by Lisa Hartley
He threw himself back in the chair, the legs squealing against the floor. A nurse glanced their way with a frown.
‘Come on, Thomas, this is isn’t like you. Where are Mr and Mrs Varcoe?’
‘Gone for some food. They’ve been here most of the night. Mum and Dad have been in too. You’re only meant to have two visitors to a bed, so we took it in turns.’
‘When they come back, we’re going to eat. Shouldn’t you go home, have a shower, get some rest?’
Thomas sniffed, taking in her appearance. ‘Shouldn’t you?’
Catherine ignored him. ‘Go. I’ll stay with Anna.’
‘What about your training course?’ He raised tired eyes, rasping a hand across his stubble.
‘It’s fine. Go on, Thomas.’
Should she be persuading him to leave the hospital when she knew Dolan was sending officers to speak to him again? But he was obviously exhausted. Thomas heaved himself to his feet.
‘All right. Will you tell Anna’s parents I’ll be back this evening?’
He leant forward to stroke Anna’s hair. As he passed Catherine, he kissed her cheek. Tears welled in Catherine’s eyes as she watched him lurch towards the door. Her brother, usually happy-go-lucky, now grey and drawn. She reached again for Anna’s hand.
18
‘What did you tell her?’ Jasmine asked.
‘I mentioned a few safe places to sleep.’
‘Not the squat?’
‘The squat? The one where you lived? I don’t even know where it is.’
Jasmine smiled, satisfied. ‘Lee was looking for you at the soup kitchen.’
Ghislaine stiffened. Noticing the movement, Jasmine grinned.
‘About time you had a boyfriend.’
‘Give up, Jas.’
‘What happened?’
Ghislaine blushed. ‘Nothing.’
‘Come on, Ghis, tell me. What have you been doing?’ Jasmine’s eyes widened. ‘They say it’s always the quiet ones. Can’t let you out of my sight, can I?’
They were in a pub, not the seedy, grubby one Jasmine usually favoured, but one of the chain bars in the city centre. Half a lager each meant they could sit at a table in the corner, out of the way, and enjoy the warmth for an hour. Ghislaine always worried how long they’d be tolerated. Jasmine wouldn’t have given it a thought, would relish a slanging match with the bar staff if they were challenged.
‘We only talked.’
‘Oh? I had a “talk” with our sweet and innocent vicar earlier,’ Jasmine leered.
‘He hurt me, all right?’ Ghislaine mumbled. She hadn’t wanted to confide in Jasmine, but her friend was relentless if she suspected information was being kept from her. She ignored the comment about Jasmine and the vicar. Jasmine had been boasting about her fling with him for weeks, but Ghislaine only half believed it. Jasmine wasn’t known for her truthfulness, and was never one to let facts get in the way of a good story. Joel Rushford was attractive, Ghislaine had to admit, and Jasmine had her sights set on him. Whether he reciprocated her feelings was another matter.
‘Hurt you?’ Immediately, Jasmine shoved back her chair. ‘The fucker. I’ll kill him.’
Ghislaine sighed. ‘Not what I meant, Jas.’
Jasmine’s assumption the violence had been sexual told Ghislaine more about her life than any amount of night terrors ever would. Jasmine believed she was the one who protected Ghislaine, but it wasn’t true. Beneath the brash exterior, the loud clothes and make-up, the persona, hid the real Jasmine: a tiny, terrified girl whose childhood had been obliterated by the abuse she had endured. Ghislaine didn’t know the details, but she recognised a survivor when she saw one. She should, she was one herself.
‘So what did you mean?’ Reluctantly, Jasmine lowered herself back onto her chair and swigged from her glass.
Ghislaine told her about the altercation at the church, while Jasmine listened, frowning.
‘He says Mackie was killed? Murdered?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fuck.’ Jasmine wouldn’t look at Ghislaine now, her eyes darting from side to side. Ghislaine watched, disconcerted.
‘Where did you go after the soup kitchen?’ she asked.
Jasmine bristled.
‘Why?’
‘No reason.’
‘The squat, if you must know. Saw a few old mates.’
‘Right.’
‘Had a chat. Had a drink. Didn’t do any smack.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘I’m not stupid, Ghis. It’s poison.’
