by Lisa Hartley
‘Did you ring me just to have a go, or … ?’
‘Oh, no, there’s a point. I’m pregnant.’
Knight’s eyes widened and his sudden dry mouth was nothing to do with the curry he’d just eaten.
‘So why are you telling me?’ he managed to say. ‘Hadn’t you better phone Ben or Dom or whatever his name was?’
‘His name was, and still is Jed, as you well know. And I don’t need to phone him, he’s here now. We’re living together.’
Knight sat down heavily on the settee.
‘How wonderful for you. So, again, why are you telling me instead of floating ecstatically around Mothercare together?’
‘You’re so funny, Jonathan, you really are. I’m four months pregnant, so if you can manage to work that out on your fingers, that means, God help us all, that the baby could be yours.’
Knight shook his head.
‘You’re unbelievable. It won’t be my baby, we were barely speaking at that point, never mind anything else. It’s Jed’s baby and you know it, this is just you winding me up for your own amusement. You’re probably sitting there with a gang of your friends with me on speaker phone for a laugh.’
There was a pause. Caitlin spoke again, quieter now.
‘I’m pleased you think so highly of me, Jonathan. The truth is this baby could be yours or, as you so kindly point out, it could be Jed’s. I don’t know and I won’t until after the birth. I just wanted you to know it was a possibility but obviously just calling you out of the blue was the wrong way to go about it. I’m sorry, I’ll go. Take care Jonathan.’
Knight stared at his phone. Caitlin had never apologised to him before, never acknowledged that perhaps she’d made a mistake or was in the wrong. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there when Catherine Bishop quietly came into the room with the tea.
‘All right?’ she said, holding a mug out to him, then when there was no response: ‘Jonathan?’
He started.
‘Sorry. Thank you.’
Bishop crossed the room and sat down holding her own mug close, wondering how quickly she could finish her tea and politely get out of Knight’s way. Then to her amazement he began to talk.
‘That was my ex on the phone. Ex girlfriend. She’s pregnant.’
‘Oh.’ She had no idea what else to say.
‘Yeah.’
‘How long since you split up?’
‘Just before I moved back up here. That was one of the reasons I transferred. She’d been seeing someone else for a while and eventually I found out.’
‘You hadn’t suspected?’
‘No. Some detective I am. You know how it is, working long hours, knackered when you eventually get in. Some weeks we barely saw each other and she didn’t like that. She needs lots of attention, she’s hard work to be honest. Not sure now what I ever saw in her except at first - she’s gorgeous but there’s nothing underneath that if you know what I mean. She’s like some amazing painting that you admire in a gallery but you know you couldn’t live with at home. Too much for me, too loud, too confident and I think I bored her to death. I’m sure she’s much happier with Jed. Is that even a real name?’
‘I don’t know.’ said Bishop softly. ‘So she’s having your baby?’
Knight smiled ruefully.
‘Helpfully, she isn’t sure. All she can say for sure is she’s having someone’s baby.’
‘So until the birth … ’
‘Depends if the baby comes out wearing a striped shirt and braces or a police uniform. Jed’s one of those massive rugby types, works in the City doing something mere mortals can’t hope to understand.’
‘You’ve met him then?’
‘Once, at some posh do Caitlin dragged me to. Her friends seemed to think I was something the cat had dragged in, they used to call me “Caitlin’s policeman friend”.’
‘Charming.’
‘It’s just how they were, I don’t think they meant anything personal. I didn’t fit in with their view of the world. They want the police to be sorting things out on the streets, out of their sight, not at their fancy parties.’ He paused. ‘Even the champagne was horrible.’
‘Caitlin goes to a lot of these types of things then?’
‘It was part of her job though to be honest I couldn’t even tell you what she actually did. Lots of dinners and drinks parties and mincing around London as far as I could tell.’
‘How long were you together?’
‘Only six months. Long enough for both of us.’
‘And you moved here when you split up?’
‘Moved back here. This is where I grew up, not far away. I’d had enough of London and I just wanted a complete change.’
