by Lisa Hartley
She typed back: I’ll see what I can do. How are you? X An instant reply: Hungover. U? Mary rolled her eyes. Big surprise. Her thumb tapped out: Same. She laughed as she read the response, hearing her daughter’s voice in her head as clearly as if she’d been sitting at the table with her: Disgraceful! XX
Mary swallowed the last mouthful of tea as she logged into her bank account on her phone and transferred the money. Even though her parents had separated when she was tiny, their daughter still harboured a dream of them getting back together. Not going to happen. She set the cup in the sink, half-heartedly squirting some washing-up liquid over the pile of pots languishing there, and turned to go back upstairs. A long hot bath was required.
*
Catherine was waiting on the platform, her long, dark hair made untidy by a gust of the wind that flew at Knight as he opened the train door. She’d lost weight since he had first come to work in Lincolnshire, and it had changed her face slightly, the cheekbones more pronounced, the shadows beneath her eyes deeper. Catherine looked exhausted, and a pang of guilt hit Knight. He had been worried about her a few months previously, voiced his concerns to their superior officer, but in the end had given in to Catherine’s constant assurances she was okay. Perhaps he should have insisted she saw someone - a doctor, or a counsellor.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have added to her burdens.
Knight lifted his hand in greeting as he stepped onto the platform. She hadn’t seen him yet, her eyes searching the few people leaving the train. A faint smile appeared as she eventually spotted him.
‘You look terrible,’ she greeted him.
‘Thanks a lot.’ He knew better than to say she did too, or to ask how she was doing. It was better to let her talk, because he knew she would if she needed to. Theirs was a strange relationship, bonds built on the trust established soon after Knight had arrived in Northolme, when Catherine had stayed in his spare room for a few nights during an investigation. She had confided in him; more, he suspected, than she would have usually done, because of what had happened. Catherine’s lover had been exposed as a killer and Catherine herself was left reeling in a maelstrom of guilt, confusion, betrayal and grief. As they climbed into the car, Knight glanced at her, noting a small tic pulsing beneath her left eye. Catherine turned her head to check over her shoulder before reversing out of the parking space and caught him watching her.
‘What?’ She accelerated away from the station, towards the town centre. Knight didn’t know Retford at all, but Catherine had gone to school here.
‘I only had a cereal bar for breakfast. How about some food?’
She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. ‘We can try.’
Pulling his phone from his trouser pocket, Knight sent his girlfriend Jo a quick text. Much as he wanted to see her, he knew she would agree he should try to talk to Catherine.
They found a pub still serving meals on a side street and Catherine parked at the roadside. A smiling young waiter greeted them and led them over to a table towards the back of the room. When they had ordered, Catherine sat back in her chair, regarding Knight steadily.
‘What did you hope would happen when you went to London?’
Knight blushed. ‘Honestly? I’ve no idea. I wanted to be nearby.’
‘You rushed there from Lincolnshire to see a woman who cheated on you, told you she was pregnant, but she had no idea if the baby was yours or her new boyfriend’s?’
‘Yeah, okay. I’m an idiot.’
‘Did Caitlin even know you were there?’
‘No. I’m not going to tell her, either. I suppose I was hoping …’ He paused, sipping from his glass of lager. Catherine waited. Eventually, he mumbled, ‘I hoped once the baby was born, I might be able to visit.’
‘And see if it looked like you?’
‘I don’t know, maybe. I thought I might be able to tell, I’d know if it was my son or daughter. I mean, if Caitlin even allowed me in.’
‘What about the new boyfriend - what’s his name again?’
‘Jed.’
‘Is he going to do the paternity test?’
‘Caitlin will decide because she’ll have to give the permission for the sample to be taken from the baby.’ His phone rang, and he hurriedly checked the screen. ‘It’s her.’ He frowned. Catherine gently touched his hand.
‘Answer it. It’ll be fine.’
