As he entered, he waited for someone to recognise him. Or all of them, turning their heads as if he was a cowboy entering a rowdy bar. No one batted an eyelid. Of the ten or so patrons, he was sure he recognised all but two of them. He clocked a lady at a table near the back, certain that she had lived on Lorraine’s street: a retired school headmistress from Wales, if he remembered correctly. Near her was a beekeeper who’d been stung half to death but still loved his ‘little babies’. There was a middle-aged man he was sure had cracked a water pipe digging up his garden and caused strife because the water board had had to shut the whole street’s supply off for a while. And the young kid helping behind the counter – one of his old neighbours’ nephews, fresh out of school and with aspirations of being a racing driver. So much for that. Bennet was surprised he’d learned so much about this place and its people and had to convince himself it was less about the ‘what might have been’ and more about his detective’s brain.
The new proprietor – Jenny of Jenny’s by her badge – was fat, in her late twenties, and very tanned. Her bark-like skin would have turned heads even on a beach, never mind a community of grey and green. Way back, this sandwich shop had been run by an old couple who’d been here as long as anyone. Maybe they’d made enough money to buy a place somewhere with decent wifi. Maybe the Reaper had called their ticket numbers.
The only spare table was next to a pair of unknown faces whose demeanour pegged them as tourists. Or was it aliens? The locals had a derogatory nickname for visitors, but he couldn’t recall it. The pair were a little giddy, a demeanour more suited to Disneyland than a little Peak District village. The sour looks were reserved for them. He booked the empty table by leaving his coat on the chair and went to the counter. And told himself to chill out. The failed phone call to Lorraine, the whole reason he was here, had flared up the itchy tension again, and he was venting frustration with sour thoughts about the locals.
In front of him was a guy in oily coveralls who was waiting for Sandwich Jenny to wrap four baguettes in foil. Liam cocked an ear to some of the conversation around him, seeking a titbit about the film crew Lorraine had allied with. Nothing doing, although it was hard to net anything other than the giddy newbies discussing walking trails. But his interest piqued when he heard the guy in coveralls speak.
‘Didn’t my dad tell you to use cake domes on the cakes?’
The cakes on a shelf were uncovered. Sandwich Jenny looked quite horrified as she blurted an explanation about a delayed delivery. Coveralls Man shook his head. Jenny tried to lighten the mood, or change the subject, by asking if the young man’s father was okay this morning.
In a mirror at the back, Bennet saw the young man’s face. Under the left eye was a large mole, which had puckered the skin around it and caused the lower lid to droop. Otherwise, a pretty handsome chap. Bennet said, ‘Did you find your cat?’
The young man turned. ‘You what? Me?’
‘You lost your cat. And you thought he was in someone’s car.’
Puzzlement creased the young man’s face. Bennet smiled. ‘You were looking in cars for a cat. Or so you said.’
That did it: instant realisation. ‘You’re the detective man. You had a wife here.’
‘That’s me, although she wasn’t my wife. You’re Lucas Turner. You were about ten, right?’ Joe’s age. And, like Joe, motherless at that stage, albeit to cancer a couple of years before.
‘Yeah. You thought I was trying to steal a car.’
Indeed he had been. Lucas Turner had been a known local tearaway back then, but he was also the son of a local councillor hotshot, so no one dared do anything about it. Given the cake-dome lark Bennet had just witnessed, that hadn’t changed. Bennet had spotted him trying car-door handles and warned him. As the kid had been walking away, he’d called Bennet a tosspot. It would have been nice to have a little chat about that old event, but… chill, Liam, chill.
‘So, given the outfit, you’re still into cars. Where do you work?’
‘Showroom up the road. I run the workshop. So what you doing back here? Business?’
‘Pleasure. That old girlfriend of mine and some friends came up to film a documentary about a crime way back. I was hoping to find them.’
‘Yeah, the missing person? I was ten when she went. She was my friend. You’re reopening the case?’
