by Lisa Hartley
Catherine inclined her head. ‘I understand.’
Celia also appeared in the hallway, the five of them cramped together uncomfortably. Mark recovered himself a little and suggested, ‘Shall we go into the living room?’ They all trooped after him and he waved a listless hand towards the three-piece suite. ‘Please sit down.’
Sergeant Bishop unbuttoned her woollen coat. Today’s suit was black, Mark saw, with a pale lilac shirt beneath it. He had no idea why he’d taken note of her clothes; he never usually saw such details. Lauren had moaned at him countless times for not noticing her new dress or haircut. He could hear the clock on the dresser ticking too, as if his senses were somehow heightened. The male police officer was silent. He took a small black notebook from his coat pocket and looked expectantly at Catherine Bishop, who shuffled forward a little.
‘Mr Cook, we’re here because there’s been a development.’ Her voice was formal, precise.
‘Have you found her?’ Celia demanded. Mark’s mouth was suddenly dry. He fought the urge to bolt from the room.
‘I’m afraid not. However,’ DS Bishop glanced at her colleague. ‘With your permission, Mr Cook, we’d like to take some items belonging to Lauren with us, so that we can carry out some tests.’
‘Of course he doesn’t mind, do you, Mark? Anything to find her,’ Celia butted in again.
‘It’s Mr Cook’s permission we need, Mrs Chantry.’ Catherine set her jaw, attempting to keep the bite from her tone. Celia’s eyes narrowed.
‘If you want me to shut up, Sergeant, just say so.’
DC Lancaster’s lips twitched, but he said nothing. Geoff Chantry exclaimed, ‘Celia!’
‘Take anything you like,’ Mark croaked. ‘What do you need?’
‘If it’s okay, I’ll need access to your bathroom and your wife’s clothes and other possessions. We’ll give you receipts for anything we take away, of course.’
‘Will I get them back? When Lauren comes home, she’ll need them.’ Mark’s voice disappeared and Geoff Chantry cleared his throat.
‘Can I just ask what’s changed, Sergeant Bishop? Yesterday, and we do understand why, but you said you couldn’t help us.’
Catherine hesitated, but only for a second. She hadn’t wanted them to know but better to hear it from her now than on the television later on.
‘I’m afraid that a body was discovered this morning.’
Celia gasped, one hand covering her mouth. Mark sat as if turned to stone, his hands on his knees, his mouth open, while Geoff stood and went to the window, staggering slightly. He gazed out onto the tiny front garden.
‘Do you think it’s Lauren?’ he asked.
Celia whispered, ‘No. No, it can’t be.’
‘At this stage, we just don’t know. I’m sorry.’ Catherine’s voice was gentle.
‘There she is, her picture’s on the wall, I’ve got hundreds more on my phone.’ Mark exploded. ‘How can you not know? Is it Lauren or not?’ He got up, strode across to the opposite wall, yanked down a wedding photo and shoved it under Catherine Bishop’s nose. ‘Here she is, look. Is it her? Tell me!’ She looked up at him, perfectly calm.
‘Mr Cook, please sit down.’
He paced restlessly. ‘You’ve eyes in your head, just tell me. Is my wife dead?’
Geoff Chantry said, ‘Mark, please. Let them do their job.’
Mark rounded on him. ‘Come on, Geoff, how hard can it be? Is it Lauren or isn’t it?’
Catherine was on her feet now. ‘Mr Cook, please sit down. If you’ll listen to me I’ll explain as much as I can. I’m sorry to say, there is a possibility that the woman we’ve found is Lauren. We need some of her possessions so that we can either confirm her identity, or rule the possibility out.’
Mark stumbled over to the armchair and sank into it. ‘You mean you can’t tell by looking? What sort of state is she in?’ His head span, and he knew he had to be careful.
Catherine shook her head as Celia began to sob.
‘Please, Mr Cook. The sooner you give me your permission, the sooner we can answer your questions.’
He slumped forward, his head in his hands. ‘I’ve already said, take anything you want.’
‘Thank you. It shouldn’t take long. Could you tell me if Lauren has any tattoos or other distinguishing marks please? And her blood group, if you know it?’
