On Laughton Moor (7 page)

11

A few seconds passed before Steve Kent realised what had woken him. He’d a few drinks last night, more than a few. He needed some sleep. When he heard the phone still ringing, however, he stretched over the side of his mattress and onto the floor to retrieve the phone from his jeans pocket. Only one person ever phoned that number, only one person knew the number and it wasn’t someone you wanted to have a missed call from.

  ‘Got a job for you tomorrow. Be at the lock up at ten pm.’

The call was terminated with Kent having had no chance to speak even if he’d wanted to. He knew he was to be at the lock up two hours before so if anyone was listening he’d have been and gone before they showed up. As always there was no choice, no chance to refuse or protest. He sometimes wondered if he’d done the right thing getting involved; after all he’d tried to keep out of trouble. Then again, he had his legitimate day job and if he did a few deliveries here and there, cash in hand, no questions asked or answered, then who would know or care? He’d never asked what was in the brown parcels he was asked to deliver or collect, though he could have a guess. It was something he usually tried not to think about. There had been a larger parcel once, quite heavy and rectangular, as deep as a shoebox but about five times as long. He definitely didn’t want to think about what had been inside that one.

The deliveries he
really
didn’t want to think about were the three people he’d had to collect in Southall one day and bring up to Lincoln. Two young women and a younger man, a boy really, only about eighteen. Their blank eyes and pale faces would stay with him, as would the pathetic looks of gratitude and attempts at thanks they gave him when he brought them bottles of water and egg sandwiches back from the services where he’d stopped for a pee. He couldn’t let them out of the back of the van of course, he’d been given strict instructions about that. They didn’t seem to be able to speak much English but he did hear them exchange a few words in a language he’d didn’t recognise. When he’d arrived at the address in Lincoln and opened the doors they’d been huddled together as if comforting each other. It didn’t sit well with him. Delivering parcels was one thing, people was another. He wanted no part of it but had no idea how to get himself out of the situation. He could give the police a tip off, give them the addresses he knew, but he knew he’d probably be signing his own death warrant or at the very least setting himself up for the beating of his life. He didn’t know for certain, but if his suspicions were right and the man in charge was who he thought it was, the death warrant was a certainty. The bloke who phoned him wasn’t the boss, just one of his minions, but even he sounded threatening enough. They wouldn’t think twice about killing him and throwing his body into the foundations of some project one of the many companies the boss owned were working on, if rumours were to be believed. Steve Kent did believe them. That the boss was now dealing in people came as no surprise. Kent had only seen him in the flesh once but he’d somehow ended up being one of his men and was starting to feel out of his depth. The delivery jobs had been occasional at first, once every couple of months, but now it seemed the phone was ringing every week, even a few times a week. Perhaps the boss and his cronies had decided Kent could be trusted, maybe he’d passed his probationary period and was now accepted as a fully fledged member of the gang. Not exactly something he’d rush to put on his CV.

Nick Brady had been made redundant three times in as many years and was starting to feel a little sorry for himself. Take this last job for example. All right, it wasn’t as if he was saving lives or doing some good in the world but he turned up and picked the right things, packed them in the right boxes, kept his nose clean. No sneaking out for a fag break every half hour like some of the lads, no coming in late and going home early. All he expected in return was his wages in the bank when they were supposed to be and they’d been late two months running. Now, no great surprise, he’d been laid off – permanently. Bloody brilliant. He should be okay for the rent this month but he’d have to find something else quickly or he’d be out on his ear, back to his Mum’s. He didn’t want that. He’d have to go down to the job centre in the morning, see what they had. If past experience was anything to go by, it wouldn’t be much.

Nick opened the door to his flat, picking up the post on the way in, just a gas bill and his credit card statement. He left them unopened on the table and went through to the bathroom for a shower, wash that place off him for good. As he pulled his T shirt over his head, his mobile rang in his jeans pocket. He wrestled it out, checked the display.

  ‘All right Mum, what’s up? I’m just getting in the shower, got a bit of bad news, actually - I’ve been made redundant again.’

  ‘Oh no, Nick, you don’t have much luck with jobs do you? Your Auntie Kay’s coming round later, I’ll see if Uncle Martin’s heard of anything going at the steel works.’

Nick shook his head silently. He’d have to be desperate to work with Martin Newsome. The bloke was a nightmare, full of big mouthed bravado about his latest drinking exploits and nights out with the lads, conveniently forgetting he was a married man of fifty three.

  ‘Anyway,’ his mum went on, ‘I’m ringing about something I’ve seen in the paper. That lad you knew at school, always in trouble, you were mates for a bit, was it Craig Pollard?’

