As I got nearer to my father’s grave, I had to steel myself. I had learned to do that after my mother died. Take a deep breath, don’t let the emotions get near. I did the same again now. But as I saw his name it became hard to control. The letters were still bright gold in the black granite, the words simple.
‘Robert Garrett. Husband and father, policeman. Killed in the line of duty. Lest we forget the sacrifice he made. You will be missed.’
Killed in the line of duty. Sacrifice. He hadn’t wanted that. He had wanted to get to his retirement and enjoy his life. Would he have done the same again? I didn’t know, but I remembered the look in his eyes when he realised that justice had to be done.
I felt the same passion again. Sometimes it was about doing the right thing. I hadn’t written much since my father died, just scraps to keep the money coming in. Now, I felt like I was on the verge of a big story once more.
I thought about Laura. I loved her more than I had ever loved any woman. But then I thought about Mary,
how her father’s memory would be sullied by press speculation. And I thought about Eric, someone I had known so briefly. I knew they deserved justice. All I could hope for was that Laura would still love me when I had finished.
I reached out and touched the gravestone. It was just a stone, nothing more. I smiled at it and headed off.
There was a pack of kids outside the shop as I arrived. They were dressed all in black, some racing around on bikes, all with their hoods up even though the evening was warm. They were like a pack of rats as they scurried around. The bright red Stag stood out as I parked it, and I wondered whether I ought to get myself a different car, maybe a beaten-up runaround, for days like this.
I sat in my car for a few minutes and pondered where I was going with my story.
I liked the Darlene Tyler angle. It had everything: the horror of the abduction, the joy of the return, the happy ending. It would be good for the glossies. Eric as the abductor would help that story, because he had put himself into it. Proving that Eric had also been a victim would change that.
But then I thought about Eric the father, Eric the husband. And I thought about Mary. Since my father had died, I put greater store on the human side.
I saw the kids look over as I got out of the car, but I caught their eyes and gave them a silent warning.
As I walked towards the doorway I sensed the darkness inside. The windows were protected by metal grilles, so that the glass behind looked grubby. As I walked in, the sunshine outside was replaced by dim yellow artificial light. I saw that the shop was empty. There were two long aisles running away from the door, with the till nearest the exit, the alcohol on shelves behind. No one self-served booze in here. As I looked, it appeared the same went for razor blades and batteries.
I looked down the aisle and saw the clock Mary had talked about, large white digits on a black background, those that turn over like old railway destination boards. The date was correct.
I turned towards the till and saw a large man behind the counter, his stomach inflated like a football under his jumper. He was Pakistani, with a bushy moustache and his hair swept to one side, his fringe decorated with strips of grey. I noticed him watching me so I stepped up to the counter and introduced myself.
‘I’m writing a story on Eric Randle,’ I said. ‘He used to come in here and have photographs taken of his paintings.’
The man looked at me for a few seconds, as if he was trying to reconcile my presence with the news about Eric’s death, and then nodded. ‘I remember. He come in here maybe four, five times every year. But he had been coming in here more than that in the last few weeks.’
His accent was thick, a mix of Kashmir and the Western Pennines. He looked towards the calendar.
‘He never bought anything,’ he continued. ‘Just got
me to take a picture of him holding up some damn painting.’
‘Didn’t you mind?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not worth making enemies round here,’ he said, and he glanced outside.
‘Do they give you a hard time?’ I asked, following his gaze.
‘They laugh at my sons because they don’t drink and work hard at school, but maybe they would have better lives if they did the same.’ He looked back to me, and I sensed disappointment. ‘I love England. It has given me things I could not have had in Pakistan, and so many people are nice. But so much of it is bad. It’s like they can’t see how good it is and want to destroy it.’
‘Or themselves.’
He nodded at that.
‘Why do you stay here?’ I asked. ‘You could have got a shop in a place where you wouldn’t have to protect your windows with cages.’
He laughed. ‘Not at this price. And I charge a lot for the vodka. If I can stop them from pinching it, I make a good living.’
I smiled at him. He was working in a fortress but I could see that he had an exit strategy. Make the money, bring up his children and then get out. As I listened to the kids outside, swearing and shouting at each other, it struck me that none of them had one.
‘Did Eric come here often to have his photograph taken?’ I asked.
The man shrugged. ‘Once every few weeks. I’ve been here ten years, and it seems like he has been coming all
of that time. He came in more when I was first here, but then he stopped for a while. In the last two or three years he has been coming back. He told me he used to come into the shop when the last owner had it.’
I pointed at the calendar. ‘Has it always told the right date?’
