She shone the torch in my eyes. “I mind my own business, Mr Dunford. You know that.”
“I know that.”
“They swore to me mind, swore to me they’d left everything just as they’d found it. Will you look at this mess. Are the other rooms the same?”
“No. Only this one,” I said.
“Well, I suppose this’d be the one that interested them,” said Enid Sheard, using her torch as a Colditz searchlight to sweep the room from corner to corner.
“Can you tell what’s missing?”
“Mr Dunford! I never set foot in Mr Goldthorpe’s bedroom before tonight. You journalists. Minds like sewers, the lot of you.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
“They took away all his drawings and his tapes, I do know that.” The beam of white light fixed upon the reel-to-reel. “Saw them carrying the stuff off myself.”
“Mr Goldthorpe never said what was on the tapes?”
“A couple of years ago Mary did tell me he kept a diary. And I remember I said, he likes writing then Mr Goldthorpe does he? And Mary said, he doesn’t write a diary, he tells it to his tape-recorder.”
“Did she say what kind of things he…”
The bright beam hit me square in the eyes. “Mr Dunford, how many times? She didn’t say and I didn’t ask. I…”
“You mind your own business, I know.” With A Guide to the Canals of the North half under my shirt, half down my trousers, I awkwardly picked up the candle. “Thank you, Mrs Sheard.”
Out in the hall Enid Sheard paused by the door to the front room. “You went in there then?”
I stared at the door. “No.”
“But that’s where…”
“I know,” I whispered, picturing Mary Goldthorpe hanging by her stocking in the fireplace, her brother’s brains across three walls. I saw Paula Garland’s husband in the same room.
“Bit of a wasted journey, if you ask me,” muttered Enid Sheard.
In the kitchen I opened the back door and blew out the candle, leaving the saucer on the draining board.
“Better come back inside for a cup of tea,” said Enid Sheard as she locked the back door and dropped the key in her apron pocket.
“No thank you. I’ve taken up quite enough of your Sunday.” The large book was digging into my stomach.
“Mr Dunford, you may conduct your business out in the street for all to see, but I do not.”
I smiled. “I’m sorry. I don’t quite follow you.”
“My money, Mr Dunford.”
“Oh, of course. I’m sorry. I’ll have to come back tomorrow with a photographer. I’ll have a cheque for you then.”
“Cash, Mr Dunford. Mr Sheard never trusted banks and neither do I. So I’ll have one hundred pounds cash.”
I started to walk down the garden path. “One hundred pounds cash it is then, Mrs Sheard.”
“And I trust this time you’ll have the good manners to tele phone and see it’s convenient,” shouted Enid Sheard.
“Really Mrs Sheard. How could you think otherwise,” I shouted, breaking into a run, A Guide to the Canals of the North into my ribs, a bus at the top of the main road.
“One hundred pounds cash, Mr Dunford.”
“Having a nice time?”
· PM The Press Club, in the sights of the two stone lions, Leeds City Centre.
Kathryn was ordering a half, I was nursing a pint.
“How long have you been here?” she said.
“Since they opened.”
The barmaid smiled at Kathryn, mouthing six as she passed her the cider.
“How many you had?”
“Not enough.”
The barmaid held up four fingers.
I scowled at the barmaid and said, “Let’s get a fucking table.”
Kathryn ordered two more drinks and followed me to the darkest corner of the Press Club.
“You don’t look so good, love. What you been doing?”
I sighed and took a cigarette from her pack. “I don’t know where to begin.”
Life on Mars came on the jukebox. “Take your time. I’m in no rush,” said Kathryn, putting her hand on mine.
I pulled my hand out from under hers. “Did you go into the office today?”
“Just for a couple of hours.”
“Who was in?”
“Hadden, Jack, Gaz…”
Jack fucking Whitehead. My neck and shoulders ached with tiredness. “What was he doing in on a Sunday?”
“Jack? The post-mortem. Apparently it was really appalling. Really…” Her words’fell away.
“I know.”
“You spoke to Jack?”
“No.” I took another cigarette from her pack, lighting it tip to tip.
Bowie gave way to Elton.
Kathryn stood up and went to the bar again.
George Greaves raised a cigarette my way from another table. I nodded back. The place was beginning to fill up.
I leant back and stared up at the tinsel and the fairy lights.
“Mr Gannon been in?”
I leant forward too quickly, my stomach and head spinning. “What?”
“Barry been in?”
“No,” I said.
A skinny boy in a maroon suit turned and left.
“Who was that?” said Kathryn, setting down the glasses.
“Fuck knows. Mate of Barry’s. The post-mortem’s the lead then?”
She put her hand on mine again. “Yeah.”
I moved my hand. “Fuck. Is it good?”
“Yeah.” Kathryn reached for her cigarettes but her pack was empty.
I took a pack of cigarettes from my pocket. “Anything else big?”
“Fire at an old folks home killed eighteen.”
“That’s not the lead?”
“No. Clare is.”
“Fuck. Anything else?”
“Cambridge Rapist. Cup draw. Leeds have got Cardiff.”
“Nowt about that gypsy camp on the way in, one just off the M1?”
“No. Not that I’ve heard. Why?”
“Nothing. Heard there’d been a fire or something, that’s all.”
I lit another cigarette and sipped at my pint.
Kathryn took another cigarette from my pack.
“What about the white van? Did you turn anything up?” I asked, putting my cigarettes back in my pocket, trying to remember what kind of car Graham Goldthorpe had driven.
“I’m sorry love. I haven’t had the time. I don’t think there’s anything to it though. The police would have mentioned it and I’m sure it’s not in any of the reports.”
“Mr Ridyard was pretty fucking sure.”
“Well maybe they were just humouring them.”
“They should fucking burn in hell if they were.”
Kathryn’s eyes were shining through the low light, on the verge of tears.
I said, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. Did you meet Barry?” Her voice was shaking.
“Mm. The post-mortem, how much detail did he put in?”
Kathryn downed her drink. “None. How much do you bloody think?”
“Do you know if Johnny Kelly was playing for Trinity today?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“Gaz say what happened?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Gaz didn’t say why?”
“Nobody knows.” Kathryn picked up her empty glass and put it back down again.
“The press conference is tomorrow?”
Kathryn picked up her empty pack of cigarettes. “Of course.”
“What time?”
“I think they said ten. But I’m not sure.” She pulled out the silver foil from inside the packet.
“What did Hadden say about the post-mortem?”
“I don’t know Eddie. I don’t bloody know.” Her eyes were full again, her face red. “Edward, can I please have a cigarette?”
I took out my pack. “There’s only one.”
Kathryn sniffed hard. “Forget it. I’ll get some more.”
“Don’t be daft. Take it.”
“Did you go to Castleford?” She was rooting around in her bag.
“Yeah.”
“You saw Marjorie Dawson then? What’s she like?”
I lit my last cigarette. “I didn’t see her.”
“Eh?” Kathryn was counting out change for the cigarette machine.
“I saw Paula Garland.”