The Itch That Couldn't Be Scratched

By Jeff Senior

Ed and Jess are happy in retirement – that is, until their lives are forever changed when they witness a woman take her own life. Why did she do it? The police aren’t investigating and no one seems to care. But Ed and Jess do, and they’re determined to uncover the truth behind her tragic act.
Their investigation soon reveals a pandora’s box that includes war crimes, criminal conspiracies, police corruption and a pervasive need for justice left unfulfilled. Can this ordinary elderly couple succeed where officials refuse to tread? The deeper Ed digs, the more strain it puts on his marriage as Jess grows fearful of the dangers involved.
Yet despite tensions at home and sinister forces working against them, Ed persists, compelled by his conscience to see this through to the end. His good intentions pave an unpredictable path filled with chance encounters, family complications, and life-threatening risks.
Will Ed unravel the mystery in time or will his obsession bring disaster upon himself and those close to him? One thing’s for sure: he has no plans to stop until justice is served.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035818556

Jeff Senior

Jeff Senior was born in West Yorkshire in 1949 and continues to live there with Freda, his wife for many years. He has two sons and two grandchildren. He had a long career in IT, latterly as a freelance technical author, and then moved on to writing articles for various business magazines. Jeff is semi-retired, so he has the time to develop his writing further. This is his first published novel.

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About the Author

Jeff Senior was born in West Yorkshire in 1949 and continues to live there with Freda, his wife for many years. He has two sons and two grandchildren. He had a long career in IT, latterly as a freelance technical author, and then moved on to writing articles for various business magazines. Jeff is semi-retired, so he has the time to develop his writing further. This is his first published novel.

Dedication

To my wonderful wife, Freda, who supports me in everything I do.

Copyright Information ©

Jeff Senior 2024

The right of Jeff Senior to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035818549 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035818556 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thanks to Austin Macauley Publishers who had faith in my book.

Prologue

I suppose we all have a purpose in this world of ours. The problem is, with around eight billion other people, anything we do will always seem small to the point of being insignificant. Nevertheless, some of the actions we take can have far-reaching consequences and we cannot always predict what those consequences will be.

We’re only very small cogs in an extremely large machine. But every time our own cog turns, it causes those around it to turn also, each of which has the same effect on the others next to it. And the effect spreads ever outwards, like the ripples caused by a stone thrown in a pond, and has implications far beyond our knowledge or understanding.

Every decision we make, every action we take, can change the lives of others. A small change can lead to a different path being taken, different actions resulting from that, and so nothing is eventually as it would have been.

No matter how insignificant we think our lives are, things we do can have far-reaching and unpredictable consequences. And no matter how deeply we consider our actions and try to do what we think is best, there’s no guarantee that the effect will be good all the way down the line. A good deed may eventually lead to disaster; a malevolent action may ultimately have a beneficial outcome, but we have no way of knowing.

We just have to do what we think is best and hope it turns out alright, knowing all along that it might not do.

1

I seem to have lost all my senses. By which I don’t mean that I’ve gone mad, although I might have. I simply can’t see anything, can’t hear or smell anything and don’t seem to be capable of communication; not that there seems to be anyone to communicate with.

I don’t even know if I’m dead or alive; although, I’m obviously able to think. It’s a condition I’ve never experienced before so I have no way of knowing where or what I am. But if this is how things are now, I’m really scared, even panic-stricken, because it’s not an existence anyone would want.

But gradually, things seem to change. Imperceptibly from total blackness to a dark grey. Faint sounds, hums and whirs, the noise of machinery and the sound of voices, talking quietly in the distance. And the smell of disinfectant and something else I can’t place.

The darkness clears more and there’s light. I can see an overhead light. I’m in a bed with tubes and wires connecting me to machines and displays. I’m in a hospital bed, in a room where there’s only me. And I can’t move, apart from weak changes to the position of my head and arms.

Then I’m no longer alone. I become conscious of a voice nagging inside my head, telling me it’s all my fault. I’ve caused a lot of damage and I’m to blame for everything.

For what? I’m still confused, not fully awake. I’m talking aloud to an internal voice. I don’t know what you mean.

But the voice keeps repeating that it’s my fault, that I’m to blame. Do I remember what happened? That I wouldn’t let go. That I wouldn’t listen to anything I was told, wouldn’t take advice. All because of that woman. Do I remember that woman?

And after a while, it starts to come back to me. I do remember that woman. I do remember her…

2

I do remember the woman and I do remember the day. The day that changed my life completely.

A beautiful spring day. A perfect day for a walk with Jess, my beloved wife for almost fifty years. A bright day full of promise of better times to come. But behind the promise, there’s a feeling of foreboding that I can’t explain and can’t seem to shake off.

