Changing Patterns (38 page)

‘Yes?’

‘My sister-in-law, Mary, is here. My wife hasn’t been well. Mary came to give us a hand with the kids.’

‘Can I speak to her?’

‘She’s in bed, not well herself today. The doctor came this morning and gave her something to make her sleep.’

‘Right, but I’ll have to speak to her sometime.’ It was obvious the detective wasn’t satisfied but he stood up to leave. ‘We’ve got men out searching as we speak. I suggest you leave it to us now.’

‘Not bloody likely,’ Patrick muttered.

‘It would be better if you did, Mr Howarth.’

They looked at one another, both remembering the few times they’d met before. Patrick was no stranger to the police. He gave a mirthless snort.

‘I’ll leave you my details,’ Detective Hardcastle said. ‘Any news, please contact me. Rest assured we’ll do the same. Try to stay calm.’ He looked around at them, his eyes resting last on Patrick. ‘It’s still early in the investigation. She could have wandered off and not known how to get back home. It wouldn’t be the first time a kiddie’s done that.’ He stood. ‘I’ve seen a few in my time in the force.’

Ellen and Ted didn’t move when the policemen left the room.

‘Investigation! Bloody heartless sod.’ Patrick rubbed at the bristles on his chin.

After a moment’s hesitation, still carrying Jack, Jean followed the policemen to the front door.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ the detective said to her. ‘And we’ll carry on searching, Mrs Howarth. I’m sure we’ll find Linda in no time. But we’re going to have to look further afield. I think we’ve covered everywhere around here and there’s been no sighting of your niece. We have to consider all the options.’ He tipped the front of his trilby.

Jean nodded. She watched them get into the black car before closing the door. Heaving a deep sigh she went into the kitchen.

Ellen and Ted were sitting silently at the table. Patrick was smoking at the back door.

‘Are you okay?’ Jean asked. ‘You didn’t say Peter was upstairs as well?’

‘Why complicate things?’ Ted said. Ellen didn’t respond.

Patrick motioned with his head towards the yard and walked outside. Jean frowned and went after him.

‘What?’

‘Bert Rowe told me last night there was a young lad went missing two months ago the other side of Bradlow. They found his body last week near Chester.’

Dear God. Jean put her hand on Jack’s head. Not that, she begged silently, not that.

‘Well, I don’t care what he said. I say we carry on looking for her,’ Patrick said.

‘Yes.’ Ted laced his fingers again behind his aching neck and flexed his elbows as he walked around the furniture. He couldn’t stay still. ‘But where? We’ve searched the park, the old quarry, all along the canal.’ He looked at them all in turn. ‘We looked in all the sheds on the allotment, the bombsite on Clayton Street and Huddersfield Street, the derelict shop on Tatton Terrace. Anywhere we could think of. Where else is there?’

Peter stepped down from the stairs. He’d stayed out of the way while the police were there – he was still apprehensive around British authorities.

Since his arrival in Britain he’d thought his place within this family was with Mary. Now he wasn’t sure and he felt like an outsider intruding on a desperate situation that had nothing to do with him.

But he didn’t need to feel like that, he told himself. Ted asked him to be here. He’d grown fond of Linda when she was in Llamroth and he knew how much Mary loved the child. He must help all he could. ‘The police, they found nothing?’ he said. ‘No clue where Linda might be?’

Ted grimaced. ‘They’re no further forward than us.’

‘Mary?’ Jean glanced up at Peter.

‘Asleep.’ He moved to stand at the back of the room.

‘Good.’

Ted noticed the stiff way he walked. ‘Did you manage any sleep?’

‘It was fine. Thank you.’

‘I don’t know what else we can do,’ Ted said. ‘Where else we can look?’

‘There is nowhere else around here,’ Patrick said.

Ted shook his head. The silence held all their thoughts.

Peter stayed quiet. He didn’t know the town at all. The only time he’d spent in Ashford was at the camp. And the only way he’d arrived was by train. He spoke softly. ‘The railway? Beyond the platform there are wagons? On a line that leads to nowhere?’

