by Lisa Hartley
Knight was scribbling on a piece of paper. Dolan shifted in her chair, scanning it. He’d divided the page in half with a wobbly vertical line, “Anna” at the head of the first column, the other labelled “John McKinley/Jasmine Lloyd.”
‘Didn’t you want to keep an open mind about McKinley and Lloyd’s deaths being linked?’
‘True.’ Knight tapped his pen on his teeth. ‘I thought this would help organise my thoughts.’
‘I tried the same earlier,’ Dolan said. ‘Didn’t work for me. My biggest concern,’ she glanced over to be certain the door was closed, ‘my biggest concern is the mention of Assistant Chief Constable Clement.’
‘Why?’
‘Dawn McKinley mentioned him by name, which suggests she remembers him clearly. ACC Clement’s already told me if I don’t have the case tied up by this time tomorrow he’ll replace me as SIO.’
‘I see.’
‘He’s going to speak to the Chief Constable about it. We need to check who the others in the group were with Pat Kemp. What do you know of Chief Constable Southern?’ Dolan asked.
‘Never spoken to him.’
‘Me neither, though I saw him when we did the press conference. He did most of the talking, only to be expected. He’s confident, assured, charming. If he’s involved … Well, let’s not consider it unless we have to.’ She swiped the screen on her phone. ‘Bloody Kemp’s not going to call back, is he?’
‘Doubtful.’
‘All right, let’s call it a night.’
Knight stood, buttoned his jacket. ‘What about the post-mortem?’
‘I’ll be there. Seven sharp. Coming?’
‘Okay. Then Pat Kemp?’
‘He can’t avoid us forever.’
*
Sleep was even less likely after Rafferty and Zaman’s visit to Phoenix House. Catherine lay on her back, staring into the darkness as Ghislaine wept quietly. The news had shocked her, made her even more aware of the precariousness of her own situation. And Dolan wanted her to stay here? Catherine had promised Knight one more night at the shelter only, and she intended to keep her word.
‘Ghislaine? Are you okay?’
‘I told Jas to be careful. She never listened, always knew best.’
‘Careful of what?’ Catherine turned her head towards Ghislaine.
‘The police said I shouldn’t talk about Jasmine dying. They want me to make a statement tomorrow morning.’ Ghislaine worried.
‘It’ll be okay, tell them exactly what you tell me. It might help to talk about it.’ Catherine made her voice gentle, though she was desperate to hear what else Ghislaine knew.
‘Well, Jas has been acting off recently,’ Ghislaine sniffed. ‘I was worried. The night the police officer was stabbed? Jasmine was out late, nearly missed being allowed a bed here.’
Catherine’s stomach lurched. ‘You’re suggesting Jasmine was involved?’
Ghislaine flicked on the light, leaning on her elbow, turning towards Catherine. Her eyes were swollen, her face blotchy. ‘No, please don’t misunderstand me. She’d seen the crowd, heard someone had been stabbed. She was…’ There was a pause as Ghislaine fumbled for the right word. ‘She was excited, I suppose. It sounds terrible, especially now, but it was like when people slow to look at a car crash, you know? It’s sick. Staring at someone else’s misfortune, glad it’s not you. Only this time, it is. Jasmine’s the victim now.’ She wiped her eyes with her duvet.
Catherine pulled herself into a sitting position, her arms wrapped around her own body, chin on her chest. She needed to call Dolan or Rafferty. This could be the breakthrough they were waiting for. Could Jasmine have seen something? She couldn’t be the attacker, not based on Thomas’ evidence. Catherine knew he had been definite the person he’d seen stab Anna was male, as had the other people who had been robbed.
‘Can you imagine Jasmine blackmailing someone?’
‘Definitely. Can’t you?’ Ghislaine forced a laugh. ‘Jas was my friend, but she wasn’t an angel. She loved to know secrets, liked to tease. Yeah, I’d say she’d see blackmail as a good laugh, as well as a way of making a few quid.’
Catherine remembered the rucksack Jasmine had guarded so jealously. Had it been found with her body? If it contained a large sum of cash, her assumption about Jasmine possibly being a blackmailer could be substantiated. It would also explain why she had been overly protective of the bag.
