A Cut for a Cut (Detective Kate Young)

by Carol Wyer

  ‘Fucking pointless,’ grumbled Morgan. ‘We’ve got stacks to wade through and this was a waste of time.’

  Kate was in full agreement. No matter what television police dramas might portray, or how much her superiors wanted results, the fact remained: policework took time.

  ‘We carried out orders. It didn’t work out, but we’ve all been in that situation before. We might get a witness out of this.’

  ‘And a shitload of timewasters,’ said Morgan.

  ‘Lighten up,’ said Emma. ‘You’re getting cranky.’

  ‘I hate wasting fucking time and—’

  ‘None of us like wasting time,’ Kate interrupted. ‘And you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you – Richard Dean has decided to do a television appeal on the evening news.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ This time it was an outburst from Emma.

  Kate left it unchecked. ‘It goes out at seven, so if you want to grab some food or take a break, I suggest you do it now because in about an hour, the phones will be red hot.’

  Jamie ran a hand over his stubbled chin and cleared his throat.

  ‘Problem?’ said Kate.

  He pulled out his mobile from his pocket. ‘Just that I’d better warn the wife. She planned a girls’ night out tonight and I promised I’d look after Zach. She isn’t going to be happy.’

  ‘For real?’ said Morgan with a sneer. ‘She’s got you under her thumb.’

  ‘No, she hasn’t.’

  ‘Sounds like it to me. Look at you, racing off to apologise.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘Then why are you so worked up?’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Off you trot. Go and grovel to your missus.’ He waved Jamie away with both hands.

  ‘Aw, fuck off, Sarge.’

  Kate caught sight of the sudden cloud of fury that stretched across Jamie’s features before he stomped off, phone pressed to his ear, and disappeared out of sight. This was a side to him she hadn’t seen before. Jamie always seemed easy-going. The strain of the case was beginning to take its toll on them all.

  ‘Happy now?’ said Emma to Morgan. ‘You can be such a shit at times.’

  ‘He’s a wet arse. Look at the way he’s stormed off to make the call so we can’t overhear him grovelling.’

  ‘He cares about his family, that’s all. Come on, there’s a drive-through McDonald’s down the road. We’ll pick up something.’

  ‘That tosser can buy his own.’ Morgan took off.

  Emma shrugged at Kate. ‘He’ll get over it. I think he finds Jamie a bit much at times. One minute he’s desperate for overtime and the next, he’s fretting that he isn’t around enough for his family. Morgan doesn’t get it because he doesn’t have the same sort of responsibility.’

  ‘Do you find him a bit much too?’

  ‘No. He’s friendly and hard-working and I’m far more easy-going than Morgan,’ she replied, a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Shall we see you back at the station?’

  ‘Yes. Did Jamie come with you two?’

  ‘No, he was out somewhere, checking on a witness statement, and used his own transport. Probably just as well given Morgan’s mood. And just so you know, I spoke to the courier company Kevin worked for. They have no record of deliveries to any of the victims, or to their places of work. And, on my way here, I heard from his mobile phone provider. According to them, he sent and received several texts from his mobile on Saturday evening, all from his house. I think we’ll have to take him out of the frame.’

  ‘Another suspect out of the picture and nobody else to fill the space,’ said Kate. ‘Damn!’

  ‘I know. We’ll have to hope this turns up something. See you in a bit.’ She hastened after Morgan. Kate looked back at what was now an almost empty pavement. Why had she and her team been sent on such a wild goose errand? Surely nobody had truly believed they could entice a killer back to the scene of his crime to observe a reconstruction. William was now sitting in his vehicle. Waiting for what? She couldn’t see if he was taking a phone call and couldn’t think why else he’d still be here.

  Chris’s voice was faint and she strained to hear him. ‘Haven’t you twigged yet? He’s keeping an eye on you. This is a set-up to make you look inefficient. It’s part of Dickson’s plan to get you out of his station and life. Although, if you don’t follow up the Agouti angle, he won’t need to. Every minute you spend distracted by this case is allowing him more time to cover his tracks. At this rate, he’ll get away with it, you won’t have any leads left to follow and this investigation into my death will become a cold case. Is that what you want? For it to disappear? For me to go?’

