The Two Towns (The Lakeland Murders) (2 page)

It was a tempting prospect, but not quite tempting enough, so Dixon sent an email to the duty uniformed Inspector, giving her the glad tidings that CID was chucking this one back. Dixon pressed send, then glanced down at his watch. He made a small bet with himself about how long it would be before she rang, based on both the Inspector’s known efficiency and his estimate of how busy she’d be that morning. He decided that two to five minutes was the likely range, and he smiled when the phone rang. Two minutes thirty: now that’s what he called a response time.

‘Yes, ma’am, I appreciate that’ he said, when he eventually got the chance to speak, ‘I understand all that. But I’ve got a MISPER on my desk, a fourteen year old missing since Thursday apparently. That has to take priority today, I’m afraid.’ Dixon listened, or at least kept the phone to his ear, until the Inspector finally stopped talking. ‘I appreciate that you’ll have to raise the matter with DI Hall, ma’am’ he said, flicking the Vs at the phone as he put it down. Dixon had been a copper long enough to know that any overt conflict with the bosses was to be avoided at all costs, at least if you wanted to enjoy a relatively easy life and the fruits of a full pension.

In truth Dixon didn’t have high hopes for his MISPER either, because the Grahams - mother and sons - were undoubtedly among the station’s most frequent flyers of all. The dads were all long gone of course, but the mum more than made up for it in terms of the regularity of her contact with the police. Shoplifting was her offence of choice, but in the twenty years since she’d turned eighteen she had run the gamut of offences of dishonesty and violence, up to and including ABH. Her three older sons were all prolific offenders as well, and the eldest had just begun his first proper jail sentence, six months for his third offence of receiving stolen goods. Dixon had been in court that day, and he thought that Sally Graham had almost looked proud as the lad had been sent down. A proper chip off the old block.

So Dixon fully expected to find that the missing boy, Johnny, would already have plenty of juvenile form. In Dixon’s extensive experience, and equally extensive range of prejudices, he should have four or five years of terrorising the playground, the local shopkeepers and any number of social workers behind him already. So when nothing showed up on the system he tried different spellings of the lad’s name. He wouldn’t put it past Sally not to know how her own kid’s name was spelled, or even when his birthday was. But still he found nothing.

So he picked up the phone, and braced himself for the tirade. He did know what the fucking time was, but he was confident that Sally would ask the question anyway, repeatedly and at volume. He started to dial, but then stopped. He looked back at the MISPER report on the screen and found the name of the individual who had actually reported the kid missing: a social worker called Kate Straw. Normally Dixon rated social workers as the most idle and obstructive organisation with which he dealt, worse even than Trumpton, aka the Fire Service. But Kate was different. She’d been in post for long enough to know that the likes of Sally Graham were beyond help, but not so long that she’d have written off the woman’s kids as well. So Dixon called Kate instead.

‘All right, Ray?’ she said, cheerfully. ‘How long to go now?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Bollocks. Isn’t it right that you can calculate, to the shift, how long you’ve got left to do?’

‘You make it sound like a bloody life sentence.’

‘Isn’t it? I’m just about to go out and try to run away a bit of last week’s stress, chaos, misery and general shit. So what can I do for you?’

‘Johnny Graham. You reported him missing.’

‘I did. His head teacher tipped me off. The kid didn’t show up on Thursday or Friday, so the head gave me a call. They’ve got the sense to call me before the mum, see. So I reported it.’

‘Is that it, lass? What, aren’t you busy enough or something?’

‘My case load is mental, in every sense.’

‘Then why report the kid missing? Christ, when it comes to that family I’d be more surprised if a kid of Sal’s was at school two days in a row, rather than bloody AWOL.’

‘No, Ray, you’re wrong there. Dead wrong. Johnny is an amazing kid really. I have no idea why or how this happened, but at an early age he seemed to decide that his mum’s world view, if you can call it that, was utterly and totally shit. So he works hard at school, even though his mum’s idea of a square meal of an evening is some frozen fucking onion rings and a can of fizzy pop.’

‘So the bloody system’s actually right for once then? The kid’s got no previous? Not a thing?’

