ‘Emma?’ he asked, patting at the back of her head. She pulled away, realising that her coat needed a wash, as did the rest of her no doubt.

  ‘Is it… Jordan?’ he asked, anxiously, and his face was so open. It broke her heart a little. ‘Have you found—?’

  The light faded for a moment, dimmed before coming back stronger.

  ‘I’ve found his baby, his child.’ Unconsciously she pinched his skin beneath his coat sleeves. ‘His daughter.’

  It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, she knew by the way he fixed the smile on his face.

  ‘You’re going to tell Martin?’ he asked, still with his arms around her.

  She nodded and said, ‘I think he should know, you too, all of us are a part of him, after all.’

  His smile was more genuine now. This time he pushed his body into hers, resting his cheek on her chest.

  ‘Thanks for saying that,’ he said.

  ‘Come on,’ she pushed him away but kept a hold of his hand. ‘Let’s go wake Martin up.’

  Jade had scarcely left her house since the night she had met with Jordan. She had hardly slept either. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw what he had confessed to her. Pushing Nan down the stairs. Watching, as Nan’s life ebbed away. Not Martin, then, who was responsible for Jordan’s death. Because Jordan wasn’t dead at all.

  When Jordan had finished speaking, she had run from Mrs Oberman’s house. Flew across the road and back to her own home. She hadn’t told Mrs Oberman what Jordan had said. She hadn’t told Mrs Oberman anything.

  ‘He’s leaving,’ Mrs Oberman said. Jade turned away.

  ‘We won’t see him again,’ she said hoarsely.

  To her credit Mrs Oberman hadn’t asked Jade to explain herself. Quietly she had left, leaving Jade and Nia alone.

  * * *

  Jade dragged herself back to the present and watched Nia open the few presents that she had got her. Thankfully she had started Christmas shopping early this year. If she had left it until the end of November like she normally did, then Nia might very well be waking up to nothing.

  She hadn’t put up a tree, there was no tinsel or lights or the stuffed Christmas bear that came out of the loft each year. No elves on any shelves. No milk and biscuits left out for Santa’s visit. No carrot for Rudolph.

  * * *

  There was a knock on Jade’s door now, one which was gentle, as if the owner was apologetic for disturbing her. It pulled Jade out of her dark memories. She dragged herself into the hallway, Nia running alongside her.

  ‘Mrs Oberman,’ Jade said. Nia reached out and wrapped her arms around the old woman’s knees.

  ‘He left something at my house the other night,’ Mrs Oberman said, and there was no need to explain who he was. ‘It’s for you, or maybe, her.’ She nodded her head at Nia who was already vanishing back into the living room to sit among the small pile of wrapping paper.

  Jade took the small box that Mrs Oberman handed to her and stared blankly at it. It was a box that looked old, the size suggesting it contained a bit of jewellery. She set it on the table in the hall.

  ‘Thanks,’ she whispered. Not money, not this time, but something he had chosen, selected. It was worse, and it was better all at once because it showed Jade that something had been inside him, a heart that beat and cared at small, inopportune moments in time.

  She tried to focus on Mrs Oberman, was about to invite her in. It was Christmas, after all, and Jade was sure if she searched in the back of Nan’s cupboard she’d find a bottle of sherry in there.

  ‘Jade?’

  The voice, high pitched, came from behind Mrs Oberman. Jade looked around her as she shielded her eyes from the
low winter sun. Emma stood by the gate.

  Jade’s stomach lurched. ‘Emma,’ she said in return, and she waited.

  ‘Can you come for Christmas dinner?’ Emma called. ‘Martin is coming, Lee too.’ Emma flicked her eyes over Mrs Oberman. ‘You’re welcome as well, if you’ve got no other plans.’ She said this in a cooler tone, but lowered her eyes as she spoke, as if in respect.

  Jade felt a lump in her throat that could be either tears or a scream. Had Emma still not cottoned on? Had the conversation about Nia’s name still not resonated with her? Jade realised suddenly she was bitterly disappointed. She was sick of hiding, of lying, of being the secret-keeper.

  Emma, as if sensing Jade’s angst, came up the path towards the door. Obligingly, Mrs Oberman moved aside to let her pass.

  She came right up to Jade, reached out and clasped the younger girl’s hands.

  ‘I know about… the baby,’ she said, and even as she spoke she flicked her gaze towards Nia. ‘I’m not angry, I… I love you, Jade. I always have, and Nia too. I really want to try to…’ she tailed off.

  Try to what, wondered Jade in awe. Live, move on, get over it, join my family of two, forgive me?

  But Jade said none of those things. Instead she leaned into Emma, her neighbour, her surrogate mother, Nia’s grandmother. Her friend.

  Emma closed her arms around Jade and they held each other, the way they had a hundred times before.

  ‘I’d love to come over,’ she whispered in Emma’s ear. She pulled back, but kept Emma close to her. ‘We all would, wouldn’t we, Mrs Oberman?’

  Mrs Oberman looked surprised, but she set her mouth in a grim line and nodded. Jade smiled.

  If I have to move on, if Emma does, maybe it’s time you do as well, Mrs O.

  Forty-Four