Imposition (DI Gardener 5)

She noticed it was nine-fifteen. As her colleague had returned to work yesterday, Grace had been allowed to take her day off today.

She padded through to the living room. Sitting at the table, the sorrow of losing her mother returned all too quickly. She had never had closure; had never been allowed to grieve. For all she knew her mother could still be out there. Though she doubted that very much. She couldn’t imagine any possible scenario in which her mother could still be alive and not make contact for twenty years.

She would not have walked out on her daughter, no matter what the circumstances. A mother’s love wouldn’t allow it.

No, that could not have happened. Her mother had suffered at the hands of that fucking lunatic. Raymond Culver had also disappeared very abruptly in 1999, after the disappearance of her mother, never to be seen again. When the time came and the circumstances were right, Grace would have her moment, and all the answers she required – before payback.

She thought back to the period when her life had nose-dived: when she thought it was over for good.

Two years passed before it was clear to Grace that her mother was never going to return. Decisions had to be made, and she had to toughen up if she was going to survive in such a callous world.

Grace had put their house up for sale. Once the proceeds were in her bank account, she changed her lifestyle completely. Grace remained convinced that Raymond had had something to do with her mother’s disappearance and if it took her the rest of her life to prove it, or find him, then so be it.

She moved away from the North East, settling in Kingston upon Hull. She enrolled at the college of further education and took a secretarial course. She found herself a small but tidy one bedroom flat in the old town, within walking distance of The Marina. Once she had fulfilled her course requirements she signed up with an agency, working on temporary contracts. Whilst she was doing that, she enrolled at the college again and studied IT and computer literacy. The five-year course gave her a degree and taught her numerous skills in a number of areas.

Over the years she invested a lot of money and moved again, to Harrogate, working in the legal profession. She changed her lifestyle again, became a health freak, eating only the very best food, supplementing her diet with multivitamins. She signed on at a local gymnasium, working out four times a week. She studied self-defence. Grace passed her time reading law books and collecting items of personal security should the time come when she might need them – and she knew she would, one day.

Eventually, she realised she could take things easier due to the serious amount of money she had accumulated. She could choose to work when she wanted. She stayed in Harrogate, devoting the rest of her time to finding the man she believed was responsible for her mother’s disappearance.

Her starting point was her hometown of Billingham. She wanted to know if anyone else remembered him. Had they seen him recently? Some of the locals had, but no one had seen him since that unfortunate business.

Her quest led her to Flamborough, and her questions raised local interest due to the photographs of her stepfather she was showing the locals. A visit to the post office unearthed the name Jane Thornton, but they didn’t know his name. The couple running the post office believed she originated from Scarborough. They remembered Jane Thornton leaving town under a storm cloud. No one had seen her since.

It took her some time to follow the trail in Scarborough but she eventually tracked down Jane Thornton’s best friend, Cynthia Morrell, from a school register, who couldn’t tell her much. She vaguely remembered a man called Richard Clayton. He was older than Jane Thornton.

Cynthia thought Richard had treated her friend well enough at the start of the relationship. Inevitably, things went wrong. Jane Thornton’s parents died in a car crash. She struggled to recover from their loss. The relationship fell apart. Cynthia figured it was more than the death of her parents. She reckoned Richard was a bit of a dark horse, that he wasn’t treating her well. The relationship deteriorated further.

The last Cynthia heard, Jane Thornton skipped town, was residing in Malta, and refusing point blank to return to Scarborough while that man was still breathing.

Cynthia never saw Richard Clayton again. He’d somehow vanished off the face of the Earth around 1991.

She may have discovered the whereabouts of Jane Thornton, but Richard Clayton’s whereabouts were a complete mystery.

The trail had ended very abruptly.

Grace finished her coffee and poured another. She believed that Richard Clayton, Raymond Culver and the man she now knew to be Ronald Critchley were one and the same.

Chapter Twenty-two

Terry Jones heard the shop door open, and then close. The Lord only knew how, with the two Herberts that were in the back room testing guitars and amplifiers. They’d been there the best part of an hour – since he’d opened at nine – and the row they were making was enough to make anyone’s ears bleed.

Neither of them could play a note, but they certainly assumed they could, like karaoke kings. That was the problem nowadays. The X-Factor and Britain’s Got No Talent and other shit like it was responsible for people thinking they could become rock musicians overnight and earn a fortune, then retire after a year or two and live a life of luxury.

Still, should he complain? He’d been running the music shop in Bursley Bridge for a couple of years. He was making money off them. The reason he didn’t like it was because he was a seasoned professional; he knew what he was doing, and had for many years.

Terry glanced up and saw the young man standing in front of the counter with his guitar case.

“I’ll be with you in a minute, son.”

The young man nodded.

Terry put down the soldering iron, switched it off and shuffled his way to the door leading through to the back.

The room was full of amplifiers and smelled of leather and lavender polish. A number of guitars were in glass cases. All the expensive stuff was in the showroom in the shop front; under lock and key, the stuff that could easily be walked away with: effects pedals, leads and radio microphones. The back was mainly a testing station for people who wanted to know what something sounded like. The real musicians would spend hours trying every combination of equipment but they also spent money.

“Okay, lads.” He clapped his hands.

The music stopped and they stared at him. Both were six feet, as thin as sticks and covered in spots. One had hair that resembled an explosion in a mattress factory – all over his head. The other one was starting to lose his. One wore glasses, the other didn’t. Their clothes were either held together with safety pins or had bloody great cuts in them. He thought they were dirty but apparently that was the style.