  ‘No!’ Heat flooded her veins. She couldn’t bear being without Chris, even if she was going to be seeing more of Tilly and Daniel. She lifted her warm face to capture the cool breeze and observed row after row of cirrocumulus clouds displaying an undulating, rippling pattern like fish scales – a mackerel sky, heralding a change in the weather.

  ‘Then you have to topple Dickson before he destroys you.’ The last words petered into the distance, as though carried by the wind.

  ‘I know.’ She dropped her head and unlocked her car. As she pulled away, she took one last look back at William’s car. It hadn’t moved.

  He tries not to smile at the banality of the situation. Did they really think he would fall into such an obvious trap? Since when did this crime show broadcast the fact they’d be filming a reconstruction and give out the location? It was demeaning to insult his intelligence in this manner. On the plus side, he was clearly unnerving his hunters if they had to resort to such low tactics.

  He’s going along with it, of course. Not because he hopes it will help him relive the delicious moments he attacked Heather, but because this is a game he can win, hands down.

  He’s puzzled though. Heather had definitely been alive when he’d dumped her in the skip. She’d smashed her nose trying to escape and bled a fair bit, but he’d been in control that time. He hadn’t lost concentration and throttled her to death like he had Laura. He’d checked her over and felt a pulse. Perplexed as he is, he isn’t going to panic about it; after all, he’s not going to get caught.

  DI Kate Young is in position on the street opposite him, trying to look casual, but actively scanning the crowd. Talk about obvious! She might as well have I’m a police officer illuminated above her head. Her scrawny frame and hollow-eyed stare betray many sleepless nights. He hopes the more recent ones are on account of his actions. If she had any idea of how much he knows about her and her sister, she’d be even more troubled. He keeps his head lowered, fully aware she is shooting looks at them all, hoping to spot a facial expression or giveaway gesture and here he is, right under her nose and she is none the wiser. This almost makes up for killing Heather. It doesn’t give him the same high as attacking his stand-ins, but it’s bolstered his ego. If she were his type, he’d make her his next victim. His hunter turned prey. Although the thought excites him, he knows he’d find it impossible to become aroused by her, even with his hands around her throat.

  The trick is to look disinterested in the filming, or only mildly curious about the reconstruction. And although the stand-in resembles Heather, he isn’t going to allow himself trips of fantasy. Besides, he has another victim already lined up: an entrée before the main dish. He is ever closer to his ultimate goal. He’s been messaging his first love and she is ready to invite him back into her life. He is dizzy at the prospect, his excitement reaching new highs. Nobody is going to stop him getting to her, especially DI Kate Young.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The scent of freshly picked lemons infused the kitchen. Kate plunged the sponge mop into hot water and slapped it onto the kitchen tiles, grunting as she mopped, backwards and forwards. All the while, she could hear Chris’s voice and maintained a steady stream of conversation as if he were right there beside her. She hadn’t heard him so strongly in days. His voice was loud, bordering on bossy and
concerned her slightly. Was she becoming too obsessive?

  ‘You have to try Farai again. Drag it out of him, find out what Dickson was up to and convince him to let you speak to the sex worker who slept with Dickson. I don’t think you can do it without raising suspicions so, like it or not, you need somebody to work with you and I think I have the very person to help you out – Dan Corrance. We worked together, investigating a paedophile ring, and he helped me compile the list in my journal.’

  Dan had found the journal taped underneath a drawer in Chris’s old desk and given it to her, in the hope she’d be able to bring charges against some of the people and institutions named in it. The Maddox Club had been one of them and the information in the journal had helped her solve that investigation; however, she’d done no more with it, other than keep it hidden. She maintained the momentum, arms moving tirelessly while she replied. ‘You’re telling me to put my faith in a journalist I don’t know. Great idea, Chris.’