‘She doesn’t have tattoos, she doesn’t like them.’ Mark’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘No scars or anything like that. I don’t know her blood group.’
‘It’s A positive,’ Celia told them, her voice choked. Lancaster noted it down.
‘Thank you. I’m going to go upstairs now if that’s okay – I’ll just be a few minutes.’
Mark Cook gave a listless nod and Catherine turned away, just wanting to be out of there now. Lancaster followed her out of the room.
Back in the hallway, Catherine closed her eyes for a second, running a hand across her mouth.
‘I’ll nip up to the bathroom and see if she’s left her toothbrush, or there might be a hairbrush,’ she whispered. ‘You stay here and make sure none of them leave the room.’
Lancaster nodded and Catherine turned to go up the stairs. She trod lightly, trying to make her presence as unobtrusive as possible. Marching into people’s lives and turning them upside down wasn’t part of the job she enjoyed, but it was unavoidable. They’d usually been turned upside down already.
Slipping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, she glanced around. Four doors opened off the landing. One was ajar and she poked her head around it. It was the bathroom, painted in a light blue with sparkling white tiles, very clean with a lemony scent slightly masking the stronger smell of bleach. She stepped over to the wash basin, also white and set into a wooden unit. Squatting down, she opened the cupboard doors. There was only one toothbrush, standing in a small glass - a green one. Catherine wrinkled her nose. It had to be Mark’s but she needed to be sure. She went to the top of the stairs and called, ‘Dave?’ Lancaster appeared. ‘Can you check with Mr Cook if this green toothbrush is his, please?’
‘Will do.’
There was a murmur of voices and then Lancaster called, ‘It is. Lauren’s is grey but she took it with her.’
‘Thank you.’
She glanced in the cupboard again. Shower gel, shampoo and various cold and flu remedies. She left the bathroom and opened the next door along. A double bed just fitted inside, and there was a wheeled suitcase parked in the corner. Spare bedroom. She closed the door. The next one opened to reveal an airing cupboard. Catherine had a quick poke through the stacks of towels and sheets, but there was nothing of interest. She turned to the final door.
The master bedroom was tidy, not even any clothes hanging on the back of the chair that stood in front of the dressing table. Catherine couldn’t see a hairbrush, though she supposed Lauren would have taken that too. She opened the drawer in the nearest bedside cabinet. A couple of battered paperbacks, a box of tissues. She opened the cupboard underneath. A hot water bottle. A tiny teddy bear. She moved around to the other side of the bed. In the drawer: a packet of paracetamol capsules and a box of contraceptive pills with one month missing. Again, Lauren would have packed those. The cupboard contained a few more books and some old birthday cards. Pulling back the duvet, she examined the pillows. Sure enough, there was a long blonde hair on the one nearest to her. Picking it up, she held it to the light. It looked like the root was attached. She slipped an evidence bag from her jacket pocket and placed the hair inside, then sealed it. There were two wardrobes, his and hers. There didn’t seem to be too many clothes missing from Lauren’s, but it was hard to tell. Catherine hesitated for a moment before moving over to the chest of drawers. Underwear in the top one. Socks and tshirts in the next. She opened the bottom drawer. A pile of letters, documents, certificates. Mark’s passport. No sign of Lauren’s though. Interesting. Catherine sat back on her heels. She needed a personal item which might help them obtain Lauren’s fingerprint
s, but what? The hair would be fine for DNA, but fingerprints would be quicker. Back to the bathroom then. A deodorant? She bagged one, then a bottle of fruity shower gel, hoping that would give them enough.
She took her hoard downstairs, where Lancaster was waiting to write the receipts. Then Catherine went back into the living room while Dave took the items out to the car. The Chantrys and Mark Cook were just as she’d left them, all three looking like they had been punched in the stomach.
‘So what happens now?’ asked Mark.
‘As soon as we have news we’ll be back to inform you.’
‘More of your procedures?’ Celia Chantry spat.
‘I’m sorry. I know this is incredibly difficult …’
‘You know nothing.’
