From the Shadows (Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Series Book 3)

by Lisa Hartley

  From the Shadows

  Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop

  Book Three

  Lisa Hartley

  From the Shadows: A Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Novel

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons either living or dead or to actual events or circumstances is entirely coincidental.

  Author’s note: Northolme, its residents and its police officers do not exist and although some of the locations used do, they are used here in a purely fictional context. Although Lincolnshire Police is obviously a real organisation, it has no affiliation with this book.

  Cover art designed by paperandsage.com

  All rights reserved.

  © Lisa Hartley 2017

  Contents

  Also by Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Lisa Hartley, available in paperback and on Kindle:

  On Laughton Moor (DS Catherine Bishop Series Book One)

  Double Dealing (DS Catherine Bishop Series Book Two)

  For my Grandma, Edna Woollas.

  ‘All nice people, like Us, are We

  And everyone else is They,’

  Rudyard Kipling, ‘We and They’

  1

  The bar was packed at five in the afternoon, the early evening crowd making the most of the Saturday happy hour. Catherine Bishop leant forward and tried to catch the eye of one of the staff, attempting to keep her elbow out of the pool of cold beer already accumulating on the bar’s surface. She turned her head, and Ellie flashed her a smile from the booth she’d managed to grab. The warm press of the bodies around Catherine was overwhelming, and as the music and the chatter filled her ears, the room blurred. When it was over, she blinked a few times, hoping Ellie hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Can I help?’ A barman was eyeing her expectantly.

  Hugging the beers close, she picked her way through the crowd and over to Ellie, dropping onto the bench beside her friend with a sigh of relief. She slid one of the bottles across the table.

  ‘Cheers.’ Catherine took a swig. ‘Busy in here.’

  ‘Lots of students around, I suppose they don’t all go home for Easter.’

  Catherine sat back, her gaze roaming the long, narrow room. The walls had been painted a sickly yellow-white, reminding her of the stained ceilings of the smoke-filled pubs of her teenage years. An enormous flat screen TV half-filled the wall beside them, the day’s Premiership goals floating past in a seemingly endless flow of replays. A few people glanced at the screen, but most ignored it. Why did the bar’s owners bother to have it there at all? Perhaps it drew in customers during the week when people saved their money and looked forward instead to Saturday night. She focused on Ellie again, who was checking a text.

  ‘The others are at the restaurant already,’ Ellie told her, dropping her phone into her bag. ‘We’ve got to crawl up Steep Hill yet.’

  Catherine pretended to choke on her drink. ‘Now I know why you didn’t tell me where we’re eating.’

  Ellie laughed, finishing her beer and setting the empty bottle on the table. ‘Didn’t want to put you off. Come on, I’ll race you.’

  As they pushed their way through the crowd and out into the street, Catherine caught sight of a homeless man sitting on the pavement, his back pressed against the glass window of a department store. He had a ragged tartan blanket tucked around his legs, but his thin jacket didn’t seem to be offering his body much protection. Ellie hadn’t seen him, and she was already a few paces away. Catherine was torn for a second, but she rushed over and dropped a few pound coins into his hat. He muttered a thank-you but didn’t meet her eyes. She hurried away, guilt and shame mingling in her stomach.

  *

  Mackie pulled the hood of his jacket around his face, hunching his shoulders as the wind bit his cheeks. Glancing at the collection of change in the baseball cap lying on the flagged pavement in front of him, he sighed. The handful of coins would have to do for tonight. The cold was seeping into his body through his thin coat and jeans, his toes numb, his fingers thrust deep into his pockets. He tugged a hand free, collected the money and pulled back the hood again as he set the hat on his head. It was the end of March, but felt more like December. No signs of spring so far, not in Lincoln at least.

  He stood slowly, a dull ache in his hips and knees, pain in his shoulder, his ribs and gut. Stepping back out of the throng of shoppers, he stood under the canopy of a bakery and blew on his hands. He hated this part of town. With its multitude of chain shops and fast food restaurants, he could be anywhere. His city was up the hill, the cobbles and ancient brickwork, the history and heartbreak, walking in the footsteps of the Roman legions and medieval monks. Lincoln was old, and you could sense its history if you tried. He looked at the sea of shoppers with contempt. They wouldn’t even consider it, obsessed with the latest gadget, the newest fashions, hurrying towards the next bargain. No, the city was wasted on them. Better they stayed down here.

  As he fumbled in his pocket again for some of the change, a plump middle-aged man came out of the bakery and stopped beside him.

  ‘Here you go, mate.’ The man held out a cardboard cup and a paper bag with a smile. Mackie took them slowly, like a wary dog being offered a treat by a stranger it didn’t entirely like the smell of.