‘I’m not here about the missing girl. That’s a Derbyshire police thing. I’m South Yorkshire. Any clues where the film crew are?’
‘What they done?’
‘You mean a crime? Nothing. Like I said, I know them. Got a message to pass on. So, any clue?’
‘I heard they were hanging around. That’s about it. Never saw them. I think they left.’
Jenny gave him his food and started to ring it in the till, but Lucas slapped Bennet’s arm, said, ‘Good to see you again,’ and left. Quick. No payment for the sandwiches.
‘Help ya, love?’
Bennet turned back to Sandwich Jenny. ‘Yeah, four sandwiches if they’re free, I guess.’
‘Oh that, no, that’s… they’re prepaid.’ She cancelled the unpaid items off the till and gave him a smile. This close, he could see that her deep tan and heavy make-up were camouflage. She was closer to forty than twenty. He ordered a cheese cob and she set to work on it.
He glanced out of the window and was surprised to see Lucas staring at him. The kid turned and left the moment he was spotted.
‘You want ketchup on this, love?’
Ketchup on cheese? ‘No.’
Bennet watched Lucas scuttle across the green, fast. The young man had become uncomfortable the moment he knew he was in the presence of a police officer. Might be worth tossing his name into the Police National Computer to see if he had a record. Or paying the car showroom a visit, just in case it was a mammoth chop shop.
‘Visiting someone, love?’
She obviously hadn’t overheard his conversation with Lucas. ‘I’m here looking for a film crew. Four of them, I think. At least one was a woman, a former resident here called Lorraine Cross. Used to be Lorraine Taylor. Before your time though.’
Jenny didn’t look up from the cheese she was cutting. ‘I don’t recall. I just mind my shop and don’t catch much news.’
Interesting. She didn’t seem the least bit interested in why a film crew would visit this little backwater. So he told her: missing girl, ten years ago.
‘Oh, I know, terrible thing,’ she said, buttering his cob. Still no eye contact. ‘Before my time, like you say.’
‘You didn’t see the crew? They didn’t come in to get an interview or anything?’
‘No, they didn’t come in here. And they wouldn’t get much luck. What that poor woman went through. She deserves peace and quiet, not to have that terrible day dragged up again.’
‘The mother? Is that who you mean?’
‘Yes. We look after her. It’s only right. You should stay away from her. She won’t want to do any interviews.’
‘Do you think the film crew might have contacted her? Where does she live?’
Behind him, a voice said, ‘I wouldn’t worry about where she lives, pal. Your people have been and gone. That’s tourists for ya.’
Liam saw a skinny man in a thick woollen jumper and old jeans, sitting at a corner table with a tea and a newspaper and a dog curled under his chair. His was the only seat at that table, as if he owned it. He looked like he belonged right there, like a piece of the décor. He even had his own cup, given the tatty state of it, and was probably there come early morning or late evening, Christmas or Easter, rain or shine.
Liam took his wrapped cheese sandwich to the man’s table. There were no free chairs within reach and he wasn’t going to carry one across the room, so he squatted opposite the old guy.
‘You remember them? The film crew? They were here.’
‘Yep. Know all the Lopers in town, if you get my meaning. Upped and offed. You should do the same.’
Hallelujah. Lopers, that
was the nickname for strangers that had eluded him. Short for interlopers, probably. ‘By upped and offed, you mean they left?’
‘Been and gone. Like the woman there said, that lass lost her kid and she needs to be left alone. We don’t like reporters here and we don’t want your sort hassling her.’
‘Well, I’m not here to hassle her. And I’m not part of a film crew or a reporter. I’m a police officer.’
The old man looked surprised. ‘I don’t know anything about your film crew. Except they were Lopers sticking their noses into business they have no mind to. I mind my business. Sure you’re not here about that missing person all those years ago? I was home with the wife when it happened. That girl will be married to some rich bloke in Spain or something by now. But you coppers never did believe she ran off. It’s not respectful to come asking questions about that out of the blue.’
