From the Shadows (Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Series Book 3)

by Lisa Hartley

  ‘This gentleman recognises our suspect. He’s seen him before, more than once.’ He coughed, cleared his throat. Dolan glowered.

  ‘You’re not making an Academy Award acceptance speech, Melis. Enough dramatic pauses, tell us what you know.’

  ‘He said he’s seen him begging around town.’

  Dolan raised her eyebrows. ‘Recently?’

  ‘In the last few weeks.’

  ‘He could be anywhere by now,’ Dolan thundered.

  ‘I’m telling you what he said.’ Melis wasn’t the least apologetic. ‘Can’t help it if it’s not what you want to hear.’

  ‘Not exactly the concrete evidence we’re looking for. Go back to him, DS Melis. Do your job.’ Dolan turned on her heel, her gaze flitting over the assembled officers. ‘Anyone else?’

  Shrugs, headshakes. Dolan clenched her jaw. Rafferty and Zaman were on their way back to Headquarters, but they would have nothing to contribute either. Anna Varcoe had not been their focus today. At the back of the room, Dolan spotted Jonathan Knight, and, to her fury, Catherine Bishop. Bishop looked terrible – pale and gaunt.

  ‘DS Bishop,’ Dolan waved at her. ‘Come out here and introduce yourself.’ Catherine looked up, confused, as Knight frowned at Dolan. ‘Come on, Catherine. We haven’t got all day.’ She knew she was being unfair, was aware what she was doing was cruel. Anyone could see Catherine Bishop was struggling. But Anna Varcoe was lying in hospital with machinery breathing for her. Dolan decided it was time to take off the kid gloves. As Catherine stumbled to the front of the room, Dolan said, ‘DS Bishop has been our eyes on the ground over the last few days, mingling with the homeless people of the city, trying to discover what they know. What do you have to report, Catherine?’

  Catherine lifted her chin, staring into Dolan’s eyes.

  ‘Nothing,’ she muttered.

  Dolan bared her teeth. ‘Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. Pretty much sums up our entire case, doesn’t it?’

  There was silence. Officers were studying their shoes, their cheeks flushed, their eyes focused on anything but Dolan’s furious face. In the front row, Melis was sitting back, legs crossed, observing Dolan’s meltdown with a smirk on his face, as if he were watching a particularly amusing play at the theatre.

  ‘Get out of my sight, the lot of you,’ Dolan snarled. ‘Be here at seven sharp in the morning.’ There was a rush for the door. Dolan turned away, guilt descending. Catherine Bishop stood quietly as Knight approached.

  ‘Was that necessary?’ He demanded of Dolan.

  ‘Sometimes you have to put a rocket up their arse.’

  ‘Right,’ Knight sneered. ‘I’m going to speak to Detective Superintendent Stringer. Catherine’s coming with me.’ He took Catherine’s arm, jabbing a finger at Dolan. ‘You were completely out of order.’

  Dolan turned. ‘I’m not here to be liked.’

  Melis sauntered over, hands in his trouser pockets. ‘Bloody good job, isn’t it?’

  ‘Enough, Sergeant,’ Dolan told him. ‘Go home. All of you, get out of here.’

  She walked out, shoulders slumped. Knight stared after her, still holding Catherine’s arm.

  *

  In the corridor outside, Dolan’s hands were over her eyes, her shoulders trembling. What she had done was unacceptable. She should go directly to ACC Clement, tell him she would be travelling back to Nottingham as soon as he had found a replacement for her. No doubt she was already the talk of Lincolnshire Police Force. It was difficult to care. Knight had surprised her, though. She’d only known him a day, but she was willing to bet it took a lot to break his composure. Interesting it had taken a dig at Catherine Bishop to draw him out of his shell. Catherine was gay, she knew, but there was an obvious bond between the two which intrigued Dolan. If it wasn’t sexual, what was it?

  A male voice interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  Dolan froze.

  ‘What are you doing here, Melis?’

  ‘Thought you might want to talk. Looks like you could use a drink, too.’

  She laughed, the sound harsh to her own ears.

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Never been more serious in my life.’

  Dolan turned. Melis ran a hand over his shaved head, waiting for a response.

  ‘I’ll need to wait for Rafferty and Zaman. They should be on their way back,’ Dolan said.

