The Night Caller: An utterly gripping crime thriller

by J. M. Hewitt

  DAY TWELVE

  The call had come as dawn was breaking on Christmas Day. The air was still, cold, deadly and silent as Carrie drove through the empty streets of Salford.

  Paul was already there. She looked at him, he looked sad but resigned. They hadn’t even looked at the body yet, but somehow they knew.

  At the site she watched them remove the man from the canal. Her eyes watered. She brushed away tears with gloved fingers.

  This was a part of the network of waterways that they didn’t get called out to very often. Off the beaten track, unlike the strange backwaters of Canal Street or the heaving mass that was Salford Quays, the Ashton Canal was a nice place. Peaceful, picturesque, pleasant.

  But not today.

  She wondered if that was part of the reasoning for doing it here, wondered if he floated for a while, looking left and right and seeing green fields and premature crocus tips and a blue winter sky.

  Carrie coughed to cover a choked sob. She angled herself slightly away from Paul and murmuring an apology. He nodded. She was surprised at her feelings, at the armour that peeled away from her. She felt a pressure on her arm, Paul’s hand, a gesture which needed no words.

  They stepped forward together, past the cluster of techs and forensics and the body and peered over into the water. It lapped gently against the sides, emanating a semblance of tranquillity.

  Carrie turned back, went into a crouch a few feet away from the body. The tan, that dark hue of his skin was gone. He was silver now, fish-like, but that was the only change that Carrie could see. There was no bloating, no plant life or pond life clinging to the sodden clothes of this one. Carrie knew that if his eyes were open they would be staring, filled with the attitude of the untouchables.

  ‘ID?’ she snapped, her voice harder than she could ever recall it being.

  Gloved hands used a pen to flick open the wallet. Carrie leaned closer, Paul at her side now, she could feel his breath on his cheek, cool, icy, visible in the freezing air.

  Tweezers slipped a student card free, it was held steady for her to read the name embossed along it. Carrie took the tweezers without asking. Carefully, she moved the sleeve of his filthy grey shirt up a few inches. The tattoo laid bare, black ink against his silver skin. She let the sleeve drop back into place, handed the tweezers back.

  She stood up, felt her knees creak. She left Paul to sign out of the crime scene as she staggered up the embankment and slumped into the driver’s seat.

  It was finished. She knew it, the days of the Manchester Canal serial killer – or killers – were over. There was no supporting evidence for this, nothing concrete that she could take to the station and to the SIO. And in this profession, they didn’t go on gut instinct. So, she wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t be having celebratory drinks in the local across the road from where she worked. She wouldn’t raise a glass to the six-year nightmare that had run its course.

  Instead she would think of a boy who had been much loved by a select few, a boy who seemingly hadn’t got the help he had so desperately needed, and instead had chosen a path that had led him here, to a remote water where nobody came, where there was no chance of help or intervention.

  Carrie knew she should be silently cheering inside herself. Instead she was despondent, saddened and strangely anxious.

  ‘You all right?’

  Carrie drew in a sharp breath, forced a nod in Paul’s direction. She hadn’t even heard him slide into the car next to her.

  ‘It is him, isn’t it? The Pusher, I mean?’

  ‘If it was, he’s gone now,’ Carrie replied, as mildly as she could.

  ‘But…?’ He raised one eyebrow at her.

  ‘How do you get like that?’ she asked before he could phrase the question, and it was a serious question, though she was aware there was no real answer. Not upbringing, not a single, struggling parent upbringing, despite what some people thought. It wasn’t that, couldn’t be, because if that was so, then she, Carrie, could have so easily gone down the same road as Jordan.

  She bit the ragged skin around her thumbnail. Finally, she felt that she could breathe a little easier, as though this case that had smothered her so was already relaxing its hold.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Carrie said, gazing at the water, as the tide began to turn, carrying the debris of city life. ‘Maybe it just happens. It’s so easy just to… drift.’

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him glance at her profile, the set of her mouth, the clenched jaw. What was Paul thinking now; the rumours of her past life, her childhood, the whispers of neglect?

