‘Is everyone out?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, the place always empties early in the morning. It’s one of the best things about this business. They all get picked up early to go to work.’
‘They live here?’
‘Yeah, for now at least. Most of ‘em are asylum seekers, a mixed bag, all at different stages of trying to stay here. Some have already been rejected, some are going through appeals, some arrived on the back of a lorry last week.’
‘Some have been rejected? How come they’re still here?’
‘They won’t be for long. And I don’t mean they will be sent home. As it gets nearer to immigration turning up on the door to deport them, they will disappear. Most go to the big cities, easy to get lost up there.’
‘And they work all day?’
‘Not legally. You can’t work if you’re waiting for a decision on your asylum status. That’s why they stick them in places like this. They have to give them somewhere to live, but the system’s a bit of a joke. They all work cash in hand somewhere, the takeaways, carwashes, deliveries — anywhere that will take the risk on a bit of cheap labour. There doesn’t seem to be a shortage of that either. I think the authorities are well aware, but they don’t cause any problems and it helps keep the wheel spinning on the economy. I don’t ask any questions and I certainly don’t tell no tales. This setup works nicely for me too.’
Jenny followed her into her flat. It had a corridor that ran the length of its left side and a neat little living room was the first room off to the right. They passed beyond it and moved through to the kitchen at the back. Again it was tidy. The cooker and the fridge were oversized, almost industrial, but it was the only sign of it being the hub of a B&B.
‘So I suppose you don’t need to make them all breakfast in the mornings. How many evening meals do you have to do?’
‘Oh, I don’t cook for them, love. I mean I get paid to and it’s part of the contract but I don’t. I tried to at the start, but they want halal meat and they can’t eat for Ramadan or whatnot. I’m much more of a Sunday roast, and fish and chip suppers kinda girl. I tell them that and they soon find other arrangements. They eat a lot of takeaways, the ones who work in the chicken shops or the kebab houses. They tend to bring home enough for everyone. I still take the extra cash from the government for feeding them, why wouldn’t I? The way I look at it, I offered and they refused.’
‘Well, I won’t.’
‘You what, love?’
‘Refuse. I won’t refuse bacon. And don’t worry about it not being halal. I haven’t eaten for a couple of days.’
The woman chuckled. ‘Fine then. I’ve missed it if I’m honest. I used to like the banter, cooking for people in the morning, setting them up for their day.’
‘You’ll certainly be doing that.’
‘Well, then, now you know my secrets, I take government cash and spend it on my own bacon and exotic holidays rather than feeding my tenants, so now it’s your turn — your secrets.’ She was still smiling. She poured out two cups of strong-looking tea from a pot that had been hidden under a tea cosy.
‘My secrets?’
‘A girl turns up at a place like this with a bloody arm, begging for a place to stay and she hasn’t eaten for a couple of days. That sounds like a girl with secrets to me.’ She pushed one of the teas at Jenny. A bowl of sugar lumps followed. Jenny took the tea in both hands and slurped at it immediately.
‘I don’t even know your name,’ Jenny said, grinning nervously.
‘Anne,’ the woman said, ‘and I’ve seen something like your arm before. My husband got himself in an argument with a farmer. This fella had a shotgun for chasing away the vermin on his farm, only he’d sawed the end off so he wouldn’t miss. Close up it’ll rip you apart, but a bit further away and you get a nasty rash like on your arm.’
‘A shotgun, eh? Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know what it was.’
‘I would. Hurts like hell too, I would say.’
‘It’s better now. The bath helped.’
‘The girl on the news, the one they’re saying ran away from all the chaos down in the town. They reckon she was attacked by a man with a shotgun. A lot of people got a look at him. Not many got a look at the girl, though.’
Jenny sipped at her tea. She was looking away, knowing that if she made eye contact she would give herself away. ‘Really?’
