‘Are you all right?’ A young nurse had stopped.
Geraldine forced a smile. ‘I’m fine, thank you. It’s just… hospitals…’ She turned and made her way along the corridor to the room where Kathryn Gordon lay shored up on pillows.
Geraldine was shocked at how the DCI had aged overnight. Her cheeks had lost their usual ruddy flush and seemed to have collapsed inwards beneath bones that jutted out. Her lips were taut in a sour expression as though someone had removed her teeth. Geraldine stepped into the room and hesitated. Kathryn Gordon appeared to be sleeping. She was attached to a drip and a monitor that displayed her heart rate electronically in a fine green line that flickered disconcertingly at the periphery of Geraldine’s vision. She looked like a frail old woman, clinging on to life by a fine green thread which moved inexorably up and down on the screen; it could stop at any moment.
Geraldine turned away, guilty at her intense relief that she wouldn’t have to struggle with expressions of sympathy. She wasn’t sure how Kathryn Gordon would react. Reaching the door, she glanced behind her. Kathryn Gordon’s eyes were open now, staring straight at her. Geraldine hesitated, but she couldn’t leave now that the DCI had seen her. She turned back into the room and approached the bed.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked. Clumsily.
‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘Don’t worry about that. You need to concentrate on getting yourself fit.’ How many more foolish platitudes were going to slip out of her mouth? Kathryn Gordon glared, faintly belligerent. ‘Don’t worry about the case,’ Geraldine repeated. She was caught completely off guard, shocked at seeing the formidable Kathryn Gordon reduced to a feeble old woman. It was unbearably sad. Geraldine hadn’t come to the hospital with the conscious intention of discussing the case, but standing helpless by the DCI’s bedside, Geraldine realised that was what she had been hoping to do.
Kathryn Gordon began to speak but her voice failed. Geraldine had to bend forward to distinguish the words. ‘Who… senior…’
‘James Ryder.’ She thought she saw a gleam in the older woman’s eyes and wondered if it signified anger or approval, before she realised Kathryn Gordon’s eyes were filling with tears. Geraldine had to look away.
Kathryn Gordon was the first to regain her composure. ‘Geraldine,’ she rasped softly. ‘I’m not going to die. Don’t think…’
The door opened and a nurse bustled in. ‘Time for your niece to leave, Kathryn.’
Kathryn Gordon’s eyes widened in surprise. Geraldine shrugged, and turned away to hide her embarrassment. She couldn’t think of anything to say. When she glanced over her shoulder, she realised that words were unnecessary. Kathryn Gordon was smiling at her.
28
Recognition
As soon as the local paper had come out, members of the public had started phoning in. Every call had to be taken seriously, but most were from people concerned about the safety of their gas appliances. The staff on the switchboard were soon fed up of giving out the phone number of the gas board.
‘Good news for gas service engineers,’ a constable remarked.
Geraldine had to step out of her office to find out how the calls were progressing. On her previous case the police station had been too small for her to have her own office. She had preferred working at a desk in the Incident Room. Now, she could hear a buzz of activity through the flimsy partition wall without being able to distinguish words. It was distracting as she found herself listening, trying to make out what was being said. Even when she managed to block out the hum of voices, it was impossible to ignore the shrilling of phones.
Raymond Barker had been taken down to the cells to kick his heels overnight. They were getting nowhere with him. They would have to let him go before long. In the interim, he was kicking up an appalling fuss. Fed up, Geraldine wandered off to the canteen. A constable found her there, staring moodily into her coffee.
‘Sophie Cliff’s been found, ma’am.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s been brought in. She’d left her neighbours and was picked up driving around. Seems she wasn’t sure where she was headed. She seems a bit confused.’
‘Sounds like it. All right. I’ll see her now.’ Geraldine took a deep breath and ran over a few platitudes in her mind as she walked along the corridor.
Bloodshot eyes looked up at her from a grey face. If she hadn’t known better, Geraldine would have thought Sophie Cliff was suffering from a terminal sickness. Her hair was sticking up in wild clumps, her blouse was crumpled, her eyes crazed.
