by Lisa Hartley
And there was Anna.
She took another sip of coffee, knowing she should phone Thomas to ask how she was. Catherine had to admit, though she would have never said as much to her brother, Anna had looked even worse than she had expected her to when she had visited her earlier. Catherine was no stranger to the victims of violent crime, but the sight of Anna lying there attached to the machines and monitors had frightened her. How could someone be reliant on so much equipment, and still be alive? But Anna was fighting. Whether she could continue to was an issue Catherine didn’t want to consider.
‘DS Bishop?’
Lost in her worries, Catherine had failed to notice Isla Rafferty enter the pub and approach her table. Rafferty cleared her throat, appearing nervous.
‘Is there a problem? Is it Anna?’ Catherine was half out of her chair.
‘No, no, don’t worry. DCI Dolan asked me to find you.’ Rafferty glanced into Catherine’s coffee cup. ‘Can I get you a refill?’
‘Yes, please. Americano.’ Surprised, Catherine held out the mug. Maybe Rafferty would spit in it on her way back to the table. Slipping the phone they’d given her out of her bag, she checked the battery. Rafferty had no doubt used it to discover where Catherine was. The battery was full, and there was a decent signal - no reason for Rafferty to be there in person. There had been no clues in her face. She appeared tired and drawn, but Catherine was sure she did herself. It was a police officer’s default look, especially in the middle of a major investigation. Rafferty managed a smile for the barman as he set two mugs on a tray and added two packets of crisps to it. As Catherine watched, Rafferty rubbed her hands over her face, the diamond in her engagement ring catching the light for a second.
‘Salt and vinegar or ready salted?’ Rafferty asked, depositing the tray on the table.
‘You choose. Thank you.’
Rafferty took the bag of ready salted and tucked in.
‘Does your fiancé mind you working late most nights?’ Catherine asked.
‘He’s used to it.’
‘Sounds more understanding than my last partner.’ Catherine blew on her coffee. ‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a paramedic.’
‘I bet you hardly see each other.’
Rafferty gave the small twitch of her lips Catherine recognised as her version of a smile. ‘We manage.’
‘How long have you been together?’
‘Four years.’ Rafferty put down her drink. ‘Listen, DS Bishop, I don’t mean to be rude, but Mary wanted me to give you some instructions.’
Catherine laughed. ‘Okay, I’ll stop chatting.’
Rafferty blushed. ‘Sorry. Not what I meant. I’m tired, and … Well, anyway, the DCI wants you to ask around when you get to Phoenix House, see if anyone there knows any more about the stabbing of Anna Varcoe. There must have been people around when it happened, witnesses, even if they haven’t come forward. The homeless people in the city spend more time out on the streets than anyone. DCI Dolan reckons it’s worth a try.’
‘I’m to ask about the attack on Anna, as well as sneakily try to find out who killed John McKinley?’
‘Yes. I’ll be honest, we’re struggling to make any progress in either case.’ Rafferty folded her crisp packet, dropped it onto the table. ‘It’s frustrating.’
‘At least you haven’t arrested my brother yet.’ Catherine watched Rafferty’s face.
She avoided Catherine’s gaze, keeping her eyes fixed on her drink.
‘Some people have suggested it.’
Catherine’s laugh was scornful.
‘Thomas faints when he has an injection. I can’t imagine him stabbing his girlfriend.’
‘Neither can I. I spoke to him earlier.’
‘DI Knight told me,’ Catherine admitted. Knight had phoned, though perhaps he shouldn’t have done. Catherine was past caring. ‘He said you managed to get a description from Thomas.’ He’d also told her Rafferty had rescued Dolan when she was in danger of losing control of a briefing.
‘And an e-fit. Though one bloke wearing a hoody looks much like another.’ Rafferty shook her head. ‘Not your brother’s fault. In those circumstances, as soon as he saw the knife, his attention would have been fixed on it.’
‘Especially when the attacker also had hold of Anna.’
There was a silence as both women considered what had happened next. Glancing at her watch, Rafferty said, ‘I should go.’ She got to her feet.
