Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“You killed her? Well, I suppose you had no choice. Imagine how it would have been if she’d come here! Did she struggle? How did it feel when you held her down? Daz, you’re incredible! I love you so much.” Cotter fell into the big man’s arms and sensed there was a ‘treat’ in store for him later.

The next day, Cotter went shopping in Brighton with Mary Bishop. The Bishops were the nearest he and Daz dared have as friends. By comparison, the rest of Monk’s Tallow comprised neighbours and casual acquaintances. There were times when Cotter wanted to scream to the rooftops that he was Ralph Cotter and stuff Sarah Manners. He wanted to tell someone, anyone, how he and Horton had been taking the piss for years, no one suspecting a thing. He kept quiet of course, had no choice although it meant, for the most part, the two men having to keep their distance. Somehow, with the Bishops, it was different, easier. The four felt comfortable with each other. While Cotter always had to be on the alert, pre-empting Sarah Manners’ every reaction, he felt less on edge with Sam and Mary Bishop than anyone else.

In particular, Cotter loved being with Mary.

Mary Bishop was a lively, animated person and fun to be with without being either extrovert or crass. Cotter felt relaxed with her, so much so that he had been tempted on occasions to confide the truth. He resisted partly because he genuinely did not want to risk losing her friendship and partly out of fear of being hauled off to jail. His main concern, though, was Daz.  Horton, he knew full well, would do more than merely thrash him to within a centimetre of his life.

Sam’s wife always wore the same perfume, one that never failed to exhilarate Cotter.  Now, as they chatted across a window table in a promenade cafe she leaned across to take his hand, as she often did, and he caught a pungent whiff. It excited him. Lately, he had begun to wonder about this. For the excitement had long since overtaken any simple, uncomplicated pleasure. It gave him a sexual buzz. Her touch, too, gave him goose pimples and it was with some difficulty that he exercised supreme self-control over the telltale bulge in his trousers. Thank God they were sitting down, he reflected, albeit slightly breathless.

 “That’s what I love about being with you, Sarah, you listen, “Mary was saying, “Sam, bless his heart, hasn’t a clue. Oh, he’ll hear what you say and make some reply or other but he never really listens, whereas you...it means a lot to me. I love these little jaunts of ours, just the two of us,” she purred...in that silky voice that had sent shivers down his spine since their very first meeting.  He envied her. She was attractive, chic...and genuine.  He, on the other hand, was merely faking. Oh, Sarah Manners was as good as counterfeit gets and no mistake…but counterfeit all the same.

Cotter had tried hard to dismiss the feeling of inferiority Mary Bishop gave him. She could not be blamed for it, after all. And he did so enjoy her company. Yet, these feelings had worsened, grown more intense in recent times.  Did he fancy her? He certainly did not. So, what then?   There was something about her sheer femininity that began to possess him.  Jealousy played a part, no doubt, but only a part. The rest remained a mystery to him, troubling him almost as much as it thrilled him.

“Your friendship means a lot to me too, Mary.” Sarah Manners smiled and placed her other hand over the one with which Mary had grasped hers. 

Mary Bishop swallowed hard. It was the first time in her life that she had been attracted to another woman. Sarah was like no one she had met before.  Oh, she could be stiff and distant sometimes. But she could be kind and generous too. And she’d meant what she said. It was good to have someone to talk to. She’d never had a close woman friend before.  Other women always seemed to mistrust her. This was only to be expected, she supposed, since she was attractive enough to have looked stunning in sackcloth and ashes. Sarah was different.  Sarah accepted her as a person. This was a new experience for Mary and she liked it.  While she wasn’t exactly adverse to men undressing her with their eyes or women summing her up as a flighty bitch, it made a pleasant change to form a genuine bond with someone, especially another woman.

Is Mary Bishop a closet lesbian, Cotter wondered?  The prospect appalled him, not least because it meant he would have to back off. Imagine, if she knew the truth?  He could not suppress a grin. She responded with a dazzling smile of her own and he struggled to resist an irrational urge to slap her face. She was so sure of herself, completely secure in her damn femininity while he...but he took care not to let the grin slip.

“Why, Sarah, I do believe you’re blushing!” giggled Mary Bishop and felt a deep yearning within that she found at once disturbing and delicious.