Catherine fastened her coat. She wasn’t going to allow the other woman’s hostility to get to her, knowing it wasn’t personal.
‘I understand you’re distressed, Mrs Chantry.’
‘How can you?’
Geoff Chantry went to his wife, sat beside her and drew her close. He looked up at Catherine.
‘As soon as you know … Please?’
She nodded, feeling a little choked though she’d been in similar situations countless times.
‘I can promise you that.’
‘Thank you.’
Mark Cook stood as if in a daze. Catherine touched his arm.
‘I’ll see myself out, Mr Cook.’
Back in the car, Dave started the engine.
‘How do you do that?’ he asked as he pulled away from the kerb.
‘What?’
‘Stay so calm, keep your temper.’
Catherine glanced at him.
‘Come on, Dave, how long were you in uniform? You do it too.’
‘It’s not the same though, is it? It’s not like ignoring some drunk who’s giving you a mouthful because you’ve just chucked his mate in the back of a van on a Saturday night. It’s a different kind of control.’
‘Is it?’ She’d never thought about it. ‘I just remember that the people we’re dealing with are victims, one way or another. It’s also about how I’d want to be spoken to if I was in their place.’
‘Even if they’re winding you up?’
‘Like Mrs Chantry, you mean? She’s worried, scared. If having a go at me helps her deal with all that, then fair enough.’
‘It doesn’t bother you?’
‘Yeah, it does, but she’s just hitting out because you’re there. You’re representing police involvement, meaning that what’s happened is out of her control, out of her experience.’
Dave was quiet, thinking about it.
‘My grandparents were burgled once,’ he said after a while, his voice reflective. ‘This copper came, few years off retirement. He was rude, made them feel like they were wasting his time. He more or less told them that it was hopeless, that there wasn’t much he could do and they might as well get used to the fact that they’d never get their stuff back. They took jewellery that my great-grandma had brought into the country as a refugee, my great-grandad’s medals – sentimental value, but it hurt them. It hurt a lot.’ Catherine nodded, not wanting to interrupt. ‘My grandad died soon after. I’m not saying that it was because of the burglary, but … Anyway, when I told my grandma I wanted to join the force, she reminded me of that copper, not that I’d ever forgotten him.’ He swallowed a couple of times. ‘I just don’t want to be like that, you know?’
Catherine looked at him again; his slim hands with the big knuckles bunched on the steering wheel, the slightly raw skin along his jawline.
‘It’s up to you, Dave,’ she told him. ‘You can climb the ladder, scramble over people, or just do enough. Then again, you can go another way. Your decision.’
He nodded, wrestling with the gearbox as they slowed to approach a junction.
‘I don’t want to look back in fifty years and know I could have done more to help people.’
‘You also don’t want to be burnt out before you’re thirty. You have to know when to let things go as well, close your eyes at night and not see their faces.’
He thought about it. ‘Can you do that?’
Catherine hesitated. ‘No. No, not completely. But you have to try, you have to have a life away from all the crap. A family, a partner. Not let it take you over. You can’t help everyone.’
He was silent, brow furrowed. The ringing of Catherine’s mobile broke through the quiet, a number she didn’t recognise displayed on the screen.
‘Is that DS Bishop, please?’ A male voice, quiet with a hint of an accent originating far away from Lincolnshire.
‘It is.’
‘My name’s Owen Howell, Trevor Foster’s my DI.’
‘Okay.’ Catherine wondered where this was going.
‘It’s just that … Well, I know what Foster said to you, how he spoke. I know how he can be and I wondered … Look, could we meet?’
‘Meet? Why?’
‘Just to talk. I’m on the Ron Woffenden case, you see.’
Catherine frowned. ‘I’ve been told to stay away, to leave you to it.’
‘I know you have. I just thought, if it was me I’d want to know what was going on.’
‘And you’ll tell me?’
‘Can we meet?’ he asked again. She hesitated, knowing she should keep her distance and yet unable to all the same.
‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll text you.’
Catherine slid her phone back into her pocket.
‘All right, Sarge?’ Dave asked.
She nodded. So much for not letting the job take you over.
