Текст книги "Scarred for Life"

Автор книги: Kerry Wilkinson

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

‘She’s called Jenga?’

‘Something like that. She was singing this Boyzone song and I was like, “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not Boyzone.”’

‘Right.’

‘Anyway, like I said, we were eating spaghetti bolognaise and Kylie dropped her plate.’

‘Why?’

‘I dunno – probably because she was so surprised.’

‘At the fact you don’t like Boyzone?’

‘I suppose – she’s always been a fan but I thought they were shite first time around. Every time the key changes they’re up out of their stools like they’ve just shat themselves. Whenever she goes on about them, I keep it quiet but it just sort of popped out.’

Jessica peered back at her notes. Michael’s opinion about the Boyzone members’ arses was ironic considering what his girlfriend had done with the fork and the reason he was lying on his front.

‘Okay, so anyway – in essence, and correct me if I’m wrong, but you made a comment about Boyzone which she didn’t take too well and that’s when the incident with the fork and your, er, body happened.’

‘Right.’ Michael plopped himself back down onto the bed. ‘I know I called you and you had to come out but you’re not going to press charges, are you? It was only a misunderstanding – a bit of a tiff. All couples have them, don’t they?’

He was right that all couples had tiffs but Jessica wasn’t convinced this was a regular outcome.

‘We’ll have to come back to you,’ Jessica said. ‘The CPS will take into account likely cooperation of a witness, and seeing as you’re the only witness that might mean they don’t take things any further. It’s not for me to say.’

‘It was just a mix-up.’

‘She was aiming for somewhere else? Either way, like I said, someone will be in contact. If it’s any consolation, Kylie did say she was sorry.’

Jessica made her way back through the hospital corridors trying to figure out if Michael and Kylie’s story would make the top five strangest things she’d investigated. When she’d interviewed Kylie, she had given more or less the same story, except that in her version she really did sound like the aggrieved party:

Kylie: ‘It’s just I really love ’em.’

Jessica (mishearing ‘’em’ as ‘’im’): ‘Michael?’

Kylie: ‘Oh yeah, I love ’im too – but I meant Ronan and the boys.’

Jessica had gone from investigating murders and serial thieves to interviewing a couple who’d fallen out over a boy band while eating spaghetti.

As she crossed reception, Jessica spotted the payphone on the wall. She slotted in 50p and called Archie. ‘Who is it?’ asked his gruff Mancunian voice.

‘It’s Jess. I’m on a payphone, so be quick. If you’ve got something for me then I’ve got a funny story about a man’s arse for you.’

‘Why would I want to hear about another man’s arse?’

‘Trust me; you’ll want to hear this. Have you got anything?’

‘Aye.’

‘If there’s no one around, you can tell me now. Better than keep sneaking off to my office.’

‘Two ticks.’ Jessica heard Archie shuffling and then he was back: ‘I didn’t find much. Brooklands Golf Club is owned by a fella named Logan Walkden. I couldn’t find much about your mate Bunce, except for the obvious.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It seemed so simple that I didn’t think to write it down at first, then I thought you might want to know anyway. Walkden and Bunce are both local lads, both born in the same hospital a couple of months apart. I’ve got their birthdays if you want them – they both turned fifty this year.’

The phone began to beep, telling Jessica her time was up. ‘Thanks – I owe you an arse story.’

Archie had time for one word before the line cut out – well, four if he came from pretty much anywhere else: ‘Yalright’.

40

Jessica drove back to the station trying to think of what it all meant. She was pretty sure that Freddy Bunce had complained about her, while a car probably owned by Logan Walkden had followed her home that very evening. They were both the same age – but so what? It was still a long string of unconnected things: the symbol on the letter through her door, the tattoo that Damon Potter wanted to get, Bunce, Pomeroy and now Walkden; no one thing connected to another.

The traffic was light and Jessica completed the journey all too quickly, with no particular plan of what to do next. She coasted through the station and returned to her office to begin typing everything up. It really was like the old days.

And then she had a thought.

Jessica loaded the Greater Manchester Police website, which was full of the same old nonsense – a top five most-wanted that no one would look at, reported crime statistics that no one – including those who worked for GMP – believed, a map of the city, an open letter from the chief constable banging on about the community, a timetable of events people wouldn’t attend, and a list of the senior staff. Jessica clicked through to the Longsight officers’ page and stared at her own face. The picture had been taken years ago and barely seemed like her any longer. She had slightly spottier skin, shorter, darker hair and a bizarre glimmer of optimism. She thought that it had probably been taken not long after she met Adam, before what happened with her colleague, Carrie – before everything else. She wasn’t that person any longer.

