Page 33 of The Tapes

‘Something like that.’

Lorna nods towards the bar in the other room. ‘Can I get you a drink…?’

I hold up my teacup. ‘I’m an alcoholic,’ I say – largely because there’s a part of me desperate to find a corner and spend the rest of the day getting pissed with Lorna. It’s often better to be honest – because then the other person does the work for you.

‘My God, I’m so sorry,’ she replies, touching a hand to her chest.

‘We’re both sorry then.’

She smiles kindly – then nods me across to the squishy seats near the fire exit. It’s quieter there and that part of me so wishes we were sharing a real drink.

‘I used to know Mark Dixon way back,’ she says, once we’ve settled. ‘This was before he had vans everywhere with his name on. Have you read his website?’

I have, of course – and laugh until my stomach hurts because Lorna knows it off by heart. ‘Self-made and self-effacing,’ she says – which is more than enough to set me off, before she adds: ‘…he soon realised he had the ambition, work ethic, and intelligence to start his own business.’

I have to ask her to stop after the fifth quote, because people are starting to notice that I’m howling at my own father’s wake. She waits until I’ve composed myself and then adds: ‘Mark Dixon knows when to hold ’em, when to fold ’em and when to walk away.’

It’s my favourite line of his biography and there’s a moment in which I almost have to step outside to compose myself.

‘You have to stop,’ I say – and, mercifully, Lorna does.

‘How do you know him?’ I ask.

‘I was his line manager,’ she says.

‘When?’

‘Prince Industries. You’d have been young then. I don’t know if you remember the factory.’

I tell her I do.

‘It’s all houses now,’ she adds. ‘I live in one almost right by the old doors. That’s where I met Mark. He came to us straight out of school.’

I picture him pacing up and down the night before. They can’t prove anything… just tell them I was with you.

I could’ve recited that back to Detective Sergeant Cox this morning when she called round. But then I would’ve had to tell her why I was hiding around a corner late at night, how I’d broken into the office, that I had Owen’s wallet. It would be a lot to explain, even if she believed me.

Cox knows my history, about the alcoholism and the attack on Jake Rowett, and already made it clear she was suspicious. Mark could’ve easily denied the phone call, then said he’d never seen Owen’s wallet – that I’d planted it there. It would have looked very bad for me.

The thought of all that clears the hilarity of minutes before. Because Mark Dixon worked at Prince Industries when the first Earring Killer murder happened. And he knew Owen had my tape.

I don’t let on about any of that, instead prodding Lorna into telling the story she’s clearly desperate to.

‘What was he like?’ I ask.

‘A whiny little twerp. He used to think he knew everything, even though he failed all his exams. His dad knew someone, who knew someone – which is why he got hired. It definitely wasn’t talent.

He’d barely been there a week when he was telling people how they should be doing jobs they’d been doing for twenty years.

There were all sorts of divisions in that factory – old versus young, union versus non, men versus women.

’ She pauses. ‘Everyone came together as one to declare that Mark Dixon was a complete clown.’

She laughs but I find it harder to join in now.

‘The thing with that silly biography on the website is that even the bits that could be true aren’t.

He didn’t leave Prince for a greater calling.

He didn’t leave because of ambition or intelligence – and it definitely wasn’t work ethic.

He left because nobody could stand him. This one time, he gave a line manager a bit of lip.

Something like “You’re too old to know what you’re doing”, that sort of thing.

Anyway, the manager went into the changing rooms, broke into Mark’s locker, grabbed all his clothes, then threw them in the toilet.

All the blokes took their turn to, well…

you can figure out the rest. I’m not saying it was right – Mark was only young himself, but he’d been pushing his luck since his first day.

He never came back to the factory after that. ’

I consider that for a moment. It all sounds very 1990s bantery – and unquestionably grim. Possibly deserved. I find a part of myself feeling sorry for Mark, then remember all the times I’ve seen him talk to people in a similar way.

‘I thought Mark was a manager?’ I say.

Lorna laughs. ‘He couldn’t manage tying his own shoes. He was terrible at his job, rude to everyone, never listened, constantly made mistakes, and had no interest in learning. He lasted about a month.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I know. He makes it sound like he walked in and started running the place – but I’ve had gall stones that lasted longer than he did.’

She flashes me a smile.

‘Do you remember exactly when he left?’ I ask.

‘I know it was the week before Christmas because we had a pool going on whether he’d turn up for the party. I had three quid on him showing.’

‘Did you win?’

‘I don’t think even he was that shameless.’

I take a moment, re-considering the timing.

Lorna asks if I smoke, then, when I say no, says that she doesn’t either. Her grin is infectious as she adds: ‘Don’t tell my wife that I asked if you wanted one.’

I find myself yawning, not because of her. It’s been a long day and the night before was long too. My teacup is empty and I’m not sure I can force down any more. There’s less than a dozen people in the room and, as I look towards the main doors, my cavalry has finally arrived.

Liam starts walking across the floor, hands in his pockets. ‘You OK?’ he asks, as he stands over me.

‘What took you so long?’ I ask.

‘Stuck at work.’

I check the time, realising Lorna and I have somehow been talking for an hour and a half.

‘Husband?’ Lorna asks.

‘AA sponsor.’

We both stand and Lorna shakes hands with Liam. ‘One of Dad’s friends,’ I tell him. He eyes her with curiosity, though that might be because there’s alcohol on her breath, then he looks back to me.

‘Let’s go have that drink,’ he says.

We explain to Lorna that ‘let’s have that drink’ is our stupid, inside way of asking the other if we fancy a cup of tea or coffee.

But my mind is still on Mark and Lorna. If Mark left Prince Industries the week before Christmas, he wasn’t there when the first killing happened. It’s only his invented biography that makes it sound like he was. Does that change things?

I still overheard him on the phone saying he was lying about where he’d been. Owen’s wallet was still in his safe. And so was the twine.

But maybe this means the Earring Killer is someone else entirely.