Ruth Carlisle sat by her son’s bed and held his hand. No one seemed to know for sure if he could hear anything, but nurses had advised her to keep talking to him. She would have done that anyway.
He wasn’t conscious, but she’d been told they were keeping him sedated because of his internal injuries. Maybe, one day soon, he would open his eyes, talk to her, laugh with her…
‘Cally’s made herself at home,’ she told him. ‘She’s taken over your dad’s chair. Not that he minds,’ she added quickly. ‘He’s gone right soft with that dog. He was even feeding her roast chicken last night.’
It was difficult to know what to talk about, but Ruth was sticking to easy subjects. She wanted to know what had happened that morning, of course she did, but there was no point talking about that yet.
She’d spoken to the electrician who’d found him. Ruth thanked God the lad had been impatient enough to walk round the back of the building and peer in through the windows. He said all he’d seen was a leg sticking out from behind the sofa. If he hadn’t, Steve would have been dead.
‘Everyone’s coming to us for Christmas,’ she said, squeezing his hand, ‘just like they always do. We’ll have a house full but it will be good.’
It wouldn’t. How could it be when Steve would be lying here? She was determined to sound cheerful, though.
She thought about Maisie as she so often did. Her granddaughter would have been twenty now and Ruth would have loved to have seen her sitting at the table for Christmas dinner. Perhaps, at twenty, she would have brought a young man with her. Or perhaps not. These days girls seemed more interested in careers than men.
Ruth didn’t blame them for that. There would be plenty of time for marriage when they’d seen a bit of life.
‘Christmas will be a squash, but we’ll manage. We always do, don’t we? Joyce and Dennis are going to their son’s this year so we’ve borrowed chairs from them. They’re good neighbours.’
Ruth was glad of this quiet time with Steve. Alison was working today and said she’d call in this evening. Frank had taken himself down to the canteen to get a sandwich.
‘I wish you were coming to us for Christmas,’ she said softly, and her eyes filled with tears.
She blinked them back. There was no point crying until she knew what she had to cry about.
The news from the hospital seemed more optimistic today. They hadn’t said anything different, not in so many words, but Ruth had gained the impression they were slightly less worried.
Oh, she hoped she was right.
The address Grace had for Barry Foreman turned out to be the end of a run-down terrace that backed on to an equally scruffy row of terraced houses. Wheelie bins had been left out on the pavement but there was more rubbish lying in the snow than in the bins.
Max’s dislike of Blackpool was legendary, probably, she guessed, because his sons loved the place and it cost Max a small fortune every time he was blackmailed into bringing them. Grace would willingly give Harry and Ben a day out here. In fact, she’d suggest it to Max.
She loved everything about Blackpool and was always first in the queue at the annual switching on of the famous illuminations. The town brought back memories of happy childhood holidays. Years later, she had often been falling out of the clubs in the early hours with a gang of friends.
Unlike Harrington, Blackpool could only boast a couple of inches of snow. It was enough to show her and the two uniformed officers a set of footprints heading from Foreman’s front door to the road though.
Grace hammered on that door. Getting no answer, she peered in through grimy windows. The front window looked straight into a sitting room that was littered with newspapers, empty beer cans and very little furniture other than a huge plasma TV that was probably worth more than the house.
While PC Wilde waited by the front door, Grace and PC Jones walked round the back, let themselves in through a rickety gate, walked up the path and knocked on the back door. A window here showed them a kitchen where dirty saucepans and plates were piled high in the sink. A small yellow table was just visible beneath yet more newspapers.
She sent PCs Wilde and Jones back to their car and returned to her own.
The property at the other end of Foreman’s street was twice the size of the others and was being used as a bed and breakfast. Grace suspected it was cheap lodgings. She also guessed that neither the bed nor the breakfast would be palatable.
For all that, several people left or entered the building during the next couple of hours. In contrast, no one went near Foreman’s house.
She was beginning to fidget and couldn’t decide what she needed most. Coffee, food or toilet. Probably the latter.
What, she wondered, had made her think that a job in CID would be glamorous? She was sitting in a cold car, she was hungry and thirsty, and she really did need a pee.
Her phone burst into life, startling her.
‘He’s heading your way – just turned the corner. Black coat, overlong jeans and three Asda carrier bags.’
She slunk down in her seat and watched as Barry Foreman strode past her. He looked behind him before turning and walking smartly to his front door and letting himself in.
‘Right, one of you round the back and one with me,’ Grace told the uniforms. ‘And he’s a big bugger so be careful.’
As soon as PC Wilde was at the back of the property, Grace and PC Jones walked up to the front door. There was no sound from within so Grace hammered on it. No response. She knocked again, harder.
PC Jones pushed open the letterbox. ‘Police! Open up!’
Nothing.
‘We’ll bash the bloody door in,’ Grace said, tired of this. ‘We know he’s in there.’
She heard the sound of breaking glass and instinctively put her hands over her head. It was coming from the back of the house though.
‘He’s smashed a window at the back. Come on, Jonesey. Quick!’
As they ran round to the back of the property, Grace was thankful it was the end property in the terrace. In the small yard, Foreman was lying face down on the ground while PC Wilde tried to get handcuffs on him. When PC Jones added his weight, they managed to contain him.
‘Barry Foreman?’ Grace yelled at him. ‘We want to talk to you about a fifteen-year-old girl called Yasmin Smith. We know she contacted you via—’
Foreman twisted his head enough to spit at her.
For his trouble, he got a sharp kick in the ribs from PC Wilde who, with blood dripping from a cut above the eye, was living up to his name.
‘Obstructing police officers, assaulting a police officer, judging by the state of PC Wilde’s face – you’re under arrest, sunshine.’
‘Fuck off, pig!’
He continued to kick and spit until the two PCs finally had him under control.
‘Right, take him in. Then you,’ she said, nodding at PC Wilde, ‘need to get yourself to a hospital.’
Barry Foreman wasn’t going quietly but he was at least going. They marched him through his house and outside to the waiting patrol car.
When they’d gone, Grace looked round the house, pulling open cupboards and checking under beds, but there was nothing of interest to be found.
‘Asda carrier bags,’ she murmured to herself.
He’d walked in with three but they were nowhere to be seen.
Then she spotted another door. It was half hidden behind a wardrobe in what was a ground floor bedroom of sorts. Apart from the wardrobe and a narrow single bed that was covered in boxes and assorted junk, the room was bare.
Thankfully, the wardrobe was fairly easily shouldered out of the way. All she needed now was the key to the door, and that was probably on the way to the nick with Foreman.
She went to the kitchen, found a small vegetable knife and began unscrewing the lock. She was still desperate to use the toilet, but she didn’t fancy venturing into Foreman’s bathroom.
Eventually, the lock came free. She should have guessed these properties had cellars. There was a switch at the top of the stairs and although the light from it was dim, it was enough to stop her falling headlong into the cellar.
The smell as she descended was something she couldn’t identify. Perhaps it was merely damp.
When she reached the ground, she saw three Asda carrier bags. There was a single mattress on the floor and it took Grace a moment to realize that the mounds beneath the grubby quilt were human. Two girls lay side by side.
‘Holy shit!’
She put a finger to their necks. Both were breathing.