by M K Farrar
Donna glanced around awkwardly at his raised voice. “Ryan, please. Don’t get upset. I don’t want you to do anything, I just wanted you to know. I thought you had a right.”
“But...but...” He was spluttering now. “He left you because you have cancer?” He was repeating himself, but he just couldn’t get it to sink in. What kind of son of a bitch did that to someone he was supposed to care about?
“He said it wasn’t the cancer. I guess he’d hoped that we’d start a family one day, and with me having a hysterectomy...”
“So? You could have discussed adoption, or a surrogate?”
“Maybe, but it wasn’t how he’d envisioned his life going. It’ll be a while before I’m completely well, and it’s not as though either of us were getting any younger. Plus, he was worried that the cancer would come back and then if we had gone down any of the other routes, he’d be stuck looking after a child on his own.”
Ryan shook his head. “Jesus Christ. I always knew he was a dick.”
She smiled sadly. “Guess you proved me right on that one.”
He reached out and took her hand. “I’m so sorry, Donna. You know I’d never have wished this on you, don’t you? I mean, I never liked him, but I knew you did, and that was all that mattered. I did want you to have a happy life with someone.”
“And I’m sure I still will. Just not that someone. And not for a while yet.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help,” he offered. “I know I’m not the most sympathetic of people, but I can try.”
“Thanks. My mother and sister are both helping out as well.”
“I hope your sister offered to kick Tony the Twat in the balls.”
She gave a small laugh. “He’s not Mr Investment Banker anymore then?”
“He’s always been Tony the Twat in my mind, but this is the first time I’ve been able to say it out loud to you.”
Her smile widened. “I always figured that was the case.”
“But seriously, if there is anything I can do, just shout.”
“Thanks, Ryan. I appreciate that. I know things haven’t been easy between us...”
He shrugged. “We have history, and we were always friends, even through everything.”
His phone rang, and he glanced down at it. “Shit, sorry.” It was one of his DCs, but he swiped to send the call to answerphone.
“It’s okay,” Donna said, “you have to go.”
“Sorry,” he apologised again.
“Big case,” she said for him. She knew how this went. They’d been married for years.
He put some money on the table. “Stay in touch. Let me know how you get on.”
“I will. Thanks, Ryan.”
He nodded, picked up his jacket, and squeezed her shoulder as he passed.
Shit, cancer. Life had been cruel to them both, but giving Donna this extra blow just felt so unfair. He hoped for both their sakes that he didn’t run into Tony anytime soon. His thoughts jumped to all the ways he could take revenge on the other man—drugs planted in his car, perhaps—but he forced the idea from his mind. It wouldn’t be what Donna would want, and he wasn’t that kind of policeman either. As tempting as it might be, he needed to stay on the right side of the law.
Chapter Seventeen
Clara dished out a portion of the tomato pasta onto a plate and forced herself to give the woman she was serving a smile with her food. The last thing she felt like doing today was smiling. She’d slept horribly—her sleep plagued with nightmares. They were the sort of fractured, sexual dreams that left her exhausted and sickened by how her brain worked when it was left unguarded. Her father had been in the dreams, and even though he’d died many years ago, she found herself missing him afresh. Her loneliness was ingrained deep inside her, and even being around lots of people, like she was right now, didn’t change that.
The woman she’d served moved on, and she repeated the process with the older man who was next in line. She was working on autopilot today.
Somehow, she sensed the weight of another person’s gaze on her from farther down the queue. Her line of sight flicked over the heads of the others waiting until she locked with a set of blue-grey eyes.
A man was staring at her. Young, mid-twenties, she’d guess. Younger than her, perhaps, but not by much. What was he looking at her like that for?
She yanked her focus back to the food and her job, and wished her cheeks weren’t burning. She didn’t trust the reason men looked at her. It wasn’t like when she imagined other women caught men eyeing them up. With her height and stooped shoulders, she never drew a man’s gaze in that way. She never trusted what they wanted. Oh, she wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t some hapless virgin either. She had needs, just like everyone else, and she had picked up men in the past, but she never actually believed they liked her. It was a silent deal between them. They went home with her because they hadn’t been able to pick up anyone better, and she only took them home because she was happy to have someone with her, even if it was just for a short while.
The man staring at her had left her flustered, however, and now she was consciously aware of his position in the queue. Each person she served brought him one person closer. Her heart fluttered, and fresh heat rose to her cheeks. Part of her wanted to put her head down even further and not even acknowledge him, but she’d also been raised to be a polite person, and she wasn’t going to do that. She might have even been overthinking the staring. Perhaps he hadn’t been after all, or someone over her shoulder had caught his eye.
The man finally reached the first in the line and came to a halt in front of her.
Clara pasted a smile to her face. “Pasta?”
“Yes, please.”
He smiled back, and she noted that he was actually an attractive man. Unlike many of the homeless people, his teeth appeared to be white and straight, and his eyes weren’t glazed from drug use, and he didn’t stink of booze. She knew not all homeless people fell into those categories, but many of the ones who visited the soup kitchen did. He had been in a fight recently. Though the lower half of his face was hidden by beard growth, she could see his lip had been split and the blue-and-green splodge of a bruise marked his cheekbone.
