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Bugger it!
On account of him now being an old man, it was a nightmare for Frank Dowson to get over the fence on Breary Flat Lane with his fishing gear. Still, he managed it, because nothing, absolutely nothing, was ever going to stand between him and a line in the water.
From habit, he cast cursory glances around him for any observers before and after the climb. Not that anyone would’ve stopped him. Yes, the lake and the lands around it beyond this fence were private property but try telling that to the local youths who smoked marijuana and had sex here, or the countless other fishermen who plundered these waters.
Frank had always been one of the many. Who wants to stand out? Life was much simpler when you blended in.
After scaling the fence, he took a deep breath and smiled. He loved the smell of the lake. As if he was missing out on these local opportunities just because someone owned this land! No siree. He’d paid council tax to Knaresborough for most of his bloody life, and no rich landowner was keeping this place from him!
Once he was over his fence, he glanced at his Rolex – a wedding present from his late wife – and saw that it was five-thirty. It was getting on to August, so the sun had already risen. In his younger days, he’d have been here much earlier. However, negotiating the undergrowth down towards the lake in waders, while clutching on to his tackle and bait, as well as his sandwiches and coffee, was no mean feat; to attempt it in darkness these days at his ridiculous age would’ve been a recipe for a visit to A&E, a long stay in hospital and a drawn-out recovery. Coming later wasn’t a major issue for Frank these days anyway.
Retirement, eh? The promised land. No ticking clock!
Except when the sun came out in force that was!
If it started to frazzle him as it’d done last week, he’d be forced to pack up early. He took a quick glance up at the sky. It looked overcast, which gave him some hope. Although, humidity could end up an issue too.
He worked his way left through a patch of trees, purposefully moving away from the busiest area of the lake to the quieter side. Eventually, he stopped and considered. It was so tempting to head further into solitude. Away from the many other fishermen that would surely come over the fence in the next few hours.
He sighed. No. He needed to stay one of the many. Venturing on may risk his quiet life.
Because, up ahead, lost in the trees and undergrowth, was Harvey Henfrey’s cottage.
And no one really went near that.
Harvey Henfrey had a right to be on this land, due to an agreement with the landowner – how he pulled that off was anybody’s guess.
You see, Harvey was peculiar.
A man in his early fifties had no cause to be living out here like a recluse, without the comforts many took for granted, only venturing into town, sporadically, for supplies.
It was just plain odd. Harvey certainly wasn’t one of the many!
However, although Frank had never met Harvey himself, he had it on good authority that the recluse was amiable enough. A man who didn’t like to engage in conversation but wouldn’t ignore the social pleasantries.
But straying too close to Harvey’s property to fish wasn’t the done thing. The man wanted to be alone. Let him be alone.
A few more steps wouldn’t hurt though, would it?
A record number of metres later, he smirked at his adventurous nature, and then turned to face the body of water.
Due to the overcast day, it didn’t sparkle as it usually did under the early morning sun, but God, did he feel that familiar rush of blood in his veins.
Some went skiing, some went scuba diving, some even jumped out of aeroplanes…
Frank Dowson fished.
And he knew of nothing else that could get his juices flowing in quite the same way.
Keen to get going, he increased his speed slightly – as much as his arthritic knees would allow anyway. He passed two trees and—
Stopped dead in his tracks, a coldness spreading over his chest.
Someone was sitting on the other side of the tree just ahead of him.
Not sitting with their back to a tree as was the convention, but rather, facing it, leaning into it. The tree was young, and the trunk relatively thin, so the individual, wearing a dress, had an outstretched leg either side of it.
The person’s face was flat against the other side of the trunk and therefore, hidden.
‘Hello?’
Nothing.
‘Hello?’
The coldness in Frank’s chest intensified, and he worried for his heart, which was probably still sore from last year’s triple bypass. He glanced around, sucking in air, for a tree that he could lean against, but the closest to him was the one that potentially had a body behind it.
Fearing a panic attack, or worse still, heart failure, he focused hard on taking slow deep breaths, and when he was confident that he was no longer about to keel over, he said, ‘Get yourself together, man.’
He took two large steps forward and looked at the person leaning into the tree.
‘Mary mother of Jesus.’
The young woman had her right cheek pressed against the bark, so Frank could see into her wide and empty eyes.
Tia Meadows.
He groaned, picturing her face glowing behind the bar as she poured a pint for him in the White Bull three nights ago.
Her short, black bobbed hair failed to hide the dark wound on her forehead, which had bled down her face. Most of the blood was dry now, and the wound looked as though it was congealing.
Jesus wept! How old are you girl? Twenty?
