The one crumb of comfort was the fact that his father would not be around for much longer. On his arrival from Scotland, Ashley had been pleasantly surprised to see the old man looking so frail, the shake in his liver-spotted hands, the purple veins that spread out from his nose and onto his cheeks and the shortness of breath. Slowly but surely whisky and old age was taking its toll.
As far as he was concerned, the day when his father finally keeled over could not come soon enough. He just hoped that he was there when it happened; he wanted to be able to look down into that bloated face and smile.
With this image in mind, Ashley walked to the house with a new spring in his step.
21
Michael bounced Kyle Connelly's head off the metal shutters.
'What the fuck do you mean he did a runner?'
Connelly tried in vain to pull away, but Michael had his hand twisted in the collar of Kyle's jacket, Connelly was going nowhere.
'Look, Mickey, I've already told you it was nowt to do with me.'
Michael gave him a shake and spat onto the back of Connelly's shaven head. 'Lying cunt!'
'I'm not, mate, why would I do something like that?'
Michael dragged Connelly around and pushed his face in close. 'Did you give him anything?'
'What do you mean?' Connelly looked baffled, as if the thought of actually giving anything to anybody was an alien concept.
Michael drew his fist back and Connelly cringed back in anticipation.
'Did you give our Billy any fucking smack?'
Connelly looked shocked as if he would never do a nasty thing like taking drugs.
'Honestly, Mickey, we gave him nothing,' he pleaded.
'So, why the fuck did he run off?' Michael jabbed a finger into Kyle's chest. 'And why didn't you go and find him?'
'We looked, mate, honest, but it was pitch-black. I mean, we could see fuck all.'
'OK, so you looked for him.' Connelly nodded his head rapidly. 'Though that still doesn't explain why he was running in the first place does it?' Michael cocked his fist back, Connelly panicked, he had seen Michael Jones hit people before and when it was someone else who was taking a hammering Kyle had always found the process highly amusing, but now the fist was aiming his way he suddenly lost his sense of humour. 'It was Shaun!' Connelly virtually screamed.
Michael relaxed his grip a fraction. 'Miller?'
'Yeah, Billy laughed at him when he fell on his arse, so he set off after him.'
When Michael stepped back, Kyle felt the tension drain away. Blowing out through pursed lips, he heaved a sigh of relief. Miller was a mate, but he didn't intend taking a beating on his behalf.
Kyle didn't see the fist coming – though he felt his nose explode well enough. As he slid to the floor the metal shutters at his back rattled in the frame. He felt Michael lash out again, catching him a fleeting blow on the top of his head. The blood sliding from his nose coated his lips and teeth, Kyle tried to spit it out, but the blood merely frothed from his mouth like a baby blowing bubbles.
Michael turned and walked away, two small boys who had been playing football against the wall looked wide-eyed at him as he strode past.
He crossed the road, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he'd told Billy he shouldn't hang around with the likes of Connelly and Miller, in Michael's opinion they were all twats. Although Billy had a stubborn streak and refused to listen.
Michael sighed, when he was Billy's age he'd been the same, always running with the gangs, trying to impress. Gradually he'd realised they were using him to do all the things that they couldn't be bothered with.
Since starting college all that had changed, his tutor had told him he had a natural flair for computers and with this newfound knowledge he was starting to turn his life around. For the first time he could see a future that didn't entail signing on the dole and getting into trouble with the 'filth'.
Five minutes later, he pushed open the front door of his home and walked into the living room. It felt strange, but he had never realised until now how much the place stank, the odour of stale cigarette smoke and fried food laced the air. It smelt more like the inside of a burger van, rather than someone's home.
As usual, his mother was sprawled on the sofa with a cigarette clamped between her lips, the television flickering in the corner.
Sarah shifted her bulk and peered at her son with bleary, disinterested eyes.
'You got that money off our Billy yet?'
Michael looked at her, the shirt stretched over her lumpy chest, full of old food stains, her hair looked as if she hadn't brushed it in days.
'No, I haven't. In fact, nobody knows where he is.'
'Little sod, just wait till I get my hands on him,' she took a huge pull on the cigarette. 'While you're there stick the kettle on and make me a brew.'
The audience on the television were clapping and cheering as a scrawny man stormed from the stage. Michael watched, convinced that the disappearing figure reminded him of someone. Then he realized that it could have been anyone from the estate. The streets were full of men who looked exactly like him. Men who didn't give a toss about their kids, who only concerned themselves with where the next drink or drug was coming from.
The camera cut back to the stage, where an overweight woman sat lodged into a chair that was too small for her. She had a damp tissue clutched to her cheek, her hair hung lank and unwashed across a hard-looking face.
'Poor cow.' Sarah Jones stubbed out the cigarette before immediately lighting another.
Michael felt a sudden urge to be out of the house, away from these streets where no one gave a fuck about anyone apart from themselves. His mother turned her head and looked at Michael with a quizzical expression on her sour face.
'Have you put that kettle on yet?'
Without uttering a word, Michael turned and walked from the house.
22
According to Harper, forensics were on their way, but due to an accident on the ring road involving, of all things, an ice-cream van, they had been held up.
