‘Sounds lovely,’ Geraldine replied. She was already flicking through the next report she had pulled out of her bag.
Geraldine worked late into the night trying to trace stolen vehicles picked up on cameras between Harchester and Sandmouth on Saturday and Monday evenings. No evidence she found seemed to match the theory that Sophie Cliff had returned to Harchester in a stolen car. Her head was full of a jumble of names and times. She might as well have spent the evening with Craig, she thought angrily, as she climbed into a cold bed. And somewhere nearby, a killer was probably sleeping peacefully.
58
Moving On
Sunday was frustrating. A couple of constables were taking phone calls, but the lines were relatively quiet. There wasn’t much else going on. Bennett was around, somewhere. There was no sign of the DCI.
‘It’s so boring, sitting here waiting,’ one of the constables complained as Geraldine walked past.
‘Tell me about it,’ Geraldine agreed. The waiting was the worst part.
She passed a dreary hour poring over statements, searching in vain for some detail that didn’t fit. It was dull work. She had read them all before. Finding herself struggling to concentrate, she took a break to clear her head. It was raining so she went up to the canteen for a coffee.
‘You any good at anagrams, Geraldine?’ Bennett called to her as she went in. He had a newspaper open on the table and was doing the crossword.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Well, what about a clue then? Supports air, that’s good luck.’
Geraldine shook her head. ‘I haven’t got the patience.’ She sat down opposite him.
‘Good luck,’ Bennett muttered. ‘Lucky… What’s another word for good luck?’
‘Serendipity. Fortune.’
‘That’s it! Of course. Good luck is fortune. For-tune. Don’t you get it? When you support something, you’re for it, and an air is another word for a tune. Well done.’ Geraldine wondered if Bennett had ever been this animated about his work. ‘What about this one?’
‘Sorry, Les. It’s all too clever for me.’
‘It’s really not difficult.’ He put his pen down. ‘It’s just a question of substituting the right word for the clue.’
Geraldine smiled. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t get excited about crosswords. Playing with words just doesn’t do it for me.’
‘One more clue?’
Geraldine shook her head and sighed. That wasn’t the sort of clue she needed right now. She finished her coffee and went back to her desk, leaving Bennett puzzling over his crossword.
Free from distraction, Geraldine should have been able to work her way through a great deal, but there was nothing demanding her attention apart from routine paperwork. Her thoughts kept wandering to Maggie Palmer. Presumably her children would miss her, but they were too young to deal with funeral arrangements and all the inconvenient paraphernalia of death.
She shied away from the memory of her own mother’s funeral, and her thoughts led her to Celia. It was a week since they had seen each other, at their mother’s house. When she reached home, Geraldine picked up the phone and dialled Celia’s number but before the connection was made she put the phone down. She didn’t have the energy for an emotional scene right now. Craig would be picking her up in less than an hour. She had to get ready. Celia would have to wait. In any case, Celia hadn’t called her. Perhaps Celia wasn’t ready to meet either.
It was late afternoon, and cold, as Craig drove her out of town along country lanes lined with a bright carpet of fallen leaves. In the distant glare of sunset, trees blazed with a few remaining flickers of russet. Some had already lost all their foliage, their branches stark in the wintry sun. A Bob Dylan CD was playing. The melancholy strains suited the scenery.
Craig took her to a pub by the river. On a summer’s day it would have been lovely to sit outside overlooking the water. Indoors it was an ordinary country pub with a restaurant. The car park was full and there was nowhere to park on the street outside. They had to leave the car round the corner and walk back in the rain. As they huddled together beneath his umbrella, Geraldine found herself wishing he would offer her more than protection from the rain.
‘Pity we didn’t come in your car,’ Craig said as they stepped inside. ‘We could’ve left it right outside.’ Geraldine didn’t answer. She knew some of her colleagues used their privilege as police officers to allow them to park anywhere. Others considered it an abuse of the system. Geraldine preferred not to pass judgement, but she never used her position to park in restricted zones.
