by Lisa Hartley
Catherine got to her feet, catching another glare from Rafferty. She lifted her chair, set it next to Dolan’s. The DCI’s perfume was subtle, but Catherine caught a note of it as Dolan shifted in her seat, leant forward and ran her finger along the data displayed on the laptop’s screen. She steeled herself: a schoolgirl crush on her new boss was not going to be helpful.
Dolan bit her thumbnail as she read, her eyes fixed on the screen. Catherine swallowed. The emotions, the reactions which had been dormant during her encounter with Ellie, had sparked back into life at the most inopportune moment. She ignored them. This assignment was going to need all her focus, all her concentration. Allowing herself to become distracted could be disastrous.
‘The manager of the shelter is called Maggie Kemp,’ Dolan said. ‘Mrs Kemp was keen to help, but she couldn’t tell us much. According to her, John McKinley hardly slept at Phoenix House at all, except in the depths of winter.’
Catherine frowned.
‘But you still want me to stay there?’
‘It’s a starting point,’ Dolan told her. ‘Most of the people there will have met John McKinley at some point. As I said, chat to them. Now, statements from the clients of Phoenix House. Four men, two women. The men were defensive, said as little as possible. Two of them are ex-army, one’s been out of prison less than a month, one’s more of a mystery. They all have alibis for the hours between nine pm on the night we believe McKinley was killed and eight-thirty the next morning. The two night workers do too, I suppose. They sleep at the shelter, I’m not sure if anyone could have sneaked out at some point. They would have had to get back inside of course, unless someone let them in. It’s not likely, but we should keep an open mind until you get there and find out about their procedures from the inside.’
‘Okay …’
‘Lee Collinson. Did two years for death by careless driving. The ex-squaddies both admit to talking to McKinley previously, but not for a while. According to them, he was a decent bloke who would offer advice, but mostly wanted to be left alone.’
‘And the fourth? The mystery man?’
‘His name’s Martin Cole. He’s from Nottingham originally, grew up in foster care and children’s homes. Then he disappeared for fifteen years or thereabouts, before resurfacing here in Lincoln. We need to know where he was and what he was doing.’
‘And the other two?’
‘Young women. One, Jasmine Lloyd, has come to our attention a few times: loitering, possession of cannabis, a bit of drunken fighting. The other is called Ghislaine Oliver. No record. They also knew John McKinley, but not well.’ Dolan exhaled, frustrated. ‘No one knew him. No one saw him on the night he was killed. You may as well read the statements, Catherine. It won’t take long.’
Rafferty cleared her throat.
‘We should leave for the post-mortem soon, Ma’am.’
‘Don’t call me Ma’am.’ Dolan’s response was automatic.
‘You’re attending?’ Catherine asked.
‘Isla and I are.’
‘It might be helpful for me to know the details of Mr McKinley’s death before I talk to the people at the shelter though.’
Rafferty had put her phone away and was standing with her arms folded. She glanced at Dolan.
‘I could phone DS Bishop in the morning and update her?’ Isla Rafferty made it sound as though she’d sooner be having a root canal.
‘Perfect. Go home and read the statements, Catherine. Prepare yourself. A few more points: we’ll be monitoring your whereabouts through the mobile, for safety reasons. Ring us if you need to, or if you’ve something to report. If you’re concerned, or worried, don’t hesitate – phone one of us. The investigation will be run out of this room, and at least one of us will be available round the clock. I don’t expect any issues or we wouldn’t be asking you to do this, but we want to keep you safe. Have the phone with you at all times and keep it charged. I’m sure there’ll be a facility at the shelter you can use.’ Dolan glanced at her team. ‘Is there anything I’ve forgotten?’
Zaman asked, ‘Will Catherine be using her own name?’
‘Yes, but they’ll only use her first name when they speak to her anyway. It’s standard practice in the shelter - surnames are only used in their records, they’re not public knowledge. The clients prefer it, I’m told.’
Catherine collected her bag and pulled on her coat, sensing the eyes of Dolan’s team on her back.
‘Good luck, Catherine.’ Zaman gave her another friendly smile.
‘Call us anytime,’ said Rafferty.