“Excuse me.” Cotter rose and fled to the Ladies. She held on to his hand a fraction and he had to tug it free. Once in the loo, he attempted to martial his floundering senses. “Get a grip, Sarah my girl, get a grip,” he muttered. Only when he was with Horton did he revert to being Ralph Cotter in his mind’s eye. Mostly, to all intents and purposes he was Sarah Manners.  So, did Sarah fancy Mary Bishop?  Cotter laughed aloud, the idea was so absurd. So what was it, eating at every nuance of his being over Mary Bishop?  He had no desire to make love to the woman...so what then?   It suddenly came to him and he broke out in a cold sweat. He wanted to teach her a lesson. He wanted to smash the smug self-confidence and the consciousness of allure that shone through every provocative glance, each provocative swing of the hips as she walked. Oh, nothing outrageous but all the more sexy and desirable for that.

How could I have got it so wrong? Cotter wondered as he re-joined Mary Bishop and together they sat quietly admiring the sunlight dancing on gentle waves? He was more than happy to remain silent and digest the shocking revelation he had just made to himself.  He did not particularly like this woman. Rather, he almost hated her. That was the attraction. As for wanting to bed the flirty cow, he’d much rather...kill her? 

“Oh dear, you’re not catching a cold are you darling?”  Mary Bishop fussed with touching concern upon seeing that her companion had begun to shiver in spite of the afternoon’s unseasonable warmth.

“Maybe we should be getting back,” suggested Cotter getting to his feet even as he spoke.

“I suppose so. You’re looking very flushed. Are you alright?”

“Perfectly,” lied Cotter.

That night, he lay next to a loudly snoring Horton and could not, for the life of him, get Mary Bishop out of his head.  He could even smell her perfume. It made him want to...what? Why was he sweating like pig?  Why did he keep clenching and unclenching his fists as if his hands had minds of their own?  His mouth felt dry. In the end, he could bear it no longer and got up, went to the kitchen and made a cup of tea.  Heart pounding, adrenalin racing, he wrestled with feelings unknown and unbidden.  He stared into his mug, enjoying its warmth without even taking a sip of tea and only vaguely aware that it was getting cold which is how Horton found him soon afterwards, lying perfectly still and gazing into space like a zombie. 

What the devil’s up with you?”

Cotter started violently. Daz was glaring at him, puzzled and angry. There was concern in his manner but not of a sympathetic nature. It was as if Cotter’s behaving oddly was affront to Horton’s, authority. “I’m in for a thrashing,” thought Cotter. In the same instant, it struck him what it was, the feeling that had haunted him since being with Mary Bishop earlier. Before he let Horton lead him, forcefully, back into the bedroom, Cotter found the bottle to give it a name. “Power,” he told himself over and over. He wanted a taste of the same power Horton had over him. In his mind’s eye, he saw Mary Bishop’s wide-eyed expression as he gripped her pale throat in his bare hands and squeezed...

“You know the drill,” said Horton harshly. Cotter, trembling, lay face down on the bed, his hands still tightening around Mary Bishop’s pretty neck.

..................................

Liam Brady, alias Harry Smith, enjoyed helping out at The Green Man. He was delighted to discover that he had a natural talent for bar work and soon got to like everyone calling out, “Harry!” He began to like Harry and once, in conversation with Sadie, likened it to being an actor growing into a lead role. Only, he had no script to follow so changed similes and started to think of himself instead as a novelist creating a character. He gave himself a past of sorts, took the present as it came and preferred not to think about the future.  The latter, however, began to assume a wholly new dimension once the former had settled into a particular pattern of everyday life. He began to feel that he belonged at The Green Man, a feeling that intensified when he started sleeping with its landlady. He could not have said when it started although, later, both agreed each had been aware of feelings towards the other for some time. 

 Sadie and he had hit it off from the start but as mates that was all. Or so it appeared to both of them. One night, after a particularly busy time at the bar and his having to throw out some local yobs, the two of them were enjoying a drink and a chat together when they all but collapsed at one of the tables. The regular barmaid was on holiday in Tenerife and her replacement had not turned up. It had been bedlam at the bar. “The clearing up can wait. We deserve our beds,” Sadie declared, yawning.  He followed her upstairs and, for no reason, they paused at the top. “Thanks, Harry, you’re a diamond,” said Sadie and gave his arm a friendly punch. 

