She knelt down, tried to see if he was injured. Then, as he turned over, she saw his face and recognised him.
It was Connor Crabtree, the boy who had been missing for a week. As he rolled over, something slipped out of his pocket onto the grass. It was a business card, showing large hands over a small head, protective, healing. The same as the ones found with all the other boys.
She glanced over to her car. Bobby had his face pressed against the window, looking out.
Laura reached for her phone and dialled 999. Bobby was going to be late for school.
I sat in my car and looked at the piece of paper in my hand, the painting given to me by Sam Nixon the day before. Eric Randle painted dreams, he had said. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, but I got the sense that Randle was getting himself involved in the case, and that usually meant something. He’d found Jess Goldie’s body and then bothered the lawyer acting for the first suspect. He had involved himself with Darlene Tyler. People like that don’t give up.
I needed to speak to him. What type of feature depended on his co-operation, but I knew one thing: I was going to write it.
So I waited in my car in a parking slot, just thirty minutes allowed, and kept watch for Nixon. Maybe he could provide the link.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Sam bounded down the steps to the street, an old man shuffling behind him. I got just glimpses, the pavements busy with lawyers walking towards court, buff files tucked under their arms, weaving between builders
and workmen eating breakfast from a sandwich bar, but I saw the old man produce a piece of paper.
I jumped out of my car and walked over to them. I heard Sam say to the old man, ‘I’ve told you: this is not a legal problem.’
I thought Sam looked harassed, his voice tetchy. The old man looked disappointed.
‘Hello, Mr Nixon,’ I said.
He turned round and looked at me in exasperation. ‘Here,’ he said to the old man. ‘The press are here. They’ll listen to you.’
Sam thrust a piece of paper back into the old man’s hands and walked away, bumping into my shoulder as he went.
I looked at the old man and knew straightaway that I was looking at Eric Randle. I recognised him from the Tyrone Tyler article.
I smiled to myself, unable to believe my luck. The old man looked forlorn as he stared down at whatever Sam had thrust back at him. I saw that his suit was shabby, cheap and grey, with the cloth worn around the pockets and shiny along the arms. He looked like he’d had a shave, though, judging from the pieces of tissue with dots of red stuck to his neck. The collar on his shirt was frayed, but he looked more like someone who had made a special effort than someone who didn’t care.
He looked up as I stood in front of him, peering at me through thick lenses, the bridge of his glasses held together by clear tape.
‘Hello, Mr Randle. I’m Jack Garrett.’
He shrank back, suddenly scared. ‘How do you know my name?’ He looked around and started to inch away along the pavement.
I did my best to look friendly. ‘I heard about the poor woman you found yesterday. It must have been a terrible shock.’
Eric looked down and I saw his chin tremble. And I wondered if he was shivering. He wasn’t wearing a coat and he looked like he was trying to stay warm. He was thin and frail.
‘We could go somewhere,’ I said. ‘Get some breakfast maybe?’ When he looked unsure, I added, ‘On me.’
He stopped and gave me a thin smile, his eyes weak and yellow-tinged. ‘I don’t know you. Why should I trust you?’
I looked up towards the Parsons offices, at the gold-leaf letters on the windows. ‘I know Sam Nixon.’
Eric nodded slowly, as if I had said enough, and then turned to walk in front of me. As I got alongside him, I tried to sound like I was making idle conversation.
‘What’s that in your hand?’ I asked.
He looked at the paper as if he had forgotten it was there. ‘It’s just a painting.’ His voice seemed quiet, unsure.
‘Of what?’
There was a long silence and I didn’t push him. Then he said quickly, ‘I paint my dreams.’
I feigned surprise. ‘That sounds interesting.’
He looked up at me, and his wariness started to fade. I pointed him into a café behind a Victorian shop-front,
with sauce bottles on the table and stewed tea served in chipped white mugs. He looked hungrily at the menu, displayed on white plastic behind the counter, so I ordered two teas and a full English for Eric. I stayed silent as he ate, his eyes never leaving the plate, the beans and tomatoes mopped up by thick white bread, until eventually he pushed the plate away and adjusted his glasses. He looked sheepish, as if I had caught him at a weak moment.
‘Why do you paint your dreams?’
He looked embarrassed. ‘Because they come true.’
I laughed politely. ‘If only we could
all
say that.’
