by Lisa Hartley
39
‘So let me get this straight. You had her trapped and you let her go?’
Richie Hughes bowed his head.
‘I’ve said I’m sorry.’
‘A lot of good sorry is, you useless little shit.’ His father’s voice was quiet, his anger contained, for the moment at least. Richie hated that tone, he’d rather his dad yell at him like his mum did. The restraint was a bad sign.
‘She’s been with the police for hours anyway, she’ll have told them all she knows by now.’
His father moved to stand directly behind where Richie sat at the marble breakfast bar in the huge house Dougie and Bernice Hughes called home. Hughes made a sudden movement, grabbing as much of son’s hair as he could in his meaty fist and twisting it until the younger man cried out in pain.
‘This is nothing to what Malc will do to you when he hears. How hard can it be? She’s only tiny, for God’s sake.’
‘She was with a copper.’ Richie managed to gasp.
‘So what? The copper wasn’t even in the car, if you’d have undone the seatbelt straight away you could have got Zukic out before she even knew you were there.’
‘She fought back, you should have sent Damien with me.’ Richie tried again. His father released his hair, slowly moving to Richie’s side.
‘Oh, I see.’ The quiet voice was back and Richie panicked, realising he’d made a mistake. ‘This was my fault, of course, I see it now. I ask you to go to the lock up, make sure everything’s okay and while you’re there you have a golden opportunity to get back what’s ours, and what do you do? You lose her, and all because I was stupid enough to expect you’d be able to do a simple task like that alone.’
He lunged at Richie, who cowered. Hughes didn’t actually strike his son, but the gesture was enough to send Richie scampering from the room. Hughes picked up the phone that lay on the worktop and dialled his cousin’s number, stored in his own memory, not in the phone’s.
‘It’s me. We’ve got a problem. Richie tried to grab Zukic without realising she was sitting in a cop car. She’s disappeared again.’
There was a silence. Dougie Hughes braced himself for the explosion.
‘He didn’t realise? What, the big yellow stripes and blue lights on the top weren’t a big enough clue for him? Not to mention the word POLICE in foot high letters along the side?’
‘It was unmarked.’
‘I know, Dougie, I know. Jesus. They still stand out a mile, how stupid is that lad of yours?’
Dougie gritted his teeth. ‘Fairly.’
‘You’re telling me. So what’s happening?’
‘Well, they didn’t catch Richie. He phoned Damien and met him in a lay by, they disappeared for a few hours until things calmed down and he’s just come to tell me.’
‘Where did it happen?’
‘Outside the lock up.’
‘Shit, so they know about that? How could they? Everyone who’s ever been there has been in the back of a van, including Zukic.’
‘I know, but that’s where they were. They must have been asking Zukic which one she thought it was but how they found them in the first place, I don’t know.’
Both men paused to consider this, until Malc said, ‘Kent. Has to be.’
‘How do you work that out?’
‘Because he’s dead and the police are trying to find out why and who killed him. They wouldn’t have to look that far to find a link to us with Milica bloody Zukic was still in the back of his van when he was killed. I still can’t believe our luck there.’
‘I know, what were the chances?’
‘We used him too often really, we should have found someone else. Still, too late now.’
‘Doesn’t explain how they found the lock up though. Like you said, Zukic wouldn’t have known where it was, even if she recognised it when she saw it, and she shouldn’t have been able to do that, Kent must have let her walk out to his van, useless sod.’
‘True. I wouldn’t put it past them to drive her to every possible place though, every row of warehouse and lock up garages in Lincolnshire, especially if Knight’s involved. He’s a stubborn bastard, I’ll give him that. He probably drove her round himself.’
‘No, it was a woman with Zukic, even Richie noticed that. Surely Knight’s learnt his lesson?’’
‘You don’t know Knight.’
‘And you do?’
‘Well enough, and I made sure he won’t forget me in a hurry.’
They laughed knowingly until Dougie’s good humour was interrupted by a fit of coughing.
‘Christ … ’ He cleared his throat energetically.
‘You should give up the fags you know.’
‘Bernice has already got me cutting down on the booze.’
‘Never thought I’d see the day. Seriously, though – Zukic. They’ll have stashed her away somewhere. Any ideas?’
‘I don’t understand why you want her so badly.’
‘Are you joking? She owes us, we gave her a place to live, a bed, a job – and not the job we originally had in mind for her either. She wouldn’t have been in that van if she’d been on the heavy work and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’
‘We don’t want to piss her uncle off though.’
‘He wants her found as much as we do. I spoke to him this afternoon.’
‘What does he want to do with her?’
‘Search me. Probably ship her back home and forget all about her, but he’s not the one who’s put his hand in his pocket for her bed and board all these months, not to mention her wages. We did her a favour, more than one, and she repays us by going snivelling to the police.’
Dougie frowned.
