LAST RITES
I smiled again, tried to disarm her. ‘My name is Jack Garrett and I'm a reporter.’
‘I guessed that.’
‘I'm interested in Sarah Goode,’ I continued.
‘I guessed that too,’ she snapped, but I put my hand in the way as she went to close the door.
‘Sarah's parents contacted me. They want me to write about her.’
She paused at that.
‘I understand she used to live here,’ I continued, trying to engage her.
‘She still does,’ she replied, but her tone was less hostile than before.
‘Her parents just want to find her,’ I said. ‘They want to help her, make sure she's all right.’ My voice was soft and low, my hand still on the door.
‘Have you got any ID?’ she asked.
I reached into my pocket and found a business card. I passed it over and waited, but how could she refuse once I had produced identification?
She looked at the card, then at me, and then at the card again.
‘Okay, Mr Garrett, you'd better come in,’ she said, and then turned and went into the house.
I followed her into the hallway, narrow and dark, the light coming from a small window above the front door. Katie led me into the room at the back of the house, a chill-out room, with saggy old sofas and family photographs on the wall, but I glanced into the room at the front as I went past the doorway. It was more formal, with better furniture and an old black fireplace, the light dim behind the wicker blinds.
Katie turned around. ‘Do you want a drink? Coffee? Tea?’
I chose coffee, it would keep me in the house for at least fifteen minutes, and Katie disappeared into the kitchen, a long and thin extension with views into a concrete yard.
‘How long have you been living here?’ I asked her, as one of the pictures on the wall caught my eye. It looked like a family tree, framed, the branches spreading out, but it was the symbol at the top that drew my attention. It was unusual, like a screaming face, with hollow eyes and open mouth.
‘I thought you were here to talk about Sarah,’ Katie shouted from the kitchen.
‘I am, but you're part of the story.’
Katie returned with two coffees. ‘No, I'm not,’ she said, and handed me one of the cups.
I sat down, and I felt my knees rise up as I sank into a broken old couch.
‘You found Luke. That makes you part of it,’ I countered.
She sat down on a chair opposite and thought for a moment. She pulled her legs onto the cushion and took a drink, watching me over the top of the cup. ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘The story,’ I replied.
Katie drank her coffee for a while, and then said, ‘If you've read the papers you'll know most of it. Sarah's a teacher. She couldn't pay for the house without a lodger. She put a notice on the college notice-board. I saw it and got in touch.’
I nodded and smiled, played at being the interested journalist: sympathetic glances; faked empathy. I noticed that her body language was less defensive, and that her voice was quieter now. ‘I presume I'm talking to Katie Gray,’ I said, more as a comment than a question.
Katie paused, and then smiled properly for the first time, her eyes twinkling.
‘You have read the papers,’ she said.
‘It's my job,’ I replied, and then asked, ‘What do you study?’
‘History,’ she said, and blew into her coffee as she watched me, the cup cradled in both hands. She looked younger now, more vulnerable. ‘So if you've seen the papers, you already know the story,’ she said. ‘You must want something more.’
‘Sarah's parents just want me to find her,’ I said, shrugging. ‘They are convinced she had nothing to do with her boyfriend's death, but the only way to prove it is to get Sarah to come home.’
Katie nodded as she listened.
‘I know how Luke died,’ I continued, ‘and I can guess what the police think, but I need to know more.’
She put her cup down on the floor and leaned forward. I thought I saw something in her eyes. Sadness? Loneliness?
‘Where have you been so far?’ she asked.
‘I've started here.’
‘Where else are you going to look?’
I looked at her carefully when she said that. Katie seemed interested in my movements and I wondered why.
‘Wherever the facts take me,’ I replied cautiously.
‘How are Sarah's parents?’ Katie asked.
‘How well do you know them?’
‘Not much at all really. I'm just the lodger.’
I thought back to the meeting in Sam's office. ‘Somewhere between frantic and sad,’ I said.
Katie looked back and ran her fingers through her hair. She smiled at me and then asked, ‘What do you need to know?’
‘Just tell me about Sarah,’ I said simply.
