DS Jessica Daniel series: Locked In/Vigilante/The Woman in Black - Books 1-3 (45 page)

As well as that gentler side, Jessica had also seen him bellowing at various officers for perceived misdemeanours. His voice travelled and if someone was in trouble, everyone knew about it. He
could be direct and abrasive and Jessica had never figured out if that was a genuine mean streak or just something about his manner.

The noise that indicated a text message went off on Jessica’s phone. She took it out of her pocket and skimmed through the messages, laughing to herself when she saw it was from Adam
Compton.

‘Just wondrin if u fancied a coffee or sumthing?’

Given his clumsiness the previous day, she had wondered if he might contact her for some reason other than a professional one at some point. It seemed typical of his awkwardness that he
wasn’t brave enough to ask her out for a proper drink. Coffee? No. Glass of wine? Maybe. He may have been a bit geeky but he wasn’t a bad-looking guy and seemed nice enough. She thought
of the ribbing she would get from Rowlands if he found out she was thinking about going out with someone from ‘Virginville’.

She typed a message back, read it over three times to make sure there were no critical spelling errors or any possible way it could be misinterpreted and then sent it.

‘Maybe. Bit busy at mo. Will call u at some point.’

Jessica figured she would leave him hanging for a while longer. She had only given him her number for work reasons after all.

She tapped away at her computer’s keyboard and logged onto the internal computer system to search for a phone number. She had left Denise Millar her phone number and only half-expected a
call but decided she would be proactive and contact her again herself. It wasn’t that Jessica believed she could add much more to the investigation, she just wanted to hear how the woman was.
Farraday’s lack of feeling had sharply contrasted in her mind with that of the young man’s poor mother.

She dialled the number into the desk phone and it was answered on the second ring. ‘Is that Mrs Millar?’

‘Yes, who’s this?’

‘This is DS Jessica Daniel. I visited you a few days ago.’

The woman had sounded downbeat but the inflection in her voice raised slightly after Jessica had introduced herself. ‘Have you got some news?’

‘Not really. I’m sorry if I got your hopes up. I was just wondering how you and Jamie were coping?’

‘Oh . . . right.’ The woman sounded disappointed and Jessica instantly felt bad for inadvertently giving an impression she had something of any significance to say. Mrs Millar
continued speaking. ‘We’re as well as can be expected. It’s hit Jamie hard. He’s not been out since.’

‘I just wanted to let you know we are working as hard as we can on this . . .’

Jessica didn’t finish her sentence before the woman started speaking again. ‘It wasn’t even the main story on the local news. I know he wasn’t an angel but you’d
think someone would be interested? No reporter or anyone has even come to speak to me . . .’

She tailed off and Jessica felt awful. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘Oh, I know it’s nothing to do with you. It’s not your decision, is it? The girl you sent around has been nice enough. I felt a bit bad as there’s no food in the house. I
told her I was fine and that she should nick off.’

She was referring to the liaison officer who was assigned to the parents or close relatives of victims in serious cases.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Jessica asked.

She could hear Craig Millar’s mother taking a deep breath. ‘Just find who did it.’

Ben Webb hunched over the snooker table to line up his shot. He could feel a slight fuzziness around his eyes as the day’s beer intake was slowly beginning to take hold.
He had been waiting for the feeling all evening as he knew he played a lot better when there were a few drinks inside him.

The lights above the table flickered slightly and Ben pulled back from his shot, scowling at the hanging set of lamps above him. He crouched back over to line it up again when the lights went
out fully. Ben stood and turned to his friend at the other end of the table. He could only see a silhouette in the gloom. ‘Hughesy, you wanna go have a word?’

The snooker club was empty apart from four men around one playing table. Two were sitting chatting to each other, the only light a small desk lamp on a round table between their chairs. Four
drinks were on the table and one of the men picked his up to finish what was left. Ben and his friend Des Hughes were standing next to the snooker table itself. Five large playing tables were in
darkness near to them and now their lights had gone out too. Apart from the lamp next to the chairs, the only illumination came from the bar next to the exit.