  ‘Why didn’t you drift, Carrie?’ He looked down at the pedals by her feet.

  She considered not answering him. When she did, when the words came out, she was startled. ‘I had good teachers, in the end.’ Her words were a whisper. She angled her head to look out of the window at the white tent and the white-suited men. ‘Or maybe I did it all myself.’

  Paul cleared his throat. ‘You got lucky,’ he said gruffly.

  She spun to face him, fury and passion in her eyes now. ‘Not lucky,’ she said, practically spat. ‘I had a choice, to go the way so many kids in care go once they’re deemed an adult, or to do something, to make a difference.’ Her eyes seared into his. ‘I chose.’

  ‘And he chose a different path.’ He angled his head towards the white tent. ‘Do you think they knew? Those close to him, Emma and Jade, I mean.’ Seeing her frown, he pushed on. ‘I know they didn’t realise the extent of his problems, but…’ He tailed off.

  Carrie considered her words before answering him. ‘I think there are things that some people choose not to see, instead of confronting them, much like the paths we choose to take.’ She smiled, but it was narrow and pinched on her face. ‘And if nobody confronted him there was no reason for him to stop.’

  They sat for a few moments in silence before she switched on the ignition and the heater to clear the windscreen.

  She could stall no longer, and putting the car in gear she moved off. ‘Christmas Day,’ she muttered, her knuckles turning white as she clenched the steering wheel hard. ‘Delivering this news on Christmas fucking day.’

  Paul, tuned to his colleague’s mood, gave her arm a nudge. ‘I’ll be there with you.’

  Emma looked at the people around her.

  There were too many people, mismatched chairs, all gathered around a too-small table for Christmas dinner. Elbows bashing, lots of muttered apologies along with, ‘please pass the…’Jade had to lean awkwardly across Mrs Oberman to cut up Nia’s chicken. Chicken because all the local shops had sold out of turkeys. But, there was food, laughter, and they’d even managed to find some crackers.

  It should have been horrific, awful, awkward. She managed an almost-smile. It was everything a Christmas dinner should be.

  Emma let her gaze rest on Nia. It was strange, and a bit silly, seeing as she had known the little girl literally since the day she had been born, but now, knowing who Nia actually was, was like seeing her again for the very first time.

  She dragged her eyes away, made an inane comment to Martin about his sister’s impending arrival, hoping that nobody noticed her new-found obsession with the child.

  She mustn’t let herself get fixated on the girl, she reminded herself. She mustn’t crowd her, or Jade, mustn’t stifle them.

  She placed her knife and fork together on her empty plate. Noticed as she did so that everyone else’s plates were clear too.

  ‘Christmas log, everyone?’ she asked, brightly. And then, ‘Oh!’

  She rubbed at her ribcage, underneath her breast.

  ‘Emma?’ Martin said, a worried lilt in his voice.

  She rubbed at herself, frowning. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I felt something, it hurt.’

  ‘Heartburn,’ said Mrs Oberman helpfully.

  Emma shook her head, smiled bravely. It wasn’t heartburn, or acid reflux, or indigestion or—

  A movement on the front path caught her eye. Pushing her c
hair back, her hand at her chest now, she walked over to the window in order to see better.

  ‘Oh,’ she said again.

  ‘What is it?’ Lee called, and she stilled at the hope in his voice.

  ‘It’s that Carrie, and Paul, the police officers,’ she said, and she was surprised at how normal her voice sounded. Tears swam suddenly in her eyes which moments ago had been dry. She rubbed at her chest, a dull ache there now, almost a numbness, a totally different pain to the one she’d been experiencing since she accepted that Jordan was dead. Childishly, she wanted to turn and flee, make her escape out of the back door, down through the ginnel and far, far away.

  But there was no time. They surrounded her then, all of them, Martin and Jade at either side of her, Lee next to Martin, even Mrs Oberman came up behind her and placed her dry hand on Emma’s shoulder. Finally, she felt Nia’s hands around her hips, the little girl not understanding, but following the lead of the adults.

