by Lisa Hartley
Lee Collinson claimed to have known John McKinley. Why would he announce it? It was clear the other residents of Phoenix House still believed Mackie’s death was an accidental overdose. Catherine heard Jasmine return to the room, the light clicked off, and there was darkness. A few creaks as Jasmine got into bed, some shuffling. Silence. What if Mary Dolan was wrong? The pathologist, Dr Jo Webber, had agreed it was unlikely Mackie had tied the tourniquet found on his arm himself, but surely she could be wrong too? Believing something to be true didn’t always mean it was. The whole case seemed like a mirage; a hazy, intangible picture. There were too many uncertainties. Catherine couldn’t shake the feeling she was wasting her time, or being kept out of the way.
Or, she was missing something.
24
He opened a blank document and saved it into the folder labelled ‘CLIENTS’. Why he bothered keeping records, he wasn’t sure – most of what he heard was bullshit. Still, it was what he was paid for. It was a pittance, admittedly, but he was making a difference.
He’d completed a degree in business studies, started having counselling when his mum was diagnosed with cancer and the family fell apart. A few months after Danny’s mum died, his dad killed himself. Hung himself in the garage, was still swinging when Danny’s younger brother came in from school and discovered him. More grief. More guilt. More counselling. In the end, Danny decided he may as well do the courses, get the diplomas. Most of the advice given by the earnest do-gooders he and his brother saw was common sense anyway.
Danny went to make himself a coffee before his newest client arrived. He’s seen her already, taken in the slow movements, the tic beneath her eye. He sighed as he dropped the teaspoon he’d used into the sink. He’d ask about drugs, she would lie. There would be some waffling about past traumas, childhood abuse or neglect. Some of it was genuine, Danny knew, and those were the people with whom he truly connected. Those who were slowly destroying themselves with drugs and drink, or often both – well, he did what he could. They had to want to change, it had to come from within them. And most of the time, it was too difficult. The mountain was too high.
Back in his office, he checked his appointments for the rest of the day. He worked part-time at Phoenix House and did a few hours counselling at three local secondary schools. He enjoyed working with young people, especially those who still had some hope, plans for their future. Those who had a future at all. Some of those most in need of his skills, such as they were, Danny knew he would never talk to. Some avoided school altogether, some turned up every now and again, but none would come and knock on his office door and ask for his help. The Phoenix House clients of the future, he expected. No doubt the wrong attitude, and he would have never said it to anyone else, but it was the truth. Those who couldn’t afford further education, or hadn’t the desire or capability for it, what future was there for them? Most of the places where they could have found jobs had long gone. The factories, the foundries, the steel works. Now, it was shops or call centres. The dole queue. Or … Danny sipped his coffee. He knew of plenty of other opportunities the city afforded. His brother had taken them long time ago, after the deaths of their parents. Straight off the rails – how predictable. Danny found himself sneering as though Steven were sitting in front of him, although he hadn’t seen his brother for several years. He’d still be in prison, jailed for sticking a broken bottle into some bloke’s face during a drunken fight. Danny had visited at first, until he’d realised he and Steven were miles apart, and always would be. His brother was the one person he had given up on.
Steven, and himself.
There was an appointment with Jasmine later to look forward to. Danny didn’t fool himself that Jasmine had turned a corner, but she was making progress. It was all he could hope for, all he could offer. She was bright, and she made him laugh. She told him in each appointment, no more drugs. Every time he smiled and encouraged her, not believing it for a minute. Addiction would claim her in the end. Jasmine was broken, and it was far beyond his meagre skills to offer her any kind of salvation. Maybe that’s what Joel Rushford at the church was doing. He was providing more than spiritual guidance, Danny was certain. Well, fine. In the end, Jasmine would always come back to him. They understood each other.
He drank his last mouthful of coffee and checked his watch. She was late. They always were. To say they had nowhere to go, nothing to do, the clients of Phoenix House were poor timekeepers.
Eventually, there was a knock on the door. Danny Marshall painted on his smile.