Frank dropped his fishing tackle, bait, coffee and sandwiches, and put a hand to his mouth.
Without much thought, he said, ‘Tia?’ After her name had left his mouth, he had no idea why he’d bothered. She was dead. So clearly dead.
And then a thought walloped him hard: This is Si Meadows’ daughter! Si flaming Meadows!
He reached for the mobile in his pocket, but when his hand felt the cold material of the waders, he remembered he hadn’t brought it. ‘Shit.’ He deliberately didn’t bring his mobile fishing with him. He wanted the solitude, after all. The peace. The quiet…
…like Harvey Henfrey…
Could the recluse have a phone?
He looked out at the lake, freezing in his mind the image of a leaning, old tree, hanging its branches on the surface of the lake. Knowing the part of the lake Tia’s body was in line with would help Frank locate her again.
‘Wait here,’ he told Tia’s body, knowing it was a useless request, but feeling strangely obligated to do so.
He attempted a jog.
He was quickly out of breath with pain radiating through his chest.
You foolish old man! Killing yourself ain’t going to do anyone a bit of good.
After he’d caught his breath, he returned to a brisk walking speed.
Harvey Henfrey’s stone cottage was surprisingly basic. Five metres by five metres at a push – it was smaller than Frank’s double garage at home. Frank couldn’t imagine holidaying in it for a weekend, never mind living in it.
He paused and thought: Why would anyone subject themselves to this?
He shook his head, admonishing himself again. This really wasn’t the time to wonder what had happened in Harvey’s life to lead to such drastic reclusiveness; there was a dead girl out there in the forest!
Tia Meadows.
The cottage door was level with the ground. He looked at the windows on the front to see if the occupant was looking out, but the curtains were drawn, and remained so.
Frank approached the door and knocked.
In such a tiny enclosure, you could be sure that the knocking wouldn’t go unheard. Additionally, there should be no delay in getting to the door.
He knocked again, speaking this time. ‘Harvey… I’m sorry… I n
eed your help.’
Still nothing.
Shit. Now what?
He could head down to the lake and seek out an early bird with a mobile phone, or he could head back to Breary Flat Lane for a passer-by?
He looked down to his left to a small plastic table and chair and an empty mug. He noticed something beneath the table, something that must have fallen. He knelt, wincing when his arthritic knees complained. He reached under the table, took hold of a woman’s black purse, and rose to his feet again.
He looked at the purse in his hand. If Harvey did have a partner, it was news to him.
A prostitute, perhaps? He rolled his eyes. In Knaresborough? Plus, if it was a prostitute, she probably would be streetwise enough to keep her purse safely by her side, not to advertise her possessions outside here.
Curious, he opened the purse and saw a multitude of cards crammed into the pockets.
He slid a blue card out at random.
A Barclays Visa Debit card.
It couldn’t be.
The coldness in his chest flared again.
No… No…
He traced the raised letters that spelt out Tia Anne Meadows.
Then, sighting the driving licence, he slid it out with a thumb, and looked at Tia’s portrait.
Glowing. Healthy. Young.
Alive.
He heard the clunk of a lock in the cottage door.
The purse, the driving licence and the bank card slipped from his hands. He backed away.
How have I, one of the many – a simple man, ended up here?
He clutched his chest. The door swung open. It was dark inside. All the other curtains must have been drawn too.
Frank couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his own heart, and his own breathing, but he could see Harvey in the shadows.
A gravelly voice. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘I… I…’ What do I say? What do I do?
‘Tell me what’s wrong.’ Harvey said, stepping out. He was pale, unshaven, and his greasy white hair was a mess.
‘I… there’s a…’ Frank noticed a knife in Harvey’s right hand, pressed against his thigh.
Frank tracked Harvey’s eyes as they fell to the purse and the cards on the ground. Harvey’s eyes then moved slowly back up to Frank.
Harvey stepped towards him.
Detective Chief Inspector Emma Gardner found her brother downstairs eating breakfast at an ungodly hour.
Looking down into his bowl, Jack Moss stirred his porridge with a spoon. ‘Sorry Sis, did I wake you?’
Gardner stood at the open kitchen door. ‘Would I be standing here at four in the morning otherwise?’
Jack continued to stir his porridge. He was yet to look up. ‘I thought I was being quiet.’
‘I’ve cop sense, remember? It’s better than Spidey-sense. Someone breathes two floors down, and I wake up, heart beating like a drum.’
Jack rested the handle of his spoon on the lip of his bowl, and finally looked up. ‘Doesn’t sound too pleasant.’
‘It’s got me out of a few scrapes.’ She touched the scar on her chest where the knife had punctured her lung all those years ago. But maybe not all of them, she thought.
