On Laughton Moor (8 page)

13

By one o’clock, Bishop and Varcoe were feeling a lot less cheery. Craig Pollard’s parents hadn’t been able to identify the man on Varcoe’s printout, and they’d been more or less ordered off the premises after a few minutes. PC Alexa Stathos smiled apologetically as she showed them to the door, then told Bishop and Varcoe in a furious whisper that she didn’t know what she was doing in the Pollard’s house, they obviously resented her presence, and could they talk to someone about it please? Bishop promised to see what she could do. Back in the car, Varcoe turned to Bishop.

  ‘So what now, Sarge?’

Bishop sighed.

  ‘I think we should go to the pub.’

Varcoe waited.

  ‘No? Okay, maybe we should go back to the station as I’ve got a meeting with His Highness DCI Kendrick at two and I don’t know what’ll happen if I’m late, he’ll probably have my head cut off and stuck up on the outside of the station as a warning to others. Although, we do have time to go via the building site Craig Pollard’s brother works on. Looks like he’s our final chance until we go to Pollard’s old school.’

  ‘There’s always Kelly Whitcham.’

  ‘True. Let’s see what Mike says first though, I don’t think Kelly was around when Craig was at school. If we don’t have any joy, as I say, we’ll go to the school, the pubs, maybe – don’t let Kendrick hear – the local press.’

  ‘You know where this building site is then?’

Bishop started the engine.

  ‘Let’s hope I can remember.’

The drive took about ten minutes. Bishop chatted away about all sorts of things, Anna Varcoe adding comments when she could get a word in. Varcoe couldn’t remember working like this with the DS before and she was enjoying the experience. She’d once been told Bishop could be prickly and difficult to get on with but she’d never found this herself and wasn’t one to judge on hearsay. All sorts of gossip travelled around the station, rumours, scandals and plain lies, but Varcoe tried to keep herself away from it as much as she could. She also didn’t want to be the talk of the station, and had always kept her working life and personal life as separate as she could. It had worked pretty well so far.

Bishop bumped the car up onto a grass verge and brought it to a halt. They climbed out and made their way over to the nearest builder who nodded his head towards a muddy path through the site. Following it was a tricky business as it was potholed and wet, but they made it through unscathed to where Mike Pollard was unloading sheets of insulation from the back of a trailer. Bishop sauntered over.

  ‘Afternoon, Mike. How’s it going?’

Pollard turned.

  ‘How’s what going? I’ve spoken to you once today already, can’t you leave me alone? Have you found out who killed my brother yet?’

In response, Bishop stuck the printout under Pollard’s nose. He stared at it.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘We were hoping you could tell us.’

Pollard took the sheet, held it up to the light.

  ‘Looks like one of Craig’s old mates Nick . . . no, Steve something.’

  ‘Steve who? This is really important, Mike.’

  ‘I don’t know, I just know him as Steve. Used to be a pal of Craig’s years ago. I’m sure that was his name.’

Bishop took the paper back.

  ‘And this was when Craig was at school? Was he a school friend, or did Craig know him from somewhere else?’

Pollard shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know, honestly. I think it was after school, maybe when Craig was working, but I’m not sure. They didn’t want me hanging around with them.’

  ‘And there’s nothing else you can tell us about him?’

  ‘I don’t think so. They were quite matey for a while, but I think they had some kind of an argument. Maybe not though, Craig had so many friends back then, different ones every week it seemed like.’

  ‘All right, thanks Mike.’

Pollard turned away, went back to the insulation. Bishop and Varcoe left him to it, made their way gingerly back to the car. Bishop dropped into the driver’s seat and sighed heavily.

  ‘Shit.’ she said.

  ‘It’s a start.’ Varcoe said.

  ‘I know, but the DCI wants a finish. There must be a million Steves in town, and that’s assuming Pollard remembered the right name and this mysterious Steve even lived here. He could be from anywhere.’

  ‘We’ll have to go to the school, then.’

  ‘Yes, but not now, I need to get back to the station. You go on there, take someone with you. Here you go.’ Bishop said, holding out the now slightly creased printout. Varcoe reached out and took it from her quickly as Bishop threw the car into gear and sped off.

