Animal Instinct

by Animal Instinct (retail) (epub)

  ‘What does that make you?’ said Chrissie. ‘Some kind of freedom fighter? A saboteur operating behind enemy lines?’

  Jonas shook his head. ‘I’m just an ordinary bloke. People like the Pennefeathers bang on about conservation and captive-breeding programmes and all that self-serving bollocks but it’s really all about making money out of the misery of animals that should never be behind bars. Anyone who thinks differently is part of the problem, not part of the solution.’

  ‘Would that include Bella Pennefeather?’ said Joe.

  Jonas nodded. ‘And her father.’ He raised his can in a toast. ‘God rest their souls.’

  Watching as the bony man slaked his thirst, Joe could sense Chrissie struggling to keep her temper.

  ‘Do you have any comment about an attack some years ago on a social worker named Carl Muxworthy?’

  Raoul’s jaw tightened. He leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘Duwayne shouldn’t have told you about that. It’s ancient history. And it wasn’t me that gave Muxworthy a beating, it was a bloke called Spider.’

  ‘Any idea where we can find Spider?’ said Joe.

  The man shook his head. ‘He died years ago.’

  ‘What was he like?’ said Chrissie.

  Jonas considered the question for a moment. He seemed to take pleasure in choosing his words with care.

  ‘Carl Muxworthy was an evil bastard. He deserved everything he got.’

  22

  Twilight had given way to dusk. Marlowe Avenue was busy with people returning home from work. Cruising down the street, Joe managed to squeeze the MGB into a space three houses from his front door. Katie’s Volvo was in the driveway. The downstairs lights were ablaze.

  He glanced at his watch. Nearly seven o’clock. Just time to drop off Luke’s wallet before picking up ingredients for supper on his way back to Dungeness. He had no idea what Chrissie McBride liked to eat but he would go for a safe bet. Bangers and mash. Maybe spag bol.

  Joe couldn’t recall the last time a woman had invited herself over for dinner. He didn’t flatter himself that she was interested in anything other than information and a meal that wasn’t served in a polystyrene carton. Had he been younger, things might have been different. As it was, she would provide just what he needed.

  Company. Distraction.

  Adam may not have been a close friend but the death of a contemporary was a blow. Since turning fifty, Joe had been plagued by reminders that he was nearer the end than the beginning. Aches and pains. Crow’s feet. Thinning hair, except where it was least welcome – his nostrils and ears. No doubt about it. The ‘days of wine and roses’ were over. The Steradent Years were just around the corner.

  About to get out of the car, he saw his front door open. A man emerged from the house. For a second, his face was hidden by a passing van but Joe had no difficulty making out the man’s identity.

  Hugh Duffy.

  He watched the DS get into a silver Ford Focus and join other cars waiting to turn onto the main road. Joe’s eyes flickered towards the wallet then back to the junction. A moment later, without being aware of making a conscious decision, he dropped the wallet onto the passenger seat and started his engine.

  The Ford turned onto the main road, joining a steady stream of lorries thundering towards Dover.

  Joe had lost count of the hours he’d devoted to tracking suspects, first as a rookie then as a DI. He could feel the familiar surge of adrenalin. He’d once told Katie that he thought an ancient instinct kicked in during a surveillance operation, especially a high-speed chase. The atavistic urge to pursue a quarry. Hunt it down. Kill it. She’d rolled her eyes and said something withering about ‘boys and their toys’.

  Darkness had fallen by the time he reached the roundabout that led to the ferry port. With Duffy’s car in his sights, he descended the hill by Dover Castle, a forbidding reminder that this was once a site of strategic importance. A garrison dating back to medieval times, the stronghold had played a vital role in defences throughout the Napoleonic wars and World War II. Dubbed ‘the gateway to England’, the town had been deserted by the army and spurned by holidaymakers, then betrayed by Eurostar and the Channel Tunnel. Now Dover seemed to be suffused with an air of resentment, like an abandoned wife in threadbare slippers.

