Scarred for Life (27 page)

‘So we still don’t know anything?’

Two shrugs. ‘No.’

Jessica turned to Garry and raised her eyebrows. She didn’t want to ask out loud but the journalist nodded anyway and told Dave everything about Graham Pomeroy and the phone calls he had made to the newspaper. They all agreed that it was unlikely that the
Herald
was the only place the assistant chief constable had contacted, trying to force the agenda over Holden Wyatt. Dave had never met him; the only scrap of knowledge he had was the fact that the man’s nickname was Porky.

Spotting the logo on the van had left them with one more mystery – how did it connect a millionaire builder to a tattoo that a dead student wanted, to a letter put through Jessica’s door? And what role, if any, did their assistant chief constable have in it?

Dave packed his papers away, adding Garry’s to the stack, but there was a general sense of confusion. ‘There is one thing you could do,’ Dave said.

‘What?’

‘Ask.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Phone up the number on the back of Freddy’s van, say you like the logo and ask where it comes from.’

Sometimes the simplest solutions were the easiest to overlook.

Jessica took her phone out, checked the number on the website and then called it. A woman answered after one ring: ‘Bunce ’N’ Builders, how can I help you?’

Jessica cupped a hand around the mouthpiece, trying to drown out the sound of the screaming children. ‘Can I speak to Freddy, please?’

‘Freddy who?’

‘The owner, Freddy Bunce.’

‘Oh, Mr Bunce – he doesn’t work Saturdays.’

‘Do you know when he’ll be back in?’

There was a pause and some tapping on a keyboard. ‘Can I ask who’s calling, please?’

‘I’m from the council . . .’ Jessica shrugged at the two men, who were clearly unimpressed at her feeble lie.

The female voice on the other end suddenly sounded more attentive. ‘The council? Right, I . . . er, hang on.’

The line went dead, but Jessica covered the mouthpiece again just in case, whispering: ‘It was the best I could think of.’

‘Why didn’t you say you were a customer?’ Dave asked.

‘I don’t know – I wasn’t thinking.’

There was a pop and then the woman’s voice blurted out again: ‘Sorry – I’ve just checked and he’s going to be in the office on Monday. I can book you in for an appointment, or perhaps there’s something I can deal with?’

‘I’ve got a really busy day on Monday. Perhaps if you can remind me of your office’s address, then I’ll see if there’s a time I can drop round.’

The receptionist gave Jessica an address in Prestwich and then hung up.

Jessica turned to the two men. ‘Did either of you know they had an office?’

Two head shakes. ‘I assumed they worked from that house,’ Dave said.

‘At least it gives us somewhere to go on Monday.’

‘Are you really going to ask him about the logo?’

Jessica smiled. ‘If I can’t think of anything else. It’s not as if I can ask the DCI. If we’re going to look into this, then it has to be us.’

They were interrupted as one of the boys who had tried to mug Dave screeched past their table, making a nee-nar siren sound before clattering into a chair and going flying elbows first across the polished floor. Before anyone else could move, the woman in the leggings was on her feet again.

‘Kevin, what have I told you about running?!’

She shuffled from her seat towards her stricken son and helped him to stand. Jessica thought Kevin was upset at falling but there was a twisted fury in his face. As his mother brushed some dirt from his arm, he reeled back and punched her hard on the shoulder.

‘Ow! What did you do that for?’

Kevin started to run off again but his mother held his wrist.

‘What have I told you about hitting people?’

The boy was still snarling. ‘What?’

She released him, wagging a finger in his face: ‘Look at this.’ She rolled the sleeve of her jumper up, revealing a mass of purple, blue and black on her shoulder. She was practically pleading with him. ‘You don’t realise how much you’re hurting Mummy. It’s painful when you hit people – do you understand?’

Kevin’s brow was furrowed, body still tensed. ‘Yes.’

‘Really? Look at these.’

She pointed at her shoulder again and her son peered in, his stance softening a little. ‘I’m sorry.’

His mum rolled her sleeve back down. ‘Are you really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, come here.’ She pulled her squirming son towards her and hugged him, before leading him back to the table.

Dave and Garry looked at Jessica blankly. ‘What was all that about?’ Garry asked.

Jessica was fairly sure she knew the answer: ‘If you grow up seeing one person hit another person regularly, then you think that’s normal.’

