by Ed James
Thompson and Corcoran were in a huddled conference by the mantelpiece. No sign of Lesley Crossley, but David stood in the middle of the room, next to Sally Norton. Old lovers, reunited. Or just old friends. Seemed like the thirty-odd years hadn’t passed and they were in someone’s parents’ living room. Painfully uncomfortable, avoiding looking at each other, but they clearly had a strong bond.
And yet Sally was still livid with him, her jaw set tight. ‘David, I’m truly sorry about what you’re going through with Dawn, but my Sarah . . . she’s in a really bad way . . .’ She brushed a tear away. ‘She might die, David. Or she could be disabled for the rest of her life. And it’s all thanks to what we did. What you did.’
‘You don’t know how sorry I am.’ David hung his head low, eyes closed. ‘I hold myself responsible for this. The whole thing, it’s all my fault. It was my stupid idea. I mean, we were kids and I was a complete arsehole. You know that thing where the male brain isn’t fully developed until it’s twenty-one?’
‘That’s the only excuse you can cling to?’
‘I mean, I’ve changed, but . . . I can’t change what we did. We fucked him up, Sally. We broke him and . . .’
‘You were showing off.’
David went quiet.
Thompson beckoned Palmer over. ‘This going according to plan?’
‘I’d rather have been here at the start, but yes. Them processing what happened may yield further clues. Now we know the link and his reasoning – the who and the why – this can validate our hypothesis.’
‘But it might open up other possibilities.’
‘Well, yes.’ Palmer looked at her. ‘But our priority has to be saving Dawn. Arresting Terry Beane is secondary. Agreed?’
Thompson snarled. ‘I’d rather have them both, but I’ll settle for rescuing Dawn.’
Car headlights glared in the window. DS John Diamond helped Melissa Gladwin out of a Mondeo like he was her chauffeur. Matt’s mother certainly acted that way, taking his hand as her dark-pink dress exploded out of the car, and letting him lead her up to the house. Her footsteps clicked in the hallway, but seemed to stop outside the living room, like she was waiting to make her grand entrance. Then she flounced in with a frosty face.
‘You’re looking well.’ David examined Melissa closely. ‘I’m really sorry for what you’re going through with Matt.’
She closed her eyes. ‘David. I hold you directly responsible for this. What you did has caught up with us.’
‘Mel, I’m sorry, but it was Nate who—’
‘Yes, yes. Nathan might well have been the instigator, might’ve guilted him into going down there, but you locked the door. You trapped him in there. And you were the first to run when the owner appeared.’ Her west London accent was slipping, letting the rural Bucks back out. ‘You let this happen to our children.’
‘Believe me, Mel, nobody’s suffering as much as I am right now.’
Melissa slumped onto the sofa, her dress splayed around her, tears glistening in her eyes. ‘Your actions did this to my boy.’
Palmer took the seat next to Melissa, carefully shifting the dress material aside. ‘Are any of you still in touch with Howard’s father?’
‘Nate . . .’ Melissa looked at Palmer, her eyes misting over. ‘As you know, Nathan and I went out together at school and for a while afterwards, but . . . I moved to London. To Imperial College.’
‘What happened?’
‘It’s a long story.’ Melissa gritted her teeth. ‘As far as I know, Nathan went to Devon to teach surfing. That’s the kind of man he was.’
‘Was?’
‘He died last year. A heart attack. From what I gather, things didn’t work out in Devon. He married and divorced years ago, when Howard was still young. He moved to Spain, but said he deeply regretted what happened.’
‘To?’
‘To his son.’ Melissa snorted. ‘Howard grew up without his father. I gather his mother died a few years ago?’
‘Correct, but his stepfather seems to love him.’
‘That’s good.’ Melissa let go of Palmer’s hand to rub her eye, but took hold again. ‘We did talk about Terry Beane, about what happened that night, that weekend. ‘Nathan used to bring it up when we were drunk. Or high. Then he’d clam up. Once it made him cry and he wouldn’t talk about it again.’ She gestured at the other two ex-friends. ‘It splintered us as a group and drove us apart. We were such good friends until what we did.’