Ghislaine turned off the light and they lay silently for a while. Catherine’s eyes were sore, scratchy. She needed to sleep, but she wanted to stay awake to creep into the bathroom and text Dolan and Rafferty.
Catherine couldn’t have said how long they lay there, she and Ghislaine in their lumpy single beds, Ghislaine mourning a friend and Catherine regretting the loss of another life. Though she’d barely known her, she’d liked Jasmine. She remembered Rafferty’s moment of vulnerability, when she had worried she could have done more. Catherine was considering her own actions, though she knew it was a waste of energy. Guilt again.
Ghislaine was quieter now, but she wasn’t asleep. After another few minutes, Catherine heard her shuffle, a rustle as she slipped out from beneath her duvet. Catherine held her breath as Ghislaine crept closer, hesitating at the side of her bed.
No words were exchanged. None were needed. She pulled back her duvet and Ghislaine crept into the narrow bed beside her. Turning onto her side, Catherine relaxed as Ghislaine settled her head on the pillow, the younger woman trembling. Catherine reached behind her for Ghislaine’s hand, holding it high against her chest so Ghislaine nestled against her back. They lay quietly, each drawing comfort from the other. It wasn’t sexual; the embrace was as innocent as siblings huddling together while their parents argued downstairs. Catherine closed her eyes, Ghislaine’s breath warm against the back of her neck, and waited for sleep.
The investigation could wait for a few hours.
40
A cold, grey, miserable morning. The weather suited Dolan’s mood as she and Knight left the hospital, having endured most of the post-mortem performed on the body of Jasmine Lloyd. Emerging from the sterile white mortuary into radiant sunshine would have been all wrong.
They hurried across the car park and bundled into Dolan’s vehicle. Inside, Dolan rummaged in her shoulder bag before holding out her phone in triumph.
‘A voicemail from Pat Kemp.’ She turned the key in the ignition as Kemp’s voice echoed around the car, informing them he wasn’t going to work because of the horrible weather. ‘What a shame. We’ll have to call on him at home.’ Dolan was gleeful. ‘Shall we call him and check it’s convenient, or arrive unannounced?’
‘He said he’ll be there all day.’
Dolan nodded as her phone rang.
‘Good morning, Ma’am … Mary.’ Isla Rafferty said. ‘I have the search warrant.’
Dolan cheered, lifting both hands from the steering wheel for a second. ‘Excellent, Isla. Thank you.’
‘We’re waiting for the search team to arrive. When they’re here Adil will bring Danny Marshall in for questioning.’
‘The station in the city centre, remember. No cosy room in Headquarters for Mr Marshall.’ As Dolan swung the car around a sharp corner, Knight automatically grabbed the armrest on the door. ‘And make sure no one mentions Jasmine’s death to him. I’m hoping he hasn’t heard. Better still, he might pretend he hasn’t.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Rafferty hesitated.
‘Spit it out, Isla.’
‘DS Bishop wanted to know when she could leave Phoenix House.’
Dolan considered. ‘Today, I’d say. I’ll let you know, or I’ll call her myself.’
‘Okay. What happened at the post-mortem?’
‘Nothing we didn’t already know. I’ll update you later.’
As Rafferty ended the call, Knight thumbed a text to Catherine, asking how she was. After spending time with Jasmine Lloyd, no matter what the pretext, the young woman’s death would have come as a shock. Catherine c
ould be in danger, a fact Knight hoped she had been alerted to. There was no certainty in her current state Catherine would realise for herself. Within seconds, Knight’s phone was ringing.
‘Can you ask DCI Dolan to call me when you see her?’ Catherine yawned. ‘I’ve tried her twice but her phone’s going to voicemail.’
Knight explained where he was, and on speakerphone, Catherine shared the information Ghislaine had provided about Jasmine’s behaviour the evening Anna was stabbed. Dolan and Knight listened in silence.
‘You’re suggesting Jasmine was blackmailing someone? We’ve been considering blackmail as a motive for John McKinley’s death,’ Dolan said. ‘Can you let Isla and Adil know about this?’
She explained to Catherine what was happening - the search warrant and questioning of Marshall. When Catherine had gone, Dolan drummed her fingers on the steering wheel.
‘Making progress,’ Knight said.
‘We hope. Maybe ACC Clement won’t be throwing me off the case after all.’