Nick’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Yeah, Pollard. Why?’

  ‘He’s dead, been murdered apparently.’

  ‘Murdered? Come off it, Mum.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘What, because it’s in the local rag? More likely he got drunk and said something clever to the wrong person and they knifed him. It wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘I’m just telling you what it said in the paper. They’ve interviewed his mum, she’s saying the police don’t care, haven’t done anything.’

  ‘They must have done.’

  ‘Well, they’ve not arrested anyone, that’s what she means.’

Nick felt a familiar dread in his stomach. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t have anything to do with it.

  ‘Which paper, Mum? I’ll nip out and get one.’

  ‘Why don’t you just come round and read ours? I’ve got a cake in the oven.’

  Knight lay back on his pillows, willing himself to relax. Caitlin’s news had hit him like a body blow. He still didn’t believe she was carrying his baby, but if the chance was there – and he supposed Caitlin should know – it was a possibility he was going to have to get used to. He couldn’t understand why she’d chosen to tell him now. The baby wasn’t due for another five months, why hadn’t she waited until nearer the time? She may have thought it was his right to know now, maybe Jed had  persuaded her to tell him, perhaps one of her less nauseating friends had? He knew he’d need to speak to her again, but not now, not tonight. A baby . . . He’d thought about what it might be like to be a father, of course he had, but never seriously, just with a sort of passing curiosity when a colleague or friend’s child was born. The biggest surprise was that Caitlin had allowed herself to become pregnant at all. He couldn’t imagine her pushing a pram around the designer shops she favoured or carrying the baby onto the Tube. Knight shifted as his hand unconsciously crept up to his right shoulder blade. He knew how fragile life could be, his job had taught him that early on, and it continued to reinforce the lesson most days. In some ways, he hoped the baby would be Jed’s child, mostly for its own sake. Another part of him, though, felt a slight hope, a stirring of emotion at the thought of being a father.

He was there, she knew it, but she couldn’t see him. It was dark, unnaturally so, the blackness so thick and complete it seemed to engulf her. Catherine Bishop reached out a trembling hand, attempting to make sense of the place, trying to find her bearings. The fetid air felt heavy and hot. A scurrying sound, the scratching of tiny claws. The sound of another person breathing, but no one in sight. Bishop froze, span around. Nothing. No one, but he was there. A chuckle, low, cruel. Unamused, mocking.

  ‘Are you lost, Catherine? Feeling helpless?’

All at once, a shove, hard, two hands in the middle of her back. She fell to the floor, clattering without dignity. He laughed as she cried out. Flashes of light, hundreds of them, blinding and dazzling, unwelcome and threatening. Catching her unaware, at her most vulnerable, her most exposed. Forcing her to gaze at herself, her flaws, her weaknesses, everything she tried to keep hidden during the day. This was night though, the blackest of nights.

The lights died away, and he was gone. She awoke with a cry.

12

DCI Keith Kendrick didn’t often lose his temper, impatient irritation being his usual state of mind, but when he did, the whole station knew about it. Bishop stumbled towards her desk, coffee in hand to ward off the morning. She squinted at Chris Rogers, who was making strange gestures with his hands, pointing towards Bishop, and miming wringing someone’s neck.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ said Bishop, plonking herself heavily in her chair. ‘Twitch getting worse?’

  ‘You’ll have a lot more than a twitch when the DCI gets his hands on you.’

  ‘He should be so lucky. What are you on about?’

  ‘Apparently, Craig Pollard’s mum’s been shouting her mouth off in the local paper, her poor little boy dead, police not bothered, useless, piss up in a brewery, arse with both hands, etcetera, etcetera.’

Bishop groaned.

  ‘Oh Christ . . . ’

  ‘Exactly. Kendrick’s looking for you and DI Knight, he came storming through about five minutes ago, said to tell you to get to his office before your backside hit your chair.’

Bishop got up resignedly.

  ‘That’s just bloody great.’

She approached the DCI’s office, hearing what sounded like Kendrick muttering as she tapped lightly on the door. Kendrick barked ‘Come in!’

  ‘DS Bishop, good of you to join us,’ Kendrick snapped, nodding at the spare chair in the corner. Knight already sat in the chair opposite Kendrick, eyes fixed on a spot just above the DCI’s head. Bishop lowered herself carefully into the chair after removing what looked like a complete change of clothes from the seat. She held the suit and shirt on her lap, not really sure where else to put them.

