Nineteen Seventy-Four (9 page)

“Two hundred.”

“Cash?”

“Aye,” grinned Kelly, tapping his jacket pocket.

“Half and half?” I said, knocking on the glass door.

“That’ll do nicely, sir,” said Kelly as the door opened.

“Good morning Mrs Sheard.”

“Good afternoon Mr Dunford and…”

“Mr Kelly,” said Mr Kelly.

“A much more civilised hour, don’t you think Mr Dunford?” Enid Sheard was smiling at Paul Kelly.

“I think so,” said Kelly, smiling back.

“Would you gentlemen care for a cup of tea?”

Quickly I said, “Thank you but I’m afraid we’re a little pushed for time.”

Enid Sheard puckered her lips. “This way then gentlemen please.”

She led us down the path between the two bungalows. When we reached the back door to Number 6, Kelly jumped at the sudden barking from Number 5 next door.

“Hamlet,” I said.

“My money, Mr Dunford?” said Enid Sheard, clutching the key.

Paul Kelly handed her a plain brown envelope. “One hundred pounds cash.”

“Thank you, Mr Kelly,” said Enid Sheard and stuffed the money into her apron pocket.

I said, “Our pleasure.”

She unlocked the back door to Number 6, Willman Close. “I’ll be putting on the kettle, so you gentlemen just knock on the door when you’re finished.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind,” said Kelly as we went inside.

I shut the door in her face.

“You want to watch yourself there. Get her sexual motor running, you best know how to turn it off,” I laughed.

“You can talk,” said Paul laughing along, his face then sud denly falling.

I stopped laughing, staring at the candle on the draining board, thinking about
A Guide to the Canals of the North
, won dering where the fuck it was.

Kathryn’s house.

“The Lair of the Ratcatcher,” whispered Kelly.

“Aye. Not much to it is there?”

“How many do you want?” Kelly was attaching a flash to one of his cameras.

“I reckon a couple of each room and a few more of the front room.”

“A couple of each room?”

“Well, between you and me, I’m thinking of doing a book on it, so I’m going to need a fair few photos. Cut you in if you’re interested?”

“Yeah? Cheers Eddie.”

I kept out of the light as Kelly moved from the kitchen into the hall and to the door of Mary Goldthorpe’s bedroom.

“This her room then?”

“Yeah,” I said, pushing past Kelly.

I went over to the chest of drawers and opened the top right hand one. I rooted down through the knickers until I found what I was looking for. I draped a single stocking over the edge of the drawer and hated my own fucking guts.

“Magic,” clicked Kelly as I moved out of the way.

I stared out on the back garden and the rain, thinking of my own sister.

“Do you reckon they were at it?”

“Probably.” I put the stocking back and closed the drawer on Mary Goldthorpe’s underwear.

“Dirty bastards.”

I led the way into Graham’s room. I took a book from the shelf and opened it up. “Try and get a good one of this,” I said, pointing at the sticker of the owl and the threat it carried.

“This book belongs to Graham and Mary Goldthorpe. Do not steal it or you will be hunted down and killed,” read Kelly. “Fucking hell.”

“Get one of the bookcase and all.”

“Some real page-turners,” laughed Kelly.

I walked across the small dark hall and opened the door to the front room.

The fireplace was the first thing I saw.

Kelly came up behind me, camera flashes exploding across the dim room. “This is where he did it then?”

“Yeah.”

Naked and strangled
.

“In the fireplace, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Hung in the fireplace
.

“You’ll want a few of that then?”

“Yeah.”

The shotgun in his mouth
.

“Gives me the fucking creeps, it does.”

“Yeah,” I said into the space above the hearth.

The finger on the trigger
.

“Why’d he do it?”

“Fuck knows.”

Kelly snorted, “You must have some bloody notion, you’ve been living the thing for God knows how long.”

“Police reckon he hated noise. Wanted silence.”

“Well he’s got that all right.”

“Yeah.”

I looked at Kelly clicking away, white stars shooting across the room.

Paula’s husband had shot himself too.

“You wonder why they bother with chimneys in this day and age,” said Kelly, still snapping away.

“They have their uses.”

