“Okay — I’ll be with you in ten minutes. Try and keep her there.”
He grabbed his coat and car keys; a quick word to Imogen and he was gone. Zoe and Jo, her partner, lived on a small housing estate between Leesdon and the bypass. It had about thirty or so houses, mostly detached and expensive, all built on the site of a once rambling old pub and its car park. How things had changed. Calladine had no idea why, but Leesworth had become a fashionable place to live in recent years. Builders were falling over themselves to get their hands on any pocket handkerchief of land that became available.
Zoe waved to him from the window and opened the front door.
“She’s in the kitchen,” his daughter hissed at him. “For God’s sake do something with her. I’m rapidly running out of patience with the woman.”
Calladine strode down the hallway and stood in the kitchen doorway. Lydia was seated on a high stool sipping coffee with Jo. The two women were deep in conversation.
“You’re too late,” Lydia sniffed at him. “I’ve just been telling Jo — I’m going and you can’t stop me.”
“Going where? Why the hurry, why all the drama, and why am I the last to know?”
“Because I’ve had enough, and I finally see you for what you are, Tom Calladine.”
“And what’s that?”
“A boring workaholic detective with no time for his lover, his family or his friends — that is, if you have any! And don’t argue the point, because you know I’m right. You’ve hardly spent any time at home since you went back to work. You don’t love me. You don’t need me at all, do you? Not really, if you’re honest.”
“I thought we were okay,” he replied lamely. What else could he say? What was it she expected from him, and where the hell had this come from so suddenly?
“Oh, we are — provided I don’t ask for anything, or want some affection.”
He didn’t like the sound of that at all. He considered that he gave Lydia a whole heap of affection, and regularly too. “So what is it you want?” He was floundering in a quagmire of emotions. Lydia, Amy, they were spinning around in his head, each face rising into his mind’s eye in turn. One was a woman he was used to, and one was an unknown quantity — who did he want?
“I want you to spend time with me, take me out, and help me with my work,” she implored. “I’ve asked you till I’m blue in the face, but still you hang back. You know how much I need your cousin’s story, and you could help me get it, you know you could. He’d speak to you, he’d open up, I know he would, you’re family.”
This again! That was all he needed. Calladine was sick to the back teeth of her constant harping on about Fallon.
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong because he’s not,” he retorted sharply. It was out before he could stop it.
“Not what?”
“Family. He’s no relation to me at all.” Three pairs of eyes swung his way. “And he’ll know it soon enough, so I’ll be nothing but another nosey cop as far as he’s concerned.”
Zoe stood staring at him with her hands on her hips.
He flashed an apologetic look at her. She’d know he wasn’t lying. She’d know from the pain on his face and the way he spoke that he meant it.
“I thought Ray Fallon was your cousin, Dad.”
“So did I, but he isn’t.” He ran a hand through his short hair. Now he’d done it. “Look, I can’t explain now. I’ve only known myself for a little while, but put simply, Freda wasn’t my birth mother, hence Fallon’s not my cousin.”
So there it was, out in the open, the bombshell. Soon the questions would start — the difficult ones he had no answer for. He couldn’t do this, not yet, it was too soon. But he’d have to give Zoe something at least.
“Fallon is the son of Freda’s sister,” he explained to the stunned faces. “So if Freda’s not biologically related to me, then neither is Fallon.” He gave them a small smile. “Personally I think it’s something to be grateful for.”
His last comment fell on deaf ears as the expected barrage of questions erupted all around him — mostly from Zoe. He didn’t want this. It wasn’t how it should be. He’d wanted to tell Zoe privately, gently, but now it was too late. He’d never felt so uncomfortable in his entire life. It was the wrong time, he thought to himself again. And then he turned on his heel and left them to it, letting the front door slam shut behind him.
Chapter 14
Harriet Finch slept for most of the afternoon. The moment she woke the memories of her morning’s work flooded back. A mix of horror and satisfaction made her feel slightly high. How could she do the most awful things and then sleep like an infant? This was not like the old Harriet at all.
She’d get up now and make some tea and then she’d wait until it was dark and go back and check on Lessing. She’d take her car, but park it in the next road. Harriet didn’t want the neighbours to see it parked on Lessing’s drive. Twice in one day might cause tittle-tattle.
Harriet felt happier than she had in weeks. She sang to herself as she pottered about the house. She had a shower and put on the long dressing gown and fluffy slippers that were a present from her friend Nesta. She should ring Nesta and tell her about the tickets for the art exhibition. It would mean spoiling the surprise, but she didn’t want her arranging something else for her birthday. She’d miss Nesta, Harriet thought with a smile. She’d been a good friend, always there when she needed her.
Suddenly Lessing’s mobile made the most horrendous noise. It sounded like one of those vicious dogs barking — very apt. Harriet had put the thing on her coffee table in the sitting room and forgotten about it. She stared at the bright screen as it barked away and vibrated around on the shiny wooden surface. The name Yuri flashed across the screen, illuminated in blue. She closed her eyes. There was only one man Lessing knew who was called Yuri.
