by Lisa Hartley
Catherine was horrified.
‘It was deliberate? I thought maybe she’d been caught by a rock in the pond.’
‘Jo Webber says that she doesn’t think the body has been in the water. I’ll see you back at the station.’
Catherine nodded and started to walk away, then stopped and turned back.
‘Jonathan? If the body was never in the water, how did she get the weed in her hair?’
As Catherine and Knight went in through the back door of the station, Rich Smithies appeared in the corridor. He beckoned to them.
‘What’s up, Rich? Someone nicked your last sweet?’
Smithies shook his head.
‘No, thankfully. Just a word of warning: Guess who’s turned up early?’
Knight cleared his throat. ‘DI Shea?’
‘That’s the one. Settling into the Super’s office as we speak. He’s been looking for you, boss.’
‘Right. Thanks, Rich.’ Knight passed his hands over his face.
‘I don’t see what he’s going to achieve that we can’t,’ Catherine muttered under her breath as they climbed the stairs.
‘We’ll see,’ Knight replied.
‘Do you know anything about him?’
‘No. You?’
‘Never heard of him. I’d have said if I had.’
‘No doubt.’ Knight lifted his eyebrows as he pushed open the door at the top of the stairs. Catherine grinned at him.
‘Have you heard from Caitlin?’ Only a month previously, she would never have asked him such a personal question, but the time she’d spent at Knight’s house during their last major case, coupled with his visits to her house while she’d been on sick leave, had brought them closer. He was still looked on as an oddity by most of the station, but people were beginning to warm to him a little, Catherine could see that.
‘I’ve had a couple of emails.’ Knight shrugged, following Catherine across the office. ‘She’s fine, the baby’s fine. That’s about it.’
‘How long until it’s due?’
‘Four months. Towards the end of March, I think.’ The twentieth, Knight said to himself. The twentieth of March. His ex-girlfriend’s pregnancy was occupying his thoughts more and more. As much as he’d tried, he couldn’t fight the attachment he was developing to the child. As Catherine dropped into her chair, Knight headed for the DCI’s office. He tapped on the door, but there was no reply. He turned, frowning. The Superintendent’s office door was also closed, but Knight could hear voices inside. He knocked and the door opened to reveal Detective Inspector Patrick Shea, who strode straight past him, followed by a woman in her early thirties. Shea glanced around the main office with a slight frown as Knight took a step towards him. He had to look up to meet the other man’s gaze; Shea was tall and broad, his belly straining the buttons of his black pinstriped suit. His fairish hair was thinning and his plump cheeks were flushed.
‘You’re DI Knight? Come in, come in.’ He clapped a meaty hand onto Knight’s shoulder and ushered him and the young woman inside the Super’s office, thumping the door closed behind him.
On the other side of the room, Catherine Bishop was making tea. ‘Anyone else?’ she called, knowing she would be met with a volley of responses. She handed out the mugs, leaving Anna Varcoe’s until last. As she approached her desk, Anna glanced up from her computer screen, her cheeks red. Catherine set the cup on her desk.
‘Thanks, Sarge.’ Anna kept her eyes on the monitor in front of her.
‘All right, Anna?’ Catherine sipped from her own mug. Anna nodded and Catherine decided to take pity on her. ‘Anna. What you do outside of work and who you do it with is none of my business. Okay?’
Anna’s cheeks grew even redder as she stammered, ‘Okay, Sarge.’
‘I’m the last person to say anything about who’s going out with who, as you know.’ Catherine’s voice was quiet and Anna met her eyes.
‘I’m sorry about what happened with Claire. We all are.’
Catherine’s smile was an effort. ‘Thank you.’ She walked away a few paces, then turned back. ‘Oh, and Anna?’
‘Sarge?’
‘Don’t give him an inch.’
‘So the car that Paul Hughes was driving was found abandoned in Leicestershire?’ Patrick Shea asked, his protuberant pale blue eyes flickering from Knight to the screen of the laptop he had set on the Superintendent’s desk. Knight noticed that Shea had shoved all of the Super’s belongings, including her silver framed photographs and crystal water glass to one side of the desk. He didn’t think Stringer would be too impressed, especially since Shea had obviously eaten a pasty or sausage roll in here at some point since his arrival. There were pastry crumbs on his shirt front, on the desktop and no doubt on the floor too.
