On Laughton Moor (5 page)

Knight swung the car back into the station car park.

  ‘Neither of them have a real alibi. I think it’s time we had another talk with Miss Whitcham. You can take one of the DCs, take Dave Lancaster, he’s young and I think she might respond better if there’s a man there with you.’

‘How do you mean? Don’t you want to speak to her yourself?’

Knight shook his head and explained about the late night text message.

‘She probably won’t want to tell you much, but I think she’ll talk to Dave, or take Chris Rogers. They’re both on the CCTV tapes, I bet either one would be glad of a break.’

They went into the station, Knight heading straight for his office, and Bishop turning into the Ladies before going off to give Lancaster or Rogers a reprieve from watching CCTV footage. She had a lot more respect for DI Knight after their meeting with Mike Pollard. How many other DIs or DCIs would have picked up his contempt for his brother? She’d like to think all of them, but she wasn’t so sure.

  She was making her way down the corridor when she spotted DI Knight heading towards her, smiling.

  ‘I think we’ll both go to see Kelly Whitcham after all, I’ve just found an interesting message on my desk’.

Whitcham had acquired a pair of jeans from somewhere but still wore the hooded sweatshirt Knight had seen her in the day before. She was sitting in the living room of her mother’s house, feet drawn up onto the settee underneath her. Her hair needed washing, her face was pale and her expression showed plainly she was not particularly pleased to see Knight again. She didn’t so much as glance at Bishop as Knight introduced her.

‘Why didn’t you reply to my text?’ she asked, glaring at Knight.

Whitcham’s mother tutted, then left the room to make the tea she’d offered as she showed them in. She’d displayed no particular interest or concern at their appearance at her front door. Knight and Bishop sat in armchairs either side of an unlit gas fire, the top of which was covered with framed photographs, school pictures mainly. Several were of Kelly Whitcham herself, the gap toothed smile and pigtails a sharp contrast to the scowling adult version that sat opposite them. Whitcham’s daughter and son smiled out from a blurry shot that looked as though it had been printed at home rather than developed professionally.

  ‘How are the children?’ asked Knight. He could hear them playing upstairs.

Whitcham snorted.

  ‘As if you care.’

Bishop opened her notebook.

  ‘Kelly, one of your neighbours from the house you shared with Craig says Craig’s brother Mike was a regular visitor to the house, that she saw him at the front door almost every night. Can you explain what he was doing there and why you told DI Knight he only visited “a few times”?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because this isn’t a social call, Miss Whitcham. We’re here to ask you questions about the murder of your boyfriend. If you haven’t realised how serious this is, maybe you should start thinking about it now. If you don’t start being a bit more cooperative we’ll see if you’re more in the mood to answer questions down at the station.’

Whitcham stared at her, then turned on Knight.

  ‘Are you going to let her talk to me like that? Is she allowed to? You’re her boss, aren’t you?’

Bishop leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs at the ankles, looking a lot more relaxed than Whitcham did.

  ‘You seem to be under the misapprehension that DI Knight is a friend of yours, Miss Whitcham.’

  ‘I’m not under any “misapprehension”. He was nice to me yesterday and I don’t see that anything’s changed to make him not even speak to me today. I’ve done nothing wrong, it was my boyfriend that was killed, I’m one of the victims and you’re talking to me like I’m a criminal. I could have you done for this!’

Mrs Whitcham came back into the room with a tray of tea and biscuits.

  ‘Stop shouting, Kelly, you’ll upset the children.’ she said placidly, handing out the mugs of tea. Knight and Bishop thanked her.

  ‘They’re only accusing me of killing Craig.’ Whitcham spat.

  ‘I’m sure they’re just doing their job. How will they find out who killed him if they don’t ask questions?’

  ‘There’s no point asking me since I didn’t do it, they’d be better off asking whoever did.’

Mrs Whitcham gave another tut and went back out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her. Knight leant forward.

  ‘Kelly, we’ll get this over with a lot quicker if you just answer the questions.’

Whitcham glared at him over the top of her mug.