‘She didn’t have much choice though, Malc. They found her in Kent’s van, they weren’t just going to let her go when they knew he’d been murdered.’
‘She could have played dumb.’
‘Maybe she did. We don’t know what she’s told them. What did she really know anyway?’
‘Ivona’s name for one. Probably Ron’s, he was always panting after her.’
‘Not Ivona’s real name.’
‘It’s enough. It’s a bloody mess, Dougie.’
‘We’ll never get hold of her now though.’
‘They’ll have to let her go someday. Unless they charge her with Kent’s murder, of course. Now there’s an idea.’
‘Nice try, Malc.’
‘Wish I did know who killed him though, he’s dropped us right in it. Keep me posted. Knight will keep going forever, but as I say they’ll have to let Zukic go before long. Keep sniffing around.’
‘But how? I’ve no idea about any safe houses.’
‘You must know the right ears to have a few words in? I’ll talk to a few people as well.’
‘We still won’t be able to just walk in and get her.’
‘No, but we can keep an eye on the place and follow when she does come out. I’m not letting this one lie, Dougie.’
‘I understand that.’
‘And you better not let that lad of yours anywhere near. I’ll send Paul up for a while, he can keep an eye on Richie, teach him a few tricks. If he’s capable of learning, that is.’
Dougie bit his lip but Malc had ended the call anyway. Bloody hell, not Paul Dougie thought. Arrogant and big mouthed, his cousin’s son was not a person he wanted on his turf. It seemed though, as usual, that he had no choice.
40
With his purchases lined up on the coffee table, Dave Bowles sank onto the carpet, its swirls of pink and gaudy flowers clashing horribly with the burgundy sofa as always. Bowles hated this room, hated the whole flat. Even his own home was a place he felt uncomfortable. It wasn’t a place you could invite friends to, or a woman. Bowles thought about his last girlfriend, one of the few if he was truthful. Leanne: light brown hair, very overweight, three children. She enjoyed watching soaps and reading gossip magazines. They’d met in a pub in town when he’d gone there to watch football and have a q
uiet drink. He was sitting there, minding his own business, when she’d tripped over the legs of the bar stool he was perched on, already drunk. He’d gone home with her that night, scarcely able to believe his luck. She’d paid the babysitter, then marched Dave straight upstairs, and into the bedroom, stripped him off and shown him exactly what she expected from him. He’d done it before of course, but never with anyone quite so … demanding. He’d gone to sleep in a state of bliss, then had a rude awakening the next morning as he opened his eyes to see all three of her children staring at him. He sat with them and had breakfast, toast for him, cereal for them. By the end of the meal they were calling him Uncle Dave. He’d felt a little awkward at first, but the appearance of a strange man in their mum’s bed and at their breakfast table was obviously not unusual for the children and Leanne was a jolly, cheerful, loud sort of person, she made Dave feel safe. The relationship had lasted a few weeks, but ended when an ex-boyfriend of Leanne’s, her son’s father, came to the door one day begging Leanne to take him back and she’d accepted so her little boy ‘could know his dad.’ Bowles had been heartbroken. He’d hoped to move in with Leanne and be a father to her children, had even thought of suggesting him and Leanne have a baby of their own. He couldn’t remember ever being happier. Of course, it hadn’t lasted , the story of his life.
The whiskey bottle was in his bedroom and he couldn’t face standing up again, so he half crawled, half dragged himself down the corridor and found it amongst the tangled mess of his bed. Swigging from the bottle, he made his way back to the living room. There was a ball point pen under the coffee table and he managed to tear a piece of card big enough to write on from the box of tissues thrown on the chair. He didn’t have much to say so it didn’t take long. Looking again at the razor blades, he reached instead for the first box of paracetamol. With no idea how many he would need to take, he would just keep going until … what? Until he was unconscious, he supposed, when he couldn’t see to take anymore. He removed the foil wrapped tablets with shaking fingers and after a couple of false attempts, managed to extract two. Another slug of whiskey, and he put them in his mouth. These two were for Leanne. A couple more for the boy on the moor. Four more for him. Two for Steve Kent. He was onto the second packet, which was even harder to open than the first one had been. Perhaps he should get the other packets open ready, just in case. More whiskey.
All the tablets out on the floor now. More tablets. More whiskey, struggling to open the second bottle.
Brady stopped, sure he’d heard footsteps behind him. He turned cautiously – no one. Come on, Nick. He turned back, kept walking. Footsteps again, but he wasn’t going to stop this time. A side street joined the main and he hurried across, not looking right or left. Another two minutes and he would be home. It was freezing, no wind tonight but the air itself was biting, the chill numbing his ears and fingers. This was his street. Halfway down the road … here. He turned left and hurried down the path, fumbling in his pocket for his keys, not daring to look over his shoulder. There was a loud thud behind him and he jumped, dropping the keys, hardly daring to turn around. Next door’s cat meowed at him. The sound had been its paws hitting the bin as it leapt over the fence. Cursing, he unlocked the door, went inside and slammed it shut. As he took off his coat, he realised just how fast his heart was beating.