She felt sick again. It was him, Lessing’s contact with the traffickers. Harriet was shaking. Her nerves were jangling and causing her head to ache. Should she tackle him about it? Should she make Lessing talk to her, perhaps even record a confession for the police?
Harriet picked up the phone. It wasn’t like hers; it was one of those that did everything with a touch screen. Hers was old, used only for phone calls and texting — not that she ever texted anybody. She swiped her finger across the screen — what now? She had a laptop, so she wasn’t completely ignorant about technology.
“Hello,” she practically whispered.
“Lessing, I want Lessing.”
“He’s been taken ill,” she told him. “Can I take a message?”
The phone went dead.
She moved her finger around the screen looking for anything that might give her clue as to what to do next. Gallery — that would be photos she reasoned, tapping hard. What she saw next made her jump and throw the thing to the ground. Nothing but images of children, dozens of them — taken in parks, in the street, with their families. Why?
Harriet knew very well why. She was being stupid — they were only photos, snaps, they couldn’t harm her. She bent down and picked the thing up again. It was the knowledge of what Lessing and his cohorts would do with those images that bothered her. They would use them to source likely candidates.
Then she saw them — the two little girls, both in school uniforms. They could only be four or five years old and her heart immediately went out to them. They were the girls she’d seen in the newspaper, the missing girls from Oldston and Leesworth. That must mean that Lessing had lined them up to be taken too.
Gordon Lessing knew this man: Yuri. He had photos of the girls on his phone, so he was involved right up to his fat neck. He was a heartless, wicked bastard and he should suffer for his sins! Harriet was angry — she’d make him talk if it was the last thing she ever did. She desperately wanted to help those poor children. It would make up for some of the awful things she’d done over the last few days.
Harriet got dressed, but the anger and exertion had exhausted her again. She was ge
tting weaker. Every day she could do less than the day before. Slowly, girl, she told herself, take it slow. After tonight, after you’ve got what you want from Lessing you can relax, put your feet up — your work will be done.
But would it? She bit her lip. The list was like a piece of elastic. It had started with the three, but now . . . it seemed that anyone who crossed her, who had ever argued with her in the past, was a candidate. Killing was addictive. The need to kill grew inside her every bit as fast as the cancer did. It was like drink or drugs — it was compulsive, and she revelled in it. Harriet had no idea what had possessed her recently but it was far too late to stop now, so she might as well enjoy herself. When she was finally ready to leave, she found her list and added the name Yuri to the bottom.
* * *
Jayden North was not at home. The flat he had lived in with his father was in darkness and looked empty.
“We’ve driven round the estate three times already,” the uniformed officer told Imogen with distinct irritation in his voice. “You know what these types are like — a dab hand at avoiding the law, the lot of them.”
“He’s got to surface at some stage,” Imogen replied. “Pull up outside that tower block,” she indicated. “We’ll wait and watch for a while, see if he comes back.”
The officer sighed and pulled into a parking space. “You’re wasting your time, you know. He won’t help you. The Norths are a bad lot, always have been.
“That’s as might be, but I still need a word. It’s important. Young Jayden is sitting on information that might help us crack the case we’re working on.”
The officer shook his head and tutted. “Madness, that’s what it is, relying on a toerag like him. He’ll not give you anything — he’s a bad ’un — just like all the rest.”
“Is this him?” Imogen asked, as a group of youths approached. “You know, I think it is — he was wearing that top earlier.”
She hopped out of the car and made towards them. “Jayden!” she called out.
The group of lads he was with started whistling and whooping. The DC with her long blonde hair and shapely body made a striking impression. She was wearing jeans, a short fur-trimmed jacket and leather boots.
“What d’you want now?” He frowned at her, embarrassed at being accosted like this in front of his mates. “You’re wasting your time cos I’ve got nowt to say, so bugger off.”
“No way to talk to a lady,” one of his cohorts interjected, pushing him to one side. “Where d’you find her? She’s a right looker.” He stood in front of Imogen and pulled heavily on a cigarette. “You don’t want to bother with him, babe,” he winked. “He’s a muppet. You’d be much better off with a real man, like me.” Then he blew smoke in her face, thrust out his denim clad pelvis and laughed with the rest of them.
Imogen was used to this kind of thing. She’d been to the Hobfield many times before and had met dozens like this one.
“Can I have a quiet word please, Jayden?” she asked, disregarding the banter and brushing her wind-blown hair from her face. “You’re not in any trouble. It’s just that something you said earlier got me thinking.”
Jayden shrugged, his eyes scanning the ground beneath him. Imogen could hear the others laughing and ribbing him. What the hell, it would do him no harm. Being swooped on by the police like this would give him a kudos he’d find a use for. It would help him up the pecking order in the gang he ran with.
“You do want us to catch whoever it was murdered your uncle, don’t you?” Imogen asked quietly as she walked him away from the group. “Only you didn’t seem keen to speak to us earlier and that’s a shame because I think you know stuff that might help. We think Albert was killed in an act of revenge. We also think the way he was killed was significant.”
“What d’you mean?” he asked.
Now she had his attention. Imogen knew that revenge was something he understood.
“You said something about him being implicated in a murder years ago. We don’t mean to drag up unpleasant memories, but will you tell me about it, Jayden?”