  ‘So,’ said Kendrick, throwing a copy of the previous night’s local newspaper across the desk towards Knight, ‘How do you two propose I explain this to the Superintendent?’

Knight shuffled his chair to one side so Bishop could lean over to read the article too. The gist was, as DC Rogers had said, that Craig Pollard’s mother was claiming that the police had done absolutely nothing to find the person responsible for her son’s death, that they weren’t even trying, had barely spoken to herself or her husband, offered them no idea when they might expect to bury their son. A photograph of a tearful Mrs Pollard clutching a gilt framed picture of Craig dominated the front page, along with the headline “MOTHER’S ANGER AT POLICE FAILURE”.

  ‘We’re doing our best.’ muttered Bishop.

Kendrick leaned forward.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

Bishop made herself meet his eyes.

  ‘We’re doing the best we can, sir.’

  ‘Are we, Sergeant? Then why is Craig Pollard’s killer not sitting in one of our delightfully welcoming interview rooms? Why did Craig Pollard’s killer not spend last night staring down into a bowl of prison soup,  hoping the showers will be safe? Why aren’t we all digging out our black ties to go to Craig Pollard’s funeral and tell his parents how sorry we are, but at least we’ve caught the bastard?’

Bishop kept quiet. There was no reasoning with Kendrick in this mood, it was best just to let him burn himself out. She hoped Knight would realise this too, but then one of them would have to speak.

  ‘Cat got your tongue, Sergeant?’

Bishop stared at the floor, fiddling with one of the buttons on the suit jacket she held. Kendrick glared.

  ‘Leave that button alone, that suit cost a bloody fortune!’ He stood abruptly, snatched the suit from Bishop and stuffed it under his desk, along with the shirt and tie. ‘We’ll look even better if I have to go to a press conference about this fiasco with no buttons on my suit. Now,’ he took the newspaper back, ‘anyone got anything to say? I know this isn’t the run of the mill drunken assault that got out of hand, but we must have something I can take back to the Super. DI Knight?’

Knight chewed his thumbnail.

  ‘No more than last night, sir. The main issue is the messages relating to DS Bishop, and we have no idea what they mean. Until we do . . . ’

  ‘Until we do, we just hope the killer happens to wander into reception and give himself up?’

Kendrick was getting worked up again. ‘Brilliant. Mrs Pollard will love that. I can just see the headline now,’ he spread his arms wide, ‘Police admit they have no bloody idea. All suggestions gratefully received!’

  ‘We do have some points to follow up.’ Knight said calmly.

  ‘Really? Well, that’s a turn up,’ said Kendrick. ‘Let’s follow them up then, shall we? I want you both back here at two with something new to tell me.’

As they were obviously dismissed, Knight led the way out into the corridor. Bishop offered him a weak smile.

  ‘Well, that was fun.’ she said.

Knight grinned.

  ‘Let’s get a cup of tea.’

Bishop treated herself to a chocolate muffin as well as tea, Knight choosing a piece of flapjack.

  ‘Best make sure the DCI doesn’t come in and see us in here,’ she said. ‘Not after he’s just ordered to find Craig Pollard’s killer before lunch time.’

  ‘We won’t be hanging around,’ said Knight. ‘Anna Varcoe’s got a location for that anonymous phone call, a phone box in town. She’s off getting the CCTV footage now, we need to know who made that call, she’s telling them we need it prioritising.’

  ‘Agreed, sir. He must know something. What are we going to do about Mrs Pollard?’

  ‘Not much we can do now really. She’s got a point, I suppose. She doesn’t know about the messages, so to her eyes we just need to pick up whichever drunken gobshite Craig had a run in with. You and I know it’s not that simple. And we’ve no forensics, no witnesses, nothing from the post mortem that can help, no obvious motive or suspects. We’ve already talked about Kelly Whitcham and Mike Pollard, but I don’t honestly think either of them are our killer. So, back to the messages and the phone call. They’re all we have.’

Bishop nodded.

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘We need a list of Pollard’s school friends from his parents, if they’ll even talk to us now. Can you speak to the family liaison officer again please? I’ll work with DC Varcoe, try to get an image we can use from the CCTV stuff, maybe Pollard’s parents will recognise whoever made that call if we get really lucky. We could check with Kelly Whitcham and Mike Pollard too. Someone must know who he is.’ Knight ran his fingers through his hair, his hand straying to his shoulder blade. Bishop frowned, pretended not to notice.

  ‘Assuming he really did know Craig Pollard years ago, of course.’ The last of the chocolate muffin disappeared into Bishop’s mouth.

