Witness - [80]

Mike left the paper in the cafe.

Vicky had bought one. ‘You seen this? You thought I was imagining things, didn’t you? But one of them’s been killed. They’re not saying that’s definitely why but it doesn’t take a genius, does it?’

‘They knew him, though, didn’t they?’ Mike couldn’t resist. ‘He was involved and then he grassed them up to save his neck. That’s why he was on witness protection.’

‘Yes.’ Vicky nodded her head as if he was proving her point. ‘Some protection!’

Mike shook his head. Best not to get into it or he might say too much. ‘I’ll do Megan’s bath,’ he said. And escaped.

It went round in his head that night. They’d known this witness, his name, his face. He’d not been anonymous like Mike had. He’d been one of the gang, reading between the lines. He’d been in hiding but he’d come back to Manchester for some reason. Maybe he had a death wish. Whereas Mike – completely different situation. And what he’d done – taking the stand and hiding it from Vicky – he wouldn’t change it for the world.

Fiona heard the newsreader, heard the words, awitness in the Danny Macateer murder trial has beenfound murdered, and felt a lurch of anxiety. She set the iron down and stared at the television. Joe Kitson was there talking, explaining how they were still conducting an investigation and fending off comments about the competency of the witness protection programme.

Fiona was trembling. It could have been her – or Owen. He was out with Molly. She’d an overwhelming desire to call him, to check he was safe. She knew she mustn’t. She couldn’t infect him with her own fears. What if she was wrong? What if he was in danger now and she did nothing? He might be lying somewhere bleeding to death.

She carried on ironing but the sense of dread clung to her, a miasma she couldn’t shift. She still had Joe Kitson’s number. She had come close to deleting it a few times since September, dispirited that he had never got back in touch, but she held on to it. She was perplexed because he had seemed to return her interest – at least that time in the car. Surely she hadn’t imagined the spark between them.

Now she debated whether it was reasonable to ring him in the light of the news and got cross with herself for prevaricating. Of course it was reasonable.

His line was busy, his answerphone picked up: Please leave a message.

‘It’s Fiona,’ she said, ‘I’m er… I need to talk to you, please can you ring me?’

The minutes inched by. She finished ironing and put the clothes away. As she returned to clear up she misjudged and kicked the leg of the ironing board. The iron teetered and as she grabbed for it, catching the handle with one hand, the edge of the metal grazed her other arm inside her wrist. The burn was fierce and brought tears to her eyes. She ran it under cold water for a while, watching the shiny skin pucker and redden. She’d some Germolene somewhere which would dull the stinging.

She was rifling in the medicine chest when the door bell rang.

‘Forgotten your key again,’ she muttered. Owen was getting more disorganized as he grew older, not less. She felt a wash of mild relief that he was back.

In the hall she saw the silhouette at the front door. Not Owen. The hairs on her neck stood up and her pulse went wild. She stood for a moment, indecisive, giddy. Then stepped closer. ‘Who is it?’ She tried to sound strong, calm.

‘Joe Kitson.’

She wanted to hit him for frightening her. She opened the door, her greeting flustered and awkward. ‘Come in, erm, I thought you were Owen, and then you weren’t.’ He looked older, thinner.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ She went into the kitchen with him. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Tea would be wonderful. Just milk, no sugar.’

‘You’ve come from work?’

‘Still at work but the beverages there are undrinkable.’ He slid his coat off and draped it over the chair back. Sat down.

‘The witness, Zak,’ Fiona said.

Joe nodded.

‘It’s never going to go away, is it?’ She tried to keep her voice level. Switched the kettle on.

‘They don’t know who you are,’ he said.

‘But it’s possible that one day someone could find out.’

‘It’s extremely unlikely,’ Joe said.

She put the tea bags in the mugs, got the milk out.

‘Carlton and Millins are behind bars, along with several associates on related charges. What’s left of the gang is in disarray, defunct to all intents and purposes.’

‘But they killed Zak.’

‘They knew him,’ Joe said. ‘Face, name, the lot. He was connected to the gang, loosely but even so when he appeared for the prosecution he knew he’d have to hide for the rest of his life. He would have been safe if he’d stayed in the programme.’ Joe leant forward, his palms on the table. ‘They don’t know you, not your name, not your face, you are not one of them.’

‘But some people do.’ She turned to make the tea. ‘The woman I was visiting, other mums in the area probably.’

‘No one’s saying anything,’ Joe said. ‘We got a result. Imagine the difference it makes to those women’s lives, to those families, not having Carlton and Millins terrifying the community. They stand to gain, everyone does. I give you my word, you’ll be all right.’