Kennedy 02 - A Darker Side (4 page)

Chapter Six

At Lower Crags Farm, Josie Hayden was busy in her kitchen. She’d fed her family – except her lovely Martin – and was washing up. Her hands refused to stop shaking and a long and painful scream was desperate to escape. Yet she kept busy.

From her window at the sink, she could see the moon sliding out from behind the clouds.

The door opened behind her and she instinctively stiffened.

‘Let me help, Mum.’

The concerned voice of her daughter almost had her screaming. ‘Thanks, love.’

Josie was relieved it was Sarah and not George, but she didn’t want help. She wanted the pile of plates to be never-ending so that she could stand here, staring out into the darkness, until her son came home.

‘You OK, Mum?’

‘Yes, love. You?’

‘Yeah.’

No sooner had Sarah uttered the word than she was in tears, her arms flung around Josie’s waist, her head pressed tight against her chest.

‘There, love,’ Josie soothed. ‘Try not to think the worst, and try to be strong for your dad, eh?’

‘I am trying,’ Sarah sobbed, ‘but I’m frightened, Mum. So very frightened.’

‘I know, love.’

Sarah rubbed at her tears with her knuckles. ‘What’s wrong with you and Dad? You’re not even speaking to each other.’

‘It’s hard,’ Josie said, leaping to George’s defence. ‘Things like this will bring some people together. But others, like me and your dad, tend to worry in silence.’

Sarah thought about this.

‘But Dad seems so angry with you.’

He was angry all right. Furiously angry.

‘No, love. Now, let’s get this lot out of the way, and then take them a cuppa, eh?’ she said, changing the subject.

Sarah rubbed at her tear-marked face again, but she picked up a tea towel.

They washed and dried plates and cutlery, put everything away and made a pot of tea without saying a word. What was there to say? They both shared the same terrors . . .

That night, Josie lay in bed and pretended to be asleep while George tossed and turned alongside her.

She’d heard Sarah go downstairs, probably to make herself a drink. What about Andy? she wondered. Was he sleeping or was he lying there, like she was, dwelling on all the frightening possibilities?

She sometimes thought her whole life had been one long nightmare . . .

‘You’ve got the curse!’ Uncle Terry had cried.

Of course, the curse to which Uncle Terry had referred was her periods. He’d been horrified to realize she had started menstruating. Not that it had stopped him. But perhaps there had been more to his words than even he had known. Maybe she had been born under an ancient curse.

She’d been twelve years old when Uncle Terry had first come to babysit. He wasn’t really her uncle, or even a blood relative. He was a friend of her mother’s.

An only child, with a father God knew where and a mother who liked to be out either working or enjoying herself most evenings, Josie was a lonely girl. Yet she preferred the loneliness. She dreaded the nights that Uncle Terry stayed with her.

‘Come and sit on my knee,’ he used to say, and Josie’s refusals had merely angered him. So she’d sat on his knee . . .

Josie still felt sick when she remembered the way his hand slid along her thigh and to her secret place. She still wanted to vomit when she thought of his fingers touching her. His breath had smelt of stale cigarettes, and it had been animal-hot against her face. She still had to bite back a scream whenever she recalled the searing pain as he forced himself inside her.

‘Don’t tell Mummy,’ he would gasp, thrusting away, his hand clamped over her mouth to silence her screams of pain.

She didn’t tell Mummy. Until she was fourteen years old and pregnant.

‘You’re a dirty, filthy-minded little liar!’ Her mother’s hand had stung Josie’s face.

Josie was taken away to have the baby. Other than a quick glimpse before the nurse carried it from the delivery room, she never saw her child.

When she returned home, it wasn’t mentioned. Her mother refused to discuss the matter. Twice Josie tried to talk about it and her mother’s reaction was the same each time. Josie received a sharp slap across the face and was threatened with much worse if she ever dared to utter such filth again.

Not a day, not even an hour went by during which Josie didn’t wonder about her baby, but she never spoke of it to anyone. Few nights passed when she didn’t have nightmares . . .

Life improved when she left school and took a job with a firm of solicitors. She worked hard and the senior partner encouraged her to go to the college and study shorthand and typing.

How the world has changed, she thought. Everyone used computers these days. They would have no need for the diligent, hardworking secretary with her excellent shorthand and typing speeds and her neat handwriting.

Josie was soon promoted, and Sue Johnson arrived in the office to take her place.

