‘I’m Chrissie McBride.’
‘Joe Cassidy.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘Irish?’
‘Somewhere along the line.’
She nodded towards the gates of Pennefeather Hall.
‘Are you a relative? A friend of Bella’s family?’
‘I knew her father, years ago.’ She passed him the wheelbrace. He set about unscrewing the wheelnuts. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Daily Mail? Express? Mirror?’
Her grin revealed perfect white teeth. ‘Anyone would think you used to be a copper.’
Joe said nothing, sliding the jack under the car and cranking the handle.
‘I recognize you,’ said Chrissie. ‘From the papers. Last year.’
He gave a non-committal grunt, ready to deflect questions about the girls. The chassis was raised. He removed the wheelnuts, tossing them into the hubcap.
‘I’m guessing you’re a thirty-year man,’ said Chrissie. ‘Got out while you still had some marbles left?’
As she ran her fingers through her hair, Joe caught sight of his registration number in felt-tip on the back of her hand. The reporter knew exactly who he was. She’d checked his identity with a contact at the DVLA.
‘So which paper is it?’ he said, tugging the wheel free and letting it fall on the verge.
‘Kent Today.’ A sigh. ‘I used to be on the Sun but I’ve been out of action a while, playing happy families, so I took what I could get.’
Wheeling the tyre towards the rear of the car, Joe’s eye was drawn to the contents of a carrier bag in the boot: a jumble of small shampoo bottles, the sort found in hotels. One had leaked over a pile of documents. Two words jumped out from a letter from a London law firm: …decree nisi… Joe averted his gaze, hoisted the spare wheel and propped it against the car.
Straightening up, he saw the gates to Pennefeather’s open. The red Mercedes emerged, Liam at the wheel, Saffron in the passenger seat, her eyes hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses. O’Mara slowed beside the lay-by.
‘You guys OK?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ said Joe.
But Chrissie gave a winning smile. ‘Just a damsel in distress. Thanks for the offer.’
Any excuse to talk to a potential source. Joe wondered if the puncture was a ruse.
‘My condolences about poor Bella,’ said Chrissie. ‘Are you her brother-in-law?’
The Irishman nodded but didn’t return her smile. ‘You a reporter?’
‘Guilty as charged, but as far as I’m concerned this is a two-way street. If I dig up anything that might help I’ll tell the police faster than shit off a shovel.’ She reached into her pocket and dug out two cards – one for Liam, one for Saffron.
‘Anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to call.’
O’Mara took the card but said nothing.
‘Thank you,’ said Saffron, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her voice was barely audible.
The car pulled away. Chrissie scribbled its registration number on the back of her hand. Then she knelt by the Fiat and began to replace the wheelnuts. Joe watched, noting her dexterity.
She was perfectly capable of changing a tyre.
‘How long have you been on Kent Today?’
Another sigh.
‘This is day three. But I’ll be back on a real paper soon if it kills me. Maybe we should team up.’
The suggestion came out of the blue. Joe looked away. If the woman had worked for the Sun she had ink in her veins, not blood.
‘I’m not much of a team player,’ he said.
‘Because?’
He thought for the moment then nodded towards the gates of the wildlife park.
‘Ever heard of the honey badger? Angriest animal ever.’
‘Why are we talking about honey badgers?’
‘They have a special relationship with the honeyguide bird. Symbiotic.’
‘What a big word.’
He smiled. ‘The bird does the reconnaissance then leads the badger to the beehive. The badger breaks the hive open; the honey spills out. Then the badger eats his share and the bird gets what’s left.’
Chrissie’s smile widened.
‘Your point is…?’
‘If we teamed up, who’d be the bird and who’d be the badger?’
He smiled back and handed her his card. ‘Just in case.’
The journalist shrugged then looked away, losing interest as she spotted something over his shoulder.
The estate gates were opening again.
A police car emerged, driven by Hugh Duffy.
Katie sat in the passenger seat.
In the back was Adam Pennefeather.
