by Lisa Hartley
‘Good. Well, I’m sure you’ll have a thousand and one lovely emails to catch up on …’
Catherine took the hint and got to her feet.
‘No doubt. Thank you, sir, for the support when … you know.’
Kendrick waved her away, not quite able to hide his smile.
Catherine worked through her inbox, reading a few emails and deleting the rest. She didn’t seem to have been missed too much. Picking up her mobile phone, she scrolled through the contacts until she reached‘Claire Weyton’.She stared at the screen, knowing she should delete it. Claire was gone. Sipping tea, she brooded. Two uniformed constables who were standing at the other end of the room chatting cast a few glances in her direction. Catherine fought the urge to march up and confront them, but she knew it was futile. She would have to accept the fact that, for a while at least, she would be the talk of the station.
When she’d finished her tea she dialled the number for the Force Headquarters on the outskirts of Lincoln and asked for DI Foster. After a few clicks, his voice, bluff and belligerent, echoed in her ear.
‘DS Bishop? What do you want?’
She hesitated, taken aback by his aggressive tone.
‘Good afternoon, sir. I’d like to talk to you about the case we were …’
He interrupted with a sound of contempt.
‘Would you? Didn’t you do enough damage the first time around?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You know what I mean. You arsed up months of surveillance.’
She laughed, not quite believing what she was hearing.
‘Are you joking? Anyone who was in that house disappeared long before we arrived on the scene.’
‘Not the only cock-up you’ve made recently, though that’s not the right phrase to use where you’re concerned, is it?’ Foster gave a nasty laugh and Catherine could hear voices in the background joining in. Her cheeks flushed and she gripped the receiver.
‘I just wanted to see if I could help.’
‘We don’t want or need your help, Sergeant. Leave it to those who actually know what they’re doing. ’
He slammed down the phone and Catherine was left still holding the receiver to her ear. The venom in Foster’s voice had shocked her, causing a tiny chink in the armour she’d pulled on since Claire’s death. They obviously all knew the full story over at Headquarters. Claire had worked there of course; she had only been in Northolme for a few short weeks as part of another assignment. Catherine felt shaken; Foster’s knowing, mocking tone had uncovered old memories, thoughts and feelings she had thought long buried. Her first few months on the force, keeping her sexuality hidden. Confiding in another new recruit that she had thought she could trust, who had then blabbed to everyone. The comments, the sneers, the looks of pity, some of understanding. No one willing to stick their own neck out enough to sympathise or empathise though. She swallowed, feeling sick. Just when you thought change had happened, that acceptance and equal rights were the norm, a throwaway comment, or unguarded phrase revealed the truth – that some people’s prejudices were still hidden away. Scratch lightly and they would be revealed, sickening and abhorrent, running through them as deeply as bedrock and as eternal as the colour of their eyes.
What could she do though? It was Foster’s case. She had resolved to keep her head down as much as she could, do her job with a fixed smile, however much it might hurt. Was it worth disrupting that, sabotaging her career, damaging it even more than it had been already?
She thought back to what she had heard about the ordeal of the young girls in the brothel, the filth they had lived in, the men they had been forced to service week after week, month after month. Stories similar to many she had heard during her career, but still so affecting, so tragic. Girls in their teens, girls whose lives were blighted, ruined. Girls whose days were endured, not enjoyed. Was she betraying them as well? Foster and his team were on the case, she knew that. He was an experienced officer, and who was she to think she could do a better job than he could? She shook her head, furious with herself. Her feelings about the case, about the betrayal and exploitation of the young women involved wouldn’t help them. She had been blinded and had allowed, for the first time in her career, her personal life to infringe on her working hours.
She had let them down.
Hating herself, she turned back to her emails.
‘Catherine?’ Jonathan Knight was standing in his office doorway, smiling. ‘Could I have a word?’ She got to her feet slowly. ‘Did you speak to DI Foster?’ he asked as she approached. Catherine blushed, her eyes on the grubby carpet tiles.
‘I did, but he wasn’t encouraging. It might be best if I leave them to it.’
From her expression Knight surmised that Foster had said a lot more than that, but he didn’t want to push.
‘I see.’ He met her eyes for once, seeing the hurt there, the betrayal. It would take time for her to come to terms with what had happened, he knew that. Being the talk of the station, if not the whole force, couldn’t be helping. Catherine cleared her throat.
‘How’s the Paul Hughes murder investigation going?’ she asked.
Knight shook his head. ‘Honestly? It’s not. Dead end after dead end. I’m expecting the case to be reassigned, in fact I’m surprised it hasn’t been already. Paul Hughes was a career criminal just like his dad Malc, involved in organised crime and who knows what else. We’re struggling and I don’t think I’ll be given much more time.’
‘But you’ve had experience with the Hughes family, you know how they work.’
‘That might be part of the problem.’
‘How do you mean?’
Knight met her eyes and held them for a few seconds. Having come to a decision, he got up from his chair, stepped across to his office door and closed it. Catherine half-turned in her chair as the DI began to loosen his belt.
‘Don’t worry …’ Knight’s shirt was untucked now and he was unfastening buttons. He turned his back, pulled his shirt up as high as he could, and Catherine gasped as she saw it. A crude tattoo filled the upper right part of Knight’s back; the rough outline of an eye and the initials ‘MH’. For a moment, Catherine couldn’t speak but eventually she managed to stammer, ‘Malc Hughes did that?’
Knight let his shirt fall back to his waist and Catherine looked away as he straightened his clothing before moving back behind his desk.
‘Not personally,’ Knight said, ‘but it was down to him. You can see why I don’t go swimming.’
Catherine managed a smile.
‘But why? What does it mean?’ she asked.
He shook his head.
‘I told you I had some history with the Hughes family, with Malc in particular. His name cropped up in a few cases while I was with the Met and I got a bit obsessed, I admit it. I wanted to bring him down a peg or two and I was careless. This,’ Knight gestured over his shoulder with his thumb, ‘was his way of telling me he knew what I was up to, had seen me coming if you like, and wasn’t going to stand for it.’
‘But … assaulting a police officer?’
‘I don’t know who actually did it, I didn’t see anyone. They grabbed me off the street, I’d just come out of a chippy.’ Catherine had to smile at that, knowing Knight’s fondness for fish and chips. ‘They threw me into the back of a van and blindfolded me. I think I ended up in some garage or workshop. I could smell petrol fumes, oil, that sort of thing. I don’t know how many there were and I couldn’t identify anyone. They gave me a bit of a kicking, then when I was on the ground they did this. I thought they’d cut me at first, it seemed to go on forever. In the end they chucked me back in the van and dumped me at the side of the road.’
Catherine was appalled.
‘So he got away with it?’
‘I never reported it. What would be the point? No witnesses, no names or faces to identify and a million and one people with the initials MH. It wasn’t part of an official investigation, so …’
‘So you might have a motive for
revenge on Malc Hughes yourself?’ Catherine kept her tone light.
Knight met her gaze.
‘He’ll start a life sentence one day, that’ll do for me. Anyway, while Paul Hughes was being tortured and killed, we were on our way to the hospital.’
Catherine closed her eyes for a second.
‘Of course we were.’ she whispered.
6
Two forty-five in the afternoon. Mark Cook raised a hand to his aching neck and rubbed it, wincing. He sat up straight, feeling slightly better than he had a few hours before.
Then he remembered. Lauren. He snatched his mobile from the coffee table, prodding the screen into life. Who could he call? He jumped to his feet, scrolling through his list of contacts.
‘Mark?’ A baby bawled in the background.
‘Steph? Have you heard from Lauren?’
‘What? Wait a minute.’ A few seconds of muffled noise, then the sound of a door closing. Mark paced the living room. ‘What did you say?’ Steph asked.
