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

by Lisa Hartley

  Fighting to control her breathing, not wanting him to see how rattled she was, Ghislaine braced her hands against the sides of the cubicle doorway. She wished, as she had on many occasions during her time living on the streets, that she had had some self-defence training, but two steps forward and her boot in his groin was a fairly straightforward move. As if reading her mind, he shifted his body, angling it away from her.

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’ Ghislaine’s voice was quiet but emphatic. ‘There are loads of people in the church hall, some in the corridor. Get out of here now, or I’ll scream the place down.’

  He tilted his head, obviously finding her amusing. ‘Scream? You reckon?’

  Three paces and his hand was at her throat, his face close enough for her to smell coffee on his breath. Terror hurtled through her, her mind careering out of control. He wasn’t hurting, not yet, but the threat was there, the implication being he could if he wanted to. She shrank in his grasp, powerless as a mouse with a cat’s paw curled around it, planning her next move. Stamp on his toes, boot his shin, or wait it out? He could hurt her, she knew. Kill her even. There were people around, it was true, but he could slip away unnoticed. And who would miss her? Jasmine would notice her absence, but if she was talking, flirting, she would be a while. Her body might be found quickly, but he could jump on a train, catch a bus, lose himself in the warren of streets.

  He brought his face even closer, his breath warm against her ear. She wriggled as he spoke. ‘Now, all I want to do is talk. Don’t scream, don’t make a sound, and I’ll let you go. Do you understand?’

  She glared, hating him. Because he was taller, stronger, he assumed she would have to do what he said, that he could manipulate her in any way he chose and she would be compliant. At last she nodded, pressing her lips together. He let her go and turned away, wiped his hands on his jeans. Noticing the movement, she sneered.

  ‘What’s wrong, you think I’m dirty? I had a shower this morning.’

  He frowned, shaking his head. A flicker of emotion passed over his face, quickly enough for Ghislaine to believe she was mistaken.

  Shame.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘I shouldn’t have …’

  She raised her hand to her throat, soothing the skin his touch had burned.

  ‘No, you shouldn’t.’

  He was quiet, watching her. The skin wasn’t tender - his movement had been quick, not painful, but like most of the men she had met before, he believed he could take anything he wanted from her without consent.

  ‘I want to talk to you about John McKinley,’ he said.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  He was still blocking her path, and Ghislaine took a step to the side, desperate to get out. He mirrored the movement.

  ‘You must have talked to him?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Well, one or twice. We said hello, no more. Now let me out.’

  ‘Not until you’ve answered my questions.’

  ‘Why should I? Anyway, I’ve told you, I never spoke to him.’

  He stepped closer, forcing her to move back against the wall, trapping her there.

  ‘I said I don’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘So let me leave.’

  She whipped a hand towards him, not even sure what she was aiming for. He grabbed her wrist, kept hold of it.

  ‘Listen. Someone killed John McKinley, and I want to know who.’

  She struggled, trying to wrestle her arm away, but he kept hold.

  ‘What are you talking about? He died of an overdose.’

  ‘Yeah, he may have done, but who gave it to him?’

  ‘You’re making no sense. Why should I listen to someone who tried to strangle me?’

  ‘I needed you to listen.’ His voice was low, dangerous.

  ‘And you thought this was the best way to get my attention?’

  ‘I’ve learnt … Well, I’ve been living somewhere rough. Things kicked off ten times a day.’

  ‘And? You grab someone by the throat, and expect them not to mind? Tell them you’ve had a hard time and ask them to forgive you?’

  Prison. He was talking about prison, she guessed. Like she’d never met anyone who had been in prison before. How long had he been on the street? There were loads of ex-cons, ex-forces too. People who could look after themselves, people who fought dirty, those who had learnt the hard way how to survive. He was nothing special.

  He ignored her, his voice animated now.

  ‘The police are keeping it quiet. What does it matter if a homeless person overdoses? Got what he deserved, you mess with drugs and overdoses happen. Bloke on the streets, no one to care, why should they waste time and money finding out who killed him?’