With a click, Jessica got rid of the photograph and moved on to the command team – the chief constable, his deputy and the assistant chief constables. Graham Pomeroy’s photo had definitely been taken a few years – and about five stone – ago. In the picture, his cheeks only slightly overhung his jawline and Jessica could only count three chins instead of the five he had now. She clicked on his face and skipped the top part, concentrating on his biography instead:

Assistant Chief Constable Graham Pomeroy

Graham joined GMP twenty-one years ago after a spell with the Royal Air Force and training as an engineer. He has worked in many roles through constable, sergeant, inspector in Bury, Salford and Manchester (Metropolitan). After deployments with strategic command and tactical firearms, Graham was asked to oversee the implementation of a new community policing policy in Salford.

A successful spell there saw him promoted to chief inspector, where he worked in Bolton and Wigan before being promoted to superintendent.

After another fruitful deployment to corporate assistance, Graham was promoted to assistant chief constable, where he currently oversees territorial outsourcing.

No wonder the public thought they were all wankers – anyone who sounded that boring in a profile they’d approved deserved everything coming to them. Jessica had no idea what ‘territorial outsourcing’ involved – presumably something to do with having police officers in various territories. How hard could that be? And what was ‘corporate assistance’? Nowhere in his profile did it mention that he’d seemingly spent a large number of those twenty-one years eating.

Jessica scanned to the bottom where it listed the awards, commendations and qualifications he had. There was no date of birth but it was easy enough to work out the year because of the date he got his O-levels. She had to use her fingers to count and then wrote it down on a pad just to be sure. After checking it four times, Jessica was certain: Pomeroy had been born in the same year as Bunce and Walkden.

She tried to remember what Garry Ashford had told her about Freddy Bunce.

Nine months ago he was given a contract by the council to build a new housing estate for them.

He’d printed off an article about it and Dave had packed the information they had into a cardboard wallet. Where had it gone?

Jessica didn’t want to be seen around the station potentially conspiring with anyone, let alone Dave, but she didn’t have much choice. She headed through the corridors to the main area in which the constables worked. In the front corner was DI Franks’ office, which he shared with one of the detective sergeants, whom they hadn’t managed to cram into the sergeants’ station a few doors down. Jessica had been concerned for a while that they were going to force her to share offices with Wanky Frankie but had so far been lucky.

Keeping her head down, Jessica hurried past his office door and glided swiftly towards Dave’s desk. The stack of binders and folders had shrunk somewhat, but he was still slumped in his seat, typing. It looked like he had barely moved since she last saw him.

As she approached his head shot up, peering over the folders towards Franks’ office. ‘Jess, I, er . . .’

Jessica didn’t waste any time, but she did lower her voice: ‘What happened to the printouts about Bunce?’

Dave frowned and then started sorting through the folders on his desk. ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember when I last had them.’

‘You had them when we went to Bunce’s house and office yesterday.’

His face fell: ‘They’re probably still in the car. Sorry – we were rushing around and then I was busy answering your phone.’

Jessica gave him a wink. ‘Missing me yet?’

Before he could answer, she snatched a pad of Post-it notes from his desk, turned and headed back off the floor as quickly as she had arrived, thrusting the pad in the air and hoping that ‘borrowing’ stationery was enough of a reason for her to be walking past her friend’s desk if anyone wondered.

Claiming she’d left a jacket in the car, Jessica was relieved to discover the vehicle she’d taken the previous day was still on the premises. She signed the keys out and hurried to the car park, dreading the thought of hunting around the back of the patrol car.

The first thing she noticed as she climbed in was the stench. When she’d been in it yesterday with Dave it had seemed fine – but now it smelled like someone had emptied a takeaway Chinese over the steering wheel. The front and back seats were clear, leaving Jessica to crouch on all fours and go digging underneath. As her fingers slipped into something sloppy, Jessica realised that someone had indeed been eating Chinese food. A foil tub of what had once been noodles had congealed into a cold, mushy, stinking tray of goo. Jessica tried not to gag but took the tub out and dumped it in a nearby drain, wiping her fingers on the material of the back seat and hoping she was able to check out a different car the next time she needed one.

