Flesh And Blood (21 page)

‘This little investigation of yours,’ Bell asked, ‘how’s it going?’

‘Not sure to be honest,’ Elder said. ‘A few facts, half-truths, suspicions – things that didn’t come out first time around. But as to whether it’s leading somewhere…’

‘Sounds like police work to me.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You miss it?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘You not think that’s why you’re doing this, on account you can’t let go?’

‘Can’t let go of the case or can’t let go of the job?’

‘You tell me.’

Elder didn’t know. ‘You can drop me,’ he said, ‘anywhere near Trinity Square. As long as that’s not going out of your way.’

He hadn’t realised the biggest drawback about purchasing a mobile phone was standing in the middle of the shop while some young man in a cheap suit ran through his spiel. Sign on the dotted line and he could walk out with something state of the art that would enable him not simply to make and receive calls and text messages, but access the internet, send emails and faxes, transmit visual images and download material on to his personal computer. And all while, as Jimmy Durante would have said, his left foot could be cracking walnuts. His dad’s one party piece that had been, sitting at the piano with a paper cup in front of his face singing ‘I’m the Guy Who Found The Lost Chord’ like Jimmy Durante. A comedian with a raucous voice and a big nose, who ever thought of Durante today? When had he last thought of his father?

Elder cut off the salesman in mid-flow and told him he wanted the simplest phone possible, no trimmings, no extras, pay as you go. Charged and ready to use.

‘I’m afraid we don’t do that,’ the salesman said.

‘Do what?’

‘Sell phones ready charged.’

‘You do now,’ Elder said.

Back out in the street, he tested it by calling Stephen Bryan’s number in Leicester but only succeeded in getting his machine. Leave a message or try my mobile. Elder tried the mobile and after a longish pause was informed it was switched off but if he wished he could leave a message. He left a message. There was no knowing when or even if Bryan would get back to him and he didn’t want to waste another day.

A brisk walk along Clumber Street and Bridlesmith Gate took him to the Broad Marsh Centre and then the station. If he changed trains at Grantham, he could be in Newcastle in well under three hours. At the AMT stall in the concourse he bought coffee and a muffin.
David Copperfield
was bulking out his coat pocket. Buying the muffin had made him think of Katherine. Perhaps he would call her from the platform, hoping for her approval. And there were a few others he ought to let have the number too, no point in having one otherwise. Maureen, certainly. Willie Bell. And Helen Blacklock? He wasn’t sure. According to the screens high on the wall above the entrance, his train was due in seven minutes, expected on time.

♦

When Elder arrived in Newcastle, the weather, which had passed through several permutations on the way up, settled into an all-encompassing blue. He checked with the newspaper vendor in the station forecourt and confirmed the theatre was but ten minutes’ walk. Past the new shopping complex and there was Gray’s Monument, like a smaller version of Nelson’s Column. The Gray after whom the tea was named, Elder wondered, or had that been a relation?

The Theatre Royal was near the top of the street on the right-hand side, a grand building whose fluted columns seemed mainly to have resisted the incursions of pigeons or late-night graffiti artists. Having no joy at the front, Elder went in search of the stage door. A few words of explanation, a joking aside or two, and the assistant house manager was summoned and duly appeared, a busy dark-haired young woman who introduced herself as Rebecca.

With as little folderol as possible, Elder explained what he wanted.

‘Thirteen years ago, you say?’

‘Thirteen or fourteen.’

‘And you want to know this why?’

‘It’s just for verification. That’s all.’ He could see her wavering. ‘But it is important. Otherwise I wouldn’t be taking your time.’

She sighed and pushed a stray hair away from her eyes. ‘Follow me.’

The office was along a high, narrow corridor, the smell of recent paint still coming off the walls.

‘All the house manager’s notes are computerised now,’ Rebecca explained. ‘Have been for the past five or six years. Before that everything was entered by hand in one of these.’

Pulling open the centre drawer of a bottle-green cabinet, she revealed a mishmash of stiff-backed books, spiral bound.