  By the harbour wall, a ferry was putting out to sea, passing a liner berthed by the lighthouse. The portholes were illuminated; beacons of light promising adventure and escape. On the outskirts of town, rows of elegant stucco-fronted houses were all that remained of Dover’s glory but even these were mostly B&Bs. Joe wondered if one of these seedy hotels was the place Chrissie called home.

  As he followed the Ford into the belly of the town, it was the back streets that sent his spirits plummeting: rows of unloved houses, dingy takeaways and tattoo parlours.

  The two cars headed through the town’s centre until they came to a tunnel under a viaduct that bordered a deserted industrial estate. The Ford stopped by a railway arch. Dimly lit. No sign of life. Joe slowed to a halt and turned off his engine. He slouched in his seat, watching the interior of Duffy’s car light up as the man lit a cigarette.

  Moments later, he became aware of two figures emerging from the shadows and making their way towards the tunnel. Two young women. White pelmet skirts. High heels. Both had long black hair. The taller of the two continued on her way as her companion slowed by the Ford and leaned towards the open window, exchanging a few words with Duffy. Her reaction – an angry slap on the car’s roof – suggested the conversation hadn’t gone as planned. She turned and walked away, rejoining her friend who was lighting what looked like a spliff.

  Joe watched the women confer before seeming to reach agreement. They walked back to the car and spoke to Duffy again. Things seemed to go better this time. They got in the car. Duffy drove away. Joe followed at a discreet distance.

  The Ford turned away from the industrial estate, navigating a mini-roundabout before pulling up outside a scruffy terrace of houses. Hugh got out and removed a holdall from the boot. He followed the women into a house with a blue front door.

  Joe settled down to wait. The craving for a cigarette worsened.

  Thirty-five minutes later, Duffy was back, slinging his holdall into the car then driving away. Joe kept his eyes on the blue door. He didn’t have long to wait. The two young women emerged from the cottage, both smoking cigarettes. Joe flashed his lights and rolled down his window. The women conferred briefly then headed in his direction.

  ‘Shit car,’ said the taller of the two. ‘Can’t you afford a proper one?’ She was no more than twenty. Her friend looked even younger. Scrawny. Not a woman, a girl. Seventeen? Eighteen?

  ‘Looking for business?’ The chain-smoker’s rasp made her sound older than she appeared.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Joe.

  ‘Fuck off, then.’

  The woman turned and walked away. Joe called after her.

  ‘I just need five minutes of your time.’

  She carried on walking, heading towards the industrial estate. Her friend was about to follow but hesitated, mesmerized by the sight of Joe’s wallet. He produced two twenty-pound notes.

  ‘Tell me about the bloke you just saw.’

  The girl widened her eyes in mock innocence. ‘What bloke?’

  ‘Ginger hair,’ said Joe. ‘Two minutes ago.’

  She shook her head. ‘My memory’s shit.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Tiffany.’

  Joe had met many ‘Tiffanys’ over the years. Young. Scared. Scary.

  ‘Your real name.’

  ‘None of your business.’

  She was about to walk away when he produced another twenty.

  ‘How’s your memory now?’

  She chewed on her lip then glanced towards her friend who was hovering on the corner, arms folded.

  ‘I need to know if you’ve seen him before.’

  The girl took the cash, tucking it into her sleev
e.

  ‘Three times,’ she said. ‘Maybe four.’

  Her friend called out. ‘Don’t be telling him our business, big mouth.’

  The girl scowled. ‘Shut up.’

  She turned back to Joe. ‘I can always tell your lot. You’ve got a special smell.’

  Joe frowned. ‘What “lot”?’

  ‘Police. Like Blondie. You his boss? Going to spank him for being naughty?’ A giggle. ‘He’d love that.’

  ‘He’s got red hair,’ said Joe. ‘Why do you call him Blondie?’

  ‘He brings wigs. We have to be blondes or Blondie can’t get it up.’

  This was too much for her friend.

  ‘Shut your gobby mouth. You’re doing my head in.’

  She turned on her heel and walked off. Tiffany followed.

