Buried in the Past by Bill Kitson Page B

his mobile. ‘Here, listen to this. “Police are appealing for witnesses following the discovery of a seriously injured man on the Helmsdale to Kirk Bolton road, close to Drover’s Halt. The man, described as being in his late forties, has since been identified as Raymond Perry, recently released from Durham Prison having served a life sentence for murder. Police are anxious to interview anyone who was travelling along that stretch of road last Thursday night, particularly if they saw the victim, who was wearing white trainers, blue jeans and a maroon sweatshirt,and was believed to be walking towards Drover’s Halt. A police spokesperson commented that the injuries sustained by Perry are consistent with some form of collision, but until further tests have been carried out, they refused to speculate on the cause.” That means they haven’t a fucking clue. Dim set of bastards. So, Perry’s on his way out. That will be one less problem. I was worried when he was headed this way, at the thought he might find out about you know what. I went to the hospital, did I tell you? I wanted to finish the job, but I was panicking over nothing, I guess. Now we can get on with the next bit. When do you think you can get away?’
    He listened. ‘Can’t you make it sooner?’ Had to accept the reality, ‘No, I suppose not.’
    He rang off and glanced around the cottage. His thoughts made him edgy. He hated this place. Couldn’t understand how people could actually enjoy coming here on holiday. He’d hated it all those years ago. Remembered how glad he’d been at the thought that he’d never have to return. Now, here he was and hating it all the more. He was used to the hustle and bustle of the city. He hated the silence. Hated the people; their weird accents and way of talking. Hated the countryside. Couldn’t sleep here. Too quiet. Just as he was getting used to it, some creature would screech or yelp, or whatever they did.
    He wanted to be back on home ground. Even when Corinna had been here, he’d wanted to be away as fast as he could. He missed her, not simply because they were two of a kind, her and him: survivors . And they would survive again. Survive and prosper. But first, they’d got work to do. And mooning about wasn’t going to get it done.
     
    Shortly after lunch, Tom Pratt popped into Nash’s office with a query regarding a case that he was getting ready to send to CPS. It was a question, Nash knew, none of the others would have thought to ask. As they were talking, Clara and Pearce joined them.
    Clara cleared her throat. ‘I was trying to work out how Ray Perry came to be in Yorkshire. It seems strange to me that Perry headed here immediately he was released; as if he knew where to come.’
    There was a long silence before Nash spoke. ‘You’re right, Clara,we questioned it before and I should have spotted it. Do you want to sit here?’ He pointed to his chair. ‘So, what you’re thinking is, who did Perry know here? Because that has to be the key to the whole mystery.’
    ‘Perhaps he came here looking for his lover; the mysterious Frankie Da Silva,’ Clara suggested.
    Nash shook his head. ‘We’ve no evidence connecting her with this area. Mind you, at the moment the same applies to Perry.’
    Nash turned to Pearce. ‘I’ve a job for you, Viv, on much the same lines as the one Clara’s doing. I don’t want you to feel left out. Contact all the theatrical and entertainment agencies you can find. Concentrate on those based in London, to begin with. See if anyone remembers a nightclub singer called Frankie Da Silva who was on the circuit during the eighties. She would have needed an agent. Without one, she wouldn’t have got any bookings. If you manage to locate someone who still has her name on file, I need to know if she listed a next of kin, a contact address and especially, I want to know her real name, because I feel sure the agency will have that, as well as her stage name.’
    ‘Changing