Knight paced the conference room as Bishop shot through the door. It was a couple of minutes after two o’clock, but there was no sign as yet of the DCI. Catherine Bishop ran her hands through her hair as she sat down. Knight stood beside her.

  ‘How did you and DC Varcoe get on?’ he asked.

  ‘We got a name from Mike Pollard, but only a first name. Pollard’s parents didn’t recognise him. Mike says the bloke’s called Steve, but obviously that’s about as helpful as him being called John Smith. Anna’s on her way over to the school Pollard used to go to now to see if anyone there knows our man, but I think it’s a bit of a long shot to be honest. Mike Pollard thinks Craig might have been friends with our mystery caller after school, and anyway, will there be any teachers left who remember Craig Pollard, much less all his mates?’

Knight settled in the seat next to Bishop.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not, but we have to try it. This case is a bloody nightmare. Every report we write might as well just say “we don’t have a clue”.’

They both turned to look at the door as Kendrick’s unmistakeable voice was heard in the distance, followed by him guffawing. Bishop and Knight stared at each other, and Bishop made the gesture with her index finger screwed into her temple to indicate ‘He’s mad’. It wasn’t something she’d done since school, but it made her and Knight smile. They heard footsteps outside the door.

  ‘Brace yourself.’ Knight murmured.

  ‘Fee fi fo fum.’ whispered Bishop.

There was something about Keith Kendrick that meant everyone sat up straight when he entered a room, and Bishop and Knight were no exceptions. Bishop felt the urge to chant ‘Good afternoon DCI Kendrick’, as if she was at primary school.

Kendrick yanked a chair from under the conference table and settled his considerable bulk in it.

  ‘In case you’re wondering,’ he said ‘the probably only momentary lifting of my bad mood is due to DI Hawkins bringing in two members of the gang we think are responsible for all the four by four thefts we’ve had recently. The other two men involved are being collected from their respective nasty little day jobs as we speak. So. Let’s keep this elation of mine going. What have you two got for me?’

Knight handed him a new copy of the image of the mystery caller.

  ‘His name’s Steve.’ Bishop added helpfully. Kendrick stared at the paper, his huge hands turning the page around to look at it from every angle as if that would make it clearer, just as Bishop had.

  ‘Have we found him? Had a little chat about why it’s extremely rude to refuse to leave your name and  number when you call your friendly local police station for a cosy chat about a murder victim?’

Bishop shifted in her chair. Knight said,

  ‘Not exactly, we only know his first name so far. DC Varcoe is off at Pollard’s old school now, trying to find out if anyone there can help.’

Kendrick was drawing himself up, no doubt in preparation for another rant, so Bishop interjected quickly:

  ‘And we’re compiling the details of every Steve in the area who’s around Craig Bishop’s age to see if any of their surnames ring any bells with Craig Pollard’s brother or parents. It was Mike Pollard that gave us the name Steve in the first place.’

Kendrick had settled back down.

  ‘And he’s sure about the name?’

  ‘He seemed sure, sir. He did say another name at first, Nick I think it was, but then changed his mind.’

  ‘Steve, Nick . . . why couldn’t Pollard pal around with people called Archibald or Horatio? It’d make our job a bit easier. Should we be looking at anyone called Nick or Nicholas too?’

Bishop glanced at Knight.

  ‘We could do, sir. I’m not sure how long it would take . . .’ she said.

Kendrick stood up.

  ‘It’ll take as long as it needs to, Sergeant, but I don’t want to miss something and have to start again later. Have Pollard’s parent’s seen this?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but they don’t recognise him.’

  ‘Show them again, dangle the names Steve and Nick in front of them, see if it gives them a nudge in the right direction. I want this charmer interviewed as soon as we can. Right now, it seems he’s the only lead we have. Or am I wrong? Do you have any other little titbits for me?’

They shook their heads.

  ‘Didn’t think so. Keep me informed.’

Kendrick strode out, and Bishop and Knight breathed sighs of relief.

  ‘Could have been worse.’ commented Bishop.

  ‘Much worse.’ Knight agreed.

