Lost Souls Page 11

  He settled down and tried to get some sleep. They had an early start.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I was alone downstairs, surrounded by papers, Laura asleep upstairs. The radio was on, just a soft background noise. I’d been using the internet to research Eric Randle, and the results were now spread over the table, a cold beer acting as a paperweight. In the middle of all of it was Eric’s painting.

  I felt frustrated. I had spent the day hunting a story on Jess Goldie’s murder, but now it felt like I had pieces of two but not much of either. Luke King’s arrest had been promising, but then it went cold when he was released. Anything more I could have got was lost when I was sidetracked by Randle, the story of a man who discovered a body, who then painted it and passed it off as prophecy.

  I thought I heard a creak and glanced towards the ceiling. I hadn’t shown the painting to Laura. I was worried that she would think I was working against her. When I was working, I had to be the journalist, not the copper’s mole.

  I picked up the painting. I knew from the media whispers that Jess had been found strangled, and that her eyes and tongue had been taken. That could match the painting. The eyes were crossed through—clear symbolism—but it could mean many things. I had seen the picture of Jess released to the media, small and demure, with a shy smile and straight dark hair, bookish and awkward. The figure in the painting was indistinct, lacking in detail. That was the trouble with the premonition business: it takes a maybe and turns it into a definite.

  But what about the image of Sam Nixon being interviewed alongside Luke King? Was that a coincidence too far?

  And there was a connection. Eric Randle had found the body in the picture, and Luke King had been arrested for the murder.

  I took a mouthful of beer. I didn’t have to prove it was true. All that mattered was whether it was a good story. It was certainly interesting. But I wanted to write the truth, as much as I was able. If my name was the byline, I needed to justify what I had written.

  I leaned forward and began to move the papers around. For all the benefits of the internet, nothing seemed quite the same unless it was on paper and in my hand.

  I had Googled Eric’s name and found a lot of matches. One was a mathematics professor from a university in Southampton, and another an author of a book on the history of Weybridge. But as I scrolled through, I began to pick up more relevant hits.

  The Eric Randle I was looking for came up first on dream sites. I should have expected that. But it seemed that Eric came towards the novelty end of the spectrum.

  The serious stuff came first, Freud and Jung. It seemed like Freud never got past the sexual, trains in tunnels, junior school metaphors like that. Jung got nearer to the current scientific view, that dreams were the mind’s way of sorting its problems, that when we wake up our minds throw all of our thoughts together into a jumble, and we remember them because they are our waking thoughts.

  But if that was the case, just a subconscious spring clean, then how could Eric Randle dream of the future and get it right?

  As I flicked through the scattered papers, it seemed like the whole dream scene had been hijacked by paranormal cranks and mystics. I could buy sleep supplements to make my dreams more vivid, or so the advert said, or I could learn techniques on how to remember dreams, because most of the ones I had were forgotten within a couple of minutes. But could I find a way to predict the future?

  I saw the term ‘quantum physics’ used a lot. I didn’t fully understand it—the theory that everything exists all at the same time, so that visions of the future were really just insights into another plane of reality—but I didn’t buy it; it seemed like real science had been used to dress up crackpot theories.

  But it was in these sites that Eric Randle’s name had started to appear: just small articles, written by people who wanted to believe in him.

  I drained the beer bottle and stretched, let the soft flutters coming out of the radio soothe me, and wondered whether I was wasting my time. The police suspected Eric Randle, I had guessed that much, and if he was charged with an offence, sub judice would keep the detail out of the papers for months. But still I was drawn to it.

  There was a whole scene out there that I realised I knew nothing about. It was an industry, a belief, many would say a proven truth, and I realised that Eric Randle was far from unique. Precognition was the scientific word for it, direct knowledge of the future obtained through extra-sensory means, mostly through dreams. It had even bagged an American president. Not long before his death, Abraham Lincoln dreamt that he came across a guard of honour in the East Room of the White House, standing to attention around a corpse on a raised platform, wrapped up in funeral vestments. When he asked who was dead, he was told that it was the President, and that he had been assassinated.

  I went back to the computer and carried on scouring the web. It seemed like the supply of dream sites was endless. Dream submission sites, analysis sites, premonition sites…And every so often Eric Randle’s name would appear. He had been painting his dreams for years, and people all over the world, it seemed, were interested in him.

  Then I found something.

  Tyrone Tyler had been the first boy to go missing in Blackley, right at the start of the summer. The earliest pleas to find him got plenty of internet coverage, and one of the articles mentioned Eric Randle, a local psychic who pledged to use his talent to find Tyrone.

  Now I’d heard his name come up in two of the local big stories. As tiredness took over, I knew what I had to do in the morning: seek out Eric Randle.

  Terry McKay was already in the glass booth when Sam was shown through to him.

  Blackley police put prisoners on the other side of a glass screen, with just tiny holes to talk through. Sam wasn’t sure if it was to stop lawyers passing things over or so that the police could listen to lawyers shouting their advice.

