Scarred for Life (35 page)

Kylie seemed to take the news well, although her main defence seemed to be that she hated it when Michael didn’t support her interests. How that translated into falling out over Boyzone, Jessica didn’t know – but who was she to judge?

Jessica was about to head back to her office when Pat waved her to one side. She thought it was going to be for a crack about anything ranging from her driving to the state of her office to the fact they were still running her television appearance on the twenty-four-hour stations. Instead he had a Post-it note for her.

‘Your cousin called. I don’t know why he’s phoning here – but if you could tell him to try your own phone in future, then it would save me having to act as everyone’s personal answering service.’

Jessica had been a fraction of a second away from blurting out that she didn’t have a cousin, before catching herself. ‘What was the message?’

He thrust the note under her nose. ‘Why don’t you have a look at the note before asking? Not. Your. Answering. Service.’ He wagged a finger so close to her face that she had visions of biting it off. He might even lose a third of a pound.

Jessica snatched the note away and read the words, knowing exactly what it meant: ‘Usual place. ASAP.’

The late-afternoon crowd in the supermarket cafe was slightly different from the morning lot. Gone were the single mums nursing quiet cappuccinos; now there was a scattering of parents stopping off with their children on the way home from school for a cheap tea. There was also a curious number of teenagers, who must not have realised that popping in for a can of Coke and a chocolate bar on the way home from school wasn’t exactly cool. In the far corner an emo-looking girl with a lifetime’s worth of makeup crammed onto her face sipped at a strawberry milkshake while listening to something through her headphones, as her emaciated boyfriend stared at his shoes. Not far from them three lads still in their PE kits, mud streaks and all, were each on their phones, giggling conspiratorially.

Jessica slid in opposite Garry feeling tired, thinking that it seemed a lot later than the clock claimed it was. Conspiracies everywhere. Garry had a can of drink in front of him, straw poking from the top, along with two newspapers.

‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this,’ Jessica said. ‘We’ll soon be on first-name terms with the staff. Then we’ll be able to ask for “the usual”, then we’ll get a booth named after us. Before you know it, we’ll have relatives wanting our bodies to be buried in the car park, saying “It’s what they would have wanted.”’

Garry glanced over his shoulder towards the window. ‘I think you’ve made me paranoid. I spent the whole journey here checking my mirrors to make sure I wasn’t being followed.’

Jessica thought she’d cheer him up by telling him that she was pretty sure she
had
been followed the previous evening – hence the reason for giving him Logan Walkden’s name – and that someone had been through her rubbish, possibly broken into her house, and definitely graffitied her car. ‘. . . and yes, before you say it, at least it proves it was someone I know,’ she concluded, stealing Adam’s joke again because it was the only thing that stopped her from getting upset. She really had lost it with age.

Garry must have sensed that, because he nodded gently and smiled. He unfolded the top newspaper. ‘Our news archive is dreadful – but our announcements, births, deaths and marriages section has been digitised for years. Apart from the advertising, it’s the only bit that makes any profit, so the owners spent some money getting the archiving up to date.’

‘I’ve never looked at that part of a paper.’

‘It’s a big deal online – plus it’s one of the few times people actually buy the paper itself. They still like seeing their name in print when it’s their birthday, or they’re getting married. It gives them something to cut out and keep. There’s no way I would’ve been able to check the news sections for those individual names, but in the end it only took one search to get a day and date. This is from three and a bit years ago.’

He flicked a third of the way through the paper to a large page showing face after face with a long list of names and congratulation notices. He didn’t say anything, passing the page to Jessica and pointing to the bottom.

Thirty-year reunion

Pupils of the former St Flora’s all-boys grammar school held a reunion this week to mark thirty years since taking their O-levels. The school, which closed eleven years ago, is on a site scheduled for development.