‘You think she’s got someone at home who beats her up?’

Jessica shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t be the first. There’s not a lot we can do unless she comes to us, or something happens in public and it’s reported.’

Garry was peering over Jessica’s shoulder towards the woman, who was now going through the menu with her sons. ‘I’ve never understood why people stay with someone who hits them. It’s not love, is it?’

Jessica was about to reply that things were never that simple when she remembered visiting Joe Peters when his girlfriend Leanne was missing. He’d placed their baby in his lap and massaged his own upper arm. Their next-door neighbour had told Jessica that they fought physically as well as shouting at each other. Perhaps it hadn’t been the baby that had taken the toll on his arms; maybe they hit each other too.

And then she remembered that he wasn’t the only person she’d noticed nursing bruises recently.

33

Jessica walked into the maroon waiting room of Tim’s Taxis and took a seat. The smell of the furniture and feel of the velvet was so vivid that she could’ve been back in that working men’s club all those years ago, trying to figure out quite how people could become so angry over a piece of tape stuck to the floor. It was Saturday afternoon and raining, as ever, so a smattering of shoppers who had somehow figured out that the shop front with the lunchtime supplies sign was actually a taxi office were sitting around waiting for a lift home. In the back office, she could hear Tim talking into the radio. Jessica quietly showed her identification to the shoppers and asked them to leave.

Grumble-grumble-don’t-you-know-it’s-raining-out-there – and then the office was empty.

Jessica sat, running her hand across the tattered material of the chairs, listening to the rat-a-tat-tat of the instructions as Tim called them out to his drivers. In the background, there was commentary of a football match on the radio.

Tim’s voice rang out from the office: ‘Mrs Smith, your car’s here.’

After a few moments with no reply, he repeated himself, before appearing in the doorway. He stopped mid-sentence, taking in the almost empty waiting room, before noticing Jessica.

‘You’re back.’

‘Yep.’

Tim flicked his long hair behind him. He was wearing jeans, a checked shirt and a leather waistcoat, like a cowboy who’d taken a wrong turn somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic and lost his hat. ‘Hamish is off today. I think he might be at the football.’ He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Bloody United are one down.’

Archie would be fuming.

‘I’m not here for Hamish.’

‘Oh.’

‘Other half not around today?’

Tim’s features twitched slightly. ‘She has things to do on Saturday.’

‘Tell me about her.’

‘Why?’

Jessica stood and straightened her top, half-turning so he could see the earpiece she was wearing but deliberately not looking at him. ‘Because I’m asking.’

‘You heard us arguing the other day?’

‘Yep.’

Tim sighed, sitting on the dark red bench and resting his head in his hands. ‘I will never,
ever
, understand women. It’s like you’re a different species.’ Jessica said nothing, waiting. ‘I don’t know the official terms but she is mental. You’ve seen her, right? She’s stunning – I mean, what’s someone like her doing with someone like me? When we met a few years ago, it was at this rock night in this place just off Canal Street. They host them once a month or so and my band was playing.’

‘You were in a band?’

Tim looked up, half-smiling. ‘Metal – I’m on drums. We broke up in the summer because our lead singer wanted to go out to LA and try his luck with some band who’d put an advert on the Internet. Anyway, a couple of years ago, we were doing our thing. It’s just off the gay area, so you get a mixed crowd – straight, gay, old, young, queens, trannies, you name it. Normally you get your head down, bash away and hope for the best. It was a Sunday night and I noticed this blonde in the front row – just stunning. I say I noticed, but we all did – it’s not like you could miss her. After we were done, we walked off and the first thing anyone said was, “What about that girl at the front?” You know what it’s like with lads.’

He went quiet for a moment as the commentator on the radio went up an octave to describe a goal that would cheer Archie up wherever he was.

Tim undid his waistcoat. ‘Okay, maybe you don’t know what lads are like.’

‘I do.’

‘So you can guess the type of thing we were talking about. We were third on but it was a Sunday, so there wasn’t anywhere we could head out to for a few more drinks because it was closing time. Plus we had to load all our gear back into the van. I wouldn’t have minded heading down Canal Street – but one of the lads kept saying he didn’t want to get bummed.’