He pushed his long hair behind his ears and regarded her for a moment. ‘Do you think I’m one of those scrapes?’
A borderline sociopath who fractured my skull as a child, and served time for mowing someone down in a car? ‘No, of course not.’
He scratched his goatee. ‘So, you’ve seen enough by now to know that I’m different… that I’ve changed.’
Sociopaths are very good at masking who they really are. ‘I’m getting there.’
She pulled the chair out opposite him and sat down. ‘I don’t want to keep having this conversation. Right now, my concern, our concern, is that seven-year-old girl.’
Jack nodded. ‘Rose loves you. Her auntie Emma.’
‘Don’t, Jack.’ Gardner shook her head. ‘Just don’t. You may be my brother, but I didn’t get where I am in my career by being a pushover. Save the manipulation.’
‘It’s true, Rose told me—’
‘Stop,’ Gardner said, raising a finger. Because I don’t want to get attached.
She stared into her brother’s eyes. And saw it again. That same look she’d seen when she was ten, and he was eight, and they were alone together in Malcolm’s Maze of Mirrors, just before he’d swung that rock and fractured her skull. Simply because she’d called him a ‘weirdo’ only moments before.
This familiar look caused a cold sweat to break out on her back, but she didn’t want to show weakness. ‘Rose is my niece.’ This was true. Gardner had made the necessary checks. Jack Moss was named as her father on her birth certificate. ‘And you’ve made it clear that you’re going to be involved in her life. I’m helping. That’s all. It’s what Mum and Dad would’ve wanted.’
‘Do you think I’m bad for my daughter, Sis?’
You’ve a personality disorder, Jack. You’re not safe. ‘I don’t know… I hope not.’
‘Her mother is a drug addict. Am I not the better option?’
She stared at Jack, trying to read him. But, as was always the case, she failed. He never gave anything away.
She sighed and looked down at the table. Her involvement in her brother’s situation was complete madness. If the social workers had opted to take Rose into care, then Jack would not be in her house and she’d be solely focused on getting her own life back together – which was, incidentally, also a complete mess. But the social workers were working hard to keep Rose with her mother, Freya, who was now in recovery. Apparently. The authorities had been annoyed several months back because Freya had allowed Rose to journey up to Knaresborough for the weekend with Jack, but the authorities had moved past that, and had now intensified their support in educating Freya into making the right decisions. They were in the process of trying to integrate Jack into Rose’s life in a more measured manner.
Gardner knew that the social workers were only trying to do the right thing here, but how was she able to fight off the nagging feeling that this was all destined to fail?
And if it did fail, what then? Could fostering Rose herself be an option? Was she really in the position to do that with a crumbling marriage, and a daughter of her own to worry about?
‘Being a father has changed me,’ Jack said. He placed his palms together as if he was praying. ‘I just want to do what is right by Rose. That’s all.’
‘You get your life back on track, Jack. You get a job. You show you can be part of society. Then, everyone will believe you, not just me.’
Jack nodded. ‘And then I’ll be able to eat porridge in the middle of the night without waking you?’
She managed a smile. ‘One step at a time. Now, I’m going back to bed.’
Jack pushed an envelope over the table.
She raised an eyebrow. Really? Jack had remembered her birthday?
‘I think my Spidey-sense is stronger than yours,’ Jack said. ‘I woke up because someone posted this about thirty minutes ago.’
Gardner picked up the envelope. She turned it over and read her name and address. They’d been written neatly with a fountain pen. There was no stamp.
She opened it.
It was a card with a piece of toast on it. Across the top was written:
A birthday toast for you.
Despite the humour, Gardner was not amused. Who in their right mind posted a card at three-thirty in the morning?
She opened it.
It seemed they weren’t going to say.
The card read:
Happy Birthday Emma.
She looked at the back of the card, and there was nothing there either.
What the…?
‘It’s your birthday?’ Jack asked.
Gardner nodded.
‘Happy birthday.’
‘Please,’ Gardner said, glaring at him. ‘It’s really not important.’
‘Whatever you say, Sis.’
After she returned to bed, she tossed and turned for several hours, wondering who the bloody hell had sent her a birthday card at three-thirty. Who does that? It’d certainly never happened to her before. The only people she knew around here were on her team, and the thought of receiving one from them was, frankly, just odd. Especially considering she’d told no one about her birthday.
In the early morning, after sunrise, her mobile phone interrupted her racing thoughts.
She read the caller’s name and with a burst of adrenaline, answered, ‘Ma’am?’
‘Emma,’ Chief Constable Rebecca Marsh said. ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid.’
Well, I didn’t think you were phoning to wish me happy birthday…