‘What do you remember about Terry Beane?’
‘Very little.’ Melissa glanced at Sally. ‘I mean, he was her boyfriend, wasn’t he?’ She spat out the word.
‘He was hardly my boyfriend, Mel.’
She snarled. ‘You brought him along that night to make David jealous, if I recall. Some big lump of rough, trying—’
‘Shut up!’
‘Why? Does the truth hurt?’
Sally had nothing to say.
‘If you must know, I did get jealous.’ David looked over at Sally. ‘You brought him along and I . . .’
Sally blew air up her face. ‘I’d been trying to encourage you to make a move, but . . . but you didn’t have to do that to him!’
David shook his head. ‘I wish I could’ve stopped what happened.’
‘These two . . .’ Melissa folded her arms. ‘They were always this “will they, won’t they” thing all through school. It was so wearing. I don’t blame Sally for bringing some big idiot from work along.’
Palmer frowned. ‘You worked together?’
‘In the local supermarket.’ Melissa unfolded her arms, resting her hands on her lap. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? Sally and I worked on the tills, and Terry stacked shelves and sometimes filled bags for us. He used to flirt with her in the canteen.’
‘I saw another side to him in there.’ Sally looked out of the window. ‘He was like a different person away from school. And he was okay, actually. Funny, kind, generous.’ Her face lost its steel. ‘But that night, we broke him. He stopped speaking to me, stopped speaking to the other people in the shop. He became an alcoholic, barely functioning, while we all went on to our degrees and our glittering careers.’
‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’ David started pacing the room. ‘You’re digging up long-dead history while my daughter is out there somewhere, dying. You’ve got your kids back, for better or worse, but my Dawn . . . She’ll die.’
Sally walked over and took his hand, holding it tight.
Corcoran sniffed. ‘He’s right. We need to find Terry Beane. He’s got Dawn and we need to get medication to her.’
Melissa looked down her nose at him. ‘Are you telling me you can’t find him?’
‘That’s right. We’ve searched. It’s possible he’s changed his name. You’re absolutely sure his name was Terence Beane?’
‘Of course I am.’ David snorted again.
‘Wait.’ Sally broke free from David’s grasp. ‘Remember at school, Terry used to get picked on by Geoff Andrews and Michael Richardson? What did they call him?’
Melissa frowned. ‘Wait a second.’ The facade of the middle-class businesswoman slipped, letting the dope-smoking schoolgirl back out. ‘Didn’t they find out that Terry was his middle name?’
‘God, that was it. Kept calling him “fifth”, right?’ Sally clicked her fingers. ‘It was his full name. Something Terence Beane the fifth?’
David groaned. ‘John Terence Beane the fifth.’
Corcoran stormed out of the room, brandishing his mobile like he could do some serious damage with it.
Palmer joined him in the hallway.
Corcoran looked round at her and nodded. He put his call on speaker. ‘You getting anything, Pete?’
‘Hold your bloody horses, mate.’ Whoever was down the other end of the line was taking their sweet time. ‘Hmm. That’s not what I expected.’
‘Pete, what is it?’
‘I’ve found your John Terence Beane.’ A sigh rasped out of the speaker. ‘Thing is, he killed
himself ten years ago . . .’
Forty-six
[Corcoran, 20:11]
‘Say that again?’ Corcoran held the phone in front of him, hands shaking. Couldn’t bring himself to look at Palmer. Couldn’t begin to process what it meant.
Sortwell sighed down the line again. ‘Like I told you . . . he died in September 2010.’
Corcoran finally looked at Palmer. Their suspect was dead. ‘Was there a post mortem?’
Clicking keys. ‘Sure was. Suicide. Shot himself, too. Not the full Kurt Cobain either. Pistol to the temple, enough left for a positive ID. Definitely him.’
‘Who identified the body?’
‘That’s the thing. The writing on the form is even worse than your last overtime form. He wasn’t married, had no siblings, both parents are dead. Haven’t found a living next of kin.’
‘Thanks, Pete.’ Corcoran stabbed the button. ‘Penny for them?’