Katie watched me for a few seconds and I felt myself shuffle in my seat. I looked away, tried to take in the room. The walls looked sparkling clean. No cobwebs around the light-fittings, and the tabletop gleamed so that the scuffs and scratches seemed to catch the light and shine it back. Katie still lived in the house. Maybe the house had been cleaned to wipe out the memories of what had happened there.
‘She was fun,’ Katie started, making me look back, her voice low, so I had to lean in to catch what she was saying. ‘She wasn't like a teacher. She was more fun than that. Her parents live close by, but she wanted her own place. She moved in, but she bought the house at the top of the boom and so needed me to help with the mortgage, and that's it.’ Katie smiled wistfully. ‘We got on. We went out together, met some men together, just normal stuff. She started seeing Luke, and the rest, well, you know how it ended.’
‘Who was Luke?’
‘He was a personal trainer at the Pendle Gym. I reckon Sarah was different to most of the women he met. He could have had anyone at the gym. You know, he had the body, the smile, but Sarah was cooler than that. She was a bit prim and proper on the outside, and I think he liked that.’
‘And on the inside?’
Katie laughed, blushing slightly. ‘I used to hear them in the night. She wasn't always so reserved.’
‘So Sarah liked him,’ I said.
‘Oh, it was more than that,’ she replied, grinning now. ‘He was handsome, six foot and muscular.’ She traced the top of her cup with her finger. ‘She was falling in love.’
‘Was he?’
Katie sat back and thought for a few moments, more solemn now. ‘I really don't know,’ she said. ‘You know what men like him are like.’
‘You mean he was seeing other women?’
‘Don't men like Luke always see other women?’
Would it make her grab a knife and stab him, I thought to myself, as Katie twirled her fringe with her finger, watching me as I jotted down her quote?
‘So what do you think happened?’ I asked.
Katie watched me, almost studied me. ‘Why do you think my opinion matters?’
‘Because you knew both of them. The police didn't, and they've got an opinion.’
‘Have they?’
She was teasing me, trying to make me uncomfortable.
‘My guess is that the police think she killed him,’ I said.
She shrugged, her eyes never leaving mine. ‘They're the experts,’ she said.
That surprised me. It seemed like Katie agreed with the police hints, that Sarah was Luke's killer.
Katie glanced at her watch and put her cup down. ‘Have you got many more questions?’ she queried. ‘I've got to go somewhere.’
‘Lectures?’
She nodded.
‘Can we talk again?’ I asked.
Katie waved my business card at me. ‘I've got your number. I'll call you.’
I went to stand, but she leaned forward and grabbed my hand. Her fingers were warm and soft, her grip gentle, almost a caress.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘For what?’ I asked, surprised.
‘Just for being nice. It seems like people avoid me now.’
I nodded and smiled, felt my cheeks flush. ‘That's okay,’ I said, and dropped her hand. I turned to go. I thought she was going to show me out, but she stayed in her seat, tapping my business card against her cheek.
‘Another time then,’ I said. I felt awkward but I didn't know why.
When Katie didn't answer, I let myself out. I looked back at the house and wondered at how much I had learned in there. And then I felt my cheeks. They were hot, and my fingers trembled slightly.
Chapter Nine
Sarah Goode scrambled backwards as the sound of the heartbeats stopped and the door at the end of the room slid open. It was heavy, and it scraped noisily against the soil in its runner as it was pushed open.
She saw the hood first, and she screamed out loud. It was black cloth, pulled over his head, ragged around the neck and tied by thin rope, scarecrow-like. It was a man, she knew that from his height and broad shoulders, but he seemed different. She had seen the hood before, when she had been taken out of the box to stretch her muscles, to ease out the cramp, to have the chance to breathe properly, and it had terrified her. It was faceless, emotionless, but that person had seemed different. Younger, slimmer.
He stepped into the room slowly, deliberately, his heavy boots shuffling on the floor. His arms didn't move as he walked towards her, his back ramrod straight so that he almost seemed to glide. The hood billowed out slowly as he breathed.
‘Hello Sarah,’ he said, his voice muffled.
Sarah felt the stone wall against her back as she reached the end of the room. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, her breaths coming fast.
He stopped and stood still for a moment, watching her. ‘Why do you need to know?’
