Lost Souls (20 page)

I was in the garden of a nearby house when I saw Laura arrive.

A young woman with a swarm of kids had made me a cup of sugary tea. Other neighbours stood at their gates as they smoked cigarettes and enjoyed the ringside view.

I watched Laura get out of her car with a gruff-looking man in a leather coat. I guessed that was Pete Dawson. She’d talked about him. Nicer than he looks, or so she said. The officer further along the road pointed me out to them. Pete began to stride over, but I watched as Laura slowed when she saw me.

I smiled sheepishly. Laura took a breath and clenched her jaw.

As Pete got close, he looked suspicious of me. He scowled.

‘Nice to meet you, DC Dawson, how are you?’ I said.

He looked surprised. He was about to respond when Laura intervened.

‘It’s all right, Pete,’ she snapped. ‘I own this one.’ She had her hands on her hips. ‘This is Jack Garrett, and, for better or worse, he’s my partner.’

Pete looked me up and down, and then glanced at Laura. ‘What were you doing in Eric Randle’s house?’ he asked, but his voice was more shocked now than angry.

Laura spoke quietly, but it came out in a hiss, her eyes fiery. ‘Yes, what the fuck were you doing in Eric Randle’s house?’

I thought back to our conversation earlier in the day, and I knew what Laura was doing. She was angry, but she was asking me to protect her, to let everyone know that it had nothing to do with her. I didn’t have Eric to protect any more, and so, apart from Laura, there was just the story to look after. I knew which was most precious to me.

‘Chasing up Eric’s story,’ I said to her, made sure that Pete could hear. ‘I’d told you all I knew. I was trying to find out more.’

Pete smirked. ‘Your boyfriend is your informant?’

I gave a little laugh. ‘I know, it sounds stupid, but he told me that he dreamt the future and painted it. It was a good story.’

I noticed Pete and Laura exchange glances. Then I saw movement over Laura’s shoulder. ‘Looks like the big chiefs are arriving,’ I said.

I saw Pete and Laura deflate. I heard Pete whisper, ‘He’ll love this.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

Pete nodded towards Eric’s house. ‘We had him the other day, when we found Jess. Now this. Turns out that he’s the Summer Snatcher, and we let him slip away. Worse than that, if we hadn’t been looking for hoodies
for attacking a wino, we might have caught him in the act.’

‘If it
was
him,’ argued Laura.

‘What, you think someone else is hanging from that rafter? A case of mistaken identity? And I heard there is a small pile of calling cards, just by Randle’s feet.’

I interrupted them. ‘Is this Egan?’ I asked.

Pete sighed and nodded.

Laura had told me all about him. Just an ego and pinched, rat-like features. ‘Look, I know you’re both angry with me,’ I said, ‘but if I get back to you with something, will you talk to me?’

As Egan approached, Pete watched me, and then looked at Laura. ‘It depends on what you’ve got,’ he said, and then snorted a laugh. ‘It might need to be career-saving.’

Egan sauntered his slow way towards us. Other people stood at their gates, intrigued by the new developments. From the words painted on the boards that covered Eric’s window, I guessed that not many people around here would mourn him. As Egan got closer, it seemed like the residents just melted back into their houses.

‘I’ll cut him off,’ said Pete, and he left me with Laura.

There were a few moments of silence, and then she said, ‘Be careful, Jack, for both our sakes.’ When I didn’t respond, she asked, Are you all right?’

‘Most dead bodies I see are in photographs,’ I said. ‘Even as a seasoned crime reporter, most corpses are bagged and gone by the time I get there.’

Laura softened. ‘Never been to a post mortem?’ she asked.

I shook my head. ‘It’s weird, but it never seems real
when it’s part of a story. Maybe it’s inhuman, but the bodies are just a detail. Until you see one.’

‘Was Eric Randle a killer?’ asked Laura.

I looked over to the house, with the word ‘peedo’ daubed across the front.

‘Do you think the people around here know more about who is doing what than you or I will ever know?’ I asked.