  Joe watched them go.

  Heart pounding.

  Mind racing.

  Blondie…

  23

  The wind was gusting from the east as Joe arrived at the shack on the beach. Chrissie was leaning against her car, tapping her watch.

  ‘I was hoping for a banquet, not half an hour waiting in the arse-end of nowhere.’

  ‘Something came up,’ said Joe.

  The reporter cast a look around the windswept beach and the nuclear power station looming in the distance.

  ‘Lovely spot. Be nice when it’s finished.’

  Clutching a bottle of wine, she followed Joe towards the porch. ‘Whatever you’re cooking I hope it’s quick. I’m so hungry I could eat my own feet.’

  Joe glanced over her shoulder as a Planet Pizza moped approached on the tarmac road. He smiled.

  ‘Dinner is served.’

  * * *

  Half an hour later, they’d agreed that although pizza king Liam O’Mara might be the kind of entrepreneur who deserved to be rich, there was room for improvement.

  ‘Pizza is all about the crust,’ said Joe. ‘Got to be crisp.’

  Chrissie poured another glass of wine.

  ‘It’s unreasonable to expect crisp crust on pizza that’s been on a bike for half an hour.’

  Joe reached for the bottle.

  ‘You’re forgetting the gospel according to Raoul Jonas: “Progress is not made by reasonable people.”’

  Chrissie stood up and licked her fingers.

  ‘The man definitely marches to the beat of a different drum.’ She crossed to the fridge. ‘But is he a murderer?’

  Joe watched as she found a jar of pickles. She seemed to be making herself at home.

  ‘I think he’s capable of killing,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure he’s a murderer.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  Chrissie selected a pickle and took a bite. Joe considered her question.

  ‘I’m no murderer but I could kill in self-defence. Or if someone threatened my family.’

  His thoughts returned to the scene he’d witnessed earlier.

  Duffy.

  The two women.

  Was ‘Blondie’ any of his business? Should he tell Katie? To what extent was the urge to intervene linked to contents of a Jiffy bag currently being processed in a Cambridge lab?

  ‘What would you do if someone close was being messed with?’

  Chrissie cupped her glass in her hands.

  ‘Define “messed with”.’

  ‘Say you discover your best friend’s husband is having an affair. Do you tell her or mind your own business?’

  Chrissie frowned. ‘Her happiness is my business.’

  ‘But does blowing the whistle make her more unhappy or less? Is it right to ruin her illusion of married bliss?’

  Chrissie rolled her eyes.

  ‘“Married bliss” is a contradiction in terms. Like “friendly fire”, or “gated community”.’

  She set down her glass. Joe’s question had changed the mood.

  ‘If my friend’s husband was screwing around,’ she said, ‘I’d tell him what I knew, then give him twenty-four hours to do the right thing.’

  ‘Which would be what?’

  ‘End the affair, of course.’

  ‘What if he told you to mind your own business?’

  Chrissie’s jaw tightened. ‘I’d tell my friend she should chop off his trouser-snake and put it in the Magimix.’

  Silence descended. Chrissie drained her glass. Joe recalled the day he’d changed her tyre and spotted the divorce certificate in her car. He had touched a nerve.

  ‘Shall we change the subject?’

  Chrissie didn’t reply immediately, staring into the middle distance. Then she looked at Joe, blinking, as though trying to refocus on her whereabouts.

  ‘Good idea,’ she said.

  ‘Coffee?’

  A nod. ‘Black, no sugar.’ She got to her feet. ‘Can I use the bathroom?’

  When she returned, the saucepan of water was boiling.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Got a bit hot under the collar.’

  Joe spooned Nescafé into two mugs. The reporter leaned against the counter.

  ‘Can I ask a question?’

  Joe grimaced. ‘People only ever say that if they know you won’t like the question.’

  Chrissie folded her arms. ‘How about, “My editor told me to ask a question”?’

  Joe had a shrewd idea what was coming. He handed her a mug. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Would you ever talk about the Kinsella case? The Salamander?’