‘The food’s not too bad,’ Craig told her as he joined her from the bar. Geraldine tried to feel optimistic when he set a cheap bottle of wine on the table. Perhaps he didn’t feel the need to try and impress her, but she remembered him splashing out on expensive wines on holiday. She watched him fill their large glasses.
‘Geraldine, we need to talk.’ She waited. He stared down at the glass in his hand. ‘Geraldine,’ he began again and hesitated. She stared at the dark liquid swilling in his glass. ‘I’m a regular sort of guy.’ He took a gulp of wine. ‘While you were on your last case, I barely saw you. When we went away together, it was different. But now it seems it’s starting all over again. I’m not blaming you. It’s just the way it is. I do admire your dedication and I understand you feel you have to give a hundred per cent to your job. But I’m not sure I want a girlfriend who may be called away at a moment’s notice to prioritise her work for weeks on end. I know it’s not your fault –’
The food arrived and he stopped while they sorted out their plates. Geraldine picked miserably at her pasta, wondering how to respond.
When the waitress had gone, Craig resumed. He sounded more sure of himself. ‘I think it would be best if we called it a day, before we start getting in too deep. Because I can see…’ She waited. He wouldn’t meet her eye. ‘The thing is, Geraldine, I think I’m beginning to really fall for you and the trouble is I can’t see it working out between us. Not in the long term.’
Geraldine put her fork down. She wanted to say she would change. Things were going to be different. She wanted to argue that it didn’t make sense to end the relationship because he was beginning to have serious feelings for her. This was surely the time for them to agree to try and make it work. It had been a one off, her not being able to see him on Saturday night. It wouldn’t happen again. It wasn’t as if she had even found anything in the documents she had spent her evening studying. But she might have done. She knew she would make the same decision again.
Craig had sounded fine with her explanation the previous evening, happy to postpone meeting up until Sunday. ‘At least I remembered to call and confirm this time,’ he had laughed. And now this. Geraldine didn’t say anything. There was no point. It was over. Her disappointment was so bitter, she could almost taste it, like vinegar on her tongue – or was that the cheap wine? Miserably she took another sip. And another. She wondered whether he had been planning to end the relationship on Saturday or if he had made his decision when she had put off seeing him. She opened her mouth to ask but was afraid she wouldn’t be able to control her voice if she tried to speak. She drank some more wine instead.
‘I don’t want to play second fiddle to a corpse,’ he added, with an attempt at humour.
Geraldine didn’t smile. She stood suddenly and gathered up her coat and bag with quick nervous movements. She couldn’t look at him. ‘I’m not very hungry. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll ring for a taxi.’
Craig was taken aback. ‘Nonsense. I’ll drop you home. Finish your dinner. There’s no rush.’ He looked at her in genuine surprise. ‘I hope you’re not upset about this? I thought –’
She shook her head and forced a smile. ‘Unless you’ve got work waiting for you when you get home?’ he added.
‘I’ve always got work waiting when I’m on a case.’
In the taxi Geraldine replayed the scene in her mind. What Craig had said reminded her of
her ex Mark’s words when he had left her. They had both accused her of putting her job first. Perhaps they were right and she was using her work to avoid intimacy in a relationship. Her misery was momentarily swept aside by anger but, by the time the taxi drew up outside her flat, she was resigned to her situation. She had her job. She didn’t need anyone, least of all a man to mess with her mind. In her job it was vital to be able to think clearly. She was fine on her own, better off in fact. She didn’t need the illusory security of a boyfriend. Love was no promise of happiness. Sophie Cliff had found love but it hadn’t brought her happiness. Exhausted, Geraldine sat on the sofa with a glass of wine and closed her eyes, just for a moment.
The phone startled her from an uneasy doze.
‘Geraldine, have you been drinking?’ Celia asked. Geraldine was too tired to feel annoyed by the question, and too relieved. Celia was talking as though the estrangement over Geraldine’s adoption had never happened. Perhaps it was better that way. Carry on as though nothing had happened. And what, after all, had happened between them? The situation was not of Celia’s making, the shameful secret not hers to divulge. Geraldine and Celia had always been very different, and now Geraldine could understand why.
