Thicker Than Water (25 page)

So I did, watching his brows draw together and his eyes darken with concern.

‘What a God-awful thing to have happened,’ he said, as I came to the end.

We nodded sombrely.

‘And you never had an inkling? Wonder why she told you now, after keeping it quiet all these years?’

‘It’s because she thinks she’s dying,’ Hayley said unsteadily, ‘and she wants to set the record straight.’

Gary looked sharply at her, then at me. ‘And is she?’

I nodded wordlessly. There wasn’t much doubt.

‘Sorry to hear that. Still, not wanting to criticize or nothing, I reckon it’s a bit hard, lumbering you with it all when there’s nothing you can do. You’d be better not knowing.’

Hayley started to cry again, and Gary comforted her as I stared into my coffee.
Whoever killed the Sheridans
, Mum had said,
also killed your dad
. Not only that, I thought; he’d completely sabotaged our lives. If Dad hadn’t been wrongly accused, we’d have gone on living happily in the little house in Scarthorpe. Mum would have continued doing shifts at the supermarket, not injuring her health by working all the hours God sent and having to be grateful to Bill and Madge. Now memory had been stirred, I recalled often hearing her softly crying in the night.

Nothing you can do about it
, Gary said. Those two sentences, Mum’s and Gary’s, kept repeating themselves in my head. And I thought that it wasn’t right this unknown killer should get away with it, not only the car crash and making those kids orphans, but with causing Dad’s death and Mum’s ill health, and a totally changed life for me and Hayley.

The hospital’s second call came that evening, as we were preparing for another visit, but by the time we got there, it was all over. We were told Mum had slipped into a coma soon after we left, and never regained consciousness.

‘So the last thing she knew,’ said the kindly doctor, ‘was the two of you by her bedside. That would have been a comfort.’

How could we tell him that her last thoughts would have been far from comfortable?

Over the next week or two I felt somehow suspended, on a different plane from everyone else. People made allowances, putting it down to bereavement; as, of course, it was – partly. But as well as grieving for Mum and shedding tears at her funeral, I reckon me and Hayley were also crying for Dad, knowing what we now did.

And all the time, below the level of consciousness, a resolution was hardening inside me, a resolve to find out who really did cause the crash and all the devastation that followed. And if he was still alive, to track him down and force a confession, clearing, however belatedly, my dad’s name.

By the time these internal workings came to the surface, they’d evolved into a firm commitment. I didn’t mention it to Hayley, not wanting to get her hopes up; in all probability the real culprit was dead by now, and beyond my reach. Twenty-three years is a long time, especially if he was a hardened criminal. For all I knew, he might have been caught and served time for something completely different.

Yet, on reflection, that seemed unlikely. The more I thought about it – and I did, constantly – the harder I found it to fit the crime into any category. That it was personal was beyond doubt, but it was also frighteningly haphazard: it could so easily have caused more deaths – the car crashing into another, or mounting the pavement and hitting a pram, a group of kids, old-age pensioners. Most personal grudges were settled more immediately, by mugging or a knife in the guts. This one was curiously remote-controlled; in fact, hardly controlled at all.

And something else occurred to me; the police had assumed Dad targeted Sheridan, because of the bad feeling between them. But since Dad hadn’t been the perpetrator, there was no knowing whether in fact it had been Mr Sheridan or his wife who was the intended victim. Admittedly it had been his car, but she might also have driven it. So who was meant to die – him, her, or both of them?

Pondering motives had become an obsession, but there came a point when pondering wasn’t enough. Half-term was approaching, bringing with it a week’s freedom. Patty and I had talked of going away, but nothing was finalized, and when she brought it up, I told her I’d made other plans, firmly ignoring her disappointment.

And I wasn’t lying – I
had
made plans; I’d decided that the place to start my search was where it all took place – up in Scarthorpe. The thought of going back there after all these years was exciting, unsettling. Would anyone we’d known still be there, some of the kids from school – Pete, for instance? Even if he was, would we recognize each other?

Alone in the flat in the evenings, I began to make lists of who I should contact for information. The local newspaper was the first step; their archives would contain reports of the crash, the inquest, and so on. Next, the people now living at the Big House. I still thought of it as that, couldn’t for the life of me remember its real name. There might have been talk at the time they bought it, which could contain a germ of truth.

