Authors: Chris Simms
Are you in?' A second's silence. 'No, it's empty.'
Jon breathed in sharply through his nose. 'Hang on. I'll try her mobile.' He pressed the speed dial, listened as the phone started ringing. Thank God, it's not on answer phone.
'It's me.'
'Mum?'
'Yes. Alice's phone is in the kitchen.'
Fuck, she never goes anywhere without it. 'Mum, can you stay there until she gets back?'
'Again? OK, I'll hang this washing out.'
He returned the phone to his pocket. Was he panicking over nothing? Yes. She hadn't cracked up. Jesus, he'd attended enough incidents where someone had. She wasn't even close to the mental state of those poor bastards.
'Problem?'
Jon looked at Rick. 'Alice has disappeared again.'
'Again?'
'Yeah, she went off to the library yesterday. She'd switched her phone off.'
'And today?'
'She's gone off somewhere with Holly and left her phone at home.'
'Do you want to go back to your place?'
Jon weighed it up. 'No. Mum's there. We'll only do each other's heads in if I'm waiting there too. She'll have just popped out to the shops or something.'
Rick shrugged. 'If you're sure. Summerby's putting everything into finding James Field. There's a team heading over to the Silverdale as we speak, another has gone to find his probation officer and they're trying to trace his social worker too.'
'What about us?'
'He says to start going through this place. A car's on its way to help.'
Jon looked around. 'Let's do it then.'
Thirty-Four
They started going through the front room, pulling out drawers, leafing through papers, searching for any clues as to what James Field might be planning next.
Rick went over to the answer phone and pressed play. Three messages from the owner of the garage asking where he was. They'd moved to his bedroom when Jon heard Rick announce,
'This is weird.'
Jon paused at the open wardrobe and glanced over his shoulder. Rick was on his knees, bent almost double so he could see under the bed. 'What is?'
'There's nothing of a personal nature. I was expecting some porn hidden in here at the very least. Would you have any meaningful idea of who lived in this flat if we didn't know already?'
Jon bowed his head in thought. Rick was right. The flat was missing the usual items that made it someone's home; photos of friends and family, phone numbers on scraps of paper, even documents such as phone bills, bank letters or nectar card statements. James Field had left as much trail as a ghost.
He turned the wardrobe inside out. Old trainers, battered jeans, a hooded top. The bathroom bore even less fruit. No bottles or pills bearing a GP's label or a pharmacy's price sticker. Jon slammed the cabinet shut. 'There has to be something in this place.'
They pulled up carpets, tapped for fake floorboards. Nothing.
'Right,' said Jon. 'The bastard thinks he's clever. Let's check outside.'
They went to the walled off area containing the residents' bins. Green containers were lined against the wall, each one bearing the number of a flat. Jon zoned straight in on number three, flipping it over and dragging out a single bag of rubbish. He ripped it open, spilling potato peelings, blackened bananas and several empty pots of yoghurt, green mould ringing their rims. 'Let's check the rest.'
They started tipping over the others and hauled out rubbish sacks, the sweet smell of putrescence filling the air. Scrunched up letters, pizza boxes, clumps of hair, empty wine bottles, used tampons, plastic containers, lumps of festering chicken, crumpled tins and cans.
'No wonder the country's landfill sites are overflowing. Have this lot heard of recycling?' Rick muttered, crouched before a knotted bin liner. He pulled the plastic apart and his hands stopped. 'Jon.'
Jon turned. A shoebox was at the top, its lid slightly off. 'Lift it out, carefully.'
Using the tips of his gloved fingers, Rick lifted the object clear of the debris surrounding it. The layer of grey dust covering the lid had finger marks in it. Rick flipped it off and they stared at the pile of letters inside. The address on the uppermost envelope read,
James Field, Flat
3
, Oakdene Flats, Thomas Street, Ryder Brow, Manchester.
'Gotcha,' Jon grinned.
Back in James' flat, they started laying the letters out on the living room floor. Most of the envelopes were written in a childish style. 'Danny Gordon's writing,' Jon said. The remainder of the envelopes were written in a neater hand. At the bottom of the shoebox was an envelope with Kenyan stamps on it. No letter was inside, just the stubs of two plane tickets. 'He flew to Nairobi on the fifth of March, two thousand and one, returning on the twenty-sixth.'
