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

by Lisa Hartley

  ‘Yes. Jasmine, Ghislaine, Lee - all of them.’

  There had been no reaction on Marshall’s face when he had mentioned Jasmine’s name. They knew it meant nothing. Marshall would be used to keeping his face impassive during his work. A good poker face would be essential.

  Rafferty asked, ‘What about Jake Pringle?’

  ‘Jake?’ Marshall’s face darkened. ‘Why are you asking about him?’

  ‘Please answer the question, Mr Marshall.’

  ‘Yes, I talked with him. Counselling is offered to everyone who stays at Phoenix House. Part of the conditions of them being offered a bed is they talk to me, so I can confer with Maggie about how best to help them. You know all this.’ Marshall sounded frustrated.

  ‘And how did Jake Pringle react to you? Was he receptive?’

  ‘He was, at least at first. We helped him find a GP who could assist with his medical needs. As far as we knew, he’d stopped injecting. Then he disappeared.’

  ‘After stealing money.’

  Marshall’s fists clenched. ‘If you know, why are you asking me?’

  ‘Mrs Kemp told us you’d helped Jake find a job. What happened?’

  ‘In retrospect, it was the wrong placement. A kitchen is a high-pressured environment, even in a local pub. Jake didn’t cope well with stress, and of course there was cash around, plus stuff he could sell, like bottles of spirits … It was my fault, I know.’

  ‘Your fault Pringle couldn’t control himself?’ Rafferty stood, wandered over to the window. Marshall scowled.

  ‘Jake had problems, DS Rafferty. He came from an abusive home, he was a product of the care system …’

  Rafferty snorted. ‘We get it. Horrible childhood, poor unloved, badly-done-to Jake: stealing, drink, drugs. Inevitable, not his fault, and we should all be sorry for him. Correct?’

  Marshall was shaking his head. ‘I’m not sure if you’re trying to provoke me, Sergeant, but it won’t work. You don’t fool me - you don’t believe a word of what you said. You understand what difficulties people face, and you care.’

  Rafferty turned away. ‘What I care about is finding the person who killed John McKinley. What can you tell us? You know the people at Phoenix House, past residents as well as the present ones. Help us out, Danny. Who might have murdered him?’

  ‘Murdered him? Seriously?’

  ‘We have reason to believe John McKinley was deliberately killed.’

  ‘But …’ Marshall’s mouth gaped. ‘He was completely harmless. Who would have murdered him?’

  Rafferty noted Marshall had said Mackie was harmless, as Joel Rushford had a short time before.

  ‘Someone who knew about drugs, and knew where to buy them,’ she said.

  Marshall rallied, visibly pulling himself together. ‘Anyone could get them, Sergeant. I bet you’d know where to go if you wanted to. You can’t work in the environment we do without picked up a few tips.’

  ‘Point taken,’ Rafferty said. ‘In your counselling sessions, no one’s said anything suspicious?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Would you tell us if they had?’

  Marshall looked at her. ‘I would. There might be confidentiality issues, but not with murder. Mackie was … I only spoke to him once or twice, but he was different.’

  ‘In what way?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘He’d seen it all. He knew the streets, knew how to survive. The others kept their distance because they knew it was what he preferred, but at the same time, he was there to give advice. Where to sleep safely, places to avoid. He’d been there and done it.’

  ‘If we were looking for a motive, a reason for someone to kill him, it could be because of something Mackie knew? Something he’d seen, or heard?’ Zaman asked.

  ‘It wouldn’t take a huge leap of imagination, would it? It makes sense. People talked to him. And homeless people, they see things. People don’t notice them, don’t even realise they’re there half the time. But they are, and they’re aware. Trying to get some rest on the street makes you hyper-aware of your surroundings.’

  ‘It sounds like you’re speaking from experience,’ Rafferty said softly. Danny Marshall gazed at her.

  ‘I am. I was on the streets for a few weeks after university. It wasn’t too bad, but it leaves a mark. I see it on the people I work with.’

  *

  In the car, Rafferty sat back, stretching out her legs. ‘He wasn’t completely honest.’

