by Lisa Hartley
The receptionist at the hotel looked as if she’d been there all night and though she managed a smile for Paul, she didn’t respond with the instant devotion he was used to. Snooty bitch, he thought, sneering as she slid his key over the desk. The room was as drab and impersonal as he’d expected. Back outside, he wandered towards what appeared to be the city centre. Most of the shops weren’t yet open so he ducked into a fast food outlet for a quick breakfast. He was licking tomato sauce from his fingers when his mobile rang.
‘Dad.’
‘Are you there?’
‘Got here about forty minutes ago. Not much to write home about, is it?’
‘It’s not bad, there are worse places. Here for one. Have you seen Dougie yet?’
‘Dad, I said I got here forty minutes ago, I’ve not had time to scratch my arse yet.’
Paul only felt brave enough to speak to his father in that tone when they were on the phone with over a hundred miles between them. Reading his mind, Malc said, ‘Don’t think you’re so far away that I can’t come up there and kick your backside, never mind scratch it.’
‘All right, I’m sorry. What do you want me to say to Dougie when I do catch up with him?’
‘I want you to find out where this safe house is. I want Zukic.’
‘I know that, Dad, but how do you expect me to find her?’
‘Use your initiative.’ The line went dead.
Paul Hughes snorted and sipped his coffee, then cursed as he scalded his mouth.
44
‘You’re sure Jasna Dijlas is Ivona?’ Bishop said sceptically to Knight.
‘She’s got a record, lots of wholesome activities like running a brothel, money laundering, GBH in her younger days, you can imagine.’
‘Sounds like our woman.’
‘We’ve got a mugshot, we can take it to Milica Zukic to check.’
‘How did you find her?’ asked Bishop. ‘I had a quick look, there was nothing.’
‘Lucky guess really. I looked up women’s first names used in Serbia on the internet, then checked our systems for all the ones in the age range Zukic guessed Ivona was in. There weren’t many. Nothing you or Claire in Intelligence couldn’t have done this morning. Although she won’t be here today, of course.’
He glanced at Bishop, who was silent, looking at her shoes. She knew she could have done just what Knight had, so why hadn’t she thought to? Because her mind had been full of Claire Weyton. Just why she’d never allowed her personal life near her job before.
‘So we can bring her in if and when Miss Zukic confirms it’s the right woman?’
‘The DCI and Super want us to concentrate on Pollard and Kent.’
‘We’re doing that as well, surely?’
‘They want the case closed.’
‘Don’t we all. Are you going to take the mugshot to Zukic then?’
‘I could always email it, quicker and safer probably. You’re going to talk to the last names on the list with Anna Varcoe?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Meet at noon then.’
Bishop watched as Knight left the room. For the first time, she’d felt uncomfortable with him, as if he somehow could tell where she’d spent the previous evening. In fact, she had a strange idea that the whole station would be able to see straight through the professional relationship she and Claire had agreed to maintain in working hours. Bishop knew she should have been able to find Jasna Dijlas as Knight had done, and was grateful to him for the way he’d shared the information he’d discovered without making a fuss about her not finding it first. She had to concentrate, try to forget about what was happening between herself and Claire and focus on whichever Nicks and Daves remained on Varcoe’s list.
Anna Varcoe was waiting, sitting at her desk but with her outdoor coat still on, takeaway coffee in hand. Bishop took a deep breath and strode over to her. Varcoe stood.
‘Morning, Sarge.’
‘Morning, Anna, how are you?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ said Varcoe, giving Bishop a curious glance.
‘Good, good.’ said Bishop, rubbing her hands together. She cleared her throat. ‘Where are we heading first?’
Varcoe consulted her notebook.
‘Other side of town, Sarge. Do you want me to drive?’
‘That would be lovely.’
Bishop marched off, leaving Varcoe looking puzzled. Lovely?
Bishop stalked back to the car, with Varcoe hurrying after her.