‘I read the paper,’ Sophie Cliff said hoarsely. Geraldine sat down. ‘There were intruders in my house?’ Geraldine waited. She wasn’t sure where this was heading. ‘They left the gas on, didn’t they? It wasn’t an accident. Those burglars. They killed my husband.’ Geraldine would have felt more comfortable with anger or grief; there was a steely quality in Sophie’s stilted voice that was unnerving. The other woman’s grief felt like an accusation to Geraldine, unable to mourn for her own mother. Perhaps, when the case was over, suppressed emotion would surface and she would weep for her mother. ‘Who are they?’ the widow was asking, her voice strident. ‘I want you to tell me who killed my husband.’
‘We’re following several leads, Mrs Cliff – Sophie.’
‘What leads? I have a right to know.’ She was shaking now, her flat voice belied by her zealous eyes.
Geraldine explained that they had recovered some of the goods stolen by the burglars; candle sticks and other valuables. Officers were interviewing all the victims and neighbours again. ‘I assure you, Mrs Cliff, we’re doing everything we can to find these men. I’ll let you know as soon as there are any further developments.’
Sophie Cliff took a deep breath and launched into a description of the face she had seen, illuminated under a street lamp, as she had driven off to work on Friday night. Geraldine nodded. Sophie Cliff’s workplace had confirmed that she would have left her house shortly after two thirty. She had tried to leave quietly, she said, so as not to wake her husband. ‘He was sleeping,’ she explained, as though it mattered now. ‘I didn’t want to disturb him.’ Geraldine sat and listened while Sophie Cliff talked.
It seemed that Sophie Cliff must have disturbed the intruders when she left the house. One of them had tried to run past her car. Sophie had nearly knocked him down. ‘I didn’t know,’ she said. ‘If I’d known, I wouldn’t have braked.’
‘You said earlier you thought you might recognise this man if you saw him again.’
‘I’d know him anywhere.’
Geraldine studied the desperation in the pale face opposite. ‘Are you sure, Mrs Cliff?’
‘He was standing right under the street lamp.’ She blinked at Geraldine through her glasses. ‘I don’t think he could see my face, in the car. He probably didn’t know I could see him. But I saw him. I saw him as clearly as I can see you now.’
‘Mrs Cliff –’ Geraldine sighed. Sophie Cliff was in a state of extreme emotional disturbance. Geraldine could imagine a defence counsel coldly deconstructing a case built around her conviction. ‘Mrs Cliff,’ she began again. ‘If you’re feeling strong enough, we’d like you to describe this man you saw to an E-fit officer who will produce an image of his face. Do you think you could do that?’
Sophie stopped abruptly and gripped Geraldine by the arm. ‘What will happen to him? He’ll go to prison, won’t he? He’ll get life if I tell you what he looks like. He’ll never get away, will he?’
‘You have my word for it that we’ll do our best to see justice done.’ Geraldine hoped that her words wouldn’t turn out to be a hollow promise.
Half an hour passed before Geraldine’s phone rang. It was the desk sergeant. With a sigh, Geraldine made her way to the entrance. Sophie Cliff was sitting on a chair in the lobby, staring straight ahead. With a shrug at the sergeant, Geraldine sat down beside her.
‘Thank you for your information, Mrs Cliff. Is there anything else y
ou want to tell us?’
‘You’ll get him now, won’t you?’ Sophie Cliff was animated, her hair splayed out wildly around her thin face.
‘We’ll keep you fully informed. Where will you be?’
‘I’ll go to my parents.’
‘We’ll be in touch, I promise.’
As she pushed open the internal door, Geraldine glanced over her shoulder. Sophie Cliff hadn’t moved.
On her way back to her office, Geraldine passed Barker being escorted along the corridor. A sudden shriek floated through the door to the entrance hall. Geraldine turned and hurried back along the corridor. Sophie Cliff was on her feet jabbing her finger at Barker. Her eyes blazed and her arm trembled wildly, like a child waving a sparkler.
‘Murderer!’ she screeched. ‘You’ll burn in hell for what you did!’
‘Tell her to shut it, for fuck’s sake. She’s off her trolley.’ Rattled, Barker turned to the constable.
‘That’s him,’ Sophie gabbled. ‘It’s him.’ She seized Geraldine’s arm and shook her. ‘That’s the man I saw outside the house. It’s him!’