“Umm, this is going to sound strange,” the man said, “but I’m sure I know you from somewhere.”
So that’s why he was staring. He thought he recognised her. She didn’t know him, though. This was the first time he’d been in here.
She kept her head down so as not to catch his eye. “I doubt it. I don’t get around much.”
“Maybe you just remind me of someone then.”
She nodded. “Yes, maybe that’s it.”
Clara spooned the pasta onto the plate and slid it onto the man’s tray. “Enjoy your meal.”
“I will, thank you.”
The man moved on to collect his drink and pudding, and then paused long enough to find somewhere to sit.
“Excuse me? Can I get something to eat?”
The voice jolted her back to the present, and she realised she’d been the one who’d been staring now.
Clara turned her attention back to the person who’d been next in line and fixed that smile back on her face.
“Sorry. Pasta?”
Chapter Eighteen
Joe took his tray of food and sat at one of the tables. A couple of the men jerked their chins at him in a welcome, but everyone was too busy eating to make much in the way of conversation. Joe tore at his bread roll and took a bite, not really interested in his meal. He kept his gaze down, fiercely conscious of the tall woman who’d been serving. Her presence in the hall was like a beacon, drawing him, making everyone else feel somehow fainter and less real.
It wasn’t her; he was sure of it. Admittedly, it had been many years since he’d seen her in person, and while he was sure she’d have changed, she certainly wouldn’t have changed that much. The woman was far too tall and broad. But there had been something about her, something that had twanged his
insides like a harpist at a string. A spark, he guessed the romance novelists called it. But with that spark had come a rush of guilt. Had she spotted him and instantly picked him out for what he really was—a phoney? Or had it simply been that she’d noticed his bruised cheek and split lip and had felt sorry for him?
He risked glancing up and immediately caught her eye again. He snapped his head back down and balled his hands into fists. Why had she been watching him?
He didn’t think he could eat, but not eating would only draw more attention his way.
The man beside him said something, but Joe didn’t hear. “What?”
“I said the food is good.” He gestured at Joe’s plate. “You gonna eat all yours?”
Joe glanced down at his barely touched food and picked up the plate and scraped half off it onto the other man’s.
“Cheers, mate,” the man said with a grin, and got busy chowing down on his new portion.
Joe forced himself to finish what was left. If he couldn’t risk going home, it might be the last meal he had that day. If he hung around outside a McDonald’s or a Greggs bakery, someone might be kind enough to buy him a burger or a coffee, but he wouldn’t expect much more than that. He had money in his bank account, but he couldn’t risk being spotted going into a shop and using a bank card to pay for a meal or standing at a cashpoint to withdraw money. It wasn’t only the other homeless he was wary of, it was the general population as well. No one would tolerate a fake beggar, and if someone called him out in front of the others, his cover would be blown.
He let out a sigh. Maybe it was time he brought all this to an end. He’d moved from city to city, keeping his ear to the ground, and moving once more if he got the word. Things had gone wrong on a couple of occasions before—once in Birmingham, and another time in Sheffield—and it hadn’t been pretty. Even when he’d tried to give an explanation, they hadn’t wanted to listen. He’d lost all his contacts then and had been forced to move on and start from scratch, aware that he could well have lost her trace.
His sister, Kerry, had run away from home when she was only fifteen. She’d clashed with their conservative mother, who had expected her to act like a young lady and dress as such, forcing unfashionable clothes on her, controlling everywhere she went and who she was with. Their mother disapproved of all her friends and refused to let them into the house. Kerry had rebelled, at first in innocent ways, such as sneaking out different clothes in her bag, or telling fibs about attending after school clubs when she was hanging out in the park with her friends, but it quickly progressed.
Within months, she’d stopped even bothering to hide the clothes and would come home smelling of cigarettes and occasionally alcohol. Their mother had gone crazy, screaming at her and trying to ground her, but Kerry would only laugh and tell their mother to make her. They’d even come to physical blows on occasions. It had been horrifying to watch. Kerry was always good to Joe, though, bringing him home illicit chocolate bars or fizzy drinks their mother never allowed in the house, sneaking them into his room and putting her finger over her lips to indicate to him to be quiet. She’d made him feel like he was a part of things, and they’d giggled together.
The final blow landed when their mother threw all of his sister’s belongings out of the bedroom window and told her that if she couldn’t live by her rules, she couldn’t live here at all. She’d even gone as far as changing the locks on the front door. Kerry had gathered what belongings she could in her arms and had yelled ‘fine’ and stormed off down the road.