Bishop’s mobile rang and she dragged it from her jacket pocket.

‘Anna?’

Anna Varcoe’s voice was crackly, but audible enough.

  ‘Hello, Sarge. Not having much luck I’m afraid, the only teacher who would have been here when Pollard was is part time now and not at school until tomorrow. We’ve got a home address and mobile number, but there’s no sign of her at home and the mobile’s not ringing. We had a word with her neighbour, and apparently she does a lot of walking so she’s probably up in the Peak District somewhere with no signal. I’ll keep trying, do you want us back at the station?’

Bishop asked Varcoe to take the printout back to the Pollards to see if the names they had been given jogged their memories. Ending the call, she saw her phone was showing she’d received a text message, and opened it:

Bored of marking essays. Fancy a drink tonight? L

Eyebrows raised, Bishop sent back
:
May b a late on
e
.

The reply was almost instant
:
Wouldn’t expect anything else. Come round when you’re ready.

Totally confused but thinking it was worth a try, Bishop typed
:
Food?

Again, a quick response: If you bring a takeaway.

Smiling, Bishop sent
:
No prob. See u l8er

No grammar and text talk. Louise would hate it. Knight was waiting for her.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Just a friend. I’ll probably see her later, depending on what time we finish.’

  ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as this goes on you know.’ Knight said, holding the door open for her. He had heard Bishop crying out during the night, muttering and mumbling in her sleep, and was becoming concerned about how the case was affecting her, bright and breezy as she seemed.

  ‘Thank you. I just don’t want to be in your way or outstay my welcome.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Knight, ‘it’s good to have some company.’

He was surprised to hear himself say it, and even more surprised to find he meant it.

14

Catherine Bishop drove across town to Louise’s new address after collecting a Chinese takeaway, feeling strangely nervous. DI Knight had given her his spare key, told her to enjoy herself, to be careful and to let him know if she was going to be out all night. She’d frowned a little at that, as if he thought he was her dad or something, until she’d seen the grin on his face.
Careful
she’d thought
you’ll be liking him next
. He certainly seemed to be coming out of his shell a little, although she’d noticed some of the other officers still glanced at each other and smiled or shook their heads behind his back. He was just so awkward somehow, especially when compared with DCI Kendrick and the other DIs. Still, as a boss she had no real complaints, at least so far, and that was all she needed to worry about. She was almost there, and the butterflies in her stomach increased. She was suddenly conscious of the mud on her boots and the fact she’d come straight from the station with no time for a shower or even a quick wash. She gave herself a mental shake:
It’s Louise, she’s seen you looking like this a million times, looking much worse than this too. It’s not like you need to impress her
. She had
to admit that a tiny part of her wanted Louise to suddenly realise what she’d been missing,
although after a thirteen hour day, she was unlikely to be looking or smelling her best.

Bishop saw a spot by the kerb she could leave the car. It was at the wrong end of Louise’s street, but it would have to do. She clambered out, heaving the bag of food over the gearstick, and awkwardly locked the door. There were footsteps behind her and she tensed, feeling vulnerable with her hands full. She remembered Knight’s warning to be careful as well as the message left with Craig Pollard’s body and fought the temptation to spin around, to see who was there. The distance to Louise’s door seemed miles. She should have parked beneath a streetlight.
Come on, Catherine, you’re a police officer
she said to herself sternly. Squaring her shoulders, she turned around, eyes scanning the street. Nothing. There was no one else in sight. Bishop sighed and began to walk down the street, watching and listening, feeling incredibly alert although she was tired. Louise’s house was in sight when there was another sound, running feet some way behind her. Bishop gasped, walking faster, images from her dream of the night before running through her mind. She was level with Louise’s front gate, the footsteps growing closer and closer. Bishop, almost running herself now, stopped to fumble with the bolt on the gate, eventually got it open and hurtled through, onto the gravel path. A figure rushed by on the pavement behind her, a flash of light lit the dark sky for a second, then it was gone. Bishop knocked as loudly as she dared on Louise’s front door, trying to control her breathing. She was fine, the figure was just a kid, there was no danger. The fact that the light had looked just like those in her dreams was a coincidence, it hadn’t been a camera, there was no one out there.
You’re okay
, Bishop told herself. There was movement in the house, and the door opened. Louise appeared, glass of wine in one hand, paperback book in the other. She’d had her hair cut shorter than Catherine remembered. It suited her, drawing attention to the structure of her face.