‘Me too. Off to Phoenix House.’ Catherine made sure her reluctance wasn’t obvious in her voice. Why had Rafferty come here? At Dolan’s request, she’d admitted as much. But to pass on a one-sentence message that could have been communicated by phone, even by text?
‘Hopefully you’ll get us some answers.’ Rafferty didn’t sound convinced.
Catherine smiled. ‘No pressure. Are you going home now?’
‘No, I’ve booked a hotel, so has Mary. Adil’s going back to Nottingham. He and his wife have a new baby.’
‘He’ll be keen to get home to them.’
‘He’s already gone. Mary was going to come to see you herself, but she had a press conference.’
‘Lovely.’ Catherine wrinkled her nose as they walked towards the exit doors. The pub was busier now, and Catherine saw Rafferty drawing admiring glances from a group of men clustered around the bar. One of them grinned as they passed and said, ‘Leaving already, love? Shame. I was going to buy you a drink.’
Rafferty ignored him and pushed open the door. In the street, outside, it was drizzling. Rafferty frowned, fastening her jacket.
‘At least we have the e-fit to show people now,’ she said. ‘It would have been more difficult if Thomas hadn’t remembered what he did.’
‘DI Knight said it was because of your interview technique,’ Catherine told her.
‘Your brother was calmer than when the initial statement was taken, and it helped him recall the detail.’
Rafferty dismissed the compliment, leaving Catherine to wonder why she had bothered to mention it. Rafferty hadn’t been as prickly tonight, though she hadn’t thawed completely. Did she have an issue with Catherine’s sexuality? No doubt she knew about it, everyone else at Headquarters did. If so, she wouldn’t be the first.
They parted soon after, Rafferty heading for her hotel by the side of the Brayford Pool, and Catherine making for Steep Hill. It was now after eight o’clock. Time to secure herself a bed.
As she walked she took out her phone to call her brother, but it went to voicemail. She thumbed a quick text instead, asking about Anna. If Thomas was in the ICU, he’d have switched his phone off. She hoped he had gone home to get some rest after his interview with Rafferty and Zaman, but there was no guarantee. She glanced at the sky, thousands of stars vivid against the darkness. A cold, clear night.
She hoped Anna would survive it.
23
With a smile of thanks, Catherine took the bowl and set it on her lap. Pasta shells with a tomato and herb sauce. She dug her fork into the bowl, trying not to worry about the cleanliness of the utensils or the man who had prepared the food, now watching her with anxious eyes. He was missing several teeth, and his clothes, though clean, were old. His corduroy trousers were worn through in places, and his bottle-green sweater was unravelling at the elbows. His hands, despite the yellowy, overlong nails, were clean, and Catherine chastised herself for her snottiness.
‘I hope I didn’t burn the sauce,’ he worried. Carl Baker, one of the support workers, laughed, patting his shoulder as he passed.
‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘You’ve done a great job.’
The room was quiet while the residents of Phoenix House ate their evening meal, but when it was finished, the noise swelled. A crime drama blared from the TV, while the men played cards. Catherine sat back with a cup of tea. Who she should approach first? Ghislaine had given her a quick smile and said hello, but had otherwise ignored her and hidden away behind a magazine. Trying to avoid Lee Collinson, Ca
therine guessed. The other woman, Jasmine Lloyd, had been focusing on her phone, but now she turned to Catherine with a smile.
‘What’s your story?’
Catherine launched into the fictional account of her life she had agreed with Dolan. Jasmine listened, picking at her fingernails. When Catherine had finished, she tossed her hair.
‘Men. Bastards, the lot of them.’
Carl Baker laughed. ‘Say what you think, Jasmine. Don’t hold back.’
‘True though. How many of the women who’ve stayed here have had their lives ruined by some bloke or other? Their dad, their stepdad, some mucky little shite their mum’s brought home?’
‘Maybe women with kids should know better than to bring strangers into the house,’ one of the men playing cards at the table turned and said. Jasmine spluttered, outraged.
‘Yeah, blame the fucking …’
‘Jasmine,’ Carl admonished.
‘Blame the victim. Always the bloody same.’ Jasmine slammed her mug onto the coffee table. Carl raised his eyebrows, but didn’t speak. ‘You reckon women should stay at home once they’ve had kids, never leave the house, Lee?’