‘Has Lauren been in touch?’
‘No, why? She’s away, isn’t she?’
‘Yeah, but she should be back in the country at least by now. She’s not answering her phone, I’ve had no texts, she hasn’t rung …’
A silence.
‘I’m sure she’s fine, Mark. She’ll just be hungover, she’s probably asleep on the ferry or at a mate’s house. You know what she’s like. She’ll be home soon, I’m sure,’ Steph told him.
Mark sighed.
‘Yeah, I suppose so. All right, thanks.’
He closed his eyes for a second, wondering who else he could phone.
7
‘Please tell me you’re not growing a beard?’ Catherine asked as she wound a few strands of spaghetti around her fork. Thomas raised a hand to his face.
‘What’s wrong with it? Anyway, it’s not a beard, I just haven’t been arsed to shave for a few days. It wasn’t a priority while we were away.’
She chewed and swallowed, then picked up her slice of garlic bread and gestured to her plate with it.
‘I didn’t realise you could cook, this is delicious.’
He flushed a little.
‘Thanks. Anyone can chop up an onion though, chuck a few herbs in a pan.’
‘I don’t normally bother.’
‘Louise was a good cook, wasn’t she?’
Catherine gazed at him, chewing steadily.
‘Careful, Thomas, you’ve just been nice about her.’
He laughed.
‘It was an accident. Her moving out was the best thing that could have happened to you.’
‘You never liked her, I don’t know why.’
‘Honestly?’ He stood, picked up his plate and took it to the sink, then rinsed it under the tap and set it in the washing-up bowl. With his back to her, he mumbled, ‘I just never thought she was good enough for you, that’s all.’
She spluttered for a few seconds, surprised by his admission.
‘Not good enough for me? How do you mean?’
Thomas shrugged and turned to face her, leaning against the worktop his with hands in his pockets.
‘Always making snide remarks about your work and making you feel guilty.’
Her last mouthful of food finished, Catherine pushed back her chair.
‘I wasn’t always that considerate.’
‘She knew about your job when you met, she shouldn’t have blamed you for doing it.’
‘Well, maybe.’
‘Why are you standing up for her?’
Catherine squirted washing up water into the bowl and turned on the hot tap.
‘Because I feel guilty.’
‘You shouldn’t. I’m guessing what happened between you and Claire was different?’
‘Different? You can say that again,’ Catherine snorted, the conversation with DI Foster still raw.
‘I’m just saying that you deserve better.’
‘I thought I’d found it.’
‘You need to forget Claire too. Move on, Catherine.’
She slammed a couple of forks onto the draining board.
‘I know. I’m trying to.’
He grinned. ‘You know what they say, best way to get over someone is to get under …’
Catherine gave him a shove and he laughed, brushing soap suds from his sleeve.
‘Just because you’ve had more girlfriends than you can remember,’ she retorted, returning to the washing-up. He pulled a sad face.
‘How do you know I’m not heartbroken too?’
Her laugh was scornful.
‘Come on, Thomas, this is you we’re talking about.’
‘It’s true. Why do you think I came rushing over from Manchester? Why I fancied a week in Egypt completely out of the blue, even if it took every penny I had?’
Catherine raised an eyebrow.
‘I thought out of concern for me, but it was because you’ve been dumped? I suppose it had to happen in the end.’ She emptied the water out of the washing-up bowl and squeezed out the dishcloth, setting it on the draining board. ‘So tell me more.’
Thomas picked up the tea towel and dried a plate half-heartedly.
‘I met this woman at the gym, Gina. Little bit older than me, gorgeous …’
‘Usual story so far.’ Catherine smirked.
‘Ha ha. Anyway, I thought things were going well, but one afternoon we were at her house, up in the bedroom and we heard the front door slam. She hadn’t told me she was married.’
