by Lisa Hartley
Catherine went back to her soup as Rushford crossed the room, stopping to chat with a few people as he went. He soon returned, and Catherine put down her cup. Rushford now held out a white piece of paper.
‘There you go. Phoenix House. Talk to Maggie, she’ll help if she can.’
Slowly, Catherine took the paper. He met her eyes again with another smile as she thanked him. Catherine watched him walk away. He had been professional, courteous, helpful. And yet - had he deliberately moved his hand to be sure his fingers brushed hers as he handed her the leaflet?
11
DC Adil Zaman blew out his cheeks in frustration. The statements taken from the people who had known John McKinley were worse than useless, as Dolan had said. Nothing concrete, nothing helpful, but a load of waffle, rambling and avoidance. He sat back in his chair. It was too low, but the mechanism controlling the height of the seat was broken. The small of his back was already aching. Zaman got to his feet, knowing he should take some painkillers before it got worse.
‘Tea?’ Your Majesty, he added, but only in his own mind. He and Isla Rafferty had worked together for over a year now, but their relationship was a formal affair. At first, he had had no idea how to address her – she was a DS after all, and therefore his superior. But Dolan didn’t like being called Ma’am and she was a DCI, so Rafferty could hardly insist on it, though Zaman suspected she would like to. He usually went with “Sergeant”, the more informal “Sarge” feeling a step too far.
‘It’s okay, I’ll make the drinks.’ Rafferty smudged a hand across her eyes. ‘I could use a break.’
Zaman stared. It seemed the slow trudge through pointless statements was numbing even Rafferty’s brain. Her offering to make the drinks was unheard of.
‘Have you found anything?’ Rafferty went on, gesturing towards his computer.
‘No. Even the people who work at the shelter are giving nothing away, like Mary said. McKinley hardly spent any time there, in any case.’
Rafferty twisted her engagement ring around on her finger, frowning. Zaman waited. He’d often wondered about his sergeant’s fiancé – apparently someone had managed to thaw her out a little. It would take a braver man than him.
‘Maybe you should go and talk to the staff again while I’m at the post-mortem, Adil. One of their clients is dead, after all - you’d think they could be a little more helpful. I’ll have a word with DCI Dolan.’
As she spoke, the door opened and Dolan herself appeared, shaking drops of rain from a black umbrella.
‘Chucking it down,’ she muttered unnecessarily, unbuttoning her coat. She dumped it on the back of her chair, shook out her hair and set three packets of sandwiches on the table. ‘Here you go, take your pick. A word with me about what?’
Rafferty stepped forward, selected the plain cheese sandwiches and put the packet by her laptop.
‘I suggested it might be worth DC Zaman talking to the staff of Phoenix House again, even though DS Bishop is on her way. We’ve got nothing from the statements,’ she said.
‘Agreed. This afternoon, Adil?’ Dolan smiled at him. ‘We’ll see you back here later on to catch up.’
‘No problem.’
‘Tea, Mary?’ asked Rafferty.
‘Thank you.’ Dolan watched her leave the room. She turned to Zaman, pointing at the remaining sandwiches, eyebrows raised. ‘Hope you like egg or chicken.’
He laughed. ‘Either’s fine with me.’
‘Luckily. What did you think of DS Bishop?’
Dolan was ripping open the egg sandwiches as she spoke, but Zaman knew she would be watching him. He chose his words with care.
‘She seemed eager to get started.’
What else could he say? Catherine Bishop had looked ill, unfocused and unsure. He had noticed Rafferty’s reaction to her, of course – the curled lip, the dismissive tone. Rafferty had her faults, but she was good at her job. Perhaps she believed she should be the one going to Phoenix House?
Dolan’s brow furrowed as she chewed. ‘I’m hoping Catherine will soon have some feedback for us. God knows we need it.’
The chicken was dry. Zaman wished Rafferty would hurry with the tea, surprised she even knew how to make it.
‘I’m going to make a few phone calls, see if I can find anyone who worked with John before he left the force. He was a decent man, a good officer. I can’t understand …’ Dolan shook her head, bemused. ‘I’ll do some digging.’
