Resolution (The CRIME series), page 16
Sits back down on the bed. So soft, yet firm. The duvet, pillows and decorative cushions like puffy, luxurious clouds. He’s very warm, the thermostat set to a high temperature. Wonders if Cardingworth has thin blood and feels the cold severely. Lets his weary head sink back against the pillows. It is blissful. Shuts his eyes. Allows his thoughts to unspool.
There were good times … and you see your mother’s face as a younger woman; beautiful, indulgent of you. You feel her taking you by the hand. Yet it’s as if you’re in control of this dream, willing the idyllic state, banishing all negativity from the simple domestic scenario unfolding in front of you …
You love your mum …
A door slams. Lennox springs up, groggy, head pounding, mouth dry. How long has he been asleep? A few minutes? Maybe more? Then more noises: music blares out from downstairs, Michael Jackson singing ‘Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough’. Lennox tries to force himself into alertness, can’t quite pull it off; as he gets off the bed, nausea rises in him. The sounds of feet as they thwack on the stairs. Adrenaline surges: he quickly makes his way out onto the balcony.
Cardingworth …
Is he alone or with somebody?
Looks over the parapet. A good fifteen-foot drop to the ground. On one side, a large green double dump bin, around five foot high.
A creak as someone turns the handle of the bedroom door.
Ray Lennox slips over the balustrade.
Jumps.
He lands feet first on the bin; wide-eyed in surprise he’s not gone through the lid. But on contact it gives him the spring to kick off, and he falls the further five feet to the ground, rolling onto his back. A scrambling rise in winded pain, around the corner to the front of the house. As his returning breath slowly oozes strength back into his body, he can hear activity from inside the house. A figure starts to form behind the dimpled glass of the front door. Striding up and filling his lungs, Lennox rings the buzzer.
Mathew Cardingworth opens up, startled eyes, one curling over the facial bandages. — What the fuck do you want!
— I was going past, Lennox hauls in air, and I saw your security was poor. Thought I’d bring it to your attention, a sneering gaze at Cardingworth. — You did say to take a look, and he gives the thumbs up, suddenly grinning in expansively cartoonish mania.
— Are you stalking me? What the hell is going on with you and this … nutter? Mat Cardingworth touches the gauze on his face. — Look … whatever your friend thinks happened to him, I had nothing to do with it!
— It wasn’t just him though, was it? Tell me aboot the tunnel in Edinburgh, Cardingworth, Lennox hears his voice go nasal and sly, — where you first met me and my wee pal, Les. Tell me who your fuckin mates were!
— Get the fuck away from here, Cardingworth snarls, leaning forward, as if trying to get into Lennox’s face. — Speak to my lawyer if you –
— Way ahead of you –
The track playing changes. Stevie Wonder sings ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’ as Cardingworth steps back, making to close the door. Lennox tries to stick a foot in, but the Brighton businessman is too quick, slamming it shut. One lock, then a second, clunk in noisy turn. Through the door comes a muffled threat: — You’d better make yourself scarce, Lennox!
— Okay, but I’ll be back, ya noncing cunt. Lennox hammers his fist on the glass three times, but in a controlled manner. — I always come back for them, you know. I never let it go. Remember that, Noncingworth, he shouts, turning his chant out to the neighbourhood as he skips down the steps. — I’LL BE ON YOU EVERY FUCKIN DAY, YA PAEDO PRICK!
A burning silence, and he turns and heads off. As ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’ is cut into silence from inside the house, Ray Lennox laughs until both his sides buckle in pain.
28
Sole Destroying
It’s barely noon when he arrives at the office in Seven Dials. Immediately, George enters his room with two coffees. — You’ve finally deigned to join us this fine Monday. He looks through the dirty windows out into the gloom of the street. — What happened? A little make-up romance with what’s-her-face, Carmel?
Lennox sucks in one cheek. — I wish … So, what have you been up to?