We walk because we enjoy it. We’re not professional walkers so we don’t wear cagoules and woolly hats, and we don’t carry rucksacks. And we don’t, God forbid, use Nordic walking poles that some people seem to think are essential equipment even when strolling along Scarborough seafront. We don’t tramp across fields or through remote dales but generally stick to pavements and country lanes. And there’s always a stop for coffee and cake somewhere along the route.

Today, I can’t shake off the feeling of foreboding. It’s nothing to do with work because I don’t do much now. My freelance writing career has wound down to the extent that I’m just producing nonsense for websites, which isn’t that challenging.

Ed, Jess interrupts my thoughts. You’re talking to yourself again.

I’m not, I reply obstinately.

Yes, you are. I can see your lips moving. You do it a lot and it’s because you’re old and you’ve spent all those years working alone, in your little office, with only the phone and the internet for company. It’s made you bonkers.

It is a regular accusation and she’s right; well not about being bonkers. I object to that. But I have worked a pretty lonely life for over thirty years as a freelance writer, producing nothing that’s been widely read. I still do a bit of writing, which now earns me a pittance but it’s mainly about being occupied, keeping the mind active; not getting bored with nothing to do.

Jess’s work was totally different, much more sociable. A mobile hairdresser, which I always describe as being paid for gossiping and drinking tea, although she doesn’t agree with that. Our working arrangements meant we were at home together a lot of the time, used to each other’s company.

Being old means that I tend to moan a lot. Generally about things not being like they used to be, much worse in fact. Although, they’re probably not. Anyway, I’m rambling, which is again down to being rather old I suppose.

The walk’s generally pretty much the same, along country lanes, between rolling fields with the foothills of the Pennines in the distance. It’s not the glorious landscape of the Yorkshire Dales or the North Yorkshire Moors, both to the north of us, or even the hills of the Wolds out to the east. But the West Yorkshire countryside is impressive enough. It changes mainly with the seasons, from the promise of new growth in spring to the bright colours of autumn and the onset of winter. Now, we have the prospect of long summer days and good walking weather.

As we head towards crossing the M62 motorway, we see her, the woman on the bridge. Sitting stiffly on the parapet, hands at her sides, gripping tightly on the rail. And she’s not there for the view; her body tense, head bowed.

As we near, we see the tears running down her cheeks, a distressed appearance. Jess, being the practical one, gets her phone out and summons the emergency services. But me, being the impetuous one, I set off towards the woman.

Something tells me the soon to be approaching sirens, the flashing lights, the general noise and attention, won’t help her mood. They’ll panic her into doing something bad. So something has to be done before they appear.

I can hear Jess whispering for me to stop but I don’t. The woman turns, hearing me approach. Leave me alone, is not the welcome I’m hoping for.

I stop, not wanting to make her panic. Hi, I say, in an attempt at a casual voice. I’m Ed. I just want to talk.

A bit of training in dealing with this type of situation might help. Too late for that, so I’ll just have to make it up as I go along and hope for the best.

Closer up, it’s obvious the woman has been quite a good looker in her younger days, though now seemingly worn down by a life too hard. Her once black and unruly hair has streaks of grey, lines on her face, dark patches under her eyes.

Sitting on the parapet, she looks tall and slender, thin even. There are bruises on her arms, cuts and scratches on the left side of her face, broken finger nails and signs of a hard life or worse.

I edge forward cautiously, wary of scaring her. I’m not here to harm you. I want to help.

You can’t help, she responds, staring warily. No-one can help.

There’s an accent there. Eastern European at a guess. But it’s not strong, as though she’s lived elsewhere for a long time.

I’d like to try, I say. What’s your name?

She looks away for a while. Silence. I don’t think she’s going to tell me, but she does. It’s Tajra Brkić.

I guess you weren’t born around here.

No.

Another silence and I realise I’m not getting very far. Time to be more assertive before the police arrive. Look, I really want to help. But I can’t if you won’t talk to me. Let me help you, please.

You can’t. I’ve already told you. No-one can protect me.

Protect you? From who; from what?

She turns and stares at me. From someone you can’t imagine. Someone who’s hurt me before and will do it again. Only worse this time.

We’ll protect you. The police will look after you.

The police don’t care, she relies without looking at me, and you can’t do anything.

I’ll wear my Superman cape, that usually works.

Stupidity nearly always gets a reaction, although not always a good one. She actually laughs and her face brightens. Perhaps a glimpse of the woman she was before fear and sorrow took over and weighed her down.

I really do want to help you, I say, not wanting to let the moment pass.

She does at least turn, looking more hopeful, and I think I might be getting somewhere. Then the police arrives and it all goes wrong.

At first, there is only the faint sound of sirens in the distance, gradually getting nearer. She seems startled as she hears the noise, looking along the road.

She stares at me accusingly, panic on her face. She turns the other way, loses her grip and is gone.