‘And most importantly – stay safe. We’ll be in touch.’ Dolan took a step forward and rested her hand on Catherine’s shoulder for a second. Catherine blinked, an emotion she couldn’t explain rising in her throat as Dolan’s touch sparked a current through her body. This wasn’t a dangerous assignment; it was hardly an assignment at all. Their concern touched her though, penetrating the barrier she had constructed around herself.
At the door, she turned back. Zaman’s eyes were already fixed on his computer, and Dolan was leaning over him, studying something he had indicated on the screen. Only Isla Rafferty noticed her still standing there. Catherine met her eyes, the other woman’s animosity obvious, though Rafferty’s face was blank, her gaze inscrutable. Catherine hurriedly opened the door, shaken. The prospect of having Isla Rafferty as one of her three guardian angels was not comforting.
7
Lee wandered around the indoor market stalls, noticing little to pique his interest. Cheap jogging bottoms and sweatshirts, socks and underwear, fruit and veg. The stall he needed was by the door leading outside. The proprietor, an overweight man, his face damp with perspiration despite the chill March air, stood with a group of other stallholders, chatting and laughing. His wares were spread on the tables behind him: flimsy phone covers, chargers, sim cards. He was also hawking a random collection of unrelated items: dog chews, designer knock-off boxer shorts and several cases of unattractive cuddly toys. A proper Del Boy.
Eventually, the stallholder broke away from his mates and sauntered over.
‘Help you?’
‘Having a look, thanks.’
‘Take your time. It’s all good stuff.’
Lee picked out a large packet of dog treats. Several of the people at the shelter had dogs. He’d love one himself but now was not the time.
‘Two quid, mate. Cheers.’
He’d spent enough for a couple of hot drinks. Still, there was a point to his shopping trip.
‘Do you sell mobile phones?’ He hadn’t meant to ask straight out. Stupid. Careless. His palms were suddenly damp, his mouth dry, half-expecting a copper to appear and drag him away in handcuffs.
The other man narrowed his eyes. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, second-hand, or a cheap new one. I can’t afford anything fancy.’
There was another pause. The stallholder’s eyes had narrowed as he glanced around. ‘I sometimes have a reconditioned phone or two. Not at the moment, though. Maybe you should call back another day?’ He folded his meaty arms.
‘Right. Right, I will.’
He almost fell over his own feet in his hurry to get away. It was progress though, a step forward. Another seed sown.
*
This was the part of the day Ghislaine hated most. More than the long, still hours of the night, with only unpleasant memories and empty longing for company. More than the queue at the soup kitchen, served by smiling faces smugly doing their bit. This was the worst; wandering around town with two pounds in her pocket, aimlessly trying to fill the hours until the shelter opened, each second marking off again how pointless her existence was. Jasmine nudged her. ‘Hey. You’ve got that look again.’
Ghislaine wrapped her arms around her body with a shiver. ‘What?’
‘Fed up. Pissed off.’
Jasmine meant well, Ghislaine knew, and she tried not to snap.
‘Not exactly having the time of our lives, are we?’
>
‘Come on, Ghis,’ Jasmine slid her arm around her friend. ‘It’s shit, I know it is, but it won’t be for much longer. Our housing application’s being processed, we’ll have our own place by the summer.’
‘You reckon?’ Ghislaine knew a little of Jasmine’s story; not much, but enough to concern her. Sharing a room when they were desperate was one thing, but a flat-share? Ghislaine had reservations. Still, if it got her off the streets …
‘I know.’ Jasmine pulled a scruffy mobile phone out of her jeans pocket and squinted at it. ‘I need to go, got my appointment.’
Ghislaine laughed, shaking her head. ‘Can’t be late for Danny.’
‘Stop, will you?’ Jasmine was blushing, a rare occurrence. She gave her friend a playful push, but Ghislaine grabbed her arm, her face suddenly serious.
‘Be careful, all right?’
Jasmine stared. ‘Careful? What do you mean?’
With a sigh, Ghislaine let her go. ‘Nothing. Take care of yourself.’
‘I always do.’ Jasmine tossed her hair over her shoulder.