It seemed the most natural act in the world to kiss. “Hey, look at us!” Sadie joked, slightly breathless.  Her smooth, ivory skin, any younger woman would have died for, turned a deep pink. But she did not pull away when he kissed her again.

They were the butt of crude jokes from the pub regulars for weeks but, as with most things, people came round or simply got used to the idea. Most people accepted him as the gaffer now. At the same time, Sadie took care to see that no one forgot whose name was above the door. 

The age difference was irrelevant to both of them. Certainly, he did not think of her as a mother figure. Once when someone had been teasing him about that over the bar he’d retorted without thinking, “If sex with your mother is that good, I’m all for it!” There was a split second’s silence as Sadie appeared in the doorway leading to their private quarters. All at once, the bar erupted with good-humoured laughter. No one dared put Sadie Chapman forward as a mother figure for young Harry Smith again.

Sometimes Harry would have nightmares although these grew less frequent as the weeks and months passed. It was always the same nightmare. He would be trapped in a lift hurtling out of control, carrying him to certain death.  No one else was in the lift. He was alone, but for an enormous teddy bear. Seconds before the final impact, he would wake up, often screaming and sweating buckets.  Sadie would take him in her arms and rock him too and fro, making soothing noises of comfort and reassurance.  Sometimes he would snuggle against her and drift back to sleep. At other times, they would end up making love. “You are just fantastic,” he told her often enough.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she’d respond with a cheeky grin. Sadie still could not believe her luck. Not only was she sleeping with a handsome hunk of a bloke fifteen years her junior but she was also in love with him and he with her. It worried her that, sooner or later, they would need to face facts. ‘Harry’ needed to know who he really was. Didn’t everyone? For now, though, she was content, the same as he, to push the inevitable to the back of her mind and make the best of things. Their relationship blossomed and people who had known Sadie for years remarked how well and happy she looked.

“I haven’t seen Sadie look so good since that rat she was living with before took off with Maggie from the fish and chip shop,” commented Kath Rowley to her daughter-in-law in the lounge bar on one occasion.

“Harry’s looking pretty good too,” commented the younger woman.

“That what comes of getting your leg across regular,” husband Brian snickered and earned a playful, albeit stinging cuff from his mother. “Here, we’ll have less of your cheek if you don’t mind. Get another round in.”

“It’s not my turn.” Brian Rowley protested.

“It is now.”

“Same again please Harry and one for yourself, whatever’s your poison.” Brian grinned at the other man who grinned back.

No one would have guessed that Harry was smarting inside. But this was a pub and Rowley was a regular. There was no point in telling him to wash his mouth out and find another local.  He had quickly learned that crass remarks went with the territory. In time, he’d also realised that most people meant no harm.  Brian Rowley’s remark had been made had tongue in cheek so, for now at least, his card may be well and truly marked but that was all.

One weekend, the pair left The Green Man in the capable hands of their part-time staff and visited Sadie’s sister in York.  In spite of Sadie’s constant fretting about the pub, they had a wonderful time.  Harry was convinced that a couple more laid back and easy to get along with than Holly Vickers and her husband, Joe, could not conceivably exist. Even the teenage children treated Harry like one of the family and showed him the same air of knowing distain they displayed towards their parents. He would be hard put, Harry suspected, to find a more close-knit family anywhere.

Another trip, this time to Canterbury to visit Sadie’s widowed mother, was a less happy occasion. The old witch had done nothing but find fault with him, to such an extent that Harry had frequently absented himself, gone for walks or a few beers at the local watering hole and left them to it. “I’d come with you,” said Sadie apologetically, “but she’ll only carry on all the more when we get back.”   So he had taken himself off for hours at a time and had not felt so miserable in ages.

It was at such times when, left to his own devices and crowded by unwelcome thoughts, Harry Smith would find himself beating off waves of panic and fear. Most of the time, he was happy to play Harry Smith to an appreciative audience. But he was not Harry Smith. Who the hell am I? He would struggle in vain to remember. Sometime he would have flashes of...memory, imagination, what?  More disturbing were the feelings that came with them...a fear tantamount to terror, a physical pain that caused him to become breathless with sheer panic. The only distinguishable images emerging from the muddle in his head comprised someone he took to be himself, but was not Harry Smith and could easily have been a complete stranger, running a gamut of exaggerated expressions. It was like walking through a Hall of Mirrors at a funfair. The teddy bear too, loomed as clear as day but always wore the same stoic, hard-done-by look. How he hated that huge, ugly bear.