“If you’re fucking Santa Claus, aye.”

“Style?” I suggested.

“Well these ones have got that. Remember all the fucking fuss about them?”

“About what?”

“These bungalows?”

“No.”

Kelly began changing films. “Oh aye, right to-do there was. I remember because we wanted to get my Nana and Daddy Kelly in one of these or one of them others in Castleford.”

“I’m not with you.”

“They were supposed to be old folks homes, that’s why they’re all bungalows. But fucking council sold them off. Tell you one thing, they must have had some brass must the Gold-thorpes.”

“How much were they?”

“I can’t remember. They weren’t bloody cheap, can tell you that. Designed by John fucking Dawson. Ask the old lass next door. Bet she can tell you exactly how much they cost.”

“John Dawson designed these bungalows?”

“Aye, Barry’s mate. My father reckons that was what gave council idea to flog them off, all the bloody fuss about his work.”

“Fuck.”

“It was one of the things Barry kept bringing up. It was out of order, everyone knew that at the time.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Well it was old news here so I don’t suppose it was owt at all down South.”

“No, I don’t suppose it was. When were they built?”

“Five, six years ago. About same time…” Kelly drifted off. I knew where he was going.

We stood in the cold dark room with its sudden bursts of light and said nothing until he’d finished.

“There, that’s your lot, unless there’s owt else you can think of,” said Kelly as he sorted through his camera bag.

“A couple of outside do you think?” I said, looking out at the rain.

A car was turning into the Close.

Kelly glanced out of the front window. “Might have to come back on a better day, but I’ll try.”

The car pulled up in front of the house.

“Shit,” I said.

“Fuck,” said Kelly.

“Yeah,” I said as two police officers got out of the blue and white car.

The two policemen were coming up the path as we came out of the house. One was tall with a beard, the other short with a big nose. They could have been some comedy double act, except no-one was laughing and they looked as mean as fuck.

Hamlet started barking next door, making the short officer curse. Kelly shut the door behind us. There was no sign of Enid Sheard. It was pissing down and we had nowhere to hide.

“What’s going on lads?” asked the tall copper with the beard.

“We’re with the
Post,” I
said, looking at Kelly.

The short officer was grinning. “So what the fuck does that mean?”

I fished in my jacket for some credentials. “We’re doing a story.”

“Fuck off,” said the short one again, taking out his notebook and glancing up at the sky.

“It’s right,” said Kelly, first with his press pass.

The tall one held the passes as the other copied down the details. “So how’d you get in the house lads?”

The short one didn’t let me answer. “Aw fuck,” he said. “Open the door will you. I’m not standing out here in this piss.” He tore out the rain-soaked piece of paper he’d been trying to write on and screwed it up.

I said, “I can’t.”

The tall one had stopped smiling. “You fucking can and you will.”

“It’s a Yale lock. We don’t have the key.”

“So you’re fucking Father Christmas are you? How the fuck did you get in?”

I gambled and said, “Somebody let us in.”

“Stop arsing around. Who the fuck let you in?”

“The Goldthorpes’ family solicitor,” said Kelly.

“Who is…?”

I tried not to look too pleased. “Edward Clay and Son, Town-gate, Pontefract.”

“Fucking smart arse,” spat the tall one.

“Here, you’re not related to Johnny Kelly are you?” said the short officer as he handed back the passes.

“He’s my second cousin.”

“You fucking Micks breed like bloody rabbits.”

“Done a Lucan hasn’t he? Legged it.”

Kelly just said, “I don’t know.”

The taller officer jerked his head towards the road. “You better fuck off and find him ‘fore next Sunday, hadn’t you?”

“Not you Santa,” said the short one poking me in the chest.

Kelly turned round. I tossed him the keys to the Viva. He shrugged and jogged off towards the car, leaving the three of us stood there by the back door, the pouring rain running off the roof of the bungalow, listening to Hamlet, waiting for someone to speak.

The short one took his time putting his notebook away. The tall one took off his gloves, stretched his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and then put his gloves back on. I rocked back on my heels, hands in my pockets, rain dripping off my nose.

After a couple of minutes of this shit I said, “What is it then?”