  Melis lifted his shoulders. ‘I’ll go out and get some food, bring it back here. We can have a picnic.’

  *

  Catherine stopped, her hand on Knight’s arm. ‘I’m not coming with you.’

  Dolan’s performance had hurt, of course it had, but it had also woken Catherine from the stupor which had been threatening to drag her out of sight. She blinked a few times, taking in Knight’s face. ‘You go home. Spend some time with Jo, but come back tomorrow. Please don’t go to Stringer. Dolan’s a good officer, but she’s frustrated. We all know how it feels when we’ve made no progress on an investigation.’

  ‘We haven’t all thrown our toys out of the pram though,’ Knight pointed out. ‘The case is hardly a few days old.’

  ‘I know. She’s right about one thing though. I need to be at Phoenix House. This homeless man Melis mentioned – what if his witness was right?’

  Knight shook his head. ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘I am. I’ll be in touch.’

  Catherine walked away. Her lips trembled, but she steeled herself. Her mind might tell her to give up, to go home, but she wouldn’t. She was in this until the end.

  34

  Back in the smaller incident room, Rafferty and Zaman updated Dolan on their findings. Dolan listened carefully, more at ease now she was with her team. She was used to working with different officers, but she had to admit having people around her she knew, she could trust, was invaluable.

  ‘It’s interesting Pat Kemp mentioned working with John McKinley on his early days on the force. You said McKinley told Kemp he was too late, he should have done something sooner. Did you press him, ask what McKinley meant?’

  ‘He took it to mean McKinley needed help when he first found himself on the street, not when he’d been living rough for a while. Kemp didn’t seem sure though.’

  ‘Adil?’ Dolan glanced at him.

  ‘I’d agree with DS Rafferty, Ma’am. We can’t assume we know what McKinley meant, especially after Danny Marshall told us McKinley knew things, saw things. Lee Collinson said people talked to John McKinley and he knew how to listen. What if he had knowledge which made him dangerous to someone?’

  ‘And ultimately got him killed,’ Rafferty said.

  Dolan nodded. ‘We need to speak to his ex-wife. They were still married when John McKinley quit the force. Do we know where she lives?’

  ‘About thirty miles away,’ Rafferty told her. Dolan checked her watch.

  ‘Go and speak to her now. It’s not late. Phone later and update me.’

  Rafferty and Zaman got to their feet. Soon after the door had closed behind them, Melis arrived bearing a huge pizza box.

  ‘Dinner is served, Ma’am.’ He set the box on the table with a flourish. Dolan laughed, despite the dig of unease. Melis was proving to be something of a chameleon.

  *

  Dawn McKinley’s house was at the end of a row of terraced cottages, on the outskirts of a small village. The sky was dark as they parked outside, a few streetlights illuminating the gloom. Rafferty flicked on the interior light, flipped the mirror on the car’s sun visor to check her appearance. She was exhausted, grubby, and wished she was back in her hotel room, running a bath. Instead she was out here, hoping for a break. Zaman had been quiet on the drive out of the city, and Rafferty knew he would be regretting missing another of his young daughter’s bedtimes.

  ‘Let’s do this as quickly as we can.’

  Zaman smiled. ‘I won’t argue.’

  As they approached Dawn McKinley’s front door, a security light glared into action,
momentarily blinding them. Rafferty squinted as she thumped on the grubby white front door. A frenzied yapping came from inside the house. Eventually, a security chain rattled. The door opened slightly and bleary eye appeared in the narrow gap.

  ‘Who is it?’

  Rafferty held out her warrant card. ‘Police, Mrs McKinley. We’d like to speak to you about your ex-husband.’

  A hand appeared, snatching the identification from Rafferty’s grasp. The yapping continued, now interspersed with growling, but thankfully the dog making all the racket didn’t appear.

  At last, the door swung open fully and a short, plump woman appeared, dressed in a fluffy leopard-print dressing gown and huge mouse-shaped slippers.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she told them.

  The living room was small and overcrowded, with a large three-piece suite, a dresser and a vast TV crammed around its walls. In the centre of the room stood a battered coffee table, laden with celebrity gossip magazines and unwashed mugs. The TV was switched on, but muted, one of the soap operas beaming extra misery into homes all over the country. Dawn McKinley picked up a glass containing a clear liquid as she showed them into the room.