In any case, I’d a hankering to see the place again, try to recreate it in my mind as it had been all those years ago, and at the same time check, for instance, if there were other means of access to the locked shed. It was a faint hope, but might give me a push in the right direction, and it would be a nostalgia trip at the very least. Then there was the local vicar; he might know what had happened to the kids, who might, in turn, have some memory that hadn’t been thought important at the time.

I’d need a cover story; a journalist, say, doing a piece on old crimes and their effect on those left behind? That could be tricky, though, if I was asked what paper I worked for. Research for a book was safer.

The more I thought back to those distant days, the more I found I remembered. The housekeeper, for instance; she’d always been kind to me – given me biscuits. What was her name? It would come back. All in all, she’d probably be the best bet, if I could trace her. She’d know who the family were friendly with, and who not. Though according to Mum, she’d helped to nail Dad, with her talk of the row she’d overheard.

That row – Mum also said I’d been there. I tried to recall it, but the memory had been buried under all that came after – Dad’s death and the move to the pub. Perhaps a return to Scarthorpe would unearth it.

The church clock across the road started to strike, and I counted the chimes. Midnight. Another day nearer. I closed my notebook and went to bed.

Sunday lunch with Hayley and Gary, the week before half-term. We’d seen more of each other since the funeral; the only two members of the family left, privy at last to its secrets, and needing the comfort of each other’s company as we found ourselves mourning both our parents.

We’d cried, of course, when told of Dad’s death, but what with the bustle of moving to a new home and a different school, together with kids’ natural resilience, he soon faded from our thoughts. And a contributory factor, I remembered now, was that our uncle and aunt had forbidden us to speak of him, on the pretext that it would upset Mum. In effect, he’d been metaphorically swept under the carpet, and twenty-three years on, I bitterly resented the fact that he’d gone to his grave believing his children would think him a murderer.

‘You and Patty going away next week?’ Hayley asked, stirring the gravy at the stove.

I was prepared for that. ‘I am, though not with Patty.’

She turned then, eyebrows raised. ‘You two had a row?’

‘No, it’s not that. I just need a bit of space at the moment, time to clear my head.’

She nodded in understanding. ‘Me too, but chance is a fine thing.’ She paused, not looking at me. ‘Could you manage one evening next week, to go over Mum’s house with me? It’ll have to be cleared.’

‘God, Hayl,’ I said, taken unawares.

‘I know; I’ve been putting it off. Seeing all her clothes and that—’ Her voice broke.

‘Of course I’ll come,’ I said, dreading the prospect.

‘Dinner nearly ready?’

Our depressing conversation was interrupted by Gary, coming in with Jade. She was a skinny little thing with plaits, much as Hayley had been at her age, but cheekier.

‘Yes, you can start carving,’ Hayley replied.

We took our places round the table; comfort food, I thought, surveying the heaped plate of roast beef and Yorkshire, crisp roast spuds and buttered carrots. Funny how you always felt better on a full stomach.

Jade was regarding me from across the table. ‘There’s a boy in my class called Brian,’ she said. ‘But he doesn’t spell it with a “y”.’

Hayley laughed. ‘Your nan was very proud of that “y”.’

I smiled, remembering the embarrassment it had caused me in childhood, the accusations of being a toff, or, even worse, a poof. Mum had insisted on the spelling, Dad told me once.

‘Bit fancy to my way of thinking,’ he’d said, ‘but she’d set her heart on it, and nowt would shift her.’

‘You should add a “y” to your name, and all,’ I teased Jade. ‘J-A-Y-D-E. It’d make you special, like it does me.’

‘Don’t put ideas in her head,’ said Hayley.

We went to Mum’s house that Tuesday after school, a two-up, two-down on the Sale Road council estate, where she’d been for ten years or more, since Bill and Madge retired from the pub. And though it was tiny, she’d made it home, delighted to have her own place again. At least we’d be spared the headache of trying to sell it, I thought gloomily.

The process was every bit as bad as we’d feared, everywhere we went, everything we touched, poignant reminders. In the desk in the living room we found school reports dating back to kindergarten, childish drawings in felt pen, a few photographs. She must have taken them with her to the pub, kept them all these years despite chronic lack of space.

‘If there’s anything you want, just say,’ Hayley instructed, tears streaming down her face. ‘Otherwise, we’ll pack up everything for Oxfam. Mum always supported them.’