‘I . . . This . . .’ Palmer leaned against the kitchen table, staring into space, a blank, emotionless frown plastered all over her face. ‘What do you think?’
‘It fitted so well. A solid revenge motive.’ Corcoran put his phone away. ‘How can he be dead?’
‘I did say he wasn’t a perfect match, Aidan.’ Palmer looked him straight in the eyes. ‘Believe me, I want to find him as much as you do.’
‘But it’s not him. Terry Beane.’ He walked over to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. ‘You thought it didn’t add up. I didn’t listen. You were right. I was clutching at straws.’ He downed the glass and refilled it. ‘Where do we go from here?’
‘We need to stay flexible, in case we’ve missed something crucial. In the Ross Murray case, like you say, if Zoe had been on the ball, you could’ve caught him before he’d murdered, while it was still serial rape. This case can still end that way. We can save Dawn. We can stop him from killing.’
‘I’m now looking for a who, though.’
‘Well, all roads still lead to Terry Beane.’
‘John Terence Beane the fifth.’ Corcoran played the name around in his head. What kind of person controlled their children like that? Enforced their own name on their first-born son, like they could continue their own lives after death? ‘But how can a dead man be doing this?’
‘Not existing is the perfect cover, right? Assume a new identity and you’re much harder to track. This is the man who’s stolen cars and masked the plates.’
‘But you heard what Pete said, Marie. He didn’t fake his suicide. There was a post mortem. It was him.’
‘It’s worth me looking at the detailed report and speaking to the pathologist.’
‘Maybe, but focusing on him isn’t exactly keeping this flexible, is it?’
‘There’s something I’m not quite getting here and this might be the best possibility of—’
‘—validating our assumptions.’ Corcoran felt himself grin. ‘Gotcha.’
‘At the moment, we’ve got the possibility that Terry faked his suicide. Outlandish, but it’s the simplest explanation. The primary alternative is somebody else has used his ordeal as a motivation.’ Palmer looked like she was running out of straws to clutch at. ‘Other than that, there could be some other connection. Now we know these people grew up together, maybe there’s someone else with a beef against them. Maybe they lied to each other to cover up what they did to Terry. Who’s to say he’s the only one?’
It all made sense to Corcoran. Perfect sense.
And yet, it was all supposition and assumption.
No next logical step that would save Dawn from whatever fresh hell she was experiencing.
[20:15]
Back in the living room, David, Sally and Melissa had spread out, sitting apart from each other. Melissa was on the sofa, her back to the other two. Sally sat with her head in her hands, quietly sobbing. David stood by the window.
‘Okay, I need to know everything you do about Terry Beane.’
Melissa narrowed her eyes at Corcoran. ‘Have you not got any leads on him?’
‘He killed himself ten years ago.’
Her hand shot to her open mouth. ‘Oh my god.’
Sally put her knuckles to her lips, gasping like she was going to be sick.
‘Jesus.’ David turned round and leaned back against the window frame. ‘So, who the hell is doing this to our kids?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to discover. When was the last you heard of Terry Beane?’
David shrugged. ‘I moved back here after uni and, like Mel told you earlier, I’d see him around town. After what we’d done, I didn’t even want to think about him. I’d messed up his life and I could see it in the way he walked. The one time I know he saw me, he ran away. And the guy’s twice my size.’
David sat between his old friends on the sofa. ‘The time he saw me, I was on a pub crawl with lads from work. Ended up in some rum boozers. Terry was in The Crown with some metal warriors. You know the type, Metallica and Megadeth patches on their denim jackets. Stars and stripes headscarves. Hard nuts, bikers. I thought he might speak to me, fuelled by booze and backed up by his hard mates. But no, he backed away.’
‘The Crown?’
‘Right. Closed down when the Wetherspoon opened. Think it’s someone’s house now.’
‘That was the last time you saw him?’
‘Right.’
‘What about you two?’
Melissa looked up at Corcoran. ‘I’ve avoided coming home. My parents died so I stopped having the need.’
‘When was the last time?’
‘Okay, when Dad was in the hospice, I was clearing out my parents’ house. So that was eleven years ago, maybe twelve? I popped into the supermarket to get some wine and dinner. Place had hardly changed. And he took one look at me and ran back into the stockroom.’