He shook his head. ‘No, not like that. These are bad dreams, and later on, they come true.’ He licked his lips and rubbed his forehead. There was a film of sweat there.
‘Why does that concern Sam Nixon?’ I asked.
He studied me, as if he was trying to work out how much I knew.
Then he smiled properly, but I detected sadness, his eyes moist, and he looked away.
‘He’s in them,’ he said quietly. ‘In my dreams.’
I paused for a moment as I remembered Sam’s reaction when he’d seen the television pictures, a replay of the painting he had given me.
‘How did you know it was Sam?’
Eric stared blankly at me and said, ‘I’ve seen him on the news before, on the court steps, things like that.’
‘What was he doing in your dream?’
‘I see him running,’ Eric said, his nervousness disappearing, his eyes becoming more focused, direct.
‘Through doors, one after the other. It’s dark, but still he just keeps on going. He is panicking. I’m chasing him, running harder than I’ve run in years, but I can’t catch him up. I’m screaming, screaming really hard, stop, stop, stop, but no one listens.’ Eric banged his fist hard on the table, a flash of emotion, and his drink spilled onto the faux marble surface.
He looked up at me, panting, and then he wiped his mouth on a dirty white hanky he’d dragged out of his pocket.
‘I’m scared, Mr Garrett,’ he said.
‘Scared of what?’
Eric gulped, his gaze flickering around the café. ‘I don’t know. Scared of what I see, I suppose. Of what I hear.’
‘How long have you had these dreams?’
‘For as long as I can remember. It was only when I started painting them that I realised they were coming true.’
As he spoke, he looked lost, bewildered.
‘How long have you been dreaming about Sam?’ I asked gently.
Eric exhaled and looked about us again. The tables around us were full, but no one was talking or smiling. They just stared into a dead space in front of them, as if this was just part of wishing the day away.
‘A few months.’
‘Why have you come forward now? Why not earlier?’
He swallowed. ‘The dreams are brighter than before, noisier, more vivid.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I’m scared to go to sleep now, but I always do—until I wake up shouting.’
‘And Sam Nixon is in those dreams, when you wake up?’
He nodded. ‘And I am too, but when I’m there, I always bolt awake, and I feel like I can’t move, my stomach churning, my throat tight, like I can’t breathe. I feel scared.’
‘But you’ve had similar dreams before?’
He nodded. ‘But not like this.’
‘Why are they different?’
He adjusted his glasses again, a stalling tactic. ‘They just are,’ he said.
I was interested. Not because I believed what he was telling me, but because it was an interesting story. The truth is only ever a bonus.
‘Sam Nixon won’t listen?’
Eric shook his head. ‘Most people don’t.’
‘I’ll listen,’ I said, my voice low, reassuring, ‘and I’ll write about it if you like. I’ll tell the world about your dreams, and show them your paintings.’
Eric held up his hand. ‘I’ve only got this one with me.’
I smiled and pulled out the piece of paper from the day before. ‘And what about this one?’
He looked at my hand, and then at my face, and looked scared again.
I leaned forward. ‘Don’t worry. Sam gave it to me.’ When he didn’t answer, I said, ‘So you drew a picture of Sam and Luke King in front of that statue. That doesn’t prove anything.’
‘It proves you recognised the picture,’ he said.
That stalled me. I took a drink so I could think. ‘You could have drawn that after seeing him being interviewed
in the street,’ I said. ‘You could have guessed they would show it on TV later.’
‘And what about Jess Goldie, the girl who was killed yesterday? She’s in the picture.’
‘You found her, Eric. You
saw
how she looked.’
He looked down. I knew more about him than he realised.
‘How do I know you haven’t seen those things and made up the pictures afterwards?’ I pressed.
‘You’ve got good contacts,’ he snapped.
We considered each other for a while. ‘I want to write about you. But if you’ll let me, you’ve got to be honest with me.’
Eric swirled the tea around in his mug thoughtfully ‘I just want people to know that I’m telling the truth, and one day they will.’
I nodded towards the piece of paper in his hand. ‘What did you paint?’
Eric passed it over.
As I unrolled it, I saw that the paint looked fresh, the colours bright. The main image was of a young boy. I couldn’t make out his age, but he looked small, scared. He was pictured sitting in a park, a line of trees behind him, tall conifers, with small dots of colour denoting flowers peering through the green. There was a block in the background, like a square building, but everywhere else was just green.