  ‘Come in, Catherine. How are you? Long day?’

Bishop followed her into a short hallway, forcing herself to stay calm.

  ‘You could say that. I’m fine, thanks. I like your hair. How are you?’

She held out the bag of food and Louise took it, leading the way into the kitchen where the table was set.

  ‘No candles?’ Bishop joked, some of her bravado returning now she was on the right side of a locked door, though her heart still pounded.

Louise smiled tiredly.

  ‘Not tonight. How are you really? You look exhausted. Are you working on the Craig Pollard murder? I couldn’t believe it when I read about it, it just doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that happens around here,’ She poured Bishop a glass of water which she took gratefully, and started to serve the food. ‘Beef and black bean?’

  ‘Yours, of course. Mine’s the chicken fried rice.’

Louise glanced at her.

  ‘That’s a new one.’

  ‘I’m not really hungry.’

Louise didn’t comment and they ate in silence for a while, Bishop picking at her food.

Eventually, she said, ‘This was a surprise.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Inviting me here.’

Louise took a sip of wine.

  ‘I invited you here because you said you’d be working late and I thought it made more sense than me sitting in a pub somewhere waiting for you. I just thought it’d be nice to catch up, that’s all.’

  ‘Nice? I thought English teachers didn’t use that word.’

  ‘Yes, nice. Although I’m starting to wonder why I bothered.’

Bishop covered her face with her hands.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ she said, her voice muffled. Louise stood, walked around the table and put an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Come and talk to me.’

In the living room, a wood burner blazed in the fireplace. The lights were dimmed, the colours neutral and calming. Bishop felt herself instantly relax as Louise led her by the hand to the settee.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Bishop repeated.

  ‘Been doing your big brave copper act? What’s going on, Catherine?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what you can.’

Bishop relayed the briefest details of the messages left and the photo she’d received, the panic and worry they’d caused her, then the incident just now in the street.  Louise listened, staring into the fire. When Bishop was quiet, she said,

  ‘And I don’t suppose you’ve talked to anyone about this? No one knows how worried you’ve been? What if that person outside just now was the person you’re trying to catch? He could have done anything to you. You could be in real danger, Catherine.’

  ‘It was just a kid outside, don’t worry. I’ve spoken to DI Knight. I just need to carry on and when we’ve caught him, it’ll be over.’

   ‘I bet you didn’t tell him how you’ve really been feeling. You need to talk to people.’

  ‘He’s my boss, not my therapist, he needs to know I can do my job, or else I’ll be off the case, shunted across to DI Hawkins and her bloody car thefts. This is what I’ve worked for, I can’t let some psycho with a screw loose scare me into giving it up.’

Louise held up her hands.

  ‘All right, all right, I get it. No need to shout.’

There was silence for a while, until Bishop started to get to her feet.

  ‘I need to go and get some sleep, Louise, I’m sorry I’ve been such a pain in the arse.’

Louise reached out, held her arm.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

Slowly, Bishop sat back down. Louise took a deep breath.

‘When you sent that text the other night, it got me thinking. I do miss you, you know, I have done since I moved out. I just wanted to see you again, to talk and . . . I don’t know. I know we’ve kept in touch, but I’ve not actually seen you for ages. We were happy, weren’t we, if hadn’t been for your job . . . ’

  ‘My job is still here though, all the problems you had with it will still be problems.’

  ‘I know. I know they will, and I understand you love your work and you need to do it. I miss you, I miss how we were at the beginning.’

  ‘We can’t go back there though.’

  ‘Maybe we could.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can be more understanding, we could keep our separate houses, just see each other a bit more often? When you can?’

Bishop stared.

  ‘Where has this come from? When you left, you told me I was married to my job, that I’d chosen the job over you, over our life together, over our future, and all of a sudden you can compromise? Why has it taken you six months to work it out?’