‘The sidings … where they keep the old wagons,’ Ted exclaimed, eager to clutch at any hope. ‘Did the police say they’d searched there?’

‘I don’t know.’ Jean thought for a moment. ‘Ellen?’

‘No.’ There was sudden renewed hope in her eyes. ‘No!’

‘Nobody’s said anything about the railways. Keep an eye on him?’ Patrick gestured to Jack who lay sleeping in Jean’s arms.

‘You go.’

‘Ellen? Will you stay here?’ Ted was already putting his jacket on. ‘You look tired out?’

‘I’m all right.’

‘Please?’

‘Okay, then.’ She was reluctant. ‘But let me know as soon as you can?’

‘We will.’ Ted looked at Peter. ‘Ready?’

It would mean going past the camp. Peter‘s pulse quickened with dread. ‘Ready,’ he said.

They drove without speaking to the railway station in Patrick’s car, Peter sitting in the back seat, and when they got there, Patrick parked at the gates of the Granville.

‘Here’s as good as anywhere,’ he said when Ted, glancing at Peter’s tense expression, protested. ‘The road gets crappy further up.’

Neither of the other two men missed the malicious glitter in Patrick’s eyes.

Peter forced himself to look towards the old mill; the long rows of broken windows flashed, disparate shapes in the high glare of the sun. His eyes wandered along each storey of the building. The place still looked as intimidating as before. He shivered, thankful he would never have to set foot in the place ever again.

‘Let’s go.’ Ted nudged him. They ran, the old, ridged concrete crunching under their boots, the wooden platform hollow.

The sound of their footsteps brought the ticket inspector to the entrance of the station. ‘What the heck? What’s going on?’

None of them stopped to explain. Jumping down onto the line, they crossed over to the sidings, pushing through the brambles and weeds tangled around the couplings and wheels of the wagons.

‘Here, you can’t do that.’ The man waved his copy of the
Bradlow Gazette
at them as each of them chose a wagon and hoisted themselves up the side. ‘I’ll call the coppers.’

Ted stopped for a moment. ‘We’re looking for my daughter. She’s missing,’ he shouted, ready to leap into the next wagon. ‘Have you seen anyone hanging around here with a little girl?’

‘No, mate, I haven’t.’ The ticket inspector folded the newspaper and pushed it into his pocket. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go round the buildings and check while you’re doing that. Forget the cops. I’ll pretend I haven’t seen you.’ He adjusted the peak of his cap and squinted, looking up and down the railway lines. ‘Watch out though, there’s a train due in twenty minutes.’ He disappeared into the waiting room.

‘Anything?’ Ted shouted to Peter who’d just emerged from the last truck in the line.

‘No.’ For a few seconds when he’d climbed into the wagon, Peter thought his heart would stop. A pile of clothes were bundled in one corner. But when he reached down to move them, he saw they were damp and mildewed and obviously untouched for a while. ‘
Vagabund
… a tramp … he must have slept here,
’
he muttered, not knowing if he was thankful or disheartened. ‘Nothing.’

‘Patrick?’

‘Nah.’

As they climbed back onto the platform the ticket inspector appeared at one of the doors. ‘Sorry. No sign of anybody being in that shouldn’t.’

‘Thanks anyway.’ Ted stood, arms dangling by his side, shoulders drooping. ‘Best get back to the house then.’

They walked slowly back to the car.

‘I am sorry,’ Peter said. ‘I should not have raised your hopes. It was only an idea.’

‘Stupid idea,’ Patrick scoffed.

‘We had to try,’ Ted said. ‘Anything’s better than doing nothing.’ Slumping against the car, both arms on the roof, the sobs erupted.

The two other men stared at each other. Peter knew the turmoil on Patrick’s face, the uncertainty, must be reflected in his own. He stepped forward and rested a hand on Ted’s back. Ted turned and held onto him, desperate tears shaking his whole body.

The last time Peter had held a man in his arms was when he was leaving the farm and he’d hugged his brother. The contact had been brief, cursory, both men relieved when it finished. This time he tightened his grip, wanting to put strength into Ted.

