Cold as Ice

Chapter 21

Ever since he’d got out of the station Niall Manson had been chewing things over in his mind. He felt more aggrieved than sentimental about Danielle’s disappearance. He felt, deep inside, that it wasn’t right, and he took it as a personal injury done to himself. There had been a time when he cared about her, in his own way. If things had gone differently they would still be together now. Manson felt he was unlucky. He’d been dealt a raw deal all through his life. It had led him down a few shady paths that he probably wished he hadn’t travelled but now it was his time to make a stand: change his life; take it into his own hands. It looked as if Danielle was as good as gone and Niall Manson needed to cash in. A small part of him knew it would never have worked. She was too good for him: he knew it; she knew it. But money could make Manson feel a lot better.

Gerald Foster was at work when he got the call.

He was explaining to an American tourist how the salt used to come into London and into the pit where it was stored and in the warehouses at King’s Cross. He answered the third time that Manson tried his number.

‘Yes?’ His voice was hushed as he walked to the other side of the room to talk.

‘Foster?’

‘Yes.’ Foster was already recognizing the voice on the other end of the phone. ‘What do you want, Manson?’

‘Good memory. Good recall.’

‘Yeah. What do you want?’

‘Danielle’s gone missing.’

‘I know. So?’

‘So, I thought you and me might have a talk about it.’

‘What is there to say?’

‘I was called in to the Old Bill. They asked me all sorts of questions about her home life… I didn’t say all I could have.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Ha… I tell you what I remember – I remember you getting nasty more than once. You locked her in her room; made sure only you had the key. You get what I’m saying? Seems like fuckin’ strange behaviour towards your daughter. What went on behind them locked doors? You hear what I’m saying?’

‘You’re a loser, Manson. Piss off – you’re deranged.’

‘I could tell a lot of stories about you. I could tell them how I’ve seen you in your van, cruising along certain streets. You know what I’m saying? Picking up women.’

Foster had difficulty getting his words out.

‘I was never unfaithful to my wife.’ He hissed down the phone. ‘We had a good marriage. What I do now is my business.’

‘But, it’s not is it? I could tell the police everything I know… make up a bit more – it will take them time to prove it. All that time you’ll be banged up.’

‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’ Foster’s voice was shaky. He turned to look at the clients waiting for him to return. He was desperate to get off the phone and back to the job he loved.

‘You sure you want all your dirty linen washed in public? You’ll lose your job for sure whilst they investigate you. Here’s what I’m offering: I’ll say nothing but I want compensating. You get me?’ There was a silence on the other end of the phone. Manson continued. ‘I’m looking at ten K. I’ll give you one week to find it. By the way – I don’t give a shit what you do with the bitch Danielle.’

Gerald Foster put his phone away. He went back to his clients and apologized – he would need to hand them over to a colleague as he had personal stuff come up and had to leave.

Later that day Niall Manson was on his way to meet a friend. He was helping with deliveries of weed today. The police interest had halted distribution for a few days and now people were gagging for it. There were several drop-off points around the area where people could call and meet and buy weed from him. Demand was rising with the Christmas stress. He walked along the outside of the pavement and took a call on his mobile. His first customer. He took the order and closed his phone. Today was going to be a good day. Get some money in, put a bet on the horses, have a few beers later; find himself a friendly girl who wasn’t too fussy. Still, Danielle was there nagging at the back of his mind. It was all fucking weird. The more he thought about it, the more Manson was convinced that Foster could have flipped. Manson had known him for ten years. He’d seen him get stranger every year. He knew he spent all his time in the shed in his garden, banging away on some creepy project, restoring some useless old thing that came off the barges. That was another thing – the canals; Foster was obsessed with the canals and now they had pulled that friend of Danielle’s out of one. Then his face lit up at a new thought –– compensation. If she was killed by some lunatic – her father no less – would there be any money? Jackson would get the money. Simple then – he needed to get Jackson. After all, it was his son. The deal with Foster might work out, as well. No matter what any of them thought or said about him, he had rights and he intended to exercise them. Jackson was coming home with him.

Niall was so busy with his thoughts he didn’t notice the dark-coloured van that had just pulled out. As he heard the screech of acceleration he turned to see a familiar face focused on him from behind the steering wheel. He felt the impact of the van’s side bumper smack against his body, and pain as his legs slid beneath the front wheel and then his head disappeared under the back wheel and he felt nothing else.