  His mouth twisted as he finally let her arm drop. Ghislaine glanced over his shoulder. Could she push past him? Was it worth the risk?

  ‘You seem to know plenty about it. More than me. Like I said, I can’t help you,’ she told him, desperation evident in her voice. ‘Anyway, why do you care?’

  ‘I don’t. But someone needs punishing for it, and the police don’t give a shit. It could be any one of us, you know. Cremated on the cheap, investigation closed. No one giving a toss if we’re alive or dead.’

  He glanced over his shoulder as Ghislaine stiffened at the sound of footsteps approaching. He shoved past her, hurried into a cubicle and slammed the door behind him. Ghislaine saw her face in the mirror, pale even to her own eyes. Here was her chance to get away from him. She grabbed her bag, still on the floor by the sinks where she’d left it. She would skip the soup, text Jasmine some excuse and find another toilet.

  Perhaps a doorway would be better than the shelter tonight?

  *

  Catherine paused, certain she had heard a man’s voice. Since the Gents was nowhere in sight, he must be in the women’s toilets. Why? His tone had been curt, possibly threatening. Several possibilities crossed her mind, none of them pleasant. As a police officer, her instinct was to march in and see what was happening. In her current guise, however, she should turn and walk away.

  As she dithered, a young woman emerged from the toilets. She was clearly holding back tears, her cheeks red. Catherine made her decision.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She took a step back, and Catherine recognised her. She was one of the women she had seen here yesterday, who had passed her as she summoned the courage to go further into the church. Not the taller woman, the shorter one who hadn’t spoken.

  ‘I’m fine.’ She flicked a glance over her shoulder. Catherine wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Did something happen in there?’

  ‘I was talking to someone.’ She heaved her bag onto her shoulder, clearly ready to make a run for it. Catherine stepped closer.

  ‘I heard a man’s voice, sounded like he was threatening you. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘You heard a voice? Maybe you should see a doctor. Listen, I need to go.’

  ‘Did he hurt you?’

  She glared. ‘Who are you, my mum? It’s none of your business.’

  ‘I’m not old enough to be your mum.’

  ‘Funny. Plus, my mum wouldn’t give a shit. Leave me alone, all right?’

  Catherine raised her hands. ‘Fine. I only wanted to help.’

  ‘Help?’ Her voice was pure scorn.

  Groaning inwardly, Catherine realised she had gone too far. She should have walked back into the soup kitchen, pretended she hadn’t heard a thing.

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re right, it’s nothing to do with me.’

  The other woman studied her face, frowning. ‘You were here yesterday.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Didn’t they tell you to come to Phoenix House for the night?’

  ‘They did, but …’ Watch what you say, Catherine told herself. ‘I didn’t fancy it in the end. Found a doorway near the cathedral.’

  Blue-grey eyes assessed her.

  ‘Must have been cold with no sleeping bag.’
r />   Shit. Catherine smiled. ‘Yeah, I was freezing. It was my first night on the street. I’m not exactly an expert.’

  ‘So I see.’ She gave another glance towards the toilet door. ‘I could show you a few safe places to sleep if you don’t want to come to the shelter. It’s not for everyone. Some nights I don’t go there myself. It depends who’s around.’

  Catherine couldn’t believe her luck. ‘It’s kind of you. Thanks.’

  She shrugged. ‘No problem. I know how shit it is when you’re new. Cold, miserable and fucking scary.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I’m Catherine, by the way.’

  They were walking now, towards the church’s outside door.

  ‘My name’s Ghislaine. Do you want to get us some soup? I’ll wait outside.’

  Catherine nodded, and hurried through. Ghislaine Oliver, one of the women Dolan had told her about. Would her new friend wait? Only one way to find out.

