Weekend in Weighton Final Amazon version 12-12-12 (12 page)

I let out a long, low whistle. ‘That’s what you call instant closure, right there.’ I squeezed her hand back. ‘Did your Dad find you?’

‘We kept moving to different locations. Mum kept changing jobs. We changed schools most terms. But he found us eventually, and Mum had to give him access. It meant she got some maintenance money, though, and we settled in one place.’

‘And then?’

‘We made a life as best we could. Tried to be normal.’ She paused. ‘There was one good thing.’

‘Lower council tax?’

She lifted her head and laughed. ‘Well, yes, that. But I meant it made me study. I didn’t have close friends or clubs, so I fixed my mind on getting good marks. It helped me cope with the upheaval. Anyway, my exams went okay. Good enough to get a place at Leeds University to study law. After my degree I went to Chester Law College to do my bar exams. I knew I wanted to be a solicitor by then, and I managed to get articles with Moss & Clarke.’

‘And you came back to Weighton?’

She shrugged. ‘I applied to lots of firms in lots of places. I ended up here. Maybe fate, maybe unfinished business.’

‘How long you been back?’

‘It’s been over two years.’

‘You weren’t in a rush to look me up, then?’

‘No need. I knew I’d bump into you at some point. Wouldn’t do to be too obvious.’ She was still scribbling her “Mappa Mundi”. ‘I checked out your Facebook page,’ she went on. ‘Quite a following.’ Her eyes concentrated on me. ‘Did you look for mine?’

‘Once. Another no-show.’

‘Sorry. I never saw the point.’

‘I’m coming to the same conclusion.’ I tried to keep a light tone as I changed topics. ‘You seeing anyone?’

She gave a deliberate nod. ‘A guy at my firm. He’s just made partner.’ There was a hair twirl. ‘You?’

‘Kind of. It changes by the hour. Not the girlfriend, the relationship.’

She smiled. ‘I see.’

I stood up slowly, searching for my balance, using the tree trunk for support. ‘We better go. Those case notes won’t write themselves.’ I motioned at her hieroglyphics in the dirt. ‘Unless you’ve already made a start.’

She held out her hand and I pulled her up.

~

We got back to the multi-storey car park where she’d left her car. There, looking lonesome in its bay, was a shiny, red Mini. Nice wheels.

‘I’ll give you a lift,’ she said.

‘No thanks. I best walk. I could do with the air.’

Kate gave a slow nod and then clicked her key fob. After opening the door, she hesitated before getting in. A warm air-current blew over us. She turned to look at me, hair-arranging as she did.

‘I take it you’re not leaving town, Ed?’

I shook my head.

‘What will you do?’

I looked at her, my head a little askew, the stitches making it awkward to show an expression. ‘I’ve got a few leads to run down.’

‘You never mentioned any earlier.’

‘I don’t tell you everything, you know.’

There was a pause as she weighed up her reply. ‘Just as well I like enigmatic men.’

‘Rich, enigmatic men?’

She shook her head. ‘Colourful will do.’

‘I’ll work on it.’

Kate took a step towards me and rested her hand on my arm. ‘Be careful, hey?’

‘I will. I’m planning a Jimmy-free day.’

‘What if he catches up with you?’

‘I take them as they come.’ I gave her a wide smile, but it really hurt. In return, she gave me a look I’d never seen before. There was something different about her eyes. Something softer. What can I tell you? I was getting to her.

‘Ed,’ she said, ‘just remember– ’

‘Cherry blossoms in the market square?’

‘No. Diane, the Charge Nurse, she isn’t on tomorrow. And A&E is crazy-busy on a Saturday.’

‘Thanks for the tip. I’ll phone ahead.’

Kate opened her handbag and fished inside. She passed me her “Moss & Clarke” embossed card. ‘Here’s my direct line.’

‘We going steady now?’

‘In case you need bail.’

‘Excellent.’

She patted my arm gently and stepped away. ‘Seriously. If there’s anything I can do?’

I swept an admiring look over her Mini. ‘I could use some hot wheels.’

‘Get lost.’

As I walked home I tried to think through my plan for the next day. I kept coming to the same conclusion: there was a lot to do and not enough time to do it. Playing bus tag all day wasn’t going to help. I needed some fast wheels, fast.

I thought about my Santa Cruz Superlight. It would come into its own on the off-road switch-backs and disused rail tracks that crisscrossed town. And – major bonus – it wouldn’t get snarled up in Weighton’s rush hour. But its outright speed would let me down, and I wasn’t exactly in the best shape for a full day of pedal pushing.

Then the cavalry-thought arrived: right on time.

Diffy had a scooter. And Diffy’s arm was broken, not in one, but two places. Diffy owed me big time.

I hit the Diffy speed-dial on my phone. He was listed under “Q” for Quiz Captain.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Saturday – 08:00

I rose early on Saturday morning and got out before Mum stirred. That turned out to be a good move. I looked like a plane crash in the mirror. Not something she would have missed over the Rice Krispies. I didn’t make the mistake of gawking at myself for long, either. A glance told me the bruising was still in full bloom. A blink told me they went deep, too. Dog-leg stitches completed the authentic zombie look. If Mum had seen me, she would have freaked.