A strange claim. ‘I’m not here about the missing girl. I’m South Yorkshire Police, not Derbyshire. My interest is just the film crew, about an entirely different matter. They came here on Sunday, right?’
Dog Man picked up a slice of Lampton rock from the saucer and popped it into his mouth. He sipped his tea, which had been sitting so long it had a membrane on the surface. He had to wipe the thin skin off his lips. ‘So I heard. Been and gone. Left Monday. Probably because they got no help. Like I said, tricky business, that missing person, and that poor lass’s mother deserves her peace and quiet. We look after our own here.’
A quick glance round told Bennet many eyes had gone back to their business. But not all. At one table, a set of eyes looked quickly away when he met them; at another, someone caught staring made no such cheap move and gave Liam a nod instead.
‘Why are the police after them? Criminals?’ Dog Man said. Liam turned his attention back to the man and lowered his voice.
‘It’s not actually police business. More a personal thing. I knew one of them. How did you know they were a film crew? Did you meet them? Did they say?’
‘They came into the Lion Sunday night. Mouthy sorts, them out-of-towners. They must have said they were filmers, or someone else blabbed it. Can’t remember how I know. But that can happen. Can’t remember how I know JFK got shot. So, what have they done? They on the run? Bank robbery or something?’
‘Personal issue, remember? Do you mean The Red Lion pub? Run by the Argyles?’
‘Only pub we got. And the Argyles are gone.’
‘They left?’
‘Can’t say. We don’t talk about it. Listen, friend, we’re in a time-lapse or something with these questions and answers. You going to tell me what the police want with these Lopers?’
Again the old man had ignored Bennet’s claim that his interest in the film crew wasn’t professional. He had no mind to repeat it. ‘They might have information about a code 99. I can’t tell you more than that. It would be very helpful if you could tell me anything else. Did they go to visit the mother? Is there somewhere they might be filming, like an old crime scene? Did they go home? Maybe you overhead someone, as you say, blab.’
Dog Man shook his head, and then he focused on his newspaper. End of chat, apparently. Liam stood to leave. He put his cheese sandwich in his coat pocket, grabbed a piece of Lampton rock, and headed for the door. Eyes watched, of course. In the open doorway, he turned to the room.
‘You can all chat with that fellow with the dog now. He’ll tell you everything I said.’
13
He had to pass the Red Lion pub to get to the car park, but he stopped outside. If the pub had been elsewhere in the village, he would have gotten his car and left this place for good. But it wasn’t. It was right there, just feet away. The film crew had visited the Lion on Sunday night, so the staff might have a clue where they were, if still in the village. That information could be his within minutes, and it would be sheer laziness not to pop in and satisfy his curiosity. The publicans, the Argyles, were an old couple he’d always gotten on with, and they wouldn’t be so reluctant to talk to him.
Curiosity? Who was he lying to? Joe expected to meet his mother, and damn if Bennet was going to let her just cast the boy aside without explanation. He wanted to have it out with her. She might be able to ignore words on a screen, but not his face in front of hers. It was why he’d made the journey and he wasn’t about to give up so easily.
Although a timetable on the wall said the Lion was closed, the thick wooden double doors were wide open. Liam walked into the lounge. A man was sitting at a table, cleaning pool balls. He didn’t know the face. The Argyles had a son Liam had never seen, but that guy had lost an arm, and this guy had both. On one wall was a large frame with four headshots, including the man himself: Tom Jonesy. The others on the picture were Erica Jonesy, probably his wife, and a couple of young females. One had a giant reddish-yellow birthmark across her lower cheek and mouth that looked like someone had lobbed a slice of pizza at her. Liam didn’t recognise any of them. The young females had probably been schoolkids when Lorraine lived here.
Jonesy caught sight of his visitor in the doorway. ‘Hey, pal. Too early. Pool league tonight, if you want to come back then. Pints a pound, 7 till 9.’
Liam walked closer. ‘I saw. Sorry to intrude, sir. Are you the new publican? What happened to the Argyles?’