Patrick turned away, unwilling to show his own misery. He blinked rapidly.

Eventually Ted’s sobs subsided. Peter let his arms drop to his sides.

‘Sorry about that.’

Peter lifted his shoulders, careful not to show his embarrassment. ‘It is fine,’ he said.

Patrick was staring at the old mill. ‘What about the camp?’ he said and then contradicted himself. ‘Stupid idea, the mill’s closed up tight as a duck’s arse.’ He spoke rapidly, covering up his wretchedness. ‘Those gates must be ten foot high. And with all that fucking barbed wired on top … daft idea.’

‘They mended all the fences last year,’ Ted said. ‘Linda wouldn’t have been able to get in there.’

A train rattled past on the line with a whoop of its whistle, leaving behind a thick trail of grey smoke. In the long silence that followed they stood dejected. ‘Unless,’ Peter said, ‘someone has taken her in there.’

Ted cried out in despair.

The blood pounded in Peter’s ears. He twisted around to look at his old prison. All that was left of the look-outs were wooden platforms interwoven with ivy and pink-flowered weeds. If he didn’t know what was behind them he could almost think they looked attractive. But beyond he could see the mill with the crumbling roof and broken jagged glass in the windows and it resurrected the fear that still lurked in him, the stuff of his nightmares. Bad memories rushed through his mind: the bullying from the guards, the intimidation of the Nazis and the cruelties used to dominate the other prisoners. One would live with him forever. The time Frank Shuttleworth shot him.

But then he remembered a summer day, leaning against the wall of the mill, eyes half closed, the rugged line of the high moors in the distance shimmering in the heat. That was the day when he’d become conscious that he loved Mary.

And she loved Linda.

He stared at the gates. Only a few moments ago, he thought he would never have to go in that place again. Now he knew he had to. ‘We must look,’ he said.

Ted held the padlock in his palm. The men looked at one another and then at the iron gates. The chain fastening them was new, the thick strong links looped twice around the bars, glittered silver in the sunlight.

Peter cleared his throat. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how will this be done?’

‘Well, we’re not going to break this,’ Ted said, looking hopelessly around.

Patrick weighed up the height of the gate. ‘If I stood on your shoulders I could shimmy up.’

‘The barbed wire?’ Peter pointed.

‘Chuck my jacket over it.’

It took him a few minutes to work out footholds, oblivious to the painful shuffling of his heavy studded boots on the other man’s back. Giving one push against Peter, he wedged his toes in the crosspieces of the gate and, when close enough, threw the jacket over the top. The heavy tweed clung to the spikes of the wire. ‘Got it,’ he gasped. ‘Come on, get a bloody move on.’ He swung himself over to the other side and dangled, one arm outstretched. ‘Come on, these bloody things are sticking in my guts.’

Peter took a few steps back and took a run. He leapt at the gates and grabbed one of the rails. It felt as though his arm was on fire as it took his whole weight. Then he pivoted, making his body rotate until the sheer force crashed him against iron and he hung on. He wouldn’t have been able to do this a year ago and thanked fortune for the muscles he’d built up through his gardening work. Scrabbling upwards he grasped Patrick’s hand and gained enough leverage to join the other man.

For a few seconds they were suspended, the air wheezing and whistling in their chests. Then Peter slid down the other side.

‘Ted?’ Patrick motioned to him. ‘Come on, man.’ He clicked his fingers impatiently.

Ted bit his lip. ‘I don’t think I can.’ Reaching up he could just touch the first cross. Frustrated he looked around.

A man on the allotments was leaning on his spade and staring at them. When he saw Ted a look of recognition flashed across his face and he raised a hand.

‘For fuck’s sake, man, I can’t hang on much longer.’ Patrick tried to tuck more of the thickness of his jacket under him.

‘Well, get down then, but leave the jacket there.’ Ted crossed the road towards the man.

‘It’s Ted Booth, ain’t it?’ The man jabbed his spade into bed of soil. ‘Heard your little un is missing.’