‘Come on, Jas. I know you’re not …’
‘Turned my back on my old life months ago.’ Jasmine was becoming increasingly agitated, shifting in her seat, rubbing her arms. Ghislaine watched, dismayed.
‘Listen, I’m going to head off,’ Jasmine told her. ‘You can have the rest of my drink. I’ll see you later.’
Ghislaine wanted to say more, offer an apology, but Jasmine was gone. Taking a long swallow of her lager, Ghislaine came to a decision.
She slipped out of her chair and hurried to the pub’s main door, dodging a crowd of students clustering around the pool table. Jasmine was still in sight, her rucksack on one shoulder, moving quickly. Ghislaine left the pub and followed her.
19
‘We’re still looking for the knife,’ Mary Dolan said. Standing in front of a large whiteboard with Anna Varcoe’s name scrawled in capital letters at the top, she was explaining their progress to DI Jonathan Knight. It wouldn’t take long. DCI Dolan looked tired, and she was going to be under increasing pressure to obtain results, a conviction. He’d had to push his way through a scrum of journalists as he approached Lincolnshire Police’s Headquarters, many of whom had seen Knight as fair game. Despite his protests, he’d been photographed, even filmed, as he crossed the car park. He had to admit, looking at the statements and evidence which had been collected, that there wasn’t much to go on. Appeals were being made in the media for any witnesses to the assault on Anna to come forward but so far, no one had.
‘It’s hard to believe in a city centre there were no witnesses at all,’ Knight said.
‘Which is why one of the officers here suggested Thomas Bishop may know more than he’s letting on.’
Knight raised his eyebrows. ‘Thomas?’
‘Of course, you’ll know him.’ Dolan didn’t look impressed.
‘Not well, though I’d be surprised if he were involved.’ Thomas had seemed to Knight to be a “nice bloke” – decent, if a little immature.
‘Everyone’s always surprised when someone they know is involved,’ Dolan snapped. She ran her hands through her hair. ‘Sorry. Uncalled for. It’s bloody frustrating. Whoever stabbed Anna must have had blood on his hands, his clothes. There were people around, drinking, out for meals, whatever. But we have nothing.’
‘It’s early days.’ Knight turned away from the whiteboard, frowning.
‘Tell the press and the Superintendent,’ Dolan grimaced.
‘Have you heard from Catherine today?’
‘Catherine Bishop? I’ve seen her. She arrived here this morning, wanting to work on Anna’s case.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me.’ Knight hid a smile.
‘I told her we need her to carry on at Phoenix House, regardless of what’s happened.’
‘And she agreed?’
Dolan gave him a stern look. ‘She didn’t have much choice.’
There was a knock on the door, and DS Rafferty came in. Dolan introduced her, and Rafferty managed a curt nod in Knight’s direction as he smiled at her.
‘Ma’am, DS Bishop’s here,’ Rafferty said.
‘Again? Speak of the devil.’ Dolan moved to a chair and sat with a weary sigh. ‘Thanks, Isla. You’d better bring her in.’
Rafferty opened the door wide, and Catherine appeared. Knight was immediately struck by her unkempt appearance. It was less than twenty-four hours since their last meeting, but Catherine already looked thinner and paler than she had the
previous night. Her hair badly needed a wash, and her clothes were grubby. Glancing from Dolan to Knight, Catherine seemed apprehensive.
‘What are you doing back here, DS Bishop?’ Dolan asked.
‘I have some information.’
‘Is there a problem with your phone?’ Rafferty sniped. Catherine narrowed her eyes. Knight was silent, resenting Rafferty’s tone but knowing this was not his argument.
‘I’ve been told John McKinley was a friend to people he met on the street. He advised them, looked out for them,’ Catherine said.
‘That’s all?’ Rafferty was incredulous.
‘Thank you, Isla.’ Dolan rocked back on her chair, folding her arms. ‘Anything else, Catherine? As I told you a few hours ago, we need you on the street.’
Catherine lifted her chin. ‘I’ve also been told Lee Collinson believes Mackie was murdered. How did he know?’
There was a silence. Rafferty went over to a computer and tapped a few keys.
‘John McKinley left the force years before Lee Collinson was arrested. Collinson has only recently arrived at Phoenix House, and says in his statement he never met McKinley.’
‘I doubt there’s a motive there.’ Dolan’s lips tightened. ‘Anyway, if he injected McKinley, why would he draw attention to himself? We need to find out how he knew the truth about McKinley’s death.’
