On Laughton Moor (Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Book One)

by Lisa Hartley

  ‘DI Knight and DS Bishop – here you go.’ The constable took the warrant card from him and scrutinised it.

  ‘Okay, thank you, sir. I’ll move a few cones for you. Just up the road, they’re sorting some lighting out.’

  Knight nodded his thanks, wound the window back up.

  ‘Freezing out there.’ he muttered.

  Bishop leant back in the seat, staring through the windscreen. Knight pulled onto the grass verge behind a battered burgundy Volvo estate.

  ‘Doctor Webber’s here then.’ Bishop said tonelessly, pressing the seatbelt release button. Knight followed suit and they climbed out into the cold, damp morning.

  ‘Doctor Webber?’ Knight asked.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  They made their way further down the lane, past scene of crime vans and hurrying people. Sure enough, the area was suddenly bathed in a yellow glow as several large spotlights that were quickly erected. Mick Caffery bustled up to them.

  ‘Morning. You’ll need to get suited up before you go any further. The body’s over there, where the blue van is.’

  He pointed. There was an obvious concentration of activity in that area, white suited figures scurrying around, all sorts of equipment being ferried that way.

  ‘Any early thoughts?’ asked Knight.

  Caffery sighed.

  ‘Take the Pollard scene, add a van and a more scenic location and there you go.’

  ‘Similarities then.’

  ‘Practically the same, except this poor sod’s lying on his front next to a van. It’s registered to a local courier company. Back of his head’s smashed in all right though. Doctor’s having a look at him now. Photographs and filming just about finished I think.’

  ‘And the same message as last time?’

  ‘Oh yes, exactly the same. Under his foot, the top trapped so it didn’t blow away.’

  Bishop swallowed, nausea rising from her stomach. Deep breaths she told herself firmly. A sudden urge to run came over her, the impulse to get as far away from this place, from this case, as possible. She fought it, clenching her hands into fists. Come on, Catherine, get a grip. Knight turned, and Bishop wondered for a second if she had spoken out loud.

  ‘There are some suits in the car boot.’ Knight told her. Bishop followed him back down the lane, still struggling with unfamiliar and unwelcome feelings. They pulled on the scene of crime suits silently, each lost in their own thoughts, then made their way back to where they’d left Caffery. He was talking to another white suited figure who turned as Knight and Bishop approached. It was all Knight could do not to gasp. Bishop had to hide a grin in spite of it all.

  ‘Good morning, Doctor Webber.’

  Jo Webber smiled back, her perfectly even features made even more attractive by the shadows cast on them.

  ‘Hello, Catherine. I asked you last time we met to call me Jo.’

  ‘Jo, then. This is DI Knight - Jonathan.’

  Webber turned to Knight.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. You’ll want to know about our victim?’

  ‘Please.’ squeaked Knight. Bishop bit her lip. Jo Webber didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Well, cause of death looks like being the trauma to the back of his head. Time of death – I’m not going to speculate now, but sometime last night. He’s not been out here long – obvious really as he would have been found before now, not that you need me to tell you that. I’ll do the post mortem later this morning, I’ll say eleven thirty.’

  ‘Eleven thirty.’ echoed Knight.

  ‘That’s right, Inspector. I presume you’ll be attending?’

  ‘I … yes, I’ll be there.’

  Webber smiled again and swept away. Knight rounded on Bishop.

  ‘You could have told me she looks like a bloody supermodel!’

  Grinning openly now, Bishop said ‘I thought I’d let you have the pleasure of discovering that yourself. Rather her than Doc Beckett then?’

  Knight didn’t bother to reply and they hurried after Caffery who was already striding his way towards the blue van. Knight didn’t like laughing and joking at a crime scene. He knew why people did it, protecting themselves against the horrors they saw every working day, but he could never approve of it. Doctor Webber’s appearance had stunned him, it was true, but she was forgotten now as he stared at the body in front of them. Face down, as Caffery had said. The wreckage of the man’s head was stomach turning and he felt Bishop tense beside him. The blue van’s driver door was open, the victim lay on the road. From his position, it seemed he had either just climbed out of the driver’s seat, or was doing so when he was attacked. They couldn’t be sure of course, not yet, but it looked that way to Knight. They were lucky a passing vehicle hadn’t run him over as he lay there. He said as much to Caffery, who agreed and explained that the man who had discovered the body had been travelling in the opposite direction.