Knight lifted the handset to his ear. ‘Caitlin?’ He waited, listening. ‘And how are you?’ There was another pause. ‘Okay, thanks for calling. I’ll speak to you soon. Take care of yourselves.’ He put the phone back in his pocket as the waiter arrived with their roast dinners.
Catherine waited until he had gone before asking, ‘Well?’
‘A girl. They’re both fine, they’re going home soon.’ Knight smiled, blinking rapidly. He had been waiting for this moment for months, and now it was here, he didn’t know how to react. There was relief now he knew both Caitlin and the child were well. Stronger though was the strange, confused longing. He had to know whether the baby, the little girl, was his child or not. Would he be part of her life, or would he have to forget she existed? He gazed at his plate, conscious of his eyes filling with tears, prompted by emotions he couldn’t explain.
‘Does she have a name?’ Catherine’s voice was gentle.
‘Not yet.’
‘I notice Caitlin didn’t ask for your ideas on what to call her.’ Less gentle now.
Knight pressed his lips together, took a second to steady himself. ‘No, but she wouldn’t. She’ll decide. Was there something you wanted to talk about?’
‘No, why?’
‘You don’t usually phone me on Sundays.’
He waited, but Catherine quickly shoved some roast beef into her mouth and chewed it. Knight watched her for a second, recognising her expression. Catherine had pulled down the shutters, closed herself off. He focused on his meal. It was hopeless to try to reach her now.
4
The best night ever; the best he’d had since moving to Lincoln, anyway. Evan stifled a beery burp and kept walking. His mates had already gone on to the club, but Evan had wanted to get a bag of chips, soak up some of the beer before things got messy. He’d told them he’d meet them in there and staggered off alone. In his mind, hazy and confused though it was, there was a shortcut, an alley he could cut through. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. These cobbles were a bastard to walk on when you were pissed. He remembered his mum and dad cooing over them when they’d brought him to visit the uni, as if they’d never seen old buildings and streets before. Evan sniffed, pulling his hand free and wiping it across his nose. Plenty of cobbles in London too.
Here. The alley was narrow, littered with bin bags, pizza boxes and lumps of wood. He staggered forward, paused and unzipped his jeans. Might as well make the most of the facilities.
When he’d finished, he tidied his clothes and stumbled on, trying to remember the way to the club. Rubbing a hand across his eyes, he caught sight of a huddled form lying on the ground at the other end of the alley. What was it? Someone in a worse state than he was. Could it be a dog? It wasn’t moving, at any rate. He inched forward, his mouth opening as his foggy brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing.
The body of a man, his blank eyes gazing at the stars.
Evan screamed.
5
A sound, a horrible sound, as welcome as nails on a chalkboard. Catherine Bishop’s eyes were already open, and she fumbled on the bedside table for her mobile phone, which was the source of the cacophony. She succeeded only in knocking the device to the carpet, where it lay, still shrieking. Moving slowly, she shuffled to the edge of the mattress, the balance gauge in her head tipping and telling her she was going too far. Eventually, it all seemed too complicated and she followed the phone to the floor, settling beside it. The phone was silent at last. Catherine lay there naked, her brain telling her she was cold but in a matter-of-fact fash
ion which indicated her personal comfort was of no consequence at all.
After a time, seemingly forever, but no more than a few minutes, she dragged her hand across the carpet to the phone. It seemed huge in her grasp, as though she had shrunk overnight, or it had grown larger. The screen was dark, forbidding. Catherine touched it gingerly with her forefinger, and it glared into life, the brash colours and confident text dazzling her. She checked the time. Seven twenty-three. She needed to move. If given the choice, which she supposed she had been, because if she didn’t go to work ever again, if she lay here until she died and all her insides seeped across the carpet, through the floorboards and into the kitchen beneath, who could do a thing about it? There were people with a key to her house, it was true: her parents, Thomas, or someone in uniform could always batter the door open. Getting out of bed was a choice, a real choice, and you could either participate or you could decline the invitation and stay put. Catherine had never considered this before, and it was a comfort, a tiny glimpse of cheer. It gave her the inspiration at least to drag herself into a sitting position, her head hanging. Another image crept into her mind: her colleagues sitting in the briefing room, noticing her absence, shaking their heads, muttering to each other. She struggled to her feet, picked clean underwear from a drawer, a suit and shirt from the wardrobe and went, as if sleepwalking, through to the bathroom. She showered half-heartedly, rubbing shampoo through her hair, drying it roughly with a towel when she stumbled out of the cubicle, pulling it hard, trying to provoke a reaction in herself.
