The Hiding Place(50)

“More than I expected. I’ve met amoebas with more backbone than Harry.”

“So, all Hurst’s mates backed his story?”

“Oh, they sang to his chorus like the world’s ugliest boy band.”

“Right.”

A pause. “Look, about what happened—”

“You were right,” I say. “I almost lost it.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Sometimes, with Hurst, it’s a bit too much like history repeating.”

“I know it’s probably none of my business—”

“Probably.”

“But is there something more going on with you and Hurst Senior? With you coming back here?”

“Why d’you ask?”

“I’m not the only one asking.”

“Meaning?”

“Word has got back to Harry that you two have history. I think he’s worried it’s going to cause him problems. And by problems, I mean work.”

“No need for him to worry. That particular history is ancient.”

“No such thing in this place.”

She’s right. Arnhill has more secrets than shared genes.

“Anyway,” she continues, “if you fancy a chat over a beer, tomorrow night?”

I consider. I don’t really want to talk about Hurst. But I would like to talk to Beth.

“Okay.”

“Good. You’re buying.”

“Oh. Good.”

She grins and slips off the desk. There’s something else I need to ask her.

“Beth—do you know much about Marcus and his family?”

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Well, his mum is a cleaner. Lauren gave you her card in the pub the other day.”

I hear a dull clunk at the back of my mind. The penny dropping. I take out my wallet and fish out the card.

“Dawson’s Dust Busters?”

“There you go,” says Beth.

Which would make Lauren—Sullen Barmaid, Reluctant Dog Walker—Marcus’s sister. And now I can see the resemblance. The gangly awkwardness. The social weirdness. I consider. The text came from Marcus’s phone. He was in the graveyard that day. Not a coincidence. But how did he get hold of my number? And how would he know about the graffiti, about my sister? No. There’s something more. Something I’m missing.

“Marcus’s mum—has she lived here all her life?”

“Haven’t most people in Arnhill?”

“What’s her first name?”

“Ruth.”

And now something stirs at the back of my mind. Just like it did on my very first day at the school gates. An old memory reawakened.

“Is Dawson her maiden name?”

Beth rolls her eyes. “Jesus! What d’you think I am? The marriage register for every person in Arnhill? I do have a life outside this crappy village, you know.”

“Right. Sorry.”

She folds her arms and glares at me. “Why d’you need to know anyway?”

Because I do. Because I need answers.

“I think I may have gone to school with her.”

She sighs heavily. “Actually, no, it’s not. Her husband died several years ago. No loss—he was a nasty piece of work, by all accounts. Lauren won’t even use his surname.”

“And you know this how?”

“I helped Lauren fill in some job applications. Noticed the surname was different. She told me she uses her mum’s name—”

“Which is?”

“Moore.”

I almost palm slap my forehead.

Ruth Moore, she’s so poor, gets free meals and begs for more. Ruth Moore, ugly and poor, licks up shit from the toilet floor.

Another awkward, socially impaired kid. Another victim. And yet, sometimes, those are the kids that see the most. Unnoticed, they absorb everything that goes on—the stories, the gossip, the detritus of school life, catching it like a log bobbing in a busy river current. And no one ever realizes how much they know. Because no one ever asks.

Beth is frowning. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I was just thinking, maybe I could talk to her…about Marcus.”

Among other things.

“You could try. But she’s a little odd.” She looks at me and reconsiders. “On second thought, you two will probably get on fine.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” She strolls to the door. “I’ll see you later.”

I wait until the squeak of her shoes has faded then I take out Ruth’s card. Dawson’s Dust Busters. On the back, a number and a slogan: “No job too small. No mess too big.”

If only that were true. Unfortunately, there are some things you can’t just scrub away with a scouring pad and a bucket of bleach. Like blood, they remain, festering beneath the surface.

I know what happened to your sister.

And sometimes, they come back.





21





The row house is small and neatly kept. It does not look poor by any means. New PVC windows, smart wooden door, a bright hanging basket outside. A blue Fiesta is parked on the curb, “Dawson’s Dust Busters” written along the side in shiny silver lettering.