Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (17 page)

Whitman was walking back to the centre of the room, but he stopped dead and turned with a look of utter shock on his face. “Murder? Jesus, who’s been murdered?”

Mitchell closed the door behind him and replied, “My colleague’s just a bit of a wind up merchant. We’re still looking into Mandy Foster’s disappearance, so the jury’s out on that one.” He walked around the room, his eyes scrutinising everything.

Wright picked up the reins, leaning against the desk. “Ms Runckle’s death by feline misadventure seems to be a real tragedy, eh?” He glanced down at the screen of the laptop, briefly examining the icons on the desktop.

Whitman walked over to the bed and sat down, facing both men. “It’s horrible. I couldn’t believe it when Joe told me about it this morning.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Wright muttered without conviction.

Mitchell stopped, looking down at Whitman. He thrust his hands in his pockets and said, “You and her didn’t get on very well, did you?”

Standing up to meet his stare, Whitman said, “That’s a bit of an exaggeration. She liked her gossip and, me being the new guy in town, I caught some of the flak.”

“She told us that you murdered Mandy Foster.”

Whitman shot a glance towards Wright. “That’s a terrible thing to say. It’s ridiculous and you know it.”

Wright raised his arms in mock defence. His tone turned genial once more. “Easy there, mate. Just telling you what she told us.”

“So,” Mitchell injected casually, “you can understand us being just a little concerned when the old girl pops it.”

“Dunno whether you’re keeping up with current events, mate, but let’s just recap,” Wright said with just a hint of sarcasm, flipping open his notebook just for effect. “New guy comes to town – that’s you by the way – girl goes missing, old bird starts spreading rumours that new guy killed her, and then old bird dies in tragic accident. That about cover it?”

Whitman slumped back down on the bed with a despondent look ingrained into his features as Mitchell started pacing the room once more. “Yeah, I suppose it does.” Staring intently at Wright, he said, “But what that doesn’t cover is that Mandy girl will probably turn up some place in a few months, maybe down in London or something, and that Ms Runckle had probably stopped gossiping about me ages ago.”

“She hadn’t,” Mitchell corrected, turning to gauge Whitman’s reaction.

Whitman looked surprised. “Well I’m sorry, but that’s news to me. People must’ve just stopped mentioning it to me.”

Whitman seemed weary when he lifted himself off the bed once more. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he said, “Look, I talked to Joe and Lisa about this a month ago when she was whispering about me. I suggested that I go talk to her to clear the air, but they both advised against it. They said that she was the town gossip and everyone knew it, so after a while she would just lose interest and move on to a new topic. I dropped it and, when I heard no more, I assumed she had too.” His voice virtually imploring, he added, “Just talk to them about it.”

“We will,” Wright said flatly, his eyes settling back on Whitman.

Drawing a deep breath, and with a distinctly lighter tone, Mitchell said, “Okay, I think that about covers it. Thanks for your help, Mister Whitman.”

Wright clapped Whitman on the back and grinned. “Don’t take it personal, Mister Whitman. We’re just doing our job.”

Mitchell opened the door, but before walking out onto the landing, turned and, as an afterthought, asked, “By the way, how’s the book coming on?”

Whitman managed a weak smile. “Not bad – onto chapter six now.”

With that, both men departed, leaving Whitman standing alone with his mind in turmoil. He listened, breathing deeply, as their footsteps echoed, first along the landing, and then down the stairs.

The Funeral.

It was a dreary mid-week lunchtime as Reverend Dunhealy led the procession of pallbearers, followed by dozens of grieving friends and relatives of Tess Runckle out of the church and into the graveyard. Moe, Big Joe, her brother who had travelled up from Kent, and young Danny Little were amongst the pallbearers.

Martha, frequently dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, and James Falkirk followed, along with the Fairbanks, the Herrings, Carol Belmont, sobbing hysterically, John Bryce, Sally and their scrawny son, Anthony, and a steady stream of others.

