Burial of Ghosts Read online

  ‘Will you still have the letter he sent to you?’

  ‘Sure. It’ll be on file somewhere.’

  ‘You might want to show it to the police,’ I said. ‘Inspector Farrier in Blyth.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said again.

  But she didn’t write down the name and I wasn’t convinced she’d actually do it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Once Harry Pool’s yard had held rail freight but the branch line had closed decades before and the area next to the derelict track had been turned into a small industrial estate. He had the biggest unit, the one nearest to the road. There was a high brick wall with spikes on top, iron gates painted buttercup yellow. The gates were open and I could see a warehouse with office space to one side and a couple of lorries parked up. They were yellow too, with Harry’s Haulage painted in green on both sides.

  All that was much as I’d expected. What I’d not expected was the group of people gathered just inside the gates. They weren’t truck drivers and they didn’t look much like potential customers either. There were about a dozen of them, enjoying the sunshine and a chat but just starting to get a bit impatient. From their clothes I’d have put them down as the well-meaning middle classes. They could even have been social workers. Until I saw the microphones, I thought they might be holding some sort of demonstration. Then I realized they were all from the press.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that Thomas’s death would still be news, not of sufficient news value anyway to make all these people hang out at his employer’s. Although it was irrational, I thought they might guess who I was. I imagined them chasing me down the street, asking me their questions, waving their microphones in my face. I was about to slip away and come back another time when Harry Pool appeared. A metal staircase led outside the building to a first-floor office. There was a platform at the top with a guard rail around it and he stood there, looking down on us. I recognized him from the photograph I’d seen at Archie Mariner’s. He was a heavy man with the high colour which made me think he’d be a good bet for a heart attack.

  The reporters stopped talking about their holiday plans and bitching about their bosses and shuffled to silence. I didn’t have any sense that they were excited. This was routine. I joined the back of the crowd. No one took any notice. Harry leaned against the handrail and started talking. He had a loud voice which carried, despite the background noise of traffic in the street beyond the wall. He spoke clearly and briskly but, like the waiting journos, there was no engagement with his subject. He reminded me of an old-fashioned union leader, just before he was going to sell his membership down the river.

  ‘As the regional representative of the Road Haulage Association, I’ve called this news conference to remind the public of the plight of Mike Spicer, the lorry driver from Berwick, who’s still being held in a Belgian prison.’

  So, nothing to do with Thomas after all. He’d stumbled slightly over the driver’s name. I thought perhaps Harry needed reminding about the facts too.

  ‘Mr Spicer was accused of carrying illegal immigrants over the Belgian border. He has asserted from the moment of his arrest that he had no knowledge of the men’s presence. He had complied with all relevant national and EU regulations. The seal around his load was intact when he checked it in Bucharest.’

  A lass with an untidy perm waved her hand. Harry turned to her with a show of patience.

  ‘Can you explain how the illegals got on board, then, Mr Pool?’

  He gave her a disdainful look, as if to say that he’d been through this a dozen times before and if she’d been up to her job she’d have done some research beforehand.

  ‘We think a ratchet strap was used. The wagon in question was a tautliner, which is put together in sections. The strap is strung around the cargo. As the strap is tightened by the ratchet, the sections are squeezed until a gap occurs, allowing access to the load without the seal being cut.’

  You could tell that the lass didn’t understand a word, and Harry didn’t care whether she did or not. They were all going through the motions.

  ‘This law-abiding citizen is being imprisoned for a crime he did not commit. We must maintain pressure on our politicians to fight for his release.’ He looked around, daring someone else to interrupt, then nodded his appreciation when they remained silent. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’

  He walked down the stairs towards them. The metal clanged with his weight at each footstep. I expected some of the reporters to approach him individually with further questions, but they’d lost interest already. They started to move to the cars which they’d left in the street. Harry walked past me to a plum-coloured Jag with a personalized number plate, parked with its nose to the warehouse. He drove off, waving to the few remaining people as he passed through the gates. Then the yard was empty.