‘What a cocky little shit.’ she said, fastening her seatbelt aggressively.
Varcoe started the engine.
‘I know. All had he had to say was that he was working offshore when Pollard was killed, no need for all the fannying around.’
‘We had to get the confirmation though. Anyway. On to the next one.’ She consulted the list. ‘David Bowles.’
‘And he lives … ’
Bishop gave the address. ‘Just around the corner. I knew there was method in the madness.’
They arrived at the address in less than five minutes. Varcoe’s face showed exactly what she thought of the place – not a lot.
‘What a bloody dump.’ she grumbled, carefully stepping over a half eaten kebab that had been dropped on the pavement as she climbed out of the car. Bishop couldn’t disagree. It seemed Bowles lived in the top half of a crumbling semi midway down the street. The front gate stood half attached to its post. It had once been white but now was a dirty grey. A dingy lawn was surrounded with litter filled borders. A few evergreens struggled on, but failed to make an impression. No doubt in a different season, weeds would be rampant. A pile of black dustbin liners were piled at one side of the lawn; some had been scratched open by cats or vermin and their contents strewn across a patch of grass – chicken bones, pizza crusts, some mouldy slices of bread. A clear plastic bag bulged with beer cans, a few takeaway boxes, wine bottles.
‘At least they’re trying to recycle.’ Bishop said.
‘Yes but taking it further than the garden would help.’
They approached the front door. There were two doorbells, one labelled 14, the other 14a.
‘It’s 14a.’ Bishop announced. ‘What’s the betting neither bell works?’
Varcoe shrugged. She pressed the bell for 14a firmly, then wiped her hand on her trousers. Bishop grinned and nudged her.
‘Haven’t you brought some antibacterial spray?’
‘If the inside’s anything like the garden, we’ll need biohazard suits.’
They stood for a few seconds, then Bishop pressed the doorbell again.
‘Come on, you lazy so and so.’
‘He’s probably seen us through the window, he’ll be hiding behind the settee.’
‘He’ll be lucky to see anything through those windows. Anyway, do we look like bailiffs?’
‘Not sure I’ve ever seen one.’
There was still no movement behind the dull panes of glass that filled the front door.
‘Right, I’ve had enough.’
Bishop pressed the doorbell for number 14 instead, holding it down for a good thirty seconds with her thumb. There was still no response for a minute or so, then they heard footsteps, keys jangling.
‘Bingo.’ muttered Bishop, warrant card at the ready.
The door was wrenched open by a stocky, unshaven man wearing boxer shorts and a well worn T shirt that had originally come free with a case of cheap beer, judging by its logo. His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot. He looked the two women up and down.
‘Who the hell are you?’
Bishop eyed him back. She held up her warrant card but he was too busy rubbing his eyes to notice it.
‘Detective Sergeant Bishop and Detective Constable Varcoe. We’re here to see Mr Bowles.’
The man scratched violently at his hair. Varcoe grimaced and took a step back.
‘Bowles? You mean Dave upstairs?’
‘Yes, 14a.’
‘Why didn’t you ring his bloody bell then?’
/>
‘We did, he didn’t answer. Do you know if he’s in?’
‘He’s always in, except when he creeps off to the corner shop.’
‘Can you let us through then please?’
‘If it means I can get back to bed, I will with pleasure, I’m at work in a few hours.’
‘Thank you, Mr … ’
‘Munroe. I suppose I should ask for some ID first, shouldn’t I? You don’t look like thieving types, but you never know.’
Bishop showed him her warrant card again and he stepped back, allowing them to follow.
‘When did you last see Mr Bowles?’
‘Yesterday morning. He was coming down the stairs as I came in. I said hello but he scurried off like a frightened rabbit as usual.’
‘Not very chatty then?’
‘Dave? I don’t think he’s ever had a chat with anyone except himself. He’s a bit odd, you know? Very quiet though.’
‘The sort of person you want living above you then really?’