7
Joe was woken by the phone. Katie sounded worried.
‘Is Luke with you?’
‘No. What time is it?’
‘Just gone six.’
He sat up and switched on the light.
‘Maybe he’s got a new girlfriend.’
‘Maybe.’
She didn’t sound convinced. He knew how much she hated being needy.
‘Katie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Would you like me to come over?’
A pause.
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘OK. I’m on my way.’
Another pause.
‘Thank you.’
The sun was streaking the sky salmon pink as Joe got into his car. He scanned the deserted beach but there was no sign of the three-legged dog. The beef patties he’d left yesterday had disappeared, along with last night’s kebab. He hoped they’d been eaten by the Border terrier but there was no way of being sure.
Forty minutes later, nearing the outskirts of Canterbury, he glimpsed the cathedral in the distance. Joe had long ago given up on God but the sight of the towers rising from the city centre never failed to raise his spirits, especially early in the morning when it still seemed possible that a day might turn out well. A confirmed atheist, he was nevertheless made tearful by Christmas carols, and struck dumb by the majestic interior of the cathedral. But when it came to religious art, he’d had his fill of traipsing around galleries, trying to fathom what the fuss was about, and he’d be happy never to see another painting of that woman and her baby as long as he lived.
Arriving in Marlowe Avenue, he found Katie at the front door.
‘We’ve got a situation,’ she said, turning to go inside.
Joe closed the door and followed her into the kitchen. The table was strewn with files, all discreetly closed. Not a scrap of paper on show, nothing he might ‘accidentally’ read upside down. Katie’s laptop was open but in sleep mode. A creature of habit, it was her routine to type up case notes at the end of each day. She had a name for it.
Laptop thinking.
Joe sat at the table and forced himself not to look at the whiteboard. If H had made another appearance on the Oracle, he didn’t want to know.
‘My car finally turned up,’ said Katie, fiddling with the cappuccino machine. ‘Uniform found it in Folkestone. Not a scratch.’
‘Good.’
Katie shook her head. ‘They found something stashed in the visor.’ She turned to face him. ‘A bag of cocaine.’
Joe’s eyes widened. ‘How much?’
‘Three grams in a Ziploc bag. And it gets worse.’ She poured frothed milk into a mug of coffee and handed it to Joe. ‘They brought the car in to the nick. One of the SOCOs tried to earn brownie points. He thought he’d do me a favour – not the full monty, just a quick once-over – and he found a clump of hair.’ She paused. ‘Long. Blonde. Maybe a hundred strands. Pulled out at the roots.’
The mug was halfway to Joe’s lips. Only now did he notice how tired his wife looked.
‘What are you saying?’
Katie took a breath before answering.
‘I had the car valeted two days before Luke borrowed it. Any trace evidence would be fresh.’
She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I was awake half the night, thinking about what you said.’
‘About Luke lying?’
She frowned. ‘About you thinking he was lying. There’s a difference.’
Joe’s mind was racing. ‘The way I see it,’ he said, ‘whoever stole the car is a dealer who knows someone with blonde hair. Or maybe the thief is a blonde woman.’
Katie gave a pained smile. ‘I’m a big girl, Joe. I don’t need you to make me feel better.’
She sipped her coffee and fell silent. The cat flap opened. Spike entered and made straight for Joe.
‘It’s one explanation,’ said Joe, reaching down to fondle the cat’s head.
Katie nodded. ‘It’s better than the one where our son is a drug-dealing killer.’
Joe thought for a moment. He took his mobile from his pocket and dialled Luke’s number.
‘Hey dude, it’s dude, so do the dudey thing after the beep.’
About to leave a message, he heard a key in the door. He saw Katie steeling herself as they turned to watch their son enter the kitchen.
‘Hey, it’s the Dadster,’ said Luke. ‘Anyone would think you lived here.’
Joe rose above the jibe.
‘Big night?’
Luke shrugged. ‘Same old same old.’ He unwrapped a piece of gum and put it in his mouth.
‘How was the job interview?’ said Katie.
Another shrug. ‘Just a crappy call centre. Two jobs, three hundred applicants. They said they’d let me know.’
‘What did you do last night?’ said Joe.
Luke yawned. ‘Had a few beers with Dylan. Crashed out on his sofa.’
Among the many things Joe failed to understand about his son was the lack of ambition. Having scraped three decent grades at A-level, Luke had baulked at the idea of university, apparently content to scratch a living flitting from job to job. Bar work. Decorating. Gardening. Maybe he was punishing Joe for his many shortcomings as a father or maybe he was just lazy. Either way, now was not the time for a lecture.
‘Take a seat. We’re having a family conference.’
For ten minutes Joe watched his son’s face as Katie explained how the stolen Volvo had been found and the sequence of events that followed its recovery. Luke listened, leaning back in his chair.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘so my parents want to know if I’m, like, a liar who sells drugs.’
Joe shook his head. ‘Mum’s telling you what happened to the car that was stolen while in your possession.’ The cat jumped onto his lap. ‘Anything you need to tell us?’
A shrug. ‘I borrowed Mum’s car on Bank Holiday Monday, went to Margate.’
‘Alone?’
His son narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you asking if I’ve got an alibi?’
‘I’m asking you to be clear.’
A long-suffering sigh. ‘I went to Margate. With Dylan. We were planning to see a movie but he got a text from a girl so he buggered off.’
‘What did you do?’ Joe was determined to see this through.
‘I saw the movie on my own,’ said Luke. ‘Westwood Cross, before you ask. No, I haven’t got the ticket stub but you can check the CCTV. Oh, no, sorry, you’re not a copper any more. It’s Mum’s turn to run the show and be a shitty parent, so maybe she can do it.’
‘Luke—’
Joe’s voice was gentle but his son was in full flow, voice dripping with vitriol.
‘After the movie I went to the Admiral Nelson. Had a couple of Red Bulls, a bag of crisps and a pint – one pint – with Marky. Would you like his number, so you can check?’ He ploughed on without waiting for a reply. ‘That’s when Mum’s car was stolen. But it was too late to call, and fuck knows where you are these days, so I walked home.’
Joe allowed a couple of seconds to elapse.
‘What time did you get home?’
‘Fuck knows. One? Two? Late, OK?’
‘Thank you,’ said Joe.
Silence fell. Luke folded his arms. Katie nodded slowly. She seemed to be reaching an accommodation with herself.
‘Right,’ she said, standing to clear away the coffee mugs. ‘Let’s get on with the day.’ Her tone was brisk: from worried mother to super-efficient DI in seconds flat. ‘The SOCO has filed a report so it’s all in the system.’ She set the dishwasher then turned to Luke.
‘I need you to come into work with me this morning.’
‘Because?’
Her words came out in a rush. ‘Because whoever stole my car left class-A drugs stashed inside. So we need to see if we can ID fingerprints. Which means eliminating mine, Dad’s and yours.’
Luke shrugged. ‘OK.’
But Katie wasn’t finished.
‘We’ll have to do DNA tests on the hair in the car. Chances are there’s no connection with Bella but it’s conceivable the thief knew her, so it has to be a line of inquiry.’
She gave a thin smile. Luke didn’t smile back. Silence descended once more. Joe had plenty to say but no idea how to say it.
‘I like the goatee.’
‘Fuck the goatee,’ said Luke. He spat his chewing gum in the bin, took a banana from the bowl and turned to his mother. ‘Have I got time for a shower?’
She checked her watch.
‘Ten minutes.’
Luke stomped out of the kitchen.
Katie took a tissue from her bag and blew her nose. She waited till they heard the shower.
‘I believe him.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It’ll be OK.’
Joe said nothing.
‘Am I doing the right thing? she said. ‘Taking him in?’
‘I don’t see much choice.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
Joe thought for a moment. He tried to sound more confident than he felt.