  I waited for a moment. Now I wasn’t sure what to do. The plan had been to get into conversation with one of Thomas’s mates, take him out at lunchtime and buy him a pint in return for a bit of gossip about the company. Clearly that wasn’t going to work. There was no one here to approach. All the drivers seemed to be out. But there must be someone in the office. Harry Pool wouldn’t have left the place without a body to answer the phone. I climbed the metal stairs, trying to keep the noise to a minimum, and knocked on the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  It was a grey-haired man who couldn’t be far from retirement. He wore glasses which had slid to the end of a thin nose. He looked at me over them. It was a look of appreciation. He didn’t get many young women knocking at his door. His eyes moved greedily over my body before resting back on my face. He saw I knew what he was up to and seemed a bit sheepish. He was a sleaze-bag, but a sleaze-bag with some decency.

  ‘I wondered if I could speak to you.’ I was wearing a short skirt. I sat where he could see my legs. Although I say it myself, they were looking good, still honey-coloured from the remains of the tan.

  ‘How can I help you?’ I knew already that I’d made his day.

  ‘I was here for the news conference, but I could really do with some more background.’

  ‘I don’t know. Mr Pool’s not here.’

  ‘Would it be possible to speak to you? I mean, I’d like to do a sympathetic feature but without a bit more information it won’t be easy. And you seem responsible for the day-to-day stuff.’ This role of reporter was coming to be second nature.

  He sat at a crowded desk, one of two pushed together. There were piles of paper everywhere. A closed door led to another office. I guessed that belonged to Harry. He’d want his own space.

  ‘What do you want to know, like?’

  ‘I suppose the everyday details. I mean, that’s what brings an article to life. I’d like my readers to understand the pressures which might lead to some companies breaking the law.’

  The phone rang before he could answer. It was a customer wanting a rushed load of children’s clothing to be delivered to Aberdeen. As my friend sorted it out I looked at him admiringly, as if I couldn’t help but be impressed by his efficiency. When he replaced the receiver he leaned across the desk and held out his hand.

  ‘Kenny Baxter,’ he said. ‘Now, how exactly can I help you?’

  I didn’t give my name. ‘Just tell me about Pool’s company, about what goes on here. If you have time to talk, of course.’

  ‘This is always a quiet period, once the first loads have gone out. There might be some interruptions, mind. I’m here on my own.’ He lowered his voice. ‘That lad who was killed by druggies in Delaval worked here. I’m having to do his job as well as my own.’

  ‘No! What was he like?’

  ‘He was canny enough.’ His voice was wary and I could tell any more questions about Thomas would raise his suspicions.

  ‘It must have been dreadful.’

  He nodded seriously and he started talking. An hour later I was still there, and I knew of more scams which went on in the transport business than you’d have thought possible. But throughout
it all Kenny insisted that none of that went on at Pool’s. Harry was always legit. He was famous for it.

  Kenny talked with the passion of the enthusiast. This could have been his hobby, not his work. You had the impression that he’d be here at eight every morning even if he weren’t being paid for it. I envied him. I’d felt like that about the secure unit.

  ‘What you have to realize – this is a competitive business,’ he said. He didn’t have any teeth at the side of his mouth and he spoke with a sucking noise. ‘And there’s a lot of cowboys. Owner-drivers, like. No one looking over their shoulders to see if they’re keeping within the rules. Not like I keep an eye on the lads. If the ministry inspectors come here, they know it’s all shipshape.’

  And despite the piles of paper and the mucky coffee mugs, it did seem as if there was an order to his chaos. He showed me his system in loving detail. ‘These here are the vehicle defect forms.’ He pulled a floppy book of forms from a drawer. ‘Every shift the driver has to fill out one of these before he starts. Not just if he finds a defect, either. That’s what happens in some places. Not here. It’s every shift. Then there are the tachographs.’

  ‘The spy in the cab,’ I said.