‘Help yourself. Whatever you’re looking for, it’s either in there or nowhere at all.’ Lifting one out, she traced a finger line through the dust. ‘Should have been turfed out ages ago.’

Elder was glad that hadn’t been the case.

‘Can I get you anything? Coffee? Some water?’

‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’

It didn’t take him so long to find what he was looking for. November 1987. A Tuesday. The RSC.
King Lear
. During the routine operation of the safety curtain before the performance, the mechanism jammed and the fault could not be rectified, causing the performance to be cancelled. Patrons were offered a refund or an exchange.

When Rebecca drifted back in to see how he was getting on, he was idly leafing through the book.

‘A couple removed their clothes in the middle of Act Two and threw them down from the upper circle?’

‘That’s nothing. How did you get on?’

‘Fine. Is it possible for me to get a photocopy of this page?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

Five minutes later he was back out on the street, the copy thoughtfully slipped inside a manila envelope by Rebecca, along with a programme for the theatre’s current season. ‘Four in the morning, near enough, by when they got home.’ Helen Blacklock had said. ‘Trevor had been all for calling out the police, he were that worried.’ According to Rob Shriver they had arrived back in Chesterfield by around ten. Which left six hours unaccounted for. Paul Latham driving Susan Blacklock home.

♦

Latham was in the school hall, supervising an after-hours drama group of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds. Right then, they were in pairs, building an improvisation around the theme of mistaken identity; some worked intently, head to head, others relished the opportunity for shouting and gesticulation. Elder was certain the teacher had seen him, standing at the back of the hall near the door, but he gave no sign. At the end of the exercise, he got everyone sitting in a circle and asked some of the pairs to share what they’d been doing. Applause, laughter, groans, a few parting words from Latham and they were picking up their coats, changing out of their soft-soled shoes, heading off in boisterous twos and threes.

‘I didn’t think,’ Latham said, pitching up, ‘I’d be seeing you again so soon.’

They had half the length of the hall between them.

‘I thought we should talk,’ Elder said.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Here?’

‘Why not? Whatever it is, I can’t imagine it’s very private. And anyway, there’s only the cleaners to overhear.’

Elder moved a couple of paces closer. ‘It’s about Susan.’

‘Of course.’

‘Susan and yourself.’

‘Listen,’ Latham said, ‘I helped you before and I was glad to.’

‘That night you drove back early from Newcastle, when the play was cancelled, was that when it started?’

Elder thought one side of Latham’s face twitched slightly, but he wasn’t sure. ‘I don’t know which particular fantasy you’re entertaining…’

‘Or was it already a going thing by then? I bet you couldn’t believe your luck, an excuse to spend all that time together.’

‘You know, I’m surprised you were able to get in so easily,’ Latham said. ‘They’re so much stricter about all that kind of thing nowadays. Strangers on the premises. Or did you show somebody an old – what are they called? – warrant card. Is that what it was?’

‘Six hours,’ Elder said. ‘Six hours with the minibus all to yourselves. Or did you take her back to the cottage? Time enough, I’d have thought.’

‘I think,’ Latham said, moving in the direction of the door diagonally across from where Elder stood, ‘I’ll see if I can find the caretaker. He might even want to call the police.’

‘Wait,’ Elder said.

Latham broke his step but nothing more.

‘This isn’t a game, you know,’ Elder said. ‘An improvisation.’

‘Isn’t it? What a pity.’

When Latham emerged into the school car park forty-five minutes later, Elder was leaning against the side of his own ageing Ford, waiting. Latham hesitated, then turned and marched towards him; when he stopped, a few metres short of Elder, his arms were folded across his chest.

‘I meant what I said. I suspect you thought I didn’t, but I assure you I did. If you continue to harass me I shall go to the police.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Elder said.

‘Then you’re wrong.’

‘Mr Latham, I know that on the night the play was cancelled you and your group were back in Chesterfield by between half past nine and half ten at the latest. There’s testimony to that effect. I also know that, according to Susan Blacklock’s mother, you didn’t bring her home until four the next morning.’