Des walked around the table and stomped up the two steps that took him away from the playing area onto an area where people could sit and eat. There were no lights there either and Des cursed as
he clipped a few of the chairs on his way over to the bar. His heavy boots clanged off the chair legs, his cries of anger echoing quietly around the empty space. As he approached the bar, he called
out. ‘Oi, Mario. What happened to the lights?’

An olive-skinned man with dark hair walked through a doorway from behind the bar and approached the front. The man wasn’t very tall but he stood a couple of inches higher than Des. It
would have been clear to any outsider who was more intimidating though. The person behind the bar was slight and, while Des wasn’t particularly muscular, he had naturally bulging forearms and
hunched forwards as he walked. He may have been short in stature but he made sure his posture showed he meant business – it had served him well over the years. The lights from above the bar
glinted off Des’s shaven head, the tattoos running down his arms prominent against the rest of his skin.

‘My name’s not . . .’ the man behind the bar started to say.

‘I don’t give a fuck if your name’s Mario, Luigi or any other dirty foreign muck. Turn those lights back on before I come back there and turn them on myself.’ Des thumped
his fist on the bar to show he wasn’t joking and the other man took a step back.

‘It was closing time twenty-five minutes ago . . .’

Des stared at him and narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m not going to ask again.’

The person behind the bar gulped and gave a half-look behind him before nodding. His voice wavered slightly but he said: ‘Okay, okay.’ The man went back through the door way behind
the bar and Des heard a low cheer behind him. He turned around to see the lights flickering back on over their table and then turned back to the bar. The server was in front of him again.

‘Give me a pint of this stuff too,’ Des said, pointing to one of the pumps on the bar.

The man stammered as he replied. ‘I . . . I can’t. It’s too late . . . My licence.’

Des slammed his fist down on the bar, harder this time. The pump handles shook and glasses rattled. ‘Do you really want me to come back there?’

The man shook his head furiously. ‘No, no. Please . . .’

‘Right, well, you better get pouring then, hadn’t you?’

The barman reached under the bar and pulled a glass out. Des grinned as he saw the man’s hand shaking as the liquid flowed from the tap into the glass. He put the drink down on the bar and
looked up at Des. ‘Two pounds eighty please.’

Des looked at him incredulously, picking up the drink and turning around. ‘You must be bloody joking,’ he said, still walking.

Back at the table, Ben was re-lining up his shot. ‘Hughesy, what do you reckon? Pink or blue?’

Des put his drink down on the table between the other two men and walked towards his friend. ‘Blue. Just kiss off it and roll down for that final red. Piece of piss and fifty quid in the
bag.’

Ben hunched back for his shot as Des took a step back. The other two men stood and took a step towards the table to watch. Ben pulled back the cue and pushed forwards.

He knew instantly he had missed.

The white ball did slip nicely off the blue and run down to set up the red but the coloured ball rattled off both jaws and rested over the centre pocket.

‘Shit.’ Ben clattered the bottom of the cue down onto the floor and looked up to see Des shaking his head.

‘It’s all right. These two still have to clear up,’ Des said, not sounding entirely convincing. He walked over to the drinks table and picked up his full pint glass, taking a
sip from the top and then looking over at the other two players. He narrowed his eyes and spoke menacingly. ‘We’ll see if pretty boy’s got any balls now, won’t
we?’

Des and Ben’s opponents looked at each other and then one of them reached out to take the cue from Ben. He settled over the table before comfortably potting the red and then turning around
and sinking the black. His friend replaced the black ball as Ben nervously walked around the table. He was a similar build and shape to his friend – short and hunched – but without the
menacing demeanour Des had. He scuffed his feet as he shuffled, carefully watching each shot.

The yellow, green and brown balls all followed into the pockets and the man with the cue settled down to line up the simple blue. On the side of the table were four twenty-pound notes and two
tens. Before he could crouch properly over the table to take his shot, he moved the money to one side.

‘Oi,’ Ben said. ‘You’ve not won yet.’

The man looked back at him. ‘I was only moving it.’

Des was still by the drinks table, pint in hand. He mumbled something but none of the other three could hear exactly what it was. The man with the cue gently rolled the blue into the pocket,
leaving himself on for a straight pink.

