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

by Lisa Hartley

  For much of her life, Jasmine had been powerless. She’d had mates of course, but all out for what they could get. No one she could trust, who didn’t have one eye on what she could do for them. Except Ghislaine. Jasmine visualised her wandering the streets until Phoenix House opened its door, curling on the settee with a book and a hot drink, as Jasmine had seen her so many times before. She deserved better. Perhaps when Jasmine had found a flat in her new city, wherever it might be, she would give Ghislaine a call. She’d been a good friend.

  Jasmine powered up the last few steps and emerged onto the roof level of the car park. There were lights here and there, but the area was mainly in darkness. Despite her bravado, Jasmine felt a flicker of fear. The lights shone bright around Brayford Wharf beneath her. The moon was clouded as she walked to the barrier which enclosed the car park and peered over the edge. Far below, people scurried, all of them with a destination, and a home to go to at the end of their evening. Jasmine turned away. She wanted what they had. It was the real reason she was here. The council had been promising a flat for months, but it hadn’t happened. How long was she expected to wait? How long could she dangle there, trapped between one life and the one she wanted, the one she now knew she deserved? No. Better to act, to grab her fate in her hands. And he was giving her the chance to do it.

  She supposed she should be grateful.

  Checking the time again, she blew on her hands. A cold wind was numbing them. Nearby, an estate car was parked. Jasmine had no idea of the make or model, but it was huge, and would provide some respite from the biting wind. She ducked behind it, tucking her numb hands under her armpits, hoping he wouldn’t be long.

  Beyond the car was the lift. As she waited, she heard the mechanism move. Maybe she should move away from the car. If its owners were on their way back to claim it, how would she explain her presence here? There were no other vehicles in this corner, meaning she couldn’t claim to have been confused about where she’d parked. Jasmine moved quickly, hugging her rucksack close to her chest, panic thumping through her veins. Five more minutes, she told herself. Five more minutes and he would have arrived, their business would be complete and she would be on her way. Hotel room tonight, train out of here tomorrow.

  Soundlessly, the doors slid open. Jasmine caught her breath as she recognised him. No need to panic. He was here, and was carrying a padded envelope, as he’d promised. Inside would be her cash, her ticket to freedom.

  He strode towards her, confident as always, with the familiar half-smile in place. She’d come to hate it. As he approached, Jasmine backed away a few paces, aware again of how exposed she was. The two of them, high above the rest of the city.

  ‘Come on, Jasmine, let’s get this over with.’ He held out the envelope. ‘It’s all here, as we agreed, like I promised. Do you have my property?’

  She held out her rucksack. ‘How are we going to do this?’ she asked. He smirked.

  ‘What, don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Do you need to ask? About as much as I’d trust a rattlesnake.’

  He stuck out his lower lip. ‘I’m hurt. All right, if you’re going to be awkward, how about this? I’ll put the envelope on the ground. You pick it up, count the money, leave your rucksack in its place, walk away.’

  ‘But I need the rucksack.’

  He cupped a hand around his ear. ‘Pardon?’

  Jasmine stared, overcome with hatred. ‘I need the rucksack. I don’t have anything else to put my stuff in.’

  Laughing, he shook his head. ‘I should have realised. Not a matching luggage set kind of girl, are you? Fine. Take my property out of the bloody rucksack. Put it on the ground – is it in a bag?’ She nodded. ‘Good. Put it on the ground, then go. I don’t want to see your face around here again.’

  ‘You won’t.’ Not a fucking chance, you bastard.

  He stepped forward, placed the padded envelope on the tarmac between them. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he muttered as he stepped away.

  Jasmine watched him warily. The envelope looked thick enough, but for all she knew it was filled with blank pieces of paper. She would have to bend to reach it, and would be vulnerable. She took a hesitant step forward. He made a gesture of impatience with both hands.

  ‘Come on, we don’t have all night. Get on with it.’

  He was as tense as she was. The realisation gave her comfort, and she took another step. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. She darted out a hand and snatched at the envelope, moving away before tearing it open.

  Twenty pound notes, used, loads of them. She looked at him, and he grinned.

