by Lisa Hartley
‘Good morning. You all know why you’re here. Last night, a police officer, one of your colleagues, was attacked and left for dead.’ Dolan paused as a formal photograph of Anna, proud in her uniform, was displayed on the smartboard behind her. ‘Detective Constable Anna Varcoe. Twenty-six years old, stabbed during an attempted robbery.’ She fixed the assembled officers with a hard stare. ‘DC Varcoe was off duty, out for the evening with her boyfriend. She’s a popular, dedicated officer who’s now fighting for her life. I know you’ll want to find the person who did this as much as I do.’
At the back of the room, the door opened. Dolan watched as Catherine Bishop slipped inside, taking a seat on the back row. In her fleece and jeans, her hair wild and her eyes red, Catherine drew a few glances. Dolan made eye contact, but Catherine’s gaze slipped away.
‘We don’t have much to go on at the moment. No witnesses, except Thomas Bishop, Anna’s boyfriend. We need to speak to him again today, and we’re going to be looking at CCTV footage to see if anything suspicious has been recorded.’
A hand was waving on the third row.
‘Do we believe whoever’s been robbing people at knifepoint is the same person who stabbed DC Varcoe?’ The hand belonged to a man with a shaved head and dark eyes.
‘According to the initial statement we had from Thomas Bishop, yes. I think we have to assume he is, at least until we know more.’
‘What about him, the boyfriend?’ He leant forward, tugging at his tie with a grimace. He wore a pale-blue shirt, the collar too tight, his neck reddening above it. ‘Are we sure he’s as innocent as he’s making out?’
Dolan glanced at Catherine Bishop. She was huddled into her fleece, her face impassive. Though she’d asked Catherine to come to the station, she hadn’t expected her to be present at this briefing. There was no way she would be allowed to work on the case, not when the victim was one of her closest colleagues, especially not with the family connection, as Catherine would know. Dolan could only assume she had decided to sit in anyway. She wasn’t going to ask Catherine what the hell she was playing at, not here, not publically. Not yet. She turned back to the officer who had been questioning her about Thomas Bishop, fixing him with a scowl.
‘What’s your name?’ she demanded.
He grinned, enjoying himself, pleased to have got a reaction. ‘Melis, Ma’am. DS Giles Melis.’
Dolan inclined her head, mentally telling herself to stay calm. She needed every officer in the room on her side, and tearing one of their colleagues to shreds in front of them on the first morning of the investigation wasn’t going to help. She forced a smile.
‘As I said, DS Melis, we need to talk to him again,’ she said. ‘We’ve no reason to believe he’s lying to us, but of course we can’t take his word for it either, especially as we can’t talk to DC Varcoe yet.’
‘Any idea when she’ll be well enough to give a statement?’ Melis again. Could no one else in the room speak?
‘No. No idea. Any other questions?’ From someone else, her tone implied. Melis sat back, arms folded, apparently satisfied. There was a silence. Dolan waited for a few seconds.
‘As you’ll appreciate, there’s a lot of interest in this case, both from the public and from the media.’ She took a few paces to her left, frowning, gathering her thoughts. There would be no need to rally these officers – the person who had stabbed one of their “family” had already given them all the motivation they would need to track him down. ‘It’s unlikely DC Varcoe was deliberately targeted because she’s a police officer, but we need to keep the possibility in mind,’ Dolan continued. ‘Whoever did this has already threatened and robbed three other couples. Last night, he almost killed Anna Varcoe. She’s still critically ill, nowhere near out of the woods yet. Let’s find him, and quickly.’ She waved a hand towards Isla Rafferty, who was studying her notebook. ‘Most of you don’t know DS Rafferty: she’s there on the front row. Talk to her or DS Barnard, they’ll tell you what you’re doing today. See you all back here at six o’clock.’