  *

  Outside the church, Ghislaine shrank against the wall, hoping Lee would stay inside until she had disappeared. She would never usually have talked to a stranger as freely as she had to Catherine, but there was an air of sadness and defeat about her she recognised. Homeless people were no different to the wider population, Ghislaine knew - every person and their story were unique. Some might believe people were on the street because of their own actions, because of addiction, laziness or crime. It wasn’t true, not for most of them. She had seen addicts, of course she had, but she had also seen people with mental health problems, people who had been kicked out of their family home, people who had lost their jobs and simply couldn’t afford their rent any longer. Those who left foster care or children’s homes, with nowhere to go but the streets. And those like her, whose family homes weren’t safe. Ghislaine pushed the thought away, because with it came the memories and she refused to give them space in her head. She might carry them with her, polluting her past and tainting her future, but she had taken back control of her life. She smiled, remembering. He had been respected, especially in his work, but his true nature had been hidden from the public gaze. To those who were vulnerable though, he was a monster. He had terrorised her, colouring her view of herself and the world around her. She had punished him, in the end. He would not ruin her life.

  Most importantly, he would never hurt another child.

  16

  The table was strewn with spilled salt and smears of tomato ketchup, but it was in a quiet corner. Catherine set the tray of food on it. The small cups of soup hadn’t been particularly filling, and she had offered to buy Ghislaine a meal in McDonald’s. She was wary of appearing too generous or, worse, over-familiar, but Ghislaine had smiled.

  ‘Cheers. I’ve not had a burger in months.’

  She had disappeared into the toilets as soon as they entered the restaurant, leaving Catherine to order. When Ghislaine crossed to the table, eyes on the floor, Catherine studied her. She looked so young with her pale skin and wide eyes. She was skinny, her jeans and sweatshirt hanging loose. Her shoes were battered canvas pumps, fine for the coming months, but Catherine hoped she would be able to find sturdier footwear before another winter set in. She doubted it. Ghislaine sat, and Catherine passed her food across.

  ‘You didn’t need to do this, you know,’ Ghislaine said, grabbing a handful of fries. ‘You should save your money.’ She opened the cardboard carton and lifted her burger, sinking her teeth into it with a sigh.

  ‘It’s fine. It’s not mine anyway,’ Catherine replied without thinking. Ghislaine stopped chewing, and Catherine quickly backpedalled. ‘I took it from the bastard I used to live with.’ She focused on her food, ignoring the pang of conscience which followed the lie.

  Ghislaine ate for a while before saying, ‘You’re here because of your bloke?’

  ‘Yeah. I’d had enough.’

  ‘Must have been bad if you’d sooner be on the street.’

  Catherine swallowed. ‘It was.’

  Unperturbed, Ghislaine kept chewing. They ate the rest of the meal in silence. When she’d finished, Ghislaine sat back and picked up her milkshake. ‘So what did your boyfriend do? Knock you around?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Left your face alone though.’

  ‘Don’t they always?’

  ‘My mum’s boyfriend didn’t.’

  There was a silence. Catherine considered sending Rafferty a text, asking her to find the man Ghislaine had mentioned. See if there was anything they could arrest him for. She knew she should bring the conversation around to John McKinley, but she wanted Ghislaine to trust her first. She had to confide in her, even if the details were far from truthful.

  ‘Where are good places to sleep in Lincoln?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘Around the college. Bit of privacy, and shelter. There’s an art gallery, more out of the way. Around there’s okay too, there’s a sort of pavilion thing. You’re taking risks sleeping alone anywhere though.’

  ‘Because I’m a woman?’

  ‘Yeah. Some of the things I’ve seen, stories I’ve heard – assault, rape …’ Ghislaine shuddered. ‘You don’t want to know. You’ll see, though. Some knobhead will find you, give you a line, not want to take no for an answer.’

  ‘Has it happened to you?’

  Ghislaine laughed. ‘I stay close to other people, though sometimes they’re the problem.’

  ‘Safety in numbers.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What about the man in the toilets?’

  Taking another long drink of her milkshake, Ghislaine sat back in her chair. She took her time before finally replying.

  ‘Lee. He’s stayed at the shelter a few times. He was asking about someone I knew.’

  ‘Knew?’