Lee shrugged. ‘Not what I said. Kids are vulnerable, they need protecting.’
‘They’re not the only ones,’ Jasmine told him. ‘Why else would we all come here?’
‘The streets aren’t safe,’ the man who had cooked said. ‘I’ve had the shit kicked out of me – sorry, Carl – more times than I can remember.’
Catherine sipped her tea, guilt ambushing her again. She was lying to them all by being here. It was fine for Dolan to ask her to go and integrate herself at Phoenix House, but the reality wasn’t as easy. People who had spent any time on the street quickly learnt self-preservation. Cultivating their trust was going to take time, a luxury Catherine didn’t have.
‘I’ve been lucky,’ she said. ‘The worst beatings I’ve had were before I came onto the streets.’
Jasmine laughed, and even Ghislaine looked amused.
‘It’s what, your second night of being homeless?’ Jasmine hooted. ‘Plenty of time for you to get a kicking or two, to have a gang of blokes chase you, feel you up or worse. You might decide you’re better off going back to your bloke.’
Catherine scowled, as much out of shame as anger. ‘No way.’
Still laughing, Jasmine heaved herself off the sofa and sauntered over to the men.
‘Don’t take any notice of Jas.’ Ghislaine kept her voice low. ‘She’s all talk. Don’t let her get to you.’
‘No problem, but thanks.’ Catherine didn’t want to push Ghislaine away, but there was no point in allowing herself to be drawn into a conversation with someone she’d already spoken to, heartless as it may sound. She wandered over to the bookcase, pretended to study the spines of the books stored there, hoping she at least looked casual.
One of the men asked, ‘Do you want us to deal you in?’
‘What are you playing?’
He smiled. ‘Doesn’t matter when there’s no money involved.’
‘You know the rules, Joe,’ Carl called across from his desk. ‘No gambling, no drinking, no drugs.’
‘No fraternising between the sexes. Jasmine takes no notice though.’
‘Oi!’ Jasmine thumped his arm. ‘Wouldn’t touch any of you lot with a barge pole.’
‘What about the vicar?’ Joe continued to tease her. ‘Or Danny Marshall?’
The fourth man chimed in. ‘Or the plumber who was here the other week? Or the bloke who drives the furniture delivery van?’
Jasmine was laughing, obviously enjoying the attention.
‘Cheeky bastards. Give us some cards.’ She dragged a chair over to the table.
Joe ran his hand across the top of his head. ‘It’ll have to be pontoon. We won’t have enough cards for anything else if we’re all playing.’
Lee Collinson said, ‘I used to play pontoon a lot when …’ He stopped, embarrassed.
‘When what?’ Jasmine asked.
‘Never mind,’ he muttered.
Silently, Catherine finished the sentence for him: When I was inside.
‘You played pontoon with Mackie, didn’t you, lads?’ Carl Baker said. ‘Won’t have another game with him, poor bloke.’
Catherine collected her two playing cards. Now she had to be careful. Ghislaine had told her who Mackie was, of course, but the others wouldn’t expect her to have heard of him. She studied her cards, listening.
‘Can’t believe he’d dead,’ Jasmine said. ‘I know he wasn’t here a lot, but when he was, he’d always give you the time of day.’
‘More than some people do,’ Joe agreed. ‘Remember the young lad who nicked all of the takings out of the shop till? What was his name? Miserable little shit he was, never spoke unless it was to ask for money.’
‘Yeah, well, we all know what his problem was,’ the man who had cooked said. ‘And that particular problem costs a lot.’
‘Where do you reckon he went?’ Jasmine asked.
‘I bet he’s dead, same as Mackie. Overdose,’ said Joe.
‘Mackie was murdered,’ Collinson suddenly chimed in. Every head in the room turned towards him.
‘Come on, Lee,’ Joe scoffed. ‘He’d been on heroin before, got clean, went back to it and forgot he wouldn’t be able to tolerate as much as he used to. End of story.’
Lee shook his head, his expression darkening. Quietly, Carl heaved himself out if his chair and crossed the room to stand by in case of trouble. Lee dropped his playing cards onto the table.