Rick had slid a letter out from one of the envelopes bearing the childish writing. 'You're right, it's sent from Strangeways. Jesus, Danny Gordon couldn't have been awake in many of his school classes, the spelling is atrocious.'
'What does it say?' Jon asked, picking up a letter with the neat handwriting.
'Just going on about being bored. Slagging off his padmate, talking about what they'll get up to when he gets out.'
Jon unfolded his letter, a frown slowly appearing on his face.
'It's from a Pat and Ian Field.'
'His parents?'
Jon read the letter in its entirety. 'They adopted him.' He turned the letter over, glanced at the date at the top. 'This was written after James returned from Nairobi. They're asking his forgiveness for what happened, saying it wasn't their decision about his name. They tried to do what was right and they still love him as their son.' He looked at Rick. 'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'
Rick looked at the note James had left for Jon. 'The one more place he has to visit. Surely not?'
'I don't know. I hope not, but... Christ, they obviously infuriated him.'
'Is there an address or phone number?'
'Both. They're asking him to at least call them. I've got a really bad feeling about this.' He took his phone out and entered the number.
A woman answered. 'Yes?'
'Pat Field?'
'Yes, who is this speaking?'
'My name is DI Spicer. I work for Greater Manchester Police.'
'Oh.'
'Mrs Field, is your husband there?'
'Yes.'
'With you in the house?'
'He's out raking leaves off the lawn.'
'Is anyone else with you?'
'No. Detective, your tone of voice. Is this bad news?'
Bad news? You could say that. 'I don't mean to alarm you, but can you get your husband inside the house and then lock the doors?' He paused, wondering whether he should say any more. You've no choice, he thought. He could be in their garden right now. 'Do not allow anyone inside, unless they're a police officer. I'll send a patrol car round and I'll be there soon.'
'What is this about?'
'Mrs Field, this concerns James. Do not let him in, do you understand?'
'James.' There was a note of resignation in her voice. 'What's he done?'
'There isn't any time. Just get your husband inside, we'll be there soon.'
He hung up, eyes still on the letter. 'Bollington. That's about forty-five minutes away.'
They were on their way out when the support car arrived.
'Seal the flat,' Jon barked, handing the letter to the officer in front. 'And contact the police station nearest to this address. Get them to send a patrol car round, it's where James Field might be heading. Tell Summerby we're on our way there.'
They passed the
Welcome to Bollington
sign forty minutes later. The sky resembled an old sheet, dull white as far as the eye could see, bare twigs on the trees outlined sharply against it.
The narrow high street ran on and on, leading them past several pubs. At an aqueduct a lane led off to the left. 'That's it, Owen's Lane,' Rick said, an A to Z open on his lap.
Jon took the turn and the car bumped over rough cobbles. Waterview was the fourth cottage they reached, ivy creeping over stone walls. A patrol car was already outside, a uniformed officer leaning against it.
'Thank God there are no ambulances,' Jon said.
They parked behind the vehicle and jumped out. 'DI Spicer and DS Saville. Your colleagues are inside?'
'Yes, Sir,' the officer replied. From his expression, Jon could see he was dying to know what this was all about. 'Keep in your vehicle and lock the doors. Maintain contact via your radio.'
The young man began to smile.
Rick stepped forward. 'The guy we're after? He's a total fucking head case.'
The officer's expression dropped like a stone when he saw they were serious. Quickly he clambered inside.
Jon and Rick strode up the short path and knocked on the wooden door. Movement behind the frosted glass and the door opened. 'Don't do that again,' Jon said to the officer, voice low.
'You ask the person to identify himself first, understand?' The man nodded. 'Sorry, Sir.'
Jon and Rick stepped into a low hallway lined with watercolours of the local area. Lyme Park, Kinder Scout, Fernilee Reservoir.
'They're in the front room, Sir.' The officer pointed to the left.
