Nineteen Seventy-Four (17 page)

“Shows does it?”

“Only when you spark up. Coppers give you it?”

“Maybe.”

“Give you a hard time, did they?”

“Could say that.”

“So get some brass out of it. Tell us what happened?”

Jimmy Ashworth pulled hard on his cigarette and then exhaled slowly into the orange glow of the fire.

“We were waiting for Gaffer, but he never come and it was raining so we were just arsing about, you know, drinking tea and stuff. I went over to Ditch to have a waz and that’s when I saw her.”

“Where was she?”

“In Di^ch, near top. It were like she’d rolled down or some thing. Then I saw them, them…”

The kettle in the kitchen began to whistle.

“Wings?”

“You know then?”

“Yeah.”

“Terry tell you?”

“Yeah.”

Jimmy Ashworth brushed at the hair in his face, singeing it slightly with the end of his cig. “Shit.”

The smell of burnt hair filled the room.

Jimmy Ashworth looked at me. “They was all caught up.”

“What did you do?” I said, turning as far as I could from the fire.

“Nothing. I just fucking froze. I couldn’t believe it was her. She looked so different, so white.”

Mrs Ashworth came back in with a teatray and set it down. “They were always saying what a lovely little thing she was,” she whispered.

My whole right arm felt like the blood had stopped moving in it. “And you were alone?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

The hand throbbed again, the bandage sweating and itching. “What about Terry Jones?”

“What about him?”

“Thanks,” I said, taking a cup from Mrs Ashworth. “When did Terry see her?”

“Well I went back to tell lads didn’t I?”

“When was this?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well you just said you froze, so I was wondering how long you were standing there before you told the others?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

“Jimmy, please. Not in this house,” his mother said quietly.

“But he’s same as bleeding coppers. I don’t know how long it was.”

“I’m sorry Jimmy,” I said, putting down the cup of tea on top of the fireplace so I could scratch at my bandage.

“I went back to shed and I was hoping Gaffer’d be there, but…”

“Mr Foster?”

“Nah, nah. Mr Foster’s Boss. Gaffer is Mr Marsh.”

“George Marsh. Very nice man,” said Mrs Ashworth.

Jimmy Ashworth looked at his mother and sighed and said, “Anyroad, Gaffer weren’t there, just Terry.”

“What about the others?”

“They’d pissed off in van somewhere.”

“So you told Terry Jones and he went back over to Devil’s Ditch with you?”

“No, no. I went and telephoned police. Once were enough for me.”

“So Terry went over there to have a look while you tele phoned the police?”

“Yeah.”

“By himself?”

“By his sen, that’s what I said.”

“And?”

Jimmy Ashworth looked off into the orange glow. “And police came and took us up Wood Street Nick.”

“They thought he’d done it, you know.” Mrs Ashworth was dabbing at her eyes.

“Mum shut up!”

“What about Terry Jones?” I said, my hand throbbing hard then stopping numb, sensing something missing.

“He’s no good that one.”

“Mum, will you bloody shut up!”

I was hot, numb, and tired.

I said, “The police questioned him?”

“Yeah.”

I was sweating and itching and desperate to get the fuck out of this oven.

“But they didn’t think he’d done it, did they?”

“I don’t know. Ask them.”

“Why did they think you did it, Jimmy?”

“Like I said, ask them.”

I stood up. “You’re a smart lad, Jimmy.”

He looked up, surprised. “How’s that?”

“Keeping it shut.”

“He’s a good boy, Mr Dunford. He didn’t do nothing,” Mrs Ashworth said, standing up.

“Thanks for letting me come in, Mrs Ashworth.”

“What are you going to write about him?” She was standing in the doorway, hands deep in her blue pockets.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” said Jimmy Ashworth, on his bare feet.

“Nothing,” I said, holding up my fat white right hand.

I drove slowly back through the black to the Redbeck, gobbling pills and scattering more on the floor, lorry lights and Christmas trees, like ghosts from the gloom.

I had tears on my cheeks and not from the pain.

“
What a bloody world we live in
.”

Children were slaughtered and no-one gave a fuck. King Herod Lives.