Sadie got used to Harry’s taking himself off from time to time, invariably without a word. At first she’d worry herself sick but soon became resigned to it and fretted less, especially since he always returned within a few hours.  It was during one of these walkabouts that Fred Winter appeared at The Green Man and started asking questions. She told him to come back the next day and spent the next couple of hours till closing time wondering how Harry would take the news. But even if this bloke can identify him, what then?  The same question kept running through her head like an express train. She thought she knew the answer. It would spoil everything and, in the end, she would lose Harry. At the same time, he deserved to know the truth about himself, they both did. 

Only briefly did Sadie contemplate not telling Harry about Fred Winter and racked her brains for a suitable lie with which to fob off the Nosy Parker. By closing time, though, she was reconciled to the likelihood that her life with Harry was poised to change direction forever. She had a gut feeling about this. Somehow, she just knew Fred Winter was bad news.

Harry was restless and moody when he finally returned, a little after midnight. Later, in bed, he told her that he wasn’t sure he could live with Harry Smith much longer. They made love. It helped. Afterwards, they lay in each other’s arms and she gently broached the subject of Fred Winter. He sat bolt upright, nostrils flaring, like a scared animal. “What did he say? What does he know? Who does he think I might be?” the questions spewed out of a quivering, dribbling mouth.

“Relax,” Sadie begged, “Relax,” she kept repeating, “We can’t be sure he knows anything. He’s not sure himself, for heaven’s sake. He just wants to meet you and have a chat, that’s all. It might lead to something or it might not. Can’t do any harm to find out, though, eh? There’s nothing to be frightened of, Harry, my love.  Nothing can happen unless you want it to and, anyway, I won’t let it,” she murmured in his ear and let her tongue play, seductively, with the lobe. “It will be okay, you’ll see.  No one is going to hurt you or either of us. We’re bigger than that, you and me, right? You just have to be strong, my love, we both do. I can if you can.”  She kissed his pale cheek. “We can get through this, Harry, no matter what.”

“Can we?” He was not so sure.

“You bet,” she said with a confidence she was far from feeling.

“I suppose...”

He began to relax and snuggled against her again but continued to speculate well into the early hours. Eventually, both drifted into an uneasy sleep. Sadie slept the more soundly of the two, however, and did not hear him stir when the clock in the bar downstairs chimed a quarter past four o’clock.

Harry had neither a plan nor the faintest idea where he would go. All he knew for sure was that he had to get away, as far away as possible, from Herne Bay.  He threw a few clothes in a holdall, leaned over Sadie’s sleeping form and kissed her lightly on the cheek. He would miss her terribly. But I can't stay, I just can't.   He was not ready to hear whatever this Fred Winter had to say, not yet. Oh, he wanted to know, wanted desperately to know...but not now, not yet. It's too soon. I can't face it, not right now, not just yet, my love,” he murmured softly in Sadie’s ear. And he did love her. They were good together. He would miss her so much. Maybe he should wait, see Fred Winter after all?

He almost lost his nerve, would have undressed and got back into bed if the same image that had come to him a few hours earlier had not sprung, unbidden, to mind and scared him half to death all over again.  He saw himself, very clearly, plunging a knife into the same teddy bear that had haunted his worst nightmares for so long.

Blood gushed out of the bear’s brown belly, a fountain of it, spraying him with its sticky wetness until his whole body was dripping red. What did it mean?  Harry tried not to answer the question; it came to him anyway, as if the bear was determined he should be in no doubt. I’ve killed someone, his lips mouthed over and over. I’ve killed someone and that’s what I can’t remember because I don’t want to remember. I’m on the run, for fuck’s sake. Shit, I’m a murderer. I’m a bloody murderer. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound emerged, only a gurgle that reminded him of a death rattle...but whose?  “Dear God, help me,” he sobbed. 

