Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

Palmer dropped Riley off outside her flat, but declined her offer of coffee and a shower.

‘I’ll go back to my place for a shower and some kip,’ he said. ‘Then I’d better get back to Colebrooke and see how they’re holding up.’

Riley waved him off, then went inside to be met by the bulky, grinning figure of Mr Grobowski in the hallway.

‘Good mornings, Miss Riley,’ he boomed, in what he probably thought was a considerate whisper. His accent was as heavy as a tank trundling over scrap iron. ‘I just getting backs, too. We have a party at the community centre. I feed Lipinski, by the way. He like my dumplings, you bet.’ His eyes twinkled wickedly as he nodded towards the street. ‘Was your friend Mr Frank, huh? He’s a nice mans.’

Riley smiled. For some reason, the elderly Pole was convinced Palmer was her boyfriend. It hadn’t occurred to him yet that John Mitcheson had been up and down these stairs more often than a mere friend. ‘You’re right, Mr G,’ she said. ‘He’s nice.’

She bid him goodnight and went upstairs, where she kicked off her shoes with a sigh if relief. The cat was asleep on the sofa, no doubt too full to move, so Riley left him to his dreams and checked her email before going to bed. There was one message. It was from Tristram.

Tomorrow. 34a, Almondbury Street, Barnston, nr Huddersfield. I hope I can trust you.

*********

Although described as a part of Huddersfield, Barnston proved to be more of a self-contained satellite suburb, situated on the eastern outskirts.

After a three-hour drive up the M1, Riley found the town centre flush with shoppers, mostly attending a farmer’s market in the open square. She located a small car park and strolled along Almondbury Street, which became a pedestrian piazza complete with cast-iron benches and litter bins, and a line of flower tubs gleaming black in the mid-morning sunlight.

She was wondering if she had taken leave of her senses coming here without something more concrete to go on. Maybe she could blame it on lack of sleep after yesterday’s excitement at Colebrooke House. But after seeing Tristram’s latest message, she had been unable to get more than a brief nap, and had eventually given in to the inner voice telling her she needed to meet this person to hear what he knew and put a face to all the emails.

She located a branch of Boots and looked across the piazza to a line of shop windows with numbers on the fascias. 32 and 34 were easy to see, then came a gap filled by a short stretch of spear-topped, wrought iron railings enclosing a twin set of stairs. Above this stood the signs LADIES and GENTLEMEN.

She walked past the railings and looked up at the next window, which was a charity shop. She frowned and checked the number above the door. 36.

She circled the piazza twice, checking both sides in case she had missed something. But there was no 34A. She checked the printout of Tristram’s last email. It definitely said 34A.

She’d been had.

She walked back to the charity shop and pushed through the front door. A woman was writing out price tickets behind the counter.

‘Morning, love,’ the woman said, smiling cheerfully.

Riley returned her greeting. ‘I’m looking for number 34A,’ she explained. ‘But I’ve a feeling I’ve got the wrong information. Was there ever a 34A?’

The woman nodded. ‘Aye, love. Still is, too. You need next door.’

Riley stared at the woman. ‘But there’s nothing there apart from-’

‘The toilets. That’s right.’ She gave a brief chuckle. ‘It’s our local folly, is that. The council got a grant to build some new public toilets. For some reason, they didn’t want to list it on the town plans as a convenience, so some wag called it 34A and the number stuck. Now, when anyone wants to go to the loo, everyone round here calls it doing a 34A.’ She pulled a face. ‘A right waste of money if you ask me. Still, you can’t argue with bureaucrats, can you, once they make their minds up?’ She looked at the paper in Riley’s hand. ‘Who are you looking for, anyway?’

‘Somebody called Tristram,’ Riley replied. ‘I don’t suppose it rings a bell, does it?’

‘No, love — sorry.’ The woman smiled wryly. ‘That’s not a name you’ll find much of round here, anyway. Tristram? Sounds a bit southern, does that.’ She nodded, her good deed done for the day, and went back to her price tickets.

Riley thanked her and walked outside. She glanced sideways at the toilets, then strolled across the piazza to Boots, where she studied the window display. It gave her a reasonably clear reflection of the street behind her, from where she could scan the scene for signs of anyone behaving out of the ordinary. If this was some form of elaborate hoax, the perpetrator might be watching to see if he or she had reeled anyone else in.

After a few minutes, she moved on and did a tour of the piazza. Still nothing.

She thought with distaste about the long drive back and felt a growing sense of annoyance — not least at her own gullibility. All this way on the say-so of a computer prankster!

She spotted a café further along the street and decided a coffee and something sugary might be a source of inspiration — or at least, salve her wounded pride at having been taken in so easily. She walked inside and ordered a latte and a large Danish, and sat down near a collection of elderly people in smart coats and hats, their feet surrounded by bags. Clearly, shopping here was a serious business, and included a stop off at the café afterwards.

‘Hello, love. Any luck?’ Riley turned. It was the woman from the charity shop, accompanied by another woman who might have been a clone. As if reading her mind, the woman said, ‘This is my sister, Janice. I’m Eileen, by the way. We’re on a coffee break; we need a sugar boost for the energy.’

‘Good for you,’ Riley replied. ‘And no — no luck, I’m afraid.’

Eileen relayed Riley’s search to her sister in a voice loud enough to catch the ear of several other women, and soon Riley was the centre of attention, with speculation bouncing back and forth about the mysterious name. She didn’t explain why she was looking for Tristram, and nobody pressed her for a reason. But nobody could offer anything but shrugs and dubious glances, and soon the café returned to normal. Then an elderly man at the next table caught Riley’s eye and leaned across the gap.

‘You should ask Jacob Worth,’ he whispered. He winked, then stood up and collected his coat off the back of the chair. ‘He’s a strange one, that. He might not speak to you. But he’s got one of them computers — I’ve seen him use it. Don’t tell him I said so.’

‘Thanks,’ said Riley. ‘Where do I find this Jacob?’

‘In the bog, of course.’ The old man looked at her as if she was slow-witted. ‘Where else would you find a toilet attendant?’ Then he walked out, nodding goodbye to the other customers.

Riley finished her coffee, wondering if this wasn’t simply an extension to the hoax. But with the long drive back to look forward to, it seemed worth the extra effort to find out if this Jacob existed, and if he could help. She walked across to the toilet block and down the stairs beneath the sign marked LADIES.

The entrance led to a white-tiled interior lit by fluorescent ceiling lights. A line of cubicles stood on one side, with sinks, hand-dryers and towel dispensers on the other. Everything looked new and shiny. At the end of the room was a wooden door.

She knocked. It felt solid and unyielding. There was no answer.

She returned to her car and waited. Council folly or not, whoever heard of a toilet attendant not being in attendance? Maybe he had another block to look after across the other side of town. Or maybe he was deaf and hadn’t heard her.