  ‘I didn’t kill him. There were times I might have felt like it, but I didn’t actually do it. Mike came to the door to check me and the kids were all right, that’s all. It was daft really, all I could do was talk to him through the letter box. There’s no way he came every night though whatever the lying, nosy bastards in that street have told you.’

Bishop pretended to look through the notes in her pad.

  ‘You said that on the night Craig was killed you were at home with your children as usual. You didn’t see anyone, you didn’t speak to anyone.’

  ‘Yes, same as every other night. Have I got to go through all that again now? Didn’t they write it down the first time?’ Whitcham sipped her tea, pulled a face and slammed the mug onto the coffee table in front of her.

  ‘So you’ve got no real alibi?’ asked Bishop.

  ‘Alibi? What do you mean, alibi? I was at home with my children, I was locked in, the doors and the windows as well, I couldn’t get out if I wanted to. Which part of that don’t you understand, for fuck’s sake?’

Bishop leant forward and looked Kelly Whitcham in the eye.

  ‘What I don’t understand, Kelly, is why you would live like you were doing with Craig Pollard when you could have got out of that house any number of ways. You’re not stupid, you’ve got qualifications, had a good job. Why did you stay? ’

Whitcham looked away.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You could have smashed a window and attracted attention to yourself or even climbed out. Apparently one of your upstairs windows needs mending, so they can’t be that hard to break. You could have asked Mike Pollard for help.’

Whitcham sneered.             

  ‘Oh yeah, right. What could Mike have done? Craig would have killed him.’

There was a pause, Whitcham biting her fingernails as she realised what she had said. Bishop broke the silence.

  ‘So why, when you could have escaped the house, did you stay? You’ve already said you weren’t scared of Craig, that he wasn’t violent. Why didn’t you just say “Look Craig, I’ve had enough, I’m leaving, going back to my mum and taking the kids”. Why couldn’t you do that?’

Whitcham shook her head helplessly.

  ‘You don’t understand . . . ’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘What he was like, what Craig was like. He just . . . he had a way of making you believe everything he said. Charming, I suppose.’

  ‘Charming enough to make you believe that living in an almost empty house was normal? That your children having no clothes, no toys was normal? I know he was good looking, but come on, Kelly.’ Bishop scoffed.

  ‘How would you know he’s good looking? I’m more your type, aren’t I?’

Bishop kept her face blank.

  ‘Not as clever as you thought you were, are you?’ taunted Whitcham. ‘I always know. How would you see if Craig was good looking or not?’

  ‘I’m gay, Kelly, not blind. I can see when a man’s attractive.’

Whitcham’s eyebrows rose theatrically.

  ‘Maybe that’s why you wanted to come to question me, eh, Sergeant? Maybe you fancy locking me in a cell for the night and paying me a visit?’

This time, Bishop didn’t bother to hide what she thought as she stared at Whitcham, her unwashed hair, grubby clothes and sour breath.

Knight asked, ‘What did Craig know about you, Kelly?’

Whitcham froze, the mocking expression disappearing from her face.

  ‘What . . . what do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ Knight said in a friendly tone, ‘as DS Bishop has pointed out, you could have got out of that house and situation any time you wanted, especially with your children being there too, so why would you stay? If Craig hadn’t threatened you physically, what had he frightened you with?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Whitcham whispered.

  ‘I think you do, Kelly.’

She closed her eyes.

  ‘All right. I’d done a few things when I first met Craig, just things to help him out. He said if I left, he’d tell people, tell you lot.’

  ‘He said he’d tell the police? So these “things” were illegal?’

  ‘Yeah, nothing major, just keeping a lookout, selling a few things. But Craig said it was enough, I’d go to prison and the kids would go into care and I’d never see them again and I thought at least in the house we were all together, we were safe, even if it wasn’t luxury.’

Knight glanced at Bishop, who said:

  ‘You realise how this looks, Kelly? You’ve no real alibi, you’ve got a motive, and even if you didn’t kill Craig, which let’s face it you could have, you might have got someone else to do it for you.’

  ‘Really? Like who? It’s hardly something you’d ask a mate to do as a favour!’

  ‘A person you had a relationship with who’s never really got over you, who had his own reasons for wanting Craig out of the way. We’ll leave you to think about it.’