Some of her colleagues really were disgusting.

Deeper under the seat was a small pizza box, folded over and over, then wedged in place. The grease stains may have been dry, but they were still foul.

The first offering from underneath the passenger seat was a well-worn, partially torn beacon of respectability: Asian Jugs. Jessica flicked through the first few pages of the magazine and had to admit that the material did at least live up to what the title promised.

Dirty bastards.

Just as she was beginning to think she had covered her hand in day-old Chinese slime for no reason, Jessica’s fingers finally closed around the cardboard folder.

Wash hands, sign the keys back in, wash hands again, leave the porn mag in Archie’s cubby hole, back to the office.

Jessica locked her door and spread the printouts across the spare desk that had once belonged to DS Louise Cornish. She felt that familiar prickle of anticipation at the back of her neck after reading the first five paragraphs about Freddy Bunce’s contract to build social housing for the council – the deal that had cost an eight-figure sum.

‘. . . the council’s head of planning, Declan Grainger, 49, said: “This is a momentous day for the city of Manchester . . .”’

The article had been written nine months ago, which meant the council’s head of planning and the person to whom he’d awarded a ten-million-plus contract were the same age. So was the owner of a golf club whose car had followed her. So was Assistant Chief Constable Graham Pomeroy.

Hmm.

Jessica kept reading. There were a lot of boring details about the number of houses that would be built and the new roads that would be needed, something from the Housing Secretary, a quote from the chamber of commerce – and then the line that made Jessica’s eyes nearly pop out of her head:

‘. . . Mr Bunce, who has worked on projects across the region, said this development would have a special meaning for him because it would involve converting the site of his old school. He said: “St Flora’s is where I spent my formative years . . .”’

Hmm.

Not wanting to use her computer just in case, Jessica took out her phone and searched for St Flora. There was a bit about being the patron saint of the abandoned, that she was born in France, lived in Jerusalem, and that she was a virgin. Jessica wondered how many other people through history would have that as part of their epitaph. Was it really something to gloat about? She knew a few kids at her old school who could likely claim that all these years later, but it was unlikely to be through choice.

Jessica kept digging and found out that ‘Flora’ was originally a Latin word, relating to the Roman goddess of flowers. Those pesky Italians had a god and goddess for everything, though that didn’t particularly help until she began searching for other translations of the word ‘flower’.

Blomst, virág, fiore, gėlė, kwiat, cvet, flor, something . . . Japanese. Jessica even checked the Welsh translation: blodeuyn – as if anyone pretended it was a real language.

And then she saw the French word: fleur. For a reason she didn’t know, Jessica clicked on the image search. There were a dozen images of flowers and then the one that was on the corner of the envelope put through her door.

The fleur-de-lis was a symbol that had three prongs; one curled to the left, one went straight up, one curled to the right. At the bottom was a small loop holding the strands together, making it look like some sort of sheaf.

As Archie might say: bingo.

41

Jessica continued staring at the logo. It was no wonder it seemed vaguely familiar to Dave – it was apparently a team badge for an American football team, originally coming from the French royal family. She knew nothing about either of those things and assumed he had seen it on the jerseys of the glorified rugby players, as opposed to having an in-depth knowledge of the French aristocracy.

Knowing that doing her job with the minimum of fuss was the best way to not be noticed, Jessica put through the paperwork relating to Kylie’s attack on Michael. Despite what she’d told Michael, the CPS would likely prosecute anyway – they had the medical evidence and a pair of statements, so witness or no witness there was little chance they were going to lose the case. Start flashing around photographs to a jury or magistrate of Michael’s hairy arse with a fork impaled in it and you were going to ensure two things:

1) Laughter, definitely in private, perhaps in public.

2) Sympathy for the victim and a conviction.

Everyone could empathise with that type of injury because everyone knew what sitting down entailed. Kylie had been bailed to appear back at the station later in the afternoon where she’d be told her fate.

For now, Jessica had at least ninety minutes to kill. She hurried out of the side door of the station in an effort to avoid Fat Pat knowing where she was, and then looped around to the front gate, onto Stockport Road, walking across the street and into Ali’s News.

Jessica whipped her identification out of her pocket and handed it to the young Asian man behind the counter. ‘Do you have a phone?’

He examined the card, turning it upside down and over, before handing it back. ‘You wanna buy a mobile?’