In the end, that was what we did. Hayley kept a couple of brooches – there was nothing of value – and I took an ornament that had travelled with us from the house in Scarthorpe, an otter with a fish in its mouth. Dad had won it at the fairground in Blackpool, when they were engaged.

We were both of us drained by the time we’d finished, and as we were about to leave, we exchanged a prolonged hug, holding on to each other as a part of our lives came to an end.

‘We’ve still got each other, Bry,’ Hayley whispered through her tears. ‘And as Mum always said, blood is thicker than water.’

I nodded, though at the time it was small consolation. I drove home wrapped in a shroud of misery, to find Patty waiting on the step.

She regarded me anxiously, unsure of her welcome. ‘I know where you’ve been,’ she said. ‘I thought maybe you’d like a bit of company?’

I didn’t trust myself to speak. I nodded, and we went together up to the flat. I had the ornament in my hand, and went straight to the mantelpiece, pushing aside the clock and an old ashtray to make room. For a moment I stood looking at it, then it blurred before my eyes as, to my intense embarrassment, the tears came – tears I’d so far managed to suppress except for a few at the funeral, and which now demanded release.

Patty’s arms came round me, and she held me while I sobbed like a kid, giving way at last to all the trauma of the last few weeks. And gradually, as the tears lessened, she began to kiss me, my face, my ears, my mouth, gently pressing herself against me, comforting me in the only way she knew. And I felt myself beginning to respond, my thoughts shifting from the past to the present and its needs as she took my hand and gently led me to the bedroom.

Eighteen

It would be around an eighty-mile drive, I reckoned, virtually all of it M6. Realizing how near it was and how easy to get to, I wondered why I’d never thought to go back. No reason to, I suppose.

I’d booked a B and B on the Internet, feeling a twinge as I recognized so many of their addresses – roads Pete and I had cycled down, the street where his Auntie May lived – but realized I was not, after all, anxious to renew old friendships. Everyone I’d known all those years ago believed my dad to be a killer, and would go on doing so till I proved different.

Nor did I want to use my real name; while ‘Reid’ wouldn’t mean anything, Bryan with a ‘y’ just might, so without so much as a by-your-leave, I hijacked Gary’s. I’d confess later, but old Gar wouldn’t mind. All in a good cause, and it wasn’t as though I was going to rob any banks. And since my email address bore my real name, I invested in another, with the anonymous handle of ‘guesswho’. I was rather pleased with that.

So Saturday finally arrived, and, throwing my grip in the boot, I set off for the Lakes.

‘Send me a postcard,’ Hayley had said. Whether I would or not depended on the success of my mission.

It was a glorious spring day, and the roads were busy on this bank holiday weekend. However, the traffic, heavy until the Blackpool turn-off, eased considerably the farther north I drove, and my excitement grew as hills began to appear ahead, and open countryside, freshly green, stretched as far as the eye could see. The sky was wide and blue, vast expanses of it, unmarred by roofs and chimneys and television aerials, and after the clutter of my usual environment, unconsidered till now, I felt suddenly freer; wondering whether Dad, with his claustrophobia, could ever have survived in Stockford.

I caught my first glimpse of the lake soon after leaving the motorway, and was buffeted by a welter of emotions. God, I’d never realized how much I’d missed this! I slowed down, savouring every minute of the approach to Scarthorpe, nestling along the lakeside with its backcloth of hills. It was windier here, white clouds racing across the sky, creating dark blue shadows on the surface of the water. A few boats bobbed at their moorings, and a motorboat roared down the far side, creating a creamy wake of spume.

I rounded the corner into the town and made my way from memory to Church Road. At first glance, not a lot seemed to have changed, though a municipal playground I remembered had given way to a cluster of houses, some bearing vacancy signs in their windows.

I found White Gables at once, thanks mainly to its living up to its name. I’d been warned in advance there was no parking and I’d have to use the long-stay car park, but that was no problem; I’d be on foot most of the time. I stopped briefly at the gate to announce my arrival, leave my bag, and ask directions to the car park, new since my time.

Mrs Bunting, the owner, was a round-faced woman in her fifties, with prematurely grey hair and rosy cheeks.

‘Have you been to Scarthorpe before, Mr Payne?’ she asked, pushing the register towards me.

It was a timely reminder; I almost looked over my shoulder, before remembering that was my name for the next week and signing it with a flourish.