18
At Moon Pond, Jo Webber listened as Knight explained what little they knew so far.
‘Okay, let’s go and see her,’ the pathologist said.
When they approached, a couple of crime scene investigators moved away. Under the shelter of the tent, the body seemed safer somehow, protected. Knight forced himself to look at the ruined face. Beside him, Jo Webber made a sound in her throat that Knight couldn’t identify. Pity? Anger? It might have been either. Mick Caffery came to stand beside them and they were silent for a few seconds. Knight couldn’t have said what passed through the minds of the others, but he guessed it would be similar to the silent promise he made to the dead woman. It was the same as he had to every victim he’d met since the day he first put on his police uniform: We will find the person that did this to you. It didn’t always happen, but that wasn’t for the want of trying, on his part at least.
Jo Webber squatted and bent closer to the body.
‘What can you tell us about the stomach wound?’ Knight asked her.
‘It’s more an incision,’ Webber replied, peering closer. ‘I’ll examine it during the post-mortem of course, but at the moment I’d say she was cut after she died. That raises some interesting questions.’
‘Such as?’ Mick asked, though he had his own ideas.
‘Well, I’m not seeing an obvious cause of death. No trauma to her head, no signs of strangulation. She could have drowned, but … I’ll take the swabs and other samples now, then I want to get her to the mortuary as we soon as can.’
Mick Caffery nodded. ‘She’s been out here long enough.’
‘Can you give us any idea as to the time of death?’ Knight asked. In his experience, it wasn’t a question on which pathologists were too keen this early, but they needed to get the investigation moving. Jo Webber looked up at him. Although he had only met her a few times before, Knight knew she had a very good reputation in her field.
‘Inspector, you know it’s going to be difficult for me to even give you an estimate. I’d say more than forty-eight hours, but you can appreciate it’s impossible to be more precise at the moment. She didn’t die here, I can tell you that much, and I don’t think she’s been in the pond.’
‘She hasn’t?’ Knight was surprised. ‘But I’ve just asked the DCI to arrange an underwater search.’
Jo shrugged. ‘I’m not saying tha
t you won’t find anything in there, just that she hasn’t been in it. Not submerged for any length of time anyway.’
Mick nodded in agreement. ‘I didn’t think so either but I wanted to wait for you to say so. We’d better still search the pond. Maybe her clothes will be in there.’
There was a rustle as another protective suit joined them. Catherine Bishop stood and watched as Dr Webber swabbed, combed and plucked the samples she needed from the body. Catherine had phoned DI Knight from the car on the way back from the Cook’s house to tell him what she had found out from Lauren’s family, which didn’t amount to much, she had to admit. She gazed down at the dead woman’s blonde hair. Was it the same shade as Lauren’s? It looked it, though it was damp and dirty, the length of weed threaded through it seeming obscene. Blinking, she turned away. She couldn’t tell for sure, and there was no room for guessing. Behind the face mask she swallowed, wishing she had thought to grab a bottle of water from somewhere. Knight turned to her.
‘I think we ought to head back to the station.’
She nodded. DCI Kendrick would have started the wheels in motion but he would want them there too. Dr Webber stood up straight, holding the small of her back for a second.
‘I’ll say two o’clock for the post-mortem,’ she said. ‘That should give us all time to do what we need to in the meantime. Mick?’
‘Yep, fine with me,’ he agreed.
‘I’ll see you then.’ Knight nodded. Catherine flashed a quick smile at Jo and Mick before following Knight, who was making his way back to the outer perimeter where they removed their protective clothing and bagged it. There was a car parked out in the lane and Catherine nodded towards it.
‘Looks like the press have arrived.’
‘Let’s hope they stay out there. Any thoughts?’ Knight asked.
‘I just wish we knew if it was Lauren.’
‘How are her family?’
‘I had to tell them about the body,’ she admitted.
‘Difficult to remove the items we needed otherwise, I’d have thought.’
‘The wound to her stomach’s odd.’
‘It’s an incision, I’m told. Not confirmed until the post-mortem of course, but that was Dr Webber’s first impression.’
