Something Wicked (29 page)

‘What do you think?’ Jenny asked.

‘About what?’

‘Look at the photo.’

‘I am.’

‘Look again.’

Andrew had seen it before but did as he was told anyway. There was still a soil-coloured smear across the bottom but what they had assumed was Kristian’s teenage face was clear at the top,
a wiry bob of hair draining into a dark puddle of ink, as if someone had knocked a glass of liquid across a fresh watercolour. Next to him was an identical blob from where more liquid had pooled,
making it look like Kristian had two heads.

Unless . . .

‘Could he have a brother?’ Andrew said.

‘They look exactly the same,’ Jenny replied. ‘I was thinking twins.’

Jenny had already searched for details about Kristian Verity when Scrumpy had given Andrew the name. If he was a twin, there was nothing recent or obvious to say so. What she
did have was a long list of addresses attached to an extended credit history, the census, and electoral records. He had certainly moved around a lot but not apparently out of Greater
Manchester.

They didn’t know exactly how old Kristian was in the photograph but it couldn’t have been older than seventeen or eighteen. The closest address to the office was one from sixteen
years ago, when Kristian would have been twenty. Unfortunately, when they arrived to see if there were any long-term residents that might remember him, the houses had been knocked down and replaced
by a supermarket.

There was only one older address Jenny had been able to find. When he was nineteen years old, definitely older than in the photograph, Kristian had lived on an estate bordering Hulme on one side
and Trafford on the other. It wasn’t much to go on but marginally better than nothing.

As Andrew parked the car, they realised quite how grim the area was. The house on the end of a row of semi-detached properties was burned out, with black sooty marks around the window frames,
heavy metal plates bolted over the doors and windows, and criss-crossing black and yellow tape with ‘do not enter’ signs.

Andrew asked Jenny to wait in the car as he walked around a large patch of mud and approached the house that Kristian had apparently once lived in.

No answer.

Next door, a weary-looking woman in her twenties answered, dark hair scraped back mercilessly, baby cradled over her shoulder.

Andrew nodded towards the adjoining house. ‘Hi, do you know if anyone lives next door? I’m trying to track someone down.’

‘Who?’

‘Kristian Verity.’

‘Never ’eard of him.’

‘Perhaps they might have done? Do you know when they’ll be back?’

She started patting the baby on the back. ‘They never answer the door. They assume everyone’s from the benefits office, popping around to see if they can walk. They can, by the way.
Last summer, when they were pissed, they were running up and down the garden.’

The baby started to shuffle, with the woman reaching for the door handle.

‘Is there anyone on this row who’s lived here for a while?’ Andrew spoke as quickly as he could. ‘Twenty years or so?’

The woman pointed a thumb towards the end of the row opposite the burnt-out house. ‘Try Sheila three doors down. She’s been here forever. Just be careful – she’s got
problems
.’

‘What sort?’

She juggled the baby and door handle, using her free hand to indicate someone drinking from a bottle. ‘She loves a scoop or ten,’ was all she said before closing the door with a
thud. Moments later, there was a click of the key turning.

The sky was beginning to darken, with the ridiculously short hours of daylight almost over already. There were two times of the year Andrew dreaded: mid-summer with the long days and parades of
drunken buffoons who thought they could drink for hours on end. At least that came with the consolation of being warm and sunny. Mid-winter was just shite all around: dark and cold with everybody
– justifiably – complaining about how dark and cold it was.

Andrew signalled to Jenny, who clambered out of the car and rounded the patch of mud before joining him at the end of Sheila’s driveway. A black cat darted across the path ahead, leaping
vertically onto the house’s windowsill and then skulking up and down, watching them carefully, daring them to come closer. There was a white spot on his head, with patchy pepper-coloured fur
intermingled with the black. Andrew had a single foot on the driveway when the cat began hissing. His other foot brought a louder sound of displeasure and a raised paw, hooked claws on show.

Bring it on, pal.

In a war between human and feline, this one in particular, Andrew knew there was only going to be one winner and it wasn’t him.

He took two steps back.

‘What are you doing?’ Jenny asked.

‘That cat’s going to kill us.’

‘It’s a cat. What’s the worst that can happen?’

‘It could skin us alive.’