  ‘There you go. Easy peasy. Now it’s your turn.’

  ‘Fine.’

  She slid the carrier bag from the rucksack where she had kept it safe. This was her trump card, and without it she was lost. But she had her money. Time to run.

  The bag hit the tarmac with a clatter, and he whipped his head around.

  ‘Can’t you do it quietly? Fucking hell.’

  She tossed her hair. ‘You never said. Right, we’re done. See you around.’

  He snorted. ‘Hope not.’

  She shoved the envelope deep into the rucksack as she walked away, resisting the temptation to run. Relief bubbled in her throat, tears blinding her for a second. It was happening. She was leaving, free to go wherever she chose.

  ‘Jasmine.’ Ten paces. He’d allowed her to take ten paces.

  She froze, the rucksack cradled in her arms. She didn’t want to turn her head, didn’t want to see his face.

  ‘Jasmine. Look.’

  Cursing him in her head, she halted. ‘What?’

  ‘You won’t know unless you turn around.’

  Slowly, knowing she was making a mistake, she turned her head. Why was she listening? Why was she allowing him to do this?

  Because she was weak. She was weak and worthless and he knew it, knew exactly how to manipulate her to his advantage. He held out a syringe. Jasmine swallowed, knowing she should run.

  ‘What is it?’ she heard herself ask.

  He tutted.

  ‘As if you don’t know. Your favourite.’

  She turned away. ‘Not anymore.’

  ‘Come on, Jasmine. Once an addict, always an addict. You’re all the same.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Jasmine snarled.

  ‘That’s not nice, especially when I’ve brought you a present. Are you telling me you don’t want it?’

  ‘Yep. I’m leaving.’

  He laughed. ‘Come on, Jasmine. You’re going to walk away from this?’

  Jasmine tried to shut out his voice. Keep going, she told herself. Don’t listen to him.

  ‘Okay, your loss.’

  The warmth. The delicious, luxurious warmth. Jasmine pressed her lips together, ignoring the voice in her head telling her one last hit wouldn’t hurt. She wouldn’t do it.

  Unbidden, the memories flooded her brain. No worries, no pain. The wonderful sensation of being held, cradled. Warm, loved and secure. The outside world fading to a point well beyond anything meaningful. Beautiful, blissful absence. Jasmine slowed, hesitated. Would it hurt? Would it matter? Did any of it matter? One last time. She could stop again, she knew. She’d done it before. She could always stop.

  He was waiting, holding the syringe out to her with a smile.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

  36

  DCI Mary Dolan held her head in her hands and groaned.

  ‘This is a nightmare,’ she complained. The incident room was quiet after she had ordered most of the officers assigned to her home earlier. On the desk in front of her was a half-eaten slice of pizza, melted cheese greasing its way across the paper napkin. Since DS Rafferty had phoned, Dolan had lost her appetite. The list of suspects in the John McKinley case had rapidly gone from being non-existent to stretching as far as the eye could see. Giles Melis sank his teeth into his third slice of pizza.

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  Dolan looked at him through her
fingers.

  ‘Not your case.’

  ‘Sounds like you need all the help you can get.’ He pulled a wad of tissue from his trouser pocket and wiped his hands.

  ‘Zaman and Rafferty should be here soon, and we can work out how we’re going to weather this particular shitstorm.’ Dolan lifted her pizza and took a bite.

  ‘I couldn’t do your job.’

  ‘Good thing no one’s asked you to then.’

  ‘What are those marks on your wrists?’

  ‘None of your bloody business.’

  Melis held up his hands.

  ‘All right, keep your hair on. Looks like you’ve been shackled - not something you see every day. If you don’t want to talk about, I’ll be quiet. Maybe wear longer sleeves in future, hey?’

  He stood. In one movement, he balled his paper napkin and lobbed it towards the bin in the corner, where it bounced against the rim and nestled inside.

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Dolan kept chewing, watching as he straightened his tie and collected his jacket from the back of a nearby chair.