Knight laughed. ‘Especially if it’s him we have to arrest.’
*
‘Maggie’s not going into work today either,’ Pat Kemp told them as he handed out mugs of coffee. ‘The news about Jasmine hit her hard.’
Dolan raised her eyebrows. ‘How did she hear?’
‘Someone phoned, late last night.’
‘Me, for one.’
‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. I went to bed early with a headache, didn’t hear your messages until this morning. It was late …’
Dolan sat back, the wooden dining chair creaking as she shifted. They were in the Kemp’s kitchen, a large, homely room, cluttered but clean. ‘You know how it is, Pat. We don’t clock off at five.’
‘No, but I do. Before, if I can.’
‘Privilege of being your own boss.’
Kemp drank deeply from his mug. ‘I’m not sure what else I can tell you.’
Dolan set her cup on the table, finalising in her mind what she was going to ask him. Kemp looked relaxed, she noted. He sat with his legs stretched in front of him, one elbow leaning on the arm of his chair, resting his cheek on his hand.
‘Tell us about your friendship with John McKinley.’
‘I wouldn’t call it a friendship. I saw him around the station, we exchanged a few words if we were on the same shift.’
Dolan threaded her fingers together, tipping her head to one side. ‘Come on, Pat. You sent us to Dawn McKinley. You must have realised she’d mention your nights out.’
‘Nights out?’
‘You, your wife, Dawn and John McKinley, Assistant Chief Constable Clement and the Chief Constable himself.’
Kemp drew in his legs. ‘We had a few drinks together occasionally, yes.’
‘Mrs McKinley said there was an argument over a woman, and you all fell out?’
Kemp closed his eyes. ‘Jesus. An argument? She’s no idea.’
Dolan spoke softly, persuasively. ‘Tell us, Pat. What happened?’
Getting to his feet, Kemp turned to rummage blindly in a cupboard. He withdrew a bottle of whiskey, three-quarters full, and a glass. After pouring a generous measure, he sat again.
‘I haven’t spoken about this for years, not even to my wife,’ he told them. His mouth trembled as he set his jaw. ‘Seems I have no choice now. John deserves justice.’
Dolan waited. Knight was silent, studying the wooden flooring, his face impassive. Kemp swallowed another mouthful of whiskey.
‘In the early days, we were all young lads in uniform. Me, John, Eddie Clement and Russ Southern.’
‘We’re talking about the Chief Constable and Assistant Chief Constable of Lincolnshire Police? Russell Southern and Edward Clement?’ Dolan wanted to be certain. Kemp stared at her, and she regretted the interruption.
‘They are now, yes. Back then, they were constables, bobbies on the beat. That’s when we went out with our wives a few times. You realise,’ Kemp fidgeted, ‘you realise this could backfire? If you go poking around into Clement and Southern’s past, they won’t thank you for it. This particular skeleton has been safely hidden in their cupboards for years.’
‘We’re talking about murder, Mr Kemp,’ Dolan reminded him. ‘If the ACC and Chief Constable are implicated in the death of John McKinley, I’m not going to baulk at telling the world. They’ll be treated the same as any other suspect.’
Kemp held up a finger. ‘Not both, Chief Inspector. One of them, maybe neither. I don’t know enough about it.’
‘Wait a minute, you said … ‘
‘Let me tell you what I know. What you choose to do with the information is up to you. I don’t want any more to do with this. Keep my name out of it.’
‘You know I can’t guarantee that.’
‘I understand I’ll need to make a formal statement, even give evidence, if it comes to it. But when you talk to Clement and Southern, if you do, don’t mention me.’
Dolan shook her head. ‘You want to see the person who killed John McKinley go down for it, don’t you?’
‘Which is why I’m talking to you now. Listen, Chief Inspector. When we were on the beat, plain old police constables, there was an incident. It was a Saturday night, and we were called to a disturbance in the city centre.’ Kemp took another sip of whiskey. ‘Southern, Clement and a few others were already there when John and I arrived. It was a fist fight, nothing more, but there were about twenty people involved. A brawl. Men and women, kicking lumps out of each other. By the time we got there, a few bottles had been thrown at the police, a lot of verbal. You know how it is.’
‘Sounds like any other Saturday night,’ Dolan said. It didn’t, but she wanted Kemp to keep talking.