‘That’s what they said. I guess when there’s a man running around with a gun, he gets all the attention. The only description of the girl is that she’s got dark hair, quite long, and she was wearing a white top and blue jeans. And she left her baby at the scene. They say she did that to keep the little dot safe. They don’t think that little girl is more than six months old.’
Jenny did now look Anne in the eye. Anne hadn’t made any start on breakfast yet. Jenny knew she was being studied for a reaction, but Anne’s expression was soft and sympathetic.
‘You learn a lot, running a place like this. Just that all the guests have their own back stories, their own reasons for hiding in the attic. All I’m saying is that if that girl came here, if she needed help, then she would get it without any questions asked.’
Jenny finished her tea. The second she put it back down on the side Anne filled it up again with a tip of the pot. Jenny added the milk. ‘I’m sure that would be appreciated. Sounds like she would have had a hell of a day.’
Anne’s face broke into a full smile. She lit up some pans and pulled the fridge open. Soon the air was filled with the delicious smell of sizzling bacon.
‘So your husband . . .’ Jenny said, ‘. . . you said he got shot at. I take it he got himself a rash and nothing more?’ She was peering around for signs of co-habitation.
Anne cracked some eggs. ‘A nasty one. All down his right side. I was picking shots out of him for a good couple of hours. Healed up fine though. And after that he never again picked on a man with a shotgun under his arm.’
‘Sounds sensible. Does he work here with you?’
Anne pursed her lips. ‘I’m afraid not. He was a good man, he was good to me his whole life and then he was good enough to die first! The insurance bought this place outright. I don’t know whether that makes me lucky or not.’
Jenny broke into a smile for the first time since the previous morning. She covered it over swiftly, realising that perhaps it wasn’t appropriate.
‘Don’t worry,’ Anne said. ‘It was a long time ago. I’ve had plenty of time to get used to it. He was good man. One thing we always had was the jokes. I know I can say things like that, I know he’ll be up there now laughing hard. Now, love, please find yourself a seat at the table, it won’t be long now.’
Anne turned back to her stove. Jenny moved a short distance to the table, the chair caught on the wooden floor and squeaked. Anne had turned the radio on; it must have been on the hour because the news headlines kicked in. The shooting dominated the report, then they went live to a press conference. Jenny looked over to Anne, she was still facing away but she had half-turned back to Jenny, no doubt waiting to see if there was any reaction. Jenny didn’t give her any, she just swigged at her tea, but she was listening. It was the same voice as last time: the chief inspector, though she couldn’t remember his name. He said that they were still looking for the female who had fled the scene. He confirmed that at least two men had died as part of the incident, and then he made another appeal to the missing woman. Only this time it was different:
‘Jenny, we can’t imagine the stress you are under right now but I want you to know that you will be safe with us. Please make contact with us, even if you just let us know that you are safe. We want you to know that your daughter is safe, we want you to know that she slept well last night, despite all of the excitement. She’s been checked over by medical staff, Jenny. She’s perfectly fine. Call us, Jenny. You can call 101 or 999 — it doesn’t matter. We will come straight out to you. Thank you and I’m sorry but I can’t take any questions as this time.’
The reporter cut back in. He talked immediately about the fact that the female had now been named, or at least her first name revealed. He then appealed for witnesses and quoted a number to call. Jenny’s head had fallen forward into her hands. She snapped upright as a plate was placed in front of her.
‘I’ll drive you down there, Jenny,’ Anne said. ‘Whatever you’re running from, it doesn’t matter anymore. The police have your baby and she’s safe. Just go and see her. But we’ll eat our breakfast first, okay? I can’t be having a bad review on TripAdvisor now, can I?’
Jenny wiped at her face, she jerked a nod and took an intake of breath. She managed a smile too. She didn’t want to be running anymore. Whatever Joseph was into, it was nothing to do with her. They would see that. There was nothing for her to worry about.
Hungrily, she bit into her sandwich.
