by Lisa Hartley
Rafferty shifted in her chair. ‘Did John McKinley have the same view? We know he left the force a month before you did.’
Kemp drank more tea, set his cup on the table and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘I didn’t know John well. I saw him around the station sometimes.’
‘Yet you came to talk to him at Phoenix House? You wanted to help him?’ Zaman pressed.
Kemp tipped back his head, studying the wooden roof.
‘Yeah, I did,’ he said eventually. ‘I remembered him, smart in his uniform, with a wife, a family. He had a future. When he arrived at Phoenix House, it was a shock. He was clean then, but he admitted he’d used drugs in the past. He was drinking though – drinking a lot. I hoped – stupidly, as it turned out, but I hoped I might be able to talk to him, help him. Maybe even offer him some work. He wasn’t interested. Told me I was too late, I should have done something sooner. He walked out in the end.’
‘What did he mean, you should have done something sooner?’
Kemp said, ‘He’d already been on the streets in Lincoln for a while, but he hardly ever came to Phoenix House. I didn’t know how he was living. I presumed he meant before he’d got himself into such a state.’
‘Mr Kemp, where were you last Saturday night?’ Rafferty asked.
‘Saturday?’
Rafferty’s voice was firm. ‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Maggie and I got home about five-thirty. We’d been out to do the weekly shop. I can give you the names of the places we went to, if you need them. We had dinner - Maggie had made a pie the day before and we finished it.’ Kemp frowned, concentrating. Rafferty watched his face. ‘We put the TV on, I read the paper. Maggie had a bath, I took Archie out. I had a shower when I got in – it had rained and we were soaked. We went to bed.’
‘Have you ever used drugs yourself, Mr Kemp?’ Zaman asked. Kemp glared at him.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s a reasonable question.’
‘Because whoever it was who injected Mackie had to have known what they were doing, you mean?’ Kemp shook his head. ‘No. No, I’ve never used drugs. Not now, not ever.’
‘Thank you, Mr Kemp.’ Rafferty stood. ‘We’ll leave you to your work.’
‘Wait a minute. Have you spoken to Mackie’s ex-wife?’
Rafferty didn’t need to check. ‘No. They were divorced a long time ago.’
‘They were,’ Kemp said, his mouth twisting. ‘But if anyone knew about using drugs, Dawn McKinley did.’
Back in the car, Rafferty tried to call Dolan, but only reached her voicemail.
‘The soup kitchen first, then Danny Marshall,’ she told Zaman. He started the engine.
‘No solid answers from Pat Kemp. He had no idea who the bloke in our e-fit is either,’ he commented.
‘He gave us another lead though. Dawn McKinley - someone else to question, at any rate.’ Rafferty stared through the car window as Zaman executed a three-point turn. ‘He looked like he was going to cry at one point.’
‘When he was making the tea? I know.’
Drumming her fingers on her thigh, Rafferty frowned. ‘Which seems an extreme reaction to being asked to speak about the death of someone he claims he hardly knew.’
28
In St Benedict’s Square, in Lincoln’s city centre, Catherine Bishop sat on a wooden bench, her bag at her feet. Situated off the main shopping thoroughfare, the square held a church of the same name, now no longer in use as a place of worship. Catherine had walked past it more times than she could remember, and though she had paused at the war memorial which stood outside the church building before, it was a place she had hardly noticed. In this part of the city, familiar chain shops and throngs of people meant you could be anywhere. There was nothing of the individuality which made the uphill area of the city special. Catherine tucked her chin further inside her fleece. Though the sun was bright, a cold wind meant sitting still for any length of time wasn’t advisable. It would soon be time to return to the soup kitchen, though Catherine had no great desire to go there again. Perhaps she would buy some chips instead. She wouldn’t be missed, and if Dolan and Rafferty wanted to complain, let them.