‘It’ll be quieter, if nothing else. I did wonder why someone would leave the Met to come up here.’
‘Like I say, I was ready for a change. I’d been down there long enough.’
‘Not as challenging though?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve not had a case like this before.’
11
A few seconds passed before Steve Kent realised what had woken him. He’d a few drinks last night, more than a few. He needed some sleep. When he heard the phone still ringing, however, he stretched over the side of his mattress and onto the floor to retrieve the phone from his jeans pocket. Only one person ever phoned that number, only one person knew the number and it wasn’t someone you wanted to have a missed call from.
‘Got a job for you tomorrow. Be at the lock up at ten pm.’
The call was terminated with Kent having had no chance to speak even if he’d wanted to. He knew he was to be at the lock up two hours before so if anyone was listening he’d have been and gone before they showed up. As always there was no choice, no chance to refuse or protest. He sometimes wondered if he’d done the right thing getting involved; after all he’d tried to keep out of trouble. Then again, he had his legitimate day job and if he did a few deliveries here and there, cash in hand, no questions asked or answered, then who would know or care? He’d never asked what was in the brown parcels he was asked to deliver or collect, though he could have a guess. It was something he usually tried not to think about. There had been a larger parcel once, quite heavy and rectangular, as deep as a shoebox but about five times as long. He definitely didn’t want to think about what had been inside that one.
The deliveries he really didn’t want to think about were the three people he’d had to collect in Southall one day and bring up to Lincoln. Two young women and a younger man, a boy really, only about eighteen. Their blank eyes and pale faces would stay with him, as would the pathetic looks of gratitude and attempts at thanks they gave him when he brought them bottles of water and egg sandwiches back from the services where he’d stopped for a pee. He couldn’t let them out of the back of the van of course, he’d been given strict instructions about that. They didn’t seem to be able to speak much English but he did hear them exchange a few words in a language he’d didn’t recognise. When he’d arrived at the address in Lincoln and opened the doors they’d been huddled together as if comforting each other. It didn’t sit well with him. Delivering parcels was one thing, people was another. He wanted no part of it but had no idea how to get himself out of the situation. He could give the police a tip off, give them the addresses he knew, but he knew he’d probably be signing his own death warrant or at the very least setting himself up for the beating of his life. He didn’t know for certain, but if his suspicions were right and the man in charge was who he thought it was, the death warrant was a certainty. The bloke who phoned him wasn’t the boss, just one of his minions, but even he sounded threatening enough. They wouldn’t think twice about killing him and throwing his body into the foundations of some project one of the many companies the boss owned were working on, if rumours were to be believed. Steve Kent did believe them. That the boss was now dealing in people came as no surprise. Kent had only seen him in the flesh once but he’d somehow ended up being one of his men
and was starting to feel out of his depth. The delivery jobs had been occasional at first, once every couple of months, but now it seemed the phone was ringing every week, even a few times a week. Perhaps the boss and his cronies had decided Kent could be trusted, maybe he’d passed his probationary period and was now accepted as a fully fledged member of the gang. Not exactly something he’d rush to put on his CV.
Nick Brady had been made redundant three times in as many years and was starting to feel a little sorry for himself. Take this last job for example. All right, it wasn’t as if he was saving lives or doing some good in the world but he turned up and picked the right things, packed them in the right boxes, kept his nose clean. No sneaking out for a fag break every half hour like some of the lads, no coming in late and going home early. All he expected in return was his wages in the bank when they were supposed to be and they’d been late two months running. Now, no great surprise, he’d been laid off – permanently. Bloody brilliant. He should be okay for the rent this month but he’d have to find something else quickly or he’d be out on his ear, back to his Mum’s. He didn’t want that. He’d have to go down to the job centre in the morning, see what they had. If past experience was anything to go by, it wouldn’t be much.