‘I’m the innocent party here. It’s slander, that’s what this is. You need to do something to shut her up,’ Barker blustered.
‘Come along, sir,’ the constable replied, unperturbed. He escorted Barker to the door.
Sophie ran out. Geraldine retired to her office but couldn’t settle. She returned to the lobby which was now empty.
‘She went quietly,’ the desk sergeant told her, before she had a chance to ask. ‘Left as soon as Barker had gone. Never a dull moment, eh?’
29
Bronxy
Barker swore when he saw Geraldine and Peterson on his doorstep. He ran large hands through his dishevelled hair. ‘I already told you I was there. I saw the door open. I only went in to see that everything was all right. Jesus, you try to be a good citizen, and end up being treated like a bloody criminal.’ He glared. ‘You’ve got nothing on me.’
‘Mr Barker, this isn’t about your trespass.’
‘I keep telling you, it wasn’t trespass. The door was wide open. I just walked in.’
‘Where were you on Friday night?’
‘What?’ His mouth hung slack but his eyes were suddenly sharp.
‘Where were you on Friday night?’
‘Friday night?’ He blinked, uncertain. Geraldine waited. ‘How the fuck should I know?’ He folded his arms and leaned back.
‘Not great, as alibis go,’ Peterson remarked conversationally. He too leaned back, mirroring Barker’s posture.
‘Alibi?’ Barker spluttered. ‘What are you talking about, alibi? I’ve done nothing wrong. This is fucking insane. I act like a responsible citizen and you lot turn it into some kind of crime.’ He paused. They waited. ‘I need to check,’ he said. ‘I’m entitled.’ Geraldine nodded and Barker slammed the door. A few seconds later they heard raised voices. Peterson hammered on the door. Barker opened it again.
‘You can come to the station and wait for a duty solicitor –’ Geraldine began.
‘I don’t need a fucking lawyer. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
Geraldine and Peterson exchanged annoyed glances and she resumed. ‘Where were you on Friday night?’
This time, Barker had an answer. ‘Bronxy’s,’ he replied.
‘Bronxy’s?’
‘Yeah. That’s right. I spent the night at Bronxy’s. With a mate.’
‘Where is Bronxy’s?’
‘The club. The Blue Lagoon. You can ask anyone there. They’ll tell you. I was there.’ He slammed the door.
‘He’s agitated,’ Geraldine said.
‘He’s not just angry. He’s scared,’ Peterson agreed.
‘But not of us.’
Bennett gave Geraldine and Peterson the background to Barker’s alibi. ‘Bronxy runs the Blue Lagoon. It’s a strip joint posing as a night club, behind the scenes a knocking shop posing as a strip joint. It’s a nasty dive. A real cess pit. It all goes on there. The owner was prosecuted for profiting from human trafficking a couple of years back. All came to nothing, more’s the pity. Prosecution couldn’t make it stick.’
‘No convictions?’ Peterson asked.
Bennett shook his head. ‘Bronxy’s a slippery customer with a finger in every stinking pie.’ He shrugged. ‘Best of luck. I hope you shut the place down and throw away the key.’
‘Bronxy?’ Geraldine repeated thoughtfully as they settled in the car. ‘What do we know about Bronxy?’
Peterson shrugged. ‘He isn’t running a bridge club, gov.’ He spun the wheel and drove off away from the centre of town to a rundown district on the east side of the town.
The nature of the Blue Lagoon was apparent as soon as they drew up in a narrow street of seedy pubs interspersed with strip joints and night clubs. A neon sign announced the name in bright pink letters: ‘Blue Lagoon’.
‘Should be blue lettering,’ Geraldine remarked, as they approached the narrow poorly lit entrance.
A bouncer on the door sized them up straight away. ‘Evening, officers,’ he greeted them before they had shown any ID. ‘Here for the evening’s entertainment?’ He ran watery eyes up and down Geraldine’s body, and winked suggestively at Peterson. ‘Nice.’
‘We’re here to see Bronxy,’ Peterson replied sharply.
The man touched his cap. ‘You’re in luck then, gov’nor. Bronxy’s in tonight. Bronxy’s in every night.’ He laughed. ‘Back office. But you’d best let me –’ Peterson pushed past the security guard without waiting to hear any more.