Underneath the caption was a photograph that ran the width of the page; around a hundred men all decked out in dinner suits were toasting the camera. Jessica recognised Graham Pomeroy instantly in the bottom right-hand corner, just about making it into the frame. He had a full glass of champagne and a grin that was almost lost to his blubbering chin. Four along from him was Freddy Bunce, looking unassuming. He had a little bit more of a builder’s physique, with larger arms than when Jessica had met him, and seemed uncomfortable in the suit, his smile unnatural. On the far end of the line at the other side was James Jefferies in his wheelchair, not smiling, not even looking at the camera. He was wearing his bronze medal and a suit that didn’t quite fit.

Along the bottom of the picture, everyone’s name had been painstakingly listed, so Jessica had no problem finding Logan Walkden in the back row, standing tall and proud, hands behind his back, neck pushed forward like a strutting turkey; or Declan Grainger standing next to him, shorter and looking a little like a beaver with big front teeth. Partially hidden behind them was a flag that showed the school crest: something in Latin that Jessica couldn’t make out over the top of a fleur-de-lis.

Jessica glanced across the cafe at the three students still wearing their PE kits. One of them was showing something on his phone to the others and all three nudged each other with their elbows and howled with laughter.

Suddenly things began to make sense. No one would make the connection, because why would they?

Jessica could see in Garry’s face that he wasn’t quite there yet. ‘Are they working together?’ he asked.

‘How many people do you still know from school?’

Garry shrugged. ‘Hardly anyone – one or two from university.’

Jessica allowed herself a small smile. She also knew at least two of the people he knew from university. ‘Remember when Dave Rowlands was giving you stories on the quiet and no one could figure out where you were getting them from?’ Garry started to protest but Jessica cut across him. ‘All right, been there and done that. Let’s just say you operated on a nod and a wink. Nobody ever looked into the fact that you could know each other because no one ever does. The only reason somebody might realise that a person is an old school friend is if you introduce them that way – especially if you come from a big city.’

‘So these people are all friends . . . ?’

‘Grammar schools were before our time – but we both know it’s where young people went after passing the eleven-plus exam. You had to have something about you to go in the first place, so let’s assume everyone in this photo was relatively clever. Now let’s guess that the names of the people we know were somewhere near the top of the class: look at what they’ve achieved – business owners, an Olympian, an assistant chief constable and so on. You must remember being at school and there were always a few kids everyone knew were going to go on and do something half-decent?’

‘Yeah, then there were the other kids you knew would be serving you at the local Spar for the next ten years.’

Jessica laughed softly: ‘Exactly. It’s the ninety per cent in the middle you don’t know about. When I found out they were all the same age, it reminded me of something Holden said – “Everyone wants to be wanted, don’t they? It’s about feeling a part of something.”’

‘So you think this lot were part of a club?’

‘Perhaps. It might not be as formal as any of that. You don’t need a grand meeting house, or some secret cigar lounge; all you need is a nod and a wink. There’s no need to ever acknowledge each other publicly – I’d bet this is the only photo you’ll ever find of them together, unless there was a twenty-year reunion and so on. Don’t invite each other to weddings, don’t have them as godparents to your children, and why would anyone ever suspect?’

Garry was beginning to get excited, sensing a story that Jessica knew he’d never be able to write. He just didn’t know it yet.

He pointed at Declan Grainger. ‘So this guy is on the council and has a large say in planning – and he gave a big project worth millions to this guy?’ He pointed at Freddy Bunce.

‘Exactly. I’ll bet if you work your way around the names, you’ll find others too.’

Garry pointed to a face Jessica didn’t recognise. ‘He’s a lawyer. He owns a firm in the city.’

‘Think of the chain: you only need a few key people. Perhaps Logan Walkden decides he wants to build a golf course. He needs someone who could give planning permission, a lawyer to sort all the paperwork out, someone who owns a building company, a landscaper for the course, and so on. At the end of all that, there’s an awful lot of money swilling around, but unless you make a big deal over the fact the person you’re shaking hands with is someone you once went to school with, then why would anyone ever know? How many things like that have happened over the years? When you throw councillors into the mix with public money, you could be talking a fortune. It’s like when you’re looking for a builder or a plumber – you always ask a friend and they’ll say: “Oh, I know a guy . . .”’

