The Things We Never Said (10 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Jonathan drops Fiona off at Lucy’s and promises to have at least some of the present-wrapping done by the time she gets back. The phone’s ringing as he lets himself in. It’s his solicitor with the promised update, but she doesn’t really have any news. ‘The CPS throws these cases out all the time,’ she says. She sounds confident, cheerful almost. ‘Weak evidence submitted by risk-averse coppers terrified of making a decision. It’s just buck-passing.’

‘Can’t we do anything to speed things up?’

‘No, just a question of waiting, I’m afraid. I’ll be in touch again after Christmas – try and enjoy the break.’

He flicks through the CDs for something noisy to listen to while he wraps the presents. Led Zeppelin, maybe, or Deep Purple; something to stop him thinking about Ryan Jenkins and Chloé Nichols. He goes for the Led Zep, slots it into the machine and turns up the volume so that the chunky guitar and insistent drumbeat fills the room. He’s just placed a brightly coloured wooden xylophone in the centre of a sheet of wrapping paper when there’s a loud knock at the window.

He turns the music down and opens the door.

‘Sorry,’ the man says. ‘I did ring the bell, but . . .’ His smile is broad, but with a certain truth about it that rules out double glazing. He’s as tall as Jonathan, late fifties maybe, and he wears a dark waxed jacket that’s all press studs, flaps and pockets. Too scruffy for a Jehovah’s Witness. ‘Mr Robson?’ he asks. He has thick, dark eyebrows and a slightly wonky eye.

‘Yes?’

‘Don Hutchinson.’ He holds out an ID card. ‘I know it’s nearly Christmas, but I wanted to catch you before the country shuts down for a fortnight. I just need a few minutes of your time.’

Jonathan looks at the card, hesitates, then stands back. ‘Okay, come through.’

Hutchinson smells faintly of peppermint, Jonathan notices, and he walks with a slight limp.

‘So,’ Jonathan says. ‘What exactly can I do for you?’

‘I’m with the Unsolved Crimes Review Unit,’ the man explains, his eyes darting around, taking everything in. ‘South Yorkshire Police. We’re re-investigating some old cases and you may be able to—’

‘No,’ Jonathan shakes his head. That’s all he bloody needs. ‘I’ve never been in trouble with the police before this assault nonsense.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ Hutchinson says. He’s a big man. Solid, like those cartoon characters with muscles so hard that the crooks hurt their fists when they punch them. ‘I’ll get to the point.’ He smiles. ‘The police database has thrown up a partial match between your DNA profile and that of the perpetrator of a number of unsolved crimes.’

Jonathan immediately feels a guilty expression gathering on his features, like being a kid in assembly when the Headmaster vows to find the culprit of some misdemeanour. ‘I swear I haven’t—’

Hutchinson puts his hand up. ‘Not accusing you of anything, Mr Robson. It’s a
near
match; we know you’re not the perpetrator. You’re too young, for a start – some of these crimes date back to the sixties and seventies.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘Extraordinary, isn’t it? Analysis techniques are so advanced now that the forensics lads can build an accurate DNA profile decades after the crime – as long as the evidence was collected and stored properly at the time, of course. The thing is,’ and here Hutchinson looks him in the eye, which is unnerving, because while one eye meets Jonathan’s head-on, the other stares over his left shoulder as though watching for something else to happen, ‘there’s a possibility that the perpetrator of these particular crimes is related to you.’

Jonathan forces himself to take in what the man is saying.

‘So I just need to ask you a few questions about your family.’ Hutchinson rummages in the pockets of his jacket and pulls out half a roll of Polo mints, which he puts on the table, and continues to rummage.

‘What sort of crimes—’

‘Ah, here we are.’ He produces a notebook and pen. ‘Should only take a few minutes.’ He picks up the Polos, peels back the green outer paper and then the silver layer to reveal the sweets, stacked together like little white tyres. ‘Mint?’

‘No thanks.’

Hutchinson pops a Polo into his mouth and crunches it loudly as he flips open the notebook and writes something at the top.

‘So what’s this “perpetrator” supposed to have done?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t . . .’ Hutchinson begins, then he pauses. ‘I couldn’t trouble you for a glass of water, could I?’