He caught Jessica’s eye, his lip curled upwards. ‘I know, right? It’s not the seventies any more – but that’s the way he was. We ended up going back into the main area of the pub and propping up one end of the bar. We didn’t have a big following or anything, but we wouldn’t usually have done that because people get a bit crazy at the end of the night and you’re just after a quiet beer with your mates.’

‘But the blonde was there, right?’

Tim’s slightly crooked features erupted into a full smile. He tucked his hair behind his ears and began fiddling with his waistcoat again. ‘Aye, she was. Our singer – the guy that went off to LA – he was there ordering rounds for everyone, flashing the cash, thinking she was there for him. You couldn’t talk to anyone because the final band was on and it was too noisy – but you could see it in the guy’s eyes that he thought he was onto a winner, except that every time he turned around to talk to the barman, she squeezed my knee.’

A blast of wind rattled the windows at the front but Tim was back in the moment. ‘After about an hour, the final band had finished and they called last orders. He held out his arm for her to cling onto as if he was going to take her home and she had no say in it – but she just smiled sweetly, gave him a wink and said, “I’m already sorted, thanks.” His eyes almost popped out of his head when she turned around, grabbed my hand and marched me out of the pub. Mine too, if I’m honest.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Mandy. The thing is, the pretty ones are always the mental ones, aren’t they? My ol’ dad used to tell me that when I was at school – ignore the prettiest ones, they’ll always fuck you up. Course, the only thing that fucked him up was the booze.’

Tim stood abruptly, making Jessica step back quickly, one hand close to her ear. Tim held his hands up to show he didn’t mean anything by it, nodding towards a filing cabinet in the corner of his office.

‘Do you wanna check out the top drawer? It should be unlocked.’

Slowly, Jessica crossed the room, not taking her eyes from him until she was at the cabinet. She slowly pulled the top drawer open, ready to leap back at any moment in case there was a nasty surprise in there. Instead, there were three bottles of vodka.

‘Take your pick,’ Tim called out.

Jessica took the one that had already been opened and returned to the office, handing it to Tim, who had sat again. He unscrewed the lid, took a breath, and then swigged heavily. ‘Course, he may have had a problem with this stuff but he had a point – you go out with a normal girl and it doesn’t take three hours to get ready to go out. You go out with a normal girl and she understands that money don’t grow on trees. She gets that when you’re in a band, it’s mainly playing dingy small pubs for a couple of hundred quid that you’ve got to split between you.’

‘Mandy’s not a normal girl?’

Tim laughed and took another mouthful, holding the bottle close to his nose and breathing the fumes. ‘How many girls do you know who look like that and are perfectly normal?’

Jessica shrugged – there was little point in arguing but she didn’t think looks came into it. Tim took the gesture as an admission that he was right.

‘Exactly, but that just meant she was the type of woman you couldn’t say no to. After a year or so, she wanted to get married and I went with it. I’ve never wanted to be married, never wanted kids, a house, any of that stuff. I just wanted to go on the road and play drums. Suddenly, there I was in this two-up, two-down wondering what the hell I’d got myself into.’

‘How long ago was that?’

Jessica already knew the answer – she’d done her homework before coming anywhere near the office – but that didn’t mean it wasn’t worth hearing it from him.

Tim started counting on his fingers. ‘A little over a year and a half.’

‘But somehow you moved from playing in a band to owning a taxi company?’

‘Stupid, right? We’d been playing all around the area and not really getting anywhere. There were a few hardcore fans who’d come along and make up the numbers but there was never going to be any money in it. When I was on my own, that would’ve been fine. I was happy living place to place, eating cold pizza and doing a gig every few nights. That was never going to suit Mandy. She liked the idea of going out with someone in a band, she just didn’t want me actually being
in
the band – especially one that wasn’t successful.’

‘So it was her idea to start a business?’

Tim swigged his vodka again. ‘Not exactly. It took me ages to realise but I did eventually figure out why she started seeing me – it was because she really thought the band was good. She thought we were playing local pubs at that point but then within a few months we’d be doing bigger clubs, then arenas. She thought she was buying into something that was going to be successful. When I realised that, I kept thinking I’d let her down. She thought she was marrying a soon-to-be rock god, but instead she got the hairy bloke at the back with drumsticks. None of that bothered me; I just wanted to play drums – if it was in front of a dozen people in some back room, that was fine. If it was in front of thousands of people at some festival, I would’ve treated it the exact same way.’