The Price, page 11
‘My name is Clara Goodwin.’
‘And I am George Goodwin.’
‘We are the parents of Tabatha and our daughter is battling cancer. We want to thank everyone who has helped us so far, but we need more, we need you to help save our little girl …’
We spoke for only a minute or so, about Tabatha, her condition, the fact that we needed her in the US in a week’s time to have treatment to save her. I talked about how much we had raised, and how far we still had to go. We needed hope, and both George and I spoke of how our hope rested in the US, and in the kindness of strangers. Our unscripted conversation was easy, and I felt closer to George in that moment than I had in the months before.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Clara
With our new, unfiltered video posted, I tried to forget about the fundraising and just look after Tabatha as she recovered from her latest round of chemo. George offered to get some food and a coffee and realising I’d barely eaten all day, I salivated at the idea. Before he went, he gave me a kiss on the cheek, and there it stayed, long after he left.
Tabatha was asleep, but her little body twitched, her face contorted like she was having vivid dreams. I wondered what a baby dreamt of; was it like what an adult would dream, with stories and meaning, however obscure, or were they more visceral, shapes and colours and sounds? She didn’t wake, so I didn’t wake her – she needed her rest. George was gone for only half an hour, and when he returned, food and coffee in his hands, I could see he had been crying. I wanted to console him, say something, offer comfort but knew better than that. ‘I thought you got lost.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘As I was going to get food, I walked passed the chapel, figured I’d pop in,’ he said, and although I knew George wasn’t a religious man, I wondered if he found something in it that would help. He sat opposite me, our daughter in the bed between us, and we both watched her sleeping. We didn’t speak, not really, we simply sat, reacted to our daughter’s needs, battling our own tiredness as it had been another exhausting day. My phone was on silent, and every now and then it vibrated. I tried to ignore it, but it didn’t relent. Wondering if it was perhaps Mum trying to reach me, I dug in my bag for it. Our message – raw and unedited – had resonated, and the post was being shared over and over. I went to the FundMyCause page, and saw the total was climbing.
By that evening, another £15,878 had been added. We had surpassed the £100,000 mark. When George saw, his mouth dropped open.
‘Almost half of this money is from just five people!’
He couldn’t believe it. He was elated, but I held back. A little over a week was all that remained for this wave of the trial. That was all. We might get offered a place for the next wave, but I knew in my soul, if we didn’t have it all by then, we might be too late. I opened my calculator and did the maths. George saw what I was doing, and he stopped smiling.
£100,567 had been raised, which meant we had £129,433 to go.
‘£18,490 a day.’ I said. ‘£770 an hour, every hour for a whole week.’
George looked afraid but somehow determined and I took comfort that he was on my side, at least in part, and I didn’t want to lose that. So instead I smiled when he smiled, nodded as he spoke of hope, and counted one hour. I looked at the total on the page. In that hour, we added £540. It was a lot of money raised in a short time, but the rate was slowing, and would eventually stop. Even if by some miracle it didn’t, and it stayed at £540 an hour up until we got on that plane, we would still be forty thousand short.
It was a bitter pill to swallow.
Although the money we were trying to raise was a significant hurdle to overcome in the present, the distant future was still so clear in my mind. Despite the pressure and the uncertainty, I could still see my daughter going to school, sitting exams, wearing her school tie in a ridiculous manner because it was what everyone else was doing. I saw her falling in love, landing a job, getting her own home. Having children of her own one day. I saw all of that, and yet at the same time, I couldn’t see past the next few weeks.
‘You ever think of what she’ll be like when she grows up?’ I asked George, wanting him to be involved in my distant dreams because of the warmth they made me feel.
‘I can’t imagine it,’ he said. I waited for him to try, but his eyes went from me, back to our sleeping daughter.
‘It helps. Picture her fifth birthday.’
He closed his eyes for a long moment and then opened them again.
‘I can’t,’ he whispered, and the hope I felt flickered.
I had expected, as before, that we would be in hospital for the rest of the night, and into the next day, but as the nurses did their evening rounds, we were told we could go home early.
As we made our way to the car, I noted that in the hour we had waited for a doctor to discharge us, another £215 had come in to the fund – £215 when we needed a minimum of £770. By the time we got home, another hour had passed and in that hour, £140 had been added.
We needed a miracle.
24TH JULY 2023
7 days until the deadline …
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Clara
I lay awake watching my phone screen, hoping for an email, and also dreading receiving it. And then it came, just before one in the morning.
Philadelphia.
The subject simply read: Information regarding your recent application.
Not knowing what the email said, I wanted to wake George, to have him with me when I found out the fate of our daughter. With my phone in my hand, I checked Tabatha was resting comfortably. Her little arms were sprawled above her head, her breathing deep and for now, at least, calm, and walked over to the room where he slept and opened the door. I hoped after the day we had, the closeness we felt, George would share our bed, but it seemed we were a great couple in public, and a completely different one behind closed doors.