Zaman took another bite of his unappetising sandwich, his gaze straying to the photograph displayed on the wall above them. John McKinley remained a mystery.
*
The office inside Phoenix House was tiny, more a cupboard than a room. A shabby filing cabinet, a small desk and two white plastic garden chairs, both with bright cushions on their seats, were squeezed inside. Maggie Kemp sat at the desk, which was set against the wall, but she had turned her chair to face into the room. Catherine Bishop sat in the other chair, and though neither of the women was tall, their knees were touching.
‘We can provide a bed and breakfast in the morning,’ Kemp was saying. ‘We also offer food at night, often pasta with sauce, or sometimes jacket potatoes. Simple and filling, you see. We rely a lot on donations, so it’s whatever people have been kind enough to send in. There’s tea and coffee too, and we usually have some toiletries you can buy at a discount. We do our best to provide all we can, but it’s not possible to cover everything.’
‘Sounds great,’ Catherine mumbled.
Kemp beamed.
‘There are laundry facilities you can use, with an honesty box for payment towards the electricity. You can also have a shower, and store any belongings safely here if you intend to apply for a bed for the next night. We never guarantee a place, of course, we’re strictly emergency shelter only, but … Well, we’ll always do our best to help.’
Kemp made eye contact with her for the first time as she made her final point, and Catherine noted the deep furrow between her eyebrows, her hair showing grey at the roots. Her hands, folded loosely in her lap, were chapped with short, unpainted nails. A woman more used to caring for others than for herself.
There was a knock on the door and Kemp glanced at it, surprised.
‘Yes?’ she called. The man who appeared was young, mid-twenties, Catherine guessed as she craned her neck to look around at him. He had messy blonde hair and blue eyes. With an apologetic smile, he said, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Maggie, but another policeman is wanting to speak to you. He’s insistent.’
Catherine stiffened. Was she going to be recognised before she’d even been offered a bed? It would be the shortest undercover posting in history. Maggie reached out to her, noting the action even if she was unaware of the true reason for it.
‘Now don’t you worry. Thank you, Danny.’ There was a tiny edge to her voice, as if he should have known better than to mention the police in front of a client. ‘It’s an ongoing matter, nothing for you to be concerned about, Catherine. We’ll see you between eight and ten-thirty tonight.’ Maggie was getting to her feet. ‘I’m sorry to have to cut our meeting short, but I’m sure we’ve covered everything essential.’ She spread her hands as if attempting to waft Catherine out of the door. ‘Leave your bag in one of the lockers, if you like,’ Kemp called as Catherine left her office.
In the corridor, Adil Zaman stood waiting. Catherine kept her face blank as she approached him, and although Zaman smiled politely, he gave no sign he knew who she was. She hurried past, into an area she presumed was communal. There were a few sofas, slightly battered but in decent condition. A dining table with playing cards and board games stacked on it was by the window, and in the corner stood a TV and DVD player on a cabinet and several chairs. A bookcase, a coffee table and two desks comprised the rest of the furniture. Catherine stopped for a second, glancing around. Magnolia walls and a navy-blue carpet, half home, half office. A well of panic rose inside her, an urge to run, to get away from the place and the people. Although the
room was empty, she imagined she could sense the despair of those who would be here later, the clock on the wall marking the passing another night of games they didn’t want to play and films they didn’t want to watch. Like prison, only they were free to leave at any time. But to go where?
*
‘I’m not sure I can add anything to what I told the uniformed officer the other day.’ Maggie Kemp took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘I was busy with a client.’ Her tone held a note of reproach. Zaman smiled a little as he opened his notebook, deciding that perhaps the blunt approach was best.
‘I appreciate you’ve already spoken to one of my colleagues, Mrs Kemp, but a man who has stayed at your shelter within the last few months is dead.’
She raised her head.
‘Which I’m aware of.’
‘I can now tell you we believe Mr McKinley’s death wasn’t accidental, which means speaking to you all again, I’m afraid.’ Zaman wasn’t going to go into detail, but perhaps the mention of murder might encourage a little more honesty.
