Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

‘Aren’t you?’ I asked him. ‘You’d been friends and then you ripped him off, practically ruined him.’

‘Bastards,’ he swore, ‘him and his bloody wife. Stood by while my family was kicked out on the streets, destitute. Totally ruthless they were and she was worse than him. Fair-weather friends they were,’ he banged on, ‘they never give us a chance.’

But Selina had attended Charlie’s funeral, she had kept in touch with the Carters, obviously siding with them in the dispute with her ex-husband. Dryden had his own world view, styled to suit himself. A narcissist. He saw himself as the victim in all this. Probably the only way he could live with himself.

‘You stole from the business, you smashed up their car, made abusive calls.’

‘Doesn’t mean I swung for the bloke.’

‘You expect me to believe you?’

The sudden release of my wrists and my head was unexpected. I scuttled round, my nerves chattering, expecting a fresh blow.

Dryden, big-boned, florid, corned-beef complexion, was yanking his shirt from his jeans. I froze. Oh, God – he was going to rape me. Saliva flooded my mouth and I wanted to gag. I began to twist, aiming to get the door handle, when he spoke.

‘Look.’ He pulled up his shirt to reveal a pasty, swollen belly and, running up from his navel, a rope-like scar, silvery and pink. ‘Double bypass. Bonfire night, last year.’ He beamed at me, a deranged, triumphant light in his eyes. ‘Read all about Charlie’s murder when I was in the hospital.’

Bonfire night was three days before the murder.

He barked with laughter again, tugged his shirt down and drew the sides of his long black coat around him. Then he lunged back at me, gripping my chin in one meaty hand. As he spoke spittle landed on my face and I could smell his breath: stale fags, the pee-like scent of whisky and something dead. I could see the nicotine stains in the grooves on his long yellow teeth. ‘It’s nowt to do with me, petal, and if you ever,’ he squeezed my jaw tighter, ‘ever, come sniffing after me or bother my mother again, I’ll carve you up. And,’ he nodded towards the house, ‘that little bairn an’ all.’ He let go. My jaw burned. I was trembling, inside and out, unable to control the shakes.

He opened the door and put one foot down on the road. ‘I wasn’t here.’ He leant back towards me, his voice whispery now. ‘You never saw us.’

He swivelled round and the car bounced at the shift in weight as he stepped out. He slammed the door and walked round to the back of the car. My breath came in jagged gasps, terror and relief, as I followed his progress in the rear-view mirror.

He took a few steps away, still on the road, then wheeled back towards my car. His hand pulled something from his coat pocket: a short metal bar. He raised his arm and slammed the weight against the back windscreen. I flinched as the glass fractured into a thousand pixels and fell, a great wash of crashing, crystal sound.

Then he strode off, his coat flapping, and rounded the corner.

Even then, no one came; just another noise in the symphony of the city.

I sat for long enough, waiting for my heart to steady, for the sheen of sweat on my skin to cool. A sob broke in my mouth, then another. I let them come, releasing the fear and distress, the fury at my impotence, my powerlessness and the vicious bastard’s power to hurt me.

When the crying was done I wiped my face, blew my nose and eased over into the driver’s seat.

My keys were in the footwell there, where I had dropped them. Picking them up, I wondered who I could call. Not Ray. And Diane was still in Dublin. I looked back at the rear windscreen, the bits of glass fringing the hole like some entrance to an ice cave. She’d appreciate it. There was no one to call.

‘Fine,’ I said aloud, my voice husky with tears. ‘Just absolutely fucking fine.’

Then I started the car, took it to have the rear windscreen repaired and went shopping. The world still turned; we still had to eat.

I felt jaded, numb, indifferent even. It was a mask, I think, born of shock, something to get me through the aftermath of being so frightened. And I had to be strong, keep functioning, because there was no one else. I was on my own.

While I put the shopping away, I thought about Dryden. He’d left Spain to escape the fraud charges there, and presumably thought I was tracing him for the Spanish authorities or his creditors. His alibi, if it could be proven, was a strong one. And taken with his demeanour, the way he’d sought me out and threatened me meant I no longer considered him a credible suspect. If he was a killer, he’d never have crawled back out of the woodwork like that. He’d have stayed hidden, protected himself.

With Damien gone, and Dryden ruled out, there was no one else who looked guilty. The person most likely to – Heather Carter – had a sound alibi backed up by her respected friend and by third parties.

So, if it wasn’t someone who knew Charlie could it have been an act of random violence? My mind returned again to the possibility of it being a road rage incident. Valerie said they’d tailed Charlie’s car as far as the turn off, then retraced their route home. Might Valerie have seen any bad driving, any trouble between Charlie and other motorists? Surely she would have said as much when notified of his death. Had she seen anyone else following Charlie’s car? Or had Heather? I was reluctant to intrude on the Carters again but plucked up the courage to try Valerie Mayhew. No answer. She might be at the Civil Justice Centre.

At reception, they told me which court Valerie Mayhew was sitting in. I slipped into her courtroom and her eyes flicked my way, freezing for a moment in clear displeasure when she saw who I was.

They were considering a case of non-payment of council tax. Mayhew, sitting in the centre of the panel of three, instructed the man concerned that he would be expected to pay his arrears off at a given rate. She gave him a brief lecture on the powers of the court to act if he failed to comply. The man was dismissed and there was a break between cases. Valerie Mayhew whispered something to her colleagues and they gathered their papers and left. She made her way over to where I was sitting.

I saw her pause and narrow her eyes as she made out the bruising already flaring on my jaw and cheek. Underneath my clothes I could feel a whole bunch more of them emerging.

‘I hope you won’t be making a habit of this,’ she said crisply. ‘I have work to do.’

‘And I’m trying to do mine,’ I said calmly. ‘I won’t keep you long.’

She inclined her head but didn’t sit, reinforcing the impression of a strict teacher.

‘It’s about when you followed Charlie in the car.’

She blinked, frowning. I don’t know what she’d expected me to ask but it wasn’t this.

‘Did you see anything happen on the way? Any near misses, any trouble between him and other motorists?’

‘No,’ she replied.

‘You could see him all the time? Were you immediately behind him?’

‘At first, then there was a car between us. Why?’ she said.

‘Weren’t you afraid he’d recognize you, or the car?’

‘A little, but it was dark. I don’t suppose most of us pay attention to who’s behind unless there’s a problem.’

‘Was there anyone following you?’

She frowned, shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea.’

‘The car that came between you – did it turn off with Charlie?’

She thought for a moment, ‘No, it carried on.’

‘And you never lost sight of him? You’d no problem keeping up?’

‘None at all. The traffic was slow moving. I wondered if he’d noticed us. That’s why I let the other vehicle in. What’s all this about?’