‘I suppose so. I never thought I’d end up in a place like this, I’ve got a nice house a couple of miles away, but the wife’s moved her fancy man in and I’m stuck in this hole. Landlord keeps telling me he’s going to get a bloke round, clear out the garden, do some repairs, but he never does. Still, it’s cheap and that’s what I need these days.’
‘Mmmm.’ agreed Bishop, shuffling towards the stairs. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Munroe.’
Munroe took the hint and wandered back towards the open door of his own part of the house, calling ‘Tell Dave to answer his door in future’ as he went.
Bishop kept walking, Varcoe close behind.
A tiny landing had been created at the top of the stairs and there was flimsy looking door with‘14a’ painted on it in wonky black letters. Paint had dripped between the numbers. The place was starting to get to Bishop, and she thumped on the door.
‘Mr Bowles? Open up, please, it’s the police.’ Silence. She hammered again. ‘Mr Bowles? Police!’
Varcoe said, ‘This is starting to look bad.’
Bishop nodded, pulling a pair of latex gloves from her bag and slipping them on before passing a pair to Anna. Bishop reached out and tried the door handle. It moved easily, unlocked. Cautiously Bishop stepped forward. The door opened onto a short hallway, three other doors leading off it, two open, one closed. Bishop felt the skin on her arms prickle. The place smelt musty, damp. The carpet underfoot was stained and worn, years of the dirt of everyday life trodden in to it. After bellowing Bowles’ name a few more times, Bishop gave up. Glancing left and right, she headed for one of the open doors, her stomach a knot.
‘Bathroom.’ she said to Varcoe, who leaned around her to have a look.
‘Christ.’
The bathroom was in desperate need of a clean, if not fumigation. The doors of the cabinet above the sink hung open, the usual items inside. Bishop peered at a couple of packets of condoms that had seemingly fallen out of it onto the floor.
‘Even I’ve got some newer than those.’
Varcoe laughed, then wrinkled her nose.
‘Looks like vomit in the sink, Sarge.’
‘If you say so, Anna. I’d never have taken you for someone who vomits in bathroom sinks.’
Varcoe blushed.
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘I’d be amazed. He’s not in here, anyway, so where next?’
Varcoe led the way to the next open door, hesitantly poking her head around to see inside.
‘Bedroom. He’s not in there either.’
The room was almost filled by a double bed, a coverless duvet screwed into a ball thrown on it. One pillow was on the floor, the other still on the bed, bearing the imprint of a head. Reluctantly, Bishop sniffed the air.
‘Smells like … ’
‘Whiskey.’
‘I’ll be changing my opinion of you at this rate, Anna.’
‘My dad used to drink a lot of it.’ Varcoe said, her face expressionless. Bishop touched her arm gently, then stepped away.
‘He must be in the other room, if he’s here at all.’
They went back down the short hallway and approached the closed door. Bishop glanced at Varcoe, who shrugged. Swallowing, Bishop eased the door open.
‘Oh, yes, he’s here, get an ambulance, Anna.’
Hurrying forward, Bishop dropped to the prone man’s side. There was more vomit here, a pool of it on the sofa, another by his head. Bishop found a pulse but it seemed weak. Two huge empty whiskey bottles caught her eye, foil packets that had contained tablets were strewn across the floor. On the coffee table, its surface pitted with scratches and stained with spilt food, a torn piece of card was covered in spidery scribble. Bishop leant forward, trying to make out what it said:
I’m not going to wait for him to come to get me like he did Craig and Steve. I know I won’t be missed and I’m sorry for causing any trouble. I’m sorry for it all.
Bishop looked down at the figure on the floor. ‘Hang on, David.’ she said softly.
Varcoe appeared.
‘Ambulance is on its way, Sarge.’ Sharp eyes scanned the room. ‘No prizes for guessing what’s happened here then.’
Bishop got to her feet, knees cracking.
‘No prizes.’
Varcoe spied the card covered in handwriting.