— Checking with the Rose Garden management that the fitting was to her satisfaction. The alarm, of course. George raises an eyebrow, as Lennox smiles while groaning inside. — I’ve been sorting that out and uh, mending fences of the interpersonal nature. George sips at the coffee. His face screws up. — This instant is damn well undrinkable. You do realise that?
— It is, Lennox concedes. — We should get a coffee machine. Fancy a pint? Goodies?
— Oh, I’ve a lunch date with Polly. George shakes his head, checking his Rolex. — Catch you later, he smiles, departing.
Lennox goes back online at his PC. Hasn’t eaten breakfast, so decides on an early lunch. Outside, a hiemal air stings, as he walks towards town, mood alternating between anxious and buoyant.
You fairly set Cardingworth on edge. Good.
He heads down the Lanes where the Christmas vibe is heavy with the useless excitement and empty promise of cocaine. Yet the mere consideration of that drug has induced Lennox to step into a chemist and purchase some Kleenex paper tissues. Sighs heavily in recognition. The wet chill means he might need them anyway. Exits the shop and immediately sees Polly. She’s wrapped up in a coat, hat and gloves, her breath freezing as she looks into a shop window. Lennox cranes his neck around the crowds to find George. No sign. Approaches her. — Hi, Polly.
Startled, she jumps back, touching her chest. — Oh, Ray, you gave me a proper fright there!
Lennox apologises, doubts George has seen her for lunch. Where is he? Decides to remain silent. A brief sense of panic fuses him, before he deduces his partner is probably with another woman.
The cunt might have said.
— How goes?
— Fine! It’s my day off, so I’m shopping for Christmas presents. I’ve two younger sisters and a host of nieces and nephews, so it’s a costly old affair, and she holds up two full bags. — I’m meeting George later on this afternoon.
— You guys having a late lunch together?
— No, I’ve eaten, and he called to say he had too. What are you up to?
— Just nipped out for a stroll and a bite myself, Lennox nods. — Better let you get on. See you later.
— Righto!
As they go their separate ways, he turns back to look at Polly, feeling sorry for her. Wonders how much she knows about George’s philandering ways.
If you can deceive a lover so readily, would it be that difficult to do the same to a friend?
A sudden downpour: shoppers scatter for cover. Wet needles prick Lennox’s scalp and neck. Walks on through relentless, stinging rain. Soon the coat is sodden, hangs heavily on his frame. The dark, void sky ahead. A harsh laughter erupts from behind him, first urgent, then derisive. A tremble in his spine: between his shoulder blades.
Thinks of Chris and his friends in the pub the previous night. Is he being followed? His hands fist up inside his coat pockets. But he’s disinclined to succumb to this insecurity; if no pursuit, self-outing as paranoid will do him no good. If he is being shadowed, the streets remain busy. Fear is an emotion best left unexpressed, and he pushes on.
Up ahead, two large glass rectangles: one cobalt blue, the other silver grey. The Jubilee Library. Decides to take refuge. The students are on their Christmas break, so in spite of the downpour it isn’t too busy, but the bright and airy building fizzes with the magical efficacy generated by collective concentration. This is common to libraries, yet those operating at only one frequency won’t register it. Lennox looks around the rows of tables and chairs. Goes to an issue desk and is assisted by a member of staff, wearing a badge indicating the moniker ‘Norris’. With his stocky build and lumpy, pugilistic visage, he looks more like a nightclub bouncer than a librarian.
Requesting the Argus records from the dates of the disappearances of the foster care boys – Thomas Millington, Ross Prior, Marshall Delaney and Jason McCabe – Lennox is issued a piece of paper with a website link on it. The library digitalised the records for the newspaper, so, if the pages here are similarly doctored, this happened under their watch rather than that of the Argus.
Taking a seat at one of the computer-topped desks, Lennox begins his search. Very quickly realises that the key pages are missing from those copies too. In fact, even more seem to have vanished, including the grainy pictures of Julie Wilkins, or Julie Knowles, if they are the same person. He rises, to speak to the library assistant.
— Why were those pages removed?
