Prologue

Peter Bunderlin was in the garden but he wasn't standing up. He was sitting on his seat between the poplar tree and the big tangled hawthorns. It was good here because he could see across to the school and down the lane and into the field where the animals went to graze. Nobody ever saw him. They could have done if they had looked, but they didn't look so it was really quite easy for him to hide without being hidden.

            Down the other side of the garden there was a very high solid fence which the neighbours had put up because they didn't like very big people like him and Franz who could see over the tops of things. That was silly really because there was nothing interesting in their garden, so that wasn't why he sat down. He once frightened a little girl. He didn't mean to. He had gone to the garage to get one of the goats down from the roof when the girl looked up and saw him. She screamed and ran away crying and he didn't like that. Her mother had probably taught her to be frightened of animals as well which was silly.

            So he just sat on his seat and watched and read and read and read his poetry book. He knew all the poems now and he often read them in his head. Read in his head and ready for bed. But when he did that he played with them and made them different and funny. So he read them in the book as well. And then he would give the donkey and the goats apples and carrots and things when they came to him. And sometimes when the pigs began to squeal in the afternoon he would go into the house and help his mama fill their feeding bowls.

            That was a long time ago. Now he has to wait in the corners again and watch and hope to see the man he is looking for. He still keeps his camera in his pocket but he has to be careful not to do anything that will make people want to send him back to prison. Some of the people in prison are not nice and there are no animals so it would be silly to go back.

 Part One

One

I shouldn't have to be doing this, Martin Latham told himself. He pulled up behind the white van outside the vacant shop. A traffic warden eyed him suspiciously but moved on.

            'Bit of a comedown, squire,' said the van driver as he and his mate carried Martin's desk into the flat above the shop.

            'Just a stopgap,' he responded defensively. 'As soon as my new place is ready I'll be out of here.' He tried to sound casual but the man's remark needled him. He resented feeling he had to explain to a complete stranger why he was moving to this dingy place from the house he'd worked so long and hard for. It didn't help that the man hardly listened. Ah well, he told himself, at least the move meant that he would be able to carry on with his research undisturbed for the rest of the summer.

            They soon finished unloading the few pieces of furniture and Martin sat down to take in his new surroundings. How many other transient tenants had stared at these walls and felt as deflated he did just now? What pictures and posters had brightened up the place? Who else had sat here and resolved to move on as soon as possible? As he looked around he noticed a greeting card amongst the junk mail he'd picked up on the way in. Who would have sent that? Not Julia, surely? Emma, maybe. But it wasn't from either of them. 'The photos will be ready next week,' it said inside. So it must have been meant for someone else, the previous occupant, perhaps, or somebody whose plans to take the flat had fallen through. He dropped it into the waste bin and went to move his car before that traffic warden came back.

            When he returned he began to unpack the small selection of his books and papers – the rest were in boxes in his sister Jean's garage – and arranged them on the shelf unit by his desk. He set up his computer and felt reassured when it bleeped as it came back to life. With a sudden burst of determination he opened the file on The Pre-Maccabean Origins of Proto-Daniel. It wouldn't nag him any more. He'd have the chance to get on with it and finish it before the next invasion of new undergraduates. He left the title page on the screen and went to sort out his kitchen and make a meal.

He felt a little self-conscious in the Wheatsheaf that evening. A smart-casual fifty-year-old with well groomed hair and neatly trimmed beard. Perhaps he should cultivate a more carefree look, let the hair grow a little, touch up the grey and merge into the background. He smiled ruefully - just being away from Julia might… No, he shouldn't start on that line of thought.

A young woman in a short skirt and a low top approached him. 'Looking for business, sweetheart?'

'No. Just drinking.'

On Monday morning another card arrived with a photo processing receipt. 'You can collect the photos from Ann Bates's shop,' it said. But still there was no indication of the sender and nothing to suggest that it was not meant for someone else.

            He began to make himself some breakfast but was interrupted by a loud hammering at the street door. He turned out the grill and went downstairs. And there, in chopped-off, frayed jeans and tie-dyed tee-shirt, was Emma, his daughter. Her long brown hair was about to get tangled in the straps of the huge rucksack she was wrestling to the ground.

            'Here, let me get that. Didn't expect you for a few days yet.'

