No Johnny Kelly, no Wakefield Trinity, just St Helens 7 points clear.
“Really? I thought it was the wife.”
I was making circles with a dried coffee spoon:
Missing girclass="underline" Clare Kemplay-
Clare Kemplay’s body found by James Ashworth-
James Ashworth, employed by Foster’s Construction-
Foster’s Construction, owned by Donald Foster-
Donald Foster, Chairman of Wakefield Trinity Rugby League Club-
Wakefield Trinity’s star player, Johnny Kelly-
Johnny Kelly, brother of Paula Garland-
Paula Garland, mother of Jeanette Garland-
Jeanette Garland: Missing girl.
“Everything’s linked. Show me two things that aren’t connected.”
Barry Gannon, like he was sitting right there, across the table:
“What’s your plan then?”
Back in the bright yellow lobby, just gone six, I ripped through the phone book.
“It’s Edward Dunford.”
“Yes?”
“I need to see you.”
“You’d better come in.”
Mrs Paula Garland, standing in the doorway of Number 11, Brunt Street, Castleford.
“Thank you.”
I stepped inside another warm terraced room, Coronation Street just starting, my right hand in my pocket.
A short fat red-haired woman came out of the kitchen. “Hello, Mr Dunford.”
“This is Scotch Clare, lives two down. She’s just going, aren’t you?”
“Aye. Pleased to meet you,” said the woman, squeezing my left hand.
“You’re not going on my account, I hope?” I lied, by trade.
“Ooh, he’s got some manners has this one, eh?” laughed Scotch Clare, walking over to the bright red door.
Paula Garland was still holding open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, love.”
“Aye. Nice to meet you Mr Dunford. Maybe we’ll see you again for a wee Christmas drink, eh?”
“Eddie, please. That’d be nice,” I smiled.
“See you then, Eddie. Merry Christmas,” grinned Clare.
Paula Garland walked a little way out into the street with Clare. “See you then,” she said outside, giggling.
I stood for a moment alone in the front room, staring at the photograph on top of the TV.
Paula Garland came back in and closed the red door. “Sorry about that.”
“No, it’s me that should be sorry, just phoning up…”
“Don’t be daft. Sit down will you.”
“Thanks,” I said and sat down on the off-white leather sofa.
She started to say, “About last night, I…”
I put up my hands. “Forget it.”
“What’s happened to your hand?” Paula Garland had her own hand to her mouth, staring at the greying lump of bandages on the end of my arm.
“Someone slammed my car door on it.”
“You’re joking?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Two policemen.”
“You’re joking?”
“No.”
“Why?”
I looked up and tried to smile. “I thought you might be able to tell me.”
“Me?”
She had a piece of red cotton thread hanging from her brown flared skirt and I wanted to stop what I had started and tell her about the piece of red cotton thread.
But I said, “The same two coppers warned me off after I was here on Sunday.”
“Sunday?”
“The first time I came here.”
“I never said anything to the police.”
“Who did you tell?”
“Just our Paul.”
“Who else?”
“No-one.”
“Please tell me?”
Paula Garland was standing in the middle of the furniture, surrounded by trophies and photographs and Christmas cards, pulling her yellow and green and brown striped cardigan tight around her.
“Please, Mrs Garland…”
“Paula,” she whispered.
I just wanted to stop, to reach over, to pick off the piece of red cotton thread and hold her as tight as life itself.
But I said, “Paula please, I need to know.”
She sighed and sat down in the off-white leather armchair opposite me. “After you went, I was upset and…”
“Please?”
“Well, the Fosters came over…”
“Donald Foster?”
“And his wife.”
“Why did they come here?”
Paula Garland’s blue eyes flashed cold. “They’re friends, you know.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
She sighed, “They came to see if I’d heard from Johnny.”
“When was this?”
“About ten or fifteen minutes after you’d gone. I was still crying and…”
“I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t just you. They’d been phoning all weekend, wanting to speak to Johnny.”
“Who had?”
“The papers. Your mates.” She was talking to the floor.
“And you told Foster about me?”
“I didn’t tell him your name.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Just that some fucking journalist had been round asking about Jeanette.” Paula Garland looked up, staring at my right hand.
“Tell me about him,” I said, my dead hand waking again.
“Who?”
The pain was growing, throbbing. “Donald Foster.”
Paula Garland, beautiful blonde hair tied back, said, “What about him?”
“Everything.”
Paula Garland swallowed. “He’s rich and he likes Johnny.”
“And?”
Paula Garland, her eyes blinking fast, whispered, “And he was very kind to us when Jeanette went missing.”
My mouth dry, my hand on fire, staring at the piece of red cotton thread, I said, “And?”
“And he’s a bastard if you cross him.”
I held up my white right hand. “You think he’d do something like this?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No I don’t know, because I don’t know why he’d do it.”
“Because of what I know.”
“What do you mean, what you know?”
“Because I know everything’s connected and he’s the link.”
“Link to what? What are you talking about?” Paula Garland was scratching at her forearms.
“Donald Foster knows you and Johnny, and Clare Kemplay’s body was found on one of his building sites in Wakefield.”
“That’s it?”
“He’s the link between Jeanette and Clare.”
Paula Garland was white and shaking, tearing at the skin on her arms. “You think Donald Foster killed that little girl and took my Jeanette from me?”
“I’m not saying, that, but he knows.”
“Knows what?”
I was on my feet, my bandages flailing, shouting, “There’s a man out there and he’s taking and raping and murdering little girls and he’ll take and rape and murder again and nobody is going to stop him because nobody really fucking cares.”
“I care.”
“I know you care, but they don’t. They just care about their little lies and their money.”
Paula Garland flew from the chair, kissing my mouth, kissing my eyes, kissing my ears, holding me tight, saying over and over, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
My left hand clutched at the bones in her spine, my right hand dangling numb, pawing at her skirt, the piece of red cotton thread catching on my bandage.
“Not here,” said Paula and gently picked up my white right hand, leading me up the steep, steep stairs.
There were three doors at the top of the stairs, two closed and a bathroom door ajar. Two tacked on plastic door plates: Mummy & Daddy’s Room and Jeanette’s Room.
We fell through the Mummy & Daddy door, Paula kissing me harder and harder, talking faster and faster:
“You care and you believe. You don’t know how much that means to me. It’s been so long since someone cared.”
We were on the bed, the light from the landing making warm shadows of the wardrobe and the dressing table.