— They shouldn’t have been. That’s strange … Norris heads back behind the desk, goes into a cupboard, returning with rolls of film on a spool. — Let’s try the microfiche. They were copied onto these first, then digitalised later.
They head over to some desks, each one with a large metal box sitting on it. The hulking machines seem ancient contraptions to Lennox. Norris loads a spool into one, switches on a huge backlit screen to reveal the newspapers. Starts scrolling to the relevant issues.
They too are missing the pages, which, he speculates, will be key ones.
— What could have happened to them? Were they ripped out?
— Might have been damage to the original documents, I suppose, Norris ventures.
Across twenty years?
— When were the hard copies of the newspapers put onto microfiche?
— Around ’84, ’85, then ongoing from there, till they were digitalised in 2006 from the microfiche. What was the story you were looking for?
Lennox can see Norris is enjoying playing detective. — Just some family stuff: births, marriages, anniversaries, that sort of nonsense, he lies. He now trusts nobody in Brighton, Edinburgh or the rest of the world. — What about the original documents, the print copies of the papers that the Argus donated? A lot of libraries bind and store them.
— We used to, but we had a librarian who didn’t like having duplicate technology around. I suppose the purpose of new technology is to update and replace the old, Norris dolefully explains. — Anyway, this guy had our original papers shredded. As far as I know, the Argus moved all their archive here, so there’s no hard copy at their offices.
— Who was the head librarian back in ’84?
Norris rubs his chin, pondering this. — It would be Tom James.
— Is he still here?
— No, he retired three years ago. Died last summer.
— Anybody else I could speak to?
— From 1984? I very much doubt it.
— What about the librarian who insisted the hard copies had to be destroyed after they were put onto microfiche? Would they be still around?
— That would be big Ralphie Trench. He left the service a long time ago. Always wanted to make it as an actor. Did a bit in panto, once played an antique dealer in The Bill. Looks a lot like the guy from Withnail and I.
As the librarian explains this, the wooden plaque on the wall behind him catches Lennox’s attention:
SUSSEX LOCAL HISTORY ARCHIVE
Made possible by a generous donation from
Mathew Cardingworth
— Thanks for your help, Lennox mumbles. Heads to the library coffee shop, befuddled and numbed.
The fucking nonce bought the archives, and had Trench doctor them before donating the bastards … you know it!
In the cafeteria, Lennox puts his wet coat on a seat close to a radiator. Orders a cherry scone, a cappuccino and bottle of Highland Spring mineral water. Decides to try and wait out the rain, watching it lash on the big glass windows.
Peristalsis kicks in as the coffee makes its presence felt, demanding an extensive manoeuvre. Obtaining the lavatory code, he goes downstairs to an empty hallway. Keys in the issued number, pulls the door open, raising the lever to lock it behind him. In the large space, a latrine, sink and a toilet. This is enclosed in a booth of mahogany-effect wood and has a further lock, which Lennox closes but neglects to bolt. The door outside is already secured. Lowers himself onto the cold plastic toilet seat. Opens his bowels, lets his waste surge home.
He is enjoying the relief when he hears a faint click.
Does it indicate that somebody has come in?
But how? The main lavatory door locks from the inside.
Lennox feels his pulse kick up as he rises quickly, wiping his arse, tugging up his underpants and trousers. Pushes at the door.
It won’t open.
There was no lock on the outside.
He pushes harder.
It doesn’t give. He feels feeble and inadequate against whatever is behind the door. Hears his heart pound as the blood swooshes in his head. It seems important to say nothing. Then a mechanical voice, as if through a vocoder, blurts out: — You’ve been warned. Leave it.
A hissing sound. A fluidic substance seeps in under the door. Bleach-thick, its corrosive rasp urges his reticence as it creeps along the tiled floor towards him. On contact with the soles of his Doc Martens, sibilation and rising steam, and Lennox feels them stick him to the floor. Realises his shoes are melting: in panic, slides back onto the toilet seat, tugs the laces apart, pulls his feet out of them, raises his legs. Watches in disbelief as the base of his footwear dissolves further. Tension rips through his gut as he strives to keep his feet off the floor. Whips out his phone, calls George. — I need help! I’m trapped in the toilet of the Jubilee Library cafe. Get here as soon as you can, and call the library staff and fire brigade, ask them to get buckets of water and alkaline substances down here! I think some fucker has put down acid – tell them to be careful with their feet!