The DS Shea had brought with him, Melissa Allan, sat to one side with a notebook propped on her lap. Her hair had been pulled back into a neat ponytail and her eyes were alert. She wore a grey jacket with a matching skirt and shoes with heels that seemed precarious for someone whose job was anything but predictable. Knight realised Shea was still waiting for him to speak, his eyes wide and his plump lips open.
‘Oh,’ Knight said, trying to remember what Shea had asked him. ‘The car was found at Leicester Forest East services. He was heading back to London, from what we could piece together about his journey. The number plate was recognised at several points between Lincoln and the services.’
‘And you’ve evidence that Hughes was in Northolme on the day we think he was murdered.’
Knight nodded. ‘I saw him myself.’
Shea sat back, threading his stubby fingers together. Knight was quiet, waiting.
Eventually, Shea said, ‘I find it strange that Hughes should be brought back up to Lincolnshire to be killed, don’t you, DI Knight?’
Knight shrugged. ‘It must have been planned beforehand, with the barn where we found his body marked as a suitable place to bring him.’
‘But why here? Why draw attention to Northolme? If we’re presuming, and I think you have been, that the killer or killers of Paul Hughes live in this area, why soil their own patch?’
‘Because they felt more comfortable bringing him onto their own territory? I don’t know. We met a brick wall with pretty much every line of investigation.’ Knight raised a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes. Shea pursed his lips and raised almost invisible eyebrows. His eyelashes were pale too and Knight was reminded of an earnest-looking pig, then had to blink a few times to try to remove the image.
‘Yes, I can see that you had difficulties.’ Shea nodded. ‘DS Allan and I were just discussing how we can best attack this investigation.’
Knight glanced at Allan who sat up even straighter, a hint of a smile playing across her face.
‘Attack?’
Shea waved a plump hand. ‘Address it, approach it. You’re a capable investigator and yet you seem to have struggled.’
‘It’s been challenging, yes.’ Knight kept his voice neutral.
‘How did you come to see Paul Hughes the day he died, Inspector?’ Allan spoke for the first time. Knight turned to look at her again.
‘It’s all been documented. I’d noticed the car a few times that day and thought it might be following me. When I saw it parked in the road out there,’ he nodded towards the window, ‘I went out and took the number plate, then found that it had been hired by one of the companies Malc Hughes owns down in London.’
‘Malc Hughes being the father of Paul?’ Shea waited for confirmation, as if he didn’t know. Knight frowned, feeling uneasy. He didn’t like the way this was going. ‘And what did you do then?’ Shea frowned, pleading ignorance.
‘As I’ve said, you can read it for yourself; no doubt you already have. I approached the car. Paul Hughes recognised me and drove away. The next time I saw him he was dead.’ Knight took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. The image of Hughes in that place was one he would never forget.
‘And you didn’t see Paul Hughe
s again until you were called to the scene where his body had been discovered?’ Shea’s voice was polite, as if he were offering Knight a cup of tea.
‘I’ve already said so. Just what are you implying?’ Knight asked. Shea looked horrified.
‘Nothing, nothing at all. I’m establishing the facts.’
‘The facts have already been established. Cameras picked Hughes up leaving Lincoln. He stopped for petrol near Newark, then joined the M1 somewhere between Nottingham and Leicester, where he stopped again. As you know, that’s where we think he met his murderer, or was abducted by him. Most likely there were at least two people - Paul Hughes was quite a big man.’
‘So I believe,’ Shea said, his eyes taking in Knight’s average physique. ‘And you weren’t able to identify a vehicle that might have been following Hughes, or obtain any CCTV footage from the services that was helpful?’
‘There was nothing. No witnesses, no suspicious vehicles. If they followed him from Lincoln, they could have changed cars. You know all this if you’ve read the reports,’ Knight sighed, frustrated. This was a waste of his time, and there was an undercurrent to the whole meeting that was making him defensive. He’d done nothing wrong and had run the investigation to the best of his ability, as always. What was going on here?
Shea shuffled in the Superintendent’s chair and folded his hands across his belly.