He looked over towards it. ‘Always. It never breaks down. And the clock is always right. That’s why I’ve kept it.’ He glanced out of the window again. ‘I would get back to your car. It’s a nice car and they spoil nice things.’
I looked out through the open doorway and saw the kids looking through the side windows of the Stag. I thanked the shop-owner and went outside, and they all stepped back as I approached. A couple of them smiled. In a different neighbourhood I would have taken it for friendly interest. Maybe I was wrong to think of it as any different round here.
As I reversed away, the pack began to circle the pavement once more.
Laura and Pete arrived outside Billy Hunt’s house, a semi-detached bungalow on a low-rise estate on the edge of Blackley, with views towards the retail parks, the neon and glass bright against the dark green of the countryside backdrop.
‘Remember, he might be just a witness,’ cautioned Laura.
Pete looked doubtful. ‘I know Billy Hunt. He’ll only help us if we scare him into it.’
When they got to the front door, Laura went to ring the doorbell. Pete stopped her and banged hard instead
on the glass in the door, two panels filled with patterned glass that bounced in the frame. After a few seconds, Laura saw a blurred shape appear behind the door, and then, as the door opened a sliver, she saw frightened brown eyes blink behind small round glasses.
‘Billy Hunt,’ bellowed Pete. ‘It’s the police. We need to speak to you about Jess Goldie’s death.’
The eyes blinked rapidly again, and then the door closed. Laura was about to turn around when she heard the chain come off the door. It was opened by a small and chubby man, with a dark side parting, his cheeks ruddy. He looked dishevelled, his eyes red, his jaw unshaven.
‘Billy?’ Laura asked. When he gave a nervous nod, Laura smiled at him and asked, ‘Can we come in?’
Billy scowled, his lips pursed together, but then he opened the door. He didn’t move, so that Pete and Laura had to sidle past him. They went into the front room, and Laura stopped, surprised. There was a woman lying on the sofa, her hair grey and thin, her scalp showing through. She was wrapped in a crocheted blanket, and when she noticed Laura, she looked up slowly. Laura saw tiredness in her eyes.
Laura nodded and smiled. ‘Mrs Hunt.’ There was a large framed picture of Billy above the fireplace. She knew she’d got it right, because the old lady smiled back, watery and weak.
‘Hello, love,’ she said quietly as Billy appeared behind her.
‘Not in here,’ he barked, and ushered them both into a dining room at the back, separated by doors filled with
frosted glass. When he shut the doors, he asked, ‘What do you want?’ His tone was unfriendly, curt.
‘Calm down, Billy, we just want to ask you a few questions,’ said Pete.
‘I want to call my solicitor.’
‘I didn’t say you were a suspect, but if you’re feeling guilty, go ahead.’
Laura looked down, embarrassed. She didn’t mind that Pete bullied his way through the job, but sometimes tact got further.
‘Is that your mother, Billy?’ Laura asked, her voice full of concern.
He turned to her and his mood softened. ‘Yes. She’s got cancer.’
Laura thought she saw tears flash into his eyes. He blinked them away.
‘Does anyone help you look after her?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s just us two.’ He glanced towards the door. ‘She gave me everything. I can’t just leave her so someone else can look after her.’
‘There must be someone else? You can’t bear all this on your own.’
He smiled thinly and shook his head. ‘I know it sounds sad, a grown man like me, but she’s all I’ve got.’ He gulped and clenched his jaw. ‘It’ll seem quiet when she’s gone.’
‘Is she in much pain?’
He shook his head. ‘The hospital gave us plenty of things to take the pain away. But it won’t get any better, I know that.’
Laura glanced at Pete, who looked confused, but she
sneaked a quick wink, letting him know that she wasn’t just passing the time.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but we’re just enquiring about Jess. I know she used to go to your dream group, but how well did you know her?’
Billy blushed, and then he went to sit down. He looked at his hands, seemed nervous.
‘Did you like her?’ Laura probed. ‘I mean, really like her?’
He looked up, and then nodded slowly. ‘I know that I don’t have much to offer, but I think we would have been good together.’ He pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘But I don’t think she felt the same way.’
‘You must have been disappointed. Hurt, maybe.’
‘Not hurt enough to kill her, if that’s what you mean,’ he sneered.
Laura didn’t respond. She let the words hang there, watching as Billy squirmed and pushed his glasses back up his nose again, like a twitch.
‘How did Jess record her dreams?’
He thought for a moment. ‘I think she used to keep a diary. I saw it at the meetings sometimes.’
Laura felt Pete watching her. ‘Do you know where she kept it?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you ever borrowed it, Billy, or is there any reason why you might have it?’
