The Edge Read online

  Jon shut his eyes. I can’t tell you what they did to him.

  ‘Stabbed maybe. They’ll find out.’

  A long hissing sound. He turned his head. Tiny plumes of smoke were emerging from between Alan’s clenched teeth.

  ‘Stabbed. It was drugs, I know it.’

  Anger flashed like a neon sign in Jon’s head. Maybe a fucked-up life because you threw the poor bastard out while he was still just a teenager. Years spent trying to cope with that rejection. Endless replays of you telling him to never come back. Maybe, you heartless bastard, that played a bigger part in his death.

  ‘She’s right, your mother. It’s my fault.’

  Jon didn’t dare look at his face. ‘We’re all to blame, Dad. Even Dave.’

  ‘No. I slung him out on the streets, no one else. Thing is? I’ve regretted what I did for bloody years. I forgave him ages ago, but could never bring myself to tell him. He never made the effort to call, so neither did I. Pride. Stupid bloody pride.’

  Jon heard a wet sniff and froze. Fuck, he’s crying. My dad’s crying. He maintained his silence, looking straight ahead as Alan rubbed at his face. When his father spoke there was a crack in his voice. ‘I’m the reason he’s dead.’ He pulled on his cigar then held it before his face to study the glowing tip. ‘It’s my fault.’

  Actually, Jon wanted to say, it’s not. It was a paedophile who screwed him up. But because of who that man was – and what he represented to your wife – I can’t tell you. ‘It’s not, Dad. Dave was out of control. If anyone had a chance to talk him round it was me, and I was too busy with my life to make the effort.’

  Alan shook his head. ‘I should never have disowned him. There should have been a door open for him at this house. I slammed it shut.’

  ‘Dad, he was leaving anyway. He’d packed a bag. He’d made his choice. If you’d tried to call him back that day, he would have laughed in your face and carried on.’

  His father didn’t reply. Jon knew he’d be raking over the events that led up to the final confrontation. Dave had never been a well-balanced kid and in the years following the abuse, he’d started dabbling in drink and soft drugs. After being arrested for stealing a car, Alan had slapped him round the house, slowly, methodically, choosing the blows for maximum effect as Mary shrieked at him to stop. The pain obviously had no effect because Dave was arrested again within weeks. There followed a hostile silence between father and son. Jon had guessed the reason for Alan’s lack of action: no one had ever acted like this with him before. Not on any rugby pitch in the north-west, not in any pub he drank in after a day working on the docks. Jon knew of his dad’s reputation around Salford as a younger man, a man who had knocked down men far bigger than himself in numerous pub fights. And he knew Alan simply didn’t know how to handle someone who defied him with absolutely no concern for the consequences. After Dave was arrested for stealing cars a third time, Alan threw him out.

  ‘I don’t know where I went wrong.’ His father directed the end of his cigar towards Jon. ‘Look at you. You’ve come out fine.’

  Jon blinked. His dad had never given him such an open compliment before.

  ‘Ellie’s fine, too. Where did I go wrong with the lad?’

  Jon felt his throat seizing up. ‘He just had something loose in his head, Dad. You couldn’t fix it, none of us could.’

  Alan sighed. ‘Someone did though, didn’t they?’ Anger had steadied his voice. ‘Some bastard fixed him for ever.’

  ‘The police out there will find whoever did it,’ Jon replied, an image of the two young constables in his head. He drew in breath as questions started popping up. Who had rung Dave’s mobile that morning? How did the killer know about the arrangement between poachers and park rangers? Why would Dave have gone out to some hill top in the middle of the night? Shit, I didn’t even think to ask.

  ‘Police?’ Scorn curdled his father’s voice. ‘Twenty years ago, I’d have dealt with this myself. Too old now, though.’ He regarded his hand, the loose skin on the back of it dotted with liver spots. Jon could see the little scars among the myriad wrinkles. The result of a lifetime of rugby, the scratches, the cuts, the skin torn by stamping boots. His own hands were dotted with similar injuries, too.

  ‘Find them, son. Find whoever killed our kid and hit them hard. Give it them back in spades before you bring them in. Make them regret what they did to Dave.’

