On Laughton Moor (Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Book One)

by Lisa Hartley

  Dougie shook his head.

  ‘No way, Paul. There’s no chance I’m getting involved in a scheme to pull the wool over Malc’s eyes. He’d kill me.’

  ‘He’ll never find out.’

  ‘He will, I know him.’

  ‘So do I and I’m telling you … ’

  ‘I’m telling you no.’

  Paul stood, towering over Dougie.

  ‘What do you think you can do about it?’

  He turned and marched out, leaving a grim faced Dougie with two cups of espresso and the bill.

  46

  Bishop had to admit that there was something fascinating about a celebrity wedding. How people with so much money could be so utterly tasteless was beyond her. The magazine was well thumbed, other people must share her grudging interest in the lives of the rich and famous. She would never buy one but she couldn’t help picking the magazines up when she encountered them in hairdresser’s salons or in poky waiting rooms such as this one. There was a water cooler in one corner of the room and she went over, filled a plastic cup from the dispenser and took a sip. Warm. Wrinkling her nose, she forced the rest of it down, not able to remember the last time she’d had a drink. Probably tea with Claire that morning. She was trying not to think about Claire, but it was almost impossible. She took out her phone, and sure enough there was a text from her:Wish you were here x Their night together had been everything she’d imagined it would be, but the text she’d received that morning from Louise had been a shock:Working late? Sitting in the pub with some woman don’t you mean, holding hands, cuddling up and leaving together? Don’t bother contacting me again, Catherine. You can post my clothes back. Bishop had no idea how Louise had found out, perhaps one of her friends had been in the pub, but it meant Louise was hurt, and Bishop had never wanted to do that, it wasn’t what she deserved. Sleeping with two different people in the same week wasn’t usually Catherine’s idea of acceptable behaviour, but her present situation was anything but normal. She was only glad there had been no more bodies, no more messages cryptically pointing in her direction. Finding David Bowles in a pool of his own vomit had been a shock too. She’d seen much worse in her career of course, but this case was beginning to affect her as no other had done. The messages, the photograph, then the discovery of Milica Zukic, her story … it was like a nightmare. Her only hope was to see this case solved, only then would she feel safe to go back to her own home. There seemed no hope of understanding what motivated the killer until he was caught and could tell them himself.

  Bishop turned at the sound of soft footsteps. A man entered the room, white coat, weary expression. A doctor. You should be a detective.

  ‘You’re Sergeant Bishop? You found Mr Bowles?’

  ‘Yes. How is he?’

  The doctor passed a hand across his brow.

  ‘He’s had a lot of whiskey, plenty of tablets. We’re doing all we can.’

  ‘At least he’s alive, I’d thought … well, I’d thought he might not recover.’

  The doctor was grave.

  ‘He still may not, but we’re fairly confident he’ll make a full recovery.’

  ‘I’ll need to speak to my boss. He’ll probably want a guard with Mr Bowles.’

  ‘A guard? Is he suspected of a crime?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  With a rueful smile, the doctor said, ‘Most things are in here.’

  ‘Is there a place I can use my mobile?’

  ‘Follow me, you can use the phone in my office.’

  For the second time that day a neighbour had come to the rescue. Varcoe and Sullivan had hammered on the door of the terraced house that Nicholas Brady rented until the woman next door had wandered out to tell them he’d gone out early that morning and she’d not seen him come back in. When they asked for a work address, she said she’d heard from his aunt he’d been made redundant again so who knew where he’d been rushing off to earlier? After some persuading, she invited them in while she called Brady’s aunt to see if she had any ideas.

  They went back to the car with Brady’s mum’s address.

  ‘Worth a try.’ Sullivan commented, rejoining the traffic.

  ‘I think it’s called clutching at straws.’

  ‘She might be able to help.’

  ‘Maybe so, but why would his mum know where he’d gone? Do you tell your mum your every move?’

  ‘No, but she’d probably like me to. Brady could be a proper mummy’s boy.’

  ‘He could also be lying somewhere with his head smashed in.’

  Sullivan glanced at her.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘The way it’s going, I wouldn’t be surprised. Bowles could be our man, had a fit of remorse after killing three of his old mates, decides he should be next and takes an overdose.’

  Sullivan indicated, turned right.

  ‘I thought you said the note he left sounded as if he was scared of someone?’

  ‘It did. He could have been denying he’d committed the murders, or he was scared of some part of himself, a Jekyll and Hyde type of situation.’

  ‘I think you’ve been watching too many films.’ Sullivan said, shaking his head. ‘Convenient if it was Bowles though. Case closed.’

  ‘Too easy, we wouldn’t be that lucky.’

  ‘If he dies, we may never know.’

  The rest of the journey passed in silence. Sullivan parked on the side of a road that was terraced houses on one side, bungalows the other. The door opened immediately.

  ‘You’ll be the police? I’m Helen Brady. Come in, my sister phoned and said you were on your way.’

  They followed her into a homely kitchen with wooden units and the smell of cake baking filling the air. Sullivan sniffed appreciatively.

  ‘Fairy cakes. They’re not ready yet, but I can offer you a drink? Tea, coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Varcoe and Sullivan chorused.

  ‘Mrs Brady, have you heard from your son Nicholas today?’

  ‘Nick? No, not today. Why? Is he okay?’

  ‘We’re investigating the deaths of two men we think may have been friends of your son when he was younger, and we need to speak to him. Have you any idea where he could be?’

  ‘Do you mean Craig Pollard and the other one, Steven Kent was it? Nick did know them, he told me that. He was quite upset about it. You don’t think he’s in danger?’ She moved to the kitchen table and picked up a mobile phone. ‘I’ll ring him.’ She listened intently, her expression becoming panicked. ‘It says the number’s unavailable, what does that mean? It’s never said that before.’

  ‘It means his phone’s switched off, or he’s in a place without a signal.’ Varcoe tried to ignore the feeling of dread that was crawling through her.

  ‘He’s never switched his phone off before, why would he? What would be the point? Even when he’s been fishing on some lake in the middle of nowhere I’ve been able to reach him. Something must have happened, can’t you go and find him?’

  Wordlessly, Varcoe stepped out of the room, leaving Sullivan trying to placate Mrs Brady. She called Knight, who agreed it was imperative Brady was found and said he would put an alert out. He wanted Sullivan and Varcoe back at the station and they eventually managed to extricate themselves from Mrs Brady, who had luckily been distracted by the smell of burning coming from inside her oven. With a squeal, she leapt over to retrieve the ruined cakes, leaving the two detectives to make their escape after promising to keep her informed. She was making a breathless phone call to her husband as they closed the door behind them.

  47

  Nick Brady still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being followed. Even here, out in the wilds, he could feel eyes watching. He kept telling himself he was imagining it, that he should relax and enjoy the views, but it wasn’t that easy. The bleakness of the moor, especially at this time of year, suited his mood. Memories filled his head, the heat of the sun on his back as they walked, the easy banter, the teasing, the cans of lager
Craig had brought that had grown steadily warmer but were still so welcome when they eventually sat on the bank side. Brady didn’t want to remember any more. He stood, lost in the past, eyes searching the opposite bank for the exact location. This was the spot, he thought. There should be a marker, a shrine, but there was only pale grass, mud and the ever moving water.

  A figure approached slowly, stealthily. Brady didn’t turn.

  48

  Knight ran his hands across his face. David Bowles was still unconscious, