Free No Name Lane (Howard Linskey) by Howard Linskey

quickly. ‘It just happens to be here right now.’
    ‘I never read newspapers,’ he said it matter-of-factly, ‘news depresses me,’ and when he noticed Tom’s disbelief, he added, ‘I’m serious, it’s only ever bad. If newspapers or the TV news ever covered anything happy, I’d pay more attention but they don’t, so I won’t.’
    Tomwas taken aback by the innocence of that statement. It was so unusual it was almost refreshing. ‘Blimey, doesn’t it feel a bit strange not knowing what’s going on in the world?’
    ‘I do know what’s going on in the world. I just don’t get it from newspapers. I read specialist stuff, magazines.’
    ‘Specialist stuff?’
    ‘Rugby, fishing, history,’ he shrugged, ‘all kinds of things. I just can’t be bothered with politics or other people’s tragedies.’
    Tom contemplated a world without newspapers or the TV bulletins and wondered how long he’d be able to survive without them. ‘I’m one of those people who has to walk miles to get a copy of yesterday’s English newspaper when I’m on holiday.’
    ‘Can’t remember when I last opened one.’
    ‘I’m glad you are in the minority or I’d be out of a job. So how did you end up in Great Middleton?’
    ‘I’m a teacher.’
    ‘A teacher who doesn’t read newspapers?’ Tom was even more surprised.
    ‘I teach the little ones. They’re not big on world affairs. I’m at the junior school.’
    ‘I used to go there,’ said Tom. ‘I’m Tom Carney. I didn’t get your name.’
    ‘Andrew Foster,’ answered his new friend. ‘I spend my days with nine-year-olds and most of my evenings in this pub. I’m sure those two facts are not entirely unrelated.’
    ‘I’ll bet. Do you know this missing girl then: Michelle Summers?’
    ‘Beforemy time, mate, never taught her. She was at the local comp.’
    It was almost a relief. Freed from the necessity of speaking professionally to the school teacher, Tom began to relax. The two men drank together and exchanged stories on the perils of teaching gobby infants or interviewing gormless models who’d been shagging footballers. Despite having absolutely nothing in common with this solitary, young man, except perhaps their age, Tom found Andrew Foster to be excellent company. He had a dry sense of humour and what could only be described as a healthy cynicism that dovetailed neatly with Tom’s own world-view.
    Someone tapped him on the shoulder then and Tom turned to see Boring Bryan, as he was known locally, ‘I need a word,’ the old man said importantly.
    ‘Okay,’ but Bryan indicated Tom should follow him to a quiet corner. Reluctantly he left the bar stool and followed the pub regular to a table. They sat either end of a large ashtray piled high with stale cigarette butts.
    ‘You want to find out what happened to poor little Michelle?’ he asked conspiratorially once they were seated.
    ‘Well, yeah.’
    ‘Did you see the press conference?’
    Tom shook his head, ‘I was driving up here.’
    ‘Take a look at it on the late news,’ Bryan urged him, ‘take a good, long look.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because he did it,’ announced the old man firmly.
    ‘Who did?’
    ‘Thestepdad,’ he told Tom, as if it was obvious.
    ‘Right,’ said Tom, hesitantly, ‘and what makes you think that, Bryan?’
    ‘I saw it on the telly at lunchtime. He showed no emotion. His stepdaughter’s gone missing, his wife is in pieces and he just sits there staring out with those dead eyes of his like all’s well with the world.’
    ‘Yeah but that’s not evidence, Bryan, just because he wasn’t crying in a press conference. Those things affect people in different ways.’
    ‘He did it,’ Bryan jabbed a finger into Tom’s chest, ‘you mark my words.’ Then he got to his feet and ambled off to the gents.
    Tom was left to ponder the fact that Boring Bryan’s conviction, that Michelle’s stepdad looked shifty so he must be a murderer, was the strongest lead he was going