  Christ, Dad, Jon thought. This isn’t a half-time talk. You’re not dealing with an opposition rugby team here. These people hacked Dave up. They fucking sawed his body into pieces.

  ‘Will you do it, son? Twenty, no ten, years ago, I’d have done it myself. You know that.’ He jutted his chin up, challenging Jon to dispute the fact.

  ‘Yeah, Dad, I know you would have.’

  He stepped sideways, now squaring up to his son, fire in his eyes. That’s more like it, Jon thought. You were never so comfortable as when imposing your will on other men. ‘So will you do it? Will you find them?’

  He felt himself nod. ‘I’ll go back, start asking questions.’ He dropped the cigar butt into the plant pot behind him, glad to retreat from his father’s bristling stare. Taking out his phone, he selected his DCI’s home number and called it. Buchanon answered after a couple of rings, the sound of chatting and laughter in the background. A nice Sunday lunch with the family, Jon thought.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Boss, it’s DI Spicer here. Sorry to call you at home like this.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve got good reason.’

  Jon nodded. Yeah, I’ve got good reason all right. ‘Family bereavement, sir.’ He hesitated, a part of him unwilling to state what happened, fearing how it would seal the event as an indisputable fact. ‘My younger brother.’

  ‘Christ. Take all the time off you need. Can I ask what happened?’

  ‘I’d prefer to let you know in person.’

  ‘Of course. What else can I do?’

  ‘Nothing, thanks. I’m not due in for three days, so hopefully

  I’ll only need a day or two of compassionate leave.’

  ‘Take the week – just call if you need more.’

  ‘Cheers, boss.’ He hung up and glanced at his father. Alan stared back, face like a block of stone. Looking away, Jon rang his home number. ‘Alice, it’s me.’

  ‘How is it? You’ve told them?”

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Not too good.’

  ‘Oh, Jon. Think I should come round to be with your mum?’

  He had to pause and gulp in some air. Here I go, he thought bitterly. Lying to her again. He pictured Alice at the other end of the phone, the concern on her face. And here you are, about to deceive the one person who’s been there for you more than any other. A rotten taste filled his mouth; like he’d bitten into some bread, then realised the underside of the sandwich in his hand was furred with green mould. ‘Listen, can you pack me a bag? Couple of pairs of trousers, T-shirts. Enough for a few days. My hiking boots and windproof as well.’

  ‘Hiking boots? What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m going back to Haverdale to help out.’

  ‘Haverdale? They’ve asked you to help? But you’re his brother, how can they ask that?’

  Knowing it was the only way Alice would allow him to go, he steeled himself for the lie. ‘They need someone with a good knowledge of murder investigations.’

  ‘Jon, slow down. This is ridiculous. What about your work? Buchanon?’

  His eyes strayed to his dad. ‘He’s signed me off. Compassionate leave.’

  ‘Jon, hang on. You haven’t thought this through—’

  ‘Just pack the bag, will you? I’ll be home in half an hour.’ He snapped the phone shut and his dad nodded his approval. ‘What will you do with Mum?’

  His father shrugged. ‘We’ll muddle through.’

  ‘She needs your support.’

  He grimaced. ‘She gets all the support she needs from that bloody church. Your mum
and I share a house, son. That’s pretty much all we’ve done for years now.’

  Jon looked out across the garden. Primroses had begun to appear in the rockery. He reflected on his parents. Have I misinterpreted their relationship? Are their frequent silences not the comfortable periods of quiet between two life-long companions, but the simple lack of words between a couple who have drifted apart? No, it’s not that bad, surely. But now the issue of why Dave left home has reared its ugly head . . . I have to sort this mess out, Jon concluded. Finding Dave’s killer isn’t just something I owe my younger brother. It’s the only way to stop Mum and Dad from tearing their marriage apart.

  As Jon climbed out of his car, Alice opened their front door. He could see his bag in the hallway behind her. She looked at him, uncertainty all over her face. ‘Thanks for packing that for me,’ he announced.

  ‘Are you at least coming inside?’

  Jon half turned his head. Sounds of a kiddy’s programme on the TV. Holly would be there, face lit up by the glow from the screen. He looked at his wife, afraid she would sense his lies.