Pretty, bubbly and fun-loving, Sue was Josie’s first real friend. Sue would return to the office after her lunch break with a cream cake for each of them. She spent a fortune on women’s magazines, for the fashion, diet and make-up tips, and always passed them to Josie when she’d finished with them.

It was Sue, hell-bent on showing Josie the meaning of fun, who persuaded Josie to go to the Hallowe’en party.

The music had been too loud, Josie remembered, and she and Sue had both had too much to drink. Sue had wandered off to dance with a young man, and Josie, her confidence vanishing with Sue, had been about to hide in the Ladies when George approached her.

‘All on your own?’ he’d asked. ‘Must be my lucky night.’

He was a stocky, red-faced man with thick dark hair. Older than her, too. He’d flirted with her and made her laugh. For the first time, she had felt like an attractive young girl who people would find interesting. He was nothing like Uncle Terry.

They made love in the back of his car, a big old-fashioned Rover with cold leather upholstery, and then, in a flurry of apologies, George had driven her home.

He’d been the perfect gentleman, and Josie had tumbled into her bed that night with a smile on her face. Their lovemaking hadn’t been memorable, or even particularly enjoyable for her, but she’d felt enlightened. At long last she knew that it wasn’t a matter of gritting her teeth against the terrible pain. She had fallen asleep giggling about those cold leather seats . . .

It was the following morning, with the effects of the alcohol replaced by the icy light of day, that the horror of what she’d done hit her.

She had been thoroughly disgusted with herself. People would think her a cheap tart who would go with anyone for a couple of drinks. She had behaved like her mother, and Josie knew how people sniggered behind her mother’s back. She knew the names they called her.

Amazingly, three days later, George phoned her at home. He hadn’t known her surname, yet he’d searched the phone directory for her address.

‘Lucky for me your surname’s Dee and not Wood,’ he’d joked awkwardly.

He had asked to see her again, but Josie hadn’t felt able to face him. It was difficult enough talking over the phone. She’d mumbled a few embarrassed apologies, promised to call him if she changed her mind, wished him well, and ended the call.

Two months later, she discovered she was pregnant.

It had been a day much like this one, with an unrelenting downpour, yet she’d sat outside the health centre with the rain masking her tears. She’d been dazed and confused.

The nightmares started again. In each one, a baby was torn from her body and thrown into a furnace . . .

Josie, at her wits’ end, resorted to phoning George. They met in a dingy café long since closed and Josie, her face burning with embarrassment, spilled it out.

‘What do you want? Money, I suppose,’ George had grunted.

‘I don’t know what I want,’ Josie admitted. ‘I didn’t know where else to turn. I thought you should know, that’s all. But no, I don’t want your money. What good would that do?’ She’d risen to her feet, tears stinging at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you. I’ll have to think about things.’

Josie hadn’t expected anything more, and she would have left it at that, but he caught her by the wrist and made her sit down again.

‘You’ll have an abortion?’

‘I will not!’

She’d already lost one baby; she wouldn’t lose this one. People could say what they liked. They could go to hell for all Josie cared.

‘Then we’ll have to get wed,’ he announced. ‘Aye, we can be wed in a few weeks.’

The idea horrified her. They were complete strangers. They’d made love, committed the most intimate of acts, yet they were strangers. In normal circumstances, with both of them sober, they wouldn’t have looked twice at each other.

At almost ten years her senior, George was too old for her. He was a farmer and Josie knew nothing of the land. She didn’t want to know, either. She had dreams of her own and farming didn’t feature in them. What she longed for was a place of her own, a flat in town, one that was close to her office. She was saving every penny she could for her dream home.

With a baby though, she could wave goodbye to her dream.

Could she marry George? If she did, her problems would be solved. She wouldn’t have to face her mother’s wrath, suffer ridicule from friends and neighbours or worry about supporting them both. She could keep this baby and give it a father. They would be respectable . . .

They were married four weeks later and Josie was moved into Lower Crags Farm. She left her job and devoted herself to caring for George and his parents. All George wanted was a woman who cooked, washed and cleaned, but she was grateful. Sickeningly grateful.

When Andy was born, she was even more grateful. Her son was adorable, and she loved him with every breath in her body. He was a thing of beauty in the dismal landscape that was the farm.

He was the image of George yet, strangely, George seemed to draw no comfort from that fact. He wasn’t a loving father, she realized. He could easily ignore Andy for days at a stretch. The baby’s face lit up as soon as he saw his father, yet George was oblivious.

When Sarah was born, two years later, George’s reaction couldn’t have been more different. He fell in love with her on sight. It seemed that he’d been saving all his love for his little princess.