  They remained like that, forming a circle of love around Emma, until Mrs Oberman broke away and went to open the door to let them in.

  * * *

  They sidled in. Emma’s friends parted for them, drifted off to the side to stand in a cluster. Suddenly Emma felt very alone.

  Detective Sergeant Carrie Flynn gestured for Emma to sit in the lounge. Herded into the room, Emma looked for an escape route, but Paul was at her back. No way out.

  She was dry-eyed now, even though she knew why they were there. Hope didn’t spring in her this time.

  She knew.

  ‘You found him.’ She looked out of the window at the white sky. ‘You found his …’ Body. No, she couldn’t say that word, but there was no need.

  ‘Very early this morning,’ confirmed Carrie as she sat down next to Emma. ‘I’m so sorry, Emma.’

  Emma looked at the young woman. The hard-faced look had gone, she noticed. Replaced by a look of unbridled sympathy. Carrie reached out, picked up Emma’s hand and gripped it tight.

  At the unexpected touch Emma let out an angst-ridden wail.

  * * *

  Carrie reared back at the sound of Emma’s heartbreak, but made herself hold onto the woman. It wasn’t even the sound, so much, she reckoned. More the vision in front of her, the total and utter devastation that was evident in Emma’s eyes. Gently, she released Emma. She wondered if she would ever let go like Emma had, if news such as this should ever come to her door. Not that it was likely to. Not after almost two decades had passed.

  Carrie thought of her mother then, and imagined what this sort of news would do to her. Would it be the end for her? Or might it shock her back to life, out of the fugue state in which she had been imprisoned for twenty years?

  Behind the sofa Carrie saw a silhouette. Jade, the girl next door. Carrie expected her to hover, nervous, indecisive, the way she seemed to always be. To her surprise, she rushed in. Falling to her knees in front of Emma, she pulled the older woman close.

  Over Emma’s shoulder Jade looked at Carrie, a plea. She nodded to show that she understood; Emma needed time.

  A strange hush fell. Even the occupants of the other room were silent. Carrie wondered who was comforting Martin, the father, as Emma cried hot tears down Jade’s shoulder.

  After a few minutes Emma edged out of Jade’s arms. Jade moved to sit on the sofa beside Emma. Carrie looked at them, and saw now that Emma felt strong enough for her to speak.

  ‘He was found at the Ashton Canal, and though we haven’t yet done a post mortem it doesn’t look like Jordan was there for a long time.’ Carrie paused, wondering whether she needed to clarify her words. She decided to; Emma needed all the information. ‘He certainly has not been in the water since the night he was reported missing.’

  ‘Where has he been?’ Emma cried. She looked at Paul, Jade and Carrie in turn as if they had the answers.

  Jade dipped her head, crimson staining her cheeks. At the tiny movement, imperceptible to anyone else, Carrie sat up straight. Jade had seen Jordan. In between the night he vanished and this morning when he was found, Jade had seen him. Carrie was sure.

  Would she press her on it, on her reaction which spoke volumes even though there had been no words? Carrie rubbed at her eye which twitched with a sudden tic. What purpose would it serve? Jordan was gone now, and he wasn’t coming back.

  I could have got to him if she’d only said.

  * * *

  ‘Emma?’ Carrie’s tone was gentle but demanded attention. ‘Do you remember what I said to you, when I was last here?’

  She thought about denying it, considered telling Carrie that they could go now they had delivered the news. Instead she nodded.

  ‘That we saw Jordanat the scene of one of the canal deaths? I believe he may have been responsible.’ Carrie persisted.

  Her heart pulsed a beat inside her head, in her chest, inside her very skin. To hear the detective say the words, so bluntly.

  She locked eyes with Carrie, knew her own stare was wild, feral. What was she supposed to say?

  ‘Why?’ she whispered. It wasn’t what she had expected to say, and if anyone knew why, it should be her, his mother. Not this woman in front of her.

  Carrie’s jaw worked. Beside Emma, Paul sat a little straighter. Jade’s hand found its way into hers again and she squeezed it gratefully.

