age. Where he saw injustice, he asked for justice. Where he saw lies, he asked for truth. Barry Gannon asked big questions of big men because he believed that the Great British Public deserved the Big Picture.”
“Barry Gannon once said that the truth can only make us richer. For all of us who seek that truth, Barry’s premature passing has left us all so much the poorer.”
Bill Hadden, looking drained and small behind his desk, took off his glasses and looked up.
After a suitable pause, I said, “Is that in today’s?”
“No. We’re going to wait until after the inquest.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know how it is. Never know what they might turn up. What do you think?”
“Very good.”
“You don’t think it’s too overtly panegyric do you?”
“Absolutely not,” I said, absolutely ignorant of what the fuck panegyric meant.
“Good,” said Hadden and put the typed sheet of A4 to one side. “You met up with Paul Kelly then?”
“Yeah.”
“And you gave Mrs Sheard her money?”
“Yep,” I said much too cheerfully, wondering if the miserable bitch would call Hadden about the police and start talking pennies.
“He got the photos and everything?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you finished the copy?”
“Almost,” I lied.
“What else have you got on?”
“Nothing much,” I lied again, thinking of Jeanette Garland, Susan Ridyard, Clare Kemplay, burning gypsy camps,
“Mmm,” said Hadden, the city dark behind him already.
“I did talk to the parents of Susan Ridyard on Saturday, like we said. You remember, the human interest bit?”
“Forget that,” said Hadden standing up, about to pace. “I want you to concentrate on the Clare Kemplay story.”
“But I thought you…”
Hadden had his hand raised. “We’re going to need a lot more background stuff if we’re going to keep this one alive.”
“But I thought you said it was Jack’s story now?” The whine was back in my voice.
Hadden’s face darkened. “And I thought we’d agreed you’d be covering it together?”
I pushed on. “But there doesn’t seem to be a right lot of togetherness so far.”
“Mmm,” said Hadden, picking up Barry’s obituary. “This is a very difficult time for all of us. You’ve had your reasons no doubt, but you haven’t always been here when we’ve needed you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, thinking what a twat he truly was.
Hadden sat back down. “As I say, you’ve had your own losses and problems, I know. The point is Jack’s covering the day to day investigation and you’re on background.”
“Background?”
“It’s what you do best. Jack was only saying today what a great novelist you’d make.” Hadden was smiling.
I could picture the scene. “And that’s supposed to be a com pliment is it?”
Hadden was laughing. “From Jack Whitehead it is.”
“Yeah?” I smiled and began to count backwards from one hundred.
“Anyway, you’ll love this. I want you to go and visit this medium…”
Eighty-six, eighty-five. “Medium?”
“Yes, medium, fortune teller,” said Hadden, rooting through one of the drawers of his desk. “Claims she led the police to Clare’s body and that she’s been asked to help them find the killer.”
“And you want me to interview her?” I sighed, thirty-nine, thirty-eight.
“Yes. Here we are: Flat 5, 28 Blenheim Road, Wakefield. Behind the Grammar School.”
Hello Memory Lane. Twenty-four, twenty-three. “What’s her name?”
“Mandy Wymer. Calls herself Mystic Mandy.”
I gave up. “We going to cross her palm with silver?”
“Unfortunately a woman of Mandy’s many talents doesn’t come cheap.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. I’ve made you an appointment for one o’clock.”
“Thank you,” I said, at sixes and sevens, standing up.
Hadden stood up with me. “You know it’s the inquest tomorrow?”
“Which one?”
“Barry’s.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes. A Sergeant Fraser wants to talk to you.” He looked at his watch. “In about fifteen minutes, in the lobby.”
More cops. I felt my balls shrink.
“Right.” I opened the door thinking it could have been worse, he could have mentioned Mrs Dawson, the run-in with the two coppers in Ponty, or even Kathryn bloody Taylor.
“And don’t forget Mystic Mandy.”
“How could I?” I closed the door.
“Be right up your street.”
“I’m sorry to bother you Mr Dunford at a time like this, but I’m trying to build up an exact picture of Mr Cannon’s movements for yesterday.” The Sergeant was young, friendly, and blond.
I thought he was taking the piss and said, “He picked me up at about ten maybe…”
“I’m sorry sir. This would be where?”
“10 Wesley Street, Ossett.”
“Thank you.” He noted it down and looked back up.
“We drove over to Castleford in Barry, er, Mr Cannon’s car. I interviewed a Mrs Garland at 11 Brunt Street, Castleford, and…”
“Paula Garland?”
“Yeah.”
Sergeant Fraser had stopped writing. “As in Jeanette Garland?”
“Yeah.”
“I see. And this was with Mr Cannon?”
“No. Mr Cannon met with Mrs Marjorie Dawson at her home. That’s Shangrila, Castleford. As in John Dawson.”
“Thank you. And so he dropped you off?”
“Yeah.”
“And that was the last time you saw him?”
I paused and then said, “No. I met up with Barry in the Swan public house in Castleford, sometime between one and two. I couldn’t tell you exactly when.”
“Was Mr Gannon drinking?”
“I think he had a half. Pint at the most.”
“And then?”
“We went our separate ways. He never said where he was going.”
