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

by Lisa Hartley

  ‘I told you, Jasmine has never been to my house. Had, I mean.’ Marshall’s mouth trembled. ‘I can’t believe she’s dead.’

  ‘Where were you last night between the hours of nine pm and eleven pm?’

  ‘At home. Playing my video game again.’ Marshall smiled at Zaman, trying to garner some sympathy, but Zaman’s face remained expressionless.

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’ Knight asked. They would soon know, when they received reports about Marshall’s mobile phone. Marshall’s movements, or to be more precise, the movements of his mobile phone, would have been tracked each time his phone “pinged” a telecommunications mast.

  ‘No. As I’ve told you several times, I live alone.’

  ‘We know you’re lying.’ Knight folded his arms, watching Marshall steadily. ‘Are you willing to take the rap for whoever you’re protecting?’

  ‘Must be someone important,’ Zaman said. ‘Or else they know your secrets.’

  There was a tap on the door and Dolan’s head appeared.

  ‘A word please, DI Knight.’

  She was holding a few sheets of paper. Marshall craned his neck, trying to see what was printed on them. Knight stood and slipped out of the room after Dolan. In less than a minute he was back.

  ‘We have some new information,’ he told them.

  The solicitor raised his eyebrows. ‘And are you going to share it with us?’

  ‘Mr Marshall, we now have your mobile phone records.’

  ‘Right …’ Marshall was wary. Knight handed him a photograph.

  ‘Do you recognise her?’

  ‘No. I’ve never seen her before.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah, I told you. Who is she?’

  ‘Her name is Anna Varcoe. She’s a police officer.’

  Marshall dropped the photograph as if it had burst into flames. ‘She’s the woman who was stabbed a few nights ago.’

  ‘You know the name.’

  ‘I saw it in the news. Why are you showing me her picture?’

  ‘My client has already said he doesn’t know this unfortunate woman, Inspector. Can we move on?’

  Knight retrieved the photograph, setting it back on the table. ‘Anna Varcoe is still fighting for her life,’ he told them. ‘Her boyfriend and parents have barely left her side for the past two days and nights.’

  ‘A shame, but I don’t see …’

  Interrupting the solicitor, Knight held up a hand. ‘Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday evening, Mr Marshall?’

  ‘I … I was at home. Playing …’

  ‘Your video game, yes.’ Knight sighed. ‘And I suppose they’ll be no one to corroborate your statement, since you live alone?’

  Marshall flushed. ‘No.’

  ‘You were at home all evening? Between the hours of, say, seven and ten?’

  ‘Yes.’ Marshall stared at Knight, the colour on his cheeks deepening further. ‘You’re not trying to pin the stabbing on me now?’

  ‘We know where you were, Danny. You were in the city centre.’

  ‘What? No, I was at home.’ Marshall turned to his solicitor. ‘He can’t do this, he’s lying. I was at home all night.’

  ‘I’m guessing the inspector believes he can prove your whereabouts, Mr Marshall. Am I correct?’

  Knight nodded. ‘As I’ve told you, we have the data from your mobile. You were close to the street where Anna Varcoe was stabbed, at the time the incident occurred.’

  Marshall gaped. ‘Listen, I … My phone was stolen.’

  Zaman let out a guffaw. ‘How convenient.’

  ‘No, it’s true, I swear. It went missing a while ago. I had to buy a cheap one, couldn’t get out of my contract.’

  ‘Did you report the theft? Do you have a crime reference number?’ Knight asked, sure he already knew the answer. Marshall looked wretched.

  ‘No, I didn’t report it,’ he mumbled. ‘What would have been the point?’

  ‘It wasn’t insured?’ Zaman asked.

  Marshall gave him a baleful look.

  ‘No, strangely enough, it wasn’t insured.’

  Knight leaned his elbows on the table, linking his fingers and resting his chin on them.

  ‘Here’s how it looks, Danny. You’re low on cash. The counselling job can’t bring in much money. You hear a name through your work, you contact them, agree to deal drugs for them.’

  Marshall was shaking his head, his eyes wide. His solicitor tried to intervene.

  ‘Inspector …’

  Again, Knight raised his hand and continued.

  ‘Eventually, you hit on another way to make some cash. You stole phones, wallets and purses at knifepoint. You recruited Jasmine Lloyd to help, promising her drugs as payment.’

