Chapters (60)
Cleckheaton Library came to occupy most of the upper right-hand quadrant of the plan: the snivelling, faux-radical librarian (bike? activism? current affiliations?), the pencils, the name of the retired local councillor he’d spoken to (political party? interest in crime? drugs?), the member of the group who’d attended a meeting of the Lobster Pot (Trevor; wife Elaine; stent out)… Lines went everywhere, up and down, sideways, each one sprouting boxes for further suggestions, unresolved questions, possible lines of enquiry.
The word CLECKHEATON was becoming a hub through which a great many disparate clusters of information were linked. Leo Turner had a whole section there, and Chris Saunders’ name was written directly below the word LIBRARY.
On he went, dragging information up from memory: the newspapers that Leo Turner read, the spiking of drinks in a Cleckheaton pub; one-sixty-six (Gwyn Merchant); Batley (Merchant, Rita, the Patriot League); Lisa (univ. fees, father, drugs)…
Finally, three or four broken pencils later, he stood up and admired his work.
‘Right, that’s a start.’
He rang Elland Road, knowing the duty data clerk wouldn’t be busy, not at this time of night.
‘Hi, Carol? It’s Joe Romano here… Yeah, working late! Listen, have you got much on over there? I need you to do a bit of digging.’
He read a list of names to her, confirmed the spellings and gave her whatever additional information he had on each one, speaking fast, tripping over his words as his confidence grew.
‘General background. Anything at all that sticks out. Work, life, arrests, convictions. In fact, anything at all.’
He ended the call. The dregs of his coffee were cold. He went through to the kitchen to make another cup. Waves of exhaustion overcame him now, and as the kettle boiled he forced himself to stay on his feet, knowing that if he sat down he’d fall asleep. He checked his phone. There were some photos that he hadn’t looked at yet. He vaguely remembered taking them, but by the time the water was boiling he still hadn’t worked out where the images were on his bloody iPhone.
He spooned sugar into the steaming mug and went back through to the living room. Finally, he found the photos, a series of images of what seemed to be text on blocks of vibrant colour. It took him a while to see that they were posters, the ones at Cleckheaton Library. Creative Writing Circle… Inviting You to a Baby Shower… Living with Bereavement.
He stared at the screen: Living with Bereavement. He flicked back through the others; forwards again; then back, straining hard to focus on the words of each image. What was it, what had he missed? His mind was closing down. It was late. A sip from his mug; there was no coffee in it, just water and sugar. Leaning back, he got the brandy from the bookshelf and filled the mug to the brim.