Leave Only Footprints

By Nick Sands

The year is 1972. Paul Sears is a young provincial reporter who drives around in a Morris Minor listening to pop music on his crackling radio. Keen for a break, his life revs into high gear when he stumbles across the scene of a brutal murder. Despite the carnage, his journalistic instincts kick in, his desperation to write a front page story to prove the doubters - including his nagging mother - wrong. 
When he's embroiled in another fatal incident, he becomes convinced the killings are linked. With police efforts floundering, Paul vows to uncover the perpetrators and make the streets safe again. However, this is a path from which there is no easy escape. Sinking fast and realising that he has not only put himself but his young family in danger, Paul must make a choice. When a trusted friend becomes the prime suspect for the police, Paul knows there is no going back. As the gap between him and the killer narrows, a disturbing question forms: who is hunting whom?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jan 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781800468603

Nick Sands

Nick Sands grew up in the East Midlands and worked as a Press Officer for a Canadian aluminium company where he wrote press releases for journals and local and national newspapers. For a time, he was also the voice behind the microphone at Lord’s cricket ground. He worked in the metals industry for most of his career before retiring early to focus on his writing. Nick lives in Nottingham and Don’t tell a Soul is his second novel.

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Copyright © 2021 Nick Sands

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 978 1800468 603

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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

In loving memory of my parents

Marjorie and Arthur

Contents

About the Author

1

4th September 1972

Paul had to hit the brakes hard. The smell of burning rubber wafted through the open window as his Morris Minor slid to a halt. He cursed at the thought of ruined tyres. A copper stood in front of two white police cars waving vehicles through, his helmet badge glinting. He peered down the High Street. On the corner stood Madison’s café. White blinds had been pulled down over its blue-framed windows. A closed sign hung at an angle across the front door. Outside, blue lights strobed from an ambulance.

He took the next right downhill to the traffic lights, which changed from amber to red as he approached. He pulled on the handbrake and strummed his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of The Who singing ‘My Generation’. It seemed to take forever to get to eight beats, when he knew the amber light would appear. He was riding the clutch and didn’t wait for green, his tyres screeching on the dry, dusty road. Another right turn took him back onto the far end of Church Street. It had been cordoned off at this end too, so he took a sharp left. The radio fell off the back shelf and the dial jumped station to a new song, ‘Something in the Air’.

He parked Meg and gave her warm bonnet a pat before racing back onto the street, the sun beating on his neck. A familiar, stony-faced figure was guarding the barrier. It was Derek Winters, an old rocker who’d joined the force to get a bigger motorbike. He still looked down on mods like Paul. The PC stared straight ahead, trying to hide his boredom and pretending he hadn’t noticed anyone. Beyond him, Paul saw that the ambulance had mounted the kerb. He heard someone shouting instructions. Then the front door swung open violently against the outside wall, the glass tinkling as it shattered. The crew wasted no time getting the stretcher on board. The patient was rigged up to an oxygen cylinder. Paul flashed his ID card under the policeman’s nose.

‘Sorry, Mr Sears, no one allowed beyond here. Press or public.’

‘What’s going on then?’

‘Looks as if you’ve worked up a sweat getting here. Wasted your time, I’m afraid.’

‘Give me a break. Who’s in the ambulance?’ Paul pulled a dog-eared notebook and Bic biro from his pocket.

‘You won’t be needing that.’

‘Why is the High Street closed?’

‘Do me a favour, will you?’

‘No, you do me one. People want to know what’s happened here.’

Winters stared straight ahead, unblinking.

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘Good day to you, Mr Sears.’

Paul sensed this could be a big story, a real chance to get his name on the front page. Slipping away from the roadblock, he approached the ironmonger, Phil Chapman, who was wiping down the shop window ledges. If eagle-eyed Phil didn’t know what was up, then nobody would – well, except for Fred the newsagent, maybe. Old Fred knew everyone in Risdon.

‘Well, mister early bird, seems you got here too late this time.’

‘Any idea what all the commotion’s about?’

Phil put the cloth back into his dust jacket pocket and picked up a brush. The pan grated on the pavement as he swept up, putting Paul’s teeth on edge.

‘I don’t want my name in your paper, lad. Folk will think I’m a nosey parker.’

And they would probably be right, thought Paul before continuing. ‘No names, I promise. What did you see?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

‘Well, here’s the thing. We’re offering some free large ad space this week to our best clients. I have a strong feeling you might qualify. It would attract more people through your door.’

Phil glanced back towards his shop. It was full of tools, light bulbs, boxes of nails and the whiff of WD40 but totally devoid of customers.

‘Did you say a quarter page?’

‘That depends on what you’ve got for me.’

‘It was all quiet first thing. Then I heard the sirens getting closer. The police got here first and then an ambulance bowled up so fast it nearly took out the squad car. Next thing I knew they had blocked the street.’