  ‘The lads can’t drive for more than four and a half hours without a break.’ Obviously he didn’t think my interruption worth mentioning. ‘And not more than nine hours in a day. Or if they do they have to make up the rest time later.’

  ‘Isn’t it possible to fiddle them?’

  ‘They can try,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Would you always be able to tell?’

  ‘It’d have to be good to get past me.’ He paused. ‘But I can see the temptation. Especially on the international runs. You’re always boat-chasing. If you miss your boat, it can throw out your schedule by hours.’

  ‘I wondered why truck drivers are so bloody impatient.’ It was supposed to be a joke, but he wasn’t amused.

  ‘There’s a speed limit,’ he said. ‘Enforceable.’ He paused before admitting, ‘But sometimes they de-fuse the speed limiters.’

  ‘So the lorries can go faster?’ I wanted him to know I was interested. I was interested. I’d been intimidated like everyone else in a small car by trucks thundering behind me at more than seventy miles an hour.

  ‘None of my lads would try it,’ he broke in quickly. ‘But you can see why people do. Like I said, there’s a lot of cowboys.’

  I thought he was winding down, but he’d only just started. It was as if he was the champion of the honest haulier. Everyone else was on the make and the fiddle. He took a moment to catch his breath and to take a mouthful of tea, which must have been long cold.

  ‘Then there’s fuel! How much a litre is diesel?’ He was in full flow now and he didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. Sixty-three pence plus VAT. But red diesel is thirty-two pence and you don’t pay VAT on that. We buy red diesel for use in the yard, for the fork lifts and the machinery. You’re not telling me that your cowboy doesn’t use red diesel in his tanks.’

  ‘The authorities must test for it,’ I said tentatively. ‘And if it’s red . . .’

  ‘Ah!’ He was triumphant. ‘But in Ireland it’s green.’

  ‘So?’ I thought even a colour-blind inspector would be able to tell it was dodgy.

  ‘It starts off as green, but you can filter out the dye by running it through fertilizer. It’s smuggled across the Irish Sea.’ His face was lit up by excitement. Like some Bible-bashing preacher, he was delighted by the extent of the wickedness involved. I’d met cops like him when I was young. Other people’s depravity was a justification for their existence.

  The phone rang again. A driver was stuck in a traffic jam on the M18. Could Kenny tell the customer he’d be late? I wondered cynically if the tachograph could tell the difference between a traffic jam and an illicit encounter with a lonely housewife nearer to home. When Kenny came off the phone I put the point, more tastefully, so as not to shock him. I had the impression he’d be easily shocked.

  ‘Not the tachograph,’ he answered with a straight face. ‘But GPS – you know, satellite positioning. That would tell you. And Harry’s talking about putting that in here soon.’

  Before I could escape I had to hear again about how incorruptible Harry was.

  ‘That’s why they asked him to be RHA rep. He’s got the reputation for being straight. And it pays off in the end. It’s good for business. Must be. The customers know he’ll play fair with them. They come back to him again and again. It’s his reputation that’s kept him afloat when the competition’s going bust.’

  I didn’t know where Harry Pool was and I didn’t want still to be sitting here when he returned. I didn’t think he’d be taken in by my story as easily as Kenny.

  Sitting in the bus on the way back to Newbiggin I went over everything Kenny had told me. There was certainly scope for a scam at Harry’s Haulage, some illegal dealing for Thomas to discover and report to Shona Murray. But it must be clever to keep Kenny in the dark. I was sure he’d told me the truth as he saw it. If Pool was operating some elaborate fiddle, he had a lot to lose. His reputation was important to the business.

  The bus was slow and gave me plenty of time to think. By the time I got back to Sea View I thought I wasn’t the only person in the frame for Thomas’s murder. If Farrier had me in for questioning again, I could put together a plausible case against Harry Pool too.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A day later I bought a car from Ronnie Laing. He phoned me at Jess’s at nine in the morning. She was out and for a while I was tempted not to answer, but the caller was persistent and the noise was irritating. Jess was on her weekly trip to Asda. It was a social event. She met four mates there and ended up having fancy coffee and sticky buns with them in the café where once I’d been caught thieving.

