In the bright yellow lobby, I took another stack of coins and dialled Wesley Street, letting it ring for five minutes.
“
I thought about phoning my sister’s house, but I changed my mind.
I went and bought an
The paper was full of price rises and the IRA. There was a small piece about the Clare Kemplay inquiry, bland statements from Detective Superintendent Noble, tucked inside page 2 with no byline.
What the fuck was Jack doing?
“
The back pages were full of Leeds United, football giving Rugby League the boot.
No Johnny Kelly, no Wakefield Trinity, just St Helens 7 points clear.
“
I was making circles with a dried coffee spoon:
Missing girl: Clare Kemplay-
Clare Kemplay’s body found by James Ashworth-
James Ashworth, employed by Foster’s Construction-
Foster’s Construction, owned by Donald Foster-
Donald Foster, Chairman of Wakefield Trinity Rugby League Club-
Wakefield Trinity’s star player, Johnny Kelly-
Johnny Kelly, brother of Paula Garland-
Paula Garland, mother of Jeanette Garland-
Jeanette Garland: Missing girl.
“
Barry Gannon, like he was sitting right there, across the table:
“
Back in the bright yellow lobby, just gone six, I ripped through the phone book.
“It’s Edward Dunford.”
“Yes?”
“I need to see you.”
“You’d better come in.”
Mrs Paula Garland, standing in the doorway of Number 11, Brunt Street, Castleford.
“Thank you.”
I stepped inside another warm terraced room,
A short fat red-haired woman came out of the kitchen. “Hello, Mr Dunford.”
“This is Scotch Clare, lives two down. She’s just going, aren’t you?”
“Aye. Pleased to meet you,” said the woman, squeezing my left hand.
“You’re not going on my account, I hope?” I lied, by trade.
“Ooh, he’s got some manners has this one, eh?” laughed Scotch Clare, walking over to the bright red door.
Paula Garland was still holding open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, love.”
“Aye. Nice to meet you Mr Dunford. Maybe we’ll see you again for a wee Christmas drink, eh?”
“Eddie, please. That’d be nice,” I smiled.
“See you then, Eddie. Merry Christmas,” grinned Clare.
Paula Garland walked a little way out into the street with Clare. “See you then,” she said outside, giggling.
I stood for a moment alone in the front room, staring at the photograph on top of the TV.
Paula Garland came back in and closed the red door. “Sorry about that.”
“No, it’s me that should be sorry, just phoning up…”
“Don’t be daft. Sit down will you.”
“Thanks,” I said and sat down on the off-white leather sofa.
She started to say, “About last night, I…”
I put up my hands. “Forget it.”
“What’s happened to your hand?” Paula Garland had her own hand to her mouth, staring at the greying lump of bandages on the end of my arm.
“Someone slammed my car door on it.”
“You’re joking?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Two policemen.”
“You’re joking?”
“No.”
“Why?”
I looked up and tried to smile. “I thought you might be able to tell me.”
“Me?”
She had a piece of red cotton thread hanging from her brown flared skirt and I wanted to stop what I had started and tell her about the piece of red cotton thread.
But I said, “The same two coppers warned me off after I was here on Sunday.”
“Sunday?”
“The first time I came here.”
“I never said anything to the police.”
“Who did you tell?”
“Just our Paul.”
“Who else?”
“No-one.”
“Please tell me?”
Paula Garland was standing in the middle of the furniture, surrounded by trophies and photographs and Christmas cards, pulling her yellow and green and brown striped cardigan tight around her.
“Please, Mrs Garland…”
“Paula,” she whispered.
I just wanted to stop, to reach over, to pick off the piece of red cotton thread and hold her as tight as life itself.
But I said, “Paula please, I need to know.”
She sighed and sat down in the off-white leather armchair opposite me. “After you went, I was upset and…”
“Please?”
“Well, the Fosters came over…”
“Donald Foster?”
“And his wife.”
“Why did they come here?”
Paula Garland’s blue eyes flashed cold. “They’re friends, you know.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
She sighed, “They came to see if I’d heard from Johnny.”
“When was this?”