I hear the sound of braking vehicles, a thud, the noise of rear-end collisions, of slamming doors and shouts.

I don’t dare look down.

***

I do remember the woman and I do remember the day. A perfect spring day that ended with tragedy and blackness.

I remember her face and I can’t get it out of my thoughts. It haunts me.

A face that was gaunt and troubled. Yet, just in those last few moments, one with flashes of hope, of defiance, a glimpse of long-lost fire. A once beautiful face ravaged by despair, made old by worry and fear.

I see the panic in her eyes and I see her face again and again. I awake at night in cold sweats, re-living her last moments.

I desperately need to know more. I have to know why she did it and what I can do. If not, the sleep-disturbed nights and restless days will go on.

3

The cavalry arrives in numbers. Quite a few squad cars from different directions, plus an ambulance. All with lights flashing and sirens blaring, and all too late because the deed they’ve come to prevent has already happened—hastened on, no doubt, by their noisy arrival.

There is even, eventually, a helicopter overhead; although I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be doing.

They close the motorway, of course, because they have a body to remove and a traumatised truck driver to deal with, blaming himself although he’s nothing to blame himself for. And they photograph the scene and take copious measurements, even though the cause of the tragedy is pretty apparent. The result is a tailback of over four miles on the eastbound carriageway and plenty of drivers getting home very late.

We are eventually allowed home after giving our details to an officer. Taken home, in fact, so the presence of all those cars wasn’t altogether wasted.

***

The following day, we are attending the local police station, as requested, to give our formal statements. ‘Local’, of course, is a fairly relative term these days because most local stations have closed and a five-mile trek is necessary.

Given we are only material witnesses, it is all very low key, conducted by a lowly detective constable for whom the term ‘PC Plod’ might have been invented; although, he’s now shed the uniform and, somehow, moved on to other things.

Detective Constable Dodds is of average height, average build and average in most ways, and isn’t at all what I’d expect a detective to be. He really is a plodder, seemingly lacking in any initiative and just following procedures. In our case, his interview technique involves laboriously going through the form filling without deviating from the script.

Names?

Edgar Alexander Walton and Jessica Mary Walton, I tell him. Although, everyone knows us as Ed and Jess. Only my late mother and the president of my cricket club called me Edgar, as an aged aunt still does. Everyone else, at least the polite ones, calls me Ed.

Just the basics will do, interrupts Dodds as I ramble on. It’s an age thing.

Address? So we tell him. Occupations? If he had any observational skills, he’d just put ‘Retired’; maybe he wants to be polite and not assume we’re as old as we obviously are. Although, actually, we’re not fully retired since I still do bits of writing work, just to keep the brain cells active and earn a bit of money, while Jess still does hair for family and friends. I’m not going to complicate matters by telling Dodds this; just the basics.

Once he’s laboriously finished the preliminaries, Dodds finally starts on the actual information gathering.

What brought you to the bridge? is his opening gambit after taking down our other details in ponderous fashion.

So we explain the walk, the route and anything else that seems relevant up to coming across the woman.

Dodds stares at his pad, makes some notes and battles on, all without looking up. And what was your impression when you saw her?

Well, she seemed very tense, quite agitated and depressed, responds Jess. She clearly wasn’t very happy.

So you rang 999?

Of course, replies Jess, not trying to cover her irritation. We thought it was the best thing to do.

You didn’t, says Dodds, accusingly, switching his attention to me, because you decided to approach her.

Only because I didn’t think we had time to wait, I respond. She looked ready to jump and I thought she might be spooked when your lot appeared. I thought she might panic and I wanted to try to calm her down.

That didn’t work out very well though, did it? There is a sneering note in Dodds’ voice, a look of contempt in his face, and it doesn’t put me in a better mood.

It was doing, I say, after what I think is a dramatic pause. We were talking and she was appearing to relax. I did think I was getting through to her and I did think she might come down. Then your lot arrived with a lot of noise and flashing lights, and she panicked, lost her grip and fell.

So you’re saying it’s our fault.

I get a nudge on the knee from Jess at this, a plea to be careful. I’m not, but the dramatic approach didn’t help. It could have been a lot quieter and calmer, given the situation.

More studying of the pad and scribbling of notes. A pensive look. So why do you think she jumped?

I don’t think she did, I reply. I don’t know if she ever really intended to jump or if it was just a cry for help. But she was startled and, as I’ve just said, she panicked, lost her grip and fell.

But she was up on the bridge for a reason, Dodds says, refusing to deviate from the accepted version. Isn’t that because she was planning to jump, don’t you think?

I can see Jess is getting fed up with this and she intervenes again: Well, we’ll never know now, will we? So what happens next?