That had been the last time either of them had seen her. Their mother died shortly after Joe turned twenty-three, having never reconciled with her daughter. Joe had been two years Kerry’s junior, and he’d been searching for her ever since. But he’d quickly discovered that just wandering around cities, trying to look into the faces of those sleeping rough hadn’t been enough. There were covert places where they secreted themselves away to sleep, and even when they were out in public, they often slept with sleeping bags covering their faces. At first, he’d tried poking them awake, holding out a photograph and asking if they’d seen her, but he never got any straight answers. Some would say they had but would only tell him where if he gave them money or bought them booze. He didn’t mind giving them money or buying things for them, but then it happened so often he came to realise they were making up the sightings simply because he had something they wanted. He had no idea if anything anyone told him was true.
That was when he’d realised they’d only trust him if he was one of them. Then he could move among them, accepted, and learn where the popular parts of the city were for them to sleep or hang out. He could study faces, and listen to conversations, and ask questions without being taken for a ride.
It hadn’t been easy, though, and experiences like the previous night weren’t uncommon. There had been many times where he’d almost given up and run back home.
Joe finished eating and cleared away his tray and left the hall, stepping back out into the bright sunshine. He couldn’t get the woman out of his mind. It had been many years since he’d seen his sister, and the photographs were old, but he was sure it wasn’t her. Why then was he filled with a sudden fascination to find out more about her?
He discovered he didn’t want to walk back down the road, into the city centre. Instead, he crossed over and lurked around, keeping his head down and his hands in his pockets, and his gaze on the door of the hall. People trickled out, one after the other, but none were her. Finally, she emerged from the alley beside the building. He was relieved to see she was alone. The thought startled him. Why was he glad of that? What was he planning?
It was better not to think too deeply on it, he found. Better to let his instincts guide him.
She turned left and walked down the street. Joe crossed the road and slotted in a short distance behind her. There were plenty of other people around, enough for him to get lost in and go unnoticed. Going unnoticed had become his speciality. She was easy to follow as well, her height meaning he was able to spot her over other people’s heads. She did her best to disguise it, though, staying stooped, her head sunken between her shoulders. He wanted to tell her to lift her chin and put her shoulders back and be proud of the woman she was. He didn’t know why her self-consciousness saddened him, but it did.
Up ahead, she left the high street and turned onto one of the side roads. She was out of view now, and he picked up his pace, hurrying to catch up. What if he followed and she wasn’t there? The anxiety was stupid—if she worked at the soup kitchen, she’d most likely be back there tomorrow, and he’d see her again then—but for some reason he was suddenly scared that if he lost sight of her, he’d never see her again.
He turned the corner and exhaled a breath, his shoulders slumping. She strode on ahead of him, clearly in view. He passed a couple of industrial bins plastered in posters advertising local bands and special massages, and the stink that rose off them in the afternoon sun had him twisting his face away. It reminded him of something, a memory rising sharp and jagged inside him, but he pushed it back down again. He’d come across plenty of unpleasant things over the past year, he didn’t need to remember it all.
She took the next left and once more vanished from view. These were residential streets now, row after row of identical terraced houses, not unlike the flat he’d rented on a short-term basis. The residents dumped all manner of belongings out the front of the properties, sofas, fridges. It was like a kind of recycling—put out what you don’t want, and soon enough someone would decide it was exactly what they’d been looking for and take it away again.
The woman stopped outside one of the houses. From the tall doorbell with the numerous different names, it was clear to see the place had been divided into as many flats as possible. A greedy landlord trying to milk what he could from it.
Did she live alone? Was she married? He should have just plucked up the courage to speak to her at the soup kitchen, and maybe he’d have some idea of these thi
ngs now—he might even know her name. In a past life, he’d have approached a woman confidently, would have offered to buy her a drink or take her out for dinner. Now, he was hugely conscious of his appearance, his dirty clothes and filthy nails. She’d look at him and think he was one of them, just as was supposed to happen, and he could hardly tell her that he wasn’t. Not that he hadn’t anything else to offer. He was living on the inheritance from the house sale after his mother’s death, telling himself it was what his mother would have wanted, to use that money to reunite the family. He almost laughed. What family? They’d hardly even been one when she’d been alive. It wasn’t as though his living costs were exactly expensive either. Other than the rent and bills of whatever place he was renting in whatever city he’d ended up in, he hardly spent anything on living.
She put her key in the lock and paused, then glanced over her shoulder in his direction. He didn’t falter and kept walking, hoping from this distance that he’d look just like any other man in the city.
Chapter Nineteen
Ryan was buried in work, looking back over the original case files of both Luke Braun and Jacob Tater. He was sure they were missing something more substantial than drugs or lifestyle choices that linked the three men.
Mindful of Ellie Braun’s claims that her missing person’s report hadn’t been taken seriously, he studied the procedures that had been followed. A PC Zindell had been the officer in charge of Luke Braun’s missing person’s case. Initially, work had been done to identify Luke’s friends’ and family’s addresses, and anywhere he possibly might have gone, then hospitals were checked. An analysis of the missing person’s phone had been ordered, then the case was raised with Bristol Investigation, the CID department, but local police teams continued the search. Unfortunately, by the time all of this was happening, Luke had already been missing for four days, but that couldn’t be pinned on the police. As far as Ryan could see, everything had been done correctly. The location of the phone had never been found.