Chapter 8

Robert:

I didn’t rush, but I was on the road by half-past eight, having thanked the Camerons’ for their hospitality. They responded simply with “it’s been a pleasure. We hope everything works out for you and Callie, and you’re welcome to come back any time – just give us a call to let us know. Oh, and Robert, we’ve seen the changes in you and Callie and we’re sure that you’re on the right course.”

The bike started easily. I made a precautionary stop at Tesco’s for fuel and resisted their cafe, thinking I’d get coffee at Birchanger Services. The first thirty miles between Maldon and the M11 are enjoyable, but quite slow and I would be ready for a break by then. I dislike the motorway, but it’s the simplest route to join the A14 at Cambridge.

Birchanger services were noisy and congested, but the coffee was good. I resisted the bacon sarnie. Traffic on the M11 was building and for most of the time I rolled along with the HGVs in the inside lane. Cambridge services are a few miles north of the city and there I made a precautionary stop to unload the coffee. The bike was humming along quite nicely. Humming along the A14, I followed the old road, now the A1307, past Huntingdon. The road passes the former RAF Alconbury, once the site of protests at the presence of nuclear tipped cruise missiles, like at Greenham Common. It continues on the Old Great North Road, running parallel to the A1M, but much pleasanter than the motorway. At Norman Cross it’s necessary to rejoin the motorway for a few miles until the Peterborough services at the end of the motorway section. There, I was very ready for lunch, and I didn’t want to wait even for another six miles to get to a diner further north.

There’s little more to say. Two hours more to Sheffield with a brief stop to stretch after Newark. Then I was putting the bike away and going round the house opening curtains and windows to air the place out.

The next two days I was catching up on the things I couldn’t do online, which took me to Sunday. Going to church had never been routine for me, just a twice annual visit, Christmas and Easter. Until, that is, encountering Callie and then Emmanuel. But Sunday morning I was greeted by David Staniland and several other regular members of the parish church. I was a little taken aback by the presence of Khenan Williams, who came to me after the service as I was trying not to screw my face up at the taste of the coffee.

“Mister Bethune?”

I suppose I raised an eyebrow – I do that, I’m told – and responded. “Mister Williams.”

“Callie is still staying with you?”

“She’s in Essex, staying with the Rector of St. Mary’s in Maldon. It was thought safer that way until she’s eighteen. It seems that Family and Community Services were worried about our relationship.”

He nodded in understanding. “Reaction to the grooming scandals, I suppose.” That was clearly a statement not requiring a response, and he went on, “She’s well and happy?”

“She is. Though I think we’d both be happier if we could be together. I was visiting just a few days ago.”

“The Police didn’t detain me. I suppose the CPS thought there wasn’t even circumstantial evidence to link me to Donna’s death. I did wonder, though. Who else might have done it?”

“I have a suggestion for a name, but no evidence to back it up...”

“Might you share it?”

“Alfie Brown,” I shrugged, “known, apparently, as ‘Ferret’.”

He reddened, his lips thinned. “Nasty little squirt.”

“So I believe. I’m tasked with taking a message to him.”

“Tasked? Who by?”

I smiled. “Emmanuel.”

He frowned – it was almost a scowl, in fact – but then his expression cleared. He did comment, “Might not be the safest of tasks.”

I shrugged. But then, words formed in my head, familiar words, but not something I would have used normally. I found myself saying, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff will comfort me.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Apparently, I’m pointed at the Red Jug pub.”

Let me explain. I’d think this is probably true of many if not most industrial cities and towns. It’s variously said that Sheffield had a pub on every street corner, or that it had a pub for every church or chapel. Over the last decades, both have disappeared with very few exceptions. The small local churches and chapels? Demolished or turned into apartments for students, warehouses, shops or wine bars. The little pubs probably mainly victims of changing social habits and redevelopment. Anyway, tiny pockets of the old communities remain, along with a very few small pubs. The areas attract a particular sort of person. Strangely, residents are largely safe, but visitors – usually after banned substances or items – are at risk of mugging or worse.