‘I think that’s all for now, Inspector.’
Knight’s teeth itched at his condescending tone – they were the same rank, however important Shea seemed to think he was. He got to his feet, eager to be far away from the pair of them as soon as possible. ‘No doubt we’ll bump into each other around the station.’ Shea flashed Knight a false smile and lumbered to his feet. Allan also stood, smoothing her skirt over her thighs. Knight saw Shea’s piggy little eyes feasting on Allan’s backside as she stepped across to open the door and clenched his teeth.
‘Have a good afternoon.’ Allan smiled as he passed her. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
19
Knight went across to Catherine’s desk, where she was dunking another chocolate biscuit into a mug of tea.
‘Burnt my fingers now,’ she said, rummaging on her desk for a spoon.
‘Did you see them?’ he asked in an undertone. Catherine raised an eyebrow.
‘Pinky and Perky?’
He laughed, the tension broken.
‘That’s perfect.’
‘I caught a quick glimpse of them coming out of the Super’s office. What did they want?’
‘To accuse me of killing Paul Hughes.’ He waited as she choked on her tea.
‘They what?’ she coughed.
‘Do you know where the DCI is?’
‘His office. I think he’s avoiding them,’ she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
‘I don’t blame him. I better go and have a word.’
‘They didn’t say that, did they?’
‘Not in so many words, but I didn’t like some of the questions.’
‘I’ve never heard anything so stupid.’ The image of the tattoo on Knight’s back crossed Catherine’s mind but she refused to dwell on it. ‘What about the post-mortem?’ she said instead.
‘Plenty of time. I want you to come with me.’
‘Well, okay.’ She didn’t look too thrilled at the prospect, but Knight knew that if the body was Lauren Cook, and there seemed a fair chance it was, the more information Catherine had first-hand the better. Lauren’s husband had spoken to Catherine first and she deserved a chance to prove herself again. Not, Knight thought as he crossed the room to Kendrick’s office, that she had anything to prove in his opinion, but he knew only too well how soon a good reputation could be destroyed. He hoped it wasn’t about to happen to him again here.
‘I’m not sure where they’re from,’ Kendrick said in a low voice. Knight had to lean forward to hear him, which was a new experience. Usually every sentence the DCI uttered was loud and clear, more often than not to people in the next county.
‘You’re not?’
‘I presumed they were from HQ in Lincoln, but the Super didn’t say that, did she?’
Knight thought back to the meeting the previous evening. ‘No. No, I don’t think she did.’
What had Stringer said? If there are any links, they’ll be investigated too. What had she meant by that? After the questions he’d just sat through, he had to wonder.
‘They can’t think you’re involved, it’s just … ludicrous. Anyway, you wouldn’t still be here if that’s the way their minds were working.’
‘I’m not sure how much of an alibi they need. I was here at the station all day, then at the hospital most of the night.’
‘You’re looking at no less than an hour’s drive each way to get to Leicester.’
‘Plus all the time needed to inflict the sort of injuries Hughes suffered. It wasn’t a rush job, that’s for sure.’
Kendrick was pinching his lower lip again. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘I’m sure they can’t think you have anything to do with it, but why even give you that impression?’
‘No idea. Do you know anything about Shea, or DS Allan?’
‘Never heard of either of them. I should have realised when I didn’t recognise his name that he wasn’t from around here, and the same goes for her.’ He raised a hand to his face and scratched his cheek. ‘If I were you, I’d keep my head down and hope they either find who did it and sod off, or give up and sod off anyway.’
Knight glanced at his watch.
‘I thought I’d take Catherine to the post-mortem.’
‘Good idea. If this is how they’re playing it with you, I dread to think what they’d say to her.’
As Catherine drove, she glanced at Knight, wondering what he was thinking. It had to hurt, another detective, especially an officer of the same rank, being sent in to mop up your mess. Knight was quiet, his face turned to the window most of the time. The sky was a heavy grey with ominous clouds hovering. Speeding along the lanes, Catherine flicked on the headlights, the flat Lincolnshire fields bleak and unimposing as the countryside turned in on itself before winter took hold.