Knight stood up, placed his mug on the coffee table and strode out of the room, closely followed by Bishop.

As they drove back the station, Knight’s phone rang. He handed it to Bishop, keeping his eyes on the road. She had a brief conversation, then ended the call.

  ‘Forensics. Apparently, there were no fingerprints at all on either the picture from Pollard’s pocket, or either of the ones I received at home, just mine on the picture of me and loads on the envelope – Post Office staff, who knows.’

  ‘None at all on the one from Pollard’s pocket?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Which suggests it was put there deliberately by a person who was very careful to leave no trace of themselves, rather than Pollard having taken and printed it himself.’

  ‘I suppose it does.’ said Bishop, with a shiver.

8

Steve Kent felt terrible. The crossing from Zeebrugge to Hull had been a nightmare, the ferry feeling to Kent as if it must surely capsize any moment. He’d spent the night curled on his bunk staring through the porthole into the blackness of the night sky and sea and wishing himself elsewhere, anywhere would do. Staggering out of his cabin early that morning in search of coffee he was greeted by smiling stewards who assured him that the crossing had been a little choppy, sure, but nothing out of the ordinary. Kent couldn’t agree. It was the fourth time he’d made the journey and it had been the worst so far by quite a way. He enjoyed his job but much preferred driving around the UK to having to make these sea crossings. It wasn’t too often though, and it paid well it was just a bit rough on the stomach, or on his stomach at least. He wondered whether one of the freshly baked croissants he could smell would help, decided against it and leant back in his chair, eyes closed. They were due into Hull in half an hour or so, maybe a quick nap would make him feel better. As he shifted in the chair, his mobile began to ring and he swore under his breath. He checked the display and frowned. Talk about a blast from the past.

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘Steve?’

  ‘All right mate, what’s up? Not heard from you for in years.’

  ‘Thank God for that, I thought you might have changed your number. Have you seen the news?’

  ‘News? What news? I’m on a ferry mate, have to drive over to Belgium and France every now and again. Not seen any news, papers, nothing.’

  ‘Craig Pollard’s dead.’

Kent’s eyebrows raised under the brim of his baseball cap.

  ‘Dead? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean dead, murdered. They’re not saying how, but somebody’s killed him.’

  ‘You’re joking. Doesn’t surprise me though, he was a mouthy little shit when we knew him and I doubt he’s changed much over the years.’ Kent leant back in the chair again.

  ‘Exactly. That’s what I mean. What if we get the police knocking on our doors?’

  ‘Why would we?’

  ‘You know why. We knew him years ago and . . . well, you were there, you know what happened.’

  ‘Yeah, years ago, twelve years ago. Why would they come for us? No one knows about it, you know that.’ Kent took off his hat and ran his hand over his shaved head. The voice on the other end of the line was anxious, panicked.

  ‘Pollard knew about it.’

  ‘Of course he fucking knew, it was his fault!’ Kent smiled apologetically at a passing middle aged woman who was frowning disapprovingly at him. ‘I can’t talk here; let me call you back later.’

He stuffed the phone into his pocket and stood up to make his way back to the cabin for his bag, mind reeling. Craig Pollard dead and not accidentally. He couldn’t say he was sorry, despite growing up near Craig.  They’d been mates, good mates, but one Sunday afternoon all that had changed and they’d gone their separate ways – himself, Craig, Nick and Dave. They’d all sworn to keep the secret and Steve Kent himself had never told another soul what had happened. It couldn’t come out now, the life he had, the life he’d worked for would be over. Would they still be in trouble? He didn’t know but surely they would be. Hopefully with Pollard dead the whole thing would be put to rest for ever. He hadn’t spoken to Craig Pollard since that day, had exchanged a few phone calls with Nick and Dave but even that hadn’t lasted. He’d wanted to turn his back on that time in his life, forget the whole thing. He’d never been able to, of course, but he’d lived with it. And now? He hoisted his rucksack onto his shoulder. He’d have to wait and see.