‘Yes, I grew up here,’ I told her.

‘Really? So you have relatives nearby?’

‘Not any longer,’ I said steadily. ‘Have you lived here long yourself?’

‘Born and bred,’ she answered with a smile. ‘Met my husband at primary school. We feel, sometimes, that we’ve stagnated rather, but as Bert says, if you’ve found the perfect place to live, why bother moving?’

Her accent, so familiar, was different from the one I’d become used to, an echo of my childhood. I’d have to expect plenty of those. She showed me to my room, which was clean and bright, and boasted twin beds and a wash basin.

‘The bathroom’s just across the landing,’ she told me. ‘You’ll be sharing with Mr and Mrs Crossley, our other guests. We haven’t the space for en suites, I’m afraid, but with only two rooms let, there’s usually no problem.’

I dumped the grip, enquired the way to the car park, and followed her back downstairs.

‘There are plenty of pubs and cafés around, if you need a late lunch,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you remember some of them?’

‘I might, at that,’ I said. And five minutes later, having parked the car, found myself on the corner facing the Pig and Whistle, Dad’s old haunt. I took a deep breath, went inside, and ordered a pint of bitter and a Ploughman’s. It was close on two o’clock, and the place was almost empty, but two old men, seated at a corner table, looked faintly familiar, and as I waited for my pint, I cudgelled my brains.

The fact that they were in Dad’s old pub made it likely he’d known them – and then, in a flash, I had it: they were the pair who used to come with us to football matches. One of them had a boy my own age. To think they were still here, drinking in the same pub, when Dad had been dead over twenty years! Talk about life goes on.

I looked across at them, hesitating. Already adult when I’d known them, they’d not changed that much – older, heavier, perhaps; greyer. But I doubted they’d know me in a month of Sundays. I’d been a young kid, one they’d taken scant notice of, and must have changed beyond recognition. Added to which, they wouldn’t be expecting to see me, while their presence here had helped my own remembering.

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and what better place to start my search? Before my nerve failed me, I walked across to them, heart hammering. They broke off their conversation and looked up, surprised at my approach.

‘Would you think me very rude if I joined you?’ I asked with an ingratiating smile. ‘I’m hoping to do some research for a book I’m writing.’

That impressed them, as it was meant to.

‘Oh, aye?’ said one cautiously.

Taking that for consent – or at least, not refusal – I set down my glass and pulled out a chair. ‘It’s about crime and its aftermath,’ I explained.

‘Too much writ about crime already,’ vouchsafed the second man. Stan, was it?

‘But perhaps not enough about the people affected by it,’ I went on swiftly. ‘The husbands, wives or children left behind.’ I took a sip of beer, choosing my words carefully. ‘No doubt there’ve been crimes here over the years?’

They could have asked why I’d come, apparently on spec, to this small Lakeland town, when there must be much richer pickings elsewhere. But they didn’t. Almost despite themselves, they were interested, which was what I was banking on.

I nodded to the barman as he set down my Ploughman’s. ‘You must have known of quite a few in your time, gentlemen. Any you can regale me with?’

‘Don’t rightly know as we can,’ mused the first man, stroking his nicotine-stained moustache. Fred! His name came to me suddenly; Fred Barnes, never seen without a pipe in his mouth. Now suffering, no doubt, from the No Smoking rule.

‘There were that robbery over at Blackwell’s, Fred,’ said his companion, helpfully confirming my memory.

‘Aye, but robberies are two a penny, that not right, Mr—?’ He looked at me enquiringly.

‘Payne. Gary Payne.’

He reached over a gnarled hand. ‘Fred Barnes, and this here’s Stan Blenkinsop.’

Stan also extended a hand. I’d been accepted. I hid a relieved sigh and started on my Ploughman’s. ‘I admit murder’s more my line.’

‘Ah. Not so many of them, glad to say.’

‘But there have been a few?’

‘Well, there were that young lass stabbed on her way home from a dance. Bad business that were, but they got the lad straight off. Turned out to be ex-boyfriend.’

‘And that farmer, found dead among his chickens,’ put in Stan. ‘Burglary that went wrong, they said.’

‘Nothing a little more – unusual?’ I probed hopefully. ‘Family feud, that kind of thing?’