  ‘Sit. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘There’s no need, thank you. We don’t want to take much of your time,’ Rafferty told her.

  ‘Don’t worry. If you want to ask about John, you won’t need long.’ Dawn McKinley drank from her glass and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. She settled in one of the armchairs, her gaze straying back to the TV, cradling the glass to her considerable chest. The dog continued to bark in the background, but Dawn McKinley made no move to intervene.

  ‘It must have been a shock to hear of your ex-husband’s death?’ Rafferty said.

  ‘And to find out he’d been living like a tramp. When I first saw the officers at the front door, I thought, “Here we go, John’s topped himself.” He always was a miserable bastard.’ Dawn McKinley drank again.

  Rafferty watched. Did the glass contained gin or vodka? She doubted it was water. McKinley’s words weren’t slurred and she wasn’t staggering, but Rafferty knew it meant nothing. If she were any judge, whatever was in Dawn McKinley’s glass was a long way from being her first drink of the day. It seemed alcohol was her drug of choice these days, whatever she’d dabbled in before.

  ‘Why did you assume John had killed himself?’

  ‘Well, he had, hadn’t he? Injecting.’ Dawn rolled her eyes. ‘Anyone knows it’s a mug’s game.’

  Zaman and Rafferty exchanged a glance. Rafferty sat forward in her chair.

  ‘Mrs McKinley, I’m afraid I have more bad news.’

  Dawn McKinley’s eyes were on the TV screen again. ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘We believe your ex-husband was murdered.’

  There was a silence. To Rafferty and Zaman’s surprise, Dawn McKinley laughed.

  ‘Murdered? Give over, will you? Who’d want to murder John? From what I heard, he had no money, no possessions. He’d given up on life.’ She took another mouthful of her drink, rolling the liquid around her mouth as if savouring it.

  ‘You’re surprised?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘Surprised? I don’t believe it, my love.’

  But even as she said the words, her eyes narrowed as if she had a sudden twinge of pain. Her expression had changed for only a second, but Rafferty had seen it, as had Zaman.

  ‘We have evidence, Mrs McKinley. Someone deliberately gave your husband an overdose of heroin,’ Zaman told her.

  ‘Listen, young man. After John left the police, he became depressed. He drank, he used drugs. We’d separated, but you hear things. As I understand it, he managed to get off the drugs for a while, years even. You no doubt know as well as I do if you inject after not using for a while, you don’t have the tolerance you used to have. It’s how overdoses happen, and it’s what happened to John.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Nothing you say will persuade me otherwise.’

  ‘Why might someone would want to hurt John?’

  Dawn McKinley laughed. ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘What about when he was a police officer?’ Zaman said. ‘He must have made a few enemies?’

  Dawn McKinley sniffed. ‘People he arrested, yes. I’m sure a few hated him. But he was always popular with his colleagues. We went out with a few of them socially at one time.’

  ‘Can you remember who?’ Rafferty seized on the statement, the first sentence McKinley had uttered which could potentially give them new information.

  The dog was still barking. McKinley cast a withering look in the direction the noise was coming from, but didn’t speak until she had drained her glass.

  ‘God, I don’t know,’ she said airily. ‘Someone called Kemp. Peter?’

  ‘Pat?’ Zaman provided. McKinley pointed an unsteady finger at him.

  ‘Pat, and his dumpy little wife. I might have lost my looks, but she, poor woman never had them in the first place.’ She tapped her fingernails against her glass. ‘Who else? Clement. There was a Clement, I remember. Or was Clement his first name? A couple of others. One’s very high up now - Chief Constable, or some such. Anyway, the men had a fall out, and we didn’t see them anymore.’

  ‘A fall out? They argued, you mean?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘It was over a woman. An affair, I’d guess. Must have been, because they were all married. I can’t remember.’ Her eyes were heavy now, her head slumping.

  Rafferty watched, pitying her. She suspected underneath it all, Dawn McKinley was desperately unhappy.

  ‘Can you remember the names of the others in your group? Which Chief Constable do you mean?’ Zaman asked. McKinley stared at him, as if trying to figure out who he was, and why he was in her house. She held up a wobbly hand.