Laura followed my gaze. ‘If you mean do they know who is dealing drugs, or beating their wives, or selling stolen car stereos, then I suppose you’re right.’

‘It’s sat-navs now, so I hear,’ I continued. ‘They look for the sucker marks on the windscreen. If a car has those, there’s a sat-nav in the glove box.’

Laura smiled. ‘It has a certain poetry to it, doesn’t it, that people who don’t go anywhere have all the means to get there. What are you getting at?’

I exhaled loudly. ‘I don’t know really. I suppose I’m just thinking how I thought I knew about crime, knew all the cons, the tricks, and then this.’ I looked at Laura and I knew that my eyes betrayed my sadness. ‘I believed him. No, it was more than that. I believed
in
him. I thought he was a nice old man who maybe thought some strange things. I would never have guessed this.’

‘Did he say anything to you that made you think he could have done this?’

I shook my head. ‘Just that he had dreams, and his dreams came true.’

Laura raised her eyebrows at me, and I sensed that we both saw the road ahead getting stranger.

Laura leaned against the wall at the back of the training room at the police station. It was like a classroom, with chairs set neatly in rows and a whiteboard and flipchart at one end. It was also the room they used for press conferences, so there were hoardings at the other end, large foldaway boards in bright white, emblazoned with the Lancashire Constabulary logo, the helmet crest against a blue ribbon. In front of those was a table, the tablecloth bright white and supporting a microphone in the middle. A reporter was attaching his own to the front of the table. Framed against the backdrop was Egan, taking a drink of water. Laura saw him gargle, and it seemed like he had been home to get changed. He hadn’t been wearing that suit at the crime scene, and she was sure his hair was neater, a bit glossier.

‘I’m not sure about this,’ she said, almost in a whisper.

Pete didn’t answer at first. He just watched the reporters as they got ready for the official press conference. They had been looking tetchy for the last few weeks, just a succession of worried parents to fill the pages, and then the relieved parents as the child was
returned. But they had to be ready for the capture shot, the news of someone under arrest. They couldn’t leave, couldn’t rest. There was a buzz now, as they sensed something had changed, that there was something more than just another anxious mother. The television cameras were set up at the back of the room, and the seats were full, all of the nationals represented.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Pete eventually, ‘I overheard the press officer. They’re not going to say much.’

‘No, just that Eric Randle was the abductor and that he hanged himself.’

‘Is that wrong?’

Laura looked at Pete. He could tell from the uncertainty in her eyes that something wasn’t right.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

Laura chewed on her lip. ‘I don’t know, but something is too neat here.’

A flash of my press badge got me into the news conference.

I took a seat at the back, not too far from Laura, and she watched me sit down.

I heard footsteps behind me, and then I smelled something familiar. ‘Are you going to behave yourself?’ whispered Laura into my ear.

‘I’ll try.’

I heard Laura sigh. ‘Just remember me, that’s all,’ she said, and then she backed away to the corner of the room.

I looked to the front as I heard the other reporters come in. I could smell the cigarettes on them, the last-minute smokers. It reminded me of nights in the pub
with the journalists I knew in London, back when a drink made my clothes smell and my eyes red.

The room was packed, the air-conditioning working overtime. The abductions had taken over the media, daily updates on the news, conspiracies and guesswork on the internet. Seemed like everyone knew someone in the police who knew the real identity of the kidnapper. It was all bullshit, just speculation to keep the story in the headlines. The abductions sold newspapers. Any angle would do, the truth of it the least important thing. The usual television and radio reporters were there, all thinking of the killer question that might get their name on the national news. The internet leeches were also there, as usual. It seemed like everyone had cheered up, like there might suddenly be a purpose in staying in this backwater Lancashire town. But I had the best story of all: I had found the last victim, and spent time with the chief suspect.

But as I remembered the last victim, young Kyle Shadsworth, his features grey and lifeless, it didn’t feel like much of a victory.