‘Maybe where you’re from. We’d retreated a little, protecting ourselves until more back-up arrived. By then, the crowd was dispersing. Terrified of being arrested once their mates had run off. Back at the station, we chucked them in the cells for the night. Pissed out of their minds, most of them. I had a guy who was trouble – making threats, throwing his weight around. Took three of us to get him into a cell.’ Kemp paused again, drank the last of his whiskey.
‘What happened, Pat?’
‘It was at the end of the shift. John came to me, and his face … I don’t know. He was furious. It had been a difficult shift, no doubt about it, but there was more. I asked him what was wrong. He stared at me, spat out two names.’
Dolan said, ‘Clement and Southern.’
‘Yes. There was a woman, a girl. She was in a cell on her own, she was the only woman brought in. She was homeless, I’d seen her on the street before, even given her a few coins. She’d obviously taken a few blows to the face – black eye, bruising. But she wasn’t shouting abuse like the rest of them. I don’t even know if she’d been involved in the fighting. She was silent. Her eyes were blank, her clothes torn. I didn’t know what had happened, didn’t want to know. And I … I walked away. Went off shift, got on with my life.’
‘This was when?’ asked Dolan.
‘Years ago. Twenty, give or take.’
‘Ten years before you left the force?’
‘And ten years before John did.’
‘What triggered you leaving? You said you were disillusioned.’
‘I was. I was an inspector, uniform, not CID. John called me one day, out of the blue. He wanted to see me. We met in a pub, had some food and a few beers. Clement was a DCI, as I remember, and Southern was about to be promoted to Superintendent. John said a woman had come into the station, wanted to talk to Southern. Said she had a crime to report. It was the woman from that night.’
‘And?’
‘Southern spoke to her, got rid of her, maybe paid her off. I don’t know. John saw her leave, in tears. He asked for my advice, wanted to know if he should find her, talk to her. Something had happened in her cell the night she was arrested. John wanted to know what.’
‘Why would she wait ten years to come forward though?’ Dolan asked.
‘I don’t know. Maybe they paid her to keep quiet. I told John to keep his nose out, said he was doing himself no favours getting involved. He had his career to consider, his family, his pension.’ Kemp looked at Dolan. ‘I’m not proud of it. But so much time had passed … John left the force. I didn’t know why, hadn’t spoken to him. For all I knew, John was involved in whatever happened to the woman. We lost touch again. I didn’t see him until he turned up at Phoenix House.’
‘Still doesn’t explain why you left too.’
Pat Kemp rubbed his hands over his face.
‘I heard on the grapevine a complaint was going to made about me. I didn’t know the specifics, but I’d be stupid not realise it was tied in with what went on that night. It was gossip around the station; threats weren’t made directly. No names were mentioned, but I quickly came to understand if I didn’t jump, I’d be pushed. Someone worked hard to ensure I got the message, turned my back on my career. Luckily for me, it turned out better than I could have imagined.’
‘You weren’t approached directly? No one came and said, “If you know what’s good for you, get out of here?”’
‘No. Everywhere I went, people were whispering. I was hounded out by someone who was worried about what I knew.’ Kemp leaned forward, set his empty glass on the pine dining table. ‘Or two people.’
Dolan’s mind was racing. ‘Do you know this woman’s name?’
Kemp shook his head. ‘Never asked. Didn’t want to know. You should be able to find out though.’
*
As they walked back to the car, Dolan checked her voicemail. Suddenly, she grabbed Knight’s arm, halting him. He watched as she listened, her eyes widening.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
Dolan blinked. ‘The rucksack Jasmine Lloyd always carried, the one found with her body? Mick Caffery found a knife inside it, wrapped in a carrier bag. A knife with traces of blood still on the blade.’
41
‘Jasmine can’t have stabbed Anna,’ Knight said. ‘Everyone who’s seen the attacker says he’s male.’
‘She was in the right area that night though.’ Dolan glanced left and right as she pulled out of Kemp’s drive. ‘She could have seen what happened, found the knife wherever the attacker disposed of it. This adds weight to Catherine’s theory about Jasmine dabbling in blackmail. Seems you were right to keep an open mind about Jasmine’s death being linked to Anna’s stabbing, not McKinley’s murder.’