‘No, well, yes.’
‘I can always tell.’
‘Well done you,’ Geraldine said, but she spoke kindly. ‘So how’s my clever niece?’ And just like that, Celia was chatting about Chloe, as though everything was back to normal. Geraldine sat, the phone to her ear, and listened to the gentle drone of Celia’s voice.
‘Geraldine, are you listening?’
‘Yes.’
…She was standing beside Sophie Cliff in the kitchen.
‘This is where it happened,’ Sophie said. ‘He was lying here, in the dirt.’
‘No,’ Geraldine corrected her, ‘he was found in the dining area.’
‘How do you know?’ Sophie asked. Her eyes glittered. ‘Were you there?’ She raised her hand and Geraldine saw she was holding a can of petrol. Sophie jerked forward and a spume of petrol arced out. Geraldine leapt back. Petrol sloshed on the floor, almost reaching her feet. Geraldine watched as Sophie pulled out a lighter. ‘He’s waiting for us,’ Sophie said. Her eyes shone with a crazy fervour. She splashed more petrol out of the can…
Geraldine woke with a start to find she had spilt wine over her expensive trousers. She picked up the phone which had fallen from her grasp.
‘Geraldine, are you there?’ Celia was asking, plaintively.
‘Yes, sorry, I just dropped the phone.’
‘Where was I?’
‘Back to normal,’ Geraldine muttered gratefully.
‘What’s that?’
‘I said I’m still here.’
‘I know you’re there. I wouldn’t sit here talking to myself, would I?’
Geraldine stifled a giggle and reached for the bottle to refill her glass. She felt a rush of gratitude. An adopted sister was better than no sister at all.
‘Geraldine, are you listening?’
‘Yes. I’m here.’
59
Danger
The Monday morning briefing finished. Ian Peterson had just switched on his laptop, when Geraldine hurried up to his desk. Ian barely noticed the DCI standing behind her.
‘Guess what?’ she said. ‘We just heard back from forensics.’
Ian started forward in his chair. ‘The Honda?’
‘Guess who’s skin they’ve found?’
‘Skin?’
‘Flakes of skin, dandruff, on the back of the driving seat.’ She was grinning now. He thought suddenly how young she looked. Her huge dark eyes shone like lamps.
‘Callum Martin?’ He was smiling too. He knew what she was going to say.
‘Got it in one. They rushed the DNA sample through double quick. I gave them a kick, said we needed to nail the bastard before we lost him, and they had to give us something, and they did. They’d found it straight away, before the car was even moved, and sent if off for analysis, but hadn’t told us.’
‘They probably thought it belonged to the owner of the vehicle,’ Ian said.
‘They could have said something,’ she insisted.
The DCI stepped forward. ‘It doesn’t matter now. Bring him in, Geraldine. Take Peterson with you, and take back up in case he tries to make a run for it. He’s probably got a few bolt holes lined up, apart from the Blue Lagoon. Best not take any chances. We don’t want to lose him now.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the DI replied, but Ryder had already left the room.
It didn’t take long to arrange back up. They set off in convoy. Ian and the DI waited impatiently until the team were in position, front and back, before they approached the club. As he followed her, he caught a whiff of her familiar perfume and smiled. They made a formidable team.
The door was locked. There was no bell. Ian knocked loudly until his knuckles hurt, and shouted through the letter box. After a minute, they heard a voice inside. They couldn’t distinguish what it said but the door creaked open and a doorman demanded to know their business. Ian hadn’t seen him before. He brandished his identity card but the DI strode past and made her way straight to the office, taking no notice of the doorman’s protests.
Bronxy glared at them when they barged through the door.
The DI spoke first. ‘We’d like to see Callum Martin.’
‘Well he’s not here.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. But, like I said, he’s not here.’
‘You won’t mind us having a look around then?’
Bronxy rose unsteadily to her feet, but her voice was even. ‘Have you got a search warrant, Inspector?’
‘A search warrant? We didn’t come here to search your premises, but we will if that’s what it takes to find Martin, in which case we’ll require you to accompany us to the station while we wait for the warrant.’