Jonathan feels a prickle of irritation, although he supposes asking for water isn’t exactly unreasonable. He fills a tumbler from the tap. His hand is hot and slippery on the glass.

Hutchinson nods. ‘Thanks.’ He tips his head back and empties the glass in one. Before Jonathan can push him for more details, he nods towards the newspaper that’s on the table. ‘Did you see the Liverpool game? First half was dire; like watching paint dry.’

‘No, I didn’t.’ He tries to keep his voice level. Football: the universal language of blokes, Fiona calls it. But why is the man stalling?

‘I support Sheffield Wednesday, me; we’re playing like a field full of donkeys at the moment.’

‘Sheffield? That’s where I was born.’

‘Really?’ Hutchinson’s voice is alert now. His stable eye meets Jonathan’s, while the other remains on look-out duty. ‘So your family’s from the north. When did you move down south?’

‘No, they’re from Sussex, actually. They didn’t live in Sheffield – I was born three weeks early, apparently, while they were up there staying with friends.’

‘Did they ever live in the north?’

‘Not as far as I know. Look, what
is
this crime you’re—’

‘Hmm.’ Hutchinson writes something down, then pops another mint into his mouth and begins to crunch. He looks puzzled.

Jonathan goes to the sink for some water for himself, takes a long swallow and tips the rest away. ‘Right, now I really need to know what this is about.’

‘Okay.’ Hutchinson takes off his jacket, revealing a red sweater with a once-white shirt collar showing at the neck. ‘My team looks at “cold cases”, old crimes where there’s evidence on file but no one was ever charged. The forensics lads use that evidence to create a DNA profile of the offender. Then if the suspect’s DNA profile matches the one on the database, bingo!’

‘But what
suspect
?’

‘We don’t have a suspect at the moment, but when your sample was fed into the national database – standard procedure – it threw up a partial match to an existing profile, in this case a male, offending in the sixties, seventies and early eighties.

‘But—’

‘No two people have the same DNA,’ Hutchinson continues, ‘except identical twins – so the fact that your DNA showed such a close partial match means there’s a good chance the man we’re after is related to you. We all share fifty per cent of our DNA with each parent, and so given the period we’re talking about—’

‘You’re not saying it’s my father?’

‘No, not necessarily. There are a lot of other things we need to take into consideration – whether the suspect was in the right area at the right time, for one thing. But what I
am
saying is that I need to know more; and I will need to talk to your father.’ Hutchinson’s manner is matter of fact, unapologetic. Jonathan walks back to the table without speaking. He wipes his damp palms on his jeans and sits down. Images of Gerald loom in front of him. Gerald’s silent rage, throbbing through the house; Jonathan and his mother, tiptoeing around so as not to trigger a wave of anger that might rear up and engulf them all. Gerald was always angry; anger defined him. But a serious criminal? No, that couldn’t be.

Hutchinson looks up from his notebook and takes two more Polos. ‘Sorry,’ he says, crunching the mints and offering the pack to Jonathan again. ‘I’m giving up smoking and these seem to help. The wife says chewing gum’s the thing, but I can’t stand the stuff.’ He wrinkles his nose.

Jonathan doesn’t reply; he’d rather not get into a discussion about nicotine cravings.

‘So.’ Hutchinson looks at him. ‘What can you tell me about your dad?’

‘He died. The funeral was two weeks ago.’

Hutchinson’s wonky eye flickers. ‘I’m sorry.’

Sorry.
That’s what people say when someone dies; it’s what you’re supposed to feel. ‘Thanks, but there’s no need. We weren’t very close.’

‘I see.’ Hutchinson asks more about Gerald, whether he’d had trips away from home – training courses, conferences, anything like that.

‘He was away a few times when I was a kid,’ Jonathan says, ‘but not many. I always wished he’d go away more often – things were always easier when he wasn’t around.’

‘Why? Was he a difficult man? Drinker? Violent?’

‘Not a drinker, no. Why do you ask if he was violent? Was it—’

‘Just trying to get a picture, that’s all. So was he? Capable of violence, I mean?’

Jonathan can feel the pressure building up behind his eyes. Was Gerald capable of violence? When he thinks of the frail old man his father had become, it seemed impossible. But the younger Gerald? He clears his throat. ‘He did hit my mum once. He pushed her over and she banged her head on the fireplace.’ He tries to swallow but his mouth is too dry. ‘That was unusual, though. Mostly he was just extremely bad-tempered.’