There was none.
Back in her silent bedroom, the day sat taunting her. She ignored it, wouldn’t look at the sunlight streaming in where the blackout blind didn’t fit, couldn’t consider this day might be the one where her emotions resurfaced. It was to be fought through, endured.
She went downstairs, her limbs heavy, her head filled with grey fog and limp, wet cotton wool. Taking a glass from the cupboard, she filled it from the cold tap and drank, some of the water running over her chin and onto the front of her white shirt. She hardly noticed. Out to the car, ignoring the tiniest voice in her head asking whether she should be driving, much less going into work.
*
The briefing room was stifling and smelly: stale Rich Tea biscuits, scorched coffee, the mingled, cloying sickliness of various aftershaves and perfumes. Twenty officers wedged into a space scarcely big enough for fifteen. The temperature was high, the urge to escape higher. Catherine sat at the end of the back row, nearest the door. The carpet tiles were a sea of dark blue, lurching and rippling in places. She shifted in her chair, clenching her hands into fists, biting the inside of her mouth as the snakes beneath her skin writhed and coiled. Beneath her left eye, the tic jumped and jolted. She sat straight, fighting the urge to run. Her hands shook as she attempted to focus on the massive figure of Detective Chief Inspector Keith Kendrick, currently pantomiming his way through the morning briefing. Two more minutes. Escape.
At her desk, she blinked at her computer screen, the monitor whirring and grumbling. Opening her emails, she willed her brain to focus, but the words swam and danced. The office wasn’t overly noisy today, but to her it was as loud as if an orchestra sat in the corner, playing with extra gusto. DC Anna Varcoe paused on her way past Catherine’s desk.
‘Cup of tea, Sarge?’
Catherine raised her head. ‘Sorry?’
Anna’s smile dimmed a little. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Oh yes … Yes, please. Thank you.’
On the verge of saying something else, Anna hesitated, but eventually hurried away. Catherine stared at the spot on the carpet where the constable had stood, her skin lurching forward and back. After a few seconds, she caught sight of her own hands, resting on the scarred desktop, the veins more prominent now than they had been even a few weeks ago, blue and delicate. A network, carrying her blood, keeping her alive. She clenched her fist, watched them flatten and almost disappear. Opening her hand out flat again with her palm facing the ceiling, Catherine inspected her wrist. More veins. She had seen her fair share of suicides, but one swam through the mire and into her consciousness: an elderly man who had slit his wrists in his bathtub three weeks after the death of his wife. He’d done it properly too, downwards, not across. Why in the bath, Catherine wasn’t sure, though she believed it often happened. Did the water help the blood to flow? Did it hurt less? It had never been explained to her, for all her contact with the dead and the suffering. Blood could travel a long way, she knew for certain; splatter on walls, spurt across ceilings, stick to surfaces and people however hard they tried to scrub it away. It could stain their skin and their lives for years.
‘Here you go.’ Anna set a steaming mug of tea on Catherine’s desk.
‘Thank you.’
As her brother’s girlfriend headed for her own desk, Catherine’s desk phone rang and she stared at it for a second before answering.
A female voice. ‘DS Bishop?’
‘Yes,’ Catherine was forced to admit.
‘This is Mary Dolan. Has DCI Kendrick spoken to you yet?’
She didn’t know anyone called Dolan. Catherine glanced over at Kendrick’s office. He was framed in the doorway, filling it, gesticulating wildly. She cleared her throat.
‘Looks as though he’s about to.’
