“Morning,” said Fraser, setting down a cup of coffee in front of me.
“Thanks.” I drained my cold cup and took a sip from the hot one.
“I spoke with the coroner first thing. He says they’re going to have to adjourn.”
“They were pushing it a bit anyway.”
A waitress brought over a full breakfast and set it down in front of the Sergeant.
“Yeah, but what with Christmas and the family, it would’ve been nice.”
“Shit, yeah. The family.”
Fraser heaped half the plate on to his fork. “Do you know them?”
“No.”
“Lovely people,” sighed Fraser, mopping up the juice of the eggs and the tomatoes with a piece of toast.
“Yeah?” I said and wondered how old Fraser was.
“They’ll release the body though, so they’ll be able to have the funeral.”
“Get it out the way.”
Fraser put down his knife and fork and pushed the spotless plate to one side. “Thursday, I think they said.”
“Right. Thursday.” I couldn’t remember if we’d cremated my father last Thursday or Friday.
Sergeant Fraser sat back in his chair. “What about this anony mous call then?”
I leant forward, my voice low. “Like I said. Middle of the bleeding night…”
“Come on Eddie?”
I looked up at Sergeant Eraser, his blond hair, watery blue eyes and puffy red face, the trace of a Scouse accent and the simple wedding ring. He looked like the boy I had sat next to in chemistry.
“Can I level with you?”
“I think you’d better,” said Eraser, offering me a cigarette.
“Barry had a source, you know.” I lit the cigarette.
“A grass, you mean?”
“A source.”
Eraser shrugged, “Go on.”
“I got a call at the office last night. No name, just be at the Gaiety on Roundhay Road. You know it, yeah?”
“No,” laughed Eraser. “‘Course I bloody do. How did you know this was straight up?”
“Barry had a lot of contacts. He knew a lot of people.”
“What time was this?”
“About ten. Anyway, I went along and met this lad…”
Eraser had his sleeves on the table, leaning forward, smiling. “Who was he then?”
“Black lad, no name. Said he’d been with Barry on the Sunday night.”
“What did he look like?”
“Black, you know.” I stubbed out my cigarette and took another one from my own pack.
“Young? Old? Short? Tall?”
“Black. Curly hair, big nose, thick lips. What do you want me to say?”
Sergeant Eraser smiled. “He say if Barry Cannon was drinking?”
“I asked him and he said Barry had had a few but he wasn’t smashed or anything.”
“Where was this?”
I paused, thinking this was where I’d fuck up, then said, “The Gaiety.”
“Be some witnesses then?” Eraser had taken out his notebook and was writing in it.
“Gaiety witnesses, yeah.”
“I don’t suppose you tried to persuade our dark friend to relate any of this information to a member of his local con stabulary?”
“No.”
“So then?”
“About eleven or so, he said Barry said he was going over to Morley. That it was something to do with the Clare Kemplay murder.”
Sergeant Eraser was staring over my shoulder at the rain and the Town Hall opposite, “Like what?”
“He didn’t know.”
“You believe him?”
“Why not?”
“Fuck off, he’s having you on. Eleven o’clock on a Sunday night, after a skinful in the Gaiety?”
“That’s what he said.”
“All right. What do you reckon Gannon knew that could have made him come all the way over here, at that time on a Sunday night?”
“I don’t know. I’m just telling you what this lad told me.”
“And that’s it?” Sergeant Fraser was laughing. “Bollocks. You’re supposed to be a journalist. You must have asked him more questions than that.”
I lit another bloody cigarette. “Yeah. But I’m telling you, the lad knew fuck all.”
“All right, so what do you think Gannon found out?”
“I’ve told you, I don’t know. But it does explain why he was in Morley.”
“Brass’11 love this,” sighed Fraser.
A waitress came over and took away the cups and the plate. The man on the next table was listening to us, looking at a photofit of the Cambridge Rapist that could have been anyone.
I said, “Did you get the names?”
Sergeant Fraser lit another cigarette and leant forward. “This is between us?”
“Of course,” I said and took out a pen and a piece of paper from my jacket.
“Two builders, Terry Jones and James Ashworth. They’re working on the new houses behind Wakefield Prison. It’s Foster’s Construction, I think.”
“Foster’s Construction,” I echoed, thinking Donald Foster, Barry Gannon, link.
“I don’t have their addresses and I wouldn’t give you them even if I did. So that’s your lot.”
“Thank you. Just one more thing?”
Fraser stood up. “What?”
“Who has access to the Clare Kemplay post-mortem report and photographs?”
Fraser sat back down. “Why?”
“I’m just curious. I mean, can any copper working the case get to see it?”
“It’s available, yeah.”
“Have you seen it?”
“I’m not on the case.”
“But you must have been part of the search party?”
Fraser looked at his watch. “Yeah, but the Murder Room’s out of Wakefield.”
“So you wouldn’t know when it first became available?”
“Why?”
“I just want to know about the procedure. I’m just curious.”
Fraser stood back up. “They’re not good questions to be asking, Eddie.” Then he smiled and winked and said, “I best be off. See you across the road.”
“Yeah,” I said.
Sergeant Fraser opened the cafe door and then turned back. “Keep in touch, yeah?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“And not a bloody word right?” He was half laughing.
“Not a word,” I muttered, folding up my piece of paper.
Gaz from Sport was coming up the Town Hall steps.
I was having a last cigarette, sat on the steps. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“That’s right bloody charming that is,” said Gaz, giving me his toothless grin. “I’m a witness I am.”