The whole atmosphere in the house would change when things were not to Gerald’s liking – his newspaper rumpled, the television too loud, a meal served at the wrong temperature. Once, when Jonathan was about eight, he’d brushed past his father’s chair and knocked over the ashtray that was balanced on the arm. Gerald stared at the pile of grey and black ash, the mahogany pipe and the upturned ashtray lying on the rug, then he got to his feet, jaw rigid, fists clenched. Jonathan had frozen, bracing himself for the thwack of the stick that his father kept next to his armchair. But instead, after a torturous pause, Gerald had stalked pointedly from the room, eyes dark with fury, silence gusting all around him.

‘Just tell me, what did he do?’

Hutchinson looks at him; this time the rogue eye seems to be facing almost the same way as its twin, and the effect is even more unnerving. ‘So you think it’s definitely your father, then?’

‘No, I just want . . . oh, for Christ’s sake, I don’t know.’ Jonathan stands up again. ‘What am I supposed to think?’

Hutchinson sighs, reaches for the pack of Polos but then changes his mind. ‘Let’s establish the facts first. So, we know he went away a few times when you were a child; now, can you think back to when you were – what, teens? Early twenties? How often was he away from home then?’

‘Sorry. I’ve no idea. I tended to avoid him as much as I could by then.’

The room is quiet while Hutchinson writes it down.

‘Look, even if it
was
my father – whatever it is – isn’t it a bit late to come looking for him now?’

‘It may seem that way,’ Hutchinson says, closing his notebook. ‘Especially since there’s been no further movement on the case in thirty years. But it’s not so much about catching our man, not after all this time. It’s about peace of mind. I’m not fond of the expression
closure
, but it’s apt. If we can establish who’s responsible, even if that individual is now deceased, we can close the file, knowing he’s not still out there thinking he got away with it.’ He stands up. ‘I appreciate your help.’

They shake hands. ‘So, are you going to tell me?’

Hutchinson smiled. ‘Sorry?’

‘What they were, these unsolved crimes. Don’t I have a right to know?’

‘I’m afraid not. Not until I can be sure, anyway. Which reminds me, where can I find your mum?’

CHAPTER TWENTY

The morning after the storm, Maggie eases herself painfully out of bed. The back of her head hurts, and so do the bruises on her arms and thighs. There’s one on her breast, too; she unties the bow on her nightdress so she can see it better. It’s reddish-purple, like a birthmark, but with a semi-circle of smaller, darker areas in the middle. She catches her breath; it looks like . . . but it can’t be. She runs her fingers over the small marks; they’re slightly raised and are beginning to scab over. She feels her eyes fill with tears as she realises what they are: bite marks. For a moment, it is as though her heart is thudding in her ears; she can hear her own breathing too, shallow and fast. She wants to run but she knows that would be crazy because she’s here, safe, in her room. After forcing herself to take deep breaths, she feels a little better. She takes a sip of water from the glass on the bedside table, and she tries – again – to remember what happened after Jack kissed her. She is thinking so hard it almost hurts. She searches every corner of memory, but that one part is still empty.

She puts her dressing gown on. It’s almost nine and she should be getting ready to go to the theatre, but the idea of going in as though nothing has happened . . . And what is she going to say to Jack?

‘Maggie, love,’ Dot calls up the stairs. ‘Young lass from ’ Playhouse were just here. What wi’t phones being down she’s having to go round in person, like. Anyway, ’ next few performances are cancelled, so’t lass says, so tha’s to stop at home unless you hear owt different.’

‘Thanks, Dot,’ she calls back down. Thank goodness for that; she couldn’t have gone in today, she just couldn’t.

‘And I’ve run a bath for you, love, under’t circumstances. When you’ve got yer sen sorted out, do you want to come down and keep me company for a bit? I were going to make a brew soon.’

The idea of a warm bath followed by a cup of tea in Dot’s kitchen suddenly seems like the nicest thing in the whole world. ‘Yes, please,’ she replies, trying not to cry. ‘Thank you.’