There’ll probably be an autopsy, Dodds responds. Just to see what’s in her system if nothing else. Unless anything really suspicious shows up, it seems to be pretty straightforward. There’ll be an inquest to formally decide on the cause of death. But I think it’s quite obvious what happened. I don’t see any hold-ups.

So that’s it. Nailed down, all neat and tidy.

Aren’t you going to investigate why she did this? I ask. Aren’t you bothered there’s something behind this?

A blank look from Dodds. He really can’t understand what I’m on about and says: Unlikely. Unless, as I say, there’s something suspicious.

Suspicious! I say. A healthy young woman goes on a bridge to throw herself off. Do you really not think there’s something suspicious about that. Aren’t you at all concerned why?

Mr Walton, he responds, obviously getting short on patience but trying to appear calm. We are aware she was depressed, had been for a long time. She probably just snapped, maybe everything just got the better of her. There’s nothing to suggest anyone caused this and, unless there is, we’ve no reason to investigate further. And we have plenty other cases to keep us busy.

And that, apparently, is the end of that. They’re too busy to bother. And I don’t feel able to do anything except lose my temper.

Dodds is keen to wind this up, so he says: Unless there’s something else, I don’t need anything more from you. But, if you have more to add, you know where we are.

And, with that, we are dismissed and Tajra Brkić is written off as another sad suicide. Well, not by me, she isn’t.

4

The next few days are, to say the least, very difficult. The incident, the woman, are never far from my thoughts. I see her, hear her, at all times of the day and she interrupts my sleep at night. I awake from dreams, from nightmares, sometimes screaming or shouting, always covered in sweat and hardly able to breathe.

She’s always there, on the bridge. Always I talk to her and sometimes I get through, persuade her to come down. More often, she falls and this time I look down, see the stopped traffic, the battered body, the smear of blood where she’s been dragged along the road. Occasionally, I grab her and she still falls, dragging me down with her. I can feel the rush of air as I fall, can sense my impending death. That’s when I wake up screaming.

It’s making me feel ill and permanently tired, and I know Jess is seriously concerned. What are we going to do about this? she finally asks.

About what?

About you, what else. About this woman and your constant thinking about her. About the nightmares she’s causing and the effect they’re having on you.

I don’t know, is my pathetic reply.

Well, we’re going to have to do something. You can’t go on like this, it’ll make you ill. It is making you ill. You need to see the doctor.

That will be a waste of time. He’ll only prescribe sleeping pills or refer me to someone else and that will take forever. By the time I see someone, I’ll be over it and back to normal.

You don’t know that. This could go on for months and I can’t stand it.

Let’s just leave it a few days and see how I go. If I’m not getting any better, then I’ll see the doctor. What do you think?

She doesn’t think much of the idea. But she can see I’m not going to the doctor, so she grudgingly accepts the situation. So we put off any decision for another day. Procrastination wins again.

The days after the death feature one mention on the regional TV news, small reports in the local press and even some social media chatter.

My role in the affair is either not mentioned, faintly praised as a good Samaritan trying to help or derided as an interfering busybody who probably made matters worse.

It’s all pretty insignificant stuff and it soon fades away. But it doesn’t fade from my mind and I’m even more determined to get to the bottom of this little mystery.

The thing about me and Jess is that, in all the years we’ve been married, we’ve hardly ever been apart. We’ve never had separate holidays and, for a lot of years before we retired, we both had home-based work; me writing on most days and Jess going out to regular customers when needed.

Even though I spent long hours ferreted away in my office, otherwise known as the spare bedroom, our paths crossed several times a day, every day. That meant retirement never came as a shock to the system, as it does for some because they’re suddenly together all the time. For us, it was no different.

We’re also used to working together on things. Like now on how we deal with the question of the woman on the bridge. Why was she there and what made her jump?

***

For many people, the jobs they do influence the way they live. That’s certainly true for me because writing has always been a big element in my life and extends to far more than my work.

As a long-term freelance writer, I do have certain standards. Most of the stuff I’ve written has either been user guides that few people have bothered to read, articles in obscure magazines or website text that’s mainly intended for search engines rather than human beings.

I do have one published book in my name. A guide to buying a personal computer that was published many years ago and, after the initial up-front payment, didn’t earn me any further royalties. Which means it didn’t exactly leap off the shelves. So I’m not exactly a well-known author. Nevertheless, my work has influenced my reading habits.

When I read an article or a book, I can’t help but be critical of the way it’s written so I don’t just concentrate on the content. I’m conscious of errors. I look for them. I pick up spelling mistakes, grammatical errors and poor sentence construction. The last two also apply to presenters on television and it drives me mad.

How can professional writers not know the basics of apostrophe use but instead scatter them hopefully like confetti? Why can they not distinguish singular from plural, writing ‘the team are’, ‘the club have’ and other such nonsense? It’s as bad as football managers and players describing every event as ‘massive’ and hoping for ‘a result’ when they’re really