He shook his head again, more slowly this time. ‘I’ve only ever seen it in her hand at the meetings.’
‘Is it the sort of thing that she would lend to anyone?’
‘No, it isn’t.’
Then Laura smiled. ‘Thanks, Billy. You don’t mind if we call back sometime?’
Billy watched her, nervously.
Laura turned to go, made Pete turn with her, but then she looked quickly back to Billy. ‘Who do you think killed her, Billy?’
He looked surprised, his eyes wide behind the lenses, but then he looked hurt. ‘I don’t know,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t know who would hurt her. She was a lovely person.’
Laura watched him for a moment, and then she nodded. ‘Thank you, Billy.’
And then she turned to go, Pete alongside her.
‘What was all that about?’ he whispered.
‘Just trying to get the measure of him.’
‘And what was it?’
Laura looked back towards the house, saw Billy watching through the curtains. ‘He doesn’t seem like a killer, because I don’t think he would leave his mother alone.’
Pete climbed into the car, Laura with him. ‘Where now?’ he asked.
Laura twitched her nose as she thought, and then said, ‘Drive around the block so it looks like we’ve left, and then park up further down there,’ and she pointed along the street.
‘You’re not sure about him, are you?’
Laura shook her head. ‘We watch, just in case. Whoever killed her took that dream diary. We’ve asked about it. If he has it, he’ll get nervous and want to get rid of it.’
And there was another reason why Laura was unsure, and that was because she thought she had seen something else in Billy: desire. He had been in love with Jess. Laura had seen how he lived, trapped by his love for his mother, and Jess had been free. That troubled Laura, because unrequited love can lead to hurt, and unresolved hurt can end in murder.
I hadn’t been home long when Laura got back. I was sitting on the floor with Bobby, playing KerPlunk, pulling straws out of a tube. Bobby was concentrating hard, his tongue flicking at his lips, pulling out a straw slowly, but as soon as the key turned in the lock, he jumped up and set off towards his mother. He was at that age where he ran everywhere, walking was just too little effort, and so he ran towards Laura, his arms outstretched. I heard him squeal with delight.
When she came into the room, she had Bobby in her arms, his legs wrapped around her waist. I looked up and smiled. It still felt good to see Laura walk into
our
house, the excitement was still there. She walked through to the kitchen, which had an open-plan farmhouse look, lots of oak and a range cooker in the old chimney breast. When I saw her sniff the air, I shrugged apologetically. My dinner preparation hadn’t gone beyond a trip to the freezer.
Laura didn’t look angry, though. She just looked tired. She came back into the living room, still holding Bobby, and sat down in the old armchair. ‘Hello, Jack,’ she said,
and I sensed she was too worn out to argue. ‘You’ve been upsetting people today.’
‘I don’t do it to upset you. You know that, don’t you?’
She nodded, and then pointed towards the box on the table, the one filled with Eric’s paintings and photographs. ‘What’s in the box?’
I was about to answer when the phone rang. Laura went to it, Bobby under her arm, giggling as she went. I saw her face harden as soon as she answered it. I guessed who it was: Geoff, Bobby’s father.
‘Bobby,’ I called over, ‘come and help me with this.’
He trotted over, and I went to get the plates and cutlery, anything to keep him busy. As I handed him things to take to the table, I listened to Laura hissing down the phone. I knew how it went. Geoff wanted Bobby when it was convenient for him. Laura wouldn’t say no, because she wanted Bobby to see his father, but not like this, with calls coming in unexpectedly. I knew how Geoff wanted it to happen: he got all the fun days, Laura got the grind.
When she put the phone down, she turned to Bobby, her face filled with mock delight, but I could see the anger behind her eyes.
‘Guess what? You’re going to see your daddy tomorrow!’ she said, her voice excited. When he ran off whooping, she turned to me and said, ‘He’s collecting him from school.’
‘Quite a drive.’
‘He wants to see what kind of school it is.’
‘And if he doesn’t approve?’
That’s when I saw the tears in her eyes. I knew then that he was going to make it tough for us.
I wrapped her up in my arms and she sank into me. Nothing was easy.
Laura was upstairs reading a story to Bobby when I started to go through the box of pictures. I glanced outside. The sky was darkening into indigo blue, the lights of Turners Fold flickering into life, the narrow lines of streets glowing orange. I could hear happy murmurs from Bobby’s room.
I turned back to the box. It was heavy, crammed to the lid with brown envelopes. I reached in and pulled one out carefully. The corners seemed fragile, as if it had been opened too often over the years, the colour faded through time, yellowed like old newspaper. As I lifted the flap and looked inside, I saw two pieces of paper. I tipped the contents out onto the table: a painting and a photograph.