Nick opened the door to his flat, picking up the post on the way in, just a gas bill and his credit card statement. He left them unopened on the table and went through to the bathroom for a shower, wash that place off him for good. As he pulled his T shirt over his head, his mobile rang in his jeans pocket. He wrestled it out, checked the display.
‘All right Mum, what’s up? I’m just getting in the shower, got a bit of bad news, actually - I’ve been made redundant again.’
‘Oh no, Nick, you don’t have much luck with jobs do you? Your Auntie Kay’s coming round later, I’ll see if Uncle Martin’s heard of anything going at the steel works.’
Nick shook his head silently. He’d have to be desperate to work with Martin Newsome. The bloke was a nightmare, full of big mouthed bravado about his latest drinking exploits and nights out with the lads, conveniently forgetting he was a married man of fifty three.
‘Anyway,’ his mum went on, ‘I’m ringing about something I’ve seen in the paper. That lad you knew at school, always in trouble, you were mates for a bit, was it Craig Pollard?’
Nick’s eyes narrowed.
‘Yeah, Pollard. Why?’
‘He’s dead, been murdered apparently.’
‘Murdered? Come off it, Mum.’
‘It’s true.’
‘What, because it’s in the local rag? More likely he got drunk and said something clever to the wrong person and they knifed him. It wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘I’m just telling you what it said in the paper. They’ve interviewed his mum, she’s saying the police don’t care, haven’t done anything.’
‘They must have done.’
‘Well, they’ve not arrested anyone, that’s what she means.’
Nick felt a familiar dread in his stomach. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t have anything to do with it.
‘Which paper, Mum? I’ll nip out and get one.’
‘Why don’t you just come round and read ours? I’ve got a cake in the oven.’
Knight lay back on his pillows, willing himself to relax. Caitlin’s news had hit him like a body blow. He still didn’t believe she was carrying his baby, but if the chance was there – and he supposed Caitlin should know – it was a possibility he was going to have to get used to. He couldn’t understand why she’d chosen to tell him now. The baby wasn’t due for another five months, why hadn’t she waited until nearer the time? She may have thought it was his right to know now, maybe Jed had persuaded her to tell him, perhaps one of her less nauseating friends had? He knew he’d need to speak to her again, but not now, not tonight. A baby … He’d thought about what it might be like to be a father, of course he had, but never seriously, just with a sort of passing curiosity when a colleague or friend’s child was born. The biggest surprise was that Caitlin had allowed herself to become pregnant at all. He couldn’t imagine her pushing a pram around the designer shops she favoured or carrying the baby onto the Tube. Knight shifted as his hand unconsciously crept up to his right shoulder blade. He knew how fragile life could be, his job had taught him that early on, and it continued to reinforce the lesson most days. In some ways, he hoped the baby would be Jed’s child, mostly for its own sake. Another part of him, though, felt a slight hope, a stirring of emotion at the thought of being a father.
He was there, she knew it, but she couldn’t see him. It was dark, unnaturally so, the blackness so thick and complete it seemed to engulf her. Catherine Bishop reached out a trembling hand, attempting to make sense of the place, trying to find her bearings. The fetid air felt heavy and hot. A scurrying sound, the scratching of tiny claws. The sound of another person breathing, but no one in sight. Bishop froze, span around. Nothing. No one, but he was there. A chuckle, low, cruel. Unamused, mocking.
‘Are you lost, Catherine? Feeling helpless?’
All at once, a shove, hard, two hands in the middle of her back. She fell to the floor, clattering without dignity. He laughed as she cried out. Flashes of light, hundreds of them, blinding and dazzling, unwelcome and threatening. Catching her unaware, at her most vulnerable, her most exposed. Forcing her to gaze at herself, her flaws, her weaknesses, everything she tried to keep hidden during the day. This was night though, the blackest of nights.
The lights died away, and he was gone. She awoke with a cry.
12
DCI Keith Kendrick didn’t often lose his temper, impatient irritation being his usual state of mind, but when he did, the whole station knew about it. Bishop stumbled towards her desk, coffee in hand to ward off the morning. She squinted at Chris Rogers, who was making strange gestures with his hands, pointing towards Bishop, and miming wringing someone’s neck.