They turned off the main shopping street, towards Phoenix House. As they neared the shelter, Ghislaine stopped.
‘I’ll see you later.’
‘You’re not coming in?’
The last few times Jasmine had met with Danny, Ghislaine had spent the hour flicking through magazines in the tiny waiting area outside the counsellor’s office, keeping warm. This time, though, the flicker of unease in her stomach served as a warning. Ghislaine had ignored similar premonitions before, to her cost. She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself, but she was going to obey her instincts.
‘Nah, not today. I’ll keep walking, might nip into the library.’
Jasmine looked for a second like she might argue, but she shrugged and turned away. Ghislaine watched her friend cross the road, Jasmine’s body braced against the freezing wind, her cheap jacket offering little protection. Ghislaine tucked her chin deeper into the neckline of her sweatshirt and pulled up the hood. Phoenix House was in the centre of a row of red brick buildings, between a tattoo parlour and a newsagent. A charity shop providing income for the shelter was housed on the ground floor, and the other two storeys provided the accommodation. The doors and window frames were painted a cheerful bright blue which always irritated Ghislaine, as did the décor inside the shelter itself. Whichever clients were around at the time had been given a few unwanted tins of paint and some brushes and left to express themselves. The end result was reminiscent of the work of a needy child, eager for parental approval. Peace symbols, rainbows, smiling faces daubed everywhere.
Painting what you want to see, how we should feel. We’ve imagined what gives other people hope, dragged it out of whichever pit of our minds it’s been buried in for months, years, decades.
What would they have painted had they told their truth, brought their collective subconscious out for all to see, to admire? No doubt Maggie Kemp, the manager of the shelter, full of good intentions and hormone replacement, would have baulked at the sight of black wall after black wall. Ghislaine smiled to herself. We all want to be accepted, after all, even those of us who deny it. She forced her gaze away from the walls of the Phoenix House and its siren call. It had been founded on sound principals, she acknowledged. The individuals who worked there and those who supported the shelter through gifts of time, money and food had pure motives. All the same, as she stood looking at the darkened windows, a shiver passed through her. It was a haven, a place where she was safe. And yet, she didn’t want to stay here, not for much longer. Perhaps it was time to move on.
As she watched, one of the windows was illuminated by warm, yellow light. Ghislaine turned and walked away.
8
The CID office at Northolme Police Station was almost deserted. Knight’s door stood open, and he gazed out into the main office, considering calling it a day. Anna Varcoe was the only member of the team still at work, until Catherine Bishop appeared in the doorway. Anna gave Catherine a wave, the receiver of her desk phone wedged under her chin, and Catherine mouthed, ‘Go home!’ She strode across the scruffy carpet tiles, Knight straightening when he saw her expression.
‘Aren’t you having an early night?’ He braced himself as Catherine marched in, grabbing the back of the chair which stood on the other side of his desk. Her fingers dug into the padded fabric.
‘You’ve spoken to DCI Dolan? Again, I mean.’
Knight was unperturbed. ‘They wanted an officer who didn’t work in Lincoln itself.’
‘But they’re from Nottingham - surely one of her own team would have been ideal? It’s not as if I never go into the city.’
‘You know Lincoln fairly well, and you’re an experienced officer,’ Knight glanced at the wall dividing his office from DCI Kendrick’s. ‘And Keith and I thought it would be … Well, an opportunity for you.’
‘An opportunity? Couldn’t you have discussed it with me first? You must have known about this on Sunday when we met. It all seems rushed, as if they’re not sure why they’re bothering.’
Knight drummed his fingers on the desktop. ‘Look at it this way – Mary Dolan is in charge of a Major Crimes team. Isn’t she someone you would want to know your name?’
‘Right, you were doing me a favour?’ She slumped into the chair, still glaring at him.
‘How long do you imagine Northolme will be able to justify having a team of detectives based here?’ Knight hadn’t wanted to spell out his worry, but it appeared he was going to have to. A few months earlier, Catherine would have realised immediately what he was hinting at, but now she seemed confused. He watched as she processed his words, took in what he meant, the tic beneath her eye visible again, her hands twisting around the arms of her chair. ‘You must have considered the possibility of this place being downsized, or even closed?’ Concern for her made his voice gentle. She blinked at him, bewildered, the anger dissolving.