‘And if you’ve got a high-up police officer in there, then if ever there’s a problem with a person asking questions, you have someone to put a bit of pressure on . . .’

Jessica suddenly felt vulnerable, hoping that wasn’t true but acknowledging that Garry was only confirming her own theory.

Perhaps sensing that, Garry tried to shoot it down: ‘It’s a bit limited, isn’t it? Not everyone in this picture is going to be successful?’

‘That’s why you would occasionally need to bring new people in. You wouldn’t need that many – just a select few in key positions.’

Finally, Garry got it: ‘. . . Like Damon Potter?’

‘His dad is local, which would be important too. It would all be about keeping wealth among yourselves, so you don’t want someone that’s going to disappear off to London to build a property empire. I met Damon’s father – he’s called Francis and runs a haulage firm in the city. After university, Francis was going to help his son set up any business that he wanted. He’d have been the perfect person for the St Flora people to bring in. You want those who are young, rich and have a promising future.’

‘So you think the Olympic rowing guy tried to recruit Damon and then . . . ?’

Jessica shook her head. ‘James Jefferies is in a wheelchair and doesn’t even seem to like students. He might have been the one that made the phone calls to try to get the members to change their stories about what Holden Wyatt was doing on the night Damon died – he even told us he had students’ phone numbers – but I wouldn’t have thought he was otherwise involved.’

‘Why would he want them to change their stories?’

Jessica took a deep breath. She didn’t know for certain but the small amount of evidence she did have was staring out of the picture at her in grainy black and white. She pressed an index finger to his face. ‘To protect this guy.’

44

Jessica knew she had only one way of getting justice for Damon Potter – and it involved her doing something she’d spent the past few weeks avoiding.

She knocked on DCI Cole’s office door and waited as he held a hand up. He was on the phone again, facing the wall, avoiding accidental eye contact. Eventually, he waved her in, making a point of checking his watch: it was time for them to go home.

‘I need to talk to you about something, Sir.’

‘Can it wait until tomorrow?’

‘No.’

Cole yawned, making no effort to hide it, and turned to face his computer screen. ‘Go on then.’

Jessica sat opposite him but didn’t know where to start. Then she thought about the messing around she’d had to endure through the day: borrowing cars, taking buses, the back and forth.

She told him about her car and her bins and before she knew it, everything was flooding out: how she felt marginalised, bullied and paranoid. She told him about the past fortnight and gave him a photocopy of the reunion picture, pointing out Pomeroy and everyone else. Then she showed him the final face and told him why she thought Damon Potter had died. It might have been an accident but someone should still take responsibility for it.

Cole listened without interrupting, glancing at the photograph as Jessica talked him through it. When she was finally finished, breathless, he stared at her. For a moment, it felt like the Cole of a few years ago, not long after they had both been promoted and they worked together all the time; when he put his trust in her to go out and do stupid things that got results.

Then he peered away again, leaning back in his seat and yawning once more. His eyes were closed and there was an uncomfortable silence. He looked old. Defeated. When he finally opened them, he was staring over Jessica’s shoulder, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice was croaky and low: ‘Have you ever felt so tired that you don’t know what day it is?’

‘A few times.’

‘I’m just so sick of all of this: I lost my wife, I hardly ever see my kids – and even when it’s my days with them, they’d rather be out with their mates. Not that I blame them; I’d have been the same. Then I come here and sit in this office and the phone never stops ringing.’

He glared at the phone on his desk, as if willing it to prove his point. It remained silent.

‘The meetings, the emails, the paperwork. Then I have requests from upper management.’ His eyes flickered to Jessica’s and away again. ‘People I need to keep an eye on. I used to be a young man: fit, happy, with a life to look forward to and now . . .’

Jessica didn’t know what to say and could rarely remember feeling so uncomfortable.

Eventually, he finished the thought: ‘. . . now I’m resorting to sending capable people out on fool’s errands. I don’t even know why I bother coming in.’