As Turners Fold came into view, it looked isolated. Nightfall had come around during my visit, and the journey back brought me into the valley from the north, so I was looking at the town from a side I hadn’t seen in a couple of years. My route from London had brought me in from the south, where the urban clutter of Manchester petered away until the town just appeared. The northern side of town was different, as it just disappeared into the hills, so at night it was smothered by darkness. As I drove back, I could see Turners Fold as just a collection of houses and streetlights surrounded by nothing. In London, nightfall just made the noise echo more, the sunlight replaced by headlights and shop-fronts. In Turners Fold, nightfall brought on a shutdown. The streets were empty as I drove into town, and when I got back to my house it was in darkness. It looked a lonely place, living off memories.
I kept on driving. I wasn’t ready for that yet. I drove to Tony’s house instead.
Tony was on the back patio, drinking a beer. He was staring into his dark and quiet back garden. He didn’t look round when I joined him; he just reached into a bucket of ice and held a beer in the air. I had the cap off before I noticed Alice sitting further along the porch.
She looked up at me, her eyes deep and moist. ‘I’m sorry about your dad, Jack.’
I nodded a thanks, feeling suddenly choked, when I became aware of someone behind me. As I looked round, I saw it was Laura.
‘Has Tony been looking after you?’
She smiled and nodded, and then surprised me by coming up behind me and putting her hand into mine.
I swallowed. I felt my skin tingle when I felt her hand give mine a squeeze.
‘You keep on leaving me,’ she said, and I sensed the mischief in her voice.
She was cajoling me, keeping my spirits up.
‘It’s just to remind myself how much I miss you,’ I replied, playing along.
I noticed how Alice looked away.
For the first time that day, I felt still, as Laura’s hand warmed up in mine, her fingers soft and light.
As I stood there, I thought about my visit with Rose Wood. Liza Radley would fit. She was the right age, a few years younger than me, and had the right colour hair. But was that enough?
I glanced over at Tony and gestured with my eyebrows that I needed to talk. He nodded, almost imperceptibly.
I dropped Laura’s hand and went inside. She presumed I was heading for the bathroom. I heard Tony say that he was going to get some more beer.
I waited for him in the kitchen.
‘Where did you go?’ he asked, his voice quiet.
‘I went to see Colin Wood’s mother, Rose.’
‘How is she?’
I thought about her, how she was surrounded by pictures of him. ‘Still missing him.’
‘Did you discover anything?’
‘Maybe.’ I checked behind me that no one was listening. I could hear Laura making small-talk with Alice. I wondered if they were talking about me. ‘Do you remember Liza Radley?’
‘James’s daughter,’ he said, nodding. ‘Why?’
I could see him thinking, maybe the same way as I did.
‘Because Liza spent a lot of time at Rose’s house, talking about making it right.’
Tony turned away, his hand over his mouth.
‘Tony?’
When he turned back, he said, ‘Liza used to place a notice in the paper on the anniversary of Annie’s death. Nothing special. Just a “You’re not forgotten” kind of thing.’
‘For how long?’
He exhaled as he thought, then he said, ‘Until last year. She did it for the first few years after her parents died. I remember it, because people used to comment on it. She was known for being quiet, like she didn’t fit in, staying out late on her own, just driving around, or sitting in the town square, watching the town move.’
He stopped suddenly, his eyes wide, and then he said, ‘Wait there.’
He rushed out of the kitchen, and I listened to Alice and Laura talking. I could hear Laura asking about me. That made me smile.
When Tony returned, he scattered the newspaper clippings he’d had earlier over the old wooden kitchen table. He rummaged through until he found what he was looking for.
‘What do you see in that picture?’
I looked at it, and I saw that it was a photograph of mourners walking behind a coffin into the church, the text below it yellowed with age, the corners of the clipping turned-up and dry. I looked at the photograph. I hadn’t gone as far back as the funeral. There were two people virtually holding each other up. Annie’s parents, I guessed. Behind them were a collection of men and women of all ages, dotted with children here and there, mixed in with people around Annie’s age.
