“What?”
“You heard. You’re wanted for questioning.”
“In connection to what?”
“In connection to the murder of Mandy Wymer.”
“Fuck off.”
“Where are you?”
“Listen…”
“No, you fucking listen. I’ve been trying to speak to you for two fucking days…”
“Listen, please…”
Silence again, just the hum of the line waiting for his words or mine.
The click of pool balls from behind the glass doors, won dering if it was always the same game, wondering if they even bothered to keep score, thinking of the crows on the wire again and wondering if Fraser was tracing this call.
“Go on,” said Fraser.
“I’ll give you names and dates, all the information I have about Barry Gannon and all the stuff he found out.”
“Go on.”
“But I need to know everything you’ve heard about what’s going on with Michael Myshkin, what he’s saying about Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard. And I want his confession.”
“Go on.”
“I’ll meet you at twelve noon. I’ll give you all I’ve got, you give me what you’ve got. And I want your word you won’t try and bring me in.”
“Go on.”
“If you arrest me, I’ll drop you right in it.”
“Go on.”
“Give me till midnight, then I’ll come in.”
Silence, only the hum waiting for the word.
The click of pool balls from behind the glass doors, won dering where the farting old woman was, wondering if she had died in her room and nobody had found her, thinking of the crows on the wire and wondering if Fraser had set me up at the Hartley Nursing Home.
“Where?” whispered Sergeant Fraser.
“There’s a disused petrol station at the junction of the A655 and the B6134 going out to Featherstone.”
“Twelve?”
“Noon.”
The line dead, the hum gone, feeling much the same.
The click of pool balls from behind the glass doors.
On the floor of Room 27, emptying my pockets and bags, staring at the tiny cassettes marked BOX AND SHAW, pressing play:
“I’m no angel either, but I am a businessman.”
Transcribing my words and theirs in my own injured hand.
“Persuade the Councillor that he should bare his soul of all his public wrongdoings.”
Putting a photograph to one side.
“Tomorrow lunchtime, upstairs in the Strafford Arms.”
Changing cassettes, pressing play:
“Because of the fucking money.”
Printing in capitals.
“Foster, Donald Richard Foster. Is that who you want?”
Listening to lies.
“I didn’t know he was a journalist.”
Turning over the tape.
“All of the others under those beautiful new carpets.”
Rewind.
“Don’t touch me!”
Pressing record to erase.
“You smell so strongly of bad memories.”
On the floor of Room 27, stuffing a manila envelope full of Barry’s bits and the things he’d found, licking it locked and scrawling Fraser’s name across the front.
“You didn’t see it coming?”
At the door of my Redbeck room, swallowing a pill and lighting a cigarette, a manila envelope in my hand and a Christmas card in my pocket.
“I’m a medium Mr Dunford, not a fortune teller.”
One door left.
Noon. Saturday 21 December 1974.
Between a lorry and a bus, driving past the disused Shell petrol station at the junction of the A655 and the B6134.
A mustard-yellow Maxi sat on the forecourt, Sergeant Fraser leaning against the bonnet.
I drove on for a hundred yards and pulled in, wound down my window, turned round, pressed record on the Philips Pocket Memo, and drove back.
Pulling up beside the Maxi, I said, “Get in.”
Sergeant Fraser, a raincoat over his uniform, walked round the back of the Viva and got in.
I pulled out of the forecourt and turned left up the B6134 to Featherstone.
Sergeant Fraser, arms folded, stared straight ahead.
For one moment, I felt like I’d stepped into an alternate world straight out of Dr fucking Who, where I was the cop and Fraser was not, where I was good and he was not.
“Where are we going?” said Fraser.
“We’re here.” I pulled into a lay-by just past a red caravan selling teas and pies.
Turning off the engine, I said, “You want anything?”
“No, you’re all right.”
“Am I? You know Sergeant Craven and his mate?”
“Yeah. Everyone knows them.”
“You know them well?”
“By reputation.”
I stared out of the brown mud-stained window, over the low brown hedges dividing the flat brown fields with their lone brown trees.
“Why?” said Fraser.
I took a photograph of Clare Kemplay out of my pocket, one of her lying on a hospital slab, a swan’s wing stitched into her back.
I handed the photo to Fraser. “I think either Craven or his partner gave me this.”
“Fuck. Why?”
“They’re setting me up.”
“Why?”
I pointed to the carrier bag at Fraser’s feet. “It’s all in there.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Transcripts, documents, photographs. Everything you need.”
“Transcripts?”
“I’ve got the original tapes and I’ll hand them over when you decide you need them. Don’t worry, it’s all there.”
“It better be,” said Fraser, peering into the bag.
I took two pieces of paper from inside my jacket and gave one of them to Fraser. “Knock on this door.”
“Flat 5, 3 Spencer Mount, Chapeltown,” read Fraser.
I put the other piece back in my pocket. “Yeah.”
“Who lives here?”
“Barry James Anderson; he’s an acquaintance of Barry Cannon’s and the star of some of the snaps and tapes you’ll find in the bag.”
“Why are you giving me him?”
I stared out towards the ends of the flat brown fields, at blue skies turning white.
“I’ve got nothing else left to give.”
Fraser put the piece of paper inside his pocket, taking out a notebook.
“What have you got for me?”
“Not so bloody much,” said Fraser, opening the notebook.
“His confession?”
“Not verbatim.”
“Details?”
“There aren’t any.”
“What’s he said about Jeanette Garland?”
“He’s copped for it. That’s it.”
“Susan Ridyard?”
“Same.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah,” said Sergeant Eraser.
“You think he did them?”
“He’s the one confessing.”
“He say where he did all these things?”
“His Underground Kingdom.”
“He’s not all there.”
“Who is?” sighed Fraser.
In the green car, by the brown field, under the white sky, I said, “Is that it?”
Sergeant Fraser looked down at the notebook in his hands and said, “Mandy Wymer.”
“Fuck.”
“Neighbour found her yesterday about 9 AM She had been raped, scalped, and hung with wire from a light fitting.”
“Scalped?”
“Like Indians do.”
“Fuck.”
“They’re keeping that from your lot,” smiled Fraser.
“Scalped,” I whispered.
“Cats had had a go too. Real horror show stuff.”
“Fuck.”
“Your ex-boss turned you in,” said Fraser and closed the notebook.
“They think I fucking did it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a journalist.”
“So?”
“So they think you might know who did it.”
“Why me?”
“Because you must have been one of the last fucking people to see her alive, that’s why.”
“Fuck.”
“She mention her husband?”
“She didn’t say anything.”