‘Suicide note?’
‘Something like that. Will you go downstairs and wait for the paramedics please? I don’t want to rely on Munroe, we’ll probably all be dead of old age by the time he lets them in, never mind Mr Bowles here. I better let DI Knight know.’
Varcoe nodded, left the room. Bishop took out her phone.
‘Hello, sir. We’ve found David Bowles and it’s looking like he’s definitely involved.’
45
After asking Bishop to travel with Bowles to the hospital and Varcoe to go on to the next name on her list, Knight sent Sullivan out to meet Varcoe and accompany her. The stakes had just been raised even higher. Not only did they now have two murdered men, they had a suicide attempt by a man who could potentially be either killer or victim. From what Bishop had said about the note she had found with Bowles, he seemed more likely to be a victim. If he had killed the others, wouldn’t he have admitted as much in a note he had expected to be read after his death? Knight didn’t know, he’d never claimed to understand how people’s minds worked. It was now more important than ever that they track down ‘Nick’, though again, they had no way of knowing whether he was the killer or another potential victim. Either way, he had to be found, and fast. Knight trudged towards the lair of DCI Kendrick. This case got more complicated by the hour.
Paul Hughes was meeting Dougie for what he called lunch; Dougie called it dinner. Paul hadn’t been expecting much of the food in a pub miles from anywhere called ‘The Lamb’, but his steak was perfectly cooked, the chips chunky and crisp, the salad as fresh as if it had just been picked. Dougie picked at a dish of lasagne. Paul gestured at it with his knife.
‘Something wrong with your meal?’
‘It’s not that, the food’s always fantastic here, that’s why I come. It’s quiet in the week too, they leave you alone. It’s manic at the weekend.’
Paul speared another mouthful of steak with his fork.
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘It’s this obsession your dad has with Milica Zukic. How does he expect us to get her back?’
‘No idea. I was hoping you could tell me.’
‘The police have her. Wherever she is now, it’s not going to be somewhere you can just wander in and take her by the hand.’
‘Pity Richie screwed up when he had the chance to grab her then, isn’t it?’
Dougie closed his eyes briefly.
‘We’re agreed on that. He said she fought like a lunatic.’
‘Any excuse. From what I remember, she’s about five feet tall, not to mention she was sitting in a car. How much could she struggle?’
‘I don’t know. I’m
not defending him.’
‘Sounds like it to me.’
‘The point is we’ve not got a hope.’
Paul finished his meal and wiped his mouth, setting his cutlery neatly on the empty plate.
‘Dad said Knight’s in charge?’
‘We think so.’
‘So he’ll be going to see her. We can follow him and find her that way.’
‘Why would he? They must have given her a phone, it’s not like she’s under arrest.’
‘How do you know? She could be sitting in a cell somewhere, not many places safer than that.’
‘What would the charges be?’
‘Apart from come into the country illegally?’
‘She didn’t know that.’
‘You know what I mean. I don’t want to be the one who tells Dad we’ve failed, do you?’
‘But it’s impossible; he must see that, you must see it. Trying to snatch a witness from police protection? Come on, Paul.’
The waiter was hovering a few tables away and came to take their plates when Dougie nodded to him. Both men refused pudding but accepted coffee.
‘I know it’ll be … difficult.’
‘Difficult?’ snorted Dougie.
Paul studied the tablecloth, and then met Dougie’s eyes, a crafty smile flickering over his face.
‘Maybe we don’t need to actually grab her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t think my dad’s ever seen her.’
‘How do you work that out? He told me how much she weighed.’
‘Doesn’t mean he’s seen her, Ron or someone could have told him that. I can take any girl back to him, give her a few quid to pretend she’s Zukic, Dad will rant and rave and then let her go. He wouldn’t hurt her, not the big boss’s niece. When the real Zukic goes free, she’ll be on the first plane back to Serbia and if she’s got any sense, she won’t set foot in the UK again. It’ll work.’