Catherine drew her feet onto the seat of the bench and wrapped her arms around her knees, ignoring the disapproving glances of a passing elderly couple. Resting her forehead on her arms she closed her eyes, oblivious to the stares of those around her. The sense of despair which had been haunting her for weeks was threatening to engulf her. She wished again she had never agreed to the assignment. She needed help, she could admit it now. Mentally, she was struggling. These feelings, this ache, weren’t going to leave her without some persuasion. Jo Webber had noticed, as had Danny Marshall. And Knight, and Kendrick. Who else? Who else had seen it clearly, when she herself was blind to her own struggles? Perhaps Ellie had sensed it without understanding why Catherine had pushed her away. With tears in her eyes, tears she couldn’t explain, Catherine got to her feet as though she were sleepwalking. Her limbs were heavy, her mind and body begging her to stop, to rest. To give in, submit. She stood for a moment, the ground appearing to lurch beneath her feet.
‘Are you all right?’
Catherine blinked, recognising the voice. Blindly, she turned her head as a hand gripped her elbow.
‘Come on, let me buy you a coffee.’
Like a child, Catherine allowed Jonathan Knight to lead her away.
29
‘This needs to stop, now. She can’t carry on, look at her.’ Knight was pacing in front of Mary Dolan, who sat in the small office which served as the makeshift incident room for the McKinley investigation. By the door, Catherine Bishop slumped in a chair, her face blank, eyes on her shoes. ‘She’s ill, she needs to see a doctor.’ Knight came to abrupt halt. ‘Mary, please.’
Dolan pushed back her chair. ‘DS Bishop?’ She moved over to Catherine, crouched in front of her. ‘Catherine, look at me.’ Slowly, Catherine raised her chin, fixing her gaze on Dolan. Tears were falling again, but Catherine seemed not to notice them. She was silent, weeping noiselessly. Dolan took out a tissue, wrapped Catherine’s hand around it. ‘Time you went home, Catherine.’ Her voice was gentle. Catherine blinked a few times, tried to speak.
‘No, I … I haven’t finished.’
Dolan stood, her knees cracking. ‘Yes, you have.’
Catherine was defiant now. ‘No. I’m okay. Please.’
‘Catherine, Jo wants to talk to you,’ Knight said. ‘She’ll go to your GP with you too, if you like. You can have some leave, get some help.’
‘No.’ Catherine turned, glaring at Knight as the tears continued to fall. ‘The investigation isn’t over. We don’t know who killed Mackie, and until we do, I’m staying here.’ She scrubbed her hands across her eyes, frustrated. ‘Can’t stop bloody crying …’
Dolan and Knight exchanged a glance. Dolan raised her eyebrows and slipped out of the door. Knight stepped closer to Catherine, took her by the shoulders.
‘Listen to me. You’re obviously ill, and as your commanding officer …’
Catherine snorted. ‘As my what? You wanted me to come here, to do this. Now you’ve changed your mind? What happened to it being “good for me?”’
‘I didn’t know you were ill.’
‘I’m fine. Let me get on with my job.’
She tried to twist away, but Knight held on. ‘Catherine, listen. Go home, go on sick leave, and get better.’
Catherine turned on him. ‘What’s wrong, Jonathan? Do you want me out of the way?’
‘What?’ Knight was horrified. ‘I’m worried about you – have you looked in a mirror recently? You’re ill, Catherine.’
‘A mirror? No, you don’t get many on the street, funnily enough. It’s difficult to worry about your appearance when you don’t know where you’re going to sleep.’
‘You’re not homeless.’
‘No, but the poor bastards I’ve been spending time with are. I’m talking to them, lyin
g to them, knowing I’ll soon be safe in my own bed, my own house, and they’ll still be out there? No, I haven’t looked in a mirror, I don’t want to see my face.’ She jerked away from him. ‘Leave me alone, Jonathan. Let me do my job. Don’t worry, if anyone asks, I’ll keep your secret.’
‘Catherine …’ It was a plea. She scowled at him, and when she spoke again, it was in a tone he’d never heard from her before.
‘Tell DCI Dolan I’m going to the soup kitchen. I’ll stay on the street until the case is closed. Stay away from me, Jonathan.’
Knight stood in the centre of the room and let her go. As she passed, he closed his eyes. He knew what he had to do, but did he have the courage? Could he admit the truth? He had accepted the help of a career criminal, however pure his reasons.
Could he risk destroying Catherine’s career as well as his own?