Lasser could smell the wild flowers that grew in abundance in the shade of the trees. Maybe he should come here more often, clear his head, get a bit of exercise, instead of sitting on his arse in a house that no longer felt like any kind of home. 'And you say you found him at around six o'clock, Mr Crombey, is that about right?' Lasser asked.
Norman Crombey nodded, he felt a little calmer now that the police had arrived, a little more in control. When he first came across the body, he hadn't known what to do; the slumped figure had seemed so out of place amongst the wild flowers.
'That's right, officer, I thought while it was such a nice morning I'd get some fresh air. Although, I never expected to come across something like this,' he risked a glance towards the body and Lasser saw the man shudder and then quickly turn away.
'I can believe that,' he replied. 'And you're sure you haven't touched anything?'
'Good God, I couldn't, I mean, I wouldn't.' Norman looked mortified at the mere suggestion.
Harper was standing guard over the corpse, he waved her over. When she arrived, he told her to take a statement off Mr Crombey before heading over to the body.
Crouching onto his haunches Lasser heaved the corpse onto its back. The face looked grey and mottled as though badly bruised, apart from the nose, which seemed vivid by comparison. It looked as if the old guy had been suffering from a heavy cold, though Lasser knew it was simply where the blood had pooled overnight.
Poor sod, there were obviously worse ways to die but there was something desolate about being alone when you snuffed it. Still, it looked like it had been quick. One minute you're out enjoying a nice stroll and then 'bam', you're sprawled in the damp grass twitching out your last few minutes of life.
He stood and looked around; the old house was visible through a gap in the trees, a couple of police cars and a white van were still in evidence, parked in the field at the front of the property.
Turning his at
tention back to the body he patted his way around the coat then unzipped one of the pockets of the jacket before pulling out a small wallet, one hundred percent genuine leather stamped onto the front. Thomas Kitts's bus pass, complete with a passport-size photo showing the deceased frowning at the camera. At least they had identification; he studied the image then looked down at the dead man. It was surprising how quickly death altered a person. There was no mistaking the man's identity but spending a night face down in the wet grass had left Kitts looking like someone who'd fallen asleep in the bath, his hands and face grey and wrinkled.
Lasser frowned and looked back to where Harper and Crombey were standing. The PC was busy taking notes in her little black book. His eyes followed the trail that led from where they were standing back to the body. Then from where the corpse lay, another trampled path headed down the hillside towards the edge of the trees. Lasser headed down the trail. It appeared Kitts had been standing at the edge of the trees, probably looking down the hillside to see what was going on at the old house. He had stopped at the end of the flattened grass, from here, Kitts would have had a grandstand view of the proceedings.
He could almost see him, a vaporous image watching the comings and goings as the place began to fill with coppers. The old man would have stood here storing it all away for future use; it would be something to tell the missus or his mates in the pub.
'Oh, I was there when they found those body parts.'
Then the sudden pains in the chest, Kitts managing to stagger back up the hillside but then the nagging pain had blossomed, consuming everything else. Lasser pulled out a cigarette and frowned, if Kitts had been standing in this spot when he began to feel unwell then why try to climb back up the hill, surely it would have made more sense to head towards the house, towards help…
'Excuse me, sir.'
Lasser turned, while he'd been deep in thought, Harper had somehow managed to sneak up behind him. 'What is it, Harper?'
'Well, sir, apparently Mr and Mrs Kitts have been staying the weekend in a small caravan not far from here.'
'And?'
'According to dispatch his wife is still there.'
Lasser sighed. 'You're saying that the woman hasn't been informed about finding the body of her husband?'
'That's right, sir.'
He could smell the scent Harper was wearing, sweet, and heavy. She'd probably gone overboard with the perfume bottle trying to get rid of the stench from the septic tank.
'Well, someone's going to have to tell the unfortunate woman, aren't they?'
She looked at the ground. 'Yes, sir.'
He let her stew for a moment as he looked up the hill towards were Kitts lay staring up at the trees with milky, unseeing eyes.
Crombey was talking urgently on his mobile, now the man was over the initial shock he was probably telling his wife about the discovery he had made. Harper shuffled her feet in the grass and Lasser made a decision.
'It's OK, Cathy; I'll get someone else to do it.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'But you'll have to stay here, at least until the forensic team arrive.'
'No problem,' she answered, suddenly efficient again.
'I've got somewhere I need to be, so I'll catch up with you later.'
23
Something didn't feel right, her parents had agreed she could go with Patrick, as long as Grandad tagged along. At first, she'd been amazed that they had folded so easily. Now she was beginning to have her suspicions. It was the sort of trick they would pull, seemingly making concessions but there would be a clause attached somewhere. Despite her misgivings, Jenna couldn't quell the feeling of excitement as she waited for Patrick to arrive.
She'd made a few sandwiches and popped three bottles of ginger beer into her rucksack. She was busy raiding the cupboard where they kept the chocolate biscuits when her mum came in, carrying a basket laden with eggs.
'Is he here yet?' she asked.
Jenna thrust a handful of Kit Kats into the bag. 'Not yet.'
