‘Uncle Maurice! Uncle Maurice!’
I open my eyes.
Bill’s daughter is looking down at me.
I breathe. I breathe. I breathe.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
I blink. I am lying in a big double bed. I am wearing a pair of pyjamas.
‘It’s me,’ she says. ‘Louise.’
I sit up in the bed. It is not my bed. Not my pyjamas.
‘You’re at John and Anthea’s house,’ she says. ‘In Durkar.’
I blink. I nod.
‘Can I get you anything?’ she asks. ‘A cup of tea?’
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘My dad said you needed to rest.’
‘What day is it?’
‘It’s Monday,’ she says. ‘Monday morning.’
I look at my watch. It’s stopped.
‘It’s just after ten,’ she says.
‘Where is everybody?’
She starts to speak. She stops. She puts her hand to her mouth.
‘Tell me, love,’ I say. ‘Please -’
‘Sandal,’ she says.
I look at her. I wait.
She sighs. She says: ‘Donald Foster’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘Bob found him.’
‘Your Bob?’
‘At his house this morning,’ she nods. ‘Murdered.’
I push back the covers. I get up.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I can’t stay here, love.’
‘But my dad said -’
‘Where are my clothes?’
She points at the stool in front of the dressing table. ‘Over there.’
On the stool are a clean set of clothes and my spare pair of glasses.
‘I went to your house,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t -’
‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
‘Where are you going?’ she asks again.
‘Wood Street,’ I say. ‘Can I borrow your car?’
‘Your Triumph’s outside.’
‘Thank you,’ I say again.
‘But are you sure, you’re -’
‘I’m fine,’ I smile. ‘Honestly.’
‘Do you want me to call my dad?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘You know how he worries.’
I drive from Durkar into Wakefield. I don’t turn off to Sandal. I go straight to Wood Street. I don’t go in the front way. I go in the back. I don’t speak to anyone. No-one speaks to me. I run up the stairs. I go into my office. I unlock the bottom drawer. I take out two thick old files and a third thin new one. I close the drawer. I pick up the files. I leave the office. I walk back down the stairs. I go out the way I came in. I don’t see anyone. No-one sees me. I run back to the car. I drive out of Wakefield past the Redbeck. I come to the edge of Castleford -
To Shangrila.
I don’t stop -
There is a dark red Jaguar parked at the bottom of the drive.
I drive to the end of the road. I turn left. I drive to a lay-by. I turn the car around.
I wait.
I don’t close my eyes. I don’t dare.
I watch.
Thirty minutes later, I watch the dark red Jaguar pull out of the end of the road -
There are two big men in the car.
I know the big man sat in the passenger seat -
Derek fucking Box.
The Jag turns right. It disappears around the bend in the road.
I start the car. I go back the way I came.
I park at the bottom of the drive. I get out. I look up the hill -
Shangrila.
I remember this place when it was only bones -
Stark white bones rising out of the ground;
I remember this place in the moonlight -
The ugly moonlight;
I remember this place and I remember the lies -
‘He was here with me.’
I walk up the drive. I pass the goldfish -
I am not empty-handed.
I come to the door. I press the bell. I listen to the chimes.
The door opens:
John Dawson, the Prince of Architecture himself -
‘Maurice?’ he says. ‘This is an unexpected -’
‘Shut up,’ I tell him.
‘What?’
I push him back into his hall.
His wife is coming down the stairs in her dressing-gown: ‘Who is it now?’
‘It’s the police,’ I say.
‘Maurice?’ she says. ‘What on earth’s going on?’
I point to the living room on the left. ‘Both of you in there.’
They go into the large white living room.
I follow them -
The whole room white. The whole room decorated with images of swans.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ says Dawson.
I punch him in the back of his head. ‘Sit down and shut up.’
They sit down on the huge cream sofa, side by side.
On the glass table in front of them are architect’s plans and today’s paper -
I stare down at an upside-down photograph:
Paula Garland.
I read an upside-down headline:
RL STAR’S SISTER MURDERED.
I look back up at them. I say: ‘You know why I’m here.’
‘No, I don’t actually,’ says Dawson. ‘And what’s more, I believe Bill Molloy -’
‘Fucking shut up!’ I shout. ‘Shut up!’
‘Mr Jobson, I -’
‘John,’ whispers his wife. ‘Please be quiet.’
I look at Marjorie Dawson -
Her expensive dressing-gown. Her tired, lonely eyes;
I look at her and I know she knows.
I look at her husband -
His expensive clothes. His timid, licentious eyes;
I look at him and I know he knows -
Knows she knows, knows I know.
‘Ted Jenkins,’ I say.
‘Who?’ asks Dawson.
‘Photographer and purveyor of pornography. Child pornography to be exact.’
Mrs Dawson looks at her husband.
I take out a large black Letts desk diary for 1974. I open it. I turn to the addresses and telephone numbers at the back. I find the names beginning with the initial D. I turn it around. I put it down on top of the newspaper and the plans. I point to one name and one number.
Marjorie Dawson leans forward. John Dawson doesn’t.
I smile. I say: ‘He’s got your number, has Mr Jenkins.’
Marjorie Dawson looks at her husband.
‘He’s got a lot of numbers,’ I say.
John Dawson is biting his lip.
‘Don Foster for one,’ I say. ‘Not that he’ll be answering his phone again.’
Marjorie Dawson looks at me.
‘He’s dead,’ I say.
She is opening and closing her mouth.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I thought you knew.’
Dawson tries to hold his wife’s hand -
She moves away from him.
He tells his wife. ‘I only just heard.’
‘That what Derek Box came to tell you, was it?’ I ask.
John Dawson puts his hands over his face.
‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve got some more bad news,’ I say.
Dawson looks up from his hands.
‘George Marsh is dead too.’
‘What?’ says Dawson.
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘I killed him.’
‘What?’ he says again. ‘Why -’