Chapter 8
John Whittaker moved into the foyer at the Force Headquarters and pushed his way through the second wave of reporters, those who hadn’t made it into the main briefing room. He had been involved in some high profile jobs in his past, but he had always been a bit part, able to sit back and watch the more senior members of staff provide the lip service, while he actually got some work done. There was very little getting done right now — by him at least. Even as he was led out of the front of the building and ushered into a car that had pulled up directly outside he could see his phone was going off. Another unknown number call. He knew what that meant. Some chancer from the associated press had gotten hold of his number and was trying to penetrate the interior of his getaway car with one last question. He pressed to reject the call and threw the phone onto the front seat. Detective Sergeant Melanie Richards was in the back seat next to him.
‘I do hope this is the right play.’ Whittaker voiced his doubts. It was rhetorical, really. There was no answer to it.
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ Melanie asked. Another sergeant, Jason Carter was driving. Whittaker saw him flick his eyes to the rear-view mirror. The car was moving towards the exit gate. Jason was under strict instructions to get him back to Langthorne House as soon as possible after the press conference.
‘I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t be using a six-month-old child as a way of stoking up a response from dangerous criminals, no matter what the circumstances.’
‘I thought we were just after a response from the mother?’
‘For all we know she is the dangerous criminal. Naming her made sense to me at the time, but the second I said it . . . I don’t know . . . it just didn’t feel right. I was a mean poker player in the forces, Mel, because I never revealed the cards I had.’
‘I’m not sure there’s a right answer in this situation, sir. This could end up being exactly the right play. Now we just need to wait and see.’
‘I’ve never been a fan of wait and see. I can live with not finding the right answer — I just can’t live with getting it wrong. Wrong in this case means another body on my patch. And an orphan not nearly old enough to know what that means.’
‘This woman’s been pretty good at keeping herself out of harm’s way so far. Anyway, sir, we’re pretty certain that whoever attacked that car knew the occupants, right? I’m sure we’re not telling them anything they don’t already know, which means we’re not putting her in any more danger.’
‘Let’s just hope she is still out of harm’s way. Has Inspector Elms been in touch yet?’ Jason had been tasked with getting an update from their second murder scene of the day.
‘No, sir. I tried him maybe ten times. His phone went straight to voicemail every time. I left a message on the last go asking him to call as soon as he gets it.’
‘Voicemail, you say? George Elms can be trusted. There’ll be a damned good reason for him not getting back to us. Get me back to the ranch and I’ll try him myself. Anywhere in fact that isn’t this wretched place.’ Whittaker sat back in the leather of the big BMW saloon that was his allocated car for the operation. He was happy to see the exit gates sliding open and for the car to drift through and pick up speed. There were two things that he hated more than anything else — the associated press and Lennockshire Police’s senior management team. And right now they were all gathered at the same place.
* * *
George Elms fiddled with his facemask, despite knowing that you weren’t supposed to handle it once it was in place. It was so damned uncomfortable. The science around DNA was moving far faster than the competence of a thirty-something police detective and George was tired of hearing about it. It was just a few weeks since he had attended a conference on this very subject, where he had been cheerfully informed that advances in DNA detection were very quickly approaching the point where DNA would no longer be a viable form of evidence. Any defence solicitor worth his salt would soon be able to argue that the discovery of DNA at a scene could be the result of transference, had any persons who had attended that scene ever been in the same room as the accused. And not necessarily at the same time. Try and prove they haven’t, the speaker had said, a smug look spreading over his face while he enjoyed the stunned silence of his audience. The news very quickly got worse and most of George’s attention was lost while he had carried on with tales of DNA blowing in the wind. George and his colleagues would soon be back to the methods used before DNA and forensics — pissing in the wind as George referred to it. It had prompted laughter in the bar after. George wasn’t laughing now.