‘It really couldn’t.’

Jenny stepped confidently onto the driveway. The edges had largely crumbled into the surrounding hedgerows, with weeds growing through the disintegrating tarmac.

Hisssssssssss.

‘Oh, sod off.’

Andrew didn’t know if cats understood the mechanics behind sodding off but the hissing black and white fur ball certainly didn’t seem to. Jenny continued walking as the spitting
noises went on. Reluctantly, Andrew followed her, keeping both eyes on the cat in case it leapt towards them. If nothing else, Jenny would make a good human shield, not that he told her that.

Hisssssssssss.

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ Jenny said.

She was standing barely two metres from the cat but wasn’t even looking at it as she rang the doorbell. Andrew waited awkwardly by her side.

Jenny glanced sideways at him. ‘Are you hiding behind me?’

‘No.’

He was.

If Malvado actually did exist and ascended from the depths of hell to claim the earth, Andrew doubted he’d make as much noise as the cat was doing.

Jenny rang the bell a second time and then knocked. It was another thirty seconds before the sound of something moving came from inside. The door opened a crack, an eyeball appeared, and then it
snapped shut again. Andrew and Jenny exchanged a shrug and then he tried again.

‘Sheila? Is that you? I was hoping you could give us a few minutes of your time. I’m not selling anything if that helps.’

The door opened a thin crack again, revealing a bloodshot eye and matted strands of greying brown hair. ‘Who are you?’

It took him a moment to pick up on her pronunciation. Like a Rottweiler with a Manc accent.

‘My name’s Andrew and I was wondering if you’ve ever heard of someone named Kristian Verity. I think he used to live on this rank.’

The door opened a little further, revealing a figure ravaged by age, sunbeds and an aversion to water. Sheila’s hair was so dirty, it had partially matted into natural dreadlocks. It
really was something when that wasn’t the most striking part of her appearance. Her skin was the colour of tea if it was made with eight teabags that had all been left in, plus it had
shrivelled so much that she looked like one of the dodgy potatoes found at the bottom of the bag that supermarkets snuck in there because nobody delved that deep before buying.

Her eyes flicked both ways, taking in Jenny before she stuck her head out of the door, turning towards the window and the angry cat. Instead of reeling away, Sheila hissed back, adding:
‘Oi, you’re doing ma napper in. Skanky bastard thing.’ She slapped a hand on the windowsill and the cat, realising it had met its match, ran for it. Andrew felt like doing the
same.

Sheila pushed past Jenny, heading back towards the door. ‘Come in then.’

The house reeked like a tobacco factory, with brown nicotine stains on all of the walls and the ceiling. It was so stale, so clogging, that Andrew was instantly coughing.

Sheila led them through a door into the living room, which was in more of a state than the hallway. If she’d been living here for twenty years, then Andrew doubted Sheila had changed a
thing. There were brown cord-covered armchairs and a grimy maroon carpet with so many cigarette burns that it looked like some sort of modern art installation.

She fell into a wooden rocking chair and started clicking her fingers in Jenny’s direction. ‘Oi, you, girly, can you scav me a fag?’

‘I don’t smoke.’

Sheila pointed at Andrew. ‘You then – let’s have a fag.’

‘I don’t smoke either.’

‘Aww, give over. No one sodding smokes any more. What’s wrong with y’all?’

She was wearing a pink onesie made from a soft blanket-like material. At one point it would have been soft and comfortable, now it was covered in flecks of cigarette ash and miscellaneous food
stains.

Sheila delved into an unseen inside pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Gonna have to smoke my own then, aren’t I?’ As she rummaged for a lighter, she nodded at
Jenny again. ‘Got anything to drink?’

‘Sorry.’

A nod at Andrew.

‘Me either.’

‘Bah! Useless. I’ve got some bangin’ stuff of my own.’

Cigarette lit, packet and lighter dispatched into the nether regions of her onesie, Sheila reached across to a cabinet and took out a bottle of Coke. As soon as she unscrewed the unsealed lid,
Andrew could smell the alcohol, which was surely enough to get a shire horse drunk. If horses could get drunk. She took a swig, grimaced, and then started rocking herself in the chair.

‘Who was it you were interested in?’

‘Kristian Verity.’