‘Of course, but … ‘She swallowed. ‘When?’
He held up his hands. ‘I’ve no idea, honestly. It might not happen, but it wouldn’t be a huge surprise, would it?’ Slowly, Catherine shook her head. Government cuts were biting hard, as they were all aware, and not only in the police force. Knight stood, pulled his jacket from the back of his chair and struggled into it. ‘Come on, let’s go and have a drink.’
Anna was still out in the main office. Catherine rallied, flashing her a grin. ‘Still here?’
‘Not for long.’ Anna glanced at the clock on the wall.
‘We’re going to the pub if you fancy joining us?’ Knight offered.
Anna shook her head with a smile. ‘Thanks, but I’m meeting Thomas.’
Outside, a cold wind whipped around the car park. Knight shivered as they approached Catherine’s car.
‘Tell you what, why don’t you come to my place instead?’ he asked. ‘I bet you’ve not eaten?’
She shook her head, her face expressionless.
*
An hour later, Catherine sat in Knight’s living room with a bowl of pasta on her lap. Knight had lit a floor lamp, its soft light already warming the room.
‘I’ll nip out and get some wood for the fire,’ he told her. ‘Jo should be here any minute.’
Catherine stared at him, her fork halfway to her mouth.
‘Wait a minute – you’re expecting Jo?’
He laughed at her horrified expression. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘But I’ll be interrupting …’
‘You’re not interrupting anything. Eat.’ He wagged a finger at her as he left the room.
Catherine sighed and dug into the pasta again. Jo Webber was Knight’s girlfriend, as well as the pathologist usually called in when any suspicious or unexplained deaths occurred on their patch. Though she liked Jo, barging in on her and Knight’s cosy night in front of the log burner was the last thing Catherine wanted to do. Anyway, the topic she had wanted to discuss with him, the secret which was troubling her at night and nudgin
g her during the day, was one which as far as she knew, Jo was unaware of.
Knight bustled back into the room with an armful of logs, and Catherine decided it was now or never. ‘Can we talk about the Paul Hughes case?’
Knight squatted, opened the doors of the burner. ‘Why?’ He didn’t look at her, focussing on the firewood.
‘You know why.’
‘Catherine, forget about it. The guilty men are in prison, Malc Hughes is living the quiet life in Brighton. It’s over, all of it.’
They heard the front door open. Catherine closed her eyes for a second. She was innocent of any wrongdoing, she knew, and she couldn’t believe Knight was in any way corrupt, but … Did she truly know him? Could she say, could she swear, Jonathan Knight was honest? She didn’t know, not now. He was kind, loyal, intelligent - but was he clean?
‘It’s not easy. I’m worried, Jonathan.’ I’m scared.
Knight looked at her. ‘I know, but you have to put it out of your mind. Case closed, I promise.’ He slammed the wood burner’s doors, brushing off his hands on his trousers as Jo Webber breezed into the room, closely followed by her boxer dog, Jess. Webber kissed Knight’s cheek, turning to Catherine with a friendly smile.
‘Lovely to see you, Catherine.’
Catherine forced a grin.
‘You too. Without there being a dead body in the room, I mean.’
Jo’s perfect features creased as she laughed, and Catherine relaxed, allowing the Hughes case to drift away. Webber’s beauty and poise used to intimidate her, but as she had come to know the pathologist she realised her looks were irrelevant. Jo Webber was as susceptible to insecurity as the rest of the population. She was also the best pathologist Catherine had worked with, and anyone who could have a relationship with Jonathan Knight, socially awkward as he was, deserved some respect.
Jo settled onto the settee and tucked her legs underneath her as the dog curled on the floor at her feet, both clearly comfortable in Knight’s home. He had been vague about his relationship with Jo at work, taking the teasing from his colleagues in good humour, but keeping the details private. Catherine couldn’t blame him. She knew from experience what it was like to be the talk of Northolme Police Station, and it wasn’t an experience she would wish on anyone.