  Marshall let out a strangled gasp. ‘No, no …’

  Knight was relentless. ‘And when you realised your crimes were being investigated, you killed Jasmine and planted evidence on her body, hoping she would be blamed for your actions.’ Knight knew it wasn’t true. Thomas Bishop had been certain – Danny Marshall hadn’t stabbed Anna.

  But he knew who had.

  Marshall was sobbing. ‘I’m innocent, you’ve got to believe me.’

  ‘Then tell us the truth,’ Knight bellowed. ‘Tell us who you’re shielding.’

  Marshall’s mouth worked desperately. ‘I can’t.’

  Knight stood, pushed back his chair. ‘Then we can’t help you.’

  He turned and strode towards the door, Zaman on his heels.

  ‘Wait.’ Marshall’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  Knight stopped, turned his head. Marshall gazed at him, as if willing him to understand, his face wet with tears. Knight turned away.

  ‘We’ll speak again soon, Mr Marshall,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your solicitor can talk some sense into you.’

  44

  Rafferty shoved back her chair, her expression triumphant. ‘Got it.’ She waved a slip of paper towards Catherine and leapt to her feet, grabbing her handbag.

  ‘You’ve found a name and address?’ Catherine asked as she hurried after Rafferty, who was now crossing the room towards Dolan’s desk.

  ‘Yeah, both,’ Rafferty said over her shoulder. ‘You won’t believe this.’

  Catherine wanted to ask what she meant, but Rafferty was already halfway across the room. Dolan was reading a report, but she paused as Rafferty held out the piece of paper.

  ‘I’ve found her, Ma’am.’ Rafferty gave Catherine a sideways glance. ‘I mean, we’ve found her - the woman Pat Kemp told us about.’

  ‘Stop calling me Ma’am, Isla, for the billionth time.’ Dolan took the paper and studied it. ‘Bethany Oliver.’ Catherine raised a hand to her mouth as Dolan frowned at the name. ‘Oliver as in …’

  Rafferty was more animated than Catherine had seen her before. ‘As in Ghislaine Oliver. Bethany is her mother. Gives Ghislaine a pretty good motive, wouldn’t you say?’

  Dolan chewed her pen as she considered it. ‘Only if John McKinley attacked her mum.’

  Rafferty refused to be discouraged. ‘She could be planning to kill the other men involved too – Kemp, ACC Clement and the Chief Constable – Russell Southern.’

  Whipping her head around to check who was listening, Dolan hissed, ‘Quietly Isla, for God’s sake.’

  Catherine’s mind reeled as she tried to process what this latest piece of the jigsaw could mean. Could Ghislaine have killed John McKinley? Could she have murdered Jasmine Lloyd, her best friend? Catherine recalled the night before - Ghislaine’s vulnerability, her tears, her body trembling as she fell asleep. She didn’t believe it, and yet she had been wrong before. Catherine knew her judgment had been impaired on previous cases – by lust, by loyalty. Was the fogginess in her mind, the aching, heaviness of her limbs, blinding her now?

  ‘Doesn’t Ghislaine have an alibi for the night John McKinley was killed?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘She arrived at Phoenix House at nine-thirty, went to bed at
eleven and left at eight-thirty the following morning,’ Rafferty said. ‘Since we’ve established it would be easy to sneak out of Phoenix House at night, plus the time of death for McKinley is wide open, I can’t see the alibi matters at this stage.’

  Catherine wanted to ask why the possibility of Ghislaine’s involvement hadn’t been considered before, but decided against it. She would gain nothing from antagonising Dolan, and she knew little of the leads officers other than Rafferty and Zaman had been following. The case had been vague and undefined, the attack on Anna muddying the waters further. If they came to the correct conclusion, the one they could prove in court, did the route they took to get there matter?

  ‘Go and speak to this woman, see what she can tell us,’ Dolan said. ‘We’ll have Ghislaine Oliver brought in.’

  Catherine cleared her throat. She remembered Ghislaine’s words, the catch in her voice as she told her about Jasmine’s actions on the night of Anna’s attack. Had she been telling the truth? Catherine wasn’t going to confide in Dolan or Rafferty about sharing her bed with Ghislaine. Innocent as it had been, she didn’t want them to know, especially if Ghislaine had been deceiving her all along.