Josie was saddened by his reaction to Andy, but she continued to be grateful. If George had said ‘Lick my boots,’ she would have fallen at his feet in gratitude.

Life had ticked along, dull but safe, until that bright, sunny day seventeen years ago . . .

Chapter Seven

Max bit into a bacon sandwich and held a serviette beneath his chin to catch any drips that might be heading for his shirt or tie.

His boss was in a bad mood. Max could sympathize. He wasn’t in a very good mood himself. He didn’t like kids vanishing from the school his sons attended.

‘Why did no one see Martin Hayden?’ Phil said, glowering at him. He hated people eating in his office. ‘That’s impossible, surely.’

‘It’s pretty remote out there,’ Max reminded him. ‘But one chap did, a Thomas Smith. He works at the garden centre and drives that way every morning. He saw Martin closing the gate to Lower Crags Farm. The only interesting thing he said was that a car – light blue, grey or silver – was parked a couple of hundred yards from there. The car was well off the road, under trees and difficult to see. He thought it was a couple having a quick snog before they reached the office or something.’

‘What make of car?’ Phil demanded irritably.

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Quite small, he said, but he couldn’t tell us the make, model or registration number. He’s not even sure of the colour. He said he was past it before he really noticed it.’

‘Get it checked,’ Phil snapped.

‘We’re doing our best. Meanwhile, I’m off to speak to Martin’s guitar teacher. In fact ’ Max glanced at his watch and saw blessed escape beckoning ‘I’d better get a move on. He’s expecting me in half an hour.’

‘Keep me informed,’ Phil said when Max was already on his way out. ‘Max!’

‘I will, I will!’ Max closed the door behind him and stuffed the last of his sandwich in his mouth.

Despite what he’d told Phil Meredith, he had plenty of time before he needed to be at Church Street so he caught up with everyone else or tried to.

He managed to find Grace, and wondered again about parents who had given this firecracker such a name. Perhaps, after giving birth to six boys, Mrs Warne had thought her daughter graceful in comparison. Tall and reed-thin, with a broad Geordie accent and what, at best, could be termed a no-nonsense approach to life, she had never yet allowed a criminal to get the better of her. Used to bossing six older brothers around, DS Warne took crap from no one.

‘Anything on Campbell?’ he asked her.

‘Nothing interesting, guv. He used to teach music at a private school in Cheshire until he took early retirement. No mortgage. Financially sound. No form.’

‘OK, thanks. Where’s Fletch?’

‘Canteen.’ She grinned. ‘Asleep probably.’

Max smiled at that. Fletch’s wife had just presented him with another daughter and Fletch hadn’t had a wink of sleep since. Max had warned him, but Fletch had merely called him a cynical bastard and laughed it off.

‘That reminds me,’ Grace said, looking around her before going to the bottom drawer of her desk. ‘Trudi will be off on maternity leave in a couple of weeks. We’re having a whip round.’

‘We’re always having whip rounds,’ Max observed, reaching for his wallet. ‘And, um, who is Trudi?’

‘WPC Dover. Joined us from Hull six months ago. Tall. Redhead.’

Max could place her, just. He handed over a fiver and made his escape before anyone else rattled a tin at him or sold him raffle tickets.

Jill had promised to meet him at Church Street and he called her number.

‘I’m running late,’ she told him, ‘but traffic permitting, I’ll be there by half past.’

‘OK, no rush. See you in a bit then.’

‘Right. Oh, and Max, have you got a photo of the lad who made those accusations against Geoff Morrison?’

‘I have, yes. I’ll bring it along.’

Max did an about turn and went back to Grace’s desk. ‘Grace, that photo of Paul Sharp did you do some copies?’

‘I did, guv.’ She sorted through a pile of stuff in her in-tray and finally handed him a copy of the photo.

‘What do you think?’ he asked her, gazing at the photograph again.

‘Nice-looking kid,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘if a bit dreamy. Looks older than sixteen.’

‘Are you going to have a word with him?’

‘I’m on to it,’ she promised. ‘He’s working for a travel agent’s in Manchester now.’

Clutching the photo, Max set off once again.

He parked outside Toby Campbell’s house with five minutes to spare. There was no sign of Jill, so he sat in the car and waited, using the time to gather up a pile of junk from the passenger foot well. Having grabbed a handful of empty polystyrene cups, chewing-gum wrappers and sandwich containers, he realized he had nowhere to put them. There wasn’t a litter bin in sight along Church Street. In the end, he dropped them on the back seat.