  So, eventually I picked up the phone and it was Ronnie Laing. I knew his voice at once.

  ‘Hello, Lizzie. That is Lizzie . . .’ His voiced tailed off nervously, leaving a question. I’d never given him my second name.

  ‘Beswick,’ I said. Jess’s name. ‘Lizzie Beswick.’

  Why did I lie? I thought he might not have made the connection between me and the young woman who’d discovered his stepson’s body. And I didn’t want him to. The sensible thing would have been to put down the phone and to stay away from everyone who’d ever known Thomas Mariner. But I couldn’t. I was too close to it and I couldn’t see clearly. I continued briskly, ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘This is Mr Laing. From the garage on the coast road. I think I might have found you a car. A little Peugeot. Diesel. Brilliant economy. Good price.’

  He gave me the details. There was no stammer. Perhaps it was easier for him to speak on the phone. I found I was writing down the information on the notepad on the hall table; afterwards I couldn’t remember what he’d told me and was glad of the notes. It seemed to me then that his voice changed. He stopped being a salesman. His tone was more confiding.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Are you interested?’ Perhaps he was just selling something else. Perhaps I’d got him all wrong and he was a more skilful salesman than I’d realized, more subtle.

  ‘Yes.’ I could hear a breathy nervousness, hoped he hadn’t picked it up. ‘Yes, really, I think that I might be.’

  ‘I can bring it round to you if you like. Let you have a test drive.’

  But I didn’t want him knowing where I lived and we left it that I’d call round as soon as I could fix up a lift. When I replaced the receiver I was shaking, not just with nerves but with excitement. And what did that say about me?

  I phoned Dan at the hostel, hoping to con a lift from him – he owed me a favour – but I got through to Ellen, who told me it was his day off. She brought up the subject of Thomas before I did. She’d recognized my voice.

  ‘You must write a piece,’ she said, confusing me for a moment. I’d forgotten I’d told her I was a journalist. ‘How many young men have to die before somethin
g is done?’

  Then I remembered her son had been attacked on the streets and had died too. Thomas’s death must have brought all those memories back. She must have realized she sounded a bit crazy because she apologized. ‘We’re all on edge here. You must have seen about the boy who was killed in Seaton Delaval. He used to be one of our residents.’

  ‘How terrible.’ Trite and pathetic, but she seemed not to notice.

  ‘I find it so hard to let them go anyway,’ she said. ‘I mean, I know they have to move on, be more independent, but I hate it. I worry so much for them. After this it will be a thousand times worse.’ She paused. ‘But can you imagine what his mother will be going through?’

  For the first time since finding Thomas I tried to understand. How would you feel if a child you never wanted, who was always a nuisance, died? I decided guilt is what you’d feel. A searing explosion of guilt.

  ‘Do you think I should go to see Mrs Laing?’ Ellen asked. ‘Or would that make things worse?’

  I muttered something about not being in a position to give advice and replaced the phone before she could drag me any further into her distress. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it and repeated Ellen’s question to myself. Should I go to see Kay? If I did, what point would it serve? For me or for her? Before I came anywhere near an answer, Jess staggered in, the fingers on both hands white, where three carrier bags in each had cut off the blood supply. I wasn’t expecting her back so soon. She’d caught an earlier bus than usual, missing out on the coffee and buns. Perhaps she thought it wasn’t safe to leave me alone for too long. She was starting to make me feel suffocated. I understood what was going on. As Ellen had said, it was hard to let go. But I was an adult and Jess wasn’t my mam. I needed to get away from her and Sea View before I said something hurtful. I needed a car.

  We hadn’t seen much of Ray since Thomas’s death. I don’t think he and Jess had fallen out over me. He was too besotted by her to do anything to cause a disagreement. Perhaps he’d just felt he should spend a bit more time running his business, otherwise he’d go bankrupt and there’d be no cash then for visits to folk clubs or trips into the hills.