As light from the hallway crept into the spare bedroom I could see George was in a deep sleep and even though I needed him, I decided not to wake him. One of us needed to be able to rest, to keep our energy up. I began to close the door and as I did, his phone lit up. He didn’t stir so I picked it up and took it into the kitchen. I looked back at my own phone, the email waiting to be read, but I still couldn’t open it. The words were too big, too frightening.
‘Fucking hell Clara, just open it,’ I told myself, and even though I felt I was going to be sick, even though my hands began to tingle, foreshadowing that I might have a panic attack, I tapped the button, and the email opened.
I didn’t read the introduction, nor most of its contents; my eyes were drawn to six words in the second paragraph. Six words that would hopefully change my daughter’s life.
… we are delighted to accept Tabatha …
She was in, my baby had a place in Philadelphia. My baby was going into the life-saving trial.
I read the email again, just to make sure I hadn’t projected what I wanted instead of reading the truth. But the text remained unchanged. We are delighted to accept … I dropped my phone on the table and a wave of relief and hope washed over me, those six words looping in my mind. We are delighted to accept. I covered my mouth with my hand as a small laugh-cry escaped. Tears pricked and then fell as I let myself be overwhelmed with the victory. I wanted to shout, to scream and jump up and down, but I stopped myself. We had hope, fresh and tangible hope. I wanted to run to George, wake him up and tell him. I wanted to ring Mum and tell her, too. But I knew I shouldn’t. The victory, the hope, was delicate, they would have questions about the funds, of how close we were, of what we needed to do to get there, and I didn’t have the answers. So instead I stayed where I was and allowed myself to feel warmed by the win, and I thought of the future, of my daughter well and happy. I thought of her fifth birthday, the image so clear, so bright I could almost touch it. I didn’t feel guilty any more for taking that money from Tesco, I didn’t feel ashamed that I was begging for the help of strangers. None of that mattered. She had a place, she was going to America. One way or another, she was getting on that plane.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
George
‘George! Wake up!’ Clara shouted, shaking me into consciousness.
‘What is it?’ I mumbled, sounding more irritated than I was.
‘Your phone, it keeps ringing.’
‘What?’ I asked, feeling for it on the table next to me. It wasn’t where I’d left it but instead I looked up to see Clara holding it.
‘I moved it, before. I wanted you to sleep properly.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Just gone four.’
Sitting up, I took the phone from Clara’s hand and looked at it. As my eyes blurred into focus, I saw I had two messages, both from Mike, as well as three missed calls.
I opened the messages and read the first, which was sent at 3.20 a.m.
Hey buddy, I know it’s late, but thought you’d want to know. There’s been a development. Another one of Mantel’s businesses has been hit tonight
The second came ten minutes later.
When you get these, a DS Nowak from our friends in Stockport is at the scene. The address is …
I knew I had to go, despite the time. This case was the biggest of my career, and I knew that to crack this open, to link the current crimes back to Mantel – as well as linking Mantel to the murder of Reece Hunter – I needed to try and get inside the head of everyone involved. I needed to see how it all connected.
‘What happened?’ Clara asked.
‘Another of Mantel’s businesses has been hit. I have to go.’
‘George, wait. Before you go, we’ve had some news. Tabatha got accepted onto the Philadelphia trial.’
‘She got a place?’ I asked, wanting to make sure I’d heard her right.
‘Yes.’ Clara said, a beaming smile on her face for the first time in months.
‘She’s in, because of you,’ I gave her a hug, enjoying the rare moment of joy we were sharing after such a difficult few months.
After our embrace I quickly got dressed, and before heading out, I told my wife that if anyone could raise the funds it was her, and I truly believed it, too. Clara was tenacious, pragmatic, determined; it was why I loved her.
Climbing into the car, I thought about the wonderful news Clara had just given me. She had truly believed it was possible, and look what had happened as a result. And maybe the same would be said of the Mantel case. Even though it was dawn, and I was tired, I couldn’t help but feel that it was going to be a really good day.
I wondered if Mantel knew yet that another of his businesses had been targeted. I suspected he did. Everyone who worked for him must be aware of what had been going on and given he was a volatile man, I reckoned everyone would be giving him as wide a berth as possible. It must have been a difficult call for the manager of the club. As I drove, I contacted Staffordshire police, telling them I was on my way and arranging to meet DS Nowak. I hoped he would be able to give me something I could follow up on. In the aftermath of the café robbery, Mike had been told by the manager that the CCTV cameras were not working on the night the Bean Hut was robbed. It was either the worst stroke of luck or, more likely, Mantel didn’t want us to see the footage. It furthered my suspicions that the robbery was connected to the lost money and drugs from the raid. I hoped by attending the club I would find something more than was found at the café, or at least something that linked the two scenes beyond my own hunch.
The drive took the best part of an hour, roadworks on the A6 making it slow and frustrating. My eyes struggled to stay open and the lights from the cars in front streaked red across my vision. I had to keep all the windows down, the cool air drifting in to help me focus.
Arriving later than I hoped, I hastily parked nearby and dashed over to the waiting police officer by the entrance. ‘Sorry for the delay, I’m George.’