‘He owe you money or something?’

‘No, I’m just trying to find out a few things about him. I believe he lived a few doors down when he was eighteen or nineteen and I’m told you were living here then.’

Without removing the cigarette from her mouth, Sheila started counting on her fingers. ‘I’ve been here . . . eight, nine, ten . . . er . . .’ She was one step away from
removing her shoes when Andrew interrupted.

‘Do you at least recognise the name?’

A puff of smoke spiralled into the air. They could fix her driveway with the amount of tar on the ceiling.

‘Aye, little lad, big hair. Looked like a tit . . .’

‘Right. Do you know if he had a brother or a twin?’

‘. . . then after him it was that Paki pair. We hounded them out, then it was that guy with the car . . .’ She clicked her fingers in Jenny’s direction. ‘. . . something
or another. I can’t remember. He always had engine parts out front. Then those poofs, then the Smiths. I’m not sure who’s in there now. Nobody ever talks to their neighbours any
longer. Rude bunch of bastards.’

Andrew doubted it was the people who’d moved in and out that were the problem.

‘But you remember Kristian Verity?’

‘Aye.’

‘Do you know how long he lived here for?’

‘Dunno – year or two. They come, they go. Like that song.’ There was more finger-clicking in Jenny’s direction until the cigarette ash crumbled onto her crotch. She
brushed it away and then took the cigarette from her mouth.

Andrew was doing his best impression of somebody who had patience. ‘Do you remember if he lived by himself?’

‘No, there was that other one, wasn’t there? Two of them.’

Jenny didn’t flinch under another brutal bout of finger-clicking. Considering Sheila’s alcohol and cigarette consumption, there was every chance the toxic combination meant that she
saw two of everything. She certainly wouldn’t be the best of choices as a high court witness. She swigged more of her Coca-Cola, yawned, scratched her crotch and then puffed some more on the
cigarette.

‘What’s his name,’ she added. ‘Edam-something? Eagle? It begins with an E.’

Andrew was thinking that it almost certainly didn’t begin with E when Sheila clapped her hands together. ‘Emil, that’s it. Kristian and Emil Verity. Nice lads, kept themselves
to themselves, just looked a bit stupid.’

Pleased with herself, Sheila reached for her Coke bottle again. Andrew was about to ask something else when he saw a flicker of movement over her shoulder. In the back corner of the room,
nibbling on the edge of the carpet without a care in the world, was a rat. Andrew thought about saying something but didn’t want to risk putting off Sheila when she was finally coherent
enough to be of use. His eyes darted sideways to Jenny’s, who had been watching the rat too. She offered a small, unconcerned shrug, but then she had been happy to take on the cat as well.
She seemed unnaturally calm, even smiling slightly. She really was borderline crazy, or whatever the correct medical term might be. For now, crazy was accurate enough.

‘Can you remember what happened to Emil?’

Sheila started scratching her head, sending an avalanche of dried scalp flakes cascading onto her lap. ‘It was ages ago, wannit?’ Another drink. ‘Course that’s what made
the brother move out. He couldn’t stay around after that, could he? Poor guy.’

The rat scarpered towards the kitchen.

‘What happened, Sheila?’

‘Awful, wannit? Police up and down ’ere, knocking on doors, asking questions. People round ’ere don’t like the police with their yap, yap, yap. Never came to anything,
did it? Not like they sorted it out. Course, that was all years ago now.’

‘Sheila, what happened?’

He was running out of ways he could phrase it.

‘That’s exactly what they were asking. I told them then I didn’t know. That’s what we all said. He just disappeared. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. Poor
git had just turned eighteen too . . .’

It was dark by the time they got in the car again. Andrew had to concentrate to remember his way to the main road, where lines of white and red lights were stretching into the
distance.

‘I’m going to be late getting you back,’ Andrew said.

‘It’s fine, just leave me at the office. I left some of my stuff there and I’ve got some typing to finish.’

‘You can do that tomorrow.’

‘Pfft. It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do. Besides, this is
exciting
, isn’t it? Thirty-six years ago, Mark Loveless disappeared. Eighteen years ago, Emil
Verity went missing. This year, the same happened to Nicholas Carr. They’re all connected to Lara or, at the very least, her family.’