‘What about your people? Did they see anything?’

‘Young Betty said Madison’s was closed up when she went by, but she did hear shouting inside.’

‘Any idea who they were?’

‘That’s all I know.’

‘That’s a darned sight more than I got out of PC Plod over there.’

‘A quarter page it is then!’

Paul patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get Rita to call you.’

They would be wondering where I’ve got to by now, he thought, and perhaps they’d know more. At the Risdon Echo office, Bert Harris looked up from his desk with a wry grin as Paul strode towards him.

‘Mr Sears, as I live and breathe, it’s you. What kept you so long? The gaffer’s already been on the blower twice from head office. I’ve been stuck in here holding the fort. Rita’s not here yet.’

‘The High Street’s blocked off and an ambulance has taken someone away from Madison’s.’

‘What else did you see?’

‘A grim looking PC and a grumpy ironmonger. Couldn’t get much out of either. It looks serious to me. Am I okay to go back out there?’

Bert got up and limped towards the kitchen. He had given Paul his break at the newspaper, sensing a good apple had grown on the Sears family tree. As Bert came back from the kitchen with tea, Sam’s secretary Rita burst through the door. Her ginger curls had been blown across her reddened face. She made her way up the office towards Bert, panting like a dog that’s walked too far on a hot day.

‘Have you seen outside? Had to walk half way around the town to get here.’

‘Not easy on those heels, is it, lass? Get a list of advertisers, will you? Sam wants you to make some calls. And you’d better get back out there now, lad. And get me the bloody story this time!’

2

Paul hot-footed it up the road. He could smell diesel fumes and disinfectant. He counted fifty steps in his head before reaching Hill’s newsagents. A stand outside on the pavement had headlines felt-tipped across it: ‘ICELANDIC GUNBOAT ATTACKS BRITISH FISHING TRAWLER’.

Inside, Fred Hill thumped down a pile of magazines onto the floor. The old man coughed as a cloud of dust filled his lungs. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ croaked Fred. ‘What can I get for you?’

‘The usual.’

The old man grinned and pulled some chewing gum from a counter display.

After he took his change, Paul pointed up the street. ‘Don’t suppose you know what that’s all about?’

‘So that’s it, think you can buy me with a measly packet of Wrigley’s?’

‘You wouldn’t have papers to sell without the likes of me.’

Fred stroked the grey stubble on his chin. ‘Do you have a telly and radio at home?’

‘Yes, we do.’

‘So you’ll be needing one of these too,’ he said, handing him a Radio Times from the stack.

Paul tucked it under his arm and pulled a five-pound note from his wallet. ‘Keep the change and tell me what you saw.’

‘Two coppers sprinting towards the Red Lion.’

‘Recognise them?’

‘They were shifting. Don’t know the one with the moustache who came in here either.’

Paul’s ears pricked up. ‘When was that then?’

‘Just now.’

Typical, he thought, must have missed them by seconds. ‘What did he want?’

‘Warned me about thieves in the area. Said they were armed.’

Paul’s heart began to thump. ‘Who’s been hurt? Who was in the ambulance?’

‘He just asked if I’d seen two young guys this morning. Said they were wearing suits. One had a beard.’

‘And had you?’

‘They’d not been in here. Just the regulars this morning.’

‘Did he give you his name?’

Fred paused for thought. ‘Rushmore, no, wait a minute, it was Rushcliff. Detective Inspector, he said.’

Paul scribbled the name on the magazine cover and headed for the door.

The nearest phone box was outside the towering Ritz cinema. Paul called the police station and asked for DI Rushcliff. He was told by the switchboard that his extension was busy. He waited on the line but was running out of coins fast, so he left his name and number. He sat on the steps outside the cinema to gather his thoughts. The Madison family was on his mind. Paul had a soft spot for Eric Madison. The café owner was the only friend he had on the town council. So, where next? If he headed to Sharp’s Menswear, he could pick up his wedding suit as well. Just nine more days to cross off the calendar, he thought, and I’ll have to break the news to her soon.

‘Have the police been here too?’ he asked the manager as he waited at the counter.

‘It was a bit like a scene from Z Cars when the inspector walked in.’

‘Grilled you, did he?’

‘Wanted to know if we’d seen anyone in suits. That’s a joke, isn’t it?’

‘And had you?’

‘Not the two guys he described, but we did hear something.’

‘What was that?’

‘A roaring engine, like a Grand Prix car. We ran to the door but all we saw was a flash of red and a puff of smoke.’

‘Did you get the make?’

‘It was too quick for that.’

Paul tucked his suit under his arm and strode with purpose up the High Street. Cops, robbers and a fast car – now he was getting somewhere.

Back at the office, he peeled off his jacket and laid the suit bag over his desk. Before he could sit down, there was a gust of wind through the door and Sam appeared.

