of my room, a cup of tea in his hand.
“Fuck,” I mumbled, no escape at all.
“It lives.”
“Christ.”
“Thanks. And a good morning to you.”
Ten minutes later we were on the road.
Twenty minutes later, headache banging on an empty stomach, I had finished up my story.
“Well, that swan was found up in Bretton.” Barry was taking the scenic route.
“Bretton Park?”
“My father’s mates with Arnold Fowler and he told him.”
Blast from the past number ninety-nine; me sat cross-legged on a wooden school floor as Mr Fowler talked birds. The man had been a fanatic, starting a bird-watching club at every school in the West Riding, a colurruvin every local paper.
“He still alive?”
“And still writing for the Ossett Observer . Telling me you haven’t been reading it?”
Almost laughing, I said, “So how did Arnold find out?”
“You know Arnold. Owt goes down in the bird world, Arnold’s the first to hear.”
Two swan’s wings had been stitched into her back .
“Seriously?”
Barry looked bored. “Well Sherlock, I imagine the good people at Bretton Park’11 have told him. Spends every waking hour up there.”
I looked out of the window as another silent Sunday sped by. Barry had seemed neither shocked nor even that interested in either the gypsy camp or the post-mortem.
“Oldman’s got a thing about gypsies,” was all Barry had said, before adding, “and the Irish.”
The post-mortem had gotten even less of a reaction and had had me wishing I’d shown the photographs to Barry or, at the very least, had the bloody guts to have looked at them myself.
“They must be bad,” was all I’d said.
Barry Cannon had said nothing.
I said, “It must’ve been a copper at the Redbeck.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“But why?”
“Games, Eddie,” he said. “They’re playing fucking games with you. Watch yourself.”
“I’m a big boy.”
“So I’ve heard,” he smiled.
“Common knowledge round these parts.”
“Whose parts?”
“Not yours.”
He stopped laughing. “You still think there’s a connection to them other missing girls?”
“I don’t know. I mean, yeah. There could be.”
“Good.”
And then Barry began to rattle on about Johnny bloody Kelly again, the bad boy of Rugby League, and how he wouldn’t be playing today and no-one knew where the fuck he was.
I looked out of the window thinking, like who gives a shit?
Barry pulled over on the outskirts of Castleford.
“We here already?” I asked, imagining Dawson’s area would be much posher than this.
“You are.”
I didn’t follow, turning my head every which way.
“Brunt Street’s the first on the left back there.”
“Eh?” Lost, turning my head that way.
Barry Cannon was laughing. “Who the fuck lives at 11 Brunt Street, Castleford, Sherlock?”
I knew that address, raking through the pain in my brain until it slowly came to me. “The Garlands?”
Jeanette Garland, eight, missing Castleford, 12 July 1969 .
“Give the boy a prize.”
“Fuck off.”
Barry looked at his watch. “I’ll meet you in a couple of hours at the Swan across the road. Swap horror stories.”
I got out of the car, pissed off.
Barry leant over to close the door. “I told you, you owe me one.”
“Yeah. Cheers.”
And laughing Barry was gone.
Brunt Street, Castleford.
One side pre-war terrace, the other more recent semi detached.
Number 11 was on the terrace side with a bright red door.
I walked up and down the street three times, wishing I had my notes, wishing I could phone first, wishing I didn’t stink of drink, and then rapped quietly and just once upon the red door.
I stood in the quiet street, waited, and then turned away.
The door flew open. “Look, I don’t know where the fuck he is. So will you just piss off!”
The woman paused, about to slam the red door shut. She dragged a hand through her dirty yellow hair and pulled a red cardigan tight around her gaunt frame. “Who are you?”
“Fuck,” I mumbled, no escape at all.
“It lives.”
“Christ.”
“Thanks. And a good morning to you.”
Ten minutes later we were on the road.
Twenty minutes later, headache banging on an empty stomach, I had finished up my story.
“Well, that swan was found up in Bretton.” Barry was taking the scenic route.
“Bretton Park?”
“My father’s mates with Arnold Fowler and he told him.”
Blast from the past number ninety-nine; me sat cross-legged on a wooden school floor as Mr Fowler talked birds. The man had been a fanatic, starting a bird-watching club at every school in the West Riding, a colurruvin every local paper.
“He still alive?”
“And still writing for the Ossett Observer . Telling me you haven’t been reading it?”
Almost laughing, I said, “So how did Arnold find out?”
“You know Arnold. Owt goes down in the bird world, Arnold’s the first to hear.”
Two swan’s wings had been stitched into her back .
“Seriously?”
Barry looked bored. “Well Sherlock, I imagine the good people at Bretton Park’11 have told him. Spends every waking hour up there.”
I looked out of the window as another silent Sunday sped by. Barry had seemed neither shocked nor even that interested in either the gypsy camp or the post-mortem.
“Oldman’s got a thing about gypsies,” was all Barry had said, before adding, “and the Irish.”
The post-mortem had gotten even less of a reaction and had had me wishing I’d shown the photographs to Barry or, at the very least, had the bloody guts to have looked at them myself.
“They must be bad,” was all I’d said.
Barry Cannon had said nothing.
I said, “It must’ve been a copper at the Redbeck.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“But why?”
“Games, Eddie,” he said. “They’re playing fucking games with you. Watch yourself.”
“I’m a big boy.”
“So I’ve heard,” he smiled.
“Common knowledge round these parts.”
“Whose parts?”
“Not yours.”
He stopped laughing. “You still think there’s a connection to them other missing girls?”
“I don’t know. I mean, yeah. There could be.”
“Good.”
And then Barry began to rattle on about Johnny bloody Kelly again, the bad boy of Rugby League, and how he wouldn’t be playing today and no-one knew where the fuck he was.
I looked out of the window thinking, like who gives a shit?
Barry pulled over on the outskirts of Castleford.
“We here already?” I asked, imagining Dawson’s area would be much posher than this.
“You are.”
I didn’t follow, turning my head every which way.
“Brunt Street’s the first on the left back there.”
“Eh?” Lost, turning my head that way.
Barry Cannon was laughing. “Who the fuck lives at 11 Brunt Street, Castleford, Sherlock?”
I knew that address, raking through the pain in my brain until it slowly came to me. “The Garlands?”
Jeanette Garland, eight, missing Castleford, 12 July 1969 .
“Give the boy a prize.”
“Fuck off.”
Barry looked at his watch. “I’ll meet you in a couple of hours at the Swan across the road. Swap horror stories.”
I got out of the car, pissed off.
Barry leant over to close the door. “I told you, you owe me one.”
“Yeah. Cheers.”
And laughing Barry was gone.
Brunt Street, Castleford.
One side pre-war terrace, the other more recent semi detached.
Number 11 was on the terrace side with a bright red door.
I walked up and down the street three times, wishing I had my notes, wishing I could phone first, wishing I didn’t stink of drink, and then rapped quietly and just once upon the red door.
I stood in the quiet street, waited, and then turned away.
The door flew open. “Look, I don’t know where the fuck he is. So will you just piss off!”
The woman paused, about to slam the red door shut. She dragged a hand through her dirty yellow hair and pulled a red cardigan tight around her gaunt frame. “Who are you?”
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