            He led the way upstairs and into the living room where Emma flopped into an armchair. 'Something smells good. Am I in time? I'd just love a bacon sandwich. But don't worry I'm not stopping. Well not long. Thought I'd crash out here for tonight and get a lift to the station tomorrow. That's okay, is it?'

            'Yes, of course. When do you need to be there?'

            'About one o'clock. We need to pick up Sally on the way. She's at her folk's place in Farnworth. And, by the way, Mum says will you have Samson?'

            'But I can't have the dog here. There's no garden for a start. And your mother's got all that space for him.'

            'Not any more, she hasn't. She's moving in with Barry, remember? Anyway, I said I'd collect him later today so it's too late to say no.'

            Emma tucked in to a bacon and egg sandwich whilst Martin made himself some toast. 'It's nice, this place. It'd suit me. If I was planning on coming back, which I'm not, of course.'

            'Have you got any ideas yet for after finals?'

            'Come off it, Dad, that's months off. I'm not even beginning to think about it yet. I'll make us a coffee. Don't suppose you've got any decaff, have you? But not to worry, I've got a jar somewhere in here.' She began to search in the many pockets of her rucksack.

            'Try the cupboard first. You'll find some in there.'

            'Oh, right. Tell you what, when I've had this drink, can you drop me off at Auntie Jean's? I want to see this new Shetland pony she's got. I'll pick Samson up on the way back. And you'd better give me a key in case you go out.'

            He handed her the spare key as she started to poke about among the clutter which was already beginning to accumulate on the mantelpiece.

            'Give me a tenner as well and I'll get us something nice for supper.' She picked up the card which had arrived that morning. 'I'll get these photos for you while I'm at it.'

            'But I'm not sure that they're anything to do with me.'

            'Course they are. Must be. No one else lives here, do they? You'd better give me another fiver. No, make it ten.'

            Emma returned late that afternoon with Samson, a brown and white bull terrier with a black patch over one eye. As soon as he saw Martin he went wild with excitement. It should have been great to have the dog around but Martin groaned inwardly at the prospect of trying to exercise him adequately, particularly once the new term began.

            'I'll get supper for us tonight,' said Emma breezily. 'Hope you like Thai food. Well, you'll have to, cause that's what I've got. Anyway, come and look at these photos. Don't know why you go to that Bates's place. Right at the far end of Chorley Road, for goodness' sake. How many photo shops do you have to pass to get there? I suppose you fancy Mrs Bates. Is that it?'

            'Don't be daft. I don't even know the woman. Or her shop. They're not even my photos, remember?'

            'If you say so. But they've got your name on the packet so let's take a look at them.'

            One by one, Martin took them from the packet and handed them to Emma after a quick glance. 'There's nothing special here. Just general views from round and about the town centre and the park. One or two from a bit further afield.' The last one surprised him. 'Oh. This one's, er…'

            'What is it?'

            'Well, here, take a look.'

            She took it from him and examined it carefully. It was a picture of Martin himself at the front door, probably on the day that he moved in.

            'So what do you suppose this is about?'

            'Haven't a clue.'

            'Well, maybe if we have another close look at them all we might spot something. So here goes. First one.' She put the picture on the table in front of him. 'Tell me about it.'

            'It's the bandstand in the park. Looks a bit dilapidated. There's nothing else. Trees in the distance.'

            'And this one.' She began to spread them out on the table.

            'The rose gardens and the old café. Some of these are prints off old negatives, of course. It's ages since the café was demolished. And the bandstand as well, come to think of it.'

            'What about this one?'

            'Shops on Chorley Road. Recent, I should think.'

            More shops, Saint James's Church, Victoria Square, Barton Lane School, a reservoir, probably Rumbold Lake. 'Oh, wait a minute. Some of these ring bells, not all of them, but some of them do. So I think I might know whose photos these are. Yes, of course I do. A big guy, enormous guy.' It was the lake that had brought it back to him. 'These are all places he had some sort of connection with. Looks like he's back in circulation.'

            'And he's been looking for you?'

            'Watching and waiting, I should say, knowing him.'

            'So, tell me about him. Why doesn't he just knock and say, Hi, remember me? Come to that, why would he want to look you up again after however many years?'

'That's what I'd like to know. First time I met him was when I was a kid at primary school. The headmistress tried to warn me off. Came across him again years later and a girl who knew him tried to warn me off. And the last I saw of him was when I visited him in Strangeways shortly after he'd begun a life sentence for murder. I'd given evidence against him.'