In the bright yellow lobby, I took another stack of coins and dialled Wesley Street, letting it ring for five minutes.

“
I hate you for this, Edward!
”

I thought about phoning my sister’s house, but I changed my mind.

I went and bought an
Evening Post
and drank a cup of coffee in the Redbeck’s cafe.

The paper was full of price rises and the IRA. There was a small piece about the Clare Kemplay inquiry, bland statements from Detective Superintendent Noble, tucked inside page 2 with no byline.

What the fuck was Jack doing?

“
I saw Jack Whitehead coming out of the Gaiety and he looked >smashed and mad
.”

The back pages were full of Leeds United, football giving Rugby League the boot.

No Johnny Kelly, no Wakefield Trinity, just St Helens 7 points clear.

“
Really? I thought it was the wife
.”

I was making circles with a dried coffee spoon:

Missing girl: Clare Kemplay—

Clare Kemplay’s body found by James Ashworth—

James Ashworth, employed by Foster’s Construction—

Foster’s Construction, owned by Donald Foster—

Donald Foster, Chairman of Wakefield Trinity Rugby League Club—

Wakefield Trinity’s star player, Johnny Kelly—

Johnny Kelly, brother of Paula Garland—

Paula Garland, mother of Jeanette Garland—

Jeanette Garland: Missing girl.

“
Everything’s linked. Show me two things that aren’t connected
.”

Barry Gannon, like he was sitting right there, across the table:

“
What’s your plan then?
”

Back in the bright yellow lobby, just gone six, I ripped through the phone book.

“It’s Edward Dunford.”

“Yes?”

“I need to see you.”

“You’d better come in.”

Mrs Paula Garland, standing in the doorway of Number 11, Brunt Street, Castleford.

“Thank you.”

I stepped inside another warm terraced room,
Coronation Street
just starting, my right hand in my pocket.

A short fat red-haired woman came out of the kitchen. “Hello, Mr Dunford.”

“This is Scotch Clare, lives two down. She’s just going, aren’t you?”

“Aye. Pleased to meet you,” said the woman, squeezing my left hand.

“You’re not going on my account, I hope?” I lied, by trade.

“Ooh, he’s got some manners has this one, eh?” laughed Scotch Clare, walking over to the bright red door.

Paula Garland was still holding open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, love.”

“Aye. Nice to meet you Mr Dunford. Maybe we’ll see you again for a wee Christmas drink, eh?”

“Eddie, please. That’d be nice,” I smiled.

“See you then, Eddie. Merry Christmas,” grinned Clare.

Paula Garland walked a little way out into the street with Clare. “See you then,” she said outside, giggling.

I stood for a moment alone in the front room, staring at the photograph on top of the TV.

Paula Garland came back in and closed the red door. “Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s me that should be sorry, just phoning up…”

“Don’t be daft. Sit down will you.”

“Thanks,” I said and sat down on the off-white leather sofa.

She started to say, “About last night, I…”

I put up my hands. “Forget it.”

“What’s happened to your hand?” Paula Garland had her own hand to her mouth, staring at the greying lump of bandages on the end of my arm.

“Someone slammed my car door on it.”

“You’re joking?”

“No.”

“Who?”

Two policemen.”

“You’re joking?”

“No.”

“Why?”

I looked up and tried to smile. “I thought you might be able to tell me.”

“Me?”

She had a piece of red cotton thread hanging from her brown flared skirt and I wanted to stop what I had started and tell her about the piece of red cotton thread.

But I said, “The same two coppers warned me off after I was here on Sunday.”

“Sunday?”

“The first time I came here.”

“I never said anything to the police.”

“Who did you tell?”

“Just our Paul.”

“Who else?”

“No-one.”

“Please tell me?”

Paula Garland was standing in the middle of the furniture, surrounded by trophies and photographs and Christmas cards, pulling her yellow and green and brown striped cardigan tight around her.

“Please, Mrs Garland…”

“Paula,” she whispered.

I just wanted to stop, to reach over, to pick off the piece of red cotton thread and hold her as tight as life itself.