Catherine shook her head. ‘Ghislaine was vague. I couldn’t push, not without raising suspicion.’
‘Even the press hasn’t ferreted the truth out yet,’ Dolan said.
Rafferty inspected her fingernails. ‘It doesn’t matter to them.’
‘We can’t bring him in,’ Knight said.
‘No, we can’t. It would be obvious where the information had come from. It’s up to you, Catherine. Talk to him. Try to find out what he knows.’ Dolan stood. ‘I know you’ve not had much time, but we don’t have any real suspects, which needs to change.’
Knight saw Catherine clench her jaw, angered by the dismissal. He could sympathise. Working with new people was never easy, and Catherine’s assignment made the situation more complicated. The animosity between Catherine and the other DS, Rafferty, was also clear.
‘I’ll be off.’ Catherine turned on her heel.
‘Keep in touch.’ Dolan was already back at the whiteboard, while Rafferty was still at the computer. Neither of them saw Knight walk out behind Catherine.
He followed her into the corridor outside where she span around to face him, furious.
‘Thanks for volunteering me for this, by the way.’
‘What’s the problem with DS Rafferty?’
‘Apart from her being a complete bitch?’ Catherine spat. ‘Sorry. I don’t know. She obviously has a problem with me, but I’m not sure what it is.’ She stepped over to one of the doors leading off the corridor, knocked on it and barged inside when there was no reply. Knight followed her.
‘What are you doing here?’ Catherine asked.
‘Supporting DCI Dolan.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s SIO on Anna’s case now, as well as working with you to find out who killed John McKinley.’
‘But you know Anna. Isn’t there a conflict of interest?’ Knight shrugged, and Catherine shook her head. ‘I still don’t see why they came here, to investigate the death of a homeless person?’
‘He was an ex-copper,’ Knight reminded her.
‘Yeah, years ago. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Where are you going now?’
‘Now? I was hoping to have a shower in the staff washrooms, but my bag’s still at the shelter. Maybe there’ll be some soap and shampoo I can nick. I’ll have to find somewhere to sleep as well.’
Knight frowned. ‘Isn’t the idea you sleep at Phoenix House?’
‘McKinley hardly ever did. Why should I?’
‘Dolan expects you to.’
Catherine gave a humourless smile. ‘I will, when I’m ready. She’ll have to trust me.’
Knight gazed at her, worried. Her brave face wasn’t fooling him. He could see the tic beneath her eye dancing again.
‘You know, you don’t have to do this, Catherine,’ he told her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You can go home, back to Northolme.’
She snorted. ‘And prove Rafferty right? She already treats me as though I’m incapable. No, I’m staying.’
Knight knew when he was beaten. ‘Remember, you can call me anytime.’
‘And you’ll come and rescue me?’ Catherine’s hands were on her hips. ‘I’m okay, Jonathan. Find the person who stabbed Anna.’ She rubbed a hand over her eyes. ‘I need to go.’
She stumbled through the door. Reluctantly, Knight let her leave. As he made his way back to the incident room, Dolan and Rafferty appeared, walking towards him.
‘Thomas Bishop has arrived for his interview,’ Dolan said. ‘Thought you might like to observe?’
20
This was a part of the city Ghislaine didn’t know at all. Rows of streets running parallel to each other, lined with cars. Red brick terraces, some with a small front yard, some with doors opening directly onto the pavement. Others still with narrow passageways separating the houses at street level, though they were joined on the floor above. Satellite dishes, boarded windows, yellowing nets, smart wooden blinds. A place of contradictions, well-maintained houses propping up their more down-at-heel neighbours. Some had been rendered, one painted a particularly ill-advised shade of mustard. Several displayed “To Let” signs, some with boards advertising single rooms to rent. For students, Ghislaine presumed, though in this part of town, less salubrious uses for the rooms were possible.
She had kept her distance from Jasmine, aware her friend would be furious if she knew Ghislaine was following. It had been easy in the city centre to stay behind Jasmine as she sauntered along, using people as camouflage, or ducking into shops when necessary. Out here though, it was much trickier. Fortunately, Jasmine hadn’t looked back. Her pace had increased in the last few minutes, some of the swagger gone as she hurried towards her destination. Her shoulders were hunched, as if her stomach hurt. Ghislaine sighed, fearing her suspicions were right.