‘No – have you got a payphone?’

‘No one has payphones nowadays, lady. What year do you think it is?’

‘Do you have a phone at all in the back?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can I use that?’

The lad scratched his head uncertainly. ‘The manager’s told me not to use it.’

‘Yes, but I’m not you.’

‘Don’t you have a mobile?’

‘Out of battery. It’s an emergency.’

‘Er, I don’t know, lady . . .’

Jessica took a five-pound note out of her pocket. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

He looked at the cash, then Jessica, then the cash again before snatching it. ‘Cheers, I was only expecting a quid.’

He lifted the counter for Jessica to duck underneath and then led her into a back room packed with boxes of chocolate bars, crisps and fizzy drinks. When she had been eight, this was her dream. It pretty much still was.

The young man pointed at a light brown phone attached the wall. ‘You have to dial nine first.’

When she was alone, Jessica fished out her mobile, found Garry Ashford’s number, and then pressed it into the phone on the wall.

‘Hello.’

‘Garry, it’s Jess.’

‘What happened to your number?’

‘I’m being careful – listen, I’ve got some names for you. Have you got a pen?’

‘We meet one time when I don’t have a pen and you spend the rest of eternity banging on about it.’

Jessica smiled. ‘All right, fine: Graham Pomeroy, Freddy Bunce, Logan Walkden and Declan Grainger. Can you see if you’ve got anything in your archive connecting them to a school named St Flora’s?’

‘Our archive’s awful.’

‘I know, I’ve seen it, remember – but you’ll still have more chance than me. You might be able to find something online but I’ve been struggling.’

‘I’ll see what I can do but I am actually busy.’

‘We all are. Just one thing – if you need to call me, don’t go direct. Figure something else out.’

‘Are you going to tell me why?’

‘Not yet – trust me, if you spot a link, you’ll see it yourself.’

Jessica hung up, thought about nicking a bar of chocolate, reminded herself how old she was – and what job she did – then headed back into the main part of the shop.

The young man had a set of earbuds in and was merrily drumming away on the counter top until he spotted her. ‘All sorted?’

‘Yep.’

At that moment, Jessica’s mobile sprang to life. She delved into her pocket, removing it with an apologetic look of fake confusion. ‘Sorry, it must have had some charge after all.’

The call was from a local number she didn’t know and Jessica answered it as she headed through the door back out onto the dank, grey street.

It was a woman’s voice: ‘Hello, is that Ms, er, Jessica Daniels?’

‘Daniel. No “s”. Loads of people get it wrong.’

‘Right – and you’re a police officer?’

‘Allegedly.’

‘Right, it’s just that I work at City Magistrates’ Court and there’s someone here who’s given us your name and number.’

42

Jessica took a CID car from the station and headed across the city to the magistrates’ court at the back of Deansgate. The person who had called didn’t seem to know too many details, simply that Jessica’s name had been mentioned in court and that the members of the bench had requested her presence if it was at all convenient.

If an officer was due to give evidence, it would be worked into their rota – often a half-day, no less. If your case was up first, you could get in, read from your notebook, try not to sound like too much of a prat, and then sit at the back of court hoping the thieving/abusive/stupid criminal you’d nicked actually got done for it. If you were really lucky, you’d get a quick turnaround and then you were left with a couple of hours to slowly make your way back to the station via the nearest all-day breakfast place. If you weren’t so blessed, your case would be on last and you’d spend six hours sitting in a court foyer twiddling your thumbs while being eyed by a parade of scroats waiting for their moment of justice.

Jessica hadn’t been notified of any court dates, but the reason soon became apparent as she entered the foyer and showed her identification. The usher led Jessica along a corridor.

He seemed particularly giddy: ‘To be honest, none of us thought you were a real person.’

‘Sorry?’

‘We all thought it was a ploy to keep herself out of protective custody. You see it all the time.’

‘I’m sorry; I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Didn’t anyone tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

‘Oh, right, well I suppose we’re here now anyway.’

The usher indicated a wood-panelled door in front of them, knocking twice before opening it for Jessica. As he retreated, she stood in the doorway looking at the two people sitting at a table. One was clearly a duty solicitor: smartish suit that wasn’t as expensive as anything the defence lawyers wore, slightly crooked tie, gently scuffed shoes.

The other was Bex.