'When he gets here, I'd like a word before you disappear.'
'What about?'
Susan began to transfer the eggs from the basket into the large earthenware dish on the kitchen table. 'I just want to make sure he understands the situation that's all.'
'For God's sake, Mum, I think he's already aware of the situation, don't you?'
'That's as may be, but personally I don't want you wandering around these fields until they catch whoever's responsible for all this,' she sighed. 'Though as both your father and grandad have pointed out we can't keep you locked up forever.'
'Dad said that?' Jenna asked in surprise.
'Yes, he did.'
'Wow, cool.'
'Listen, your dad might be a farmer but that doesn't mean he lives in the dark ages.'
Jenna fastened the straps on the rucksack and hoisted it onto her shoulder. 'I didn't mean it like that. I just thought he'd be the one who objected the most.'
Susan frowned. 'So did I, but apparently your father thinks you'll be perfectly fine.'
'And I will be, Mum,' a bee flew in through the open window, the drone of its wings surprisingly loud, it bounced off the glass a couple of times before finding its way back outside.
'Just be careful and no wandering off on your own.'
'I might be young, Mother, but I'm not stupid.'
Susan sighed. 'Do I really sound that bad?'
Jenna smiled and nodded. 'I just don't want to be treated like a ten year old, that's all.'
Susan held up her hands. 'OK, you're right; I won't give Patrick the third degree.'
'Thank you.'
'Just keep your mobile on and expect regular calls from your overbearing mother.'
Both of them heard the sound of the car pulling up on the driveway and Jenna was out of the door without replying, swinging the rucksack onto her back as she went.
Susan resisted the urge to follow and instead took out her frustration on a bunch of carrots, lopping off the leaves with the big cutting knife.
Fossey was already out of the car. 'Good morning, Jenna, how are you?'
'I'm fine,' she beamed.
'Did you manage to get any sleep?'
'Eventually, after Hopkins had delivered his midnight tutorial on how we're all doomed unless we stay locked up in our bedrooms.'
'I had my suspicions he might pay you a visit, though to tell you the truth I thought he would have left it till this morning,' he paused, 'and your parents are OK about you coming with me?'
She looked up shielding her eyes from the sun. 'Well, yeah, though I did have to make one small concession.'
'I take it your grandad's coming with us?'
'How did you know that, has my mother spoken to you? Because if she has then I am going to have serious words with…'
'You can relax; it was just a lucky guess on my part.'
'A lucky guess, I…
'Morning, Ronnie.'
Jenna looked over her shoulder; her grandad was stomping towards them with the familiar cigarette stump on the go, blue, black smoke trailing over his shoulder.
'Morning, lad, looks like it's going to be another grand day.'
'Have you sorted the chickens, Grandad?' Jenna asked.
'Course I have. I'm ready for the off.'
'So, what's the best way to tackle this, take the car or on foot?' Fossey asked.
Ronnie grunted. 'If you want to see the needle house then we can drive up to the gardens and walk from there unless you fancy a six-mile hike across country.'
'Bit hot for that, we can take my car if that's all right?'
'Aye, lad, it's fine by me. The top road's a bit rough nowadays and the suspension on the Land Rover ain't what it used to be.'
Jenna looked at Fossey and raised a knowing eyebrow.
A minute later, they were driving away from the farm; Ronnie perched in the back stroking the small dog, Jenna in the front with the rucksack at her feet. The fields swept by as Fossey navigated
the narrow lanes.
Ronnie cleared his throat sounding like an old tractor on a very cold morning. 'So, have you heard owt else, lad?'
Fossey glanced in the rear-view mirror. 'I'm afraid not.'
Jenna slid the window down. 'I was telling Patrick what a pain Hopkins was.'
'Aye, I suppose he was a bit full of himself.'
'Grandad, he was obnoxious.'
Ronnie nodded his head in agreement. 'Fair enough, lass.'
Fossey slowed as they entered Rivington village, driving past a row of small cottages, roses growing in the tiny front gardens, picture perfect. Opposite was a large imposing public house, a multitude of mullioned windows absorbing the sunlight like a black hole, a pair of stocks positioned on a small patch of lawn in front of the pub. The sign, bearing the name the Radfield Arms, hung from a wooden structure that looked like a set of gallows.
'I take it it's the same Radfields that are on the disk.'
'Did you get to look at it?' Jenna asked.
'Only briefly, it was getting late and I wanted to be up early so I thought I'd save it till tonight.'
'They used to be minted at one time, owned practically everything around these parts.' Ronnie said with a sniff. 'Take the next left, son.'
Fossey indicated and turned onto a narrow lane, the trees on the verge crowding in tall and gnarly, until eventually it felt as if they were driving through a tunnel of shifting green and browns.
'I hope we don't meet anyone coming the opposite way.' Fossey said, they'd travelled half a mile and he hadn't seen one passing place.
Ronnie lifted the flat cap from his head and gave his scalp a quick scratch before plonking it back on. 'Nah, you should be all right, mind you, it's different at weekends – you get all sorts of mad buggers coming up here. Blokes on motorbikes flying around as if they have a death wish.'
The Needle House Page 9