A Half Remembered Life (The Lakeland Murders Book 9) Read online

  A Half Remembered Life

  The Lakeland Murders: number nine.

  By J J Salkeld

  HERRINGBONE Press

  © copyright J J Salkeld, 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover photograph by R F Simpson

  Cover art by Michaela Waddell, www.verityproductions.biz

  Monday, 1st September

  Western estate, Kendal, 9.55am

  DS Ian Mann was in a good mood, and with good reason. He’d recently met a woman with no connections whatsoever to policing, and no vicarious interest in his job, but who was nevertheless herself interesting, as well as attractive, funny and, as far as he could tell, genuinely unattached and unencumbered by baggage of any kind, kids included. And you didn’t get many of those to the pound, not on the far side of forty.

  He had two weeks of leave coming up too, and his plans were almost complete. A few days sea canoeing off the west coast with some old buddies from the Marines, a weekend climbing in the Lakes, then a week on a beach in Spain with Christine. Well, she’d be on the beach, reading one of those paperbacks with the pink covers and the swirly lettering, while he’d be windsurfing or diving. But they’d be together at night, and that was the part he was looking forward to most.

  He was still whistling tunelessly when Maggie Macrae finally opened the door, and she looked a little surprised. Not to see DS Mann, because he’d called ahead to say he’d be coming that day, but to see him looking so cheerful. It was rather unnerving.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you so early, love. I’ve come to take your statement.’

  ‘Aye, come in. Paul’s here.’

  ‘Of course he is. Well, he wouldn’t be at work, now would he?’

  Maggie frowned, but said nothing. And at least DS Mann already seemed to be back to his usual self.

  The living room was small, but clean. Not Ian Mann clean, probably not even ordinary punter clean, but clean by a con’s standards. The furniture was old and beige, while the technology was the latest, the blackest, and the biggest. The room was already getting hot. The curtains were still drawn, the big TV was too bright, and the sound was way too loud. The man of the house was lying on the sofa wearing tracksuit bottoms and the kind of sleeveless top that Mann had only recently learned was called a ‘wife beater’ by the Americans. They must have met Paul Macrae, he thought.

  ‘Morning, Paul’, said Mann, cheerfully. ‘Not seen you down the nick in a while. Been grafting, have you?’

  ‘Fuck off’, said Paul Macrae.

  Mann smiled. He always enjoyed a bit of banter with the cons. If you couldn’t nick them, it was the next best thing.

  ‘Sorry, mate, but it’s you who needs to make a move. I’m here to take your better half’s statement, and we need a bit of privacy.’

  ‘She saw nowt.’

  ‘Then I won’t be long, will I? And then you’ll be able to get back to whatever it is you’re watching. All that daytime TV doesn’t watch itself, does it?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Normally Mann would have stopped smiling at this point, and reminded Macrae of their relative positions in the world, but today he didn’t. He was even inclined to believe that Macrae was nothing more than a product of his environment and upbringing, just for a moment or two at least. Macrae glanced up at him, clocked the half smile, and flicked off the TV. It was right unsettling, was that.

  Maggie Macrae offered Mann a brew, and he declined. Normally he’d have said yes, because clean carpets invariably meant clean cups too, but Maggie looked tired, and pale. Shame, because she’d have been a bonnie lass, back in the day. So Mann produced his notebook, drew a horizontal line under the last entry, wrote the time and date in his neat, slow hand, and started in on his questions.

  They’d been going for ten minutes, and Mann was establishing exactly what the con who’d ended up in a coma after the pub fight had said to the one who was now in the cells back at the nick. It was all quite entertaining, really. He’d enjoy telling his old fella about this one later, anyway.

  ‘So they fell out over twa pies, is that right?’

  ‘Aye, they did. Whose pie was whose, like. But that’s blokes for you though, isn’t it?’

  Mann was just about to reply when Paul Macrae opened the door, and stuck his head round.