30
Rafferty saw Catherine Bishop immediately. She sat at a table with two other women, dipping a piece of bread into a polystyrene cup. Catherine didn’t turn her head, but one of the women she was sitting with spotted them and made a comment. Catherine did look then. There was no reaction as she recognised Zaman and Rafferty.
There were several volunteers around, wearing plastic aprons. Rafferty approached the nearest, who was clearing a table.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘We’re looking for Joel Rushford?’ She took out her warrant card and held it out. The woman, seeing Rafferty was a police officer, put her hand to her mouth.
‘He’s in his office, I’ll show you.’
She trotted across the room, eager to help, obviously dying to know what was going on. Rafferty and Zaman followed, Zaman still uneasy. He hadn’t made eye contact with Catherine Bishop, hadn’t wanted to. The best way to protect her was to treat her the same as everyone else in the room – as if they didn’t exist. It wasn’t easy.
*
‘They’re coppers, I can smell it a mile off.’ Jasmine watched Rafferty and Zaman cross the room. She drank the last of her soup. ‘I’m off, not hanging around with them here. Coming?’
Ghislaine stood, crumpling her cup. Catherine pushed back her chair, glad her tears had stopped. If she ignored the fatigue in her bones, the tic under her eye and the crawling sense of dread in her sluggish brain, she could kid herself she was okay. She had to do this. She owed it to John McKinley, to the people she’d met. To Ghislaine and Jasmine.
They weren’t the only customers of the soup kitchen who had decided to beat a hasty retreat. Once again, Catherine marvelled police officers were so easily recognised. Rafferty and Zaman were smartly dressed, but they could have been anyone – sales people, church representatives. All right, Rafferty had displayed her warrant card, but Catherine had noticed several people leave as soon as the two officers had appeared, before any identification had been shown. She felt vulnerable. If Rafferty and Zaman were obvious, why wasn’t she? She was no actor. There was more to being homeless than chucking on some grubby clothes and hauling a bag of belongings around, yet she seemed to have been accepted. She followed Ghislaine and Jasmine out of the door. She was deceiving them, and it bothered her, more than she had admitted even to Knight.
In the street, Jasmine checked her phone.
‘I’m off. See you later, ladies.’
‘All right, Jas,’ Ghislaine said. Jasmine sauntered away with a wave.
Catherine could see Ghislaine was troubled, but didn’t want to pry. Still, she had to if she wanted to make more headway.
‘See she’s got her rucksack with her again.’
‘Maybe it’s surgically attached.’ Ghislaine tried a smile. ‘Though I’ve been robbed enough to times to know it’s sensible to keep your stuff with you. People will always steal, even if they know you don’t have much.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind. Listen, what they were saying about Jasmine and Danny Marshall last night – is it true?’
Ghislaine took a step backwards, instantly defensive. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘No reason. I had an appointment with him yesterday, and I didn’t know what to make of him.’
‘I wouldn’t take too much notice. It was only Lee and the others having a laugh. Jasmine loves the attention, which means she won’t deny anything.’
‘You don’t believe it?’
‘Danny would have to be totally stupid.’
‘You don’t know Jasmine well then? Aren’t you best friends?’
Ghislaine gave a short laugh. ‘Jasmine knows loads of people.’
‘Will she be going to see one of her mates?’ Careful, Catherine told herself as Ghislaine glanced away.
‘Don’t know. Anyway, I’m going to head off as well.’ She raised a hand and walked away. Catherine stepped back, leaning against the church’s rough stone wall. Ghislaine was in a hurry, rushing along in the same direction Jasmine had taken. Catherine watched, intrigued. Was Ghislaine following her friend? And if so, shouldn’t she investigate?
31
Joel Rushford’s office wasn’t large, but the vicar had furnished it comfortably. A tall pine bookcase filled most of one wall, with Rushford’s desk, a small leather sofa and two straight-backed wooden chairs for visitors crammed into the rest of the space. Rushford himself sat in an expensive-looking leather office chair, with a small oil heater, the only source of heat in the room, as Rafferty noted, close to it. Rushford waved Zaman and Rafferty into the wooden chairs, which, Rafferty soon realised, were as uncomfortable as they looked. Rushford smiled, looking from one officer to the other, and back again.
