‘Indeed, landlord. What can I get you, young lady?’ Miles removed his cap, revealing a gleaming bald dome fringed with steel-grey curls.
‘Let me, Alan.’ Carol smiled. ‘I’m thinking of a dry white wine,’ she said, doubting whether the wine would come up to the class of the real ales whose badges were lined up on hand pumps along the bar.
‘I’ve got a South African Sauvignon Blanc or a Pinot Grigio open tonight,’ the barman said. ‘Or I’ve a Chilean Chardonnay cold.’
‘I’ll try a glass of the sauvignon,’ she said, realising how ready she was for a drink. It had been a while since she’d gone this late in the day before having her first glass. Maybe she really was getting past the point where alcohol had been the one reliably bright element in her days. Something else that might please Tony.
When it came, the wine was cold and vivid with the smell of grass and the taste of gooseberry. Alan Miles was watching her attentively as she took her first mouthful. He chuckled. There was no other word for it, Carol thought. ‘Not what you expected,’ he said.
‘So little in life is,’ she said, surprised at her candour.
‘When you say it like that . . . well, that’s a pity, Miss Jordan,’ he said. ‘But enough of us. You want to know about Blythe’s. Eddie Blythe was nearly a local lad, grew up down the road in Sowerby Bridge. A bright lad, by all accounts. He went to the technical college in Huddersfield and showed a lot of aptitude in the field of metallurgy. Whether it was by chance or design, he happened on a new process for coating metals that was very useful in the field of medical instruments. Scalpels and forceps and the like, as I understand it. He patented his bright idea and set up the factory to manufacture his products. He was doing very well, apparently. And then suddenly, in the spring of 1964, he sold up, lock, stock and barrel, to some steel firm in Sheffield. Within weeks, they’d moved production to Sheffield. They took the key workers with them. Paid their removal costs and everything.’ He paused and supped some of his glass of mild.
‘That seems very generous,’ Carol said.
‘Supposedly it was part of the deal Eddie Blythe made.’ He took a slim envelope out of his inside pocket. ‘Here’s a photocopy of a newspaper article.’ He passed it to her.
‘Local firm sold,’ the headline read. The few paragraphs said little more than Miles had already related. But there was a photograph across two columns. The caption read, ‘Mr E.A. Blythe (L) shakes hands on the deal with Mr J. Kessock (R) of Rivelin Fabrications.’ She squinted at the photograph, strangely moved. There was, she thought, a look of Tony in the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head, the shape of his face. She took out a pen and scribbled down the date of the article.
‘He left town after he sold up,’ Miles said. ‘I couldn’t find anybody that knew him personally, so I don’t know what lay behind him getting rid of the business and leaving town. You might want to check out the archives of the Triple H.’
‘The Triple H?’
‘Sorry. I’m forgetting you’re not from round here. The Halifax and Huddersfield Herald. They’ve been digitising their back numbers.’ Miles spoke the unfamiliar word as if it were in a foreign language. ‘My special interest is the wool industry and I’ve found quite a few gems with their “search engine”. They let you use “text strings” and the like. Regrettably I couldn’t get on the library computer to check this afternoon. We’ve not got the internet at home,’ he said. Carol sensed a wistfulness he was reluctant to admit to.
‘Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll take a look when I get back.’ If nothing else, she might find a better version of the photocopy Miles was folding up and replacing in its envelope. ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ she said.
He made a self-deprecating face. ‘Nowt you couldn’t have found out for yourself.’
‘Maybe. But it would have taken me a lot longer. Believe me, I’m always grateful to people who save me time.’
‘It’ll be a hard job, yours,’ he said. ‘Hard enough for a man, but you women are always having to prove yourselves, eh, lass?’
Her smile was wintry. ‘No kidding.’
‘So, has this helped you with your cold case?’ he asked, his glance shrewd.
‘It’s been very instructive.’ Carol finished her drink. ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’
Miles shook his head. ‘I’m only five minutes down the road. Good luck with your investigation. I hope, like the Mounties, you get your man.’
She shook her head, wondering where Tony was and what he was doing. ‘I’m afraid it might be too late for that. That’s the trouble with cold cases. Sometimes the people involved are beyond our reach.’
Nobody ever volunteered for the last ID. No matter how many times you asked people to put a name to their dead, it still felt like shit. Every CID team had its own rules of engagement. Some left it to the Family Liaison Officer; some SIOs always insisted on doing it themselves. In Carol Jordan’s MIT, the same rule applied to this as to everything else - the person best equipped for the task was the designated officer. And so it was that Paula dealt with more than her fair share.
Given that she was stuck with it, she always preferred to carry out the job alone. That way she didn’t have to concern herself with anyone but the grieving person who was going to have to confront a lifeless body and decide whether or not it was the remains they feared most.
The FLO had been with the Morrisons since that morning. They’d been told the chances were that the body found earlier had been their son. But Paula knew that they’d still be in denial, still convinced there had been some grotesque muddle at the crime scene, that some total stranger had been misidentified as their beloved boy. Until they saw Daniel’s body for themselves, they’d be clinging to those shreds of hope. Paula was the one who would have to rip that prospect from them.
The FLO showed her into the kitchen, where the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Jessica Morrison sat at a marble-topped table, staring out through the conservatory at the darkness beyond. An untouched cup of tea sat by her folded hands. Her make-up sat on her skin like the icing on a cake. Her eyes were bloodshot and wild, the only clue to the pain saturating her.
Her husband perched on a high stool at the breakfast bar, a full ashtray next to his mobile and the landline handset. When Paula walked in, he couldn’t keep the look of bruised hope from his face. She shook her head slightly. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his crumpled shirt and lit up. ‘I haven’t smoked for the best part of twenty years,’ he said. ‘Amazing how it comes back to you as if you’d never stopped.’
If there was an easy way to do this, Paula still hadn’t found it. ‘I’m afraid I need one of you to come with me. We need to be certain that it’s Daniel we found earlier today,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but it has to be done.’
Jessica got to her feet, stiff as an arthritic old lady. ‘I’ll come.’
‘No.’ Mike jumped off the stool and held up his hand. ‘No, Jess. You’re not up to this. I’ll do it. I’ll go with her. You stay here. You don’t need to see him like this.’
Jessica looked at him as if he were mad. ‘It’s not Daniel. So it makes no odds. I’ll go.’
He looked stricken. More in touch with reality, Paula thought. ‘What if it is him? I can do this, Jess. This is not a job for you.’ He put his hand on her arm.