Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(94)

He rang Saffron because he thought she’d appreciate a reminder.

“I’m in Skipton. Just remembering Dad and his obsession with castles.”

“Your father hated castles. It was our obsession, Bish. Yours and mine. Rochester, Pickering, that one down in Wales. Let’s do the Scottish castles one day, darling.”

Where were you? he wanted to ask, because he was tired and lonely and heartsick. “I’ll talk to you when I get home,” he said before hanging up.

Jill’s text finally came through. Alan Penney’s last known address was the council flat of his mother in Scarborough, a hundred miles north of Skipton. Bish got back in the car.

Mrs. Penney had seen better days. Or perhaps this had been her life from the beginning. Perhaps her lot was set before she was even born. She had a hard face ravaged by booze or cigarettes, or by misfortune. She stood behind the screen door, wearing a terry cloth dressing gown, her eyes smudged with makeup that looked as though it belonged to the night before. Her eyes were outlined in a way that made them look small. Mean.

He contemplated whether to hand over his business card. Being a cop would get him through some doors, but not in this neighborhood.

“Is Alan here, Mrs. Penney?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name’s Bish Ortley. I’m with the Home Office,” he sort of lied, “and we believe Alan may be able to shed light on an incident that took place in Malham Cove back in 2002.”

She glared at him. “Home Office?” she asked. “With all their fancy computers and files?”

He tried to decide whether she was impressed.

“Because the way I see it, Mr. Bosh—whatever your real name is—the Home Office would only have to put my son’s name in a computer to find out that he’s dead.”

Thanks, Jill.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Penney.”

“No you’re not.”

Bish was getting a bit sick and tired of people challenging his truth. “Actually, yes I am,” he said. “I’m really sorry. Because outliving your children is unnatural and no one deserves that.”

Too much information, Bish. He walked away. Another f*cking dead end. Literally, this time. Another broken person to add to his long list of acquaintances.

“Why concern yourself with something that happened all that time ago?” she called after him.

A question was good. A question meant she was willing to speak to him. He turned back. It got him through the door, and because poor Mrs. Penney seemed to have had a shit of a life and a shit of a son, whom she had loved, Bish shared the tea cake with her.

“Alan dropped out of school and started hanging out with a couple of no-hopers,” she told him. “Younger boys, but oh, they were brazen. Keith Hugh was one of ’em. He’s doing time for glassing his girl and knocking out her teeth. My Alan may have been a thief and a liar but he never raised a hand to a girl.”

Keith Hugh. Bish committed the name to memory. “And what about the other boy?”

“Paulette Gilbert’s boy. Frank. Always thought they were better than us, the Gilberts.”

Mrs. Penney had no idea of the Gilberts’ present whereabouts. Bish chatted with her until they’d finished the cake and tea, and once he’d left he rang Layla, and asked her to do an Internet search for a Frank Gilbert. She tracked him to the town of Keighley, ten miles south of Skipton, in a street that surprised him. Not too fancy, but a proud one, with neat gardens and cheerful passersby. The man tending the garden at number twenty-seven was dressed in coveralls. All so civilized.

“Frank Gilbert?”

The man looked up. A younger face than Bish’s, but less hair.

“Who’s askin’?”

Bish held out a hand. “Bish Ortley.”

Frank Gilbert shook it with suspicion in his eyes.

“I just wanted to talk to you about Alan Penney and Keith Hugh.”

Frank let the hand drop. “Don’t have anything to do with them.”

“But you did thirteen years ago.”

“They belong to a different time,” Gilbert said, returning to what he had been doing with the strimmer. “And I’d like you to go. Now. You’re a copper and my family will be home any minute. I don’t want them upset. Do you hear?”

“Why would they be upset, Mr. Gilbert? I’m just asking questions. Did Keith Hugh or Alan Penney ever speak about a watch—”

“I know nothing about a watch!”

The response was so quick and vehement that it had Bish’s pulse beating at a Violette LeBrac I-told-you-so speed. Frank Gilbert looked beyond Bish’s shoulder, a flicker of panic in his eyes.

“Mr. Gilbert, have you ever visited Malham Cove?”

“Daddy!”

Bish turned to see a boy of about nine and a little girl of about four walk up the path with their mother. A pretty woman. A question in her eye. The girl let go of her mother’s hand and ran into Frank Gilbert’s arms. Bish watched him hold her close.

“What’s going on, Frankie?” the woman asked.

“Nothin’,” he said. “Just about some of the lads I ran with a couple of years back. Go inside,” he said gently.

His wife wasn’t buying any of it but she ushered the kids into the house, turning back once while Bish and Gilbert stood in silence.