‘Two more,’ the man’s friend said excitedly. Ben gritted his teeth but said nothing.

The pink was hammered straight into the centre of the pocket but the white rolled slightly past the spot where the black was situated. The man with the cue crouched over the cue ball then stood
up again. ‘Do you reckon it’ll go?’ he said to his friend.

‘Probably. Just be careful not to pot the white.’

Des walked over to the table and nudged the man holding the cue with his hip. ‘Tough shot that, sonny. Tough, tough shot. Fifty quid at stake too. There’s a
lot
of pressure
on this.’

Ben joined in. ‘Aye. Not easy, that. Looks to me as if the white’s going to go in if you take it on. Might be better just playing a safety? Lot of money at stake.’ Des nodded
along with his friend’s assessment.

The man crouched over the table and set himself, pulling back the cue and softly hitting through the ball. The black rolled towards the table and bounced off both jaws before dropping. The white
was heading for the centre pocket, gliding almost in slow motion, before colliding first with the top jaw, then the bottom, and rolling safely into the centre of the table.

‘Yesssss!’ The man dropped the cue onto the table and snatched up the handful of money.

‘Get in,’ his friend said, walking quickly around the table.

Des slammed his half-f glass on to the table, a few drops splashing out of the top and on to the playing surface. ‘Double or quits?’

The two men were dividing up the cash. One of them turned back towards Des and Ben. ‘Sorry, guys, we’ve gotta get back. I’ve got work tomorrow.’

Des picked the glass back up and downed the rest of the drink in one before throwing it on the floor where it smashed. The other two men had put their winnings in their respective pockets and
turned to walk away when the shattering of the glass made them both turn around.

‘Are you . . .’ one of them went to say but Des cut them off.

‘Do you really think you’re going to walk out of here with my money?’

The two men looked at each other, suddenly realising their beaten opponents weren’t having them on. ‘Sorry, man,’ the taller of the two replied. ‘Maybe play another
night, yeah? Win your money back then?’

Ben spoke next. ‘Do we look like a pair of mugs to you?’

The two men were walking backwards but Ben and Des took a deliberate step forwards almost as one, Des picking the snooker cue up from the table. ‘No . . . no . . .’ one of the men
stammered. ‘Seriously, you can have your money back, it’s okay.’

He motioned to reach into his pocket but Des reacted too quickly. He swung the cue forwards with the force breaking the wood in two and the sickening sound of wood on skull echoing around the
near-empty room. The second man stumbled backwards over a chair and Ben was on him in a flash.

From the bar area, the server’s voice was shouting. ‘Hey, stop . . .’

Des kicked the body on the ground and shouted over towards the barman. ‘Do you want some too?’ The man had lifted the hinged part of the bar and was halfway out from his position but
stopped moving as Des shouted. He took a step backwards and turned away.

Des kicked the grounded man again as Ben took care of the second person. He shouted as his fists swung down on the man’s face. ‘Do. You. Think. I’m. A. Fucking. Mug?’
Each word was punctuated by a swing of the fist but neither of the two grounded men fought back.

Des crouched over the first person, rifling through the man’s pockets, taking a mobile phone, wallet and the cash before putting all the items into his own pockets. ‘Oi, Webbo, leave
him,’ he shouted towards Ben. ‘Don’t wanna kill the prick.’

Ben’s eyes were wide and raging but his friend’s voice froze him. He stopped throwing punches and used the floored man’s own shirt to wipe his bloodied knuckles on, then went
through the victim’s pockets, also removing a phone, wallet and cash.

The two men stood up and walked over towards the bar area. The only noise was their footsteps and the faint whimper of one of the men on the ground. Des made his way to the barman, who was now
facing the two men, eyes bulging with terror.

Des tapped him firmly but with an open-hand on his cheek. ‘So then, Mario, what happened in here tonight? Made a bit of a mess of the place, haven’t you?’

The man whimpered. ‘Please . . .’

‘I asked you a question, Mario. What happened in here tonight?’ He used his thumb and index finger to cup the man’s face and forcibly turn it to face him.