Most of the village gathered by the open grave, their faces downcast, and their mood matching the weather. They stood, solemn and silent, as fine rain coated their dark coats and jackets with a glistening sheen.

Whitman stood at the gate, at a distance, and watched silently. His features appeared pensive and pale in the poor light. Droplets of water clung to his hair and beard.

After some clearly poignant words from Reverend Dunhealy that Whitman could not quite hear, the coffin was slowly lowered into the ground. This signalled a vocal outburst from Moe, who dropped to his knees at the graveside. He caught sight of the camp barber casting a single red rose into the grave, along with many of his tears. He stayed there, kneeling on the sodden green felt for several minutes, crying uncontrollably with the Fairbanks’s daughter, Jill, holding a tender arm over his shoulders.

A single tear escaped from the corner of one of Whitman’s own auburn eyes. He was surprised by it, but accepted it for what it was.

Lisa appeared behind him and slipped an arm around his waist inside his jacket. “You okay, honey?” Her hair was dripping from the rain, but the concern in her eyes was for Whitman.

He glanced at her and offered a half-hearted smile. “Yeah, just sad, that’s all.”

The fine rain continued into the evening. The mood in the Miller’s was no better than by the graveside. People talked in hushed tones in their small groups, clustered in corners or at the bar. Carol Belmont managed three large vodkas, before she could stand the company of her fellow residents no longer.

She had sat at a small table on the periphery of the lounge, alone and without speaking to anyone, except Lisa to briefly order her drinks. She had barely registered the familiar faces around her, the muted chatter or the clinking of the occasional glass.

Her mood was etched into her face, so people knew to give her a wide berth. But, even the background noise soon became unbearable for her, so she left without a word, with her eyes downcast.

The unrelenting rain quickly plastered her short blonde hair to her head, but she seemed oblivious as she walked unhurriedly towards her flat. The village appeared deserted or, perhaps, in hiding. The rain helped clear her head, but only worsened her mood.

Water was dripping from her nose, chin and the tips of her hair as she opened the door and stepped inside her dark, cold flat.

She shrugged out of her wet coat and hung it on a hook on the wall by the door, her movement automatic, unthinking. She then walked through into the small kitchen, her hair still dripping onto the cheap coarse carpet along the way. It was similar in size to Lisa’s – crammed with basic units and old second-hand appliances – but not in cleanliness.

She headed straight to a wall unit with one dodgy hinge and retrieved a cheap bottle of ‘shop’s own’ brand vodka, half full (or half empty, more like). She grabbed a mixer glass from the next shelf, which had a meagre mismatched assortment of cups and glasses, then filled it to the top with vodka. Remaining standing at the worktop, she proceeded to gulp down the entire glass.

She gasped as she finished and slammed the glass down clumsily onto the laminate surface. A dribble of vodka dripped from her chin to the linoleum. She screwed her face up, but it was exactly what she needed. As she started to pour a second, a sob escaped her trembling lips. The bottle clattered back down as she drew her hand to her mouth, it too shuddering violently.

She turned and glanced around the kitchen, seemingly frantically searching for something … anything. Tears began to well up in her eyes as her hand remained clamped to her mouth in some desperate effort to quell her desolation. Her blurred gaze fell upon the several ‘shop’s own’ packets of paracetamol tablets on the grubby pine table. She had bought them one packet at a time and, one by one, they had built up to a small pile that now whispered for attention.

With her head swimming, her legs felt suddenly like stilts on rough ground. She slid down the unit and landed hard on her backside, but registered no pain. She pulled her knees to her chest as another whimper escaped her lips. One word was forced with almost physical pain from them as her eyes remained fixed on the table. “
Please
…”

Hugging her knees, she could no longer hold back the tears. They came hot and flooding and her body shook and rocked on the cold linoleum floor.

CHAPTER 7

Let’s evolve, let the chips fall where they may.

