Cath Staincliffe - Dead Wrong

I reckoned on two and a half hours to get there, allowing for hold-ups. It didn’t matter if I was early but it would be disastrous if I was late. I’d be able to take the kids to school but I didn’t know if I’d be back in time to pick them up. I asked Ray and he was able to rearrange his day so he could collect them.

Would I be back in time to see Mr Pitt at four, though? Possibly. I didn’t want to ring and cancel now that I’d started putting pressure on him to see me. I would wait and see how the time played out, I decided. If I was delayed I could use my mobile and get a message to his secretary. Preserve my professional image.

I couldn’t help speculating about Joey’s reasons for agreeing to see me. To explain his innocence or defend his guilt? To protect his grandmother now that I’d uncovered her involvement in replacing the murder weapon? Was it a trap for me? My stomach lurched. Zeb had warned me off and that hadn’t worked so now they were using Joey as a lure? No. I reassured myself. Joey was in hiding, not in cahoots with anyone. It was me who’d put the pressure on for a meeting. Was he hiding from Zeb? What had their argument been about?

I didn’t sleep much that night. It was stuffy and I had the windows wide open. It felt as if the whole street was in my bedroom with me; the yappy dog, cars and taxis, a car alarm. When I did drop off my dreams were fretful. I was at school but I’d left Maddie at home. I got in the car but the steering wheel had gone. I was late; I was horribly late. I was so late that they’d all gone and left me. I was standing in the rubble and all the alarms were screaming but my legs wouldn’t move. I reared awake and felt a wave of relief-just a dream. It was six o’clock. I lay there until the dream had faded then I started my day.

I was careful enough to leave details of where I was going with Ray. I’d keep my mobile phone with me, and if anything seemed dodgy I’d get out of the situation as fast as possible. I hoped that I wouldn’t get a call from Debbie Gosforth or her neighbours when I was halfway to Wales. Underneath my caution I was running with excited anticipation; things were on the move now. I had the buzz of making headway, the hunger to find out more. So I could finally make sense of the events of that fateful New Year’s Eve.

After depositing the children at school I topped up the car with petrol and checked my oil, tyres and water. It was hardly a mammoth journey but I didn’t want car trouble cocking it up.

It was a beautiful day for a trip to the seaside, sunny and still. The route into North Wales runs down around the outskirts of Chester, past Port Sunlight, home of soap and a host of chemical factories, and then along the coast.

There was an unmarked white transit van that had been a few cars behind me for some miles. Was I being followed? I watched it for the next few minutes. It was too far distant to see the occupants. Paranoia? After all, if the van was going to Rhyl or Llandudno this was the only route. Nevertheless I needed to set my mind at ease. There was a lay-by ahead with a Greasy Joe flying a Confederate flag. I pulled in and watched as the van passed me by. I got a glimpse of two people but couldn’t tell anything more; it was going too fast. I sat for a while; the knot in my stomach gradually relaxed and then I drove on.

In the heat the farms and fields looked their best: luminous yellow rapeseed and green sugar beet stretching away to the distance, cows browsing. Now and then I caught the stench of fertiliser. I was sticking to the seat but I was only three miles from Prestatyn.

The resort was pretty much as I remembered it. I pulled into the car park next to the promenade. There was a large leisure centre to one side and behind me across a small road, a café and games room. I’d plenty of time to spare, as the station was only a few minutes’ walk away. Good – I could fit in a paddle. I took my socks and shoes off in the car.

On the beach, the tide was out and the sand was still damp and hard-packed. My feet made little impression on its surface. I took a big breath of the briny smell and stretched my arms, then walked down to the sea’s edge. The water was very cold. I dug my toes into the sand again and again, relishing the sensation, neither solid nor liquid.

There were a few families on the beach, though it was still term time, and a handful of individuals walking dogs. In a couple of months the place would be heaving, full of the ingredients of the great British seaside holiday: the smell of hot fat and vinegar and candy floss, shouts of children and sudden outbursts from harassed parents, rows of windbreaks and vacuum flasks, buckets and spades. And as often as not, rain or wind or jellyfish to round it all off.

I paddled along the shore for a while then made my way back up the beach looking for shells. There were a few cockles, small white and orange ones. The sand was littered with small dead crabs, pale green and brown, almost translucent. Oh God – the flies…Mr Kearsal… I shook the thoughts away and ran back to the car.

I made sure I was exactly on time. Joey D was waiting as he’d said by the ticket office. He wore a long-sleeved, outsize Adidas top and shiny black Adidas joggers. The baggy clothes seemed to emphasise his small frame. If I hadn’t known better I’d have guessed he was thirteen or fourteen. He had short wavy blond hair and was very pale. Awfully pale – as though he’d been indoors all year or was malnourished. He wore black shades so I couldn’t see his eyes. I introduced myself and he nodded, then looked around, beyond me. Was I being followed?

‘I parked down at the beach and walked up here. Where do you want to go? Get a coffee?’

He shook his head. ‘This way, there’s some gardens.’

I didn’t try to talk to Joey as we walked. I was busy assessing his mood. He was tense, twitchy and he kept coughing – a raw, painful sound.

We turned into a small formal park resplendent with municipal bedding plants; busy lizzies, brick-red geranium and silvery cinerama, its leaves like thick felt. There were benches around a bowling green, the grass smooth as peach skin. A party was playing, elderly men and women, joking with each other as they took their turns. The place felt tranquil and the atmosphere cheery. I wondered what they made of us; we were hardly here for the sport but no one paid any attention. How did he know this place? Had he been here before? I had a sudden image of Mrs Deason in full throttle playing for the away team, Joey on the sidelines. As if! I was sure he wasn’t hiding in Prestatyn, but if he’d gone to ground in Liverpool or Warrington or Wigan he could have got here easily enough by train.

We sat side by side. He bit at his fingers, kept his face averted. Hard enough to read anyway behind his black glasses.

‘Joey, you understand who I am and that I’m working for Luke Wallace’s father?’

‘Yeah.’

Now I’d got Joey D I didn’t want to pussyfoot around. As far as I was concerned, the fact that he was here meant he’d talk to me, and I didn’t want to have to drag it out syllable by syllable.

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘I’m not going back,’ he said, ‘I’m not going to be a witness – right? No police, no lawyers. Nothing.’

I felt a flash of anger at all his conditions.

‘Why did you agree to see me, Joey?’

‘I didn’t do it – Ahktar,’ he spoke rapidly. ‘It was my knife but I didn’t kill him. They could charge me, if you tell them about the knife. They’ll think it’s me then. They set Luke up, they can set me up too.’

‘Hang on.’ I rifled in my bag and brought out a small Dictaphone.

‘Oh Christ.’ He shook his head. ‘No way.’