‘Because you kept me in a box for a week,’ said Sarah, her voice cracking. She could feel him watching her and so she looked at the floor, tried to suck in some deep breaths to regain her composure. ‘I just feel like I've got a right to know,’ she said, her voice stronger this time, but she flinched when he moved closer to her.
Sarah gasped as she heard him laugh, just a deep chuckle under the hood.
‘You don't have any rights,’ he said quietly.
Sarah moaned and put her head in her hands. ‘What are you going to do to me?’ she pleaded.
‘I haven't decided.’
Sarah could feel the panic rising through her chest. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she fought them, didn't want to look weak in front of him. But it was hard. She knew what he was capable of, ever since her nightmare had begun a week earlier.
It had started with a knock on the door, close to midnight. She had almost ignored it – it was cold and dark outside and Luke felt good next to her, sleeping naked – but the second knock had been more insistent, louder, and so she had slipped on Luke's shirt and some old jeans and gone to answer the door.
All she had seen was the mask, like a shadow, and then his hands shot forward and grabbed her, an arm around her neck and a hand over her mouth, rough and callused, smelling of cigarettes and oil. She had tried to bite him and lashed out with her feet, but his arm went tighter around her neck as he dragged her out of the house.
She had heard Luke shout out, asking who was there, but a rag had been pushed into her mouth, petrol and grease, and the pavement tore the skin of her heels as she was dragged to a car, the street quiet, no one around.
The boot had been open, ready for her, but it had been cramped and filled with dirty tools and a spare wheel. She was pushed in there anyway, head first, her arms pulled behind her back, her wrists tied together quickly, before he slammed the lid down.
The memories flooded back as Sarah looked at him, in the same impenetrable black hood.
‘Why me?’ she wailed.
He tilted his head as he looked at her. ‘I'm here to look after you, Sarah. Is there anything you need?’
Sarah looked at him, incredulous. She glanced behind him, at the way out of the room, to the stairs that seemed to lead upwards.
‘I want to go home,’ she replied, meekly now.
‘Anything else?’
Sarah swallowed as she felt the tears come again. She shook her head, knowing that if she spoke she would show her weakness.
He didn't answer. He watched her for a few moments, until he suddenly turned to go.
Sarah almost ran at him, to beg him not to lock her in, that she would do anything to get out, whatever he wanted, but something stopped her. Perhaps it was the fear of what he really wanted from her. Instead, she watched him walk out and then listened as the bolt slid back into place.
She was alone once more, and she let the tears flow as the heartbeat noise started again, her hands clamped tightly over her ears.
Chapter Ten
I went to Luke's gym next.
It was part of a new development, all glass and steel girders, built on the site of a demolished mill on the outskirts of Blackley. Shops were on one side, entertainment on the other, as long as you liked bowling and pizza. Luke's gym was in-between, a guilt trip as you walked back to your car.
I could see the metal frames of the equipment and exercise bikes as I got near to the entrance, the poseurs gallery lined up in rows near the huge windows. I could hear music thumping out of speakers as I walked inside, accompanied by the occasional clang of weights. There was a bored young woman in a polo shirt at the reception desk. She glanced at my midriff and reached for an application form. I put my business card on the counter.
‘I'm writing a story on Luke Howarth,’ I said. ‘Is there anyone I could speak to?’
I detected a change in her mood. ‘The press came here last week,’ she said, her voice timid. ‘I thought you'd all got bored.’
I shook my head. ‘Luke deserved more than that,’ I replied, guessing that she might be a friend. ‘I want to find out what happened to him. Were you one of his friends?’
‘Not really,’ she said, but then looked apologetic. ‘I don't mean that I didn't like him. I haven't been here long, but he seemed pretty nice. Callum was Luke's best friend.’ She looked at her watch. ‘He'll be on a break soon. I'll page him to come down.’ Then she pointed me towards the coffee bar in one corner of the gym.
I was halfway through my latte when I saw a tall man walking towards me, his skin dark, his hair shaved afro. He wore the same uniform polo shirt as the girl on reception, but he filled it, the sleeves tight against his arms, his broad chest visible through the cloth. I stood up to greet him, my hand outstretched. ‘Callum, I presume.’
He didn't take it.
‘Thanks for seeing me at short notice,’ I added.
