‘See you, Emma.’
‘Chloe …’
‘Leave it. Just ask her if she’ll keep the set of china for me.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ve decided to go to work today. I’m going to Halsworth Grange.’
‘Chloe!’ Emma called out to her, her voice thin like a child’s. ‘He said he’s from a national newspaper. I was going to share the money with you. I did it for both of us.’
Chloe sets off running towards the city centre. She keeps to the edge of the pavement, dropping off the kerb every now and again to pass slower pedestrians. As the streets fill up with tourists, she slows to a walk. The tower of York Minster is watching her, but she looks away, keeps her eyes on the pavement. She presses on, head down, until she’s on Lendal Bridge. Glancing at the red pleasure boats, she wishes she could hire one, take it as far down the river as she can go and out to sea, drift until she’s found, a bone-picked skeleton rocking on the waves. She snaps back to the gritty pavement in front of her. Not a boat. Not starving or drowning. Not a church tower or a skip lorry in a narrow lane. No chance of anyone else trying to save her, only to make it worse. Because that’s what they all do in the end, the do-gooders and the false friends. It’s time to do it properly.
She thought she could trust them, Emma and Taheera. She even dreamt of a time when she’d have that place of her own, and she’d invite them in to say ‘thank you’ for everything they’d done, in to her little flat with the blue iris china and a cake she’d have baked. But that’s someone else’s dream. They’ve never done anything except make things worse, but she knows what to do now and she doesn’t want to be distracted. She looks over her shoulder as she crosses the road near the city walls and thinks she sees the same dark blue car, tucked in behind a van. She quickens her pace and passes under the arch where the traffic is one-way, coming towards her. If it’s him, and he’s seen her, he won’t be able to get to her without passing two sets of lights. She speeds up and runs out into the road as the pedestrian light flashes green. She sprints all the way to the station.
‘Come on, Terry,’ she whispers, ‘let’s see how clever you are.’
She finds her regular platform and the local stopping train. She takes a seat near the toilet, where she can watch for the guard. She has an old ticket in her purse and a story about throwing the wrong one away, but the train pulls out and there’s no sign of anyone in uniform. She sits for a while, catching her breath, the sweat drying on her skin. In the police cell she sat like this, waiting. Unable to do anything except see what would happen next. There was no point in using any energy to shout or fight or argue. Taheera was dead. She got herself killed in that beautiful garden and they thought it was Chloe’s fault. Maybe it was in a way. Maybe Taheera was tainted by being near her. Or perhaps it was to do with that boy. The one who died. Chloe can’t understand it. Why would someone so smart and beautiful spend her time with criminals? Maybe she liked getting her hands dirty. Chloe sighs but there are no tears now.
She is startled by a man coming into her carriage. He’s wearing a denim jacket and his hair is short. She sits up straight, staring ahead, willing him to catch her eye. He turns and she sees he has a goatee beard and glasses. He’s carrying a guitar case. It’s not him. She’s not sure if it’s relief or disappointment but she slumps down into the seat and lets her forehead fall against the hard, cool glass of the window.
When the train reaches the station near Halsworth Grange, her stomach contracts, a muscle memory that she should get off, but she stays where she is, holding her breath until the doors slide shut and the train jerks forward. Next stop, Doncaster.
The exit leads her into the Frenchgate Shopping Centre and she’s confused for a moment, losing her bearings. This side of the Centre is new. A group of teenagers rush by, laughing, clutching cans of energy drinks in their hands. A fat boy pulls a face at her and shrieks like a parrot and they all laugh some more. One of them points at her and calls out: ‘Freak!’
She looks around for the entrance to the old bus station. There’s a sign for ‘Transport Interchange’ and she follows it to a staircase, which finally leads her to a line of bus stops. She thinks the numbers might have changed too, so she looks on the alphabetical list on the wall, but there it is: the number seventy-six still goes to Chasebridge.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Doncaster
The circus was back in town, squad cars ringing Eagle Mount Two. Bernadette Armley wasn’t going to be happy about several pairs of regulation police boots messing up her carpet on the hunt for her eldest son, but the force wanted to know where he was the night she stood at her window, watching a young man run towards his killer. The same son who’d asked her to clean up after him, but spared her from seeing the body. They also wanted to question her about her refusal to let a female detective into her home, giving a suspect time to slip away before a second officer arrived.
DCI Khan had given the instructions, before returning to Eagle Mount One with Sean, in order to pay Jack Denton a visit. A knock on the door got no response. Sean opened the letter box.
‘Dad, open up. Come on. I’ve come for my stuff. Come on, Dad, you owe me!’
Khan moved away and made himself busy, checking out the view from the far side of the landing, beyond the lift.
‘Dad! I know you’re in there. I’ll start with my wallet and my keys but then you owe me, big time. You told Starkey I was police, didn’t you? Fuck you, dad!’
He kicked the door so hard the wound in his heel throbbed. Bending down he pressed his ear to the open letter box. There was a sound of someone moving, a muffled groan.
‘Come on, Dad. I’ll give you ten seconds, then I’m going to kick the door in.’
Sean watched through the letter box as a clenched and twisted hand appeared at the partially opened bedroom door. Jack Denton steadied himself, squinted to focus and stumbled forward into his hallway, hair on end and wearing a filthy jumper, covered in something that looked like sick. Like father, like son, Sean thought. But at least he’d made it to the toilet in time, unlike Jack.
‘Dad,’ his voice softer now, ‘come on, open the door. I need to get my stuff. Then I’ll be off. We can pretend none of this ever happened.’
He straightened up and stood back as his father unlocked the door. The whisky breath was unmistakable.
‘What d’you want?’ he slurred. ‘Who the fuck’s this?’
Sean hadn’t notice Khan moving in close behind him.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Sam Nasir Khan. An honour to meet you again, Mr Denton. You son is a credit to you.’
Jack had nothing to say. He blinked his rheumy eyes and shook his head. Sean thought it was a nice speech, nicely wasted: his nan was the one who deserved the credit, but Khan’s words had the desired effect on Jack, who stepped back, leaning crookedly against the wall.
‘Go on then,’ Jack said to Sean. ‘Get your stuff and fuck off.’
Khan waited just inside the entrance to the flat. Sean headed towards the lounge and looked back to see the two men eyeballing one another, except Jack was still having problems focusing, rubbing his eyes as if he was seeing things, only to find the apparition of the detective still filling his hallway.
In the lounge the empty beer cans were where Sean had left them, but his shoes, jeans and T-shirt had been placed in a neat pile on the settee. He felt the pocket of his jeans and was relieved to find the familiar shape of his wallet in one pocket and the weight of his keys in the other. The tidiness was confusing though.