The two men exchanged glances, and were silent for a moment. Then Stan said, ‘Not what you’d call family, but feud of a sort. Folk up at the Big House, twenty year or more back.’

Bingo! ‘What happened?’ I asked carefully.

‘You’re talking out o’ turn, Stan,’ Fred warned him.

‘Well, someone’s bound to say summat; might as well be us.’

Fred shook his head dolefully, his eyes on his beer, and Stan went on, ‘Point is, mister, it concerned a pal of ours. Struck close to home, you might say. Still hard for us to speak on it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and waited, holding my breath.

‘This pal worked up there. Gardener, like. Straight a feller as you’d care to meet, was Jack. Or so we thought. But governor up there gave him a hard time.’

‘So – what happened?’

‘That’s what we can’t get our heads round. But old Jack tinkers with his car, result being not only the man killed, but his missus, too. Real tragedy.’

I moistened my lips. ‘Did he admit that, your friend? Tinkering with the car?’

‘No, course he didn’t.’ Stan sighed. ‘But he didn’t do hisself no favours, neither. In here he was, the night afore – leastways, on the bench outside, on account of him not liking indoors. In a right blether over some set-to they’d had up at t’Lodge, sounding off about the governor, and how he’d get his own back, see if he didn’t, and there were plenty heard him. Fred and me didn’t pay no heed; thought it was the drink talking. Had to help him home, and all.’

He took a drink of beer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Then, next day, caput. Man was dead, and his wife wi’ him.’

My heart was hammering. ‘But perhaps it
had
just been the drink, and someone else—’

Stan was shaking his head sorrowfully. ‘Oh, he done it, right enough. Must have – no one else it could have been, and like I said, they’d had that row.’

‘Worse to follow, though,’ Fred put in. ‘Couldn’t stand being shut in, could Jack, as Stan here told you, and being put in t’cell did for him. Took his own life.’ He shook his head. ‘Tragic,’ he said, ‘though thinking on it, mebbe it were for the best. Leastways he didn’t have to suffer years of it.’

I pushed away my half-eaten Ploughman’s, forcing myself to ask, ‘What happened to the families?’

‘Moved away, the lot of ’em. Can’t blame ’em. Jack’s Molly and kids went to live wi’ her brother, over Kendal way. And the young ’uns from the Big House, their aunt and uncle took ’em down south somewheres.’

‘It would be good to talk to them,’ I said from a dry mouth.

‘Aye, well, can’t help you there.’ Stan took a swig of his beer, emptying his glass. I offered to stand him another, but he shook his head. Clearly, my presence had put a blight on things.

‘You’ve no idea how I could contact them?’

They both shook their heads.

‘Know someone who might, though,’ Fred said suddenly. ‘Eileen at Willow Pattern – that’s a café down by t’lake. Bought the place from Cora Selby, when she moved away wi’ yon friend of hers. And,’ he added significantly, ‘that there friend were housekeeper up at Big House. Still in touch, Eileen and Cora, that I do know, Eileen being a pal of my missus. Says she often speaks of her.’

I could hardly believe I’d struck gold so soon. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

The two old men rose to their feet. ‘Send us a copy of yon book,’ said Stan, and I smiled and nodded. Then they were gone, and I was left with three empty glasses and a half-eaten Ploughman’s, finding it hard to breathe.

My mission had begun.

I left the pub on a high, in search of the Willow Pattern café, but there my luck ran out. The owner was not at home.

‘Gone to her daughter’s for t’weekend,’ the waitress told me laconically.

I hesitated, uncertain what to do next. It was after three, and though I’d just finished lunch, the tables were filled with people enjoying cream teas. Since I was here, I decided to have a cuppa myself, and sat down to go over what I’d learned. Which, basically, was very little I’d not known already. What it did prove, though, was that the crime was still remembered locally, and hopefully the absent Eileen might be really useful.

The unexpected meeting had caught me on the hop, and though I’d brought a recorder to save having to write notes, I hadn’t thought to use it. This evening, back at the B and B, I’d make good the omission, and from now on keep my wits about me.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the café and paused on the pavement, the freshening breeze cool on my face. A group of girls went by, giggling, and I caught fragments of their conversation. Their homely accents, like those of Stan and Fred, were a reminder of how much I’d lost of mine, the rough corners being painlessly smoothed during my time at college. A schoolteacher, even a PE one, ought to ‘talk proper’, I thought with a wry grin.