He sat down and folded his arms.
‘Had your fill of journalists in the last week?’ I ventured.
He paused for a moment, and then relaxed, and his eyes lost some of their hostility. ‘I just can't see what good they have done. Luke was just a passing story to them, but he was my friend.’
‘Well, I'm not writing for the dailies. I'm writing a feature.’
‘On what?’
‘On Luke. A tribute.’ I tried to hold his gaze as I said it, so that he wouldn't spot the lie.
‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.
I tapped my pen on my lap and asked, ‘How about Luke and Sarah? What kind of couple were they?’
‘You'll need to write two stories to get that,’ he said.
I was confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They weren't a couple,’ Callum replied.
I was still confused.
‘C'mon, get real,’ said Callum, shaking his head at me. ‘They were fucking each other, that's all. Have you been out of the game that long?’ Before I could ask him what he meant, he added, ‘No offence, but you don't look like a man on the hunt.’
‘But I get the impression that they were “Luke and Sarah” – you know, a couple,’ I said, looking down at myself, seeing the old boot-fit jeans and tatty jumper, bought the year before and worn too often.
Callum snorted. ‘That's because she killed him. Go back a couple of months, maybe even less than that, and Luke was my friend, and Sarah was just one of the girls he was seeing.’
‘So it was casual?’ I asked, still surprised. Katie had talked like it was a whirlwind, that special one.
‘Casual? Oh yes, very casual,’ Callum answered, laughing slightly, his eyebrows raised. ‘Yeah, sure, Luke liked her. She was good-looking, and had a great body. He met her in one of the clubs in town, and it seemed like most of the eyes were on her.’
‘A good notch on his belt?’
Callum shrugged, unapologetic. ‘Think of the women you wish you'd been with, and I bet one is a teacher. Something about it, isn't there? The discipline, the respect.’
‘Maybe for schoolboys,’ I replied.
Callum blinked, spotted the jibe. ‘Maybe in ten years' time I'll think like you,’ he responded.
A smile flickered on my lips. He'd won that point. Then I remembered about the rage, the knife in the chest. And I thought about what Katie had told me, and so I said, ‘What if I told you that Sarah was getting in deeper, perhaps much deeper than Luke?’
‘She knew the score, they all did,’ he replied, and then it was his turn to smile. He had spotted me for what I was: settled. But he presumed that I wanted his life. Sometimes I liked the idea of being single, but it was like waiting for summer: you expected the sunshine but only ever got showers.
‘What do you mean “all”?’ I asked.
Callum laughed at me. ‘He was a fitness instructor. Do you have any idea what it's like?’
I shook my head.
‘Middle-aged women try to hang on to their youth by booking one of us,’ he continued. ‘They try and get back to a shape that they haven't had since they were teenagers, and in between breaths they try and seduce us.’
‘And do they?’
‘That depends. Some of the women look good, and sometimes there are some young clients, maybe young women trying to burn off the pregnancy weight. Our only rule is that they have to be single; we don't want angry husbands coming down here.’
‘Cramp your style?’
‘Don't look at me like that,’ he snapped at me. ‘We all know the rules. Do you think the women care about us? Course not. We're just muscles to them, something different from their ex-husband. Sarah was the same. All coy and reserved on the outside, but once you take them home, well, you can guess the rest. Luke said it was like peeling off a mask, you know, like the angel was really the devil in wings and a white dress.’
‘So there were other women?’
‘Luke was a good-looking bloke – there were always other women.’
‘Anyone special? Or any who didn't like being unsuccessful with him?’
‘He didn't tell me that much,’ Callum said, softening slightly. ‘Just man-talk, you know, all about the conquests, not the losses.’
I made some notes, scribbles that I knew I would have to make sense of later. He had some good quotes, but I was starting to feel uneasy. Katie had described the relationship as close, but now Luke's friend had described it as relaxed, and whatever it had been, Luke had ended up with a knife buried into his chest. The two things didn't add up.
‘Did Luke have a temper?’ I asked.
Callum looked surprised by the question. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I'm just wondering why Sarah would stab him, if it was so casual. Self-defence?’
‘No,’ Callum replied warily. ‘Luke was a pretty chilled-out kind of person.’