The Duck stayed closed for three weeks while the investigation was tied up. The inquest announced a verdict of death by misadventure and the case was closed. Whitman breathed a deep sigh of relief on hearing the news, but that relief was tarnished by the occasional appearance of Wright and Mitchell sniffing around the village. They didn’t actually come back to speak to him, but they did ask a few questions around the village about him, and Wright offered him a friendly wave on one occasion.

After the third week, a relief manager was sent into the Duck by the brewery. George ‘Geordie’ Langdon turned out to be tattooed, hard-faced skinhead who was more at home running rough-arse boozers in Newcastle’s East End. His last position had been Jackson’s in Byker; nothing more than a fight club with a liquor licence. There was a distinct ill-ease from the majority of the regulars on seeing Tess’s temporary replacement.

He made himself at home quickly and, despite his appearance, and the decidedly cool reception, he turned out to be friendly and devilishly witty. He was certainly a breath of fresh air to the gloomy atmosphere left with Tess Runckle’s untimely departure.

John Bryce persuaded Whitman to make a rare appearance to the Duck to offer support. He wasn’t keen on the idea of bumping into Moe, but eventually he caved after several of John’s pleas. Bryce, leading the way, angled straight for the bar, where both Danny Little and Geordie were serving.

The bar was bustling with activity. It seemed that a lot of villagers had had the same idea. Amongst them were Janet and Larry Herring, sitting in one corner, with Steve Belmont hovering at the bar (did he have no shame?). Duncan Fairbank and his young bride, Loretta, were sitting with Simon and Kim Little, Danny’s baker parents, at another table.

Seeing the new arrivals, Geordie greeted them with a broad smile that revealed one front tooth missing and another broken to a jagged stump. “Alreet, lads? Me name’s Geordie Langdon’s and it’s a pleasure to meet you.” The remains of his receding hair were a mere dusting of black and grey stubble. His forearms were littered with dozens of tattoos, some recognisable, like the NUFC crest and a British Bulldog chewing a cigar, but others had faded and distorted over the years to a mere patchwork of blurry blue lines. The St. George Cross was also tattooed on one side of his neck. His age was something of a mystery; Whitman could only place him somewhere between late thirties to late forties. His face was creased and an old blue-purple scar snaked down from his left temple to his jaw line. Weathered and gnarly skin darkened the ambiguity, but he had the keen, alert eyes of a younger man.

John stuck out a hand with just a hint of wariness. “John Bryce of Bryce and Son’s farm. And this is Han Whitman, our resident writer.”

Geordie shook both their hands rigorously with a hand marked with a blue swallow tattoo and half a little finger missing. “Writer, eh? Canny – I’ve been meaning to write a book for ages aboot me exploits in the pub trade. I’ve seen a thing or tee working Byker, Wallsend and Howden, I can tell you.”

Bryce laughed and any guardedness seemed to vanish. “I bet. Got a mate works down Wallsend as a rigger. He got half an ear cut off in a fight in the Raby on Shields Road.”

“Aye, they’ve got two hobbies in there – drinking and fighting, and not necessarily in that order.”

“Well, we just wanted to welcome you to the village. You’ve come at a bit of a rough time, so if people are a bit standoffish, divvent judge ’em too harshly.”

The smile vanished from Geordie’s weathered face to be replaced by a sincere nod. “Aye, they told us about it before I came, so I understand. Nasty business, like.”

“Good to meet you,” Whitman added amiably. His face appeared welcoming enough, but his mind was churning through a myriad of concerns for this new arrival. After a short pause, he added, “You should have a crack at that book – I bet it would be a helluva read.”

The infectious smile returned. “That it would, like. What’ll it be then, lads?”

Whitman observed him closely as he retrieved a mixer glass and filled it with a double
Jack
with a splash of
Pepsi
, followed by a pint glass, which he started pulling Bryce’s pint into. He moved with a loose agility that Whitman had seen several times before; it was the unmistakable dance of a man who knew how to handle himself. As the froth reached the rim, the door opened, admitting Moe Baxter and Jill Fairbank, his co-worker.