‘You mean Mackie was deliberately killed? You’re telling me he was murdered?’ Zaman nodded, and she stared at him, stricken. ‘But no one’s mentioned murder before, we never even considered …’ Kemp pulled a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. ‘It was bad enough believing he’d gone back to taking drugs.’
‘Would you have been surprised if he had?’
Kemp sniffed. ‘I never spoke to him about his drug use. We have a mental health worker, Danny Marshall – you just met him, he’s excellent. He recommended counselling, but Mackie didn’t agree.’
‘Wasn’t he willing to take advice?’
‘He struggled to accept help. He’d had a difficult time. I mean, all of the people who come through our door have.’
‘I understand.’
‘Mackie only spent a few nights with us, if it was freezing or snowing. He said he preferred the streets. Some people do, can’t bear being inside, even for a few hours. Mackie was different, though. Reserved - an introvert. I once said to my husband …’ She stopped and shook her head. ‘It’s silly.’
‘Not at all,’ Zaman reassured her. ‘Anything you noticed - impressions, observations - we want to know about them.’
‘It’s … Well, Mackie seemed to me to be punishing himself. Staying out in all weathers, barely eating, keeping himself isolated. A martyr.’
There was a silence. ‘Did he ever explain his behaviour?’
‘No. As I said, we rarely saw him. Perhaps Joel Rushford could help - he’s the vicar at St Mary’s. They run a soup kitchen most of our clients visit. I know Mackie went there regularly. Even he had to eat sometimes.’ Her smile was sad, wistful. She blinked a few times. ‘As I said, some people can’t accept our help, however much we want to give it. It’s one of the most difficult parts of what we do, for me at least.’
*
‘A martyr? Interesting.’ Mary Dolan rested her chin on her hand. ‘And could Rushford tell us anything more today than he did before?’
‘He wasn’t at the church. I’m going back tomorrow.’
‘Okay. We’ve still nothing from the CCTV, no witnesses to speak of, no motive. I’ve been looking at McKinley’s personnel file, his arrest records. He left the force after ten years’ service,’ Dolan told them.
‘Why?’ Zaman asked.
‘No real reason is given. More poking around to do there, I’d say. We need more from the people who knew him more recently.’
Rafferty coughed. ‘But no one at Phoenix House can tell us anything.’
‘Not us, no, but hopefully they’ll talk to Catherine if they believe she’s one of their own.’
Isla Rafferty looked at the tabletop with a frown. She wasn’t counting on it.
*
Catherine was walking into the driving rain, huddled into her coat, reluctantly passing the railway station. What she wanted to do was get onto a train, go home, climb into bed and pull the covers over her head. For the past few hours, since most of the shops had closed, she had been wandering aimlessly, each minute seeming like ten. The shelter would be open by now, and she should make her way there. Her feet ached, her clothes were damp, and her task was daunting. How did people survive like this, day after day, week after week?
The doors of the church where she had eaten her soup were open, and she could hear people talking inside as she walked by. She slowed, hesitating, with no way of knowing whether a service was going on, or if food was being served again. Hunger tightened her stomach, but she wasn’t sure if she could eat. She had left her usual purse at home, bringing only a small wallet which had none of her debit or credit cards inside. Too tempting. Being without her warrant card made her vulnerable too, but if she was to pull this off, even for one night, it was necessary. She intended to survive on as little cash as possible, having not even checked how much was in the envelope Rafferty had given her. More than John McKinley would have had, for sure.
Her new phone was ringing, the unfamiliar ringtone taking a few seconds to register with Catherine. When she finally answered the call, Isla Rafferty’s voice was cold.
‘The post-mortem didn’t give us any new information unfortunately, as we expected. The pathologist did say she believes McKinley couldn’t have tied the tourniquet we found on his arm himself. It was on his right arm. McKinley was right-handed, according to people who knew him and the pathologist’s findings – muscle development or however they work these things out. If he injected himself, why do it in his right arm, using his left hand? It’s not as though he had to find a different site to inject because of infection or damaged veins – there was no other evidence of drug use at all. We’re still waiting for the toxicology reports, of course. John McKinley weighed less than nine stone when he died.’ Rafferty paused for a second, as if giving Catherine time to visualise McKinley’s too-thin frame. ‘He had many old injuries, bruising and cuts which were still healing, as well as the newer wounds we could see on his face.’