  ‘It’s a quiet road and chances are it happened in the early hours.’ Caffery pointed out.

  ‘Okay.’ Knight pondered. ‘So the victim’s driving along, minding his own business, then suddenly decides to stop, presuming of course he was driving.’

  Caffery beckoned to them and they followed him to the back of the vehicle. SOCOs had been working on the road, there were several numbered markers. Caffery explained they identified skid marks made by the van.

  ‘Don’t quote me on this yet,’ he said, ‘but it looks to me as if he was travelling at speed and slammed his brakes on. We’ll keep looking.’

  Frowning, all frivolity forgotten, Bishop said ‘So maybe there was an obstruction in the road or a vehicle coming towards him?’

  ‘Could be either of those, or both. Something that forced him to stop, at any rate. If it was a vehicle, and it didn’t brake sharply, we probably won’t have tracks. We’ve not found any yet anyway, though it’s obviously early days.’

  They moved back around to the side of the vehicle where the body lay. Caffery left them and went to speak to a member of his team. Bishop glanced at the A4 paper under the victim’s shoe then quickly averting her gaze to his face, or what little was visible. Knight stared down at him too.

  ‘Seems strange that he was out here in the middle of nowhere. Even if he’s a courier or delivery driver, you’d think he’d stick to the main roads wouldn’t you, quicker journeys?’

  ‘It does seem odd, now you mention it. Although if he was using a sat nav, they can take you to some strange places if you’re not careful.’ Bishop glanced at Knight. ‘Another body, sir, the same message.’ She felt nausea rise into her throat again, wished she had some water to hand. Swallowing, she rubbed her hand across her mouth.

  ‘Yes. We need to find out who he is as soon as we can.’

  ‘Hopefully they’ll be able to move him soon.’

  They both span around as a loud metallic banging suddenly started, apparently coming from inside the blue van.

  ‘What the …’ exclaimed Knight, as Bishop gasped ‘Shit!’

  They ran around to the back of the van, almost colliding with Caffery and two of his SOCOs. Caffery stared, hands on hips. A padlock was threaded through a latch that had been drilled into the van doors.

  ‘Someone locked in there … ’

  ‘Shall we open it?’ asked one of the constables.

  Everyone looked at each other. The noise grew louder, faint shouting could be heard too.

  ‘Sounds like they’re terrified.’ Bishop observed. Knight stepped back.

  ‘We’ll have to open it,’ he said. ‘They could have been in there for hours.’

  Caffery nodded.

  ‘It’s been dusted for prints, I think we’ve got everything we can from it out here. Pass me a suit, we’ll need the clothes from whoever’s in there, they could be the one who killed him for all we know.’

  A uniformed constable stepped forward with a hammer and gave the padlock a few hefty blows. Protective suit in hand, Caffery stepped forward, reached for the handles, gave them a sharp twist. The d
oors flew open so suddenly that the young woman who was pounding on them from the inside almost fell on top of Caffery. He spoke softly to her, indicating she needed to change into the suit he handed to her. She looked bemused, but obediently disappeared back inside. Caffery held the door closed until she emerged again, wearing the same outfit as the rest of them. Caffery reached into the van and brought out her clothes in evidence bags. She climbed unsteadily to the ground, gazed at the surrounding group, seeming to single out Bishop.

  ‘Please … water?’ she said, her English heavily accented. She swayed on her feet and Bishop moved forward quickly, taking her arm.

  ‘All right, you’re okay.’

  The uniformed constable was beckoned back over and he led the woman gently to a nearby squad car. She sat in the back, gratefully sipping from a bottle of orange juice. Knight ran a hand over his hair.

  ‘That might explain why he was taking the scenic route.’ he commented dryly.