  ‘You know you can trust him, because, instead of keeping my journal for himself, he chose to hand it over to you. He’ll be a good ally.’

  ‘He wanted me to handle it in my capacity as a detective and for the people named in that book to be convicted for their crimes. All I’ve done is sit on it, wondering how best to use the information to drag Dickson down. I ought to have done something about them before now. He won’t approve of that.’

  ‘You’re wrong. He didn’t give you the information because you’re a detective. He gave you the journal because you’re my wife! Listen to me, Dan is your best shot. You’re not able to touch Dickson, but if you let Dan in on what you’re doing, he’ll be able to rattle cages and, at the very least, print something.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, he’ll probably get sued for libel or, even worse, murdered like you were!’ The words burst out from her lips and she kicked out at the plastic bucket, sliding it across the sparkling, tiled floor. Water slopped over the sides, leaving large tear-shaped puddles.

  She ran the sponge over the water, sucked it up then carried the bucket to the sink, where she tipped it out. The almost clean water gurgled down the plughole noisily. It was three o’clock in the morning and she was still wide awake. Richard Dean had made his appeal on the local news and begged anyone who’d been in Abbots Bromley on Friday evening to come forward. The team had gathered in front of a computer screen in the office as he spoke without the use of prepared notes. His voice had cracked when he held up the photograph of his daughter and told those watching that she was a beautiful, gentle human being who’d been robbed of any life and future happiness, and at that point tears had fallen. There had been no sign of Steve. The phones had begun ringing before the broadcast was over, every detail and claim noted by her officers. They were still handling calls regarding Laura’s death when, following the broadcast of the crime reconstruction outside Trentham House, the second wave began. At midnight she’d drawn an end to it. They’d pick up where they left off the following day – probably more bloody dead ends. They were so busy chasing up all the possible sightings of individuals in the area, they had no time to go back over what they’d already uncovered.

  ‘Try Dan. Give him the journal and let him do what he sees fit to do. Give him the extra ammunition we have on Dickson, as well. He’ll be able to use it.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me, are you? It’s too dangerous for him to get involved. I can’t risk his life. This is my problem and I’ll resolve it.’

  ‘But how?’

  She ignored the question, opened a drawer and removed a clean cloth, then, using an anti-bacterial spray, began puffing another citrus aroma into the air, this time clementine. She wiped the surfaces, lifting jars and cleaning under them, over and over. How? She could go ahead and press charges against Dickson for sleeping with underage sex workers, but what she truly desired was proof he was somehow involved in her husband’s or Cooper’s death. That would carry a heavier penalty and, combined with the other offences, would ensure he was locked up for a very long time. She began rubbing the cupboard doors: intense, frenzied motions that didn’t seem to tire her. Only after she’d cleaned every single one of them, along with the fridge and kettle, did she stop, cloth still in her hand.

  ‘I’ll wait to see what Bradley comes up with first,’ she said. ‘His brother might have information about what really happened to Cooper.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  ‘I’ll consider involving Dan.’ She picked up the spray and made for the bathroom. There was plenty of cleaning upstairs to keep her occupied until she felt drowsy.

  By six, she still hadn’t slept. She’d spent the last hour in Chris’s den, going back over the journal that contained the names and dates of men who he suspected of being paedophiles. The way she saw it, she had two choices: hand the book over to the Paedophile Investigation Unit so they could begin looking into the names, or, as Chris had suggested, give it to Dan Corrance. If she passed it over to the police, Dickson would hear about it and extricate himself. It would also put him further on guard and she’d find it harder still to connect him to the train massacre that saw her husband murdered, and Cooper’s apparent suicide. With a heavy sigh, she acquiesced. Chris’s reasoning made sense and as reluctant as she was to part with her husband’s journal, she would. He’d left her the file of suspected corrupt officers on his computer, and that was what she was mostly concerned with.