41
The nightmare again. Knight woke abruptly, sheets sticking to his sweat-streaked body. The clock said 04.14. His breathing gradually slowed, calming him. Talking about the Hughes family was obviously a bad idea, though it seemed there was no escaping them. Knight could admit to himself, if to no one else, that he’d heard Malc Hughes had a cousin in Lincolnshire long before he applied to transfer. One day, he’d be in the court that sent Hughes down.
The second whiskey bottle seemed to be empty and Bowles couldn’t feel any more paracetamol as he groped around on the floor. The pen was digging into his leg, but his hand couldn’t grasp it properly. He had no idea where his note was. It probably didn’t matter. Who would read it anyhow? Who would find him lying here, and when? Bowles suspected it wouldn’t be for weeks. The thought was comforting, somehow. His head drooped even further towards the floor. One leg twitched. Not long now, surely. He waited calmly for whatever would happen next.
42
Catherine Bishop lay on her side, her head resting on her arm, feeling more relaxed than she had in weeks. Her body seemed to still be tingling, though surely it must be imagination. Her eyes were open, a small smile on her lips. There was a rustling of sheets and the muffled sounds of a person reluctantly regaining consciousness.
‘Do you always wake up this early?’ Claire Weyton asked, squinting at Bishop from her own pillow.
‘I don’t think I’ve been to sleep.’
‘You’re joking – I have. Not for long, mind.’
‘I know – do you always snore?’
Claire laughed.
‘Cheeky,’ She snuggled into Bishop’s side. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Never better. You?’
‘Mmmm. I could have done with some more sleep though.’
‘Now you’re being cheeky.’
‘What time is it?’
‘I don’t know, there’s no clock in here, is there?’ Bishop glanced around the room, still almost in darkness.
‘I just use my phone, but I’ve no idea where it is.’ Claire leant across and switched on the bedside light, climbed out of bed and picked up a fleecy pink dressing gown covered in white hearts from the chair in the corner. Bishop grinned.
‘Now that’s attractive.’
Claire threw a slipper at her.
‘Matching slippers too, even better.’
Laughing, Claire went over to her coat, which lay on the floor by the door. The rest of their clothes lay piled nearby. She rummaged in a coat pocket, found nothing and picked up her bag, saying, ‘Here it is. Just before six’ a few seconds later.
Bishop groaned. ‘I’ll have to get up, I need to be in for half seven.’
Claire walked back to the bed, hands on hips.
‘And I suppose you’ll want to borrow clean clothes, have a shower and go and get some breakfast?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Don’t ask for much, do you?’
‘Not really. I’m your guest though, you’re supposed to wait on me.’
‘Ha, you wish. I’ll make you a drink, and then you’re on your own.’
There was a pale wood wardrobe unit along the wall opposite the bed which housed a tiny kettle and two mugs. Claire went to fill the kettle in the small bathroom that took up one corner of the room. Bishop smiled to herself. She was very tempted just to lie here, to see how long it would be until she was missed. She was far too warm and comfortable to think about moving. If she didn’t think about the case, about Pollard and Kent, Kendrick and Knight, she could believe none of it existed, just for a few more minutes. With a sigh, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. No chance. She went into the bathroom where Claire was washing her face and stood behind her, slipping her arms around Claire’s waist. They smiled at each other in the mirror and Claire turned in the circle of Bishop’s arms to face her. They stood for a moment, Claire stooping slightly, forehead to forehead, eyes closed, Bishop hardly daring to breathe.
‘I’m sorry, Claire,’ she whispered eventually. ‘I’m going to have to go.’
Claire opened her eyes, lifted her hand to Bishop’s face and stroked her cheek, smiling faintly.
‘I know. I don’t want you to, though.’
Bishop moved away gently.
‘You go back to bed, get some more sleep. I’ll have a quick shower.’
She stepped into the bath, turned on the shower and picked up Claire’s shampoo. At least she could walk to the station from here.
43
Paul Hughes got out of his car and looked around. What a dump. He knew that few places looked their best in November, but Christ. Apart from the cathedral on the hill which loomed out o
f the mist, he could be anywhere. That would be good, anywhere but here. His dad had phoned at some stupid hour last night when he’d been in bed with Nadia to tell him to get his arse up to Lincolnshire. He’d booked into a chain hotel using a credit card associated with one of the many company names they used. Fine for staying anonymous, not so great for luxury and comfort. What his dad expected him to do up here was anyone’s guess. From what he’d said last night, he didn’t even know himself. Dougie’s son had always been an idiot, they all knew that, and Paul could never understand why he’d been allowed into the family business at all. There must be a useful job out there for him, just not this one.