  Zaman checked his rear-view mirror. ‘About what?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was the impression he gave. Not lying exactly, but …’

  ‘Not telling the whole truth?’

  ‘Yeah. Especially about Jasmine Lloyd.’

  ‘Maybe we should talk to Jasmine next.’

  Rafferty took out her phone. ‘Later. First, Mary wanted us to speak to Lee Collinson. I’ll phone him.’

  *

  Collinson was in a pub, an old, traditional place by the castle. Rafferty strode inside, her eyes scanning the bar. The place had recently been refurbished, the sharp scent of paint still in the air. Zaman spotted Collinson, who acknowledged them with a wave. He was sitting by the huge stone fireplace, a half-drunk pint of bitter in front of him, warming his hands. Collinson had a thin, angular face and watchful brown eyes. He shifted in his chair as if ready to escape at any second. Zaman had seen the same nervousness in ex-prisoners before. In some cases, being constantly alert to danger was the only thing which had allowed them to serve their sentence relatively unscathed.

  ‘Can I get you another?’ Rafferty gestured towards Collinson’s drink.

  ‘Cheers,’ he replied. Zaman found some spare chairs as Rafferty returned to the bar. ‘She your boss?’ Collinson asked.

  ‘One of them.’

  ‘Can’t be bad. Very decorative.’

  Zaman ignored him, and Collinson smirked. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.’

  Again, Zaman said nothing. Rafferty returned with a tray, set a full pint on the table in front of Collinson. He smiled at her, a gold tooth glinting at the back of his mouth. Rafferty handed Zaman a bottle of lager, and took the second bottle for herself.

  ‘Thanks, love.’ Collinson took an appreciative sip, smacking his lips together. ‘One of the things I missed when I was inside, a decent pint.’ He leered at Rafferty. ‘I’m sure you can guess the other thing.’ He leant forward, blatantly ogling Rafferty’s chest. She ignored Collinson’s performance, poured beer into the glass she’d brought with her and drank half in one gulp. Collinson watched, impressed. ‘Looks like you were ready for that, darling. Not sure I approve of drinking on duty, mind.’

  Rafferty set her glass on the table. ‘It’s alcohol-free.’

  He laughed. ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘How did you know John McKinley?’

  Collinson stared. ‘You what?’

  ‘John McKinley. Mackie. We’ve been told you’d known him for a long time. Years, our witness said. Not what you told our colleagues in uniform when you made your statement, was it?’

  Collinson’s cheeks reddened. ‘Who’s been talking?’

  ‘We speak to everyone, Mr Collinson, as you should know,’ Rafferty told him.

  He laughed. ‘And poke your noses in everywhere, don’t you?’

  ‘If we have to. How did you know him? When did you meet?’

  Collinson stuck out his chin. ‘Does this mean you’re finally taking his death seriously?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Everyone saying he died of an overdose. Blackening his name.’ Collinson lifted his beer. ‘Made me sick.’

  ‘He had used drugs before,’ Zaman said mildly.

  Collinson snorted.

  ‘Says who? He never did when I knew him.’

  ‘Which was …?’ Rafferty brought him back on track.

  ‘He was a mate of my brother’s when we were young. They were older, my brother didn’t want to be seen dead with me, but John was all right. Let me go fishing with them, join in
. When I heard he was dead … Well, I wanted to see if there was anything I could do, maybe try some poking-around of my own.’

  Sipping her drink, Rafferty gazed at Collinson over the rim of her glass. ‘You didn’t trust the police?’

  ‘Why should I? You were treating his death as accidental.’

  ‘No. No, we weren’t.’

  Collinson took a long swallow from his glass.

  ‘Not how it looked to me.’

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You said you’d been poking around. What can you tell us?’

  ‘Bloody rich coming from you,’ Collinson laughed. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be detectives?’

  ‘Come on, Lee. You’re not stupid.’

  Collinson leaned back in his chair, gazing into the fire. ‘Some people might not agree.’

  ‘You made a mistake. You served your time.’

  ‘I killed a man.’

  Rafferty sighed. ‘We know you did. You hit another car head on when you were answering your phone, a call from your ex-girlfriend to say your son was seriously ill. Meningitis, wasn’t it?’