Jonesy spat on the black ball and started towelling it dry. ‘Been here five months. Not from round here, then, you? Not if you don’t know about the Argyles. Not my place to tell tales. Too late if you’re here for them.’
‘Did they move or get another pub somewhere, or something?’
‘Or something,’ the guy said, a little defiantly. ‘That’s a lot of questions. We’re not open, I said. Come back tonight.’
‘I’m really sorry to interrupt, but I’m looking for some people. I hear they were in here two nights ago. A small film crew. Mouthy sorts, apparently.’
‘Oh, them Lopers. Yeah, Sunday, they were here. I heard about their big mouths.’
The guy seemed more willing to talk now, so Liam approached and sat at the same table. ‘You heard they were here? You weren’t here that night?’
Jonesy took his box of clean balls to the pool table, where he tipped them loudly onto the baize. ‘Not at weekends. We go to the grandparents. Wife’s, not mine. Vicky over there was on duty.’ He nodded at the picture of four headshots. Vicky: birthmark girl. Jonesy started sweeping the balls into the pockets.
Liam cast his eyes around. His detective habit had already looked for and found a CCTV camera aimed down from above the entrance. But reviewing the footage from Sunday night, if it still existed, seemed like too much trouble for little extra information. ‘They probably asked some questions in here. They were making a documentary about an old crime.’
‘The missing person thing from years ago? They were here for that? A documentary? I wouldn’t have thought anyone cared anymore. Hardly a world-famous thing. They didn’t ask me anything. Wasn’t here. Wasn’t living here when she went missing, either. Mind you, don’t go asking questions all over about that thing, and stay away from that girl’s mum. Protective people here, and they won’t like reporters sticking their noses in.’
Jonesy was the second man to effectively give him a warning. ‘I’m not a reporter. I’m a police officer, but I’m not here about the missing girl. So have you got any idea where the film crew are? Are they still in the village?’
‘No. Look, they were just customers, and I wasn’t here. If they’d lugged in video cameras and stuff, I’d have probably heard about it. I guess they just wanted to sample my great ale. That’s all I know.’
Jonesy headed behind the bar and started cleaning a mirror. Like Dog Man’s raising of a newspaper, it said this nice little chat was over. Liam considered hauling his warrant card, which always had the ability to loosen tongues, but figured Jonesy was the sort who’d definitely make a complaint. Informing this guy he was a policeman wasn’t morally incorrect, but giving the impression he was on official business was another mat
ter. There was a code of ethics to think about. He hated that he’d even considered such action. He left the wallet in his pocket and aimed for the door.
‘Hey,’ Jonesy called. In the doorway, Liam turned to him. ‘Your turn. So why do the police want them? Rob a bank or something?’
‘Or something,’ Liam said as he stepped out.
14
As Bennet approached the alleyway between the pub and the bank, a man exited it right into his path.
‘My apologies,’ the man said as he moved past. Liam turned to watch him go. He was tall, lithe, grey-haired and handsome in a Paul Newman sort of way, and Bennet recognised him. Richard Turner, father of the mechanic in the sandwich shop. Parish councillor and veterinary surgeon, with a thriving practice on the outskirts of the village. And cake-dome fan. Way back, it had been widely known that the eligible bachelor slept with married women from the village and, like his son’s troublemaking, it was something nobody complained about, not even slighted husbands. Ten years ago, the councillor had had a deity-like standing in the village and he reeked of it today.
Lorraine hadn’t much liked Turner because of his sexual conquests, but Bennet hadn’t cared about that. In fact, he’d respected the man because he was a single father, little knowing he’d become one himself soon afterwards. Now, the feeling was much the same. Lucas Turner had grown into a worthwhile adult, it seemed; Bennet only had hope his own son would prosper.
As he walked away, Turner cast his eyes back at Liam, but quickly averted his gaze upon realising he was being watched. Liam shook his head – what, did Lopers have a certain smell or something? He couldn’t wait to get out of this place.
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