All at once, his legs gave way.  He collapsed in a heap on the stairs.  I’ve got to go, Sadie. I’ve got to go. I can’t do this to you. It’s not fair, nothing’s bloody fair, he yelled soundlessly up the stairs and could easily predict her response. Sadie would say it didn't matter. But it did matter. I have to get out of here, and I have to do it now.  It’s now or never, now or never, he kept telling himself and struggled to his feet. He began to run, weak at the knees and increasingly scared while remaining perfectly focused on the bolts of the heavy oak front door.

To be continued 

Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

“I must see you. It is most urgent, a matter of life and death you could say.”

       Winter stared at the answering machine and played the message again. There could be no doubting that Audrey Ellis was in a state of near panic. He picked up the receiver, dialled 1471 and hit the required 3.  It struck him, as it always did, how strange it felt not to be clutching the mobile although he’d never understand why since land line phones had been around a good deal longer.

Less than a two hours drive later, found Winter comfortably ensconced in Audrey Ellis’ sitting room sipping tea poured straight from the pot.  The little woman was as repetitive as she was profuse with her apologies. “I feel such a fool,” she kept saying, “What must you be thinking?”

“You say you were watching a programme about Canterbury?”                       

“That’s right, yes. My late husband, Peter and I both grew up there. So, you see, I was especially interested.  He and I used to love watching the cricket every summer. I still love the game,” she sighed, “but I can’t get out and about to matches like I used to. Besides...” hesitating before she added, “…it’s not half as much fun going on your own is it?”  Tears filled her eyes then, suddenly, the lined face brightened. “Oh, but I do so love cricket, don’t you?  It’s such a clean, gentlemanly game.  No hooligans, on or off the pitch. The occasional high spirits perhaps, but nothing like the disgraceful behaviour you can expect to find at a football match these days.” She sighed again, “Dear Peter. He’s been dead a few years now, of course...”

 Winter let her ramble on until he judged that she was ready to return to the matter in hand. “You say the camera homed in on a crowd scene and that’s when you thought you saw Liam Brady?”

“Well, yes.” She started in her seat, blushed and raised her eyes to heaven. “So I telephoned you at once, didn’t I?  How silly of me! I suppose it’s because we’d been talking about him only the other day. It must have been playing on my mind more than I realised.  The camera stayed with the young man a good second or two. He was with a very pretty girl, you see.  I have to say, he was the spitting image of young Liam. But I realize now, of course, that’s all it was, an uncanny likeness.  What can I have been thinking of? I can’t apologize enough, Mr Winter.”

“So why didn’t you call me again and say you were mistaken?”  She became flustered. “Could it be because you’re not convinced you were mistaken?” he put it to her bluntly. She became even more flustered. “I have a friend at the BBC. I dare say I could obtain a copy of the programme...” he began.

“Oh, there’s no need for that, none at all. I videoed it, you see. As I said, Canterbury is my home town so I was especially interested.”

“Excellent. So let’s see it again shall we? Just stop when we get to the young man who resembles Liam Brady.”

“Well, if you’re sure? I don’t want to waste any more of your time than I already have.”

“I might as well take a look while I’m here,” he pointed out, “Besides I’m very fond of Canterbury myself. My late wife’s parents lived there for some years.”

“Oh! My, what a small world it is!” She clapped her hands like an excited schoolgirl, crossed the room and ran a video that was already in the machine.  Winter smiled inwardly, certain that she’d had no intention of letting him leave without seeing it. “There!” She knew exactly where and when to hit the pause button and he guessed she must have done it umpteen times already.

The young man had dark hair, roguish good looks and what might have been designer stubble or the start of a beard. An earring, in the shape of a cross, dangled from his right ear. Winter spotted it at once. “Did Liam Brady wear an earring like that?”

Not that I recall,” Audrey Ellis admitted and launched into further apologies. Winter was only half-listening. He stared hard at the screen, looking for some resemblance to Carol and saw none. He had no recollection of Sean Brady whatever but recalled seeing a wedding photograph on the sideboard in her sitting room and made a mental note to take a closer look next time.  There would have to be a next time, he’d already decided, without caring to examine either his motives or his conscience.

“How about the woman with him, have you ever seen her before?”

“Never,” she was sure of that at least.

“But he could be Liam Brady?”

“Certainly, although...well, he can’t be, can he? Liam Brady is dead. But I was so sure at first. When the camera closed in, I got into such a state. I thought I was having a heart attack, I really did. I just had to tell someone. As soon as I felt able, I telephoned you. Now I’ve had more time to think, I realize...well...it can’t be him, can it?” she repeated agitatedly.