My musings were interrupted by the arrival of the detectives from the abduction squad. The Senior Investigating Officer, Mark Vaughton, had been at all of the press conferences so far, along with two of the assistants. He had been the voice of the abductions throughout the summer, giving the updates needed to keep the story in the public eye. Egan looked round at them and straightened his tie, beaming. The other three men looked less delighted to be there and did their best to keep the mood sombre.

Everyone settled themselves down at the table, and when the press chairs were quiet, the SIO spoke.

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. As some of you have become aware, a young boy was found this morning. With the greatest of regret, I have to inform you that he was dead when we found him. We cannot say too much this early into the investigation, except to confirm that the little boy is believed to be Kyle Shadsworth, who went missing last night. This press conference will mainly take the form of a statement, and then a very brief question and answer session.’

I noticed the SIO steal a glance at the men on either side of him before he continued. It seemed like a pause for effect, although I detected a slight tremor in his voice.

‘Kyle Shadsworth was found in the cellar of a house on the Ashcroft estate. Also in that cellar was the body of a man known to us as Eric Randle. His death appears to have been caused by hanging. However, we are not ruling out any possibilities, and at this stage we must keep an open mind. We pass on our thoughts and condolences to Kyle’s family in this time of grieving, and I would ask that you respect their privacy.’

There were murmurs around the room, and the constant noise of camera shutters. The SIO took a drink of water, and then invited questions from the audience.

‘Did you know of this Eric Randle before today?’ one of the radio reporters asked.

The SIO swallowed, barely visible, but I noticed.

‘We will go through the information we have in our possession, and we will check whether we have missed something we shouldn’t have.’

Delaying the bad news, I thought, but it sounded like he believed that Eric was the abductor.

‘So you think this is it then?’ asked another. ‘You think the Summer Snatcher has finally been identified, and that he is dead?’

‘That is a tag used by the media, not by the police. As I said earlier, we are keeping an open mind.’

So far, so predictable. I stood up quickly and managed to attract the SIO’s attention. When he nodded at me, I directed a question at the man who I knew would not keep quiet.

‘Detective Inspector Egan, as an experienced and senior officer, do you have an opinion on whether it looked like the suicide of a desperate murderer?’

I saw Egan clench his jaw as he recognised me, but I could tell he wanted to answer, to have his fifteen minutes of fame. He leaned forward and eagerly took the mike. ‘As my colleague has said, we are keeping an open mind, but,’ and then he smiled, too pleased with himself to stop the words, ‘we have no other suspects in mind at this stage.’

I thought I heard someone chuckle behind me as the SIO butted in, ‘Although I must stress that we don’t know for sure what caused the death of Eric Randle.’ I spotted the rebuke, and I saw the flush it brought to Egan’s cheeks.

‘So, Detective Inspector,’ I continued, ‘why didn’t you stop Randle when he befriended Darlene Tyler when her son was still missing?’

Someone next to me winced.

One of the other detectives opened his mouth to speak, but Egan butted in.

‘Eric Randle had been a suspect,’ he said, ‘and now those suspicions have been confirmed.’

‘But not before Kyle Shadsworth died,’ I said, running
with the scent. ‘That could have been prevented. And am I right in saying that he was also a suspect in the murder of Jess Goldie, the young woman found dead a few days ago?’

The SIO held up his hand and tried to force out a smile. ‘I can understand the extreme media interest in this, but we are very early into the investigation.’

I had said what I wanted to say. I let the other questions go on without interruption. As I looked at the officers on the podium, I sensed smugness, a certainty that the problems of the summer were coming to an end. I didn’t see it that way. There was something not right, but I just couldn’t nail down what it was. All I knew was that someone I had spoken to in the previous twenty-four hours was dead, and another man, Terry McKay, was seriously injured. Even the most committed pessimist would see that as too much of a coincidence.

As the press conference came to an end, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. It was a number I didn’t recognise.

‘Jack?’ an anxious voice said. He sounded slurred. ‘It’s Sam Nixon.’

‘Sam, what can I do for you?’

There was a pause. All I could hear was him breathing. Then he said, ‘I was sorry to hear about Eric Randle. I know I put you on to him. It wasn’t too upsetting finding him, I hope.’