  Sam tried to look friendlier than he felt and asked Terry if he knew why he had been locked up.

  ‘Cos I smashed a fuckin’ window.’ His voice was slurred, his eyelids heavy, but Sam knew that Terry’s drunkenness wouldn’t be enough to get him an acquittal.

  ‘Why did you smash a window, Terry?’ Sam rubbed his eyes as he asked the question. He needed sleep. He checked his watch. It was close to midnight.

  Terry nodded gently. He began to smile, a slow, hostile smile.

  ‘Because I wanted to speak to you,’ he said. ‘Alone.’

  Sam exhaled. ‘You could have made an appointment,’ he said.

  Terry shook his head and glared at Sam. ‘Can’t do that. Harry Parsons won’t let me.’

  ‘What, Harry won’t let you into the office?’

  Terry nodded, still glaring.

  Sam knew that the local drunks and real down-at-heel junkies were sometimes thrown out when they came into the office begging for money. Client care could only go so far.

  ‘You can come to the office, okay, so if that’s what this is about, let’s get on with it and go home.’ Sam was watching him all the time, not making notes. He noticed the look in Terry’s eyes come alive.

  ‘You were with Jimmy King’s boy today,’ Terry said quietly, deliberately, his voice becoming clear.

  Sam felt his lips twitch. ‘You know I can’t talk about other clients,’ he said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t talk about you. It’s the rules.’

  ‘But I’m talking about me.’ He dipped his head towards the holes in the glass. ‘Jimmy King owes me, and so does Harry fucking Parsons. Owes me big.’

  ‘Owes you for what?’

  Terry jabbed the glass with his fingers. The fingertips were black with grime, the nails brown with nicotine.

  ‘He owes me for the last two years of my life, and he won’t pay.’

  Sam felt his interest dip, the interview sounding like a complaint that was too old to worry about.

  ‘Let’s get on with this, or I’m going home and you can do the interview on your own. I’m sure Harry did his best. If you’ve got a co
mplaint, we have procedures.’

  Terry leaped to his feet, the chair clattering onto the floor behind him.

  ‘That fucker ruined my life,’ he shouted. ‘Everywhere I go, they call me a rapist, a killer, a beast, and I’ve done nothing wrong! That fucker promised to pay me, and he hasn’t. All my old friends, they won’t talk to me. The police bully me all the time, always checking up on me, watching me whenever I go for a sleep somewhere.’

  ‘And who is the “fucker”? Harry Parsons or Jimmy King?’

  Terry laughed, but it was rich with bitterness. ‘Both.’

  ‘So you got me down here just so you can tell me that you hate my boss?’ Sam stood up as if to go. ‘You’re wasting my time, Terry.’

  ‘You fucking sit down!’ He was shouting, banging on the glass.

  Sam paused and turned round to listen.

  ‘You tell Harry and that fucking King I want my money.’

  ‘You’re not going to get any money from Harry. Don’t do the crime, and all that shit, Terry. See you. I’m going home.’

  ‘I didn’t do the crime,’ Terry said in a snarl, spittle peppering the glass.

  Not another convicted innocent, Sam thought, and sighed. He turned back. ‘Just tell me, Terry, quickly, before I go, why Harry owes you money.’

  He simmered for a few seconds, and then he whispered, ‘Harry told me that I’d get five grand if I lied about the person who attacked that girl.’

  ‘Which girl?’

  ‘A couple of years ago. A nice girl, so the police said, walking home from work. Someone dragged her into the church grounds and strangled her.’

  Sam remembered the case, but he couldn’t remember Terry McKay being dragged into it. It was all over the papers for a couple of weeks, but then the story had died away, just another lost victim.

  ‘So why were you involved?’

  ‘Because someone gave me a purse, told me that they had found it and that I could get a reward.’ Terry sat down. ‘I took the cash and threw the purse away. I sold the credit cards on. Someone used them, and when they were caught, the trail came back to me. And then the purse was found. My prints were on it.’

  ‘But they didn’t charge you with the murder?’

  Terry shook his head, his mouth set hard.

  ‘They wanted to, but all they had was the purse.’

  ‘So why does this involve Harry and Jimmy King?’

  ‘Because when I told the police who had given me the purse, I lied about it. I told them it was a Paki.’ He looked at me, direct. ‘But it wasn’t. It was no Paki.’

  Sam sat back down again. ‘Why did you lie?’ asked Sam tentatively. He had a feeling he was about to hear something he didn’t want to.

  Terry wiped his mouth on his hands, looking suddenly nervous.

  ‘Harry Parsons told me to, when he came down here.’

  ‘Harry did what?’ That took Sam by surprise. Harry never went to the police station. He employed people to do that.

  ‘He told me that if I lied about it, I’d get five grand. Five fucking grand.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Sam.