  ‘Assuming we get an image. Assuming the CCTV camera was working. Assuming he wasn’t wearing a mask, or a balaclava, or a fucking motorbike helmet!’

Bishop stared at him, eyebrows raised. She stood up. ‘I’ll speak to PC Stathos, sir.’ she said, and walked quickly away. Knight, feeling slightly guilty, closed his eyes and pushed his chair back. It seemed they were going to need some luck.

Kendrick’s two o’clock deadline was still a few hours away when Bishop arrived back at the station. She crossed the CID room to her desk, smiling at some of the uniforms that were scurrying around. Taking out her notepad, she flipped through the list of names she’d scrawled during her visit to Craig Pollard’s parents. This would be one in the eye for Knight, after the way he’d snapped at her earlier. She wouldn’t show him he’d annoyed her, but he’d probably realised. Irene and Pete Pollard had provided a short list of names and a quick phone call to Mike Pollard had added a couple more. The information wouldn’t necessarily be much use on its own, but depending what Varcoe and Knight got from the CCTV tapes, both her list and any image produced could be used together to narrow down any suspects. After the frustration of the last couple of days, it had been good to get back to actually making progress. She didn’t often feel as if she was wasting her time, but a little of that had crept in. Her personal involvement in the case was beginning to come to the front of her mind more often, and that was something Bishop didn’t want. She knew herself well enough to realise the only way to keep any worry, concern or fear about why Craig Pollard’s killer had identified her at the scene at bay was to keep the case moving forward, to make sure they found the answers as soon as  possible.

Knight leant forward, squinting at the image on the screen. Anna Varcoe scrubbed at her eyes with her fingertips, the beginnings of a headache making its presence felt.

  ‘And this is as clear as it gets?’ said Knight. It was more of a statement than a question. Varcoe nodded.

  ‘We’ve worked with worse. Someone might recognise him.’

  ‘And no motorbike helmet . . . ’

Varcoe glanced at him, bemused.

  ‘No, sir. Not as far as I can make out.’

Knight got to his feet.

  ‘Okay, if you talk to DS Bishop, she was trying to get a list of Pollard’s school friends together. If she’s got something, we might have matey in an interview room this afternoon.’

Varcoe left him gazing at something only he could see on the wall. She shook her head as she made her way to the CID room. Knight was a strange man, she thought. Inspector Wallpaper strikes again, though he had said more to her today than ever. Even he couldn’t ignore the  unsolved Pollard case breathing down their necks, especially with Kendrick on the warpath. Catherine Bishop was sitting at her desk in the corner, frowning into the mug she held. Varcoe approached, waited.

  ‘All right, Anna?’ said Bishop, peering further into the cup.

  ‘Something wrong with your drink, Sarge?’

  ‘I’ve dropped half a Rich Tea in it, was hoping I could salvage something. I think it’s a gonner though. What’s that?’

Varcoe held up the print out.

  ‘Our mystery caller. Craig Pollard’s “old schoolfriend”.’ To Bishop’s relief, Varcoe refrained from illustrating the quote with her fingers.

  ‘Hmm, that was quick. Let’s have a look,’ said Bishop. Varcoe handed over the sheet. The image was a little blurred, grainy, the man’s face turned slightly away from centre. ‘Not exactly a looker, is he?’ Bishop tipped her head to the side, turning the paper in her hands, then glancing up at Varcoe, who grinned.

  ‘Don’t know, Sarge. Hard to tell from that, I’d have thought.’

  ‘I’ve been running the names we got from Mr and Mrs Pollard through the PNC, but nothing so far on any of this lot. Thought we might get lucky, but I should have known better. Fancy a trip out to the Pollard house with me?’

Varcoe shuffled her feet.

  ‘What’s the mood like in there?’

  ‘The mood? Mrs Pollard’s liable to snap at you like a shark that’s just come off hunger strike as soon as she knows you’re a copper - I was there this morning. Alexa Stathos is still there, making loads of tea and trying to stay out of the way.’

  ‘What about the story in the paper? Didn’t Alexa know about it?’

  ‘You would think. Seems Mrs Pollard was a bit sneaky about it, I suppose Alexa can’t be there all the time. Helen Bridges wrote the story, of course, and we know her of old, don’t we?’

Varcoe nodded, sighing.

  ‘Oh yes, she’ll want to get the nationals involved if she can then. Remember the story she did about the ACC getting out of paying a parking fine? Talk about a load of trumped up rubbish.’

  ‘He did get out of it though, didn’t he?’ Bishop whispered theatrically. Varcoe smiled in spite of herself.