  ‘Thank you.’ His voice was quiet, gratingly unused. He didn’t have much occasion to speak these days.

  ‘It’s only a pasty and some coffee, but I saw you and … Well, you looked as though you needed them.’

  Mackie tucked the paper bag containing the pasty, hot and smelling delicious, into his coat pocket, lifted the cup to his lips and took a small sip.

  ‘Thanks. Good of you, mate.’

  The man beamed. ‘You’re welcome. Least I can do. You know there’s a soup kitchen in the church over there?’ He gestured towards the impressive old building, standing solemnly, penned in by a busy road on one side and the railway line on the other.

  Mackie sipped the coffee again, allowing his gaze to wander over the church’s sooty stonework. He knew about the soup kitchen, but it wouldn’t hurt to let the man imagine he was helping.

  ‘Ri
ght.’

  ‘I mean, it’s none of my business, but …’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, enjoy the pasty.’

  ‘Thank you, I will.’

  Mackie raised the cardboard cup to his mouth again, his eyes following the good Samaritan as he crossed the street and disappeared around the corner. Kind of him. Most people dropped a few coppers into his hat without making eye contact. He’d had drinks bought before, a sandwich or two, but usually, people didn’t even see him.

  He was counting on it.

  *

  The restaurant was a warren of small rooms inside an old house, in a row of similar buildings which had been sympathetically modernised. The music was discreet, the clientele prosperous. Smiling waiting staff dressed in pristine white shirts with thin black ties stepped carefully across the polished floorboards, moving with practised grace around the tables. Catherine’s eyes followed one man, older than the rest, as he hurried across to greet a group of diners. He was tall and handsome, resembling a boyfriend Catherine remembered from her time at university, now a lecturer himself. She had treated him unfairly, frustrated by her own lukewarm response to his advances, not yet knowing herself well enough to understand why he would never be right for her. She glanced back at Ellie, who was pouring wine, and shook her head slightly. Ellie smiled, and Catherine was struck by how well they understood each other, only four months after their awkward, embarrassing first meeting. Ellie knew if Catherine had wine, she would end the evening slumped across the table.

  With only half an ear on the conversation, Catherine gazed over her friend’s shoulder. Set into the wall behind her was a window, the flame of a tealight in a glass vase on the sill flickering against the darkness outside. The larger panes of glass were clear, but the top two, smaller and square, were stained glass, a red and yellow sun rising against a greenish-blue sky. On a ledge outside two fat grey pigeons huddled together, feathers ruffled by a slight breeze, their bright beady eyes staring back at Catherine. A grubby yellow plastic sign on the wall above them warned CCTV cameras were in operation while an empty ice cream tub, wedged next to the pigeons, overflowed with water dripping from a broken drainpipe above. The water ran down the brickwork beneath, a trail of green slime marking its path. The owners of the restaurant had apparently tried hard to create the right image and ambience inside their premises while hoping no one would notice the cracks they had papered over. Glancing around at her companions, Catherine hid a smile. Who could blame them? It’s what most of us do, after all.

  A young waiter, his red-blond hair standing in improbable spikes, arrived at the table bearing two plates of food. Catherine caught Ellie’s eye and consciously brought her mind back to being sociable. In this company, it would be an effort, but they were Ellie’s colleagues, and for her sake, Catherine would be polite.

  When all the food had arrived, and the wine glasses were filled again, Catherine dug her fork into her pasta, keeping her gaze on her plate. One of the reasons why she’d wanted to avoid this evening soon spoke up.

  ‘You’ll have to be careful walking back to your hotel later, you two.’

  Melody Grange was in her late thirties, thin with curly blonde hair and viciously pointed fingernails which she kept drumming on the table top. Her raucous, braying laugh was making Catherine want to throw things.

  Ellie took a piece of garlic bread from the plate in the centre of the table.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Melody gave a smug smile.

  ‘Another robbery last night.’ She gestured over her shoulder with her fork. ‘Only a few streets away. He always picks on a couple or two friends. Grabs one of them and threatens them with a knife, tells the other to leave their wallets or bags and phones on the ground. Once they’ve given him their stuff, he lets them go.’

  ‘Sounds risky,’ Ellie said.

  Melody raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Would you argue with a knife at your throat? I know I wouldn’t.’

  There was a pause as they all considered it. Catherine kept eating, hoping she could continue to avoid speaking once she had finished her food. Melody turned to her.

  ‘What would the police advice be, Catherine?’

  Catherine lifted her head, swallowing a few strands of spaghetti. She raised a linen napkin to her mouth and took her time wiping her lips.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Melody’s tone was impatient.