‘But maybe there was something affecting his mood.’
‘What like?’
I sensed some defensiveness in his question. I pointed at Callum's arms, the veins being throttled by the knitted sleeve of his polo shirt. ‘You work in a gym,’ I said. ‘You'll know what goes on in the pursuit of physique.’
‘Are you saying Luke was on drugs?’
I cocked my head. ‘I don't know, but you don't end up looking like you do on chicken and pasta.’
Anger flashed across Callum's face, his jaw clenching as he glared at me.
‘Roid rage,’ I pressed, trying to guess the answer from his response. ‘Perhaps Sarah was just defending herself?’
Callum stood up quickly, his chair rocking back on its legs. ‘Is that what you're going to write?’ he demanded.
‘I'll write the truth,’ I replied.
‘It doesn't sound like much of a tribute,’ he said.
‘You haven't given me much to admire about him.’
‘Please leave,’ he said, his voice low and angry, his brow furrowed as he stared at me.
‘Nothing else to add?’ I asked, pushing for one more quote.
Callum didn't answer, and we both knew the interview was over.
I thanked him for his time and walked towards the door. I stopped for a moment and thought about apologising. His closest friend had died and I was making allegations without proof. I had lost both my parents and so I knew how raw grief could be. Had I sold out my humanity for the value of a good quote? I glanced back at Callum, but from the hostile stare he was giving me, I could tell that any apology would be pointless.
When I got back to my car, I threw my pad onto the passenger seat and wondered whether I was wasting my time. Sarah Goode was missing, and her occasional lover was dead. It sounded straightforward. If I wanted to use it there had to be an angle, something different from the average murder report.
But there was something different. I sensed it. If Katie was right, Sarah had killed Luke in a lover's rage, passion gone wrong. But if Callum was telling the truth, it was a murder without reason.
I checked my watch and wondered what Laura would say if she knew what I was doing. No, I knew what she would think; the memory of the argument that morning was still sour. So if I was going to write the story, I wanted Laura to find out from me.
Laura McGanity tried not to look at the prisoner in front of her, as she sat on a plastic chair that was bolted to the floor to stop prisoners throwing them, in one of the interview rooms at the end of the cell complex. No windows, no natural light. The floor was dotted with old chewing gum and scarred by cigarette burns, souvenirs of life before the smoking ban. Pete was next to her, leaning forward to make the cramped space seem even smaller.
The prisoner in front of her had been arrested from the middle of the brawl, dishing out black eyes to anyone who came close, until a blast of parva spray sent him to the gutter, crying at the pain in his eyes. His bravado had melted now, and he had slept off most of the drink, but he was trying hard to keep his breakfast down. He'd been sick down his jumper, and he held it in his hands, putting it to his mouth whenever another wave of nausea hit him. Laura kicked the bin towards him and shook her head, trying to breathe through her mouth. This wasn't on the recruitment poster.
Pete Dawson was frustrated. ‘Doesn't look like he wants to explain himself,’ he said to Laura. ‘Looks like the court will form its own conclusion.’
‘Do you really think it will get that far?’ asked the prisoner's legal representative, a young police-station runner in shiny pinstripes and gelled hair who looked like he wanted to be much further away from his client than the bolted-down chair would allow.
‘I wasn't talking to you,’ barked Pete.
‘Okay,’ the legal rep replied, his smirk forcing Pete to take a deep breath to keep his anger at bay. He turned to his client and said theatrically, ‘For the benefit of the tape, let's hear it one more time.’
The prisoner held his jumper to his mouth. ‘No comment,’ came the muffled reply.
Laura turned away as the smell of the jumper wafted towards her. She was frustrated by the no comment mantra, but she knew the advice was right. The other fighters didn't want to help, so if he didn't confess, he would win the day.
‘Let's suspend the interview,’ she said. ‘I think we all need some fresh air.’
As Pete clicked off the tape machine, a twin-deck black cube, Laura said, ‘We're going to check out the CCTV. Your client can think about that as he sits in his cell.’
As she headed for the door, Pete just behind her, she heard a groan, and then the splash of the prisoner's vomit as he lost his battle with his stomach. From the curse that came from his rep, it seemed that he hadn't quite made it to the waste bin.