*

It seems the whole of Sheffield is reeling from the freak gale, which swept in across the Pennines, funnelling through the city and smashing it to pieces. Dot has been out in the street since dawn, sweeping up the aftermath with the other women and gathering as much information as she can. ‘It’s like a scene from ’ blitz out there,’ she says as she puts the teapot on the kitchen table. ‘It said on’t wireless more than half ’ houses in Sheffield’s been damaged. Them prefabs at Heeley came down like a pack of cards, our Mr Totley says – his ma lives ower that way. There’s folk homeless and injured – some even killed, so they’re saying.’

Maggie shivers. While taking her bath, she’d discovered that as well as being sore, she’s bleeding a little, but at least she’s alive.

Dot looks at her. ‘About last night, lass. We’ve no telephone just now, but I were wondering if you wanted to ring your mam up? Once it’s back on, like?’

‘No,’ Maggie shakes her head. ‘No thanks.’

‘Tha’s had a nasty shock, duck. I’m sure your mam would want to know. I could ring her up for you . . .’ She is twitching with anticipation.

‘No. I mean, I don’t have a mum. She died when I was sixteen.’ If her mother were still alive, what would Maggie tell her?
I seem to have lost my virginity but I don’t remember how it happened?

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, love. Who’s tha got at home, then? Your dad?’ Maggie has seen Dot scrutinising the boarders’ letters, putting on her spectacles to read the postmark.
One for you from East Sussex, duck. And I see Mr Totley’s got another one from Manchester.

Maggie shakes her head. ‘There’s only my brother.’

‘Well, you could tell him you was hurt in the storm. He might want to come up. I could let him have the back room for a couple of nights. I’d have to ask a few bob for his breakfasts and so on, but—’

‘No, Dot. Thanks for offering, but there’s no need.’

Dot pauses. ‘Maybe,’ she says gently, ‘I know it’s none of my business, but . . .’ She stirs her tea, taps the teaspoon on the side of the cup several times, then looks at Maggie. ‘ . . . has tha thought about telling ’ police, love?’

Maggie doesn’t answer. The idea of telling the police had crossed her mind. Jack raped her, she’s certain of that now. She’s covered in cuts and bruises and she’s bleeding down below, but how can she report it if she can’t remember what happened? The police would laugh. She shakes her head, ‘No.’ Her voice is barely more than a whisper.

Dot nods, then tilts her head. ‘Tha looks washed out, love. Why don’t you stop here and take it easy for a bit? You don’t want to be up there by yer sen, not after a bump on’t head. Heads is funny things. Come on, lass.’ She nods towards the fireside chair. ‘Sit by ’t fire and make yer sen comfy; I’ll make another brew as soon as ever I’ve finished outside.’

Maggie does feel a bit wobbly. Apart from the bruises and the soreness, there’s a plum-sized lump on her head, and a gash above her ear where a slate caught her as it fell; maybe she should take it easy for a day or two. ‘All right, Dot. Thanks.’

When Dot isn’t outside leaning on her broom and gossiping with the neighbours, or making Spam and pickle sandwiches for Alf and his brother while they rig up a makeshift cover for the roof, she makes endless cups of milky tea and sits with Maggie, chain-smoking her way through an entire pack of Players. Maggie is surprised at how much she wants to just carry on sitting here in Dot’s comfy chair, soaking up the warmth from the gas fire and trying to work out what to say to Jack when she sees him.

Dot hasn’t asked directly, but she’s clearly desperate for Maggie to talk, and Maggie feels she owes her something, some little titbit. ‘You’ll never guess what I thought I saw last night,’ she says when they’re on their third cup of tea. ‘It must have been the bump on the head, I suppose, but I thought I saw a little house being blown along in the wind.’

Dot looks aghast for a moment, then shakes her head and smiles. ‘Oh, that,’ she says. ‘That weren’t a house. Lads at ’ foundry were talking about it, according to my friend Mrs Bowden – her Frank were on’t early shift. It were a sheet-metal garage, apparently, skating down the road with half the street chasing after it. I should like to have seen that me sen.’ She chuckles and lights another cigarette. ‘They’re saying on’t wireless it were a hurricane. Only hit Sheffield and a bit of Chesterfield, by all accounts.’ She shakes her head again. ‘Never seen owt like it, honest to God, I haven’t. Garages floating down ’ road – I bet tha thought tha was going mental.’