  ‘He … Yes.’ Collinson’s shoulders hunched, as if to ward off a blow.

  ‘And your son died, didn’t he, Lee?’

  Collinson raised his head, his eyes bright with tears. ‘Yeah. The judge only gave me two years. Felt sorry for me, I reckon. He shouldn’t have done.’

  For a few seconds, no one spoke. With an impatient movement, Collinson dashed his hand across his eyes. ‘Anyway, we’re not here to talk about me.’

  ‘So tell us.’

  ‘About Mackie’s death? I don’t know anything. Tell you what, though. Everyone staying at the shelter has a secret.’ Collinson tapped his nose.

  ‘We all have secrets,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘True. You’ll have spoken to them all, I suppose?’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘You have,’ Collinson repeated. ‘Do you know why Mackie was killed?’

  Rafferty shook her head. ‘Come on, Lee. We’re asking the questions.’

  Collinson tipped his head to the side, mock-hurt.

  ‘And we were getting on so well.’

  ‘Why might Mackie have been murdered?’

  Collinson finished his first pint and drank a third of the one Rafferty had bought before replying. ‘People talked to Mackie. I don’t know why he was killed, but I do know this: people confided in him. Even back when I was a kid, I could see it. He always had a girl on the go because he knew how to listen, and he knew how to talk to people.’ Collinson swallowed more beer. ‘What about your colleague?’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’ Zaman asked.

  Collinson lowered his voice. ‘The one who was stabbed. Did you know there’s a bloke on the market who sells second-hand phones?’

  Rafferty nodded. ‘We’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘Right.’ Collinson ducked his head.

  ‘Mr Collinson? Do you have information?’ Rafferty was stern.

  ‘No, no. Wanted to mention it. Should’ve known you’d have it covered.’

  Rafferty gave him a long stare. ‘If you wanted to get out of Phoenix House at night, could you?’ Collinson rubbed his chin, considering it. ‘You could do, I suppose. I’ve never done it, mind.’

  ‘But it’s not impossible?’

  ‘Impossible?’ Collinson met Rafferty’s eyes. ‘No. I’d say easy.’

  32

  Jasmine had disappeared, lost in a laughing, jostling crowd of students, and Catherine had lost sight of Ghislaine too. So much for her undercover investigation – she hadn’t been able to follow them for more than ten minutes. Pathetic.

  Catherine stood back, close to the water’s edge, allowing another group of people pass. They were older, more her own age and she remembered the night she’d spent with Ellie and her colleagues in the city. It was less than a week ago, but it seemed much longer. She hadn’t phoned Ellie, not even to update her on Anna’s condition. She should have done, she knew, but the reluctance had returned. Ellie deserved better than her.

  She zipped her jacket, hunching her shoulders against the cold. She was by the water, at the side of the Brayford Pool. There were restaurants, bars, even a cinema. It was an area where Catherine had felt comfortable, enjoyed visiting. Groups of friends, couples, all of them out for a good time. Had Jasmine even passed this way? It was doubtful she had the money for a night out, but it was possible. She could be meeting someone, one of the men she had been teased about the night before perhaps. Catherine considered it, but dismissed the idea. Too public. They weren’t far from the bus or train station here – it was possible Jasmine had left the city centre altogether.

  Catherine rubbed her hands together, the cold biting at them. It was mid-afternoon, but the sky had darkened, threatening rain. She knew she had been lucky to have a bed at the shelter. The lack of privacy, of comfort, had been nothing compared to what she would have had to endure if she had slept out on the street. Not for the first time, she considered how people survived this life. At least she would go home eventually. For Ghislaine, for Jasmine and the others, there was no such certainty. No one should have to live like this. She remembered reading the average life expectancy for a homeless man in England was forty-seven years, forty-three for a woman. After only two days on the street and one night at the shelter, Catherine could see why. She was already struggling.

  She had enough money to go inside one of the bars, grab a drink as she had the previous evening. The prospect held no appeal, alone as she was. Even Rafferty’s company would be preferable. She remembered the night before, Rafferty’s unexpected appearance in the pub. Catherine still wasn’t sure why Rafferty had arrived to see her in person. Perhaps they were keeping an eye on her? They could track her movements, but not her actions, or state of mind. Perhaps her mental health was what they were worried about. Rafferty hadn’t been friendly, but her manner had been less cold than on their previous meetings. She had confided a little about her personal life, even admitted to being tired. Perhaps Rafferty was human, after all.