  He let several seconds pass before trusting himself to speak.

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  Chrissie shook her head. ‘My boss figured enough time might have passed. Maybe you’d be ready to give an interview.’

  Joe gripped his mug. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. ‘There’s nothing to say. Everyone knows what happened.’

  She shook her head. ‘Everyone knows he was a serial rapist. He got away with God knows how many attacks. His victims got younger all the time. Everyone knows the girls were kept underground for a year. They went through hell.’ She met Joe’s gaze. ‘But you caught him and no one has heard your side of the story.’

  ‘Just doing my job.’

  ‘A job that drove you nuts.’

  He managed half a smile. ‘Is that a technical term?’

  She didn’t smile back.

  ‘You had a breakdown, Joe. You left a job you loved. You left your family. To live alone in a hut. Washed up like driftwood. How’s that for “nuts”?’

  Joe said nothing, studying a grease mark on the floor. When he looked up, the reporter was staring at him.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell my editor to shut the fuck up and—’

  He raised a hand. Kept his voice low.

  ‘What I went through is a day at the beach compared to what happened to those girls. It’s nothing compared to how their families suffer every day of their lives.’ He stared at the floor, unable to hold the reporter’s gaze. ‘That’s all I’ll say, on the record or off, to you or anyone else.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ she said.

  She sipped her coffee, tapping her finger on the handle. But she couldn’t leave well alone.

  ‘What about the rape victims who came forward? Do you think they’d ever—’

  She caught his glare.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Joe said nothing. He walked into the bathroom to calm down.

  * * *

  After she’d gone, Joe took his wine and coffee onto the beach. He sat in the plastic chair, gazing at the moon. The wind was blowing harder, sending wisps of cloud scudding overhead.

  The dog’s bowl was empty. Scraps were quick to disappear but it had been a while since he’d seen the mutt itself.

  Washed up like driftwood.

  Is that how it was?

  Reaching for his mobile, he scrolled through his contacts. Friends who pre-dated his marriage had fallen off the radar, replaced by people he’d thought were pals but who proved to be no more than colleagues.

  He dialled hi
s son’s number. The call went to voicemail. About to leave a message, he hesitated then tapped Katie’s name and waited for the call to connect.

  ‘How’s Luke?’ he said.

  ‘Having the world’s longest bath.’ She sounded tired. He pictured her at her computer, doing her ‘laptop thinking’. ‘He’s been job-hunting all day.’

  Did he detect a slur in her voice? Not like Katie to drink mid-week.

  ‘Good for him.’

  He waited for her to speak again.

  ‘Sorry about your friend Adam,’ she said. ‘Terrible for his family. But at least things are coming to a head.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Messenger’s making an arrest. Crack of dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘Raoul Jonas?’

  A pause.

  ‘You didn’t hear it from me,’ said Katie.

  ‘I’m your husband,’ said Joe. ‘Talking to me isn’t a hanging offence.’

  ‘I’m not sure it feels like you’re my husband any more.’

  He stifled a sigh. ‘I thought we weren’t having state-of-the-union conversations for a while.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Katie. Her guard was back up.

  He heard the familiar chime of the Marlowe Avenue doorbell. He glanced at his watch. Nine thirty. Late for what Katie would call ‘a school night’.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.

  It took all his willpower to resist asking who was at the door. He sat for several minutes, finishing his coffee. Then he went inside, found his notebook and settled at the kitchen table.

  Joe wrote Blondie alongside Duffy’s name then stared at the page. He was unsure what, if anything, he should tell his wife. He prided himself on his instincts. He’d known he would marry Katie within minutes of meeting her. He’d been certain his mother was ill long before the cancer diagnosis was confirmed. His gut had identified the Kinsella sisters’ killer from the very first encounter, long before the Salamander became an official suspect. So why couldn’t he muster any certainty over Luke’s paternity? His mind seemed to snag on the same loop of questions.

  Had Katie and Hugh had an affair?

  Was Duffy Luke’s father?