  ‘As good a reason as any,’ agreed Bishop. ‘As if things weren’t complicated enough.’

  They gave the woman in the squad car sideways glances.

  ‘We need to interview her.’

  ‘Yep. Sooner the better.’

  They walked over to the squad car, the uniformed constable closing the back door as they approached so the woman was effectively locked inside.

  ‘How is she?’ Bishop offered a smile in the woman’s direction.

  ‘She doesn’t speak much English, Sarge, it’s hard to say. She’s not as pale as she was though.’

  ‘So we’re going to struggle to interview her?’

  ‘I think you’d need an interpreter, sir.’

  Knight took out his mobile. ‘I’ll get someone set up at the station to help us.’

  16

  In the video interview suite, Bishop and Varcoe sat opposite the woman, who they now knew was called Milica Zukic, and the interpreter, a man from the local university who seemed to speak every European language you could mention. Zukic was thin, her light brown hair string, in need of a wash and a cut. She now wore a navy sweatshirt and jogging bottoms that the desk sergeant had produced from somewhere. Doctor Whelan was plump, bespectacled, mid forties and very keen to help. Knight sat in the next room, in front of a monitor. He wanted Catherine and Anna to conduct the interview, but he also wanted to see what Milica Zukic had to say first hand. He had a briefing scheduled after the interview with the DCI and also the Super, who wanted to attend. Knight hadn’t seen much of Superintendent Jane Stringer so far, but he had known that she would be involved sooner or later, especially after this latest development. He focused on the monitor in front of him. Bishop smiled reassuringly at the young woman on the other side of the table. ‘Please could you ask Milica to tell us where she’s from, a little about her background and how she came to be in the UK?’ she said to Whelan. He nodded eagerly.

  Bishop closed the door of the interview room softly behind her, leaving Varcoe behind with Dr Whelan and Milica Zukic. Knight met her in the corridor.

  ‘I feel like I need a shower.’ she said, shaking her head. Knight nodded.

  ‘I know what you mean. How about we put her in one of the cells for now? She could have killed him, of course, but I didn’t see any blood on her or in the van, and even if she changed her clothes afterwards, we’ll find them. She could have been in the passenger seat, lunged across and attacked him as he drove, forced him to stop, nipped out and smashed his head in when he got out, but I really don’t see it. For a start, he looked quite a big bloke, and she must be what? Eight stone?’

  ‘About that I should think. Anyway, she couldn’t have padlocked herself into the back of the van. Plus, we need to consider the link to the Craig Pollard murder and how could she have met him, not to mention killed him?’

  ‘True. Since she was on the move, there must be a grubby shithole somewhere expecting her, and as soon as the news breaks about the latest murder, which no doubt it will soon, they’ll realise she must have been found. At least in a cell she’ll be safe and can get some sleep. Can you get onto Intelligence, see if any of the names she’s mentioned ring any bells? We’d better find out about her papers too, if she is actually allowed to be in the country. When we’ve got a name and address confirmed for our victim, we’ll get a photo over to Pollard’s parents and brother again, see if they recognise him.’

  Bishop hesitated then said,

  ‘Sir – Jonathan - do you think I’ll be taken off the case?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Two victims, both with messages that refer to me, I thought I might be. Just thinking about how it might look to the public, to a jury?’

  ‘Do you want to be taken off it?’

  ‘No, not at all. If anything, this second murder makes me all the more determined to find out what the hell’s going on.’

  Knight grinned.

  ‘Just what I expected you to say. I can promise you, Sergeant, I’ll do what I can to make sure you stay where you are.’

  Bishop let out a breath, grateful for Knight’s understanding, but also for the fact that he hadn’t seemed to notice her discomfort at the crime scene earlier.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I need to get up to the Super’s office now, but let’s catch up later.’

  Knight strode away and Bishop headed over to the custody sergeant to arrange to check their guest in.