  ‘I’ve told you all I can remember. It was a long time ago, and I’m tired.’

  Zaman sighed. ‘If you do recall any more names …’

  ‘Shut it, Sukie, for Christ’s sake!’ McKinley suddenly bellowed, presumably at the dog, who was still barking maniacally. Her words were slurred now too. Time for them to take their leave.

  ‘That could be awkward,’ Zaman commented as they got into the car. Rafferty slammed the door and put on her seat belt.

  ‘Her mentioning the Chief Constable? Unless she was getting confused, and was still talking about Clement. He’s the ACC of Lincolnshire, isn’t he? Anyway, Chief Constable of where? It might not be Lincolnshire. She wasn’t exactly specific - she could have been talking about anyone.’

  ‘Best let the DCI handle it,’ advised Zaman.

  ‘I’ll give her a call,’ Rafferty decided. ‘Pat Kemp’s name was mentioned again, and his only alibi’s his wife. We’ll need to go back to him again.’

  Zaman groaned. ‘Still as clear as mud, isn’t it?’

  Rafferty scrolled to Dolan’s number on her phone. At least they had something to report, for a change.

  35

  Jasmine pushed open the door to the stairwell, and peered inside. It wasn’t too late, but it was dark, and the car park was close to empty. Why they were meeting here, she had no idea. It was a new location. She knew he was careful, but this was dangerous, surely? There were still a few vehicles around, which meant people would be returning to them at some point. All right, their meetings were usually brief, but if they were seen together, they would both be at risk.

  The stairs were well lit, but Jasmine still felt a prickle of unease across the back of her neck. The car park was in the city centre, close to Brayford Wharf. Though there would be people there, eating, drinking, enjoying themselves, the only sound Jasmine could hear was the thud of her footsteps as she jogged up the concrete stairs. She had been here earlier, when it was busier, so she knew where to go when the time came. What did they call it? Doing a recce. He wouldn’t like it if she were late, though he had been, several times. He was in charge. She was here at his command, had agreed to do whatever he asked to pay off her debt. And, now, because she had exactly what
he wanted. Jasmine smiled to herself. For once, she was in control, and she was finding she liked the experience.

  She hitched her rucksack further onto her shoulder as she continued to climb, more slowly now, her breath coming in short gasps. She should be fitter than this, the amount of walking she and Ghislaine did. After tonight, she would have enough money saved, and she could kiss this way of life goodbye, forever this time. Any train would do, any city. She’d find a room to live in, get a job. Put her past behind her. She would miss Ghislaine, Danny, even Maggie Kemp. But the rest of them? They could fuck off. They’d never think of her again, why should she worry about them? They had made up their minds about her, written her off – Jasmine the druggy, Jasmine the ex-whore. Jasmine the waste of space, Jasmine the fuck-up.

  A movement in the shadows far below caused her to freeze. She stood, one foot on the next step, listening. There was traffic noise in the distance, but up here, there was silence. Below her, a CCTV camera was bolted to the wall, protected from vandalism by a metal cage. It pointed towards the doors of a nearby working man’s club, its watchful eye not trained in her direction. Jasmine smirked, not wanting any trace of her presence here tonight. This evening, she would hit the jackpot. All the skulking around, the risk-taking, the fear, would be justified.

  She’d be rich. Not lottery-winner rich or footballer rich, but there would be plenty. She could wave goodbye to this shithole city for good. People said it was pretty, historic. She supposed it was, if you were the right sort of person. For her though, one squat, one draughty doorway, one lumpy mattress in a shared room was the same as any other. She was in one of the richest countries in the world, with no home to call her own. Jasmine wasn’t bitter. She had made her own choices, the wrong ones, as it had turned out. She wasn’t one to bleat on about her useless mum, her absent dad. Plenty of people at school had been in the same boat, and they’d done all right for themselves. Jasmine would too, she knew. She was a survivor, and now she’d given herself a chance.

  The top floor loomed above her. Jasmine checked the time on her phone. Ten minutes until they were due to meet. Perfect. She would find herself a shadowy corner and wait for him. He had held the advantage for too long. It was her turn now. He had always thought himself clever, living as he did. Now though, Jasmine had him right where she wanted him - at her mercy.