*
Part of the charade was joining in with Phoenix House’s “counselling programme.” Catherine was dreading it, but it would give her a chance to speak to Danny Marshall. After hearing the jibes the previous evening about the relationship between him and Jasmine, Catherine knew she would have to keep her appointment with him. If he was having a relationship with Jasmine, or even the odd sexual encounter, who knew what other rules he might be breaking? Dolan was sure John McKinley’s death was linked to Phoenix House, but Catherine didn’t see any reason why it should be. He had spent little time there after all. She had sent a text to Dolan and Rafferty soon after waking in the small bedroom in the shelter. Jasmine and Ghislaine had still been asleep, and Catherine had crept out of bed, gone to have a shower. She had stowed her bag in one of the lockers in the corridor overnight, but Jasmine, she was amused to see, had her rucksack under the duvet with her, the top of the bag visible on the pillow. Catherine knew she should make a note of it, tell Dolan and Rafferty. There might be a simple reason for Jasmine’s caution, but there could be other explanations too.
*
Danny Marshall was nervous, Catherine noted. It was clear in the quick movements, the number of times he touched his face and hair as he welcomed her inside the tiny office.
‘How was your first night here?’
‘Fine. I got some sleep.’
‘I hope Jasmine and Ghislaine made you welcome?’
His fatherly tone irritated Catherine. He was younger than her, but clearly felt she was there to be patronised.
‘They did, especially Jasmine.’ She stared into his eyes, watched him blush.
‘She’s a … generous girl.’
Catherine raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve heard.’
Marshall coughed, his cheeks on fire. Catherine smirked. She was going to enjoy her role this morning.
‘Now, ah, Catherine. I’m here to discuss any issues you might have. Addictions, health problems. To talk about your plans. Now you’re here at Phoenix House, we like to offer any help we can give you to get you back on your feet.’
‘On my feet and out of your shelter, you mean?’
Danny opened his mouth, closed it again. ‘We want to help,’ he said eventually.
Catherine wriggled in her chair, making herself comfortable. ‘Okay, well, here’s what I need.’ She counted them off on her fingers. ‘A house, detached, with a pool. Cars – one sports, one practical. A few million in the bank. A cook, a butler and a cleaner. Several dogs, and someone to walk them. What do you reckon?’
He shook his head. ‘If you’re going to be offensive …’
‘Offensive? What, you’ll throw me out?’
‘I can have your access to Phoenix House revoked, yes.’
‘Good for you. All right, what can you get me?’
‘Do you have a drug habit?’
‘No.’
He smirked, believing himself in control again. ‘Okay. Mental health issue?’
‘No.’ Maybe.
‘If you don’t tell me the truth I can’t help you.’ He watched her face. Catherine fervently wished for her warrant card. She wanted to tell him exactly who she was and what she was doing there, ask him some questions he wouldn’t be able to smarm his way out of answering. When she didn’t respond, he turned to his laptop, tapping on the keys.
‘Have we finished? Am I dismissed?’ Catherine asked.
‘You can leave at any time. I can’t help
if you won’t let me.’
‘Fine. I’d like to talk about my life, why I …’ She swallowed. ‘Okay, I need help.’
Danny Marshall turned in his chair with a sympathetic smile.
‘People don’t end up working here by accident, you know. We’ve all been through trauma: me, Maggie, Carl … If you want to help others, you should understand them first. I’m not here to judge.’
‘I know. There’s a real mix of people here. It must be difficult for you.’
A bit of flattery never hurt anyone.
‘Some are easier than others. If people are resistant to help, yes, it’s difficult - impossible in some cases. I know Maggie would agree – it’s the most heartbreaking part of our job. Watching someone you know you could help walking away.’
‘Especially if they’re addicts.’
‘Drugs destroy lives,’ Danny shrugged.
‘Like the bloke from here who overdosed and died.’ Catherine held her breath.
‘Mackie? Yes, what happened was sad, but he was offered help. Both Maggie and I did our best. Maggie’s husband even came in to talk to him. He used to be a police officer too, you see, and hoped he could … Well, maybe help to ease Mackie’s burden. Anyway,’ Danny caught himself. ‘We’re here to talk about you, Catherine.’