  ‘Goodnight, Melis,’ she said as the door thudded behind him. She closed her eyes, as exposed as if he’d walked in on her in the shower. She was usually careful about keeping her scars concealed, though she was sure Catherine Bishop had seen them too. Luckily, there was no way either Bishop or Melis would be able to find out how she’d got them. The truth was classified - buried under many layers of bureaucracy, it had disappeared. Only the scars on her wrists and the ones in her head remained to tell the tale.

  *

  Zaman dove for the pizza as soon as he entered the room. Dolan watched, amused, as he sank his teeth into a slice and closed his eyes.

  ‘Starving,’ he mumbled.

  ‘What’s all this about ACC Clement?’ Dolan pushed the pizza box towards Rafferty. ‘Eat, Isla, for God’s sake. You’ll disappear.’

  Rafferty took a piece, nibbling at it as she explained what Dawn McKinley had said. Dolan listened as she ate another slice of pizza.

  ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I want to bother ACC Clement tonight, or the Chief Constable. I suppose I’ll have to speak to him too.’

  ‘Neither of them has mentioned knowing John McKinley?’ Rafferty asked.

  Dolan shook her head.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to Chief Constable Southern though.’ There was a silence. ‘Was Dawn McKinley serious about her ex-husband and his mates falling out over a woman?’

  ‘She seemed to be, though she was falling asleep, or passing out, more likely.’

  ‘We need to identify this woman. She could be important.’

  Dolan gave Zaman and Rafferty a hard stare. They should have come back with a name, and they knew it. Zaman looked away, blushing, but Rafferty refused to be cowed.

  ‘I doubt Dawn McKinley knew any more than she told us, Ma’am.’

  ‘Fine. Go back to Pat Kemp, but we need to know who she is. Something triggered an argument, and I want to know what.’ Dolan grabbed a pen and piece of paper. ‘Now,’ she wrote John McKinley’s name in the centre of the page and drew a circle around it. ‘Suspects?’

  ‘Everyone associated with Phoenix House, including the Kemps, Danny Marshall and the soup kitchen vicar.’ Zaman sounded exhausted.

  Dolan dropped her pen.

  ‘All right, point taken. Who benefits from Mackie’s death? Obviously, I don’t mean financially.’

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t rule out a financial motive yet,’ Rafferty said.

  Dolan glanced at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s been suggested McKinley was killed because he knew something. What about blackmail?’

  ‘McKinley was blackmailing whoever killed him, you mean?’

  ‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Worth considering, yeah. But I’m not sure any of the residents of Phoenix House could stretch to paying a blackmailer,’ said Dolan.

  ‘You knew him, Ma’am, years ago. Can you see him resorting to blackmail?’ Zaman asked.

  Dolan frowned. ‘It’s hard to say. Back then, he had a job, security. After a few years on the street, who knows.’

  Rafferty glanced towards the door. ‘The Chief Constable could afford to pay a blackmailer.’

  ‘As could the ACC,’ Dolan said, remembering her conversation with Clement. The information Dawn McKinley had provided threw a new, more sinister light on his warning about removing her from the case. What if Clement himself was involved? He wouldn’t be the first high-ranking officer to be drowned in scandal. ‘Shit. How the hell am I going to play this? We need to know more. There’s no way I can talk to Clement or Southern yet.’

  ‘You don’t seriously believe …?’ Zaman looked surprised.

  ‘No, I don’t, but we have to cover every angle. Clement and Southern being who they are shouldn’t affect how we treat them.’ Dolan hoped her voice carried more conviction than she felt. Even approaching the two men might mean career suicide - it was the stuff of nightmares. ‘Let’s tread carefully. We’ll speak to Pat Kemp again – I’ll go and see him myself. I’ll ask why he didn’t mention the nights out with John and Dawn McKinley, and the rest.’

  ‘If they only went out a few times, Kemp may have genuinely forgotten,’ Zaman said. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’

  As Dolan spoke, there was a knock on the door, and a uniformed officer stuck his head around it.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt. Are you the team from Nottingham?’

  Alarmed by his tone, Dolan was already on her feet.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  He came further into the room, blinking at them.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am, I was told to inform you immediately. One of your witnesses has been found dead.’