Geraldine followed the sergeant across a dimly lit foyer, through a thick dark curtain, into a stuffy room.
‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’ a heavily made up girl called after them, long red nails fluttering. On a podium, a scantily clad woman was gyrating to music so loud it made Geraldine’s head pound.
One or two men complained as they pushed their way through the hot and smoky room. ‘Watch where you put your feet, wanker.’
The stripper turned her back and ripped off her bra. Someone jeered. The sweet scent of cannabis floated on the air as they threaded their way to a door labelled STAFF ONLY. Peterson rapped on the door. He marched in without waiting for a response, ignoring a shrill female voice protesting behind them. Geraldine followed him, relieved when the door closed behind her, reducing the blaring music to a dull thump.
They were in a well furnished office. Halogen lighting made Geraldine blink. A woman was sitting at a desk. Short and muscular, she rose to her feet in one swift movement. Shrewd black rimmed eyes flicked over them. Highlighted hair had been swept back off her face in curls that swooped to her shoulders. There was something fake about her high cheek bones, pouting lips and smooth complexion. In her youthful face, shrewd eyes contemplated them with the scepticism of old age.
‘We’re looking for Bronxy.’ Geraldine sat down without waiting for an invitation.
The woman’s dark eyes flashed. ‘Bronxy?’ Her voice was husky.
‘We’re looking for Bronxy,’ Peterson repeated. The woman sat down behind the desk and spread her hands on either side of her body, palms upward, in a gesture of submission.
‘I’m all yours, Sergeant,’ she drawled. Her eyes moved slowly down and lingered below Peterson’s waistband. She licked her lips and laughed under her breath before turning to Geraldine. ‘You must be Geraldine Steel. Should I congratulate you on your promotion, or has the moment passed?’
Someone had warned Bronxy they were coming. ‘We’d like a list of your guests last Friday night,’ Geraldine said.
‘Condolences on the loss of your mother,’ Bronxy continued in the same lazy drawl.
Geraldine wondered how Bronxy knew about her mother’s death. The woman was playing mind games, trying to unsettle her. ‘Your guests on Friday,’ she repeated in a level tone, her face impassive.
‘But at least your mother knew about your promotion before she passed away,’ Bronxy continued. ‘That must be a
comfort.’
‘Your guests on Friday,’ Geraldine insisted in a quiet voice.
Bronxy screwed up her eyes. ‘Let me see,’ she said with exaggerated slowness. She lit a cigarette. Peterson reminded her sharply of the law prohibiting smoking in public venues. Bronxy inhaled deeply. It wasn’t clear if she was playing for time or trying to rile them. ‘Friday night,’ she repeated. ‘Friday night’s always busy. We had a few regulars in. Cal Martin was in.’ She was offhand, as though picking a name at random.
‘Callum Martin?’
‘Yes. He was here. All night.’ She glanced up through heavy lashes. ‘Ray Barker was with him.’ She took a long drag of her cigarette and balanced it on the rim of an ashtray, a fierce smudge of scarlet lipstick on the stub. A wisp of smoke rose curling in the air.
‘Callum Martin and Ray Barker were here on Friday night?’
‘That’s what I said, officer.’
‘What time did they leave?’
‘They were here all night.’
‘So what time did they leave?’
‘We closed at three.’ Bronxy smiled, unruffled. They all knew she was lying. She swivelled round, opened a safe in the wall behind her and pulled out a handful of cheques held together with a large clip. Leafing through them she selected one and handed it to Geraldine. It was drawn on Callum Martin’s account and dated Friday.
Geraldine returned it. ‘Thank you, but that’s not helpful.’
Bronxy turned to Peterson. ‘Perhaps you’d like to question my girls, Sergeant? They’re always happy to help out a policeman.’ She smiled. ‘And they all remember Cal’s visit.’
‘You know that, do you?’
‘All the girls know Cal.’ She laughed out loud, a coarse laugh that jarred with her carefully arranged features and immaculate hair. ‘I haven’t fallen out with him, even if he did take my girl.’
‘Your girl?’
Road Closed Page 13