  She got to her feet and stretched. It would soon be time to return to the investigation and leave this to one side. She picked up the book, caressed the leather, feeling for any residue of her husband, any leftover energy that might have been transmitted onto it.

  ‘There’s nothing, Kate. It’s only a work journal.’

  ‘Not any journal. It was yours.’

  ‘You have other objects to remind you of me. You don’t need another one.’

  A decision had been reached. ‘Okay.’

  She headed to the kitchen where her phone lit up. Tilly had sent a message to say she was up early and had gone training with Emma again. She rang her back.

  ‘Morning, early bird.’ Tilly sounded on form.

  ‘You can talk.’

  ‘Daniel was up at five so I thought I’d take him along to play computer games with Greg and do a quick workout.’

  ‘Hi, Daniel!’

  She could make out a cheerful but muffled hello.

  ‘We’re going to the Sea Life Centre in Birmingham later today. Thought we’d catch the train there.’

  ‘Sounds great fun. Wish I was going with you.’

  ‘Well, maybe you could come next time. I was thinking of inviting Ryan along for some adult company but decided it would be better without him. This is Daniel’s treat.’

  ‘Ryan?’

  ‘Yeah. Apparently, Happy Feet is one of his all-time favourite films.’ She sniggered. ‘I thought he might like to see the penguins. Anyhow, I changed my mind. I’ll sort out something else with Ryan.’

  Kate tried to sound upbeat. She didn’t want to come across as a killjoy. ‘Fair enough. Anyway, have a good workout and I’ll try and visit you later.’

  ‘We’ll bring you back something from the gift shop at the Sea Life Centre,’ said Tilly.

  ‘Make sure it isn’t a shark.’ She heard Daniel laughing merrily before Tilly hung up.

  There was no queue at Jeanette’s snack van, nor was anyone sitting at the brightly painted tables, scattered on the square beside it. Jeanette was visible behind the serving hatch, preparing sandwiches. The takeaway van was a familiar sight to anyone visiting Stoke, together with its snaking line of customers, eager to purchase one of the famous, home-made savoury pastries, and a hot drink. Chris had adored one of her specialities, sausage rolls made with herbs and onion relish. They’d fuelled him on many a long day at the office that overlooked the van. In the better weather, he’d often hold meetings at one of the tables, and Kate found it easy to picture him there, sipping a foaming cappuccino. The Gazette staff worked on the
fourth floor but she wouldn’t have to go upstairs in search of Dan. He, like most of those who worked at the newspaper, would stop at Jeanette’s first. It was a ritual all the journalists seemed to follow.

  ‘Hi, I don’t suppose Dan Corrance has been by, has he?’ she asked Jeanette.

  The woman turned a bright smile on her. ‘Not yet, love.’ She hadn’t imagined this comely, middle-aged woman when Chris had spoken about her. ‘Want to wait for him? He usually turns up around this time. Early bird and all that.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll have a coffee too, please. White. No sugar.’

  Jeanette busied herself with the machine, which hissed into life, spluttering hot water into a paper cup.

  ‘Anything to eat with this?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She paid up and chose a seat that afforded her a view of the front door to the block, in case Dan decided to bypass the van today. Within seconds of sitting down, her mobile rang. It was Bradley although he made no preamble when she answered.

  ‘I have an appointment this morning.’

  She interpreted his cryptic message immediately.

  ‘That’s good and you’ll let me know the outcome.’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  It meant Bradley had arranged a visit to Thamesbury Prison to speak to his brother, Jack. She pressed end call and caught sight of the journalist she’d last seen on her doorstep in May. He didn’t notice her at first, not until he was almost at the van. She signalled to him. He said something to Jeanette and meandered across.

  ‘Hey. How are you doing?’

  ‘Better. Thanks.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘The last time we met, you gave me something.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Well, I think you should have it. Chris would have wanted you to follow it up.’

  ‘I thought you’d want to nail the people named in it. That’s why I gave it to you,’ he said, then glanced around. ‘Those bastards should pay for what they did.’