“Yeah?”
The grin was gone. “Yeah, straight up. I was supposed to meet Baz on Sunday night but he didn’t show up.”
“It’s going to be adjourned, you know?”
“You’re fucking joking? Why?”
“Police still don’t know what he was doing on Sunday night.” I offered Gaz a cigarette and lit another one for myself.
Gaz solemnly took the cigarette and the light. “Know he was fucking dead though, don’t they?”
I nodded and said, “Funeral’s Thursday.”
“Fuck. That quick?”
“Yeah.”
Gaz sniffed hard and then spat on one of the stone steps. “Seen the boss?”
“I haven’t been inside yet.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and started up the steps. “Best make a move.”
I said, “I’m going to wait here. If they need me, they know where I am.”
“Don’t blame you.”
“Listen,” I said, calling after him. “You heard anything about Johnny Kelly?”
“Fuck all,” said Gaz. “Some bloke in the Inns last night was saying Foster’s had it with him this time though.”
“Foster?”
“Don Foster. Trinity Chairman.”
I stood up. “Don Foster’s the chairman of Wakefield Trinity?”
“Yeah. Where the fuck you been?”
“Waste of bloody time that was.” Thirty minutes later, Gaz from Sport was coming down the Town Hall steps with Bill Hadden.
“You can’t rush these things Gareth,” Hadden was saying, looking odd without a desk.
I got up from my cold step to greet them. “At least they can go ahead with the funeral.”-
“Morning Edward,” said Hadden.
“Morning. Have you got a minute?”
“Family seemed to be taking it better than you’d think,” said Gaz, lowering his voice and glancing back up the steps.
I said, “That’s what I’d heard.”
“Very strong people. You want a word?” Hadden put his hand on my shoulder.
“I’ll see everyone later,” said Gaz from Sport, down the steps two at a time, seizing his chance to dance.
“What about Cardiff City?” Hadden called after him.
“We’ll murder them Boss!” Gaz shouted back.
Hadden was smiling. “You can’t buy that kind of enthusiasm.”
“No,” I said. “That’s true.”
“What was it then?” Hadden said, folding his arms against the cold.
“I thought I’d go and see the two men who found the body, tie it in with this psychic and a bit about the history of Devil’s Ditch.” I said it much too quickly, like a man who’d had thirty minutes to think about it.
Hadden began stroking his beard, which was always bad news. “Interesting. Very interesting.”
“You think so?”
“Mmm. Except the tone worries me a little.”
“The tone?”
“Mmm. This medium, this psychic, it’s more of a background feature. Supplement stuff. But the men who found the body, I don’t know…”
Right back in his face: “But you said she knows the name of the killer. That’s not background, that’s Front Page.”
Hadden, not rising to the bait, said, “You’re going to talk to them today?”
“I thought I’d go over there now, seeing as I’ve got to go over to Wakefield anyhow.”
“All right,” said Hadden, walking off towards his Rover. “Bring it all back to me by five and we’ll go over it for tomorrow.”
“You got it,” I shouted, checking my father’s watch.
A Leeds and Bradford A to Z open on my lap, my notes on the passenger seat beside me, I nosed through the back and side streets of Morley.
I turned on to Victoria Road and drove slowly along, pulling up just before the junction with Rooms Lane and Church Street.
Barry must have been coming the other way, heading towards the Wakefield Road or the M62. The lorry would have been here, at the traffic lights on Victoria Road, waiting to turn right up Rooms Lane.
I flicked back through my notebook, faster and faster, back to the very first page.
Bingo.
I started the car, pulling out to wait at the traffic lights.
To my left, on the other side of the crossroads, a black church and, next to it, Morley Grange Junior and Infants.
The lights changed, I was still reading.
“
Clare Kemplay.
Last seen.
Goodbye.
I drove across the junction, a Co-op lorry waiting to turn right up Rooms Lane.
Barry’s lorry would have been here too, at the traffic lights on Victoria Road, waiting to turn right up Rooms Lane.
Barry Cannon.
Last seen.
Goodbye.
I crawled slowly along Victoria Road, car horns at my rear, Clare skipping along on the pavement beside me in her orange kagool and her red Wellington boots.
“
The Sports Ground, Sandmead Close, Winterbourne Avenue.
Clare was standing at the corner of Winterbourne Avenue, waving.
I indicated left and turned on to Winterbourne Avenue.
It was a cul-de-sac of six older semi-detached and three new detached.
A policeman’ was standing in the rain outside number 3.
I reversed up the drive of one of the new detached houses to turn around.
I stared across the road at 3 Winterbourne Avenue.
Curtains drawn.
The Viva stalled.
A curtain twitched.
Mrs Kemplay, arms folded, in the window. The policeman checked his watch. I pulled away.
Foster’s Construction.
The building site was behind Wakefield Prison, yards from Devil’s Ditch.
Lunchtime on a wet Tuesday in December and the place was as quiet as the grave.
A low tune on the damp air,
I followed my ears.
