“I won’t.” I said, hanging up and wondering if he was fucking Kathryn.
Another coin, another call.
“I need to speak to BJ.”
A voice on the other end, mumbling from the other end of the world.
“When will you see him? It’s important.”
A sigh from the ends of the earth.
“Tell him, Eddie called and it’s urgent.”
I went back to the bar and picked up my pint.
“That your bag over there?” said the landlord, nodding at a Hillards plastic bag under the phone.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said and drained my pint.
“Don’t be leaving bloody plastic bags lying around, not in pubs.”
“Sorry,” I said, walking back over to the phone, thinking fuck off.
“There’s me thinking it could be a bomb or anything.”
“Yeah, sorry,” I muttered as I picked up Michael John Mysh-kin’s sketch book and the photos of Councillor William Shaw and Barry James Anderson, thinking it is a bomb you stupid fucking cunt.
I parked up on the pavement outside Trinity View, Wood Lane, Sandal.
I stuffed the plastic bag back under the driver’s seat with
The lane was quiet and dark.
I walked up the long drive towards Trinity View, triggering floodlights as I went. There was a Rover in the drive and lights on upstairs in the house. I wondered if it had been designed by John Dawson.
I pressed the doorbell and listened to the chimes cascade through the house.
“Yes? Who is it?” said a woman from behind the artificially aged door.
“The
There was a pause and then a lock turned and the door opened.
“What do you want?”
The woman was in her early forties with dark expensively permed hair, wearing black trousers, a matching silk blouse, and a surgical collar.
I held up my bandaged right hand and said, “Looks like we’ve both been in the wars.”
“I asked you what you wanted.”
Mr Long Shot Kick de Bucket said, “It’s about Johnny Kelly.”
“What about him?” said Mrs Patricia Foster, much too quickly.
“I was hoping either you or your husband might have some information about him.”
“Why would we know anything about him?” said Mrs Foster, one hand on the door, one hand on her collar.
“Well, he does play for your husband’s club and…”
“It’s not my husband’s club. He’s only the Chairman.”
“I’m sorry. You’ve not heard from him then?”
“No.”
“And you’ve no idea where he might be?”
“No. Look, Mr…?”
“Cannon.”
“Cannon?” said Mrs Patricia Foster slowly, her dark eyes and tall nose like an eagle’s looking down on me.
I swallowed and said, “Would it be possible to come inside and have a word with your husband?”
“No. He’s not home and I have nothing else to say to you,” Mrs Foster said, closing the door.
I tried to stop the door shutting in my face. “What do you flunk’s happened to him, Mrs Foster?”
“I’m going to call the police, Mr Cannon, and then I’m going to call my very good friend Bill Hadden, your boss,” she said from behind the door as the lock turned.
“And don’t forget to call your husband,” I shouted and then turned and ran down the floodlit drive, thinking a plague on both your houses.
Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, in a phonebox on the Barnsley Road, beating the ground to startle the snakes.
Here goes nothing:
“Wakefield Town Hall, please?”
“361234.”
I looked at my father’s watch, thinking 50/50.
“Councillor Shaw, please?”
“I’m afraid Councillor Shaw’s in a meeting.”
“It’s a family emergency.”
“Can I have your name, please?”
“I’m a friend of the family. It’s an emergency.”
I looked across the road at the warm front rooms with their yellow lights and Christmas trees.
A different voice said, “Councillor Shaw’s up at County Hall. The number is 361236.”
“Thanks.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
I hung up, picked up, and dialled again.
“Councillor Shaw, please?”
“I’m sorry, the Councillor’s in a meeting.”
“I know. It’s a family emergency. I was given this number by his office.”
In one of the upstairs windows across the road, a child was staring out at me from a dark room. Downstairs a man and a woman were watching the TV with the lights off.
“Councillor Shaw speaking.”
“You don’t know me Mr Shaw, but it’s very important we meet.”
“Who is this?” a voice said, nervous and angry.
“We need to talk, sir.”
“Why would I want to talk to you? Who are you?”
“I believe someone is about to attempt to blackmail you.”
“Who?” the voice pleaded, afraid.
“We need to meet, Mr Shaw.”
“How?”
“You know how.”
“No I don’t.” The voice, shaking.
“You have an appendix scar and you like to have it kissed better by a mutual friend with orange hair.”
“What do you want?”
“What kind of car have you got?”
“A Rover. Why?”
“What colour?”
“Maroon, purple.”
“Be in the long-stay car park at Westgate Station at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Alone.”
“I can’t.”
“You’ll find a way.”
I hung up, my heart beating ninety miles an hour.
I looked up at the window across the road but the child had gone.
Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, bringing a plague to all their houses, bar one.
“Where’ve you been?”
“All over.”
“Did you see him?”
“Can I come in?”