  All those men. All the ones she had read about in the newspaper, the ones whose mothers she had empathised with, the mothers that her heart had gone out to.

  ‘The men, the ones that were pushed,’ Emma rubbed her eyes, ‘did you say they were… bad people?’ She lowered her face so she didn’t have to look at Carrie. It sounded childish; bad people. But there was something, Ashlan, she recalled now, that Carrie had talked about last time she’d come to her home. A drug dealer.

  ‘It would seem that way.’ Paul answered this time.

  Emma nodded.

  How peculiar.

  How she wished Jordan was here. How she wished she could talk to him. No, that wasn’t right, she wished she could listen to him. Had she ever done that before?

  A shudder of regret, that she had played it all wrong, all his life, telling him they were all right, just the two of them, he didn’t need to know who his father was, because he had everything he needed right here in this house. Telling him. Assuming that he was in agreement.

  Oh God…

  Paul continued talking, softly now, in a way she had never heard him. He seemed to be taking care not to offend or agitate her. His words were not accusing or meant to hurt. He laid out the facts, the same way he had since she had met him.

  She wondered if she were supposed to feel guilt or horror or shame.

  She felt nothing but a deep bleakness.

  Is this how my son felt? she wondered. Is this how he lived every day of his life?

  And as the police watched her, the truth gradually made sense. She was supposed to feel at least part to blame.

  She glanced across the room, saw Martin, his head bowed, Nia unusually quiet on his lap.

  ‘Did he… did Jordan take his own life?’ The words struggled to come out, but she forced them through lips that felt cold as ice.

  ‘Yes.’ It was Carrie who answered now, and Emma turned to face her, had almost forgotten she was there.

  Her breath caught in her throat. He had served his own peculiar brand of justice to himself. Her son had murdered men. And yet from somewhere he had stopped the cycle of terror by ending his own life. A life for a life; but to Emma, her son. No more breath, no more beating heart.

  But it was over, Emma thought, he was at peace at last.

  Forty-Five

  THE PUSHER

  I do it properly this time. I choose a new location, the Ashton Canal. The walls are steep here, and there are no concrete steps or ladders where I can drag my weary body and haul myself out.

  When I left Mrs Oberman’s house I went underground. Jade was so hurt about what I did to Nan.

  I know what you did. All the things she kn
ows I did, as well as a fair few others that she will never know.

  I have done the right thing, telling her the truth. She will hate me, rightfully so, but perhaps, given time, she will remember times when I wasn’t doing a bad thing. And she will go on. They will all go on.

  It’s the coldest night of the year so far, and it is Christmas Eve.

  I stuff bricks in my pockets, and I place my wallet on the side along with my phone, switched off since the night I disappeared.

  I jump. It is even better than the push.

  The water is beyond cold, and for a while I float around, in spite of the bricks in my coat. I lie back, let the water take me anywhere it wants to. I go under bridges and alongside towpaths and I watch the history of my town as it floats past me. Into the walls my body goes. The concrete grazes me.

  I think I will know when it is ending because I won’t feel anything anymore, and for the first time I feel comfort.

  A little later, I think I am looking at reeds and foliage that grows underneath the water. Past the plants, past the green, going down and down and down, further and further, until the green has gone and now all I see are shiny white objects.

  Bones, maybe, skulls and bits of people who were here long before me. I nudge something white; it turns, mixing up the muddy bottom.

  Past the white, all the way down, into the black.

  A last breath emerges in bubbles, a sigh of contentment, for I’m where I should have been all the time.

  Where I belong.

  And my last memory is a startling revelation that I am sorry, for all the things I did, and I wish I could have been different, and with that knowledge, with that self-acceptance, with that awareness, with that silent apology that nobody will ever hear I find I am ready to leave.

  Epilogue

  NEW YEAR’S DAY

  Carrie spotted Lee, as she parked up her car outside the care home where her mother lived. He was running, not just jogging like the other regular runners she often saw, but sprinting, pounding the pavement as he raced in her direction.