The taller copper suddenly reached out with both his arms and pushed me back against the door. He gripped one gloved hand around my throat and crushed my face flat against the paint with the other. My feet weren’t on the floor.

“Don’t go bothering people who don’t want bothering,” he whispered into my ear.

“It’s not nice,” hissed the short one, an inch from my face on tiptoes.

I waited, stomach taut, expecting the punch.

A hand closed over my balls, gently stroking them.

“You should get yourself a hobby.”

The short one tightened his hand around my balls. “Bird-watching, that’s a nice quiet hobby.”

A finger pressed through my trousers, pushing up into my arsehole.

I wanted to spew.

“Or photography.” He let go of my balls, kissed me on the cheek, and walked off whistling
We Wish You a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year
. Hamlet began barking again.

The tall copper pushed my face further into the door. “And remember, Big Brother’s watching you.”

A car horn honked.

He dropped me to the ground. “Always.”

The horn honked again and, coughing on my knees in the rain, I watched the size eleven steel-toecaps walk down the path and get into the police car.

The tyres turned and then the boots and the police car were gone.

I heard a door open, Hamlet barking louder.

I got to my feet and ran across the Close, rubbing my neck and clutching my balls.

“Mr Dunford! Mr Dunford!” shouted Enid Sheard.

Kelly had the Viva running. I opened the passenger door and jumped in.

“Fuck,” said Kelly, putting his foot down.

I turned round, my balls and face still burning, and saw Enid Sheard screaming bloody hell across Willman Close.

“Don’t go bothering people who don’t want bothering.”

Kelly had his eyes on the motorway. “It’s not such bad advice, you know.”

“What do you mean?” I said, knowing what he meant.

“Spoke to our Paula last night. She was in a bad way you know.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” I said, my eyes on the car in front, wondering why he’d waited until now.

“You could’ve asked me first.”

“I didn’t know. It was Barry’s idea more than mine.”

“Don’t say that Eddie. It’s not right.”

“No, really. I had no idea she was family. I…”

“You’re doing your job, I know. But it’s just that, you know, none of us have ever really got over it. Then all the stuff with this other lass, it just brings it back.”

“I know.”

“Plus all this shit with our Johnny. It just never seems to stop.”

“You’ve not heard anything then?”

“No, nothing.”

I said, “I’m sorry, Paul.”

“I know everyone reckons it’ll be some bird or he’ll be on one of his benders, but I don’t know. I hope he is.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“Johnny took it the hardest, you know, after Paula and Geoff. He loves kids. I mean,
he’s
just a big fucking kid himself. He really doted on our Jeanie.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. I wasn’t going to mention it, but…”

I didn’t want to hear it. “Where do you think he is?”

Kelly looked at me. “If I knew that I wouldn’t be bleeding driving you around like your fucking chauffeur would I?” He tried to smile, but it wouldn’t come.

“I’m sorry,” I said for the thousandth time.

I stared out of the window at the brown fields with their single brown trees and bits of brown hedges. We were coming up to the gypsy camp.

Kelly switched on the radio and the Bay City Rollers were briefly singing
All of Me Loves All of You
before he switched them off again.

I stared past Kelly as the burnt-out caravans flew by and tried to think of something to say.

Nobody spoke until we were in Leeds, parking under the arches near the Post building.

Kelly switched off the engine and took out his wallet. “What do you want to do with this?”

“Half and half?”

“Yeah,” said Kelly, counting out the tenners.

He handed me five.

“Thanks,” I said. “What happened to your car?”

“Hadden said to take the bus. That you’d be coming back here, said you could drive me back.”

Fuck, I thought. I bet he did.

“Why do you ask?”

“Nowt,” I said. “Just asking.”

“We live in the Great Age of Investigative Journalism and Barry Gannon was one of the men who gave us this age. Where he saw injustice, he asked for justice. Where he saw lies, he asked for truth. Barry Gannon asked big questions of big men because he believed that the Great British Public deserved the Big Picture.”

“Barry Gannon once said that the truth can only make us richer. For all of us who seek that truth, Barry’s premature passing has left us all so much the poorer.”