Staring out of the window, Dave Bowles pursed his lips, chewed his thumbnail then got up and paced the room. It was all very well Steve saying it was years ago, no one knew, it was fine. This was the day Bowles had been dreading for twelve years. He’d known that it would all be brought up again. There was another person who knew apart from him and Steve, Nick and Craig and the others may have forgotten that, but Bowles hadn’t. He didn’t know what to do. He had to find out more, but how? He couldn’t just saunter into the police station for a chat and they weren’t giving much away in the press. He sat down again, took a deep breath, forced himself to calm down and think rationally. Craig Pollard had been just the sort of loud-mouthed idiot who would get himself into a fight he would come off worst in, Bowles knew that as well as Steve Kent did. If that was what had happened, then they were safe, Bowles himself was safe. If that was true though, why were the police being so cagey? Surely they would have the culprit in custody by now, bar room brawls usually being quite public. If Pollard had been killed in a punch up or a knife fight, would it even have made the news? Bowles didn’t know. He’d have to watch and wait, and keep his fingers crossed, much as he’d been doing for the past twelve years.

Knight sat in his office, frowning down at the reports on his desk. Well into the second day of the investigation and they seemed no closer to understanding why Craig Pollard had died or who had killed him. Although Pollard had been known to the police, he’d never served any time in prison so there were no old cell mates to talk to and none of his friends could help, or so they were saying. His mobile phone records hadn’t arrived but Knight still didn’t expect to gain much from them.  Pollard’s mobile phone hadn’t been found with his body, of course, so they couldn’t look there for help either.

Knight read through his own notes made earlier in the day after talking to Kelly Whitcham and Mike Pollard. He couldn’t seriously see either, or both of them killing Pollard but at the moment they had no one else in the picture. It didn’t sit right. The Catherine of Aragon/Catherine Bishop message just didn’t fit with that, they were missing something and he had no idea what. Kelly Whitcham might have the brains to dream up the messages, but why would she bother? The calling card left with Pollard’s body and again with the photo at DS Bishop’s house had no parallels with any investigation he’d been involved with before. If Bishop herself had no idea what the pictures were about, Knight wondered what chance the rest of them had. He needed to talk to the DS again, to ask her to think about every possibility, every link, every case she’d ever worked on, every arrest she’d made. Bishop, of course, was a local girl, had grown up in a neighbouring county and although Knight didn’t necessarily consider this ideal for a CID officer, it did have its advantages. People might confide things to someone they perceived as a local more willingly than they would an ‘outsider’. It seemed an old fashioned attitude, but it was one Knight knew from experience still existed. Bishop may have the key to the puzzle without even realising it. Knight didn’t doubt she’d thought long and hard about her own involvement, but it must be there, something she’d missed. The whole situation was strange, an incident that looked like a simple fight gone wrong made much more complicated by the presence of a couple of sheets of paper. Knight thought again about the photograph of DS Bishop lying reading in her pyjamas, the shot taken through her own window. The person who presumably killed Craig Pollard must have been less than ten metres from Catherine Bishop at that moment. How was that affecting her? It must be on her mind. Would it impair her ability to do her job? Should be reassigned, away from the investigation? From what he’d seen of Catherine since his arrival in Northolme, Knight thought she would be all the more determined to stay on the case. He needed to talk to her and he got to his feet. Before he reached the open door however, there was a knock and the head of one of the DCs, Anna Varcoe, appeared around it.

  ‘Sir, something’s just turned up we thought you should hear about.’ Varcoe came into the room, a sheet of paper in her hand. ‘We’ve had a phone call into the main switchboard, a bloke wanting details of Craig Pollard’s death. Said he’d known Craig years ago and wanted to send a sympathy card to his parents, but that he wanted more details of how he’d died and the circumstances so he didn’t say anything insensitive. Sally-Anne on the desk tried to keep him talking while someone else got through to one of us, she thought it could just be a journalist fishing but that it could also be important. Anyway, he panicked and backed off, said it didn’t matter and put the phone down.’

Knight sat back down and gestured for Varcoe to do the same.

  ‘Interesting. As you say, could be a journalist, but then again  . . . was the call recorded?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and I’ve requested a copy of it, shouldn’t take long. It’s also being traced. In the meantime, Sally-Anne wrote down everything he said while she had it in her head.’