— Ray, what’s going on?
— Just do it. And get me some shoes. Size eleven. Do it!
— Right! I’m on it!
Calls the library on its website number. Slips into clipped cop vowels to circumvent the effect on local ears of a Scottish accent that thickens dramatically when in panic mode. Asks for Norris, gives strict instructions. Soon the staff arrive with cleaning materials, followed by the fire brigade and then the police.
A chemical solution is put down, and the acid neutralised. All that is ruined of Lennox are the soles of his Doc Martens. As this footwear is touted as acid-resistant, he reasons it must have been a very strong and corrosive compound.
Carmel would know …
An owl-faced detective, introducing himself as Tony Robson, asks Lennox perfunctory questions, while the police check CCTV footage and interview staff to determine who went into the toilet. — They would have needed the passcode, which is issued at the food counter checkout and changed every day, Lennox suggests.
Robson and his colleagues all but ignore him, asking Norris and the canteen supervisor to get descriptions of the customers. The police don’t seem to be too interested. But Lennox knows this MO: keep the public experts at bay until you need them. Is he just experiencing the frustration of being on the other side of this divide or does Cardingworth have them in his pocket too?
When George arrives, a stocking-soled Lennox is sat in the cafe, sipping a cappuccino. His partner shakes his head in confusion. — What the hell is going on, Ray?
— Where’s they shoes?
— I asked Polly to pick up some brogues, and a text pops in to George’s phone, and he raises his head to scan the canteen. On cue, Polly arrives, carrying an additional cumbersome item among her multiple Christmas bags. She dumps her cargo on the chairs round the table. One box she opens up, to reveal a pair of sensible black brogues. — George’s idea, she says.
— Why am I not surprised …?
— Am I a fashion consultant? George barks. — Shop for your own shoes, Raymond!
— I did try, Ray, Polly protests wearily to Lennox. Her attention wanders to two women seated at a table across the other side of the cafe. — If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ve just spotted a couple of old friends.
Forcing a smile, Lennox tries the brogues on. They pinch. His face screws up.
— You do know they’ll expand, George contends. — So, what the hell happened to your old ones, Ray?
Lennox bites his lip for a full two seconds. Then discloses everything about the acid attack. — It has to be Cardingworth’s doing. I went to his house, he confesses, omitting to mention he entered uninvited. — We had a bit of an argument. He’s obviously pissed off at me for Les’s attack.
— Did he threaten you?
Lennox raises his brows. — It was a heated exchange, but there’s a lot more going on, and he tells George about the missing news pages.
— So, somebody in 1984, George blows on his tea, — three years after your tunnel incident, during their transition to microfiche, removed the articles dealing with a missing foster kid.
— Yes, not just for 1984, but 1986, 1989 and 1997 as well. Even more sinister, he holds up his phone, — I can’t find a thing about any of those cases online in the national tabloid archives.
— Pre-millennial and therefore pre-internet crime though, Ray, they wouldn’t necessarily cover the disappearance of four fostered orphans in Sussex over a period of twenty-odd years.
— Some newspaper archives are now digitalised from before the First World War. The nationals simply didn’t report those cases. Surely such horrific events would be tabloid staple fare.
— Only if there was a connection, George advances, — and you’re the only one making it. Otherwise each one is just the disappearance of a random, runaway foster kid, surely.
— Anybody at Sussex Police been investigating those disappearances down the years?
— Not to my knowledge.
Would you be able to find out? The sentence gets lost. Lennox pushes his gripped toes out against the unyielding leather of the shoes. — No police investigation, and no tabloid interest. Doesn’t sound right. Unless …