‘That’s right, mate. I probably find this almost as hard to understand as you do, but it seems that once in about every five hundred bloody years a kid manages to overcome both nature and nurture. Fuck knows how, like.’

For the first time in weeks Dixon had that feeling, the one that he both dreaded and welcomed. Like adrenaline mixed with heartburn. Dreaded because he knew that there’d be hard graft ahead, and plenty of it too, but welcomed because he’d get to do what he knew he did best, and that was to be a detective. And this one didn’t feel right, even now. He trusted Kate Straw’s judgement, and she’d made it clear that this was totally out of character for the lad. And that really got his red flags flying. So this time he picked up the phone and dialled Sally Graham’s number without a second’s hesitation, and he let it ring until she answered.

‘It’s Ray Dixon, from Kendal nick.’

‘Fuck off’ said Sally, and slammed down the phone.

Dixon dialled again, and waited patiently until Sally answered.

‘Do you want me to come round there then, Sal?’ he said calmly. ‘Because we are going to have a little chat this morning, I promise you.’

‘No. No way. What do you want, Ray? Do you know what time it is?’

‘I thought you’d be getting ready for church.’

‘Fuck off. What is it, you bastard?’

‘It’s about Johnny.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘Nothing. Why do you ask?’

‘Why else would you be phoning me at five o’clock on a Sunday morning.’

‘It’s after nine. We’ve had a report that Johnny is missing.’

‘Who says? That interfering bitch Straw, I expect. Look, Ray, I’ll tell you what I told her. He’s just missed a couple of days of school, that’s all. That’s not a fucking crime now, is it?’

‘Actually, Sal, it’s your legal responsibility to see that he’s at school.’

‘Shut up. No way. He’s old enough to look after himself, make his own decisions, like.’

‘He’s fourteen.’

‘Aye, and I was fifteen when I had our Darren.’

‘So he’s at home now, is he? Johnny, I mean.’

‘I expect so.’

‘Is he or isn’t he?’

‘How would I know?’

‘Because you’re his mother, Sally. It’s your bloody job to know.’

‘All right. Keep your hair on. You want me to go and check, do you?’

‘Aye.’

‘Hold on.’

Dixon heard heavy receding footsteps, plenty of swearing, and a TV show that he couldn’t identify. Twenty seconds later Sally Graham came back on the line.

‘He’s here.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Of course I’m fucking sure. He’s in his bloody room.’

‘And he’ll be at school tomorrow?’

‘Aye.’

‘He’d better be, Sal.’

‘He will be. Now fuck off, Ray.’

When he’d put the phone down Dixon sat and thought for a moment. That feeling was still there, despite what Sally had said. He considered going round to the house to see the kid for himself, and later he’d ask himself, with increasing urgency, exactly why he hadn’t. It had started to rain, and he quite fancied another cup of tea, but surely that can’t have been why? But he didn’t get up, and just sat for a minute, until the feeling almost passed. Then he entered the details of the call onto the system, picked up his mug, and made his way to the kitchen. A couple of biscuits from the boss’s private stash would go rather nicely with a brew, he thought.

Monday, 7th November

Jane Francis locked the front door of the little cottage that she’d bought on Fellside. She still hadn’t got used to owning her own place, but it felt good and grown-up. It’s what her dad would have wanted, anyway. One of her neighbours, a woman in her late sixties, had knocked on the door within ten minutes of the removal van leaving, and Jane had submitted to a friendly but persistent inquisition. No doubt the answers she’d given would be all along the terrace by now, filtered through the world view of a widowed ex-teacher. But Mrs. Ward had at least seemed happy to discover that Jane was a police officer, although she had expressed doubts about the suitability of the job for a woman.

‘I’m a detective now, Mrs. Ward. I don’t have to go and sort out pub fights or domestic incidents.’

‘Oh, we don’t get those in Kendal, dear. A respectable town, is this.’

Jane had kept her doubts to herself, even though she’d seen the statistics and Kendal was, in fact, a fairly typical market town when it came to most of the relevant metrics. But as she unlocked her car, and looked down at the town below her she did wonder, briefly, if the place really was as peaceful as it seemed. Might she have been better advised to stay in the city? What if DI Hall had just talked a good game, and was nothing more than an obviously able man enjoying an early retirement on full pay? After all, he’d told her that he had two teenage kids, and perhaps he was a man who had first achieved and now enjoyed a proper work-life balance. It was something that Jane had never managed. Not yet, anyway.