Winter hit the rewind button on the remote. “May I borrow the video for a while?  I’d like to show it to Carol Brady.”

“Do you think that’s wise?  I mean, that would be awfully upsetting for her surely?”

Winter shrugged. “It has to be worth a try.”

“But why…?  Or do you think there might be something in it?” Audrey Ellis whispered. “There can’t be, of course but...well...they never found a body did they?”

“It’s highly unlikely anyone could survive a crash like that. I’ve made a few enquiries and it appears Brady wasn’t wearing a seat belt. The car probably snagged on a ledge or something and flung him through the windscreen.  The water’s very choppy around there at the best of times. He wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“You know the area?” She made no attempt to conceal either surprise or curiosity.

Winter pretended not to hear. He did not want to talk about Helen. “It’s a nasty bend. People have been crashing there for years.”

“But there must be warning signs, safety barriers and such like, surely?”

“Yes, of course. But there’s no telling some people. They think they’re invincible, that driving with due care and attention is for wimps.”

Audrey Ellis continued to fret long after the video recorder had ceased its whirring noise, emitted a loud click and let her retrieve the tape. “Even so,” she began, “No body means...”

“It means just that, no body. So don’t let’s get carried away, alright?” He almost snapped and could almost hear Miss Parker telling him to mind his manners. .

Audrey Ellis merely nodded. “I’ve read far too many crime novels, isn’t that what you’re saying?”

He grinned. “Well, if the cap fits...” He took the video from her and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to show Mrs Brady?”

“No more than you’re sure that this young man isn’t Liam Brady. Now, how about we have another cup of tea?”

“Touché, Mr Winter.” A tremulous smile playing on the thin cracked lips broadened considerably as she hastened to oblige.

Winter watched the blue-veined hands at work and wondered what an earth he thought he was playing at.  Since he was in no doubt that the young man in the video was not Liam Brady, why, indeed, show Carol?   Grudgingly conceding that his interest in this whole business may be less than professional, there had to be more to it than curiosity, surely? He turned his attention to a standard lamp. “Forgive me for asking, Miss Ellis, but why do you keep the lamp on in broad daylight?”

“Oh, that! Another of my little fantasies, I’m afraid. My late husband had poor eyesight and it helped him to see better when he was reading. I like to leave it on. It makes me feel he’s in the room with me. Silly, I know. But it’s a comfort...if you can understand that. It makes no sense, of course, none at all.”

Winter understood perfectly.

...........................

“You can’t be serious?” Carol Brady was angry and upset. “It’s bloody obvious you haven’t any children. If you had, you’d know better than to ask such a thing.”

“All I’m asking is that you take a look at it,” he repeated smoothly. “The old lady is very anxious that you should. It would put her mind at rest.”

“Oh, yes, and what about mine? Do you honestly expect me to put myself through the wringer just because some old biddy has a bee in her bonnet?  You have no idea what you’re asking, none at all.  You always were an unfeeling bastard.”

“There was a time you thought I was Mr Wonderful,” he reminded her gruffly.

“There was a time when dinosaurs walked the earth but that doesn’t mean we want them back,” she retorted. “Clear off, Freddy, just GO.”

“Can I at least borrow a recent photograph so I can compare for myself?”

“Damn you, Freddy, but if that what it takes to get rid of you...” She left the room. Winter crossed to the sideboard and examined the wedding picture in its cheap frame. Try as he might, he couldn’t make out the faintest resemblance between the groom and the young man in the video.

“Here you are,” Carol re-entered the room holding out a small photograph. “And make sure you give it back. If you don’t, I’ll make your life such a misery, you’ll wish you’d never been born.” 

He didn’t doubt her for a moment. She flung him another scathing look. A lesser man may well have bolted there and then. Winter, however, was not finished with her yet.  “Where was this taken?” he asked without thinking.

 “Look again.”

 He studied the photograph and recognized the pub even before squinting to read the sign that read The Fox and Hounds. “Monk’s Tallow,” he murmured and it was a while before he could shake off a tingling sensation. It was the weirdest feeling, as if someone had just walked over his grave. He’d often wondered what the old saying meant. Now he thought he knew.

