I was heading for Sam Nixon's office, walking quickly through Blackley along the paved precinct, chain stores on one side and the entrance to an indoor mall on the other. Victorian shop-fronts used to line the street, back when the town was the glamorous big brother to Turners Fold, but the area had tried to shake off its past a few decades earlier. The modern town plan that had come along in its place looked tired already. Not many people walked the streets, just earnest young college students and shop assistants clicking their way to work in high heels.
I could see Sam watching my approach. His office was above a print shop, accessed through a glass door at the bottom of some stairs, his name spelled out in gold leaf. His clients congregated there sometimes, somewhere quiet and warm to swap dealer names, but Sam's wife, Helena, acted as the bouncer. She used to be a lawyer herself, straw-blonde with stick-thin arms and a pinched nose, but years out bringing up children and being on the wrong end of a breath test turned her against it. Instead, she managed the paperwork, the money, and allowed Sam to do the law.
I exchanged quick greetings with Helena, just a peck on the cheek. Her face was cold, her complexion pale.
‘How's business?’ I asked.
Helena grimaced. ‘Crime's no game for a sole practitioner.’
‘Not busy?’
She laughed, but it sounded bitter. ‘People through the door are not the problem. Getting a decent rate of pay for it, that's the problem.’
I didn't respond. I reckoned our views on decent pay might be different. Instead, I let Helena show me through the reception area and into Sam's office, a large room with just a chipboard desk and worn-out chairs bought in a clearance sale. The desk was busy with files, the dark blue of
Blackstone's,
Sam's preferred legal reference, acting as a paperweight, but the room felt bare and cold. Sam Nixon & Co. hadn't brought in enough money to think about comfort.
Sam stood up as I entered, smiling, his hand out to shake. ‘Hello Jack, good to see you.’
I shook his hand and noticed the tiredness behind his smile. Sam looked like business was tough. He wasn't much older than me, both of us moving through our mid-thirties, but his face looked filled with worry, his hair was working its way backwards quickly, and whatever was left was sprinkled with grey. He had lost weight and lines had started to appear around his eyes.
Sam Nixon fed me stories, often just a nod as he came into court, a tip that a case was worth hanging around for. My write-ups shamed his clients, but it kept his
name in the paper and a steady footfall through his door. For me, it was my job. For Sam, it was free publicity.
‘How's Laura?’ he asked.
‘She's on CRT.’
‘Good hours for the family,’ said Sam, nodding his approval.
I smiled, played the happy boyfriend for a moment, aware that there were other people in the room.
Laura was a detective on the Custody Reception Team at Blackley Police, who dealt with the overnighters, the burglars and the domestic bullies. The nightshift officers would be long gone to their beds, leaving behind a disgruntled prisoner and a bundle of paperwork, and Laura's team had to sort it out. It gave her regular hours, but it meant she spent most days interviewing hostile prisoners in the belly of the old police station, where the smell of the cells, sweat and vomit, seeped into her clothes.
I was suspicious of Sam. If a criminal lawyer asked me first about the welfare of my detective girlfriend, I assumed that he didn't want her around.
‘You know what Blackley is like,’ I said. ‘It's full of criminals. They keep her busy.’
‘Blame it on the lawyers for setting them free,’ Sam replied.
As he was talking, I turned towards the other people in the room, a middle-aged couple perched uncomfortably on chairs. I recognised them immediately. Their faces had filled the local news for the last week. I looked back at Sam, who seemed nervous now.
‘Jack, this is Ray and Lucy Goode,’ he said.
I smiled a polite greeting, but I knew who they were. Their daughter had made the headlines, a pretty young teacher, the photograph from the school prospectus showing her with straight auburn hair and freckles like splashes. Sarah had a boyfriend, Luke, a fitness instructor at her gym. It was normal girl-boy stuff, until Luke had been stabbed to death in her bed a week earlier and Sarah had disappeared.
It had played out in the local paper for a few days, had even brushed the nationals, but the television got the best angle – the news conferences, Mr and Mrs Goode tearful and scared, begging for Sarah to come home – but then it went quiet when there was nothing new to report. I'd guessed the subtext: it was officially a missing persons investigation, but, for the police, Sarah Goode was a murderer on the run.
‘This is Jack Garrett,’ Sam said. ‘Our local hotshot reporter.’ When I didn't respond, he added, ‘They want to speak to you. Is that okay?’
I nodded at them politely, but then I asked Sam, ‘Why me?’
Sam looked embarrassed. ‘It's probably for the best if they tell you about it.’ He went towards the door. ‘I'll be in the next room if you need me.’
I watched him go, surprised, and wondered why he didn't want to be a part of it. When the door clicked shut, Sam left behind an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the ticking clock on the wall and the creaks of the chairs as Mr and Mrs Goode shuffled nervously.