  37

  Two hours after the body had been found, Dolan was finally allowed to see it. There was a lift to the top floor of the car park, but it stopped working at ten pm. No vehicle was allowed into the car park at that hour either, meaning both Jasmine and her attacker would have to have arrived on foot. This meant the only way Dolan could view the body was to use the stairs. Since they were also the only way Jasmine Lloyd and her murderer could have accessed the sixth floor, Dolan had to wait until the crime scene manager was satisfied any evidence had been collected, or preserved. Kicking her heels before she could see the body, Dolan had sent officers to speak to the couple who had discovered the victim, and whose car was still parked on the roof level. They had been taken to the nearby county hospital, such was their distress on finding Jasmine’s body. Other officers were retrieving the data from the cameras in and around the car park, which would tell them which vehicles had accessed it, since all number plates were automatically recorded. They might even catch a glimpse of the person who had ended Jasmine’s life, but Dolan wasn’t counting on it. Other members of her temporary team were tracking Jasmine’s movements, retracing her steps. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was necessary. She had also phoned Jonathan Knight, who was on his way back into Lincoln. Rafferty and Zaman were waiting to go to Phoenix House to break the news to the people who knew Jasmine, as soon as her identity was confirmed. Dolan swallowed as she gazed at the night sky. Was this latest death her fault? The investigation hadn’t progressed as quickly as she would have liked. If she had kept her temper earlier, hadn’t sent everyone home, would Jasmine still be alive? It was too late now, but the thought lingered in her mind. Dolan knew it would take root there.

  Having struggled into one of the white crime scene suits, including face mask, hairnet, hood and bootees, Dolan hurried up the stairs when she was finally given clearance. By the time she reached the final flight, she was breathing heavily.

  On the top floor, she was intercepted by a stocky figure, kitted out in the same rustling white outfit as herself.

  ‘DCI Dolan? Pleased to meet you. I’m Mick Caffery, crime scene manager.’

  ‘I’m told we’re in safe h
ands with you.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. You know of the victim?’

  ‘We’ve spoken to her several times. Jasmine Lloyd?’

  ‘That’s what the bank card in her purse says. You’ll be able to tell us for sure?’

  ‘I’ve not spoken to her myself, but I’ve seen a mugshot.’

  ‘She’s been arrested before? Her prints will be in the system, should speed up the identification process. The pathologist is with her – Jo Webber.’

  Dolan looked over to the far side of the car park, where several more figures in white suits were busy. A large light had been erected, illuminating the dingy corner. Dolan couldn’t see the body, and presumed it was hidden behind the shadowy vehicle parked one of the bays.

  ‘Can I go over there now?’

  Caffery replaced his face mask. ‘If you keep to the footplates.’

  Dolan hurried across the tarmac, careful to step on the plastic footplates Caffery’s team had laid. They enabled the crime scene investigators and anyone else whose presence was necessary to move around the scene without compromising any evidence. Under the harsh glare of the spotlight, another white-suited figure crouched. Dolan approached quietly, aware as always of being in the presence of someone who had had their life snatched away. She rounded the car, saw the slumped body. The pathologist stepped back as she heard Dolan’s footsteps.

  ‘Dr Webber?’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ They kept their voices low, in deference to the dead woman.

  Jasmine’s body was propped against the steel railings which ran around the car park. Her eyes were open, staring at the wing mirror of the car parked beside her. Her mouth was closed, a tiny smear of blood on her lips. A canvas rucksack lay by her side. Dolan knew photographs would have been taken, a video recording made before the purse had been removed from the bag and the bank card checked for the name of the victim. She stared at the pitiful scene, the familiar rage building in her chest. A young woman, mid-twenties at the most, lying here dead, discarded like rubbish. Dolan felt the press of guilt again. If she had been a better investigator, would Jasmine Lloyd still be alive? She didn’t know, but it wouldn’t stop her worrying about it. Jasmine’s death had to be linked to John McKinley’s though. It was too much of a coincidence to suppose otherwise. She steadied herself. All she could do now for Jasmine was find the person who had killed her.