  ‘You saw nowt, love, right? I told you that before. Nowt. So what are you two talking about? Is he trying it on with you, like, the dirty old bastard?’

  Mann shook his head. He’d looked up the Macraes on the system before he’d left the nick, just to refresh his memory, so he knew that Paul was most often arrested whilst demonstrating his undying devotion to his better half in his own particular way, which invariably involved him giving her a hiding. Ian Mann did not like men like that at all. But she never pressed charges, and he never learned. In fact, neither of them did.

  ‘Get out, Paul, mate’, said Mann, his good mood starting to fade and his expression hardening with it.

  ‘Go on, love’, said Maggie, adopting a tone that you might use when admonishing a puppy for shredding a toilet roll, ‘we’ll not be long now, like.’

  But Paul Macrae was not for turning.

  ‘I told you. I fucking told you, love. Not a word. Baz is my mate, yeah?’

  Ian Mann stood up, and moved a foot or two towards the door. He wasn’t a tall man, but the cons knew that he didn’t need to be. Or, given that Macrae showed no sign of retreating, perhaps only most of them knew.

  ‘Clear off, Paul, and let me and Maggie get this done. It’ll not be long now.’

  ‘Fuck off, you wanker. This is my house, not yours.’

  In retrospect DS Mann realised that he could probably still have defused the situation, even at that point. All he’d have needed to do was to drive Maggie back to the station in his car, and take her statement there. But she’d have been spotted leaving the house with him, and coming back too, no doubt, and that wasn’t really in her best interests. Not on this estate. Maybe that’s why he didn’t suggest it, or perhaps it was because Paul Macrae was a stupid little twat who needed to understand that shouting the odds didn’t always get you what you want. Not with him, anyway. He wasn’t a bloody social worker.

  ‘Come on, mate, calm down, said Mann, trying to sound conciliatory, and managing to achieve politely firm, which he felt wasn’t a bad effort, under the circumstances. ‘You don’t want this turning into something it doesn’t have to be, do you?’

  ‘Why not? Come on then, you wanker. You’re just fucking chicken, you are.’

  ‘Think about it, mate. How can this possibly turn out well for you, from here on in?’

  ‘You leave my house, probably in a fucking ambulance, and I sort the lass out. Teach her a bit of respect.’

  ‘Teach her how? What are you saying, exactly?’

  ‘It’s fucking obvious, is that.’

  ‘It’s not going to happen, mate. You touch Maggie after I’ve gone, and I’ll be back round here, sharpish.’

  ‘So fucking what? You’re all talk, just like the rest of them. You can’t do fuck all.’

  Mann was rarely accused of excessive loquaciousness, but he was willing to live with the shame. He was still calm, breathing evenly, and he tried once more.

  ‘Look, I could arrest you, right now, and I will if you don’t calm down, and give us five minutes here. When we’re done I’ll come and have a chat with you too, OK? So you don’t feel left out, l
ike. Just a few things I need to explain to you, about consequences, and about what you can and can’t do to your wife. Even now, when everything in this country’s going to shit, like.’

  ‘Fucking explain this, then.’ Macrae charged at Mann, and felt the first punch land, a really solid slam to the jaw. He was extremely pleased with it, at the time. That’d put the bastard straight on his arse, and Maggie would swear it was self-defence. That would teach a copper to come round here on his own again.

  But Mann didn’t fall. He didn’t even sway. Instead he waited for the next blow, and caught Macrae’s fist in front of his face, then twisted the arm up behind his back. He had no intention of nicking the bloke, even now, because it wasn’t worth the paperwork.

  ‘Easy, tiger’, he said, laughing. ‘Now calm down, and I’ll let you go, all right?’

  Macrae grunted, and Mann took that as a yes. He relaxed his hold, then let go, and Macrae swung again, as hard as he could. The punch came round in an ellipse, its orbit as wide as a comet’s, and Mann ducked it easily, then he did hit Macrae. Just once, a short piston of a punch, and it sent Macrae backwards into the almost closed door. To Mann’s surprise it gave way, and Macrae went straight through the thin veneer. It was like something from a shit action film, the kind where killing has no consequences.