She smiled. The appointment hadn’t been a waste of time after all.
25
Mary Dolan had a headache. A horrible, pounding, sickening headache. She sat at her desk in the corner of the incident room with her forehead propped on her hand as Detective Superintendent Stringer entered the room.
‘She’s coming this way,’ Jonathan Knight murmured.
‘Wonderful,’ Dolan groaned. ‘Look at her face. Has someone shat in her shoes?’ She straightened as Stringer reached them. ‘Good morning, Ma’am.’
Jane Stringer’s smile was taut and fleeting. ‘Has any information come in overnight?’ she demanded. ‘Witnesses? You’ll have seen the newspapers, I presume? The attack on DC Varcoe is still front page news, even in the national papers.’
‘I have Ma’am,’ Dolan said. ‘We’re also trending on Twitter, and being ripped to pieces on Facebook.’
Stringer’s nostrils flared. ‘And have we made any progress?’
‘No more than we had last night.’ Dolan was trying not to let her irritation show, but it was difficult. What did Stringer expect? It was less than fifteen hours since their press conference. The e-fit of the man they were searching for wouldn’t have been seen by many people until this morning.
‘The Assistant Chief Constable would appreciate an update.’
‘I’m sure he would, Ma’am, but I’ve nothing to tell him.’
‘Go and see him anyway,’ Stringer advised. ‘Otherwise, I’m sure he’ll be paying you a visit.’
Dolan glared at her. ‘Some time to do my job would be appreciated.’
‘Delegate, Chief Inspector.’ Stringer turned on her heel and stalked away. Dolan watched her go, furious. Knight held out his mobile.
‘DS Bishop. She rang me when she didn’t get an answer from you. She’d like a word.’
*
The Assistant Chief Constable, Richard Clement, had the long, woebegone face of a miserable donkey. It was no surprise his nickname throughout the force was “Eeyore.” Dolan knocked on his door, not looking forward to the meeting.
‘Enter.’
She strode into his office and stood to attention. Clement made her wait, tapping at his computer keyboard before asking her to sit.
‘An update please, DCI Dolan. Any news?’
Dolan crossed her legs. ‘No, Sir. Not yet. We’re still following leads which came in overnight after the e-fit was released. Officers are back on the streets, knocking on doors and talking to shopkeepers and passers-by in the city centre.’
Clement let out a long sigh. ‘I know it’s a difficult investigation. An attack on a police officer always is.’
‘I don’t believe DC Varcoe being police is relevant though.’
‘Perhaps not.’ Clement took a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and blew his nose, loudly and at length. Dolan waited, trying not to let her distaste show in her face. ‘If she dies …’
Dolan sat straighter. ‘Sir …’
‘If she dies, it will be a total disaster.’
‘Yes, Sir, I agree.’ Dolan was thinking of Anna’s family, her friends, but she doubted Clement was.
‘We need to find this man, Chief Inspector. Today.’
‘Today. I see.’
‘Tomorrow at the latest,’ Clement relented. ‘Otherwise, you’ll be replaced as SIO.’
‘Thank you for the warning.’
‘What about the homeless chap, what was his name?’ Clement waved a hand, as if the movement would jog his memory.
‘McKinley. John McKinley. Ongoing, Sir. DS Bishop’s doing a fine job.’
‘Bishop?’ Clement sniffed. ‘Christ. Be wary of her. She could have caused us a great deal of embarrassment a while back. See it doesn’t happen again.’
Dolan bit back a scream. ‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Are we wasting time with the McKinley case?’ Clement mused. ‘Using resources there which could be better channelled in another direction?’
‘Wasting time? A man’s dead.’
Clement thinned his lips. ‘I know you and the pathologist believe he was murdered, but it’s pretty tenuous stuff, don’t you think? Might be time to wind the investigation down. Reapportion resources.’
Dolan was silent, knowing if she spoke again, she wouldn’t be able to control her fury. Clement met her eyes, a slight smile hovering around his mouth as if he knew what she was thinking. ‘I’ll speak to the Chief Constable about it, and let you know. Dismissed, Chief Inspector.’