  Catherine knew she should be talking to people, searching for clues about Mackie’s murder, about Anna’s stabbing. Instead she was hiding here, her heart thumping, her hands trembling, wanting nothing more than to turn her back on the city and run.

  Taking her phone, her personal mobile, from her bag, she selected a number, ending the call before it connected. She knew she had been too harsh when she’d spoken to Jonathan Knight earlier, but what had he expected? He’d treated her like a wayward child, ferrying her back to Headquarters as if she were incapable of thinking for herself. She smiled. Perhaps she was. Over the past few weeks, months even, she had felt herself slipping away. Now, the decline was welcome, almost comforting. She wouldn’t fight it.

  She took a few breaths, attempting to steady the tumble of her thoughts, and lifted the phone to her ear again.

  ‘Catherine?’ His voice was quiet, as if he didn’t want to be overheard. She didn’t speak, staring out over the expanse of water. The churning mass of dread crawling through her body couldn’t be described, not in any words she was familiar with. ‘Are you there?’ Knight asked. ‘Where are you, Catherine?’

  ‘Brayford Wharf,’ she managed to whisper, though he would be able to find her if he wanted to. He had earlier.

  ‘I’m coming. Stay where you are.’

  She pushed the phone into her jacket pocket as she stumbled towards a nearby concrete bench. Why had she called him? Only a few hours before, she had told him to leave her alone. Knight couldn’t help her. He had his own problems, his own concerns. She wrapped her arms around her body, her gaze fixed on the ground. Behind her, people hurried by, chatting and laughing. Catherine was oblivious. Dragging her focus away from the torment of her own mind was, in that instant, impossible. She felt as though she had been tied to a post and left to wait for high tide, as if she was watching the waves ebb ever nearer, slowly eroding her
intelligence, her personality. Whatever made her the person she was, or had been.

  *

  He didn’t speak at first, but sat beside her, taking both of hands in one of his own.

  ‘Shall we get you out of here?’ Knight asked at last. She couldn’t reply, but she got to her feet and he followed. Her legs were leaden, her mind blank, as if she were watching the scene unfold without being part of it. Knight took her arm, supporting her as they walked. He had parked as close as he was able, a multi-storey car park by Brayford Wharf. When they reached his car, Knight opened the passenger door, and slowly, carefully, Catherine climbed inside. Knight slammed the door, got into the driver’s seat and put on the heater.

  ‘Catherine, you need to go home,’ he told her. ‘This can’t go on.’

  ‘One more night,’ she said, barely opening her lips.

  ‘Rafferty and Zaman are due in the incident room soon,’ Knight told her. ‘Why don’t you come back with me? There’s a briefing in an hour. Talk to DCI Dolan again. They may not need you out here now. She did say you didn’t have to do this anymore.’

  ‘Fine,’ Catherine whispered. Her head ached, and she leaned forward, pushing her fingers through her hair. Knight started the engine, giving her no time to change her mind.

  33

  Giles Melis, Dolan’s least favourite detective sergeant, was digging crisps from a packet and pushing fistfuls into his mouth as Dolan entered the briefing room. She wrinkled her nose as the stench of cheese wafted towards her from his orange-stained fingers.

  ‘Wash your hands, Melis,’ she ordered. He grinned, taking his now customary seat at the front of the room as Dolan gazed out at the sea of officers. When everyone was seated, she gestured towards the photo of Anna Varcoe, still smiling down on them.

  ‘Anna’s hanging on in there,’ she told them. ‘Who has something to report?’

  Melis waved his hand.

  ‘Go on.’ Mary Dolan treated him to her best hard stare.

  ‘I spoke to a man on the phone who’d seen our e-fit in the local paper,’ Melis told them. ‘It jogged his memory.’ He paused, turning in his chair to check his colleagues were listening.

  ‘Get on with it,’ Dolan barked.

  Melis smirked.