‘He’d been attacked before?’ Catherine hunched her shoulders, pausing beneath the shelter of one of the trees growing outside the church. A car hissed past, its wheels flinging cold, dirty water in Catherine’s direction. She took a quick step backwards.
‘Evidently. It’s not unknown for rough sleepers to meet with violence.’ Rafferty sounded bored, and Catherine couldn’t help herself.
‘Is it? I hadn’t realised.’
Rafferty hesitated. ‘I’m sorry. You’re aware.’
‘I’ve heard rumours.’ Catherine closed her eyes, leaning back against the tree trunk as the rain stung her face.
‘Where are you, DS Bishop?’
‘Where am I? What difference does it make?’
‘We would have expected you to be at the shelter by now. Instead, you’re … by the railway station?’
Catherine straightened, glancing around as if Rafferty might be lurking behind the tree. ‘Wait a second, you’re watching me?’
‘It’s a safety precaution.’
‘Keeping track, you mean.’ Catherine was furious, and didn’t attempt to hide the fact. ‘I’m on my way to the shelter now.’
‘Excellent.’ Rafferty left another silence. ‘John McKinley’s feet were a mess. Blisters, sores, infected toenails …’
‘Sounds awful, but I’m not sure why it’s relevant?’
‘Might be a good idea for you to get out of the rain. I’ll speak to you soon.’ Her voice was brisk; it was an instruction, not a show of concern. Shoving the phone into her pocket, Catherine trudged off again. Bloody Rafferty, sticking her nose in, watching like an exasperated parent, waiting for their child to skive off school. Sitting there smugly, warm and dry, wanting, waiting for Catherine to fuck up. Well, she wouldn’t. Catherine wiped the rain from her face as she promised herself she would complete this assignment, however long, whatever it took. There was no way she would give Rafferty the satisfaction of knowing she had been right, that Catherine
was a risk, and she would fail.
No way.
As she walked she heard her own phone, the one she probably shouldn’t have brought with her, ring. By the time she had wrestled it out of her pocket, it was silent. She swiped the screen into life. Missed call: Thomas. She tapped the green icon to ring her brother back.
‘Catherine. Where are you?’ His voice was strange: brittle and restrained.
‘Thomas, what’s wrong?’
‘It’s Anna. She’s been stabbed.’
12
Wrapping her hands around the mug of coffee, Ghislaine closed her eyes as the warmth seeped into her frozen fingers. The TV blared in the corner, all the misery and conflict of the world condensed into a half-hour news bulletin. Ghislaine ignored it. She only had to glance around the room if she wanted a window into the suffering of others. There were four blokes playing cards at a white-painted dining table while two dogs, one brindle, one black, slept at their feet. Her eyes passed over the men quickly, assessing them. The man who’d followed them, Lee, was there again tonight. He looked up from his hand of cards as she appraised him, and she glanced away, blushing.
‘Where’s Jasmine tonight?’
The question came from one of the night support workers, sitting at the desk set against the wall behind her. Ghislaine turned her head as Carl Baker smiled at her. He was a big man, wild ginger curls covering his head, hands resting on his huge belly.
‘She should be around.’
‘I’m allocating beds.’
‘I’ll ring her.’ Ghislaine sighed. When she had become Jasmine’s babysitter?
Carl rummaged through the piles of paper littering the desk and unearthed a cordless phone, which he held out to her.
‘Here. Save your credit.’
‘Cheers, Carl.’ She tapped in Jasmine’s number and waited. ‘Voicemail.’
Carl frowned. ‘Well, she knows the rules.’
The door of the shelter opened at eight in the evening and was locked at half past ten, meaning Jasmine had ninety minutes to secure a bed for the night. Ghislaine sank back onto the settee, its dodgy springs creaking beneath her. Where the hell was Jas? Her appointment with Danny had finished hours ago. Sometimes she would go to a pub, or back to the squat she used to live in, but she was trying to stay away from her old friends. Ghislaine sipped her coffee, worry knotting her stomach.