There was shuffling and muttering as chairs were pushed back. Dolan watched as Rafferty got to her feet and made her way over to a corner. Though she knew she had to pass on the actions Dolan had agreed to the detective constables and unformed officers, Rafferty’s expression was stern as she frowned over her notepad. It was no surprise when most of the officers in the room made for Barnard, who stood in the centre of room, relaxed and ready to exchange a few words, give out instructions. He was familiar to them, of course, but it wasn’t the only reason. Barnard was approachable, radiating calmness and capability, while Rafferty built an invisible wall around herself and ducked behind it. Dolan hid a smile as Adil Zaman glanced at the crowd gathering around Barnard, but dragged himself towards Rafferty, the first person to even look at her. Dolan shook her head and strode over, jerking a thumb towards Rafferty’s corner.
‘Come on, let’s be sensible. Half you, over there please. DS Rafferty doesn’t bite.’
‘Are you sure?’ someone muttered, and there were a few amused snorts. Dolan set her jaw.
‘Come on, move it. Or do I have to divide you myself, as if you’re at primary school?’
Reluctantly, they went. Rafferty raised her head, flashing Dolan a look which wasn’t easy to interpret. Gratitude? Defiance? Shame? Possibly all three. Dolan turned away, masking her irritation. Rafferty was a mystery; a capable, thorough officer with the people skills of a stone. She was excellent in the interview room, not good at a hospital bedside. Yet Dolan believed in her, trusted her, without truly understanding why. Zaman was an open book: pleasant, likeable, transparent. Easy to work with, keen to learn. Rafferty was prickly, warning people off with a snarl, like a bad-tempered dog. Dolan looked at Rafferty again, who was reading quietly from her notebook while the crowd around her nudged each other, smirking. Perhaps she should talk to her. Was Rafferty unhappy? Perhaps she’d be better suited to another team, another boss? Dolan knew she wasn’t the most patient of people, but she baulked at the idea of transferring Rafferty out of her team. Rafferty was a DS and managing people was part of her job, as she would have known when she was promoted. What was her problem?
*
Catherine was aware of the interest of the officers passing her, on their way to talk to witnesses or join the fingertip search of the area where Anna had been attacked. She knew she must look awful, conscious she was in need of a meal, a shower, and a change of clothes. Leaning against the wall, she watched them pass, detached, as though there were a pane of glass between them and herself. The first day of an investigation was always vital, and extremely busy – statements to be taken before witnesses forgot what they had seen, briefings, media updates. Yet for Catherine herself, there was no urgency. She could see the purpose on the faces of the officers in the room, the determination to find the person who had attacked them all, in a sense. Dolan looked tense, tightly coiled. And Catherine, who knew Anna, who worked with her, chatted with her, laughed with her – Catherine could do nothing. She knew what Dolan would say: Get back out onto the street, dig around, make yourself useful. You already have your assignment, why are you here? It was what she would point out, in Dolan’s position.
Catherine watched as Dolan stalked across the room, waving a hand at Isla Rafferty. A thin stream of officers drifted towards Rafferty’s corner. Dolan was clearly used to people doing as she told them - a leader. It was attractive, Catherine had to admit. Dolan’s face was grim, her mouth an angry line. Today she wore a charcoal suit, her hands on her hips, shoulders hunched, her green eyes narrowed. Catherine pushed herself away from the wall. Time to piss her off a little more.
‘Ma’am?’
Dolan turned, still scowling. ‘Catherine. I didn’t expect to see you here.’
As predicted. ‘I wanted to know what was going on.’
‘And you decided to sit in?’ Dolan was controlling her temper, but Catherine knew she was on thin ground.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Anna’s my friend.’
Dolan sighed, her expression softening. ‘I know. Look, let’s go and talk.’
They went to the small, cold room where they had discussed Catherine’s assignment. On the wall, the battered face of John McKinley was still displayed. Though Catherine knew it was her imagination, as she crossed the room she saw a note of reproach in his swollen, unseeing eyes. She had done nothing to discover who had killed him, and here she was, hanging around Headquarters instead of being out on the street. She dragged out a chair and sat at Rafferty’s desk while Dolan remained on her feet, staring at the photograph of McKinley. With a sigh, she turned away, frowning at Catherine as she took her mobile phone from her jacket pocket. She examined the screen, now hiding a smile. It was unfair, Catherine knew, but she felt a spike of resentment as she watched Dolan tap out a reply. Her expression suggested the message was not work-related, and Catherine’s annoyance grew. Anna was lying in hospital, hooked up to machines and equipment, hanging onto her life by her fingernails, and the DCI in charge of finding the person who had attacked her was busy sending soppy texts.