For the same reason, I’d got back deliberately late the night before. I’d crept into the house as if gliding on thermals. I’d even pushed Diffy’s RV250 the last few hundred yards to preserve the lockdown effect. Mum’s light had still been on when I got back, but praise be, she never heard a thing. At one in the morning and with a broken face, the last thing I needed was an inquisition. I might have stonewalled Hobbs, but Mrs G would have laid siege.

Having dragged my defunct body back to life and got out of the house, I decided to seize the day. And despite outward appearances, I felt okay. Maybe it was the Kate factor, maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was my newly-borrowed funky moped. Whatever it was, Eddie was back on the case and on the trail of one Tony Porson.

It was turning out to be a beautiful Saturday morning. A day when the world had to turn.

Weighton doesn’t have too many hotels, so tracking him down was straightforward. He was staying at the Belle Époque, a flophouse less salubrious than the name implied. I called up from reception and told him I was the investigator who had been working for his mother when she’d died. He agreed to see me.

Tony Porson was short and a little overweight. He had a bumpy-round face topped by wavy, brown hair. I guessed his age about thirtyish. He was wearing a beige, V-neck golf sweater and navy slacks. Any period of grieving had not paled his rosy cheeks.

As I expected, the hotel room was small, but at least the twin beds made it perfectly symmetrical. Surprisingly, the decor looked fresh and contemporary, though it suggested the interior designer had been suffering a chemical hangover the day he or she had come up with the wallpaper scheme. But what did I know? One thing that struck me was how neatly Porson Junior kept the room. Apart from the unmade bed, you wouldn’t know the maid hadn’t been in.

Porson sat on the edge of the mattress, his arms already folded against any unwelcome questions. I sat on a wooden chair by an old desk; the room’s only other piece of furniture.

‘Sorry to intrude, Mr Porson. I do know how you must be feeling right now.’

Not that he looked like I thought he would be feeling. He had the composure of a man untroubled by recent happenings. There were no outward signs that he’d identified his mother’s body in the preceding twenty-four hours.

‘Thanks. Please call me Tony.’ There was a warble in his voice. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Greene?’

‘It’s Eddie.’ I smiled a smile a little too long. It kind of got stuck there for a minute.

Tony Porson waited patiently for me to continue.

 ‘As you know,’ I said, ‘your mother hired me shortly before her death. I didn’t know her very well, but she seemed like a nice lady.’ I paused to showcase a consoling look and then went on. ‘Last Thursday she asked me to go and see her. When I got there, well, you know the rest. The police have got no real evidence against me, but they still think I had something to do with it. The onus is on me to clear my name.’

Porson played with his hands, and he didn’t maintain eye contact as he spoke. ‘The police have gone through everything with me. I don’t think I told them anything of use. Why don’t you let them sort it out? If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

‘I’m sure Nelson Mandela thought the same thing, but I’m afraid it doesn’t always work like that. If they think you’re guilty, they won’t rest.’ I shifted in my seat, aware of the awkwardness of the exchange, but I had to try to get something out of him. ‘Did your mother know anyone who disliked her for any reason?’

‘Please believe me, I’ve been through all this with the police. There’s nothing I can tell you. I agreed to see you out of courtesy, but I will not go over this ground again just for your benefit. Please, unless there is anything else …’

Another straight bat. The guy had me confused. He was friendly and polite, yet so defensive. And unless he was a closet trauma counsellor, he handled his grief pretty well. When Dad died I’d cried for weeks.

‘Just answer that one question for me, Tony, and I’ll go.’ I pressed two fingers to my head. ‘Scout’s honour.’

Porson chewed his lip. ‘All right,’ he said. His eyes skated over me. ‘Mother has no enemies that I know of. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to take a shower.’

I figured it could shower ice cubes and Porson wouldn’t notice.

~

My meeting with Tony Porson had been short but revealing. Exactly what had been revealed, I wasn’t sure, but there was something. His attitude and demeanour were strange, but the strangest thing of all had been the reference to his mother in the present tense. I’d read somewhere that in a state of grief it was common to make such a slip, though usually the person corrected themselves afterwards. But with Tony Porson there was little sign of grief and no correction. The whole vibe had felt surreal.

I’d had the same feeling when I’d examined the deceased Mrs P. It was obviously her, but she looked like she’d been airbrushed by a latter-day Lowry. Two loose threads. Did they pull in the same direction? That was my hunch. But if there was a stitch to bind them, it was to be found at 4 Priory Road, scene of the crime. I had no idea what I was looking for, but that was my next stop.

Somehow I had to get in the house without being seen. Even once inside, snooping around wouldn’t be easy. I’d have to avoid the unwanted gaze of Mrs Davies next door. The nosey mare had already shopped me once.

I parked Diffy’s scooter at the top of the road and walked down to the house. By keeping my helmet on and dangling my ruck-sack along the pavement, I hoped to pass for a courier. As I approached the drive I spied my first obstacle: yellow “incident” tape crisscrossing the gate posts. A quick check to make sure no one was looking and a nifty limbo dance soon outsmarted the tape. The presence of the police bunting meant, officially at least, the house was still a crime scene. But with forensics seemingly done, the fuzz were long gone. They hadn’t even left a uniform on duty. For once, an overtime ban had worked in my favour.