‘What’s up with you?’ said Bishop, plonking herself heavily in her chair. ‘Twitch getting worse?’
‘You’ll have a lot more than a twitch when the DCI gets his hands on you.’
‘He should be so lucky. What are you on about?’
‘Apparently, Craig Pollard’s mum’s been shouting her mouth off in the local paper, her poor little boy dead, police not bothered, useless, piss up in a brewery, arse with both hands, etcetera, etcetera.’
Bishop groaned.
‘Oh Christ … ’
‘Exactly. Kendrick’s looking for you and DI Knight, he came storming through about five minutes ago, said to tell you to get to his office before your backside hit your chair.’
Bishop got up resignedly.
‘That’s just bloody great.’
She approached the DCI’s office, hearing what sounded like Kendrick muttering as she tapped lightly on the door. Kendrick barked ‘Come in!’
‘DS Bishop, good of you to join us,’ Kendrick snapped, nodding at the spare chair in the corner. Knight already sat in the chair opposite Kendrick, eyes fixed on a spot just above the DCI’s head. Bishop lowered herself carefully into the chair after removing what looked like a complete change of clothes from the seat. She held the suit and shirt on her lap, not really sure where else to put them.
‘So,’ said Kendrick, throwing a copy of the previous night’s local newspaper across the desk towards Knight, ‘How do you two propose I explain this to the Superintendent?’
Knight shuffled his chair to one side so Bishop could lean over to read the article too. The gist was, as DC Rogers had said, that Craig Pollard’s mother was claiming that the police had done absolutely nothing to find the person responsible for her son’s death, that they weren’t even trying, had barely spoken to herself or her husband, offered them no idea when they might expect to bury their son. A photograph of a tearful Mrs Pollard clutching a gilt framed picture of Craig dominated the front page, along with the headline “MOTHER’S ANGER AT POLICE FAILURE”.
‘We’re doing our best.’ muttered Bisho
p.
Kendrick leaned forward.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Bishop made herself meet his eyes.
‘We’re doing the best we can, sir.’
‘Are we, Sergeant? Then why is Craig Pollard’s killer not sitting in one of our delightfully welcoming interview rooms? Why did Craig Pollard’s killer not spend last night staring down into a bowl of prison soup, hoping the showers will be safe? Why aren’t we all digging out our black ties to go to Craig Pollard’s funeral and tell his parents how sorry we are, but at least we’ve caught the bastard?’
Bishop kept quiet. There was no reasoning with Kendrick in this mood, it was best just to let him burn himself out. She hoped Knight would realise this too, but then one of them would have to speak.
‘Cat got your tongue, Sergeant?’
Bishop stared at the floor, fiddling with one of the buttons on the suit jacket she held. Kendrick glared.
‘Leave that button alone, that suit cost a bloody fortune!’ He stood abruptly, snatched the suit from Bishop and stuffed it under his desk, along with the shirt and tie. ‘We’ll look even better if I have to go to a press conference about this fiasco with no buttons on my suit. Now,’ he took the newspaper back, ‘anyone got anything to say? I know this isn’t the run of the mill drunken assault that got out of hand, but we must have something I can take back to the Super. DI Knight?’
Knight chewed his thumbnail.
‘No more than last night, sir. The main issue is the messages relating to DS Bishop, and we have no idea what they mean. Until we do … ’
‘Until we do, we just hope the killer happens to wander into reception and give himself up?’
Kendrick was getting worked up again. ‘Brilliant. Mrs Pollard will love that. I can just see the headline now,’ he spread his arms wide, ‘Police admit they have no bloody idea. All suggestions gratefully received!’
‘We do have some points to follow up.’ Knight said calmly.
‘Really? Well, that’s a turn up,’ said Kendrick. ‘Let’s follow them up then, shall we? I want you both back here at two with something new to tell me.’