Shoving the phone into her handbag, Dolan cleared her throat.
‘My daughter,’ she said, her tone clipped. ‘She’s at university.’
Catherine was surprised Mary Dolan was old enough to have a child in higher education, though she was careful not to show it. Dolan ran a hand across her eyes, her mouth. She stood for a moment before dropping heavily into the chair beside Catherine’s. The perfume again, the charge of electricity shooting along Catherine’s spine. The warmth in her belly.
Dolan laid her hands on the tabletop, palms down. The cuffs of her black shirt pulled back revealing scars across Dolan’s wrists, white against her tanned skin. Not on the back, where a person intent on suicide might make determined incisions, but on the front. Catherine stared at them, concerned, her mind grasping at possibilities, none of them pleasant. With swift movements, the DCI tugged her sleeves back into place. There was a pause. Catherine waited for Dolan to explain the old injuries, but when she spoke again, it was about her daughter.
‘I gave birth the month before my eighteenth birthday. It was a surprise, a shock. A disaster at the time. Getting pregnant halfway through my A levels wasn’t part of the plan.’ Pushing her chair back, Dolan balanced on two legs. ‘I wanted to do a degree – biology.’ She snorted. ‘Some biology student I was. Obviously missed the lesson on contraception.’
Catherine was silent as she considered this. Her attraction to Dolan had to be controlled. Dolan was her superior officer, and was making a point of telling Catherine about her daughter. Was it a hint, perhaps a warning?
Dolan rocked on the chair a few more times and allowed its legs to thud onto the carpet. ‘My parents were gutted, but in the end, they helped. More than her dad did, anyway. I lived at home, studied at the local university. After graduation, I joined the force.’
‘Can’t have been easy.’ Catherine knew she should speak, though she wasn’t certain why Dolan was telling her this. Dolan waved the comment away.
‘I know you want to go out and find the person who stabbed Anna. I understand. What you need to understand is, it isn’t going to happen. You’re too close to her. Your DI’s on his way over though.’
Catherine stared. ‘DI Knight? Why?’
‘Superintendent Stringer suggested it. Things a bit slack back at your station in Northolme, are they?’
‘No.’ But Catherine remembered what Knight had said: ‘How long do you think Northolme will be able to justify having a team of detectives based here?’ Perhaps the end for their station was coming sooner than they had guessed. Dolan half-turned in her chair.
‘The Super no doubt has her reasons,’ she said.
A blush rose in Catherine’s cheeks as she considered it. Why would Jane Stringer want Knight here in Lincoln? For a moment, she considered telling Mary Dolan everything: her worries, her fears, her concerns about Knight. Dolan looked again at the picture of John McKinley on the wall. ‘He’s your priority, Catherine. Someone killed him - find them. He was a police officer, the same as Anna is.’
Catherine bridled. ‘I know.’
There was a silence, long enough for Catherine to regret her tone. Making an enemy of Dolan as well as Rafferty would not be a good idea.
‘You asked if I knew John McKinley,’ Dolan said. ‘I didn’t tell you everything.’
‘You said you worked with him briefly.’
‘And I did. It was a missing child case, a four year old. The parents were desperate, or seemed to be.’
‘They knew more than they let on?’
‘They’d killed her.’ Dolan’s voice was flat. ‘The dad had, anyway. His wife was too terrified of him to tell the truth, at least at first. John McKinley managed to get her to open up. He was kind to her. You can imagine, he was one of very few people who were.’
Dolan spread her hands. ‘What I’m trying to say is, we’ll find who stabbed Anna. Someone must know who did it, seen him running away, whatever. John McKinley deserves our attention too, and we’re no further on with finding who killed him. I know it’s hard when your family are involved. The murder, the four year old – my daughter was the same age. I used to go home at night, watch her sleep, ask myself why I was getting involved in such shitty cases when I could have been at home with her.’
