Paul Finch - Stalkers

‘Well?’ Lauren asked again.

‘We’re not going to Gallows Hill just yet. I don’t fancy another fight straight away. Do you?’

‘Suppose not.’ She dabbed at her nose again. ‘So where are we going?’

Heck followed signs towards the motorway junction. ‘Somewhere we can get patched up.’

‘Who is this O’Hoorigan guy, anyway?’

‘He may know something.’

‘So we’ve got to speak to him?’

‘Correction. I have to speak to him.’

‘And while you’re getting patched up, what if he moves on?’

‘Then he moves on. It’s not like I haven’t learned anything.’

‘Eh?’ Lauren looked baffled.

‘You think we just got lucky Deke intervened when he did?’

‘He wasn’t being a good Samaritan?’

‘You don’t find many of those in that neck of the woods.’

‘He didn’t sound local, I must admit.’

‘More East Anglian, I’d say.’

‘Still doesn’t tell us much.’

Heck shook his head. ‘It tells us that we’re onto something . Trouble is, at the moment I’m not sure what.’

The house was on Cranby Street, a small terraced row, at least half of which had been demolished as part of some long-ago clearance scheme. It wasn’t exactly cobbled, but to Lauren’s eye it didn’t look as if it had changed since George Orwell’s day.

Every house was built from the same red brick, though a couple had received ‘stone-cladding’, much of which had now deteriorated, making them look grotesque. All their doorsteps had been fastidiously scrubbed, but here and there a lower portion of front wall bellied slightly. There was even a canal at the far end, with a lock-gate visible, and on the other side of that an area of reclaimed spoil land where playing fields had been marked out and rugby posts erected.

It was early evening and the street quiet, when they parked. The heavy cloud cover was in the process of clearing, much of it tinged pink by the setting sun. Both Heck and Lauren were now feeling their extensive cuts and bruises. The shock of the fight was seeping through them. Lauren climbed tiredly from the car as Heck approached the front door. Bradburn — from what she’d seen of it — was a typical South Lancashire backwater, but not massively different to many parts of Leeds.

Located twenty miles north of Manchester, it wasn’t the sort of place you’d even notice if you passed it on the motorway: a minor blot on a bleak, post-industrial landscape. Since the collapse of the coal and textiles industries, it had clearly tried to throw off its ‘muck and brass’ identity, but had found nothing to replace it with. Its central streets were now interchangeable with those of every other stagnating provincial town in the UK; lined with the same boring shops, delineated by soulless, monolithic structures of glass and concrete, which passed for malls. Its outskirts were even worse; a grid-work of uniformly drab housing estates, punctuated here and there by short rows of purpose-built retail units which usually consisted of a greasy chippie, a tanning salon and a boarded-up pub.

At least Cranby Street retained some old-time character.

Heck’s sister, Dana, lived at number twenty-three. She answered the door in flip-flops, cut-off jeans and a sleeveless blouse, an outfit which suited her. Aged in her early forties, she was very attractive, with long, dark hair and a slim, shapely figure.

Her eyes initially lit up at the sight of her brother, but then her mouth dropped open in shock. ‘Good God, what’s happened?’

‘Is Sarah here?’ he asked.

‘She’s … she’s in France with school.’

‘Good. That means we can come in?’ He shouldered his way inside, awaiting no invitation. ‘This is Lauren. She’s helping me with a case.’

Dana, still looking stunned, turned and followed him in. Lauren brought up the rear. They entered a small, neat lounge, where a television was tuned to one of the satellite movie channels and a half-drunk glass of wine sat alongside the remnants of a salad.

‘What happened to you?’ Dana asked, switching the TV off. ‘You had an accident, or something?’

‘We ran into a spot of trouble.’

Dana glanced at Lauren, who’d cleaned her face with her sleeve, but had found it impossible to hide the dried blood spattered down the front of her sweater.

‘You sure you aren’t better off at casualty? You both look terrible.’

‘If it’s any consolation,’ Heck said, ‘you should see the other lot.’

Dana shook her head as she went fussing into the kitchen, returning with a first-aid kit and handing them each a wad of antiseptic wipes.

Heck peeled off his jacket. ‘Don’t suppose you’re expecting company this evening?’

‘Yeah, by nine I’ll have gentleman callers queuing down the street.’

He nodded, ignoring the sarcasm.

‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ Dana asked again.

‘No.’

‘At least give me some clue. You never even said you were coming north this week.’

‘It’s nothing important.’ He handed her his jacket. ‘Trust me.’

She held it at arm’s length, gingerly. ‘This is ruined. In fact all your clothes are ruined. I can wash and iron them, but they won’t be ready by morning.’

‘Doesn’t matter, we’ve got spares in the boot. We were planning to be up here for a couple of days.’

‘And you weren’t going to tell me?’

‘There was no need to involve you.’

‘You mean until you got so beaten up that it became obvious a hotel wouldn’t let you past the front door?’ Dana glanced around at Lauren, who couldn’t meet her gaze.

The atmosphere was far more awkward than the ex-squaddie had anticipated when Heck had told her that they were going to his sister’s house. Okay, even where members of family were concerned, it wasn’t the done thing to turn up unannounced and battered to the point where you were almost unrecognisable. But there’d been no apology from Heck, or even a reasonable attempt to offer an explanation.

‘I don’t suppose it really matters,’ Dana said. ‘I’m guessing you’re staying over now?’

‘If it’s convenient,’ Heck replied.

‘At least I get to see you again. What’s left of you.’ She glanced back at Lauren. ‘Lauren, is it?’

Lauren nodded, smiled.

‘Nice to meet you. I’m Dana Black, Mark’s sister.’

‘Hi,’ Lauren said.

‘Why don’t you go and get yourself a bath?’ Dana suggested. ‘There’s plenty of hot water, and fresh towels in the airing cupboard on the landing.’

Lauren nodded and moved gratefully into the hall. Heck followed her out. ‘Go on up,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the stuff from the car.’

When he came back indoors, carrying Lauren’s backpack in one hand and his own holdall in the other, Dana met him in the porch. ‘You two together?’ she asked quietly.

‘What?’

‘You know … together ?’

‘Oh … no.’

She looked disappointed. ‘She a police officer too?’

‘A witness.’

Dana’s disappointment changed to visible concern. ‘And this is why you were attacked?’

‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’

‘It always is.’ She followed him to the foot of the stairs. ‘Tell Lauren she can have the spare bedroom. You can use Sarah’s. But make sure you have a bath first. I don’t want her coming home from holiday and finding blood everywhere.’

He nodded and made to ascend, but Dana stopped him with a hand on his arm. ‘Just out of interest, Mark … are you going to keep punishing me forever?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t give me that. Never responding to my calls, never getting in touch — not even at Christmas. You’re only here now because you’ve nowhere else to go.’