I looked at the painting first.
It was a picture of a volcano, the lava picked out in bright red as it headed towards a small settlement, palm trees at the base, represented as light green flicks. Eric had a certain style, sort of frantic, as if he was trying to get the picture done as quickly as possible, but I could tell that he cared about a likeness. The sides of the volcano were painted in charcoal and black, setting out the rock in relief, and he had drawn the settlement in little stone blocks. But I could sense the tiredness in his picture, the lines more jagged than smooth.
I looked at the photograph.
It was in colour, and it showed Eric in front of the clock in the shop from his estate. He looked younger,
his hair showing shades of darkness, and there was a brightness to his eyes, as if he was a little less worn down.
I looked again at the painting. It didn’t mean anything to me. Maybe Montserrat, but volcanoes erupted all the time, and if he painted one as a premonition it would certainly come true eventually.
I put both pictures back into the envelope and put it to one side. I wasn’t convinced yet.
I opened the next envelope, and when I saw what was inside, I shivered.
I recognised the scene straightaway. A football ground, the terraces marked out by long, dark lines, the centre circle and the goals making it clear what it was supposed to be. There were a few figures, stick drawings, but they weren’t playing football. Instead, they were grouped into a cluster on one side of the pitch.
It was the terrace running along the other side that told the real story. It was painted in bright oranges, reds, flashes of blue, flames licking the underside of the roof. There were some other pictures painted in the corners, separate from the main image. One was a figure in dark clothes, and it seemed like he had flames coming from his head.
It was the Bradford football fire, when the stand had caught fire and fifty-six people died. I was a young boy when it had happened, but it was one of those events etched into my memory, like Heysel and Hillsborough.
I looked inside the envelope and found the photograph. It showed a younger Eric, his hair dark and bushy. He was smiling, a strange lopsided grin, like he felt silly standing
in the shop. I wondered whether it was his first time. I peered at the calendar in the background and saw that it said 14 April 1985.
I shook my head and felt for Eric. True or not, he had suffered for more than twenty years. The shop didn’t look like it had changed much, with the same dim lighting and cluttered shelves, but the Eric I had met had altered almost beyond recognition. Stress and anxiety had ground him down, until he’d ended up as a shadow of his former self.
I looked back into the envelope and saw some newspaper clippings. I let them tumble out onto the table, the pages brown and dry now. As I looked through, I saw many similar images, pictures of the flames roaring under the roof as people stood on the pitch.
But then, as I flicked through the newspaper images, I saw a picture that took me by surprise.
I picked up the painting again and looked at the dark figure with flames coming from his head, and then back at the newspaper. I checked the date on the newspaper. It was after the painting. Four weeks later.
In the newspaper there was a picture of a policeman. He was running away from the stand, and his hair was on fire.
I sat back and ran my hands through my hair. It was incontrovertible. Eric Randle had painted a picture that foretold the Bradford fire four weeks before it had happened.
I turned to another envelope, lost in curiosity now.
This looked just as old, but again I recognised it immediately. It showed a field fringed by trees, the
branches bare. Winter. In the middle of the field was the front of an aeroplane, a large one, but it was on its side, the cockpit windows looking strange against the grass. The rest of the plane was gone. I peered closely and I saw what I was looking for. There were dots of colour in the field, like red and blue swirls. Clothes, suitcases. I felt sick. Lockerbie, when Libyan terrorists exploded a Pan-Am flight over a small Scottish town.
I looked for the newspaper clippings, and I saw straightaway that I was right. They showed the same image, from the same angle.
The photograph confirmed what I already suspected. It showed Eric holding up his painting in front of the shop’s calendar. He looked more serious in this one, as if the Bradford painting had made him think that he had been right once, and he was now nervous that he would be again. And the date on the calendar proved so. October 1988, two months before the atrocity, the walls behind covered in fireworks posters and Halloween masks.
I heard footsteps behind me, and as I looked round I saw Laura coming towards me, her eyes red.
‘He needs to see his dad,’ I said softly as I put the picture down. ‘Every boy needs his dad. I can’t replace him.’
Laura nodded. ‘I know, but why does he have to make it so difficult?’ she asked, her voice strained.
‘Because he can,’ I said softly, and I stood up to pull her closer to me. ‘Things will even out. Just give it time. If Geoff is doing this to get at us, he will get bored. If he is doing it to see Bobby, we can sort out more formal
arrangements when the fuss dies down. For Bobby’s sake, though, don’t make it into a battle. Geoff wants a fight. If you don’t give him one, he’ll calm down.’