‘No …’
‘Oh yes. Turns out her husband is a soldier, bloody huge great big bloke.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I got dressed while she rushed down to distract him, then climbed out of the bedroom window, onto the garage roof, and legged it.’
‘Meanwhile, the neighbour was on the phone reporting you for burglary.’
‘It was a bit of a shock to say the least. Anyway, it gave me a kick up the arse. I was getting sick of Manchester anyway; no job, sleeping on the sofas of anyone who’d have me … I’d had enough.’
‘So here you are.’
‘When you phoned and asked if I could come on holiday, it gave me a chance to get away.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ she shot back.
He shook his head. ‘I was thinking of coming back to Northolme anyway. I need to find a job, get a place to live. Do you think I could stay with you until I get myself sorted? Please?’
‘Of course you can, you know that. Why aren’t you teaching? You’re qualified, why don’t you use it?’
‘I’ve started looking, but I might have to wait a few months. I‘ll go down to the leisure centre in the meantime and see if they’ve got anything, maybe do some lifeguard shifts.’
Thomas had decided to train as a PE teacher when his promising football career had been ended by a knee injury. He dried the last knife and set the tea towel down. Catherine filled the kettle and flicked it on to boil.
‘So what about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘I’m not daft, Catherine. You’re thin, you weren’t yourself on holiday and you won’t tell me what happened with this Claire you’d met. What’s going on? I couldn’t get it out of you while we were in Egypt, but if I’m going to be living here for a while …’
Catherine sighed, taking two mugs out of the cupboard and dropping tea bags into them.
‘I don’t know what to say, Thomas. The last major case I was on was … difficult.’
‘Well I know that, your face had been battered for a start.’
‘All right. Well, it was a murder case. There were two victims actually, and a third man had been attacked.’
‘In Northolme, the land that time forgot? Bloody hell, I’m surprised I didn’t hear about it in the news.’
They took their mugs into the living room. Thomas headed for the armchair and Catherine settled on the sofa, where she grabbed a cushion and held it close.
‘It was in the news, though we tri
ed to keep it as quiet as we could. Anyway, we had no real suspects until Anna and I – you remember Anna Varcoe?’
‘Oh yes, I remember Anna.’ Thomas gave a lascivious grin.
‘Stop that. We called at this house to interview a bloke and found him unconscious – an overdose. When he came to, he told us enough to make it possible for us to work out who we needed to arrest. While it was all going on, I’d … well, I’d met Claire. She’d been working with us at the station for a while.’
‘Aye aye.’
‘She was perfect, Thomas: funny, intelligent …’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Yeah. We’d spent some time together and it was going well. I hadn’t felt like that for a long time, not since Louise and I first met, if ever. Oh, and I’d also spent a night with Louise before I’d got together with Claire. Louise was keen for us to try again.’
‘Bad idea.’
‘Well, I was thinking about it.’
‘Until you met Claire?’
‘Yeah. Then Louise found out I was seeing Claire and sent me a text telling me to never contact her again.’
‘No great loss.’
‘It was awful though. I didn’t want to hurt her, but when I met Claire, it was just …’
‘Spare me the details. You liked her, she liked you, you had butterflies in your stomach when you saw her, you spent every minute you could in bed …’
‘Thomas!’
‘I know how it is. So what went wrong?’
Catherine laughed a little. ‘You might well ask.’ She reached forward and took a tissue from the box on the coffee table. Thomas looked concerned.
‘If it’s going to upset you, Catherine, I’ll mind my own business.’
‘Claire’s dead,’ she told him, her voice choked.
Thomas stared at her
‘I’m so sorry, I never would have …’
‘It’s okay.’ She wiped her eyes, giving her brother a shaky smile. ‘And that’s all I’m going to say.’
‘All right, fair enough.’
‘You know the worst of it though?’
‘What?’
‘I liked her. I liked her a lot, and I thought she felt the same.’
‘It sounds like she did.’