‘Pavel,’ he replied, taking my hand and shaking it firmly. He was stood next to another man, the manager of the club probably. ‘Excuse us for a minute,’ Pavel said to the man, who muttered a ‘no problem’ and walked away into the club.
‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me,’ I said once the man was out of earshot. ‘I promise I’ll not take up much of your time.’
‘No rush.’
Pavel led me inside and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust in the gloom. Nightclubs had never been on the list of my favourite places; they always felt like they were trying too hard. In the cold light cast by overheard florescent tubes, and devoid of music, drunk young people who were also trying too hard, the building was tired, beaten, sad. A lonely vacuum that sucked the energy from the walls.
As we walked across the dance floor, I could see the stains, dents, cracks that would be hidden under a hundred shoes and as many flashing lights. Some clubs might look fresh and young when empty, but this one didn’t; it was old and breaking down.
‘Feels different when it’s empty,’ I offered.
‘Yes, it’s great when its bouncing,’ Pavel said, smiling at me. I’d have to take his word for it.
‘This way,’ he continued before disappearing around the side of the bar. We came to a door, the glass in the windowpane smashed, shards all over the floor.
‘They came in here.’
‘Any prints?’
‘None, and nothing was touched at all besides in the owner’s office.’
‘Henry Mantel’s office?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I take a look?’
‘DS Goodwin, we have searched the office, we found no prints, no anything.’
‘Humour me.’
Pavel led on and I followed as we made our way further behind the bar and up a flight of stairs. The manager looked my way, but offered nothing. Pavel led me into a small room with a window that overlooked the dance floor. Taking a moment, I studied the room. Files were pulled out over the floor, chairs upended … whoever was in here had been looking for something specific. I put on some gloves and grabbing my torch, I slowly began to search the room myself, keeping an eye out for anything that seemed out of place. At the Bean Hut, the till had been smashed. I thought back to what Mike had said, that Mantel hadn’t been too bothered by that, but had seemed distracted and keen for the police to wrap things up and get off the premises. There must have been something he was trying to keep from us, something he wasn’t being upfront about, so I searched extra thoroughly.
‘Pavel, when you searched the place, did you find any employment records?’
‘Yes, we found a ledger.’
‘A ledger?’
‘Yes, the owner prefers to have a book, rather than anything on a computer system.’
‘I bet he does. Do you still have the ledger?’
‘We have images of it, I can forward them to you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘May I ask why you’ve come here this morning? Nothing much was stolen.’
‘Yes, about that, are you sure?’
‘Completely. The safe has marks on it, like someone tried and failed to get in. The tills have been smashed open but only a small float was in there. That’s why I’m confused you’ve come all the way out here, even though this is Mantel’s club, it’s a simple break in. The alarms were triggered, automatically alerting the police, and when we arrived the manager was already here. He checked but insisted nothing had been taken.’
‘What about the owner?’
‘He’s not been in yet.’
‘So whoever broke in caused all this mess?’
‘Yep.’
‘They were definitely looking for something.’
‘Seems so,’ Pavel agreed. ‘But again, the manager said nothing was taken.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Can I have a copy of that ledger when you get a sec?’
I gave Pavel my email address, and he saved it.
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but we could have done all this over the phone.’
‘I know, I just wanted to get a look at the place, can I have a few more minutes?’
‘Take as long as you need.’
‘Thank you.’
I waited for DS Nowak to leave and then turned my attention back to the room. There had to be something out of place. Why would they break in here? Why focus on this office?
Using my torch, I crouched and lit under the desk. Nothing seemed disturbed. I kept low and looked around for any imperfections in the skirting boards or floor. I felt sure I would find something, a hidden compartment under a floorboard, a secret hiding place to keep his money while he waited to clean it. But, as much as I looked, I found nothing.
Getting up, I scanned the walls, pausing at a bookcase. I stood there for a moment, trying to work out what was different about it. Then I realised that on the top shelf, three of the books had no gap between them. They were, in fact, one unit made to look like individual spines. Hiding in plain sight. I lifted it down and noticed that on the back, where a lock sat, there were dents around it, as though it had been forced open. It was empty. I expected it would be. Something had been inside though, and now it was gone.
‘DS Nowak,’ I called, and he came back into the room.
‘Found something?’ he asked, looking at the container in my hands.
‘Whatever they broke in for, it was inside this,’ I said. ‘You might wanna get forensics in here.’
I had seen enough, and as DS Nowak took over the scene once more and examined my finding, I headed to the car.
Mantel had been hit again, and again nothing much seemed to be missing. I’d had my suspicions after the café robbery that it was connected to the drugs raid, and now I was sure. Clara had made me realise that Mantel had money he needed to clean. Clearly whoever he owed wasn’t prepared to wait to collect it. But I still didn’t know who that was. What I did know for sure was that if we didn’t crack this, if we didn’t find out who it was robbing Mantel and bring him to justice alongside Mantel himself for all he had done, someone else was going to get hurt. Or like Reece Hunter, someone else was going to end up dead.