  ‘Yes.’ He stepped into the hallway, saw the door to the front room was shut and wrapped his arms around her.

  ‘Oh, Jon. I’m so sorry. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Surreal, to be honest,’ he replied in a low voice so Holly wouldn’t hear him. ‘Like this isn’t quite happening, you know – for real.’

  ‘That’s a natural part of the grieving process.’

  ‘Yeah?’ A few months ago Alice had volunteered to help in a Manchester-based charity that offered support to traumatised asylum-seekers. Every week she came home with a horrific story. Trafficked women, torture victims from the Middle East, shell-shocked African teenagers who’d seen their parents hacked to death. She’d embarked on a counselling course as soon as she could. ‘Thanks for packing my bag,’ he repeated.

  He saw her eyebrows dip a fraction.

  ‘Alice, I don’t need to start feeling sorry for myself. I can’t afford to.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s not about feeling sorry for yourself. It’s about addressing your emotions. And you can’t do that if you bury yourself in this investigation.’

  He sat down on the bottom stair and hung his head in his hands. You’ve started lying, now you can’t stop. ‘I haven’t got any choice. I saw what they did to him, Ali. I saw it. I have to help find whoever killed him. Even if they didn’t want my services, I think I’d still have to go out there.’ He looked up at her. ‘Can you understand that?’

  She crouched down, pressed a finger against his lips and then touched her forehead against his. They stayed like that for a few seconds, then she searched out his hands and straightened up, pulling his arms as she did so. ‘Come into the kitchen, sit down for a minute.’

  She led the way and as Jon followed, he looked at her blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail. What, he thought, would I do without you? ‘I’m sorry for being a bit sharp with you. I didn’t mean to be.’

  As her arm swung back, she flicked a wrist.

  They sat down at the table, holding hands across it. Jon spotted a couple of chocolate Easter eggs on the shelf above the radiator, still in their wrappings. Next to them was a painted egg. He could make out the faint pencil lines where Alice had drawn circles and diamonds on the shell. Filling the shapes were crudely applied blobs of paint. Propped against it was a certificate entitled, ‘Lyme Park’s Easter Egg Painting Competition.’ His daughter’s name had been handwritten beneath the words.

  ‘She won?’ Jon asked proudly.

  Alice gave him a look. ‘Every kid wins a certificate at those types of events. She’s a toddler, Jon.’

  He smiled. Another minor event in my daughter’s life that

  I’ve missed.

  ‘It’s not your fault what happened to Dave.’

  The smile fell from his face. ‘But it is in a way, isn’t it? Where was I for him? What did I do to actually help him – even after Ellie told me the truth about what happened to the pair of them.’

  ‘You mean the man who—’

  ‘Yeah, him,’ Jon cut her off. The man you don’t realise I murdered.

  ‘Maybe you and Ellie should think about telling Mary and

  Alan the truth.’

  ‘What? That a fellow member of the church she lives for, preyed on her trust to sexually abuse her son and mentally abuse her daughter? Ellie swore me to secrecy about the whole thing, and I can see why. It would destroy Mum.’ He rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘They’ve fallen out over this already, you realise? Mum said to Dad it was his fault. Dad’s that gutted, he admitted as much to me out on the patio.’

  ‘But not to your mum?’

  ‘Not yet. If I can help clear things up in Haverdale, it will give them the opportunity to patch things up, I’m sure. Until then, they’re stuck, resentment festering between them.’

  ‘Was it him?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Was it Alan who encouraged you to offer your services?’

  Jon avoided her eyes. ‘He’s keen to know who killed him, same as me.’

  ‘Christ, Jon. What sort of a hold has that man got over you?’

  ‘He’s my dad, Alice. You never had one, so it’s hard for you to understand.’

  Alice looked away.

  ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t meant to sound harsh. But he walked out when you were tiny. It’s hard to explain, but yes, I want him to be pleased with me. Doesn’t everyone seek that kind of approval?’

  ‘I want my mum to be proud of me, but I know she just wants me to be happy.’