‘You need to treat this like any other inquiry. You also have to give Luke the benefit of the doubt. So yes, you’re doing the right thing.’ He stroked Spike under the chin. The cat purred.
‘I bumped into Bryan Messenger yesterday,’ Joe continued, keen to change the subject. ‘He seems miffed you’re SIO on the Pennefeather case.’
Katie shrugged. ‘I was there when the misper call came in. He can be miffed all he likes.’
Joe nodded. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me about Adam?’
Katie raised her eyes to the ceiling.
‘Please don’t ask.’
‘It was me who told you about his scratches,’ said Joe. ‘And if Bella has his skin under her nails…’
‘If she does,’ interrupted Katie, ‘Adam Pennefeather has come clean, which could count in his favour or could be a pre-emptive disclosure to throw me off the scent. Either way, I can’t divulge operational details. Especially now you’re working for him. Which I wish you weren’t.’
‘Yep,’ said Joe. ‘Got that message.’
Pre-emptive disclosure… Divulge operational details… When had she started talking like a press conference?
‘I need to get on,’ she said.
Joe heard a car pull up outside. He checked his watch. One minute to seven. He stole a glance at the Oracle.
Friday. H.
He heard the car horn.
‘Is that Hugh Duffy?’
Katie nodded curtly. She shut down her laptop and slipped files into her briefcase. As the sound of shower died away upstairs, she turned to the hall and yelled.
‘Make that five minutes.’
Shuffling documents into her briefcase, she failed to notice a file on a chair. The seat was tucked under the table, out of sight. Joe said nothing.
‘You’ll come to the nick later?’ said Katie.
‘Why?’
She shot him a look. ‘To give your fingerprints.’
‘Of course,’ said Joe.
He opened a cupboard and took out a sachet of cat food, the only brand Spike deigned to eat.
‘Joe?’ A catch in Katie’s voice. ‘Do you think he’s telling the truth?’
Joe spooned cat foo
d into a bowl.
‘Do you?’
His wife took a breath.
‘He’s a moody, feckless sponger but he’s our moody, feckless sponger. I don’t think he’s into drugs and I don’t think he’s lying about knowing Bella.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said Joe, watching Spike sniff the food then walk away. ‘Either way, he’s wrong about one thing.’
Katie raised an eyebrow.
‘Meaning what?’
‘You’re not a shitty parent. I am.’
She looked away. Now was not the time.
* * *
Outside, Joe saw H leaning against his car – a Ford Focus – smoking a roll-up. The DS raised a hand in greeting. Joe gave a nod then watched his wife and son get into the car. The trio looked as though they were setting off on a family outing. He watched them drive away. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard.
His mobile rang. A number he didn’t recognize.
‘Is this too early?’ A woman’s voice.
‘What’s up, Chrissie?’
‘I thought I’d be your honeybird guide. Wanted to give you the heads-up about your friend Mr Pennefeather.’
‘What about him?’
Joe could see Duffy’s car pausing at the top of Marlowe Avenue, indicator flashing as it waited to turn onto the main road.
‘The police questioned him yesterday afternoon,’ said Chrissie. ‘But you knew that. Your wife’s the SIO.’
‘Correct,’ said Joe.
‘You didn’t mention it.’
He sighed. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’
‘She let Adam Pennefeather go home but the word is she’s going to bring him back today, maybe arrest him.’
‘Says who?’
He heard a smile in her voice.
‘You expect me to answer that?’
‘Worth a try. Thanks for letting me know.’
‘Got anything to swap?’
‘Nope. But I owe you one.’
Hanging up, he turned to look at the house. On one hand, it would be wrong to snoop. On the other hand, a girl was dead and Luke’s behaviour was disturbing, to say the least. Joe wrestled with his conscience, then, checking Duffy’s car had disappeared, let himself back in to the house and walked into the kitchen.
Waiting for Katie’s laptop to boot up, he retrieved the file from the chair and sat down to read. According to a Post-It in Katie’s writing, the file contained entries printed from the diary app on Bella’s iPhone.
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