Jasmine turned into a gateway about halfway along the street. Ghislaine feigned interest in a newsagent’s window and counted slowly to twenty to give Jasmine time to get inside. Her mouth was dry, her heart rate noticeably increasing. She didn’t want to go nearer – in truth, she didn’t dare. Whoever Jasmine was visiting, they were unlikely to be enthusiastic about a friend tagging along, and Jasmine wouldn’t be either.
But she had to know. If Jasmine was taking drugs again, there would be no bed for her at Phoenix House. Part of the agreement was you were clean. No drugs, no alcohol, no criminal activity.
No second chances.
And without Phoenix House, without the security of knowing she had a safe bed at night, what would Jasmine do? Slip further back into her old habits, Ghislaine was sure. Drugs, theft, prostitution.
Now determined, Ghislaine crossed the road, surreptitiously glancing at the house Jasmine had gone into. It didn’t look like a squat. Yes, the paintwork was peeling, the garden thick with overgrown with weeds, but there were curtains at the windows, and a car parked outside. An older model, but clean and well maintained. Ghislaine kept walking, studying the property as covertly as possible. At the far end of the street, she stopped again. Above her head, a faded black and white sign informed her this was “Merry Road.” But who lived here? Remembering Jasmine’s salacious comments about the men she knew, Ghislaine considered them. Danny Marshall, the counsellor at Phoenix House, was a possibility. Ghislaine wasn’t sure how much he was paid, but she doubted it was a lot. Would Danny be stupid enough to sleep with Jasmine? Possibly. There was Joel Rushford, the vicar, but he wouldn’t live in a street like this. His home would be in a village, or on a leafy side street. He was far too conscious of his reputation and image to live on a road full of run-down terraces. Unl
ess, of course, he was renting this place. Ghislaine immediately dismissed the idea. Rushford was slimy, but he wasn’t an idiot. Jasmine was a temptation, nothing more. This visit wasn’t about Phoenix House. She knew why Jasmine had come here.
A figure was approaching on a BMX, wearing baggy tracksuit bottoms and a hooded sweatshirt, his face impossible to distinguish. Ghislaine stood back to allow him to pass her. A rucksack, like the one Jasmine guarded so fiercely, was slung over his shoulders. He manoeuvred the bike into the same gateway Jasmine had disappeared into. Ghislaine walked back towards the house. It was a risk, but what was the point following Jasmine all this way if she didn’t get some answers?
The BMX was thrown carelessly on the square of grass in the tiny front garden. Ghislaine glanced at the door as she hurried by – number twenty-four. She was tempted to knock on the door to see who answered, but with Jasmine inside, the risk was too high.
She would come back, get some answers. Decide whether to confront her friend.
21
Knight and Dolan watched on the monitors as Thomas Bishop was escorted in. A small space, with magnolia walls, scruffy carpet tiles and no window. As interview rooms went, it wasn’t too grim, but it wasn’t welcoming either. Thomas might not be a suspect, but he was being treated like one. He looked exhausted.
Thomas glanced around him, obviously wary, as DC Zaman and DS Rafferty followed him into the room. Knight was sympathetic. He understood they needed to speak to Thomas again, but he believed it to be a waste of time. Thomas had already given a statement, garbled and confused though it had been. It was unlikely there would be any more to add. In Knight’s experience, witnesses’ memories didn’t improve over time.
When everyone was seated, Rafferty asked Thomas how Anna was.
‘She hasn’t responded to the antibiotics they’ve given her,’ he told them. The admission obviously pained him, and he rubbed his eyes. ‘The stab wound, the surgery they had to do to repair the internal damage, the blood transfusions – all they did to save her, and it’s an infection which could kill her now.’
‘Her condition’s critical?’ Zaman asked.
Thomas gave a weary nod.
‘They’ve told us she’s dangerously ill. The infection is affecting her whole body – kidneys, her blood pressure. It … It’s so unfair, you know? Anna’s a wonderful person, great at her job, loves helping people. Now she’s lying there dying because some prick wanted my mobile.’ He covered his face with his hands, sobs choking him. Rafferty and Zaman exchanged a glance. Knight swallowed, blinking back the tears filling his own eyes. Anna Varcoe was one of his officers, and Thomas was right, she didn’t deserve this. No one did.