The turreted entrance to Lincoln Prison, which stood opposite the hospital, always reminded Catherine of the castle itself, down towards the city centre. Locking the car, she glanced across at the tall walls and panelled wooden gate. How many of the men inside were there as a result of operations she had been involved with? She turned to Knight, who was buttoning his jacket.
‘Which would you rather spend a night in?’ she asked. Knight followed her gaze.
‘Hospital. At least you can sign yourself out of there if you want to.’
They set off, wincing as a shrieking ambulance flew past them towards the waiting doors of the emergency entrance.
‘They both sound grim to me,’ she said, glancing up at the main hospital building and thinking back to the night she’d spent here as a patient a few weeks earlier. She shook her head as she hurried to catch up with Knight.
In the corridor, Doctor Jo Webber was chatting to a couple of technicians. When Knight and Bishop approached they fell silent, Webber’s perfect features relaxing into a welcoming smile. Catherine grinned back and Knight gave a nervous nod.
‘I didn’t expect to see both of you.’
‘We thought it would be useful,’ Knight croaked. Webber raised her eyebrows but didn’t pursue it. They all looked up as footsteps approached and Mick Caffery joined them.
Catherine emerged from the changing room first, adjusting the mask over her face as she entered the mortuary itself. Although it was an essential process and vital to any investigation into a suspicious death, being present at a post-mortem was not a pleasant experience. She had attended a few now, but the strange mixture of dread and wonder had never changed. As difficult as it was to stand as an observer as the pathologist went through each gruesome step, it was also intriguing.
Early in her CID career, a DI
had told Catherine that she should look at a post-mortem as a unique opportunity, not a horror show. However difficult it was to stand there, however intrusive the procedure was, it offered an unparalleled chance to pick up all sorts of information about the victim about what, and more importantly who, killed them. To Catherine, the stomach-churning sounds and smells were to be endured as stoically as possible, because in the end the only chance a victim had to tell their story was during the post-mortem, and if you couldn’t bear to listen, then could you do investigating their death justice? If you focused on the process and tried to forget, just for a few hours, that the subject had been a real person with hopes and dreams and wishes, then it was endurable.
Endurable, but still terrible.
Knight and Caffery shuffled into the room, as did the mortuary technician. The victim was on a trolley, still encased in a body bag. Catherine turned away. It was time to begin closing her mind, to focus on the body as an ‘it’ rather than a ‘her’. For the next few hours, the victim would cease to be a person and would just be a subject. It was the only way. Jo Webber strode in.
‘Are we ready to start?’ she asked. There was a general murmur of agreement.
Webber bent over the body and removed more samples with swabs and tweezers. She also took the victim’s fingerprints, carefully setting the woman’s hands back on the stainless steel table beside her once the process was complete. Catherine took in a deep breath, then blew it out through pursed lips. The fingerprints could be vital in confirming the dead woman’s identity. Her stomach tightened as Webber bent towards the woman’s face, but the doctor just studied the ruined expanse of flesh. After a minute or so, she turned towards the wound in the woman’s midriff, studying it without touching. Then she turned away.
Once the body had been photographed and washed, Jo Webber began to examine it in detail. She worked methodically from the top of the victim’s head over every inch of her body, recording a few small scars and any other unusual features she saw. She spent a long time examining and photographing the injuries the woman had sustained to her face, and then again focused on the stomach wound. Catherine was silent, standing beside Jonathan Knight. This part wasn’t so bad. The woman was still recognisably human. That she was naked and exposed to the eyes of five strangers plus a camera and video equipment was the only indignity so far. Catherine kept her gaze away from the woman’s face; the ruined flesh a constant reminder that she needed them, that they were the ones who had to provide answers. Catherine was not a religious person and she did not believe in an afterlife, but sometimes, in the presence of a victim of violent, unnatural death, there was a connection, almost a whisper, a promise or pact. Though she didn’t think to ‘rest in peace’ was an actual state of being, Catherine had to acknowledge that dead victims seemed to need an explanation, and their living relatives certainly did. They had no answer yet as to how this woman had died, but in any case, Catherine didn’t think for a second that she’d hacked her own stomach open. Someone, somewhere knew what had happened and Catherine intended to find them. She gave the woman on the table a tiny nod. It was a promise.
