The Runaway. Ali Harper

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СКАЧАТЬ But as Jo drove us down a hill, into Roundhay Park, and we caught a glimpse of the enormous lake, I thought perhaps we should have made more of an effort and visited before.

      ‘I googled Roundhay Park this morning, while you were out, running.’ Jo made the last word sound like a euphemism.

      I rose above it. ‘And?’

      ‘It was bought by the mayor of the city, for the people of Leeds, a couple of hundred years ago.’

      ‘That was nice of him.’

      ‘Before that it was privately owned. There’s a stately home at the top.’

      I peered out of the windows but all I could see was parkland.

      Jo turned into the car park at the bottom of the hill and reverse parked into a space. ‘Roundhay Park had its own serial killer, once upon a time,’ she said.

      ‘The Park Killer? That was here?’

      You couldn’t live in Leeds and not have heard of the Park Killer. He was a serial killer who’d killed all of his female victims in parks, hence the moniker. He’d been caught by a late-night dog-walker, who’d discovered him cutting up his final victim in bushes and had made a citizen’s arrest. According to folklore, the dog, a black Labrador, had pinned the killer down, holding him until the police arrived. Some people claimed the Park Killer had been inspired by the Yorkshire Ripper, who’d stalked Leeds’ streets back in the seventies, but the truth was no one really knew what had motivated him to do what he had done, because the Park Killer committed suicide in prison, before his case had come to trial. I glanced around.

      ‘He killed two women here,’ Jo said. ‘Think the others were in Meanwood.’

      ‘Fucked up,’ I said.

      We climbed out of the van and surveyed our surroundings. ‘The flats are up there,’ said Jo, pointing to the crest of the park.

      ‘Food first,’ I said. I’m not stupid. Hanging out with Jo when her blood sugar is low is taking your life in your hands.

      We made our way over to the Lakeside café – a wooden building jutting out over the lake – and I ordered us both a full English breakfast with an espresso for Jo. We sat on the balcony, the sun glistened off the water, swans and ducks glided past, and I filled Jo in on the details of my conversation with Jan while we waited for breakfast to arrive.

      ‘Matt could have easily popped home Sunday,’ Jo said when I told her everything I could remember. ‘Picked up his stuff and bought a single ticket away from planet parenthood.’

      ‘Seems weird that he’d know Nikki was pregnant before she even did. And Jan said she couldn’t tell whether any of his stuff was missing.’

      ‘He’s probably out getting laid in between typing up his dissertation.’

      ‘What about his car?’

      ‘Or getting laid while some woman types up his dissertation. A woman on my course did that. Typed up her boyfriend’s dissertation. He dumped her like a week later.’

      I paused as the waitress arrived and handed us two plates brimming with sausage, eggs and beans. Jo poured vinegar onto her fried eggs – she likes them dripping with the stuff.

      ‘There’s the note in the pigeonhole as well,’ I pointed out. ‘Someone else is looking for him.’

      ‘Could be weeks old, that note. And from anybody.’ Jo spooned a forkful of baked beans on her slice of bread, folded it over and took a bite.

      ‘We’ll find out this afternoon,’ I said. ‘Even if Matt doesn’t turn up, the person who wrote it might.’

      ‘Might,’ Jo stressed as she chewed on her baked bean sandwich.

      ‘Not like we’ve got anything else to go on.’

      We ate the rest of our breakfast in silence. I watched the colour return to Jo’s skin as she ate. When her plate was empty she poured the last of her coffee down her throat and licked her fingers. ‘Delish. I’ll have that sausage if you’re not going to eat it.’

      *

      After breakfast, we climbed the steep hill to the flats at the top. When I think flats I always picture council sky-rises, like the ones that mark the edge of the city in Little London, or new-build student halls of residence, which remind me of battery hen coops. These flats weren’t like those. White stucco, with huge portrait-shaped windows, built on the crest of the hill overlooking the park and the lake. Location-wise, it didn’t get much better. Apart from the wooden café, there wasn’t a single building in sight from the top of the hill, just miles of green parkland.

      Jo put her hands in the small of her back as we surveyed the vista. ‘Not bad, eh?’ Roundhay Park stretched before us, a natural flat-bottomed bowl, with what looked like a cricket pitch at its base. I was reminded of school and my geography teacher droning on and on about glaciation. We were high up, above the trees. From where we were it looked like you’d be able to trampoline in them. ‘U2 played there,’ said Jo, pointing down the slopes. ‘And Madonna, Bruce Springsteen, Robbie Williams, Ed Sheeran – apparently the acoustics are well good.’

      Martin’s notes included a detailed description of where the woman’s body was found. To get into the grounds we had to walk down a small road that ended just behind the flats. The gates were open and it was easy to slip inside. A car park with more than its fair share of convertibles and BMWs stood between us and the rear of the building. Surrounding the car park were well-established trees and shrubs. ‘What are we going to say? If anyone asks?’

      That’s the thing about leaving the Leeds 6 bubble – you become aware of how different you are to ‘normal’ society. It’s unusual to see anyone over twenty-five in Leeds 6 and the dress code is relaxed to say the least. I was still wearing my denim cut-offs and Jo was in her hangover outfit – baggy trousers she’d picked up in Thailand and a sweatshirt that had the neck and cuffs removed.

      In the park and around the café, I’d seen old people walking dogs, kids running around, an Asian couple feeding the ducks, mothers with prams. The prams had made me think of Nikki. What a weird thing, to grow another life. I shook the thought from my head and concentrated on our surroundings.

      ‘We’re gardeners,’ I said. ‘Here to price up a job.’

      Jo tugged Martin’s notebook out of her bag. ‘OK.’

      I wasn’t sure that anyone would fall for it because the gardens were immaculate. The hedges ruler straight, the soil finely tilled, the roses all neatly budding. We made our way down a small path, around the building to the front – the side of the flats that overlooked the park – Jo reading from Martin’s notes. ‘Middle of the garden, by the statue.’

      ‘The statue?’

      ‘Apparently.’

      ‘Of?’

      ‘There.’ We rounded the corner and sure enough there was a statue in the middle of the front gardens. A statue of a woman, naked and kneeling, holding what looked like a large pitcher, water flowing from it into the well next to her.

      Jo read from Martin’s notes. ‘Vic. СКАЧАТЬ