But I said, “Paula please, I need to know.”

She sighed and sat down in the off-white leather armchair opposite me. “After you went, I was upset and…”

“Please?”

“Well, the Fosters came over…”

“Donald Foster?”

“And his wife.”

“Why did they come here?”

Paula Garland’s blue eyes flashed cold. “They’re friends, you know.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

She sighed, “They came to see if I’d heard from Johnny.”

“When was this?”

“About ten or fifteen minutes after you’d gone. I was still crying and…”

“
I’m
sorry.”

“It wasn’t just you. They’d been phoning all weekend, wanting to speak to Johnny.”

“Who had?”

“The papers. Your mates.” She was talking to the floor.

“And you told Foster about me?”

“I didn’t tell him your name.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Just that some fucking journalist had been round asking about Jeanette.” Paula Garland looked up, staring at my right hand.

“Tell me about him,” I said, my dead hand waking again.

“Who?”

The pain was growing, throbbing. “Donald Foster.”

Paula Garland, beautiful blonde hair tied back, said, “What about him?”

“Everything.”

Paula Garland swallowed. “He’s rich and he likes Johnny.”

“And?”

Paula Garland, her eyes blinking fast, whispered, “And he was very kind to us when Jeanette went missing.”

My mouth dry, my hand on fire, staring at the piece of red cotton thread, I said, “And?”

“And he’s a bastard if you cross him.”

I held up my white right hand. “You think he’d do something like this?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No I don’t know, because I don’t know why he’d do it.”

“Because of what I know.”

“What do you mean, what you know?”

“Because I know everything’s connected and he’s the link.”

“Link to what? What are you talking about?” Paula Garland was scratching at her forearms.

“Donald Foster knows you and Johnny, and Clare Kemplay’s body was found on one of his building sites in Wakefield.”

“That’s it?”

“He’s the link between Jeanette and Clare.”

Paula Garland was white and shaking, tearing at the skin on her arms. “You think Donald Foster killed that little girl and took my Jeanette from me?”

“I’m not saying, that, but he knows.”

“Knows what?”

I was on my feet, my bandages flailing, shouting, “There’s a man out there and he’s taking and raping and murdering little girls and he’ll take and rape and murder again and nobody is going to stop him because nobody really fucking cares.”

“I care.”

“I know you care, but they don’t. They just care about their little lies and their money.”

Paula Garland flew from the chair, kissing my mouth, kissing my eyes, kissing my ears, holding me tight, saying over and over, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

My left hand clutched at the bones in her spine, my right hand dangling numb, pawing at her skirt, the piece of red cotton thread catching on my bandage.

“Not here,” said Paula and gently picked up my white right hand, leading me up the steep, steep stairs.

There were three doors at the top of the stairs, two closed and a bathroom door ajar. Two tacked on plastic door plates:
Mummy & Daddy’s Room
and
Jeanette’s Room
.

We fell through the
Mummy & Daddy
door, Paula kissing me harder and harder, talking faster and faster:

“You care and you believe. You don’t know how much that means to me. It’s been so long since someone cared.”

We were on the bed, the light from the landing making warm shadows of the wardrobe and the dressing table.

“You know how many times I still wake up and think, I must make Jeanette’s breakfast, I must wake her up?”

I was on top, kissing back, the sound of shoes hitting the bedroom floor.

“I just want to be able to sleep and wake up like everybody else.”

She sat up and took off her yellow and green and brown striped cardigan. I tried to lean on my right hand, pulling at the little flower buttons of her blouse with my left.

“It used to be so important to me, you know, that nobody ever forgot her, that nobody ever spoke about her like she was dead or in the past.”

My left hand was pulling down the zip of her skirt, her own hand on my fly.

“We weren’t happy, you know, Geoff and me. But after we had Jeanette, it was like it was all worth it.”

My mouth tasted of salt water, her tears and words a hard and ceaseless rain.

“Even then though, even when she was just a baby, I’d lie awake at night and wonder what I’d do if anything happened to her, seeing her dead; lying awake, seeing her dead.”

She was squeezing my cock too tight, my hand inside her knickers.