  ‘Ghislaine left the shelter early this morning,’ she said. ‘No one seemed to know where she’d gone.’

  ‘Great,’ Dolan groaned. ‘You two, go. We’ll find Ghislaine. I’ll update DI Knight and Adil. Maybe the person Danny Marshall is protecting wasn’t working with Jasmine after all.’

  *

  Rafferty was driving again, more urgently now, nosing out of junctions and not always adhering to speed limits. Catherine watched her change gear, frowning as she concentrated. Stuck with Rafferty again. She would sooner have questioned Marshall, believing the shock of discovering Catherine was a police officer could work in their favour. Instead, she was spending the day as Rafferty’s assistant. She sighed as Rafferty sped across a roundabout. May as well have stayed at Phoenix House.

  ‘Ghislaine mentioned her mum to me once,’ Catherine said, to break the silence. ‘I’d asked if she was okay and she complained I sounded like her mum. She said, “My mum wouldn’t give a shit.”’

  Rafferty made a sound of exasperation, rolling her eyes. ‘And you didn’t mention it?’

  ‘Are you serious? It was a throwaway comment, it meant nothing.’

  ‘Based on what we’ve discovered today, it might.’

  ‘Forgive me for not being psychic.’

  Catherine turned away, hunching her shoulder to provide a barrier between herself and Rafferty, furious. What right did Rafferty have to speak to her as if she were stupid? Catherine closed her eyes. Every right, if Ghislaine had been fooling her.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘The last thing we need is another suspect.’

  Catherine turned, surprised. ‘What do you mean?’

  Rafferty shook her head, frustrated. ‘We’re questioning Danny Marshall, having searched his house, but we know he didn’t stab DC Varcoe. We’ve spoken to different people, most more than once, about John McKinley’s death, and we’re no nearer the truth.’

  ‘They’re not straightforward cases.’

  ‘True. And they involve homeless people, which complicates matters.’

  Catherine felt a sting of resentment. ‘Why?’

  ‘Their mistrust of the police. The transient nature of the community. The drug and alcohol problems.’

  ‘Stereotyping, aren’t you?’ Catherine forced herself to keep her tone civil.

  ‘I’m talking about the people we’ve questioned, not everyone.’

  ‘Sure?’

  Rafferty glanced at her. ‘Catherine, I don’t have a problem with homeless people. I want this mess sorting out. We should have protected Jasmine Lloyd, and we didn’t.’

  ‘We weren’t the only ones,’ Catherine said, remembering Ghislaine’s comments about Jasmine’s mother. ‘Has Jasmine’s mum been to identify her body?’

  ‘Earlier. Made a lot of noise about how she’d had to take time off work, the cost of the train ticket. Didn’t seem in the least upset. Maybe the grief will hit her later, though I doubt it. Lovely woman.’ Rafferty’s mouth twisted.

  ‘Let’s hope Ghislaine’s mum is more helpful.’ Catherine visualised her own mother: homely, kind, keen to be involved in her children’s lives but not interfering. Catherine’s elder brother Richard had died before she was born, and she supposed it could have been easy for her parents to allow their understandable grief and heartbreak to colour the rest of their lives. Catherine had never spoken to her mother or father about how Richard’s death had affected them, she realised. She had been selfish, still playing the part of a child though she was now an adult. It was easy to imagine parents as all-knowing, fearless, when you were young. It took time to realise they were as frail as children, with the same doubts and fears. She resolved to speak to them about it next time she visited them.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Rafferty said. They were driving through a village large enough to support a row of the usual shops – butcher, bakery, hairdresser – as well as a supermarket. As they passed a primary school, hordes of children charging around the playground, Rafferty cleared her throat.

  ‘How do you want to play this?’

  ‘You’re asking me?’ Catherine was surprised.

  ‘You know Ghislaine better than I do. Bethany might confide in someone who knows her daughter.’

  ‘But we know she and Ghislaine aren’t close. Why don’t we meet her first, see how she responds to us being here?’

  Rafferty had slowed the car as they approached a council estate. She eased over a speed bump before replying.

  ‘Agreed. There’s the house.’