  ‘You’re nicked’ Mann said, as he stepped into the hall, and lifted Macrae up. He was limp, but still just about conscious. Behind Mann, in the living room, Maggie was already starting to scream.

  Then DS Mann started thinking about the paperwork, even as he waited for the ambo and the DI to arrive, and that killed his good mood. He’d already got Paul Macrae sitting up on the sofa and talking, and he’d he pulled the curtains open wide. Outside it was a lovely day. Not that he’d get to see much of it now, not after this bloody pantomime.

  ‘You’re a bloody animal. You should be locked up’, Maggie was shouting at him, and Mann turned to face her.

  ‘Shut it, will you, love’, he said, mildly, then wished he hadn’t. Because Maggie Macrae recoiled in obvious fear. The kind that’s just so obviously real, like the taste of blood in your mouth.

  Andy Hall’s morning had been very much less eventful. And, in truth, even if he’d still been a copper, rather than a recently retired senior detective and born-again father, it was unlikely that he’d have needed an ambulance after making an arrest; unless the cuffs had chafed a con really, really badly. He’d never been fond of fisticuffs, and throughout his career he’d always been surprised that the cons didn’t sense his aversion, and simply take a pop at him at each and every opportunity. But for some reason they never had. And now, with his career behind him, the greatest risk to his person was that one of the little lads at The Brewery playgroup would whack him with whatever they happened to be holding. A digger, possibly, or a yellow and black dumper truck. It was noisy in there, and hot, and he didn’t enjoy sitting on the floor. His left knee ached after two minutes, and now his back was joining in. And to cap it all Grace was fast asleep in her pushchair anyway, so he might as well not have bothered.

  But at least the women around him didn’t treat him like an honorary mum, the way they did Darren, the young lad with the red-headed twins. Hall glanced across at him, then caught the eye of Pete, the only other dad in the group, who grinned back at him. Pete was close to Hall’s age, though probably not quite fifty, and despite the rather trendy clothes, which suggested vanity and possibly a younger wife or partner as well, he always seemed like a decent bloke. And maybe Pete thought much the same about Hall - except for the bit about the clothes - because a few seconds later he shuffled round, and sat next to Hall.

  ‘Andy, right?’

  ‘Yes. I’m Grace’s dad.’

  ‘Mine’s Kate, for my sins, and I’m Pete. She’s the one who’s got that big lad in an arm-lock, look.’

  Hall did look. If it had been his kid he’d have prised his daughter off the little boy, and started apologising to the mum pronto. But Pete seemed unconcerned.

  ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, the way we define ourselves through our children?’ he said, ‘and we both did it just then.’

  Hall smiled. He’d noticed it too, and had made the self-same point to Jane just a week or so before, but she hadn’t seemed interested. She’d agreed with him all right, but after a few years together that didn’t necessarily mean much, did it?

  ‘Fancy a proper coffee, after we escape from this bloody lot?’ said Pete, and Hall said that he did. Anywhere with a proper chair would suit him. Besides, if he went straight home there was the grass to be cut and a load of washing to do, and he didn’t much fancy either task. Not on a lovely day like this, when even the breeze felt like God’s breath on his cheek.

  The riverside cafe was busy, and Hall doubted they’d get a table outside, but one came free just as they arrived. An older couple reached it just a second after Pete sat down, and he smiled at them apologetically. But he didn’t get up, and Hall didn’t blame him.

  ‘Let me get the coffees,’ said Hall. ‘Anything for Kate?’

  ‘A sedative. Nothing too mild, mind.’

  Hall smiled. The kid was wriggling in her push chair, like an angry and incompetent escapologist.

  ‘How about some milk?’

  ‘That’ll do nicely.’