Jon was surprised to see that the couple were both white. He was completely bald, she had grey hair tied back in a bun. He guessed they were in their late fifties. They were sitting side by side on a floral patterned sofa, their hands clasped together. Mrs Field wore slippers and the husband an old pair of mud-caked shoes. Bits were on the cream carpet. 'Mr and Mrs Field, I'm DI Spicer. Sorry for all the commotion.' He looked at the wife. 'We spoke just earlier?'
'Yes,' she replied nervously. 'What happened?'
Jon took a seat opposite them. Where do I start, he wondered, extracting his notebook to give him a few seconds. 'It's about James. Your adopted son?'
They both nodded in perfect unison, the action of lifelong partners.
'Why all this?' The husband's voice was deep. He waved a hand at the mullioned window and the patrol car outside.
'I'm afraid it appears James is involved in a couple of incidents that have involved the use of violence.'
He watched as they turned to each other. Tears had sprung up in Mrs Field's eyes and her fingers tightened on her husband's.
'Oh Ian.'
Mr Field put an arm round her shoulders and cleared his throat. He looked at the wall to his side. 'We were afraid something like this would happen.'
Jon followed the direction of his sad gaze. The framed photo above the fireplace was of a young boy running through a carpet of bluebells. The shattered hopes of proud parents.
'Was it robbery?' Mrs Field asked.
Jon didn't reply. How can I tell them? It wasn't possible. Instead he dipped his head as if in agreement, unable to actually say yes.
'Armed?' Mr Field asked.
Oh shit, thought Jon. Now I'm getting dragged in deeper. He dipped his head once again. 'Could you tell me about James? We need to know as much about him as possible.'
The couple's eyes met once again and he could see Mr Field was waiting for his wife's assent. Jon was suddenly aware of a clock ticking in the room. Finally she gave a single, reluctant, nod.
With a sigh, Mr Field began. 'We adopted James when he was six. He was an orphan and had spent all his life inside children's homes. He'd never known anything else. Pat and I couldn't have children. This was in the early eighties, before they tightened the rules about white parents and different race children.'
Jon nodded, aware of how the adoption agency had altered its policy in the light of problems arising from Vietnamese, then later, Romanian adoptions.
'We were living in Manchester at the time. Near Prestwich. James was a very intelligent child, but restless, insecure. He couldn't understand so many things when he first moved in. How we would trust him.'
'Like money,' Mrs Field explained in a tremulous voice. 'The way we didn't lock away our cash. He would steal it at first, hoarding it in places round his bedroom. It took a while before he realised there was no need. School was where the real problems started.'
Her voice fell away and the husband took over once again.
'Kids – and some adults I regret to say – couldn't understand how a black child could be dropped off by a white mum. Pat got some comments, but nothing, I suspect, to what James suffered. He became rebellious, that old streak re-emerging. Fights. He's a powerful lad and soon no one was prepared to take him on. The bad elements accepted him into their group. We found it harder and harder to control him. He was arrested for stealing from cars. Then he started taking the cars themselves.'
Jon noted it all down, the familiar path leading to prison opening up before him. An image of his younger brother crossed his mind.
'He was sent to a young offender's facility called the Silverdale when he was fourteen. School had expelled him already. That was for eight months and he returned worse than ever. Now we did have to lock up our money. He'd made new friends in that place. At sixteen he was able to give up on education completely. His home tutor was glad, scared of him in my opinion. Anyway, we saw less and less of him after that. He was back in the Silverdale within months – joyriding and assaulting a police officer – and the few times he did return home, he kept asking about his real parents. The issue became more and more important to him.'
Jon looked up. 'Who were they?'
'We only had limited information, and that's because the authorities didn't know that much either. His mother, we gathered, was of Kenyan descent. She was from a tribe called the Kikuyu, but she had also been brought up in this country by a white couple. She died giving birth to James.'
'And the father?'
'No one knew who he was. Although James looks more black than white, he is mixed race. So we knew the father was white.' Jon thought about the letters. 'We found some correspond- ence in James's flat. You had written to him there.'
Mrs Field's chin went up and she wiped a tear from her eye.
'He'd kept those letters?'
'Yes,' Jon answered, not mentioning that they'd been dumped in a neighbour's bin. 'You were talking about his real name. We didn't understand.'