  Happy? Jon wanted to laugh. Is that why, he thought to himself, she only ever turns up here when there’s been a disaster in her life? Like being dumped by the latest boyfriend.

  Alice sighed. ‘Your dad. He says jump and you say, How high? I don’t get it.

  Neither do I, thought Jon. Neither do I.

  She squeezed his fingers. ‘Jon, this whole thing? We’ll go through it together. Remember that.’

  He returned the pressure, wanting to blurt out that he had no official role in the investigation. Toes curling in his shoes, he fought the urge back, knowing Alice would never allow him to leave the house if she was aware of the truth. ‘Listen, I’d better go. I’ll just look in on Holly.’

  His daughter was lying on the floor, head propped on the stomach of their sleeping dog. ‘Hi there.’

  ‘Daddy!’

  She sat up, Punch scrabbling to his feet, too. Jon knelt, one hand going behind his dog’s ears, the other going under his daughter’s chin. ‘I saw the egg you painted.’

  ‘Me painted,’ she smiled. ‘Egg!’

  ‘Yes, you clever girl. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Beut-ful!’

  He wanted to kiss her face. ‘And you won a certificate.’

  ‘Yes!’ she beamed, though he could tell she now had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. You, he thought, are so damned gorgeous. ‘Daddy’s got to go, now. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘See you soon.’

  He bent down and kissed her smooth cheek, gave Punch a last tickle, then climbed back to his feet.

  Alice was standing in the hall, a faint smile on her face. ‘Call me later, OK? I don’t like the idea of you out there all on your own.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he replied, picking up the hold-all and then kissing her lips. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Love you, too.’

  Five

  Jon reached the turn-off for the hospital, but continued up Haverdale’s high street. He passed a couple of outdoor shops selling hiking and camping gear, a tearoom, estate agent’s, a couple of pubs, a restaurant, small art gallery, an old-fashioned ironmonger’s and another estate agent’s. All the while he scanned for anything that would indicate the location of the police station itself.

  The row of shops on the left was broken by a large hotel, grandiose portico entrance shrouded in ivy. Large gold letters spelled out ‘The Imperial’. A throwba
ck to Haverdale’s brief heyday as a wealthy spa town. Now the practice of taking the waters, as it was known, had passed. With Buxton and Harrogate not far away, reinventing itself as a conference venue wasn’t an option. Jon could see the town was struggling to find a new role.

  A short distance later he spotted three patrol cars in the car park of a building set back off the road. Here we go, he thought, eyes snagging on the signage of the mini-supermarket next to it. Beers, wines, spirits. I’ll be paying you a visit later.

  He climbed the station’s steps, passing beneath the quaint blue lamp above the front entrance. The foyer was unmanned, just an intercom buzzer to the side of a secure door. An elderly couple were seated in one corner, several sheets of paper draped across the woman’s knees. He heard them discussing the circumstances of a burglary, going over ground they’d doubtlessly covered several times before.

  ‘The side door was locked. It’s always locked.’

  ‘How can that representative assert that it wasn’t?’

  ‘Don’t fret, Margaret, the police officer will verify it – he saw how the back gate had been forced.’

  ‘You’re sure you’ve got the incident number? He’ll need it to check his notes.’

  Insurance companies, Jon thought. Do they ever change? A young man sat in the far corner, arms crossed, the corner of a driving licence peeping out from beneath one armpit. Breaking the speed limit, Jon concluded, moving across the room and pressing the intercom. Nothing for thirty seconds. He buzzed again.

  ‘They’ll keep you waiting. Been here twenty minutes, the cunts.’

  Jon glanced over his shoulder, catching the conspiratorial look on the bloke’s face. We’re in this together, it said. Pretty much partners in crime. Jon pressed the buzzer again, this time holding it down.

  The intercom eventually crackled. ‘Take your finger off the button.’

  ‘DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police. Here to see Constables

  Spiers and Batyra.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Jon turned around, seeing that a wary look had now crept over the younger man’s face. From the way the old couple were regarding him, he could tell they were thinking about pleading their case with him. To discourage any approach, Jon picked up a copy of the Haverdale Herald and sat down. It was a day old but he didn’t mind.