  Grace was awake when Hall returned, and he made sure that she was in the shade, and that her hat was firmly in place. She looked over at Kate curiously, as if making first contact with another species, but Kate was was too busy trying to break her bonds to notice Hall’s daughter.

  ‘Are you a full time dad, Andy?’

  ‘I am, yes. I retired from my job a couple of months back.’

  ‘Blimey, what did you do? You don’t look old enough to be retired.’

  Hall had heard that one before, and he hadn’t believed it then, either.

  ‘I was in the police. The pension’s pretty good.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. I’m a retained fireman, over at Windermere.’

  ‘Good on you. But what happens if you get a shout? Like now, I mean.’

  ‘Kate goes to my mum, if it’s through the day. I miss the odd shout, but I get on pretty much all the jobs at night. Alice is left holding the baby, as you might say.’

  Kate had stopped wriggling, and seemed to be considering an alternative plan. Her screaming the place down strategy soon worked too, and it cost Pete half his muffin to quieten the kid down.

  ‘Does your missus work?’ Pete asked.

  ‘Yes. She’s in the police too.’

  ‘What rank?’

  ‘Detective Inspector.’

  ‘One of the bosses.’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘And how about you, Andy?’

  ‘I was a DCS. Detective Chief….’

  ‘Aye, I know, a Chief Superintendent. Bloody hell, mate, this must all seem a bit, you know…well, crap, really. In comparison, I mean.’

  Pete grinned as he said it, and Hall smiled back. But he was right, of course, in lots of ways.

  ‘Sometimes, I suppose. But don’t get me wrong, I love being with Grace. I missed so much with my older two, when they were babies. I was ambitious, doing all the hours, forever thinking about work. You know how it is. But looking back now it’s almost as if that was someone else, and not me at all.’

  ‘So this is your second family, then?’

  Hall nodded. ‘You too?’

  ‘Yes and no. We’ve got an eighteen year old at home, Mike, but he’s Alice’s, not mine.’

  ‘But you’ve brought the lad up, have you?’

  ‘Aye, I have. It’s been a pleasure, actually. He was my best mate’s son, see, and he’s a lovely lad. He died you see, my mate, so he didn’t just bugger off, or anything like that.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. Suicide, was it?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘It’s the most likely cause of death, statistically speaking, in younger men, that’s all. Sad, but true,
I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, no, it wasn’t suicide.’

  Something in Pete’s tone told Hall to change the subject. He hadn’t liked dealing with deaths when he was a cop, and now that he wasn’t one he had absolutely no desire to talk about them. Life was his priority now.

  ‘Have you always been a fireman, Pete?’

  ‘No, just the last few years.’

  ‘What did you do before, then?’

  ‘This and that. Mainly that. Do you remember Swampy?’

  ‘That eco-warrior bloke? Probably had dreadlocks and lived in a yurt. Protested against the Newbury by-pass, didn’t he? ’

  ‘That’s the one. Well, I sort of did the same, back in the day.’

  ‘Locally?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s what brought me up here to Cumbria, actually. We were protesting about the open cast mine that they wanted to start out near St. Bees, right up on the cliffs. You remember that?’

  ‘Vaguely. Never happened in the end, if I remember rightly. But the overtime that the local cops earned on that job built a fair few extensions, I can tell you. It all went on for months, didn’t it?’

  ‘About a year, in the end. It was bloody freezing that winter. Mike, my lad, he was only the age that Kate is now. Of course we weren’t a family, back then. My mate Cam, he died during the protest.’

  Hall clicked his fingers. ‘I remember now, an accident, wasn’t it?’

  Pete shrugged. ‘You tell me. You’re the detective.’

  ‘Not any more, I’m not.’

  Hall got up, lifted his daughter from the pushchair, and walked over to the railings by the river. She was far too young to feed the ducks, too young yet to even eat their bread, but Hall still pointed them out. He tried to remember more details of the protest that Pete had been involved in, but he couldn’t. It was fifteen years ago, at least.