Liam Brady, Winter had to admit, bore more than a passing resemblance to the young man with the earring. He could well see why Audrey Ellis had thrown a wobbly.

“Well?”

“Let’s just say the old biddy hasn’t entirely lost her marbles, shall we?”

“There’s a resemblance then?”

“Striking, I’d say,” he muttered, “earring or no earring,” then “Are you sure you won’t...?”

“Do you want some coffee?” she cut in abruptly.

“Tea would be nice.”

“Come through and I’ll put the kettle on.”

Winter followed her through to the kitchen. It was small but bright and boasted more than its fair share of mod cons, very different to the one in Dorking where he had rather enjoyed chatting with dear old Audrey Ellis. Not that he wasn’t enjoying Carol’s company, he was. But a tangible tension remained between them stretching across a gap of some twenty years and widening. Small wonder then, he supposed, that he didn’t feel anywhere near as relaxed as the last time he’d sat here enjoying spaghetti Bolognese.  He chuckled. If Julie Simpson reminded him of Miss Parker, Audrey Ellis had to be everyone’s favourite granny.

“What’s so funny?” He told her.

“She sounds like an interfering old bat me,” was Carol’s verdict. “What’s her interest in Liam anyway?”

“Very little, as far as I could tell. She only met him a couple of times but enough to give her a nasty shock when she thought she saw him on TV.”

“Believe in ghosts, too, does she?”

Winter said nothing but watched her reach for some tea bags. It crossed his mind that Audrey Ellis would not have approved as he glanced again at the snapshot in his hand. “A fuller beard would have suited him, even an earring,” he mused absently.

Carol Brady looked, saw what he was doing and uttered a fruity little laugh. “Just about anything and everything suited my Liam,” she said. A fierce pride in her voice cut him to the quick. “He was that good looking and had his father’s charm too. Shove Sean in a dung heap and he’d always get up smelling of roses. Liam was the same.

“He took after his mum then,” Winter observed and meant it. They both laughed. It went a long way towards easing the tension between them. “You’re still a good looking woman, Carol.”

“And you’re still a man who likes to get his own way even if it means charming the birds from the trees. Well, this bird’s not for charming, Freddy, so be warned.” She was smiling, her tone joking. Winter, however, knew better than to ignore the warning and nodded, an uncertain grin speaking volumes. She seemed on the verge of saying something else but turned away. “It happened to me once.” She said suddenly, her back still turned.

“What?”

“I thought I saw Liam on TV. It was about a year ago and I was watching a programme about the Foot and Mouth outbreak. This publican was being interviewed about its effect on trade. The camera started panning this huge room that was two thirds empty. It lingered on this couple in a corner and they both looked up. Only for a split second, you understand. But I was so sure it was Liam I took the next train to York.” She turned and faced him. “Yes, York, not bloody Canterbury.”

Winter hardly recognized her for an instant, such was the raw pain etched on Carol Brady’s face.  A lump came to his throat. Nor would it budge as he watched that pain give way to a look of grim determination. “They had no idea at the inn where the TV interview was shot.  As far as they were concerned, Liam was just another anonymous customer who hadn’t even been staying there.  Even so, I spent two weeks, two bloody weeks, trying bars, cafés, shops, you name it, shoving that snap you’ve got there under people’s noses, asking - practically begging - if they had seen him.”  She gave an unfunny laugh. “They must have thought I was the original madwoman escaped from the attic.”

Winter, felt much as he imagined a spider might, suspended by a single thread, and could only observe as she caught her breath, the violet eyes peering at him as if through a fog.

“One day, a young woman told me she’d seen Liam working in a record store. I ran nearly all the way.” Carol shrugged. “It wasn’t Liam of course, nothing like him.” She shrugged again. “That was it, I’d had enough. It was like losing him a second time, worse even.” She turned her back and continued making the tea.

Winter knew when to leave well alone and did not mention the video again. He pocketed the photograph of Liam and they chatted for a good hour, over endless mugs of tea, about everything and nothing.

Carol saw him to the front door and closed it after him without waiting to watch him drive away. He experienced an inexplicable sense of disappointment as he approached the blue Volvo parked a few yards away. Something made him pause and turn. Carol ran up to him and grabbed his arm. “What were you saying about an earring?” she demanded.