  ‘What would the police advise? Do you fight back or do you give him your stuff?’

  Catherine hesitated, and Faye Rogers jumped in. Married to one of the officers Catherine worked with, she was also a colleague of Ellie and Melody.

  ‘I know what Chris would say – give him what he wants, get away, and report it as soon as you can.’

  Catherine took the opportunity to fill her mouth again, making sure she chewed slowly.

  Melody shook her head, not satisfied.

  ‘Well, it seems the police are clueless in any case. They haven’t caught him yet. And we saw a bloke begging as we walked through town – aren’t you coppers supposed to have clamped down on that too?’ She held a breadstick between her thumb and forefinger, waving it around as she spoke, jabbing it in Catherine’s direction as she made her point. Catherine pushed back her chair.

  ‘I’m going to nip to the loo,’ she said.

  Ellie glanced at her with a tiny frown, but stayed silent.

  As Catherine locked the door, there was a clatter and Melody’s voice rang out:

  ‘It’s only me!’

  Catherine closed her eyes as Melody thumped into the next cubicle.

  ‘What are you doing about these beggars? Can’t do some shopping without someone asking you for money,’ she bellowed. Silence. ‘Catherine? Are you listening?’

  She shook her head in despair, hoping the noise of the flush would put Melody off. Fat chance. At the sinks, Melody cornered her, hands on hips.

  ‘You’re a police officer, aren’t you? Can’t you have a word with one of your bosses? It’s getting beyond a joke.’

  ‘I don’t work in the city.’ Catherine turned away, hoping Melody’s mouth couldn’t compete with the sound of the hand dryer.

  *

  Later, the streets were busy, thronged with people. Catherine relaxed - the sights and sounds of people out for a good time were intoxicating. The night air seemed warmer as delicious smells from the restaurants they passed drifted along with them. Bursts of laughter and snatches of music spilt from the pubs and bars. To Catherine, now more used to nights alone at home with a cup of tea and a book when she wasn’t working, the familiar streets felt exotic tonight, as if she were on holiday. She smiled to herself. Her brother would laugh if she told him, call her a hermit, say it was the shock of her leaving the house.

  At the top of Steep Hill, the group parted with hugs and promises to meet soon. Catherine fervently hoped never to see Melody again as she and Ellie turned away and the other two stumbled off in search of a taxi.

  ‘I didn’t know how obnoxious Melody was after a few drinks,’ Ellie said.

  The hill stretched away in front of them, sloping towards the modern town.

  Catherine laughed. ‘She wasn’t as bad last time we all went out. Is she charm itself at work?’

  ‘Well, she’s loud, but … Is your phone ringing?’

  Catherine opened her bag and checked the screen. ‘DI Knight.’

  ‘Your boss?’

  Shrugging, Catherine answered the call. ‘Jonathan?’

  Knight’s voice was barely audible. ‘Catherine, I’m on my way to London. Caitlin’s gone into labour. I’ll let you know what …’ There were three loud beeps and his voice disappeared.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Ellie sidestepped a flushed man and woman as they toiled towards them, cursing the hill as they went.

  ‘Caitlin’s in labour at last. He’s on the train already.’

  ‘Why would he go now, before the baby’s even born?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. If I were him I’d st
ay away, but who knows how his mind works.’ Catherine frowned as she remembered. Knight was a mystery, especially to her.

  At the bottom of Steep Hill was The Strait, a sweep of cobbles narrowing to a tiny street with a flagged pavement on either side, lined with shops and a few houses. Catherine paused for a moment and lifted her hand to hold Ellie’s arm, silently asking her to wait. They turned. Towering behind the other buildings, the cathedral was still visible, bathed in golden light and seeming to shimmer against the night sky. The cobbles around them were illuminated by old-fashioned streetlights, the whole scene reminiscent of a film set. It didn’t seem real. For a second they were alone in a tiny pocket of silence, Catherine’s hand still on Ellie’s arm as they gazed at the picture-perfect scene. Ellie shifted a little, murmuring, ‘Catherine?’

  As Catherine turned, a group of men rounded the corner from Steep Hill, jostling and singing, arms around each other’s shoulders. One man dragged a plastic ball and chain from his ankle and had an enormous pair of inflatable antlers perched on his head. Catherine smiled.

  ‘Shame I haven’t brought my handcuffs.’

  Ellie laughed, and the moment was gone.

  It had been hot in the restaurant, warm on the street, but now a cold wind followed them as they made their way to the hotel. Winter wasn’t yet ready to give way to spring. Ellie linked her arm through Catherine’s as they walked, huddling closer.