I felt bad and so I said, “I’m sorry Steph.”
“You’re a pig. A fucking pig.”
“I’m sorry. How is she?”
She was nodding her fat face, agreeing with her own fat thoughts. “It’s not the first time is it?”
“What did Kathryn say?”
“There have been others haven’t there?”
Others, always the bloody others.
“I know you, Eddie Dunford,” she went on, leaning forward across the desk, her arms like thighs. “I know you.”
“Shut up,” I said quietly.
“How many others have there been, eh?”
“Keep your bloody nose out, you fat bitch.”
Applause and cheers rang out across the office, fists banging on desks, feet stamping.
I stared at Kathryn’s Christmas card.
“You pig,” she spat.
I looked up from the card but she was gone, sobbing out the door.
Across the office George Greaves and Gaz raised their ciga rettes in salute, giving me the thumbs up.
I held up my thumb, fresh blood on my knuckle.
It was five o’clock.
“I still need to talk to the other one, James Ashworth. He was the one who actually found the body.”
Hadden looked up from his pile of Christmas cards. He put one of the larger cards to the bottom of the pile and said, “It’s all a bit thin.”
“She was round the bloody twist.”
“Did you try and get a quote from the police.”
“No.”
“Maybe just as well,” he sighed, continuing to look through his cards.
I was tired beyond sleep, hungry beyond food, the room beyond hot and all too real.
Hadden was looking up from his cards at me.
“Anything new today?” I asked, my mouth suddenly full of bilious water.
“Nothing that’s fit to print. Jack’s off on one of his…”
I swallowed. “One of his?”
“He’s playing his cards close to his chest, shall we say.”
“I’m sure he’s doing what’s best.”
Hadden handed back the draft of my piece.
I opened the folder on my knee, putting away the one piece and taking out another. “And then there’s this?”
Hadden took the sheet from me and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
I stared out of the window behind him, the reflection of the yellow office lights on top of a dark wet Leeds.
“Mutilated swans, eh?”
“As I’m sure you know, there’s been a spate of animal muti lations.”
Hadden sighed, his cheeks turning red. “I’m not stupid. Jack showed me the post-mortem.”
I could hear people laughing in another part of the building.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Hadden took off his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “You’re trying too bloody hard.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“You’re like Barry. He was the same, always…”
“I wasn’t going to mention the post-mortem or Clare.”
Hadden was on his feet, pacing. “You can’t just write things and then assume it’s the bloody truth because you think it is.”
“I never do that.”
“I don’t know,” he was talking to the night. “It’s like you’re shooting at the whole bloody bush just on the off-chance there might be something in there worth killing.”
I said, “I’m sorry you think that.”
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat, you know.”
“I know.”
Hadden turned round. “Arnold Fowler’s worked for us for years.”
“I know.”
“You don’t want to be going out there and frightening the poor bloke with your horror stories.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
Hadden sat back down and sighed loudly. “Get some quotes. Give it a paternal tone and don’t mention the bloody Clare Kemplay case.”
I stood up, the room suddenly going dark and then light again. “Thank you.”
“We’ll run it on Thursday. Straightforward abuse of animals.”
“Of course.” I opened the door for air, support, and an exit.
“Like the pit ponies.”
I ran for the bogs, my guts in my gob.
“Hello. Is Kathryn there please?”
“No.”
The office was quiet and I had almost finished what I had to do.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No.”
I was drawing wings and roses upon my blotter. I put down my pen.
“Can you tell her Edward called?”
They hung up.
I scrawled The Medium & The Message across the top of the article in biro, then added a question mark and lit a cigarette.
After a few drags, I tore a sheet of paper from my notebook, stubbed out my cig, and wrote two lists. At the bottom of the page I wrote Dawson and underlined it.
I felt tired, hungry, and utterly lost.
I closed my eyes against the harsh bright office light and the white noise that filled my thoughts.
It took me a moment to pick out the sound of the phone.
“Edward Dunford speaking?”
“This is Paula Garland.”
I leant forward in my chair, my elbows on the desk sup porting the weight of the phone and my head. “Yes?”
“I heard you saw Mandy Wymer today.”
“Yeah, sort of. How did you know?”
“Our Paul said.”
“Right.” I’d no idea what to say next.
There was a long pause, then she said, “I need to know what she said.”
I was upright in my chair, changing hands and wiping the sweat on my trouser leg.
“Mr Dunford?”
“Well, she didn’t say very much.”
“Please, Mr Dunford. Anything at all?”
I had the phone cradled between my ear and my chin, looking at my father’s watch and stuffing The Medium & The Message into an envelope.
I said, “I can meet you in the Swan. About an hour?”
“Thank you.”
Down the corridor, into records.
Through the files, cross index, tear it down.
Looking at my father’s watch, 8.05 PM
Back in time:
· July 1969, the Moon Landings, small steps and giant leaps.
· 12 July 1969, Jeanette Garland, 8, missing.
· 13 July, A Mother’s Emotional Plea.
· 14 July, Detective Superintendent Oldman appeals.
· 15 July, police retrace Jeanette’s last small steps.
· 16 July, police widen search.
· 17 July, police baffled.
· 18 July, police call off search.
· 19 July, Medium Contacts Police.
Small Steps and Giant Leaps.
17 December 1974, a notebook full of scrawled quotes.
Looking at my father’s watch, 8.30 PM
Out of time.
The Swan, Castleford.
I was at the bar, ordering a pint and a Scotch.
The place was Christmas busy with a works do, everybody chanting along to the jukebox.
A hand at my elbow.
“Is one of them for me?”
“Which one do you want?”
Mrs Paula Garland picked up the whisky and made her way through the crowd to the cigarette machine. She put her handbag and glass on top of the machine.
“Do you come here often, Mr Dunford?” she smiled.
“Edward, please.” I put my pint down on top of the machine. “No, not often enough.”
She laughed and offered me a cigarette. “First time?”
“Second,” I said, thinking of the last time.
She took a light from me. “It’s not usually this busy.”
“You come here often then?”
“Are you trying to pick me up, Mr Dunford?” She was laughing.
I blew smoke above her head and smiled.
“I used to come here a lot,” she said, the laughter suddenly gone.
I was unsure what to say and said, “Seems like a nice local.”
“It was.” She picked up her drink.
I tried very hard not to stare but she was so pale against the red of her sweater, the rolls and folds of its neck making her whole head seem so very small and fragile.