But the moment she walked into the police station her fears faded, because it looked, sounded and even smelt just like the one she’d come from in Manchester. She gave her name at the front desk, and waited for DS Mann to come and collect her. She’d only met him briefly, after she’d accepted Hall’s job offer, and she remembered a broad-shouldered, quiet man. The type, she’d thought, that you’d probably rather have alongside you in a fight than in the interview room.

Twenty minutes later her opinion had changed considerably. Hall was in his weekly meeting with the divisional Superintendent, so she sat and had a coffee with Ian Mann at his desk. He seemed friendly, funny and very, very tough. It wasn’t anything he said, because he didn’t tell a single war story. It was just something about the way that other officers, especially the blokes, were around him. As if they were measuring themselves somehow.

‘Are you a betting lass, Jane?’ he asked.

‘No. I had a bet online on the Grand National once, but my horse fell and had to be shot. I was gutted.’

‘Why? How much did you lose?’

‘No, because the poor horse died.’

She glanced up at Mann, and saw that he was grinning.

‘Very funny’ she said.

‘I only ask because I bet I know what the boss is going to get you started on today.’

‘Really?’

‘Aye. A pound to a pinch of snuff he’ll ask you to review a case, first up, like. Just so he can see how you operate.’

‘That sounds sensible.’

‘Aye, and I’d even be willing to guess what the case is. This one.’ He passed a file to Jane. ‘Why not have a read of that before he gets back? At some point some health and safety numpty will turn up and spend about three hours telling you where the bloody fire exits are, but at least this’ll give you something interesting to get your teeth into.’

‘Thanks, Ian. It’s appreciated.’

‘No problem. I remember my first day out of uniform. I was keen as mustard to make a good impression.’

‘And did you?’

‘Not really. A pissed up teenager who’d assaulted and robbed some old dear threw up all over my new suit just as I was nicking him. Never the same after, that bloody suit.’

Jane laughed, and Mann smiled back.

‘And one other thing, Jane. Don’t take any notice of Ray Dixon. He’s the only bloke in this station, and quite possibly the whole bloody country, who makes me sound like a bloody new man. You know, a metro-whatsit?’

‘Metrosexual?’

‘Aye, one of them. And here’s my final prediction for today, and I bet you that I’ll be right on this one too. I’ll bet you a biscuit that DC Dixon will walk through that door in three minutes time, at 0859, and that he’ll come straight over to you and makes some remark about me. You just watch.’

‘I will. And thanks for the file.’

‘No problem, lass. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.’

Jane was already entirely absorbed by the time Ray Dixon reached her desk, even though his Hush Puppies were by far the quietest thing about him. His tan clashed with his jacket, which was at war with his shirt. He introduced himself, and they shook hands.

‘Seen the boss yet?’

‘No. Ian has been looking after me.’

‘I bet he has. Has he asked you back to see his medals?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘He will. Then it’ll be the old war wound.’ Dixon glanced round. ‘Speak of the devil’ he said, as Mann bore down on him.

‘Haven’t you got any work to do?’

‘Aye, Ian. As a matter of fact, I have. Why, do you want some of mine, like?’

Half an hour later Jane had finished her first reading of the file, and she had two pages of neatly handwritten notes, questions and ideas. And it was the ideas that excited her. The feeling, almost forgotten, that what she thought, deduced or just plain guessed might actually make a difference to something. That her mind could influence an outcome. She was so engrossed that she didn’t even notice Andy Hall walk into the open office. So it was a surprise when she saw him handing out cups of tea to the team.

‘I remember that you take black coffee with one sugar, Jane’ he said. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yes, boss, thanks.’

‘Can you spare me ten minutes?’

Jane picked up the file, put her pad on top of it and followed Hall into his office. They sat on opposite sides of his meeting table.

‘Let me guess’ said Hall. ‘That file under your pad is the Clark case.’