  17

  Knight paused outside the Superintendent’s door, hearing Kendrick’s rumbling tones inside the office. He knocked, and Kendrick himself yanked the door open from inside. The room was light and airy, the walls painted an uninspiring magnolia, the carpet tiles a slightly newer looking version of the stained and tired looking ones that covered the floor of the CID office. A few plants dotted the room and there were the usual chipped bookcases and battered filing cabinets. A low coffee table and a couple of armchairs stood in one corner. Stringer had attempted some personal touches, such as a brightly coloured rug on the floor and a few cheerful, modern prints on the walls. The Superintendent herself was a tall, slender woman, with immaculately styled straight blonde hair and perfect, understated make up. She could easily play the role of the headteacher of an exclusive public school, or lady of the manor.

  Jane Stringer stood as Knight entered the room, offering a pinched smile. She wore a tailored black skirt with a matching jacket, and a pristine white blouse. Her appearance and whole demeanour conveyed a clear message to Knight – “I am in charge here. Get me results”.

  ‘Jonathan. Do sit down.’ She gestured at the chair next to the one in which Kendrick had resettled himself. Stringer smoothed nonexistent creases from her skirt, straightened a silver photograph frame that she judged to be slightly askew on her desktop, and sat.

  ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ Knight up as straight as he could. Like Kendrick, Jane Stringer had that effect.

  ‘Now,’ Stringer clasped long, elegant fingers in front of her, ‘How have we got on with our unexpected

  witness?’

  ‘I’m not sure she witnessed much at all, Ma’am, I’m afraid.’ Knight said. ‘The basic facts: she’s twenty two, and from Serbia. Her uncle, Dimitar, was well known, important, and it was he who suggested perhaps his niece would care to try her luck earning some money in the UK. He told her she could make a fortune.’

  Stringer shook her head, and Kendrick gave a snort.

  ‘I wonder how she was going to do that?’ he remarked.

  ‘Well, she said her journey Britain alerted her to the fact that the future might not be as bright as her uncle had painted it. She stowed in the back of vans or the cabs of lorries and she still isn’t sure how she had actually arrived in the country. One of the trucks she had been on must have crossed the sea by ferry. She’s sure she didn’t fly in, but … ’

  ‘Very unlikely.’ Stringer commented. Knight nodded agreement, then resumed his story.

  ‘The last lorry, the one she must have crossed the sea in, took her to some sort of garage with a
small apartment attached. A young man had met her, gave her food and said she could have a shower and rest. After a few hours rest on the bed, during which time she dozed but didn’t sleep, she heard raised voices, arguing. She heard her uncle’s name several times, but didn’t understand enough English to follow the rest. After a while, she heard footsteps on the stairs. A second man came in; he looked like a wolf she said, “Vuk”, and in her mind, that was what she called him. She heard other people call him Ron afterwards.’

  Stringer opened a desk drawer and removed a smart looking notepad and elegant fountain pen. She made a few notes, then glanced at Knight.

  ‘Go on, please.’

  ‘This man told her he told her this was usually when he would “try out” the new arrivals himself before sending them on, but as she was the “precious” niece of Dimitar Raskovic, he would control himself.’

  ‘Very good of him.’ Kendrick put in scornfully.

  Knight sat back, organising his thoughts. The Super wouldn’t want all the details, not everything Zukic had told them, but he felt it was important, essential in fact, that as much of her story was heard as possible. They had all heard very similar versions before, of course, but Zukic had given them names, she was observant and intelligent and Knight felt they had a good chance of catching up with the traffickers, using her information. He began to talk again, almost watching the events unfold in his mind as he spoke, much like Zukic must have, though his were imagined images, not painful memories as hers were. ‘This “Vuk” grabbed her, bundled her into the back of a van. She thought they drove for over an hour, closer to two, when eventually they stopped. He came to the back doors of the van, stuck his head in and told her that she needed to get out and walk with him into a house without drawing attention to herself. If she did anything stupid, he warned, even her uncle wouldn’t be able to save her.’

  ‘Did she notice anything at all that could help us?’ Stringer wanted to know.

  ‘It was a terraced street, from her description, a row of very similar houses. She could hear traffic noise and sirens, the sound of children playing nearby.’