‘Been shopping, have we? I need a chat with you and Bert. My office in five minutes. Bring me what you’ve got for us today.’

‘There’s been a robbery. At Madison’s,’ said Paul.

Sam’s eyebrows stood to attention. ‘Make that now in my office then, and tuck your shirt in. You look like a street urchin.’

Sam was almost family to the Madisons. He’d been at school with Eric and was godfather to their daughter Julie. He leant back in his swivel chair and folded his arms, his piercing blue eyes boring into their target like lasers. Paul told them what he’d uncovered.

‘Not much to go on yet, is there?’ Sam’s eyes turned to the older man. ‘Bert, I need you on this story.’

Paul dropped his shoulders. He gathered that Sam didn’t think he was up to the job. The boss thought he was too young and too scruffy.

‘Boss, can we just hold fire and see what Paul can dig up?’ pleaded Bert.

‘Did you hear what I said? I want you—’ Sam was stopped in midstream by a loud ringing from his phone. There was still a hint of anger in his voice as he answered. ‘Robbins here… who’s calling? …Rushcliff… you want to speak to Mr Sears? He’s with me now, I’ll pass you over.’

Paul reached over and took the receiver from Sam. Bert couldn’t resist winking at him as he did so.

The voice on the end of the line boomed like a sergeant major. ‘Mr Sears, you left a message earlier.’

‘Can you give us the latest on the High Street incident?’

The phone seemed to go dead; the line crackled.

‘Inspector, are you still there?’

‘Yes. I can tell you that we are investigating a deadly attack on the café owner.’

Paul’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Let me get this straight. You’re saying Eric Madison has been killed?’

‘I’m afraid so. Did you know him?’

Paul tried to say something, but his throat was too dry. He swallowed hard and started again. ‘Yes, I do… I did.’

3

6th September 1972

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. My colleague Detective Inspector Rushcliff will read a brief press release, after which we must return to our duties. I would ask you all to respect our wish not to take any questions at this stage.’

Rushcliff spread his thumb and forefinger over the ends of his well-trimmed moustache and picked up his notes from the table. He drew a microphone closer and cleared his throat loudly to attract their attention.

‘DCI Betts and I are here today to make a statement concerning the circumstances surrounding the death of Eric Madison. On Monday morning, Mr Madison was found slumped on the floor of his café. It appears that he had suffered a fatal blow to the head. Two men were seen by witnesses running from the café. Although nothing was stolen, it seems likely this was an attempted robbery. We would very much like to thank the community for the support and information that has already been provided and would urge anyone else with information to please contact us. We are appealing for anyone who may have seen or heard a disturbance at Madison’s café on the High Street, Risdon, between eight and eight-thirty am on Monday, September the fourth, to get in contact. This is now a murder inquiry.’

Cameras clicked and flashed in a cacophony of sound and light as the two officers stood up. Paul was still a little breathless after arriving late and picking his way past the camera crews to a seat next to Sam. His stress at giving Sam another reason to fire him did not compare to the trauma Karen and Julie Madison were going through. He and Sam left for the Echo in a hurry; they had to get this story to print fast. Sam pushed through the crowd and made a path for Paul, who was still making shorthand notes as they dived through the Guildhall swing doors. On their way back, Sam told Paul that he’d got through to Karen Madison the previous evening. She’d asked him to come to her house.

Sam called Bert into his office to join them. Rita had been sent to the kitchen on drinks duty. Sam couldn’t think without strong coffee; it stimulated the brain, he said. He opened a leather-bound notebook, took out his gold half-moon glasses from a drawer and began the briefing.

‘Listen up, lads. I’m too close to the Madisons to lead on this story. You understand that, don’t you?’

Paul knew that only too well. He had conflicting thoughts of his own about making sensational headlines out of a friend’s death.

‘But I’ll tell you what I heard from Karen last night. She was putting on a brave face. Julie came back from the police station while we were talking. White as a sheet and shivering like it was below freezing. We packed her off to bed with a mug of hot milk.’

They heard Rita’s heels clicking down the corridor. She pushed the door open and walked towards them, swaying her hips like a catwalk model. As she leant forward and placed the drinks tray on his desk, Sam took in the view beneath her low-cut pullover. As she left, he blinked.

‘As I was saying, they are still in shock.’

Sam reached for a fat cigar from an open box. He drew a silver lighter from his jacket pocket, snipped the end and lit up. He blew a plume of smoke towards them, which made Paul’s eyes smart. Bert stifled a cough as Sam continued.

‘Julie and Terry were in the back room when they heard shouts. They ran into the café to find the attackers making a dash for it. Eric lay motionless on the floor in a pool of blood. Terry gave chase, but as he turned the corner onto the High Street, they had evaporated into the