‘But …’
‘Dismissed.’
26
Rafferty had managed to find a spare desk in the incident room. With Zaman and Dolan also crowding around it, there wasn’t much space.
‘Find out everything you can about Maggie Kemp’s husband, Pat,’ Dolan told her officers. ‘I want to know when he left the force, and why.’
‘Mrs Kemp should have told me her husband used to be police,’ Zaman sounded aggrieved.
‘We should have realised.’ Dolan ran her hands through her hair. ‘We also need to find out more about this “Jake” character – his surname, when he stayed at Phoenix House, any past convictions. Ask Maggie Kemp about him too. We need to speak to Joel Rushford again, and Danny Marshall.’
Zaman and Rafferty exchanged a glance. ‘Wouldn’t we be compromising DS Bishop’s position if we speak to them again now though?’ Zaman asked. Dolan threw up her hands.
‘Did you speak to Rushford yesterday?’ she demanded of Zaman. ‘You said you were going back to see him.’
‘I did. He could only spare five minutes, and was utterly useless.’
‘Ask him about Jasmine Lloyd - be blunt. Catherine said some of the people at the shelter last night were teasing Jasmine about her relationship with him. Find out if there’s any truth in it.’
Rafferty interjected, ‘And what about Marshall?’
‘The same. Make everyone aware the investigation into John McKinley’s death is a murder enquiry – rattle a few cages. Lee Collinson – speak to him too.’
‘What about DS Bishop?’ Rafferty asked.
‘What about her? You’re worried if we’re heavy-handed it’ll be obvious who’s been telling tales?’
‘Yes.’
‘Speak to Rushford first, or even one of the soup kitchen volunteers. One of them must like gossiping. Engineer the conversation, get them to tell you about Rushford and Jasmine. It seems to be common knowledge at the shelter, though it might not be on Rushford’s own territory. Look,’ Dolan lowered her voice. ‘It’s a risk, I know it is. If I was worried there was any danger to Catherine, I wouldn’t ask you to take this approach.’ She told them about her meeting with ACC Clement, and his threats. ‘We need to s
olve this quickly, otherwise the person who killed John McKinley will get away with murder.’
‘If it was murder,’ Rafferty murmured. Dolan stared.
‘Are you serious, Isla? You don’t believe we’ve a case? What about the wiped-clean syringe, Dr Webber’s evidence about McKinley not being able to tie the tourniquet himself?’
‘I know, Ma’am, I agree it’s suspicious. But I can also see how the ACC could think we’re wasting our time.’
‘You think John McKinley isn’t worth it, you mean? You think we should ignore the fact someone ended his life?’
‘No, of course not. I … I can’t see us making progress. I’m not even sure what questions we need to ask. I’ve never investigated a crime this vague. There’s nothing concrete.’ Rafferty looked miserable. ‘Four days since the body was found, and we’re no nearer knowing the truth about what happened.’
Dolan was nodding. ‘I know we’ve not made much progress, and it’s frustrating. I also have faith in the pair of you. The answers are out there, and we’ll find them. Go and speak to Rushford and Marshall, Maggie Kemp, and her husband. I’ll have a look at Pat Kemp’s records. Ask Maggie Kemp about the mysterious Jake, too.’
*
Catherine leaned over the bed, gently touching her fingertips to Anna’s cheek. Her skin was hot and waxy. Thomas stood at the other side of the bed, watching the monitors. He still wore the clothes he’d had on yesterday, Catherine noticed. He’d evidently come straight back to the hospital after his interview, and been here ever since.
‘You’ve not been home,’ Catherine said.
He turned, his face drawn, his hair greasy.
‘No. I don’t want to leave her, except when your colleagues force me to, of course.’
There was nothing Catherine could say, and she stayed silent. Thomas shook his head. ‘I keep thinking, if I stay, if I keep watching, she’ll be okay. If I’m here, nothing will change. I know it’s stupid. Her parents are here, the nurses, the doctors, and they’re all much more use than I am.’ He turned away again, his shoulders shaking.