“Earring…?”  Winter was momentarily perplexed. Seconds later, the penny dropped and he realized she was referring to the video. “That was ages ago!” he protested laughing, “Why the sudden interest?”

“I was only half-listening but never mind that now,” she said in a rush, “What did you mean?” He told her. “But that’s...the weirdest thing.”  She stuck a thumb in her mouth and stared at him wide-eyed. Suddenly, her panic evaporated and she was much calmer.

“What on earth’s the matter?”

“It’s probably nothing. You had better come back inside.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Are we going to watch this bloody video or not?” she flung at him and returned to the house without waiting for an answer. Winter pocketed his car keys and followed, aware that the tingling sensation had returned.

Carol put the video in the machine herself and went to hand Winter the remote but her hand seemed to stick fast to it and she would not, could not let go. “Liam and I were having lunch in Monk’s Tallow,” she began. “It was the day Sarah Manners joined us and she passed some remark about a young man who was sitting at one of the tables with his girlfriend and wearing an earring. Sarah said she liked it but I made it clear I didn’t. Liam sided with Sarah, even said he’d seen one in some jewellery store or other and thought about treating himself.  I over-reacted, I’m afraid. I didn’t give a sod about the damn earring. It was the way he took her side against me that got up my nose. I saw red, I guess. Anyway, I lost it with both of them. Then the barman came over and told me to shut up or get lost. Well, in so many words, he was more polite than that, certainly more than I deserved.” She managed a rueful grin. “So I shut up and stuffed myself with salted peanuts while they made cosy small talk as if I wasn’t even there.”

“What kind of earring?”

“A cross...”

“It doesn’t mean a thing,” Winter was quick to point out.

“I know,” she muttered, relinquishing her hold on the remote.

Winter hit the play button.  He misjudged the scene in question and had to hit rewind and play several times either side of it. Finally, he froze the screen at precisely the moment when the young man glanced up and, unknowingly, looked into the camera. Carol gave a little squeak. Winter’s eyes did not leave her face. “Well?” he asked after she had been staring at the screen, thumb in mouth, for several interminable minutes. Suddenly, she grabbed the video remote and hit the stop button. An old black and white movie leapt out at them, snarling like an alley cat. Winter looked around for the TV remote, eventually found it and turned the damn thing off. “Well?” he asked again.

“You were right about the old biddy. She isn’t cuckoo, far from it.”

“It could be Liam?”

“Of course it can’t be Liam,” she snapped.

“Supposing Liam is alive?” he ventured.

“But he isn’t, is he? He’s dead.”

“But if he were alive?” Winter persisted, despising himself for it. Her face was a wreck.

“If he were alive,” she said slowly, violet eyes fixed on the blank screen, “I’d say that was my son.”  She began to tremble violently and made no attempt to push him away as he put an arm around her and pulled her close.

Neither spoke. Nor did they move away from the sofa even after Carol had stopped trembling and disengaged herself. “It’s like him, very like him, that’s all.” She said at last in a small voice that he barely heard.

“So you’ll come to Canterbury with me?” he pressed her gently.

Carol jumped to her feet and glared down at him. “Not on your life, Freddy Winter, not on your bloody life!” she screamed and slammed out of the room.

The door swung on its hinges. Winter heard another door slam and guessed, correctly, that she had shut herself in the bedroom. He gazed, quizzically, at a leaf pattern on the carpet for some minutes before getting up and letting himself out. “What next, Fred?” he kept asking himself over and over on the drive home, “What bloody next?”

Two boys dashed out from behind a line of parked cars. Winter slammed on the brakes. Both lads stopped short. One poked out his tongue and raised two fingers.  The second youth looked badly shaken and put up no resistance when his friend grabbed an arm and all but dragged him to the kerb opposite. They scampered into an alleyway without looking back.

Winter muttered “Shit!” and drove on but had to pull up again barely a mile down the road. His hands on the wheel were shaking and he was sweating heavily. In anyone else he’d have put it down to an understandable reaction. But he was a copper, trained to deal with the unexpected.  “Ex-copper,” he reminded himself ruefully and with a bitterness that surprised him. Did he really miss the job so much that the prospect of a wild goose chase to Canterbury, let alone Monk’s Tallow, was as good as it gets?

Winter grimaced, declined to answer, and drove on.

To be continued on Friday