‘That’s what she says?’

‘It is.’

‘Then she’s wrong.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘She’s distraught, she’s obsessive, in her state she’ll say anything.’

‘I believe her.’

‘That’s your privilege.’

‘Why not tell the truth? After all this time what harm can it do?’

‘Harm?’ Latham smiled. ‘You must think I’m very stupid.’

‘Misguided, I prefer to think.’

Latham’s arms came down to his sides, hands tight like fists. ‘What you’re suggesting, that I had an improper relationship with one of the pupils in my care, it’s untrue. It’s something I would never countenance, something indeed I would condemn.’ He moved a pace away. ‘Should you ever have any evidence to support such an allegation, I’m prepared to refute it in the presence of my solicitor. Until then, I’ll thank you to leave me alone.’

Elder reached down through the open window of the car and picked up the Polaroid camera he’d borrowed from Maureen earlier. The flash went off in Latham’s face and he wasn’t fast enough to block the shot with his arm.

‘Thanks,’ Elder said and, getting into the car, he turned the ignition, engaged gear and drove away, the image of Paul Latham becoming smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror.

Shane had sold Pam Wilson’s credit and debit cards, all of Gerald Kersley’s save one. The money was stashed in a sock at the bottom of his sports bag. Even Angel didn’t know where it was. Getaway money. Mad money. McKeirnan had taught him that. No matter how low you go, always keep a little something back. Then if you’re right down to the wire and needs must…

There were other things McKeirnan had taught him too, things that had stuck, unlike the names of constellations, the names of the stars.

Always keep the advantage, never give everything away.

Always have something that will give you the edge. Like a blade, a knife. And if you have to use it, use it first. Take the upper hand. Hold your temper, keep it for when it matters. Don’t waste it in situations where all it’s going to do is get you into trouble. There’ll be trouble enough, you’ll see.

And then there had been McKeirnan’s advice on women, on girls: never mind what they say, they all like a bit of this, a bit of that, they love it. A bit of rough. And this… and this…

With Angel in the sleeping-bag it had been different, little room to move, what could you do? But now they had the caravan: space, privacy. They’d arrived at the Newark site late at night, no thought of doing anything other than downing a few beers, smoking the odd joint, some good stuff going round – amphetamines, a few Es. Shane having a good time, getting high, starting to look at Angel in that way and even though she’d said no to taking more than a spliff or two herself, he figured that didn’t matter. Once they got back to the caravan everything would be okay.

The moment they were inside, he grabbed her from behind and threw her down, yanking her skirt high over her behind and driving his hand between her legs. When she shouted he clamped a hand across her mouth and when she bit his finger he slapped her face. He grabbed for her again and she knocked his hands away and he punched her, hard, to teach her who was boss; pushed her back to the floor and squeezed hard at her breast, falling across her and forcing his fingers up inside, despite the fact that she was tight and dry.

‘Shane! Shane! Shane! You’re hurting! You’re hurting! What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’

Gloating, he pushed harder and she caught hold of his wrist and held it fast.

‘Shane. Stop, stop, stop. For God’s sake, stop.’

Shane rocked back on his heels, breathing hard.

Tears were running down Angel’s face, tears mixed with snot. Gingerly, she pulled her legs up close together and her skirt back down.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, an interval later. ‘I’m sorry, I thought…’

‘You thought what?’

Shane turned his face away.

‘You thought I’d like that? You thought that was what I wanted?’

‘Yes.’ His voice barely heard.

‘Oh, Shane.’

She leaned slowly forward against him, resting her face high on his chest, the top of her head beneath his chin and the last of her tears warm on his neck. Then she leaned back again and slapped him with her open hand across one side of his face, slapped him as hard as she could. Not once but twice.

‘Don’t you ever try that with me again. Ever. Understood?’

And though his face stung and his eyes were watering and she had raised a weal over his cheek-bone with the nail of her middle finger, Shane did nothing. Said nothing. Stayed where he was. Even when Angel went outside and closed the door.