She was hugging her knees into herself, backpack on the floor next to her, dark hair scraped away from her face into a ponytail. ‘Hello,’ Bex said quietly, not quite meeting Jessica’s eye.

The previous evening, Bex had been arrested in the city centre after trying to pick the wrong pocket. The former head of inner-city policing for London’s Met police was in town to visit his daughter at university and Bex had been caught trying to lift his wallet on the street outside Victoria Station. He frogmarched her to a nearby police officer on duty at the Manchester Arena, gave his statement, and then carried on his business.

Miraculously, Bex had no criminal record. The youth court magistrates were happy to release her with little more than a slap on the wrist – except that she was unable to provide an address of where she could stay. After speculating that they would send her to what amounted to a children’s home for her own good, Bex had coughed up Jessica’s details.

And so it was that Jessica was called into the court to say that she would be only too happy to give Bex a roof to sleep under. Given her position within the force, they hadn’t thought twice before releasing the teenager.

The journey back to Jessica’s house was a quiet affair. The only thing Jessica said was that she wouldn’t allow the knife into her house. Bex said she’d ditched it while the policeman who’d arrested her was looking the other way – which was probably sensible given that she would have received a proper sentence had that been discovered in her bag.

Inside the house Jessica took Bex up to the spare bedroom. The girl dropped her bag on the floor and lay on the bed. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

Jessica thought about being angry, asking where she’d been and lecturing her on how close she’d come to being locked up – but it wasn’t the time. ‘It’s fine,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry for bringing up the missing candlesticks.’

‘I didn’t take them.’

‘I know. I knew that then – we found them.’

‘Where?’

‘In the bins outside.’

‘Why were they there?’

‘We don’t know.’

Bex pushed herself up on the bed until she was sitting. She was wearing three or four layers of clothing but still seemed tiny. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Neither do I – there’s been something going on. Someone went through our rubbish and graffitied my car. We think they might have broken in and gone through our things. We don’t know.’

‘What did they write on your car?’

It might not have been most people’s first question, but it would have been Jessica’s and she quite liked the fact it was Bex’s too.

‘It said that I was a bitch. Don’t worry, Adam’s already said it – at least it proves it was someone who knows me.’

Jessica forced a smile but it felt rawer now.

‘I don’t think you’re a bitch.’

Jessica shrugged and smiled wearily – what else could she do? ‘Thanks.’

‘Do you know who did it?’

‘No – sometimes when you do this job, you piss off certain people.’

Bex took off the outermost top and dropped it on the bed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t have to apologise – it wasn’t you.’

‘Not for that. I didn’t want to steal from that guy but it’s been so cold – there was all that fog last night and I thought it’d be safer in the hostel, only I didn’t have eight quid.’

‘You don’t have to explain.’

‘You’d been so nice to me and I know you were only asking about your things because you had to. I shouldn’t have gone, I was just—’

‘I get it – people don’t like being accused of things they haven’t done. I see it every day.’

‘You don’t have to let me stay, I just didn’t want—’

Jessica stretched across to the dressing table and opened the top drawer, taking out the front-door key Bex had thrown at her and lobbing it – gently – in the girl’s direction. ‘I’ve got to go back to work but we’ll talk later. I need you to promise me something.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t leave the house – I don’t want you running away and—‘

‘I won’t.’

Jessica hadn’t planned it but there was suddenly an urge she hadn’t felt before. She sat on the bed and opened her arms, motioning Bex towards her. The teenager bit her bottom lip for a moment but then made her decision, leaning forward and hugging her back.

Before Jessica knew what was happening, it was too late: the weeks of mistrust, suspicion and paranoia came pouring out in a flood of tears. Bex pressed her bony arms into Jessica’s back, clinging tight and perhaps understanding that Jessica needed her as much as she needed Jessica.

43

Jessica didn’t have long to pull herself together before she had to head back to the station. Quite what had come over her in the bedroom with Bex, she didn’t know – but then there was a lot she hadn’t understood about the past couple of weeks.

To show how far her status had slipped, it turned out that apparently no one had noticed she’d even left. Jessica checked in with the CPS and then went to wait in reception for Kylie, ready to give her the bad news that her fork of doom was going to see her heading to court on a section thirty-nine assault charge. The only consolation was that she’d likely get off with a minor fine or a supervision order – but she was still going to be in the papers as the girl who shoved a fork up her boyfriend’s arse.