‘Good to see you again, DC Zaman. And you’ve brought a colleague with you today.’ He widened his smile, his eyes travelling over Rafferty’s body. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Rafferty remained stony-faced. If Rushford was hoping to provoke her, or, more nauseatingly, charm her he’d have to do much better. Zaman shifted in his chair, and Rafferty knew he would expect her to have a quick retort ready. Instead, she sat back and crossed her legs, making herself as comfortable as it was possible to be in the unforgiving chair. She made eye contact with Rushford, whose smile had dimmed a little.
‘Are you sleeping with Jasmine Lloyd, Mr Rushford?’
The effect on the vicar was immediate. His mouth opened and closed a few times.
‘I beg your pardon? I’m a married man, DS Rafferty, and I resent the implication.’
Rafferty smiled. ‘And we all know married men never have affairs, don’t we?’ She leaned forward. ‘So if a witness had informed us you and Ms Lloyd were, shall we say, more intimate than the average vicar and parishioner, the witness would be lying?’
Rushford swallowed. ‘Yes. It’s totally untrue.’
‘Hmm.’ Rafferty raised a hand, touching her index finger to her lips. Rushford watched the gesture, his face red. ‘And if we were to tell you we had several witnesses, all repeating the same allegation about your relationship with Ms Lloyd, all of those witnesses would be lying?’
‘Yes, they would. Who’s been telling you this? I don’t … If my wife hears these rumours …’ Rushford managed to sound indignant.
‘Embarrassing. Unfair, too, since you’re innocent.’
‘Can I ask, Sergeant, what exactly you want to talk to me about? What have these baseless lies to do with anything? They’re hardly a matter for the police.’ Rushford spoke theatrically, but with more conviction, confident he was regaining the upper hand.
‘No, extra-marital affairs are none of our business. Unless …’ Rafferty dragged the word out, studying her fingernails. Rushford frowned.
‘Unless?’
‘Unless they’re linked to a crime, a serious crime. Murder, for example.’
Rushford gave a strangled laugh. ‘Murder? What the f … What are you talking about?’
‘Careful, Father,’ Rafferty laughed.
‘Reverend, not Father,’ Rushford said automatically.
She smirked. ‘My mistake.’
Rushford looked from Rafferty to Zaman. ‘Who
se murder are you talking about?’
‘John McKinley’s.’
‘Mackie was murdered?’ Rushford appeared genuinely confused.
‘We believe he was.’
‘But why? He was harmless.’
‘Perhaps because he knew something he shouldn’t?’
Rushford gave her a cold stare. ‘What are you insinuating, Sergeant?’
‘Nothing at all. We’ll see ourselves out.’
*
Danny Marshall was at home, he told them on the phone. His house was in the centre of a row of terraces, cars parked nose to bumper on both sides of the street, even mid-afternoon on a weekday.
‘Nowhere to park here either,’ Zaman grumbled. As they approached a corner shop, a vehicle pulled away from the kerb leaving a space big enough for Zaman to shuffle his car into.
As they made their way towards Marshall’s house, Rafferty stopped.
‘Are you sure this is the right address?’ She nodded at a BMX bike leaning against the front hedge of what they believed to be his property. ‘Seems a strange thing for a man of Marshall’s age to ride.’
‘Maybe he has a visitor?’
Rafferty thumped on the door, and Marshall opened it immediately.
‘Is this your bike?’ Rafferty demanded.
‘Bike?’ Marshall raised himself onto his tiptoes, peering out. ‘No, it belongs to the kid next door. He’s left school, hasn’t managed to find a job yet. He rides around on his stupid BMX all day, when it’s not spoiling my hedge, of course. Come in.’
Marshall showed them into a small living room, dominated by a huge TV displaying some sort of army-themed video game. He picked up the remote control and switched off the set. ‘I had a client not arrive for a counselling session, and I had some free time. Decided to come home and relax for a while.’
‘Looked like you were doing well.’ Zaman gestured towards the screen. Marshall grinned as he waved them towards the sofa before perching on a bean bag.
‘Mr Marshall, did you offer counselling to John McKinley?’ Rafferty asked.
‘You know I did. I explained to the other officers.’
‘Jasmine Lloyd too?’