I tried to weigh them up. They were in their fifties. She was in a blue suit, knee-length skirt and blazer, navy
blue with gold buttons, her hair in tight grey curls. He looked uncomfortable in a dated brown suit, as if he hadn't worn one for a long time, and I could see the shirt collar digging into his neck. His sandy hair had receded to just wisps of a comb-over.
‘This is about Sarah, I presume?’ I said.
They glanced at each other, and I saw a nod, a look of comfort. It was Mrs Goode who took the lead.
‘Yes, it's about our daughter,’ she said. Her voice was firm, but the way their knees touched told me that they needed each other for support. She licked her lips and repositioned her bag on her lap. Then she said, ‘We want you to help us find her.’
It was said simply, as if she assumed I would be interested.
I wasn't. I didn't write features any more. I'd sacrificed that for family harmony, for our bright future.
I tried to sound sympathetic. ‘I'm sorry, but that's not the sort of journalism I do, the campaign stuff. I write up court hearings, that's all.’
‘But you used to do more than that,’ said Mrs Goode. ‘Mr Nixon told me about some of the stories you wrote.’
‘That was then. And I'm a reporter, not a private detective.’
‘But we thought it would be a good story if you found her,’ she pressed.
I shook my head slowly. ‘I don't see a story, not the type I write.’
They looked down, disappointed. Mrs Goode clenched her jaw and a tear dripped onto her eyelashes.
It was Mr Goode who spoke next. ‘Not even if you found her first?’ His voice was quiet, hesitant.
I gave him a smile filled with fake regret. ‘The police will have to speak to her before me, and if Sarah is charged I won't be able to write anything that might affect the case. It's called
sub judice.
It would just sit on an editor's desk for six months, maybe longer.’
‘There might not be a court case,’ Mrs Goode said, her eyes imploring. ‘If you could find her and bring her in, once we know what she is going to say, she might have a defence.’
My eyes narrowed at that. ‘What about Sam Nixon?’ I asked. ‘Will he speak to Sarah before she goes to the police?’
Mrs Goode looked down and didn't answer. That told me all I needed to know. It wasn't about a story, it was about Sarah's parents getting her story straight first, before she handed herself in.
‘I'm sorry, I really am,’ I said as I headed for the door, ‘but I don't see a story, not yet anyway.’
They both turned to each other and exchanged desperate looks. Mrs Goode put her hand over Mr Goode's hand and squeezed it. He looked like he was about to break down. It stalled me.
Mrs Goode turned back to me. ‘Thank you for coming down, Mr Garrett,’ she said softly. ‘At least you listened.’
‘How much have you told the police?’ I asked.
‘Whatever they wanted to know.’
I sighed. ‘If they can't find Sarah, I don't see how I can,’ I said, and this time the regret was genuine.
As I left the room I saw that Sam was waiting in one of the reception chairs. ‘How was it?’ he asked.
‘You know damn well how it was,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’ Sam replied, as he picked at his fingers and tried to look innocent.
‘They came to you because they know the police want to arrest her for murder,’ I said. ‘Is that right?’
Sam started to say something, but then he stopped himself. He nodded and tried to shrug an apology instead, but then he realised that it was pointless.
‘They're decent people,’ he said. ‘They're worried about their daughter.’
‘And someone is dead,’ I replied harshly. ‘His family will be decent people too.’ Sam looked down, so I continued, ‘They need someone to help them find her, but they can't afford a private investigator and they thought I would come cheap. About right?’
‘But it would be a good story if you could find her.’
‘I wish it was like that, Sam, because I need the money – Laura's lawyers are taking most of what we have – but you don't understand journalism. I deal in court titbits, pub talk.’ Sam looked confused, so I said, ‘My point made. Papers want the pub tales:
Man Bites Dog,
that type ofthing. This is feature stuff, an in-depth analysis, and I can't afford to take the gamble of someone being interested. And anyway, if I find her,
I'm
the story, and that's not how I want it right now.’
Sam nodded in apology. ‘I'm sorry, Jack. They came to me for help. They're desperate people, and they're good people. You were the only avenue I could think of.’
I sighed. ‘So what's your interest?’
Sam looked sheepish at that. ‘We're struggling, Jack,’ he said. ‘We've got the work coming in, but it's all small stuff. Shoplifts, car breaks, Saturday night bust-ups. It's turnover work, but the bills come in faster than the clients.’
‘You need a murder to put you in the big league,’ I said, acknowledging his admission, and then nodded back towards the room I had just been in. ‘And so you need their daughter in a cell.’
Sam looked ashamed, but he added, ‘This is my living. I didn't kill that man, and someone has to represent her. Why not me?’
I thought about Mr and Mrs Goode and the look they both had – confused, helpless, wanting help. ‘I think they want a bit more,’ I said, and headed for the exit. ‘Thanks for the tip, Sam, but I can't see a story in it.’