Kylie seemed to take the news well, although her main defence seemed to be that she hated it when Michael didn’t support her interests. How that translated into falling out over Boyzone, Jessica didn’t know – but who was she to judge?

Jessica was about to head back to her office when Pat waved her to one side. She thought it was going to be for a crack about anything ranging from her driving to the state of her office to the fact they were still running her television appearance on the twenty-four-hour stations. Instead he had a Post-it note for her.

‘Your cousin called. I don’t know why he’s phoning here – but if you could tell him to try your own phone in future, then it would save me having to act as everyone’s personal answering service.’

Jessica had been a fraction of a second away from blurting out that she didn’t have a cousin, before catching herself. ‘What was the message?’

He thrust the note under her nose. ‘Why don’t you have a look at the note before asking? Not. Your. Answering. Service.’ He wagged a finger so close to her face that she had visions of biting it off. He might even lose a third of a pound.

Jessica snatched the note away and read the words, knowing exactly what it meant: ‘Usual place. ASAP.’

The late-afternoon crowd in the supermarket cafe was slightly different from the morning lot. Gone were the single mums nursing quiet cappuccinos; now there was a scattering of parents stopping off with their children on the way home from school for a cheap tea. There was also a curious number of teenagers, who must not have realised that popping in for a can of Coke and a chocolate bar on the way home from school wasn’t exactly cool. In the far corner an emo-looking girl with a lifetime’s worth of makeup crammed onto her face sipped at a strawberry milkshake while listening to something through her headphones, as her emaciated boyfriend stared at his shoes. Not far from them three lads still in their PE kits, mud streaks and all, were each on their phones, giggling conspiratorially.

Jessica slid in opposite Garry feeling tired, thinking that it seemed a lot later than the clock claimed it was. Conspiracies everywhere. Garry had a can of drink in front of him, straw poking from the top, along with two newspapers.

‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this,’ Jessica said. ‘We’ll soon be on first-name terms with the staff. Then we’ll be able to ask for “the usual”, then we’ll get a booth named after us. Before you know it, we’ll have relatives wanting our bodies to be buried in the car park, saying “It’s what they would have wanted.”’

Garry glanced over his shoulder towards the window. ‘I think you’ve made me paranoid. I spent the whole journey here checking my mirrors to make sure I wasn’t being followed.’

Jessica thought she’d cheer him up by telling him that she was pretty sure she had been followed the previous evening – hence the reason for giving him Logan Walkden’s name – and that someone had been through her rubbish, possibly broken into her house, and definitely graffitied her car. ‘. . . and yes, before you say it, at least it proves it was someone I know,’ she concluded, stealing Adam’s joke again because it was the only thing that stopped her from getting upset. She really had lost it with age.

Garry must have sensed that, because he nodded gently and smiled. He unfolded the top newspaper. ‘Our news archive is dreadful – but our announcements, births, deaths and marriages section has been digitised for years. Apart from the advertising, it’s the only bit that makes any profit, so the owners spent some money getting the archiving up to date.’

‘I’ve never looked at that part of a paper.’

‘It’s a big deal online – plus it’s one of the few times people actually buy the paper itself. They still like seeing their name in print when it’s their birthday, or they’re getting married. It gives them something to cut out and keep. There’s no way I would’ve been able to check the news sections for those individual names, but in the end it only took one search to get a day and date. This is from three and a bit years ago.’

He flicked a third of the way through the paper to a large page showing face after face with a long list of names and congratulation notices. He didn’t say anything, passing the page to Jessica and pointing to the bottom.

Thirty-year reunion

Pupils of the former St Flora’s all-boys grammar school held a reunion this week to mark thirty years since taking their O-levels. The school, which closed eleven years ago, is on a site scheduled for development.

Underneath the caption was a photograph that ran the width of the page; around a hundred men all decked out in dinner suits were toasting the camera. Jessica recognised Graham Pomeroy instantly in the bottom right-hand corner, just about making it into the frame. He had a full glass of champagne and a grin that was almost lost to his blubbering chin. Four along from him was Freddy Bunce, looking unassuming. He had a little bit more of a builder’s physique, with larger arms than when Jessica had met him, and seemed uncomfortable in the suit, his smile unnatural. On the far end of the line at the other side was James Jefferies in his wheelchair, not smiling, not even looking at the camera. He was wearing his bronze medal and a suit that didn’t quite fit.