built?”
“Five, six years ago. About same time…” Kelly drifted off. I knew where he was going.
We stood in the cold dark room with its sudden bursts of light and said nothing until he’d finished.
“There, that’s your lot, unless there’s owt else you can think of,” said Kelly as he sorted through his camera bag.
“A couple of outside do you think?” I said, looking out at the rain.
A car was turning into the Close.
Kelly glanced out of the front window. “Might have to come back on a better day, but I’ll try.”
The car pulled up in front of the house.
“Shit,” I said.
“Fuck,” said Kelly.
“Yeah,” I said as two police officers got out of the blue and white car.
The two policemen were coming up the path as we came out of the house. One was tall with a beard, the other short with a big nose. They could have been some comedy double act, except no-one was laughing and they looked as mean as fuck.
Hamlet started barking next door, making the short officer curse. Kelly shut the door behind us. There was no sign of Enid Sheard. It was pissing down and we had nowhere to hide.
“What’s going on lads?” asked the tall copper with the beard.
“We’re with the Post,” I said, looking at Kelly.
The short officer was grinning. “So what the fuck does that mean?”
I fished in my jacket for some credentials. “We’re doing a story.”
“Fuck off,” said the short one again, taking out his notebook and glancing up at the sky.
“It’s right,” said Kelly, first with his press pass.
The tall one held the passes as the other copied down the details. “So how’d you get in the house lads?”
The short one didn’t let me answer. “Aw fuck,” he said. “Open the door will you. I’m not standing out here in this piss.” He tore out the rain-soaked piece of paper he’d been trying to write on and screwed it up.
I said, “I can’t.”
The tall one had stopped smiling. “You fucking can and you will.”
“It’s a Yale lock. We don’t have the key.”
“So you’re fucking Father Christmas are you? How the fuck did you get in?”
I gambled and said, “Somebody let us in.”
“Stop arsing around. Who the fuck let you in?”
“The Goldthorpes’ family solicitor,” said Kelly.
“Who is…?”
I tried not to look too pleased. “Edward Clay and Son, Town-gate, Pontefract.”
“Fucking smart arse,” spat the tall one.
“Here, you’re not related to Johnny Kelly are you?” said the short officer as he handed back the passes.
“He’s my second cousin.”
“You fucking Micks breed like bloody rabbits.”
“Done a Lucan hasn’t he? Legged it.”
Kelly just said, “I don’t know.”
The taller officer jerked his head towards the road. “You better fuck off and find him ‘fore next Sunday, hadn’t you?”
“Not you Santa,” said the short one poking me in the chest.
Kelly turned round. I tossed him the keys to the Viva. He shrugged and jogged off towards the car, leaving the three of us stood there by the back door, the pouring rain running off the roof of the bungalow, listening to Hamlet, waiting for someone to speak.
The short one took his time putting his notebook away. The tall one took off his gloves, stretched his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and then put his gloves back on. I rocked back on my heels, hands in my pockets, rain dripping off my nose.
After a couple of minutes of this shit I said, “What is it then?”
The taller copper suddenly reached out with both his arms and pushed me back against the door. He gripped one gloved hand around my throat and crushed my face flat against the paint with the other. My feet weren’t on the floor.
“Don’t go bothering people who don’t want bothering,” he whispered into my ear.
“It’s not nice,” hissed the short one, an inch from my face on tiptoes.
I waited, stomach taut, expecting the punch.
A hand closed over my balls, gently stroking them.
“You should get yourself
“Five, six years ago. About same time…” Kelly drifted off. I knew where he was going.
We stood in the cold dark room with its sudden bursts of light and said nothing until he’d finished.
“There, that’s your lot, unless there’s owt else you can think of,” said Kelly as he sorted through his camera bag.
“A couple of outside do you think?” I said, looking out at the rain.
A car was turning into the Close.
Kelly glanced out of the front window. “Might have to come back on a better day, but I’ll try.”
The car pulled up in front of the house.
“Shit,” I said.
“Fuck,” said Kelly.
“Yeah,” I said as two police officers got out of the blue and white car.
The two policemen were coming up the path as we came out of the house. One was tall with a beard, the other short with a big nose. They could have been some comedy double act, except no-one was laughing and they looked as mean as fuck.
Hamlet started barking next door, making the short officer curse. Kelly shut the door behind us. There was no sign of Enid Sheard. It was pissing down and we had nowhere to hide.
“What’s going on lads?” asked the tall copper with the beard.
“We’re with the Post,” I said, looking at Kelly.
The short officer was grinning. “So what the fuck does that mean?”
I fished in my jacket for some credentials. “We’re doing a story.”
“Fuck off,” said the short one again, taking out his notebook and glancing up at the sky.
“It’s right,” said Kelly, first with his press pass.
The tall one held the passes as the other copied down the details. “So how’d you get in the house lads?”
The short one didn’t let me answer. “Aw fuck,” he said. “Open the door will you. I’m not standing out here in this piss.” He tore out the rain-soaked piece of paper he’d been trying to write on and screwed it up.
I said, “I can’t.”
The tall one had stopped smiling. “You fucking can and you will.”
“It’s a Yale lock. We don’t have the key.”
“So you’re fucking Father Christmas are you? How the fuck did you get in?”
I gambled and said, “Somebody let us in.”
“Stop arsing around. Who the fuck let you in?”
“The Goldthorpes’ family solicitor,” said Kelly.
“Who is…?”
I tried not to look too pleased. “Edward Clay and Son, Town-gate, Pontefract.”
“Fucking smart arse,” spat the tall one.
“Here, you’re not related to Johnny Kelly are you?” said the short officer as he handed back the passes.
“He’s my second cousin.”
“You fucking Micks breed like bloody rabbits.”
“Done a Lucan hasn’t he? Legged it.”
Kelly just said, “I don’t know.”
The taller officer jerked his head towards the road. “You better fuck off and find him ‘fore next Sunday, hadn’t you?”
“Not you Santa,” said the short one poking me in the chest.
Kelly turned round. I tossed him the keys to the Viva. He shrugged and jogged off towards the car, leaving the three of us stood there by the back door, the pouring rain running off the roof of the bungalow, listening to Hamlet, waiting for someone to speak.
The short one took his time putting his notebook away. The tall one took off his gloves, stretched his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and then put his gloves back on. I rocked back on my heels, hands in my pockets, rain dripping off my nose.
After a couple of minutes of this shit I said, “What is it then?”
The taller copper suddenly reached out with both his arms and pushed me back against the door. He gripped one gloved hand around my throat and crushed my face flat against the paint with the other. My feet weren’t on the floor.
“Don’t go bothering people who don’t want bothering,” he whispered into my ear.
“It’s not nice,” hissed the short one, an inch from my face on tiptoes.
I waited, stomach taut, expecting the punch.
A hand closed over my balls, gently stroking them.
“You should get yourself
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