  ‘He told me the best places to sleep when I got here, the same ones I’m telling you about now. Mackie. Nice bloke. Looked out for people.’

  Catherine lifted her own drink, sipping at it slowly while she decided what to say.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘People come and go. Some are offered housing, some go home, some move on to another city. Some die. Mackie was one of them.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘Yeah. I heard Mackie died of an overdose. I’ve seen it a few times - people drift off and never wake up. Mackie though, he never seemed like a user, not when I knew him. I hadn’t seen him for a while, he stayed out all weathers. But to be killed …’

  Catherine looked at her sharply as Ghislaine covered her mouth.

  Ten minutes later, Catherine left the restaurant and headed for the hill. She needed to speak to Dolan, Rafferty as a last resort, but first there was a visit she needed to make.

  17

  Catherine was told Anna’s bed was in the far corner of the intensive care unit. She crossed the ward, conscious of the sound of her footsteps as she passed the other beds, most of which were occupied. Relatives or friends sat quietly, while nurses and doctors flitted around like worker bees.

  Though the ICU was quieter than Catherine had expected, there was a sense in the cool air that time here stood still. Each patient, each relative, had paused. Waiting for news, hoping for a change in condition. Death whispered from the walls, a quiet, almost comforting presence. The unit seemed to Catherine like another world. A tiny pocket, where a movement, an alarm, a tiny, imperceptible shift, could be the difference. The living and the dead clung close together here. A place where people held their breath, and hoped.

  She tried to keep her eyes on Thomas as she walked. He sat in a chair by Anna’s bed, his head bowed. Passing the beds, however, it was impossible not to absorb details of the people she saw in the second she was part of their world. A young man, his eyes sore and swollen, a tattered tissue hanging from his hand, looked dazed as a woman clutched at his arm. They gazed at a bed where another man lay, vivid red and purple bruising discolouring his face, his head bandaged. A multitude of mysterious tubes breathed and drained while monitors sang out messages.

  A
n elderly woman, hunched in a chair, her twisted finger marking her place on a page of prose. She sat next to a bed where a man, his eyes closed, his chest bare, lay silent as she read to him, her voice calm but her hand trembling.

  Anna wore a pale blue hospital gown. She lay on her back, her face turned towards Thomas, her eyes closed. Plastic tubes, supported by a metal arm, snaked over the bed. One led to the mask over Anna’s mouth and nose, another disappeared under the thin white blanket covering her lower body. Several bags of fluid hung from a stand positioned at the head of the bed, next to a bank of monitors. Creeping forward, Catherine tried to remember Anna was still there, under all the equipment, but it wasn’t easy. She remembered Anna as she’d last seen her – at her desk in their office, phone in her hand, as Catherine had seen her hundreds of times before.

  ‘She’s worse.’ Thomas’ voice was quiet, colourless, as if all the hope had been washed out of him. Catherine stood beside him, squeezing his shoulder as nausea rolled around her gut.

  ‘Worse?’

  ‘An infection. I don’t know how, it’s spotless in here, and we’re always using the hand scrub, keeping ourselves clean. We’ve been careful. They’re doing what they can, I know, but it’s the last thing she needs. They’re talking about moving her to an isolation room.’

  Catherine swallowed. She leaned forward, gently touching Anna’s hand where it lay on the blanket, averting her eyes from the cannula.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ she asked her brother. ‘Have you had any sleep? Food?’

  Thomas sat straighter. ‘How long? I’m not sure. Pretty much all the time. The nurses send you out sometimes so they can do what they need to.’ He blinked rapidly, lifting his hand to stroke Anna’s cheek. ‘This is shit, Catherine. Anna doesn’t deserve this. It could kill her, you know.’

  Catherine steeped closer and wrapped an arm around his trembling shoulders. ‘Shush, Thomas.’

  ‘She can’t hear us.’ He fumbled a tissue from his pocket and scrubbed at his eyes.

  ‘You never know. Listen to me, she’ll be okay.’

  ‘So I keep telling her parents. We all say it to each other, but I’m not sure of any of us believe it.’