‘I’m telling you, Mackie was deliberately killed.’
Jasmine wasn’t impressed. ‘How do you know? You’ve only been here five minutes.’
‘Shows what you know.’ Lee licked his lips. ‘I’ve known him for years.’
‘Yeah? Bullshit,’ said Jasmine.
‘Believe what you want.’ Lee pushed back his chair and stalked away. ‘I’m off to bed.’
Carl stepped forward. ‘Same one you had last night, Lee.’
‘Thanks.’
As the door closed behind Lee, Jasmine laughed. ‘He’d say anything to get some attention. Are we playing cards or not?’
Catherine looked towards Ghislaine, who had lowered the magazine. As soon as she could, Catherine would send Rafferty a text. Lee must have lied when giving his statement. If he was telling the truth now, why hadn’t the fact that he had known John McKinley already been discovered?
*
The mattress was lumpy, and Catherine didn’t want to consider how many people had slept between the sheets before her. The duvet cover and pillowcase, both covered with garish pink stripes, were more suited to a child’s bedroom than an adult’s. Still, it was warm and clean, which was all she needed. She rolled onto her side, propped herself on her elbow and plumped the pillow. It was thin and smelt vaguely musty, but again, was fit for purpose. There were four beds in the room, two with chipped wooden frames, which had been allocated to Jasmine and Ghislaine. The other was a divan similar to Catherine’s. Jasmine, undoing her jeans, pointed at the spare bed as Catherine settled back under the duvet.
‘Be grateful Carl didn’t give you that one,’ she said. Ghislaine frowned at her, but continued to fold her clothes.
‘Why?’ Warily, Catherine took the bait.
‘A woman died in it a few months ago. Older woman, Sue was her name. Me and Ghis were in here, snoring away, never guessed she was dead. She must have been quiet about it.’
Jasmine stepped out of the jeans and lifted her top over her head. Catherine averted her eyes.
‘Bloody hell. What did she die of?’ she asked. Another death, this time inside Phoenix House. Jasmine gave a ghoulish grin.
‘They never told us officially. Maggie Kemp said it was a heart attack, but surely we’d have heard her gasping and groaning? Always seemed strange to me. Bit of a shock, wasn’t it, Ghis, finding a dead body? Though it’d happened to you before.’
Ghislaine climbed into bed
. ‘Yeah, poor woman.’ She turned on her side, facing the wall. Jasmine was rummaging in the front pocket of her rucksack, eventually unearthing a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste. ‘They said the funeral directors took the sheets she died in, but knowing Maggie Kemp, she’ll have grabbed them before they took the body away. Doesn’t like to waste anything, our Maggie.’
‘Can’t be easy running this place, though,’ Catherine said. ‘Doubt they get any funding from the council.’
‘They get donations, there’s the charity shop. They must pay the bills. And they can afford to employ people – Maggie and Danny, the support workers who keep their eye on us at night. God knows what they think we’re going to do.’ Jasmine rolled her eyes.
‘What about the lad they were talking about earlier – the one who emptied the till?’ Catherine asked.
‘Jake? No mystery – he walked into the charity shop downstairs, took all the money, went to his dealer, shoved the lot in his arm, did a runner. Plenty of trains and buses out of here. I bet he’s done the same in every town and city in the country.’ There was admiration in Jasmine’s voice. Catherine watched as she shivered. ‘Freezing tonight. I’m going to brush my teeth.’
As Jasmine left the room, Ghislaine sat up. ‘Did she take her rucksack?’ She whispered.
Catherine was bemused. ‘Yeah, she did. Why?’
Slumping back beneath her duvet, Ghislaine sighed. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
Confused, Catherine closed her eyes. She didn’t expect to sleep, not in a narrow single bed with much-washed covers and two other women snoring a few feet away. Her second day on her assignment was almost over, and what had she learnt? A woman had died at Phoenix House, and it hadn’t been publicised. No surprise. The shelter’s manager, Maggie Kemp, and board wouldn’t want any adverse publicity. Their goal was providing a safe bed for the night, helping the people who slept under their roof find their feet again. However innocent the woman’s death had been, it might still discourage people from seeking out refuge.