‘I don’t have to agree to that.’ Bronxy sat down and folded her arms. Ian could see she was agitated.
‘So, what’s it to be? We can do this any way you choose, only we’re going to take a look around, whether you like it or not. And with the number of officers I’ve got in place round the building, no one’s getting in or out while we’re waiting for a search warrant. We can make ourselves comfortable if you want us to wait here.’ The DI glanced round the room and pulled out her phone.
‘Look here, Inspector, I’ve got a lot to do before we open –’ Bronxy began.
‘With uniformed officers surrounding the place?’ The DI burst out laughing, genuinely amused. ‘I don’t think your customers are going to be queuing up, do you? So, what’s it to be? It’s your choice.’ She turned to Ian. ‘She’s a brave woman, harbouring a murderer, wouldn’t you say, Sarge?’
‘Stupid, if you ask me.’ Bronxy was silent. ‘We’ll take a little look round then, shall we?’ He opened the door.
Downstairs the club was deserted apart from a greasy haired young man stacking glasses behind the bar. The DI led the way upstairs, peering into rooms off the corridor. Ian had a confused impression of unmade beds, peeling wall paper and the stink of sweat as they checked each room, glanced behind doors, inside a wardrobe stuffed with glittering frocks, anywhere a man could be hiding. They saw a couple of women in bed asleep together, and a woman applying make up in front of a mirror.
Ian entered the end room first. Brenda was sitting directly in front of him, perched on the edge of a bed. She stared at him, glassy eyed. Callum Martin was standing by a window to the left, talking on his mobile. He half turned as the door opened. Seeing who it was, he tossed the phone on the bed.
‘What the –’ he began.
‘Callum Martin, I’m arresting you on suspicion –’ Ian broke off as Callum sprang on to the bed and knelt behind Brenda. Ian heard a sharp intake of breath at his shoulder. Callum had one arm across Brenda’s throat, pulling her backwards against his chest. In his other hand he held a knife to the side of her neck.
�
�Mr Martin, put the knife down.’ The DI’s voice was low and even. Ian heard a rustle of movement behind him. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the tableau on the bed.
‘Don’t move or she gets it,’ Callum yelled. Ian nodded to show he understood. Callum looked wild. There was no knowing what he might do.
Brenda seemed dazed. ‘Who is he, Cal?’ she asked. He ignored the question, and pulled her head further back, her skin taut against the blade. Brenda gagged but she didn’t struggle.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘We just want to talk to you, Callum.’ Ian replied. He held his breath. No one moved. ‘Put the knife down. You’re not going to use it.’ He hoped he was right.
‘Fuck off.’
‘Callum, look out of the window,’ Ian went on quietly. ‘There are police officers surrounding the building. You can’t leave. Sooner or later you’re going to have to come with us.’ Callum stared at the sergeant, calculating.
‘Cal, who is he?’ Brenda asked.
‘Shut up.’ He tightened his grip on Brenda’s neck. She began to choke. A siren pierced the air from outside and he stiffened.
‘Callum, you’re strangling her,’ Ian said. He began to edge backwards to the door. He wasn’t sure what else to do.
‘Don’t move!’ Callum shouted. ‘Come here.’ Ian froze. ‘Come over here or I’ll –’ He pointed the knife at Brenda’s eye. ‘I’ll have her eye out.’
Suddenly Brenda became alert to the danger. ‘Cal, what are you doing?’ She stared at the point of the blade, centimetres from her eye. Callum drew the edge of the knife slowly down her cheek leaving a fine line, brilliant red against her pale skin. ‘Cal? What are you doing?’ Brenda’s voice rose in a whine of fear.
‘Sharp as a razor,’ Callum said. ‘Come here.’ Ian took one small step forward. Callum placed the knife at Brenda’s throat again. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. Ian couldn’t hear what he said. ‘Come over here or she gets it,’ Callum repeated. Ian inched closer. He considered taking a sudden leap to catch the bastard off guard, but it was too risky. The blade was pressing into Brenda’s flesh.
Road Closed Page 26