  Terry banged his fist on the table again. ‘You check it out,’ he shouted. ‘Five thousand pounds. Never saw a fucking penny.’ He pointed. ‘He owes me money, and I want it.’ Sam thought he could see tears in Terry’s eyes. ‘Do you know what I could have done with that money? I could have made a brand-new start.’

  Sam knew there would be no new start. Terry lived in the Orchard Hotel, but it was no country idyll, more of a fifteen-room hovel in the red-light area, occupied by the town drunks. The owner charged as much as the state would pay, provided basic furniture and a bed, and turned a blind eye when the residents spent the evenings drinking stolen booze in the lounge. In return, the residents ignored the damp in the carpets and the mould on the walls. No amount of money would have changed that. It would have gone down his throat. Nowhere else.

  ‘So you let a murderer go free for the promise of five grand?’ Sam couldn’t hide the contempt in his voice.

  Terry laughed, but Sam could hear the scorn wrapped up in it. ‘Yeah, I know you charge more than that when you do it.’

  Good shot, thought Sam. Straight to the conscience.

  ‘So who was the person who gave you the purse?’

  Terry leaned forward so that his mouth was right up to the glass. His lips looked dry, the skin pointing flakes towards the glass, a white line of dry spittle marking them out.

  ‘It was the King boy,’ he said. ‘The one you were with this morning, looking all proud in his suit.’

  ‘Luke King?’

  Terry nodded. ‘Did someone else die?’ he asked.

  Sam exhaled. The day was getting worse. His job was not to care.

  But Sam cared, and that had always been his problem. Now Luke King was linked to two murders, and he knew about both. ‘Let’s get you out of here first,’ said Sam, ‘and then we’ll talk about how to get you your five grand.’

  Terry eyed him with suspicion.

  ‘No one saw you smash the window,’ Sam continued. ‘Just make no comment to any questions.’

  ‘What about forensics?’

  ‘What, glass samples for analysis?’ Sam shook his head. He knew there would be fragments from the window on Terry’s clothes, but the police were unlikely to pay for a forensic report in a simple damage case. ‘We’ll worry about how strong the case is if you get charged. If you admit it, you’re guilty. If there’s forensic, you’re guilty. If you keep your mouth shut, you might just have your day. I reckon you’re due one.’

  Terry started to calm down. And if Sam could get them to start the interview soon, there was a chance he’d be home before sunrise. Just in time to leave for work.

  Then something occurred to him.

  ‘Why me, Terry? What do you expect me to do?’

  Terry shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ Then he smiled, a warm line of brown teeth. ‘I just wanted to warn you.’

  ‘Warn me?’

  ‘Yeah, warn you. I saw you with him today and he’s trouble.’ He shrugged. ‘You’ve always been all right with me. Just be careful.’

  Sam scratched his head, almost laughed. It seemed like everyone in Blackley was worried for him.

  Chapter Twenty

  He shivered as dawn came around. The morning chill had a sharper kick than usual.

  He sheltered under blankets, and as he tried to get warm he looked at his hands, the tips of his fingers grey and cold. They looked thin, he thought, the skin sharp and raw. Healing hands. He needed to take greater care of them. He saw a fly buzz around in the light from the oil-lamp in the corner of the room and then come towards him. He swatted at it, felt it bounce off his knuckles.

  He groaned as he sat up. The room swayed for a few seconds, but when it righted itself, he rubbed his face, felt his stubble, and then brought the oil-lamp closer. He checked his watch. They would be leaving soon.

  He looked over at the boy, his breaths coming out as thin vapour trails. He reached out and stroked the boy’s cheek. It felt cold, soft. He smiled down at the boy and then stood up. His back ached, and he groaned as he stretched.

  He started to pace. He tried to shake himself alert. He needed to eat. He felt weak, and now was not the time for lapses of concentration.

  His thoughts stopped dead when he thought he heard the boy sigh. He went over to him again and checked his pulse. There was a quickening. When he opened the boy’s eye, the pupil reacted more quickly.

  He felt a moment of panic. He had to act quickly. The boy was coming round.

  Sam woke up gasping, his forehead damp. He looked around frantically and took in the sight of his bedroom, Helena asleep beside him. He flopped back onto the bed, his chest heaving.

  It was the dream again, the same one as always. It came in flashes. He was running through a building, the walls dirty, the rooms empty, his head filled with echoes. He was tired, but still he kept running, through doors, his quarry always
running through the opposite door. He was panicking but he didn’t know why. He was just chasing something he couldn’t catch, trying to escape from something behind him. And then he was falling.

  He looked at the clock, five thirty. Helena had hardly moved. He stared at the ceiling, tried to calm himself down, but he could feel his heart beating fast. His eyes felt heavy, the skin under them sore from lack of sleep, but he knew that he wouldn’t go back to sleep.

  He got up and crept downstairs, trying not to wake anyone. He made a coffee and felt some of the tiredness lift, but he knew it wouldn’t last. The dream had been waking him for weeks. Not every night, but more than was good for him, so that he yearned for sleep during the day. As he sipped his coffee, Terry McKay came back to him.