  Number seventeen was in the centre of a terrace, with two houses to either side. Unkempt privet hedges divided the small front garden of Bethany Oliver’s house from those of her neighbours. Rafferty nudged the car against the kerb. As they climbed out, they could hear music pounding from the open window of number fifteen, the thumping bass rattling their teeth.

  ‘Relaxing,’ Catherine said.

  Rafferty twitched her lips, waving Catherine ahead of her. The concrete path was cracked, the square of lawn a sickly brownish-green. Mindful of the row emanating from the adjoining house, Catherine hammered the white-painted front door a few times with her fist. Shuffling her feet, she waited.

  Nothing. Catherine tried again. Eventually the door was yanked open and a short, skinny woman appeared in a waft of warm air and cigarette smoke. She drew heavily on her roll-up before pulling it from her mouth.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We’re looking for Bethany Oliver?’

  ‘And you are?’

  Catherine flashed her identification, introducing herself and Rafferty, who was hovering behind her. The woman squinted at them and replaced the roll-up.

  They followed her into a gloomy hall, the music from next door clearly audible through the wall. Catherine made to take off her shoes, but the woman snorted. ‘Shouldn’t bother, love. Beth isn’t houseproud, as you can see. Bloody music.’

  Catherine looked around. The stairs were in front of her, the walls painted a faded magnolia. A spider dangled from the light fitting above her head. Underfoot, a gritty brown carpet languished.

  ‘Do you live here too?’ Rafferty asked.

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, thank Christ. I’m Beth’s oldest sister, Wendy. I drop in now and again, make sure she’s still alive, bring her some shopping.’

  She waved them into a square living room, sparsely furnished. A two-seater settee dominated one wall while a dining table and four chairs stood under the window. There were no books, no TV, no photographs.

  ‘You may as well sit. I’ll ask if she’ll see you, but I doubt she’ll want to,’ Wendy told them.

  Rafferty lowered herself onto the sofa. ‘Is Miss Oliver ill?’

  ‘Yes and no. Her problems are all up here.’ Wendy pointed at her own head. ‘
Agoraphobia, depression, anxiety - you name a mental illness, Beth’s got it. And she’s diabetic.’ As an afterthought, she added: ‘What do you want her for?’

  ‘A chat about her daughter.’ Catherine gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

  Wendy didn’t look convinced. ‘Ghislaine? Selfish little cow. Time she came home to look after her mother.’

  It was a strange comment from someone who could be expected to care about Ghislaine’s welfare. Ignoring the remark, Catherine perched on the sofa beside Rafferty, though she was reluctant. It brought them even closer than they had been in the car, which made her uncomfortable. Rafferty inched away, obviously feeling the same.

  Wendy left the room, thumping up the stairs. They heard a door open, voices. The music still blared, the room stuffy and too warm. Catherine’s vision narrowed. She blinked, bile filling her mouth as the walls lurched and span. The urge to escape was back. She wanted to run, to get out of this horrible house, to leave Rafferty and Wendy far behind. Setting her palms on her thighs, she took some deep, calming breaths.

  ‘Can you come here?’ Wendy’s voice cannoned down the stairs, easily heard above the blaring music. No mean feat.

  Catherine and Rafferty exchanged a glance. In the hall, Wendy was already zipping a thick padded jacket.

  ‘She’s having a bad day, won’t come out of her room. She doesn’t bite.’ She nudged Catherine hard in the ribs. ‘Well, not as far as we know. You don’t need me, do you?’

  Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared through the front door.

  Upstairs, thankfully, the music wasn’t as loud. There were three doors off the landing, two closed and one ajar. Catherine stepped closer and tapped on the latter.

  ‘Miss Oliver?’

  ‘Come in.’

  Pushing open the door, Catherine moved into the room, Rafferty behind her. A double bed filled most of the floor space, with the shadowy shapes of a wardrobe and chest of drawers looming beyond it. The curtains were drawn, the air thick and humid. Catherine smiled at the woman in the bed. Even in the gloom, it was easy to see she was Ghislaine’s mother. The resemblance was unmistakable. They had discovered Bethany Oliver was thirty-eight, which meant she had been seventeen when Ghislaine was born. An idea struck Catherine. Why hadn’t they seen it before? Rafferty might have noticed when she found the record of Bethany Oliver’s arrest, but she hadn’t said so.