She passed the sheet of paper over the desk to Knight. The neat handwriting said: “Hello, I . . . I’m wondering if you could give me some information about Craig Pollard. I know he’s dead and I want to send a card to his Mum and Dad, I knew him years ago you see and I thought I should but . . . well, I don’t want to say anything to upset them, upset them more than they already are I mean. Can you tell me how he died? And why?”

  “I’m sorry, that’s not information I have access to. Could I take your name, please?”

  “Oh no, I don’t want to get involved, I’m not involved at all. As I say, I’ve not seen Craig for years. I just need a few more details. Don’t want to put my foot in it.’

  “Yes, sir, but that’s not information I have. If you give me your name and some more details I can ask one of the investigating team to call you back? Your name please sir, and you say you knew Mr Pollard years ago? Would that be at school or through work maybe?”

  “No, it doesn’t matter, I . . . I just thought you might tell me why, if you knew, or how . . .’

  “They would call you back as soon as possible, sir, I can assure you. If you could please give me your name, address and contact number?”

  “No I can’t, I’m sorry. I don’t know anything. Look I’ve got to go, bye”.

Knight shook his head in amazement.

  ‘How did she remember all that?’

Varcoe smiled, tucking her hair behind her ears

  ‘Shorthand, she wrote it down as they spoke.’

  ‘Brilliant. I didn’t know people still did shorthand.’

  ‘Sally-Anne does. She’s a legend, worked here forever.’

  ‘Lucky the call came into her then.’ Knight examined the transcript again. ‘Interesting that he wants to know why Pollard was killed, he says that twice. Although he asks how he died twice as well, but it just seems an odd thing to ask with his cover story. As you say, he could still be a journalist, but I doubt it.’

Varcoe nodded.

  ‘I know what you mean, sir. Journalists are usually more confident, not as hesitant.’

  ‘So what are the other possibilities? He could have killed Pollard and be trying to find out how much we know, but then he might as well just turn up here and confess. He could be someone who knows or has seen something but he’s too frightened to come forward.’

  ‘Or he’s been warned off.’ Varcoe added.

  ‘True. Or there was some truth in what he said, he knew Pollard years ago and wants to know more to go around telling the rest of the town, or he just wants to know in that way people do when they stop to stare at an accident or a fire or something. We need to know where the call was made from, Anna. I know you’re onto that.’

  ‘Yes, sir, although we won’t know until tomorrow at the earliest now.’

  ‘As long as it’s been actioned. Trouble is, Craig Pollard knew a lot of people and it’s going to be next to impossible to narrow down who might have made that call. Who knows how many years ago he knew Pollard, if he ever did.’

Anna Varcoe nodded her understanding. Knight had been impressed with the little he’d seen of the DC so far. She was bright, quick thinking and made a decent cup of tea, which was more than he could say for DC Rogers.

  ‘The location’s crucial then, sir. As soon as I hear something back on it, I’ll let you know.’

As Varcoe got to her feet and left Knight’s office, he caught himself staring after her, the smile still on his face. He shook his head, amused. Maybe he was ready to move on after Caitlin, but gazing soppily at young DCs wasn’t really the way to do it. He stood again. Time to talk to DS Bishop.

  ‘You’ve done what?’ Steve Kent bellowed.

Dave Bowles cringed, holding his mobile phone away from his ear. He’d expected Steve to go mental when he told him about the phone call to Northolme police station, but standing here listening to it actually happen was another matter entirely. Thank God they weren’t face to face.

  ‘You stupid, stupid bastard! If they weren’t looking for you already, you can be fucking sure they are now! What the fuck were you thinking?’

  ‘I don’t know, I panicked, I just . . . I thought they might tell me.’

  ‘Of course they weren’t going to tell you, they’re the police not some sort of public information service! Jesus, Dave. Tell me you didn’t use your mobile?’

  ‘No, ‘course not. Phone box.’

  ‘Where?’

Bowles frowned.

  ‘What do you mean, where?’

  ‘Where was the phone box, Dave? Christ!’

  ‘Oh, middle of nowhere. No one saw me, I’m sure of it.’ Bowles lied. He hadn’t thought and had used the nearest one he could find.