Louise had tears in her eyes.

  ‘I miss you. I just . . . miss you.’

  ‘You miss me, or you miss someone coming home to you, eating with you, sharing a bed with you? There’s a difference. I didn’t know if I missed you for yourself or if I missed the company at first.’

  ‘Well, that’s honest. And what did you decide?’

  ‘I missed you. But you left, you walked out.’

  ‘You agreed it was for the best.’

  ‘What choice did I have? None. You gave me two options, us or the job, and to me that’s not what a person who loved me would force me to decide. In the reply to my last text, you said exactly the same, that I’d miss my job more than I missed you. Why have you changed your mind?’

  ‘I haven’t, I just see that I could have been more understanding, that’s all.’

  ‘But why now? Are you saying you want us to get back together? It’s all come out of the blue.’

  ‘I’m just saying it would be good to see more of you, maybe see how things go.’

  ‘Good of you to throw me a few crumbs! Do I have any say in this? You’re also presuming I’m single, which is a bit of a cheek really.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but that’s not the point.’

  ‘You know my friends Amy and Beth?’ Bishop groaned. ‘I know you don’t like them, but I was talking to them, they’re building a house, thinking about starting a family when it’s finished. It just got me thinking about us, how we happy we used to be. I just thought what if I’ve thrown away my chance for a future like that?’

  ‘You didn’t throw it away, we agreed it wasn’t going to work. I’ll admit, I wanted you to stay, I’ve missed you, but we’re the same people in the same situation.’

Louise got up, took a tissue from a box on the bookcase.

  ‘I don’t want to argue with you, we’ve done that before.’

  ‘We’ll always come back to things we’ve said before, because the old issues are still there.’

Louise looked at Catherine, holding her gaze.

  ‘Is it just the issues that are still there?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

Leaning forward, Louise took her hand.

  ‘Catherine, all I’m asking is if we can try, just take it slowly. I know how I was, I know I said things, I wasn’t very understanding or supportive. You said you missed me.’

Bishop glanced away.

  ‘I know. But what if we try, and everything’s the same? My job takes up more time than ever. Would you really want to cope with that again?’

  ‘Other people do. I know it seems sudden, but it’s not really, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I just don’t want to look back in a few years and wish I’d at least talked to you about it.’

  ‘And you knew I’d just come running?’ The face of the woman that she had seen in the briefing room flashed into Bishop’s mind and she blinked, thrown for a second.

Louise moved away.

  ‘This has obviously been a mistake.’

  ‘I just want to make sure you realise that nothing’s changed. Just because we’re both still single, it doesn’t mean it will work if we get back together.’

Frowning, Louise stood again, went through to the kitchen and brought the wine bottle through. There was a tiny amount left and Louise poured it into her glass then drank it down, still standing.

  ‘You’re right. Maybe you should go now, then.’ Her voice was cold.

Bishop stood too and they walked to the front door. Bishop turned, wondering what she was supposed to do.

  ‘Bye then.’ she said helplessly.

  ‘Thanks for the food.’ Louise said formally. They stared at each other, eyes sending wordless messages. Slowly, they moved closer until they stood face to face, bodies almost touching.

  ‘Stay tonight?’ whispered Louise.

Knight woke sweating, panicking, knowing he’d probably screamed in his sleep, shouted. The dream was back, more vivid and terrible than ever, the blindfold, the smell of petrol and hatred, the snarled threats and promises. The punches in his gut, the kicks in his ribs and between his legs, the sound and feel of his shirt being torn from his body. Then the weight, someone kneeling on the small of his back, his arms being held by cruel hands, legs pinned down, no idea how many there were or what they would do to him now, if he would even survive. The first touch on his back, his shoulder blade, on the flesh there, a cold, piercing sensation that quickly turned to red hot agony. The terrible realisation that it was a knife, that they were cutting him, that his blood was running over the front of his shoulder, down his back. They were laughing, taunting him, promising he would never forget this night, he would forever have a reminder of it, just in case he thought of doing something so stupid again. Lying there when they’d dumped him at the side of the road, cold, shivering, losing blood, knowing that he’d brought this on himself.