‘Good. I’ll talk to you soon.’
Confused, Catherine replaced the receiver and went over to Kendrick.
‘Have your ears been burning?’ He ushered her into his office and thudded the door closed.
‘My ears?’
‘You’re wanted at Headquarters.’
Catherine’s mouth was dry. The Force’s headquarters were situated a few miles north east of the city of Lincoln itself. Why would she be summoned there? If the Superintendent wanted to speak to any of the officers based at the Northolme station, she usually drove over and surprised them, much to their delight.
‘Why do they want me?’
Kendrick shuffled in his chair. ‘I’m only the messenger. She wanted to know if we can spare you for a few days.’
Catherine was frowning. ‘Who does? For what?’
‘DCI Dolan asked if she could tell you herself.’
‘I’ve never heard of her.’
‘You won’t have. She’s from Nottinghamshire.’
‘But …’
Kendrick made a shooing gesture with his huge hands.
‘Go on. It’ll be good for you.’
She stood, annoyed, almost missing the muttered words as she closed his door behind her.
‘Take care of yourself, Catherine.’
*
‘DS Bishop?’
DCI Dolan held out her hand with a smile. If they had met outside of work, in a bar or through friends, Catherine would have found her attractive. Coppery hair, shoulder length, with a thick fringe. Green eyes. She was a little older than Catherine, but it was difficult to guess her exact age. Fortyish? She wore a pair of dark trousers and plain grey sweater. No rings, black boots with heels adding a couple of inches to her height. Catherine knew the tic beneath her eye was leaping again.
‘Good morning, Ma’am.’ At least her voice was steady.
‘Pleased to meet you, Catherine. It’s this way,’ Dolan gestured with her thumb. ‘And call me Mary.’
The room was small, cold, painted ice-blue which didn’t make it any cosier. A square table dominated it while three black plastic chairs were stacked by the door.
Dolan lifted two from the pile with a grimace. ‘Good of them to make us welcome.’
Catherine accepted a chair with what she hoped was a smile. Her face was frozen.
Mary Dolan didn’t seem to notice as she settled into her own seat and threaded her fingers together, her elbows on the table top. ‘You must be wondering what all this is about?’ Dolan asked. ‘There’s been some confusion, I’m afraid.’
Catherine raised an eyebrow. ‘Confusion in Force headquarters?’
It w
as a test, and Dolan knew it. She smiled. ‘Hard to believe, I know.’
Relaxing a little, Catherine said, ‘My DCI said I’d be needed for a few days?’
‘At least. Have you heard about the body found recently?’
‘An overdose, wasn’t it? I saw a few tweets.’
Dolan was nodding. ‘Yeah, but there’s more to it.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘A syringe was found. It was trampled by the young man who discovered the body, but we could piece it back together. No fingerprints on it.’
‘None?’
‘None. Which raises questions.’ It did. The dead man’s fingerprints should have been all over the syringe. ‘People who knew him also say he hadn’t used heroin for years. We’re waiting for the post-mortem for confirmation.’
‘You mean someone else injected him with the drug?’
‘Yeah. It could have been a friend, someone who panicked and ran when they discovered he wasn’t going to wake up. But people on the street usually look out for each other. By all accounts, the … Oh, sod it – the victim - was a loner, never had any company, didn’t seem to want any.’ Dolan blinked a few times. ‘We’re treating his death as murder at this stage.’
Whatever Catherine had expected, it hadn’t been this. Murder in Lincoln was as rare as one in Northolme –virtually unheard of. ‘It’s a risky way to kill someone. No guarantee of it working.’
‘No, it’s not certain, but if the purity’s high enough though, and the person you’re injecting has no tolerance, it’s a fairly safe bet.’ Dolan sighed. ‘We know who he was, but we’re in the dark about everything else. That’s where we’re hoping you come in.’
‘How do you mean?’
Dolan sat back, maintaining eye contact. ‘Have you ever considered undercover work?’
Catherine stared. ‘I’ve never had the opportunity.’