Laura hugged me, and as she buried her head into my chest I could smell the mustiness of the police station on her. I kissed her on the top of her head.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ve got Nostradamus on the table here.’
Laura looked over. ‘What are all those?’
So I told her about my meeting with Mary Randle and how she had given me all of Eric’s paintings.
Laura then picked up the pictures I had already taken out.
‘What are you up to, Jack?’ Her voice sounded suspicious.
I tried to look innocent. ‘I was curious, that’s all.’
‘Is this just for a story?’
‘Yes, because it’s a good one. Local misfit turns out to be the Summer Snatcher, ended by a sad suicide.’
Laura looked at me, and I could sense her working out what she could tell me and what she couldn’t.
‘That’s right, Laura, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Just the result of a guilty conscience?’
‘You found him,’ was all she said in reply, and she sat down. I joined her after I’d gone to the kitchen and come back with two glasses of red wine.
As she took a sip, she leaned back and kicked off her shoes. I could see her looking at me, at what I was studying, the pictures and clippings strewn across the table.
I nodded towards them. ‘Do you want to see what I’ve got? Quid pro quo?’
Laura watched me, and I could tell she was tempted. I saw her sigh and smile, and then she said, ‘If we share information, it’s off the record unless I say otherwise. And you keep your sources secret.’
‘My first rule, you know that.’ I nodded towards the box of papers. ‘But you know that these aren’t exhibits yet. They go in my story and then back to Mary, and if she lets the police have them, that’s her choice.’
Laura stretched as she stood up, and I noticed that her wine had already disappeared. She agreed and joined me at the table, but not before she had topped up her glass.
I showed her the two paintings I had looked at so far. She scratched her chin.
‘Could be coincidence so far,’ she said.
I agreed. ‘Let’s see what else there is.’
We started opening envelopes, one at a time, checking the photographs and the paintings. Some didn’t have clippings with them, some did.
‘There must be a few hundred in here,’ she said.
‘We’ve got them going back to the early eighties, so that’s still just ten a year.’
‘And not all get hits,’ she replied. Then she stopped. ‘Look at this,’ she said, her voice hushed.
Laura handed me a picture filled with columns, a long row of them, white against a grey background. In front of them all was a car, black, mangled and bent. A photograph of Eric holding it in front of the clock dated it in April 1997.
I looked up and shook my head. I didn’t recognise it.
Laura handed me a clipping from August 1997. I recognised it straightaway. It was a picture of the Pont
d’Alma tunnel in Paris, in which the Princess of Wales died, when the hired black Mercedes crashed and sent the world into shock.
‘It’s a bit of a stretch,’ I said. ‘It’s not specific enough. A car crash. It could have been anybody at any time. He just got lucky that it happened in the same year.’
‘But look at that,’ and Laura pointed to a scrawl in the top corner of the page.
I looked closer, and saw that it was the number 13, written in a rush.
When I looked up at Laura, she pointed at a sentence in the newspaper clipping. I read it and whistled. The car crash that killed the Princess of Wales happened when the hired black Mercedes crashed into the thirteenth pillar in the Pont d’Alma tunnel.
‘He gets a few hits,’ I said, smiling.
Laura frowned and pointed at the envelopes we had opened where there had been no clippings. ‘But look how many he doesn’t get hits on. Maybe if you paint enough, you’ll always get hits.’
‘Maybe, but do you know what gets me: he often predicts the media images, not just the events.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I could maybe accept some kind of mass telepathy,’ I said, ‘because a lot of these have human intervention. These were the days before suicide bombers. People put bombs on planes. Maybe people had been talking about old wooden football grounds and fire risks. All of that is possible.’
‘Telepathy?’ Laura queried, opening envelopes at the same time.
I laughed. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying that, but I suppose it’s the most logical explanation. But what no one could have guessed was how the press would report it. On these, he has predicted not just the events, but the way they were reported. That is something way beyond telepathy.’
I stopped talking when I saw Laura’s face drain.
‘What is it?’
She held up a painting.
As I took hold of it, I saw a line of buildings standing high above a thin ribbon of blue water. Right in the centre of the picture were two tall grey towers. The World Trade Center. Eric had clearly known this location, because the buildings were so recognisable, as if he had tried to make sure everyone would know that it was New York. But it was something else that drew my eye. Right in the middle of the sky was an aeroplane, a passenger jet, if the white body and blue stripe was anything to go by. And it was heading right for one of the towers.
I exhaled. ‘There’s no mistaking that one.’
Laura looked grim-faced. ‘It’s not just that,’ she said, and the photograph floated down to the table.