I looked at Eric. ‘When did you dream this?’
‘This morning, in the early hours. It came in flashes, like when someone takes a picture. A bright flash, catching the boy like I’ve painted him. Nothing else.
I thought I could hear crying, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from.’
‘I thought you had a dream about Sam Nixon.’
‘I did, but I didn’t paint it. I painted this and fell back asleep.
That’s
when I dreamt of Sam.’
‘But you didn’t paint Sam?’
He shook his head. ‘I was too frightened. I thought I would come and tell him about it first.’
I held up the painting. ‘Can I keep this?’
Eric nodded grimly. ‘Keep it somewhere safe. You might recognise the picture one day.’
I smiled my thanks. ‘Tell me about yourself
And he did. He told me how he had grown up in Blackley, had worked as a hospital porter before he’d lost his job. He had a daughter, but she lived with her husband on the other side of Blackley. He wasn’t very good at filling his days since his wife had died.
As he talked, I sensed how lonely he was, fearful at how his life was going to end. He must have had some hope at some point in his life. When he paused, I said, ‘Tell me more about Jess.’
Eric’s eyes narrowed and he looked down. ‘I paint my dreams. Jess wrote hers down.’
‘So who was she? What did she see?’
Eric sat back. I thought he was going to cry. He took a breath and composed himself.
‘She was a lovely, sweet young woman, not like a lot of them you see now. She liked books and flowers and beautiful things. She came to our group a few months ago.’
‘Group?’
Eric looked down, embarrassed. ‘People like me, we
meet every week, just to talk, so we don’t feel alone. Jess had been having awful dreams, and not just when she was asleep. She worked in the library, and sometimes, when it was quiet, once all the college kids had gone, she would get flashes, just images, pictures. But each one frightened her, made her sit up. She told me that it was like she was doing something, and then for a few seconds she would forget where she was. Then the images would be gone, and she would be left gasping, scared, sweating.’
He smiled.
‘She was terrified she had a tumour or something at first, even went to see a doctor, but then she just knew to come to our meeting. Most people we have at our meetings just come along, something tells them to. We don’t advertise.’
‘Why were you there, at her house?’
Eric lifted his glasses to wipe something from his eye. ‘I had a dream, but this time I knew it was happening right then. I could feel it. When I got round there, Jess was already dead. I called the police and that was it.’
‘You know that Sam Nixon represents Luke King? He could make out you’re the killer to get him off.’
‘So you think he killed her?’
‘What?’
‘You said “get him off”. If you thought he hadn’t done it you would have said “prove his innocence”’.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know any more than you do.’ I pulled out my press cutting. ‘What about Darlene Tyler? And Tyrone? Did you dream about them too?’
Eric looked betrayed, hurt.
‘This is your chance to get your story across,’ I reminded him, ‘but you’ll understand my interest.’
He looked at me for a few seconds. No, it was more than that. He
studied
me.
‘I had been dreaming of boys, helpless boys. I thought I might be able to help.’
‘The police might think that you’re just a glory hunter.’
‘There was no glory in finding Jess like that.’
I couldn’t argue with that.
Eric looked down, and it seemed like he now regretted talking to me. I knew I had pushed it as far as I could, but also that I might have to speak to him again.
‘Can I get back in touch?’ I asked.
Eric nodded uncertainly, but he gave me his address anyway. I reached into my pocket and produced a ten-pound note. ‘And have lunch on me.’
Eric sat back, unsure, too polite to say no, too polite to accept. Then I saw his reality take hold and he took the note, whispering a quiet, ‘Thank you.’
I turned to leave when I remembered the group Eric had mentioned. ‘When do you meet, this group of yours?’ I asked.
‘Every Wednesday at eight. Sometimes there is only me there, but I like to go just in case I’m needed.’
‘Today is Wednesday.’
He didn’t answer so I stood up to leave. I thought I saw movement just outside the window. I looked back to Eric. He hadn’t seen anything.
I walked quickly out of the café and looked down the street. There were people milling around, but
nothing unusual. Pushchairs pushed by young girls in tracksuits, blue-ink tattoos on their forearms like broken veins. But no one who might have been watching us.
I looked back into the café. Eric had gone.