The houses in the street had been built in Victorian times. They were large terraced houses with steep steps leading to the front door. Number four was the same as the rest, and the exterior at least looked to be in good order. The white paintwork was fresh, the windows clean and a large tub planted with purple heathers added a splash of colour.

Jill pulled up just as the radio presenter announced that the news was coming on. Max switched it off. He’d already heard the headlines: more funding for police forces. He’d heard it before. If they were lucky, each force would end up with enough to train a puppy.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Jill said as she joined him. ‘Any news?’

‘Nothing. We’ve organized a reconstruction for this afternoon, but that’s a long shot.’

A curtain twitched at the front room window of number four.

‘Looks like he’s waiting for us,’ Max said. ‘Come on.’

They walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. And waited.

‘Sorry,’ the gentleman said when he finally opened the door, ‘but I was down in the cellar.’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Trentham and Jill Kennedy, Harrington CID,’ Max said, offering his ID for inspection. He often wondered why he bothered. For all the notice anyone took, he could show them a bus pass with a photo of Marilyn Monroe on it.

‘Yes, yes. Come in, please.’

When they were in the hall, Mr Campbell switched off a light and closed a door that must lead to the cellar.

‘Do you live alone, Mr Campbell?’

‘Yes.’

Ghosts at the window then. Great.

‘Nice place,’ Max added, looking around him. The decoration was too fussy for his taste, but it was neat and clean.

‘Thank you. Come into the sitting room.’

They walked into the sitting room, and Max looked out of the window to confirm that this was indeed the room from which the curtain had moved. Definitely ghosts. In the unlikely event that it wasn’t ghosts, either Toby Campbell was lying about being in the cellar, or there was someone else in the house. Martin Hayden?

Toby Campbell was in his late fifties or early sixties, and was obviously stuck in a time warp. He was wearing cream trousers, white shirt, a cravat and a pale lemon jacket which seemed to date from the 1950s, and his grey hair was overlong.

‘Sit down,’ he offered. ‘Can I get you a coffee? Or tea?’

‘Coffee would be great, thanks,’ Max said, smiling. ‘As it comes no milk or sugar.’

‘The same for me, please,’ Jill answered his questioning look.

‘Do you mind if I use your bathroom?’ Max asked him.

‘Not at all. Top of the stairs, second left.’

‘Thanks.’

He didn’t look worried that Max might stumble across a seventeen-year-old. All the same, it wouldn’t hurt to look.

Max opened the door on the first left and guessed it was Campbell’s bedroom. Checking the wardrobe confirmed this. The jackets and suits represented every colour of the rainbow. Unfortunately, there was no one lurking between the hangers.

He opened other doors. One led to a second bedroom which, judging by the dust lying on the oak drawers and bedside table, hadn’t been used for a while, and another bedroom was filled with unopened boxes and bulging plastic bags.

When he went into the bathroom, a quick look round revealed no second toothbrush or anything out of the ordinary.

He flushed the toilet and opened the bathroom cabinet. Nothing of interest.

When he crossed the landing, heading for the stairs, a huge ginger cat scuttled in front of him, pausing only to spit. Had the cat moved the curtains?

By the time he returned to the sitting room, his coffee was already waiting for him.

‘Thanks.’ Max picked up the cup and made himself comfortable on a well-worn leather sofa. ‘As you know, we’re investigating the disappearance of Martin Hayden. We believe he came to you for guitar lessons.’

‘That’s correct. Every Friday at four thirty.’

‘Did he say anything to you to indicate that he might not arrive this Friday?’

‘Nothing. I’ve heard the news on the radio, of course, but I’m still half expecting him to turn up.’

‘What are your impressions of Martin, Mr Campbell?’ Jill asked.

‘Toby, please. Impressions, hmm.’ He put two fingers to his chin and gave the question his serious consideration. ‘He’s a very confident boy, and also ambitious. With Martin, everything has to be done now. I keep telling him, he needs to take time to smell the roses.’ He smiled. ‘But he won’t take any notice of me. Old man, he calls me. He’s only teasing, bless him, but there are precious few seventeen-year-olds who don’t think they know it all.’

‘Would you say you were close?’ Jill asked. ‘Would Martin confide in you?’

‘There has always been a special bond between master and pupil. Yes, I like to think he’d confide in me.’

‘Has he told you anything out of the ordinary lately?’ Max asked. ‘Anything that might be bothering him or something that’s happened to him?’