“Not that again. I don’t believe you, you’re just stirring it, so why should I?”
“Because, like I say, it might help. It’s just possible that his death is somehow connected to that incident. But since we don’t know when it happened or who was involved we can’t act. Your silence could be wasting us valuable time.” Imogen was growing impatient. “I think you do know something but it’s misplaced loyalty to your uncle that’s stopping you telling me.”
“Albert told me lots of stuff. But mostly he told me never to tell you lot anything.”
“Nothing you tell us can harm your uncle now, Jayden. Albert was murdered; don’t you want us to catch his killer?”
“It’s complicated. I don’t want to say too much.”
“Anything you can tell us will help.”
“He didn’t do anything, whatever the police said. It wasn’t him that burned that kid,” Jayden insisted. “He told you lot all this at the time.”
“What d’you mean — burned?”
“Set him alight, fried him to a crisp, what the fuck d’you think I mean?”
“Okay Jayden, no need to get all riled up. But you do see what I’m getting at? You found Albert — you saw what had been done to him.”
* * *
Yes he had. The image of his uncle sitting stock still, his head all blackened and burned was one that would live with Jayden for a long time. He shuddered and looked at Imogen. The cop might have something, he reasoned, but he still wasn’t going to tell her anything. If she was right, if this was deliberate, then the bastard that had done that to Albert needed fixing for good, and he was the one to do it.
“I only know what he told me, Uncle Albert, and that’s all. He said you lot got it wrong — it wasn’t him. You had a bloody good try at pinning it on him though,” he scoffed. “But none of it stuck. A long time ago it was, before I was even born, so I can’t help. Now piss off.”
Imogen passed him her card. “If you think of anything, anything at all, or if you want to talk then ring me,” she urged. “We want this killer caught every bit as much as you do, Jayden.”
Jayden North doubted it. They wouldn’t waste their time. They’d drop the whole thing after a bit — move on to something else. Albert had been a thorn in their side for years, so it would be a case of good riddance. He took the card, nodded and stuffed it in his pocket.
The youths watched the car pull away. Jayden said his goodbyes and broke away from the group. He had things to do now. Jimmy Finch, that had been the lad’s name, and he had a mother still living in Leesdon. Albert had told him how angry the boy’s family had been, and how they’d sworn to get him one day.
He smiled to himself. That blonde cop had done him a favour. He’d have to pay Mrs Finch a visit.
* * *
It was just after six in the evening when Harriet left her house. It was so dark she could sink into anonymity in the shadows. She had just sat down in the driver’s seat of her car when Lessing’s mobile rang. The noise frightened her. She hadn’t planned for this; she should have turned the thing off. She took it from her bag — it was him again, Yuri.
Her stomach was flipping over with nerves. What to do?
“Hello,” she rasped, “what d’you want?”
Come on, you’re not afraid. This is your chance to get this bastard, the voice purred. He’s a villain, worse than that, he steals little girls. You can stop him. That would be a good way to finish this.
The voice was right. If she was to get this man then she needed to talk to him, meet him even, scary as that prospect might be.
“I want what’s mine.”
His voice was deep with a thick accent. She didn’t recognise it — possibly Romanian, something like that. Harriet could barely make out what he said.
“Lessing is holding some merchandise for me. I want it back, lady, so if you have any influence then tell him not to be stupid.”
&n
bsp; Merchandise! He was talking about two small children! Forget the fear; this one would be a real pleasure. It was good news because it meant that the girls were probably still alive and being held somewhere.
“He’s ill, I told you.” There was new confidence in her voice. “What merchandise? Perhaps I can help?”
“You know where he put it?”
No, she didn’t, but she wouldn’t tell Yuri that.
“Yes, of course. I’m his partner. We live together.”
“Then we meet. You tell me where the goods are and all will be well. I have transport waiting. I must leave the country with the goods tonight.” There was a long pause. “But if you cross me I will kill you. Then I’ll kill Lessing. Do you understand?”
“There’s no need to take that tone,” she replied sharply. “It’s not Gordon’s fault he’s been taken ill. He’s in hospital, probably in theatre as we speak.”
“My heart bleeds.” He laughed humourlessly. “I want what’s mine and I want it tonight.”
“Tell me where to meet you.”
“Oldston. You know the side street up by the library?”
“Yes.”
“You go there tonight at eight. You take me to my merchandise. If all is correct, then I pay you and we go our separate ways.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Harriet said lightly.
“Describe yourself,” he barked.
“I’m tallish with long red hair. I’m wearing a cream-coloured fur coat so you can’t miss me, even in the dark,” she lied. Now she had the edge. Harriet was pleased with herself. She was good at this. She’d recognise him but he wouldn’t know her.
“Don’t be late.”
With that he was gone.
Chapter 15
“God, I’ve had enough of today.” Calladine leaned forward in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. “Imogen got nowhere with Jayden North. He still won’t tell us what he knows, stupid lad,” he told Ruth wearily. “I’m supposed to be going round to see Amy — Amaris, but I can’t face that either. I’m pooped. All I want is a warm fire, some food and a large scotch.”
Bayliss & Calladine Box Set Page 47