Sam didn't answer, and so I was back on the street, heading towards the Magistrates Court, ready for another day of routine crime stories.
As Rod Lucas pushed open the door to Abigail's cottage, the smell hit him first. It was strong, sort of smoky. Incense-burners, he guessed. His eldest daughter had gone through a phase of burning them in her room. It helped her sleep, or so she claimed at the time. It was to cover up the smell of cigarettes, he learned later. She was away at university now, and her twenty-a-day habit was one of a list of concerns.
But he remembered the cloying smell, the way it made him cough and wrinkle his nose. He could understand an experimental teenager burning them, but why a pensioner living in a remote cottage?
He looked around. Rod had expected chintz: patterned sofas, high-backed chairs, china ornaments everywhere and pictures of grandchildren, but the cottage wasn't like that. The walls were painted black, with thick red cloth covering the windows and tall mirrors on the walls, ornate and Gothic. There were candles everywhere – on the mantelpiece, the sideboards, the windowsills – everything from deeply scented ones in small jars to large black altar candles.
He saw a rug pushed up against the wall, revealing the stone floor, large slabs worn smooth over the years. His eyes widened when he saw why it had been moved, and what was in its place, the thing that dominated the space.
White lines criss-crossed the room, jagged and uneven, made up of something sprinkled onto the floor, like small white grains. There was a table and chair set in the middle of it all, as if the old lady sat in it when she was alone. Lucas stooped down to dab his finger into the lines. He tasted it. Salt.
The lines made a shape. It wasn't perfect, as if it had been done in a rush, but he could make it out: a five-pointed star, with things placed at each point. A small posy of flowers; a large red candle; a sea-shell.
Rod thought back to the explosive device. Why would anyone target this woman? Was her lifestyle the reason? This was the third explosion like this, but no one had reported anything strange in the other houses. Or maybe they just hadn't looked hard enough.
He would go to the hospital next. Maybe Abigail could provide the answers.
I shuffled on the bench at the side of the Magistrates Court in Blackley as I tried to get comfortable. It was still before ten and the court hadn't started yet, although I could hear the corridor getting busier. I looked up to the ceiling, at the flaking paint, and wondered how I had got to this point. I used to write crime features for the nationals when I was a freelancer in London, had always had the dream of writing a book, maybe ghostwriting a
gangster memoir. Now, I churned out the small stories: incidents of local shame, drunken fights, domestic violence, sexual misbehaviour. The local paper paid me for each story rather than a salary, so if the crime scene went quiet, or if the police started another new initiative to keep people away from courts, then I didn't get paid. I worked my own hours, though, and it still left me to peddle the better stories to the nationals, but I used to do so much more.
But I knew that Laura was right. The stories were steady work and provided a stable home. Laura was doing the same, working regular hours, no shifts, so that we were home each evening, and there was nothing for the judge to criticise when the trial for Bobby's custody started.
I looked around the courtroom, empty apart from the prosecutor at the front, sorting out his pile of files, ready for the morning slog. The defence would arrive soon, wanting their papers for the overnight clients.
‘Anything decent for me?’ I asked.
The prosecutor looked up. ‘Uh-huh?’
He was one of the old guard; when the mood was right he was effective, but most days his job was just a plough through Blackley's grime.
‘Anything to report?’ I asked. ‘I'm not here because I like your suit.’
He smiled at that, just a glimmer. ‘Just the usual,’ he said. ‘We've got a drink-driving teacher, crashed his car leaving school, if that's any good.’
I raised my eyebrows. Another reputation ruined, but his shame was his problem. My mortgage was mine.
‘Don't get too excited, though,’ said the prosecutor.
‘Mick Boreman's defending. There'll be no guilty plea today.’
‘Too middle class to be guilty?’ I queried.
‘Something like that.’
I exhaled and sat back. I couldn't write the story properly until he was convicted. It was good for a paragraph reporting his name and profession, but not much else.
I thought about Mr and Mrs Goode as I waited for court to start. Was I right to turn down their request? Looking for Sarah would be a break from the mundane, and it might be a good feature to have written up and ready just in case she was caught and convicted. But then I thought about the bills that dropped onto the mat most mornings, how we needed the steady production line of small tales from the courtroom just to keep ahead of those, and if Geoff went all the way with his custody case then Laura's lawyers would soak up the rest, and quite a bit more.
The tapping of my pen got faster.
The family future was nearly resolved though. Anything I wrote now would be published later, long after the custody case had finished, and if the court was going to be quiet then it might be worth looking into Sarah's case, just to see if there was something to grab the headline. I could write the feature at night, after Laura had gone to bed.
I felt some guilt creep up on me as I thought of Laura, but I dismissed it, perhaps too quickly. I was a reporter; selling stories was what I did.
I put my notepad back in my pocket and rushed out of the courtroom.