The Wingmores’ kitchen was very much in keeping with what George had seen so far. No country farmhouse was complete without the country kitchen. It had a grey, flagstone floor with a huge Aga range cooker that radiated heat and set the atmosphere just right. The room was all chunky wood, earthy colours and ornate ducks — all very tasteful — only now with a splatter of red. Janice Wingmore was on her back. Her legs lay over a stone doorstep leading into the boot room that Sergeant Banks had described. The victim was in a navy blue robe that was obviously too large for her. She had long socks on, pulled up almost to her knees. The robe was lying open to display square knickers and a light pink vest-top. Her hair was messy and spread out on the floor, as were her intestines. The gunshot wound was a mess of black and different tones of red. Ali had assured him before he had gone in that the shot had gone right through. The hole was the size of a side plate and the size was how the CSI officer had been able to tell him that it was not a self-inflicted wound. Nothing made sense about that anyway, she looked every bit the woman who had been shot in the midriff when repelling someone from entering her home. And now George had a little more of an understanding as to why it was her lying there and not Stan.
Stanley had given a good account. It had taken nearly two hours, but George was skilled at getting to the finer details and Stan was sharp — too sharp almost. He could remember times, places and descriptions, but he also remembered sounds, smells and cries of pain. George didn’t know the way back for Stan, not from this. When the life had left the frail body of the woman lying on the floor in front of him it had left Stan as well. While taking his statement, George was always aware that he was talking to a shell of a man.
Stan told how, at 4 a.m., the couple had been roused by strong lights — possibly headlamps — then a banging on the door and calls for help. He specifically remembered checking the time. He had leant out of an upstairs window to ask what the hell was going on. His wife Janice put the lights on at first but Stan had scolded her — he couldn’t see with them on. When she turned the lights off she couldn’t find her robe and so must have grabbed Stan’s from where it was hanging on the back of their bedroom door.
Downstairs, Stan could see just one man. He was agitated. He said that his daughter had gone out with a boy from the village the previous night for a drive. He hadn’t heard from them since. He said that one of the boy’s friends had told him that they would sometimes park up on a track that he thought was on the land of this farm, only he didn’t know where they might mean. Stan felt bad. He wanted to help and pro
mised he would. When he ducked back in to close the window, Janice was holding her phone; she said she was calling the police. Stan told her not to, that the man had already done that, that they were already out looking for the girl.
Stan walked to the back door. He turned the lights on in the kitchen, his guard was down and he wasn’t concerned about being able to see out. Had he been able to, he would have noticed that one man had become four men. They were all dressed in dark clothing. The three he didn’t see until they were pushing their way through his back door were wearing balaclavas and holding blunt weapons. They demanded money instantly. He was pushed back into the kitchen and someone ran past Stan and grabbed hold of Janice, who had followed him down the stairs. He threatened her with what Stan thought might have been a cosh, something short and solid looking. There was a scuffle. Stan remembered someone gripping his arm so tight that it was really painful. He showed George a bruise. They kept screaming at him for the money, he told them he didn’t have any money. He fell to his knees, the pain from his arm was excruciating. He heard Janice scream and he said okay, he would get the money. He said it was in a locked cabinet under the stairs. It was a stupid move, Stan reflected. It wasn’t money in the cabinet; it was his shotguns. He had three. He thought he could get hold of one, he didn’t think they would follow him so close behind. He never stood a chance, the guns weren’t loaded — not until the men took the shotguns and tipped out the boxes of ammunition. They led both Stan and Janice back into the kitchen. Stan argued some more — he was so angry that people would come to his home and threaten his wife. A gun went off. Suddenly they just left. Stan ran out after them, but they were fast. The headlights were bright again, he remembered they drove at him and he had to run back to the kitchen. He watched them leave. He could hear his heart thumping in his ears, he could smell the shot, it hung in the air but it was mingled with something else, something metallic. It was blood. Janice was on the floor. He didn’t move her. He fumbled with his phone to call an ambulance. He still had a vision in his mind of how he’d bent down to pick up his wife. He cradled her head, lifting her towards him and he spoke to her. He asked if she was all right, if she could hear him. She didn’t speak. She would never speak again. That last image was all he could think about. He couldn’t shake it.
THEN SHE RAN an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist Page 6