‘Nothing I can recall,’ he replied thoughtfully, sipping from his bone china cup. ‘There was a spot of trouble at the school, I know that. Martin’s one of those boys that his peers will pick on. He’s bright and beautiful. A few boys taunted him, I gather. Apunch was thrown and Martin had a bruised eye. It angered him, but he’s probably forgotten all about it by now. At the time, he vowed vengeance, but yes, I’m sure that’s forgotten.’

‘What about his family?’ Jill asked. ‘Does he talk of them often?’

‘He speaks of his sister, Sarah. I gather they’re quite close. It was only recently that I knew he had an older brother. As for his parents, I think he rubs along with them OK.’

‘They didn’t know he was having guitar lessons,’ Max put in.

‘Ah, yes, I am aware of that. I once asked Martin why he was keeping it from them, and he said he wanted it to be a surprise.’

‘Is he talented?’ Jill wanted to know.

‘No.’ Toby Campbell smiled wistfully. ‘He’s keen. He’s decided he wants to play the guitar, and play it he will. There’s no passion there, though. He’ll be competent, but that’s all.’

‘And where would his passions lie, do you think?’ Jill persisted.

‘His passions? Hmm. I’m not sure he’s passionate about anything. He’s ambitious yes, but he has no passion. At times, he seems quite a cold-hearted individual.’

‘If he were in trouble, might he come to you?’ Max asked.

‘I’d like to think so.’ Again, Toby Campbell wore that wistful smile. ‘But I doubt it. Naturally, if he does, I’ll contact you immediately. His poor parents must be out of their minds with worry.’

‘Yes,’ Max agreed.

As they were leaving, Max again remarked on the house. ‘Friends of mine were thinking of buying a house just down the road from you,’ he explained, ‘but they were a bit concerned it might be too small. This is a lot bigger than it looks though, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes. And you can extend out the back.’ He headed for a doorway. ‘Come and look at the kitchen.’

Max duly oohed and aahed over the size of the kitchen and the scope for expansion.

‘And with the cellar, there’s plenty of storage space,’ Toby Campbell pointed out. ‘One couple has converted the cellar to a games room, I believe.’

‘Really? Would you mind if I had a look?’

‘Be my guest.’

The cellar was like a small antiques shop. Old chairs and tables vied for space with bookcases.

‘It’s mostly my parents’ old furniture,’ Campbell explained. ‘I really must get round to sorting it out one day . . .’

When Max and Jill stepped outside and walked down the steps to their cars, Max wished he had a quid for every time he’d interviewed someone only to feel he’d wasted his time. He’d be a millionaire by now.

‘Do you really know someone who’s thinking of buying a house round here?’ Jill asked.

‘No. I just wanted a gander at his cellar.’

‘Ah.’

‘I’ve got a photo of Paul Sharp, the boy who made those accusations against Geoff Morrison.’ He unlocked his car and reached for the photograph. ‘A good-looking boy,’ he murmured, handing it over.

‘Isn’t he just?’ she agreed. ‘Almost as good-looking as Martin Hayden. If there was anything in those allegations, and Morrison
is
interested in boys, he’d be a huge temptation.’

‘Grace is talking to him. He’s twenty-three now and works in Manchester.’

Jill nodded. ‘I’d like another word with Martin’s mother. Is that OK with you? I’m sure she’s holding something back.’

‘Of course.’ Max realized he was holding his breath. ‘So, um, perhaps we could meet up later to discuss it. This evening? I’ll buy you dinner,’ he added hopefully.

‘Sorry, Max, I can’t.’ She was smiling, but it was an awkward, strained little smile. ‘I’ve made arrangements for this evening.’

Made arrangements? What the hell did that mean?

‘Who’s the lucky man?’ he asked lightly. ‘Anyone I might know?’

Her hesitation was only brief. ‘Yes.’

He seemed to stand on the pavement for an age waiting for more.

‘Scott Williams,’ she said at last.

It seemed another age before his vocal cords recovered sufficiently from the shock.

‘You’re joking!’ But he knew she wasn’t. ‘Well, isn’t that just great. I try my damnedest to rid the streets of scum and he puts the scum straight back on the streets. God, of all the people. Ask him how he sleeps at night. Still, I assume there’s no need to ask. You’ll know how he sleeps at night. A damn sight better with you by his side, no doubt.’

‘Why, you arrogant’

‘I need to go and catch some criminals to keep the defence lawyers in luxury,’ he snapped. ‘Let me know if you get anything from Josie Hayden.’