‘My ex was a teacher. She used to sit at the dining table at night, marking essays while I was in the shower, trying to wash the smell of blood and death away.’
‘Never goes though, does it?’ Dolan’s laugh was forced. ‘We carry it around, forever probably. Might be the reason why most of us are single. Listen, Catherine. I need you back on the street, back at the shelter. Give it a couple of days.’
‘Okay. You can’t imagine my brother was involved?’ The memory of Thomas in the hospital, the blood on his hands. The anguish on his face, in his voice.
Dolan shook her head. ‘Because of what Melis said? Ignore him. He wanted a reaction.’
‘But he didn’t know who I was, he couldn’t have done. I’ve never seen him before.’
‘Doesn’t matter. He was letting me know he was there, being provocative. He must have known what he was saying was bollocks.’ Dolan stood, rubbed the small of her back. ‘I’ll ring you later today, or Isla will. How are you finding DS Rafferty, by the way?’
Catherine hesitated, and Dolan pounced. ‘Knew it, she’s pissed you off. Isla can be difficult. Stay patient, though. You want her on your side.’
Catherine wanted to ask why she should be expected to make the effort, when it seemed Rafferty would be making none. Still, Dolan had said she would only be needed for a few days, and soon she would wave Rafferty goodbye. It was some comfort as she stepped outside and discovered it was raining again.
15
Jasmine shook back her hair and watched Joel Rushford’s eyes scan the room until he found her. He might be a vicar, but he was a man like any other. She lifted her chin and licked her lips, meeting his gaze, knowing he would be the first to look away. He was smooth, confident, especially here, in the confines of his church. But Jasmine knew how vulnerable he was. He had secrets, everyone did. The trick was finding them out – one of Jasmine’s talents. There were others, though not to be dwelled on in church.
Jasmine shuffled forward, nearing the front of the queue. Soup again. Fucking soup. Crappy bread and a smear of margarine. She wasn’t ungrateful - they fed you for next to nothing after all, but Jesus. Would it kill them to make sandwiches more than once a week? She nudged Ghislaine.
‘What do you reckon would happen if we asked for a steak?’
Ghislaine shook her head.
‘You might get oxtail soup if you’re lucky. I’m nipping to the loo.’
Jasmine turned, annoyed Ghislaine had waited until now, with only three people in front of them.
‘Fuck’s sake …’
Ghislaine had gone, the door swinging closed behind her.
*
The corridor was cold, the outside door standing ajar, allowing a draught to chill the air. Ghislaine pulled her satchel higher onto her shoulder as she hurried towards the toilets. The dull ache low in her stomach and the date told their own story. How she was supposed to buy tampons and sanitary towels with only two pounds in her purse was another. She pushed open the door to the Ladies and stepped inside, her nose immediately assaulted by the huge bowl of lavender scented potpourri one of the good ladies of the church had left on the windowsill. She set her bag by the sinks and turned towards the cubicles. As she was sliding the lock into place, she heard footsteps. The cubicle door was pushed hard from the outside. Ghislaine stepped back, shocked, her hands in front of her face to protect her. A face appeared in the gap between the side of the cubicle and the door, a male face. Lee, the new man at the shelter, the one who had bought her and Jasmine’s drinks at the cafe the previous day. The one who had made her uneasy each time she had met him. He grinned at her, pulling the door open fully, rocking back on his heels as if him being there in the women’s toilets, forcing his way into her cubicle, was perfectly fine.
‘What are you doing?’ Ghislaine managed to say.
‘Wanted a quiet chat.’
He was still smirking. Ghislaine’s initial terror was rapidly giving way to fury, and she took a step towards him. Her hands went to her hips, chin jutting.
‘A chat? You barge in here …’
He held up both hands in a gesture which was meant to be placatory, but only served to infuriate her more.
‘Can’t you read?’ She jabbed a finger towards the door. ‘This is the Ladies.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
He lifted his shoulders, trying for a charming smile. It left Ghislaine cold. ‘I wanted to talk to you without your mate listening in.’