I grimaced when I thought of the scene.

All in a day’s work,’ I answered flippantly. When Sam didn’t respond, I asked, ‘Is that all you wanted?’

There was another pause, and then he said, ‘I’ve just had a call from Eric’s daughter. She wants to speak to you.’

‘To me?’

‘She wanted to talk to me, but I told her that you had spoken to him more recently. Is that okay?’

I was a reporter. It was always going to be okay. ‘Thanks, Sam,’ I said, and he gave me the number. Before I had a chance to respond, I realised that he had hung up.

I smiled. The story was starting to write itself.

Sam clicked his phone shut and closed his eyes. Eric was dead. He didn’t have time to think about it, as the court usher tapped him on the shoulder and told him that the magistrates had come back into court.

Sam went into court and sat at the front, on an old wooden bench that was screwed to the floor, the ornate back uncomfortable to lean against. The prosecutor looked him up and down, saw his clothes, creased and unkempt, and whispered under his breath, ‘Been doing the gardening?’

Sam closed his eyes at that. He felt like he was somewhere else, distracted. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see Terry McKay’s hand. He heard someone arrive in the dock. It used to be small and wooden with a brass rail, but there had been too many jumpers. They always came back, though, the escape bids ending when they realised that they hadn’t planned what to do when they returned to the streets. They were normally found at home, waiting to be collected. But one escaper was dragged back in by a couple of prosecutors, and when he woke up in a prison cell the next day, he killed himself. After that, the high glass boxes went in. Now, no one got out.

Sam could hear voices, and then banging noises. He
heard someone say his name. He looked up. It was the chairman of the magistrates, a car salesman in a pinstriped suit whose reputation for toughness made for long mornings for defence lawyers. There were two women on either side of him.

Sam stood up slowly. ‘Can I assist your worships?’ His courtesy was on auto-pilot.

The chairman nodded towards the glass box. ‘Your client wants a word.’

Sam looked back to the dock. The chairman had made his views known. The defendant was a client, not someone with a name.

Sam shuffled out of the bench and went to the dock. He put his ear to the small slit in the glass, just big enough to hear through, sometimes just big enough to pass small white packages through.

‘What do you want?’

‘Is my girlfriend here?’ the prisoner asked.

Sam looked around. The public gallery was empty. ‘This is fucking glass,’ he snapped back. ‘Have a look yourself.’

‘Mr Nixon!’

Sam looked around. It was the chairman.

‘Yes, sir?’ asked Sam, the snap of his voice showing little respect.

‘Your language, Mr Nixon, is not what we expect to hear in a court of law.’

‘I was having a private consultation with my client, and its contents are privileged. If you want me to speak to him more privately, please stand the matter down and I will do so.’

Sam saw the shocked look in the court clerk’s eyes. The prosecutor looked amused. He had a large pile of files in front of him, and all day to wade through them in court. Sam was adding entertainment.

‘No, thank you, Mr Nixon,’ said the chairman, his eyes angry, his voice full of censure. ‘We’ll get this over with.’

‘Oh, fucking nice one, Nixon,’ came a growl from the other side of the glass. ‘Piss him off, well done, you prick,’ and the prisoner sat down with a slump.

Sam turned back to the dock. He was angry now. He could sense it was unstoppable, too many late nights working and fragmented sleep suddenly surfacing.

‘Look, shithead,’ he shouted through the slit in the glass, ‘if you stay in, it’s nothing to do with me, or him,’ and Sam tilted his head towards the chairman, who he could hear shouting his name loudly. ‘They gave you a chance, put you on bail. You were supposed to stay in, you had a curfew, but you couldn’t even manage that.’

The prisoner was up on his feet again, his face at the glass, the white-shirted security guards trying to pull him back.

Sam stepped away and bowed theatrically at the chairman, who now just stared at him. ‘This defendant’, said Sam, ‘no longer has a solicitor. At least, not this one.’ And then he picked up his files and stormed out of the courtroom.