‘Is David Watts in there?’ I asked.
Tony shook his head.
‘No, he isn’t, but do you recognise her,’ and he pointed to a young girl stood away from the gravesite, strangely alone, in her hands a small posy of flowers. She was a blurred dot, but some of the features were recognisable.
I couldn’t place her, not at first, but I definitely knew her. I looked at Tony, who was raising his eyebrows.
‘Liza Radley,’ I said, my voice hushed.
Tony rummaged some more. He found another press clipping, this time from the funeral of Liza’s parents.
‘Why did you get this?’
‘I don’t know. James Radley found Annie Paxman, along with your father. I just thought it might be useful in some way.’
And then he threw onto the table the picture released from the CCTV in the apartment building in Manchester. It was grainy and indistinct, the woman hiding behind a baseball cap, but I could see the blonde hair.
Then I looked at the picture from the Radley funeral.
It showed people coming out of the church. There were police officers, and I could see my father and Glen Ross in the background. But at the front was a blonde girl, hair long and streaming down her neck, with a face still and composed, her eyes deep and shadowy. She had spotted the camera and was staring it down.
I looked back at the CCTV-still, and then, as I held it next to the clipping, I gasped. It was her, just from the way she looked at the camera, like a challenge.
I couldn’t put the picture down. I was shaking, knowing that I was looking at the most wanted woman in the country, not far from where she grew up. I felt my mouth go dry, my hands were slick, the biggest story of my life was spread across the table in clippings and old photographs.
I looked at Tony. He looked shocked.
‘What do we do now?’ he asked.
I stroked my cheeks, felt my palm rasp against the bristles coming through my skin.
Then I looked at Tony, and I knew exactly what I was going to do. ‘I’m going to visit Liza Radley.’
‘You got her address?’
I nodded.
Tony exhaled and reached for another beer from the fridge.
‘Do you tell your London friend about her?’
‘Laura?’ I queried. I thought about it, and then I realised what I had, and how I could use it. ‘No,’ I said. ‘My father went to the police, and he’s dead now.’
‘You can’t go on your own,’ he said, sounding worried.
‘I can if I have to,’ I replied.
‘And if she shoots you?’
I wiggled my nose as if I had an itch. ‘I suppose you’ll tell the police.’
Then I remembered the tapes I had made of the radio traffic from ten years ago. ‘Remember the radio calls? Use them wisely. Send one to your house. One to your work. Make sure that there are enough copies out there, so that if you lose a few, there are still others around.’
‘And one to Glen Ross,’ Tony added.
I looked at him. ‘Why?’
Tony’s grin slowly spread. ‘If we make him sweat, he might do something stupid.’
‘But if we do nothing to him, we might catch him unawares.’
Tony thought about that, but then shook his head. ‘I reckon it’s time to smoke him out.’
‘Agreed,’ I said, and then grinned. ‘Let’s get to work.’
The American’s car was the only one on the street. The shop windows were all in darkness, the only movement coming from the traffic lights mapping out the corners of the triangle. They had been flicking between red and green as he approached town, colours winking in the distance, but as he reached them, they stayed green. He kept on driving, no need to stop anywhere.
Along the street, everything was still. He took it slowly, and as he went past he saw that the house was in darkness. He drove to the end of the street and around the block, looking for signs of police activity. There were none. Just a quiet suburban street in a quiet town in the middle of nowhere county.
He drove to the end of the street and waited, parking just where the houses ended and darkness began. He could be patient.
The black Mondeo drove slowly into town. It stopped at the lights while the occupants looked around. Two London detectives. A woman driving, Nell. Late thirties. Dark hair, white skin, figure covered by a dark suit, tapered pants hiding an athletic physique. Mike sat in the passenger seat. He was black, cropped hair, sharp nose, almost European, but his eyes were dark. He looked around, trying to get a sight of the police station.
‘See anything?’ she asked.
He shook his head then looked through the front window. The town petered out to nothing, so it couldn’t be far away.