‘Used to see him every time I came home to visit.’ Sally swallowed hard. ‘In the shop, like Mel said. And he blanked me too.’
‘I saw him there too. Did our weekly shop in there.’ David splayed his hands on his lap. ‘Ten years ago seems about right.’
‘Is there anything else, anyone who he was friends with from school or work?’
‘Well, I kept in touch with someone who worked there.’ Sally looked out of the window. ‘Helen Smith. She said he was the store man. You know, organising all the deliveries and putting the stock out onto the shelves. Recycling the boxes. Stuck in the back room, avoiding much human contact. Just did his job, then went home. Didn’t answer a question unless it came from the store manager. They only kept him on because he worked twice as hard as anyone else.’
[20:35]
Princes Risborough had one of the strangest supermarkets Corcoran had seen. Made of brick, the pillars inset with rough stone, it looked more like a country farm shop than a chain supermarket.
He waited for the trolley lad to pass, his extra-thick glasses warning that he’d struggle to see anything further than three inches from his face, and might batter twenty trolleys off your car.
Corcoran checked Palmer was following, then slipped through the front door into the chilled interior. He walked up to the customer service desk and unfolded his warrant card. ‘Supposed to meet a Jack Edwards here?’
The woman smiled, then reached for a microphone. Her voice boomed throughout the store. ‘Manager required at the kiosk. Manager required at the kiosk. Thanks.’ Another smile, then she looked at the old lady behind them. ‘Lottery ticket, June?’
Corcoran stepped aside and looked around. The shop seemed smaller than it should’ve done, the low ceiling and tight aisles squishing everything in.
‘DS Corcoran?’ A corporate suit swaggered towards them: flame-red hair, a broad grin and a firm handshake. ‘Jack Edwards.’ He looked like he’d only just started shaving. ‘Good to meet you. How can I help?’
‘We’re looking for anyone who would’ve worked with a Terence Beane, maybe known as Terry. Full name John Terence Beane.’
‘Doesn’t ring any bells.�
��
‘This will be from the mid-eighties until about ten years ago.’ As he said it, Corcoran knew it would be futile, given the guy’s age.
‘Ah. I’m afraid I won’t be able to help.’ The store manager raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘I would’ve still been at school when he left.’
Corcoran didn’t ask if he meant primary or secondary. ‘Look, is there anyone who would’ve been here then?’
‘Maybe.’ He set off towards the greengrocery section. ‘Manfred?’
A beanpole appeared, with the longest arms Corcoran had ever seen. Like tentacles, and thick with the kind of muscle you got from hard work rather than disco weight exercises in the gym. He grunted at Edwards and it sounded like a question.
‘Manfred, mate, do you remember a Terry Beane?’
Another grunt, full-throated and deep. ‘Worked for him, yeah. Why?’
‘The police here are . . .’ Edwards frowned. ‘What exactly is it you’re—’
‘We want to speak to anyone who knew him.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s a confidential matter, sir. Did you know him well?’
‘Solid worker. Never spoke. Just got on with it. Only told me what I was doing wrong. Never took a day off.’ Manfred bared his teeth. ‘Tragic, though. Didn’t turn up one day. Shot himself.’ He shook his head. ‘I identified him. Me. Nobody else in his life. And I barely knew him.’
‘It was definitely him?’
Manfred tugged at his nose. ‘Not that there was much left of his head.’ He put a finger-pistol to his head and made an explosive sound. ‘Definitely him.’
‘Did he have any friends?’
‘Nope.’
‘No colleagues here, or people who’d speak to him when he was working? Maybe someone who met him after work?’
‘No idea. Sorry. Never used to even come out front when there were people in the shop. Soon as the place shut, he’d be out front making sure everything was okay. Just the way he was.’
‘So there’s nobody you can think of? No wife or girlfriend? Boyfriend?’
‘Nope. Wasn’t the full shilling. Don’t mean disabled like young Johnny on the trolleys. Had his demons. Know a few lads who were out in Iraq. That kind of thing.’