‘Turn down here,’ he said, pointing along the side of the town hall.
She swung the car to the right, a slow, steady turn, the way dark apart from the dim glow of the streetlights. ‘Small towns make me nervous,’ she said. ‘Whatever went on here all those years ago, someone in the police station will know the suspect. Someone else will know the victim. Whatever, it makes things dirty, and I don’t like dirty investigations.’
She was silent for a while, just looking side to side out of the window, her forearms resting on the steering wheel, leaning forward. Then she pointed. ‘There it is.’ Mike followed her gaze and saw the police station sign illuminated by a spotlight.
They parked the car just down the road from the station. They didn’t want anyone else to know they were there.
They got out, the two clunks sounding loud as the doors closed. She looked up and down the street. There was no one to be seen. The late-night shop on the other side of the square was open, but there were no customers, no cars, no people.
‘Exciting place,’ Mike said, looking around.
She twitched her nose. ‘Hmm, don’t believe it. These small places have more crime per capita than the big cities. It just never gets reported.’
‘It’s not crime if it doesn’t get reported.’ He looked up and down the street. ‘It’s just life, that’s all.’
Nell set off for the police-station steps, Mike trotting to catch up. They took the steps together, just three small ones, enough to make it an entrance, something above street level. When they got into the station, he hung back, letting her take her place at the front of the charge.
The station only had a small foyer, with a glass screen at one end. There were two rows of chairs facing it, orange and hard and unwelcoming.
Nell introduced herself to the civilian behind the glass, a flash of their badges enough to get everyone’s attention, and then asked to see whoever was in charge. The lady said it was Glen Ross, who wasn’t normally in at this time, but he’d been working late the last few days. The London detectives exchanged glances. A change to the routine. The first sign of anything suspicious.
They were allowed through and taken to a door marked by a brass plaque that said, ‘Detective Inspector Glen Ross’. Mike knocked on the door, two light taps.
They knocked again and a quiet voice said, ‘Come in.’
As they walked in, Glen Ross was sitting behind his desk, his hands gripping the chair arms. They walked over so he stood up to greet them, and they shook hands and sat down. Nell noticed the marks Ross’s hands left on the polished wooden chair, clammy and damp. When he sat back down again, she noticed another brass plaque on the desk, sitting right in the middle, so that any visitor would know straight away who they were speaking with. Then she noticed the photographs, the detective grinning and posing, enjoying brushes with fame.
She glanced over at Mike, who knew what she was thinking: that he was no public servant, no career cop out to do the right thing. He was a career arsehole.
Nell smiled. She already felt in charge.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.
Nell thought she detected a tremor.
‘We called earlier.’ She paused, watching him. ‘We’ve had a tip-off.’ She paused again, trying to make him anticipate their reason for being there. ‘I don’t know if you were around then, but have you ever heard of the murder of Annie Paxman?’
Mike and Nell looked at each other as Glen Ross went instantly white, the colour gone from his cheeks. He seemed to grip the sides of his chair again. Mike made a mental note to ask for reinforcements. He reckoned they might be around for a while.
Rose’s neighbour was at the window again, bored, looking around.
His wife sat back from her needlecraft, the artificial light now starting to make her eyes strain. She took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes.
‘Are you still spying on Rose?’
‘Her curtains are still open,’ he said, ‘but I haven’t seen her go out.’
That seemed unusual. She thought about ignoring it, but she could tell by his fidget that he thought something was wrong. Cops survive on instincts. She trusted his.
‘Go round,’ she said, ‘just to make sure.’
He got up quickly and went out of the house, glad to have something to do.
She’d just got back to her needlecraft when her husband burst into the room.
‘What’s wrong?’ Her chest took a leap, the look on her husband’s face telling her that something bad had happened.
He waved her away, his breathing fast, his cheeks flushed. She watched him pick up the phone and press 999.
She took off her glasses and stood up. She went to go next door, to check on Rose, but when her husband shouted at her to stop, when she saw the look in his eyes, she did as she was told.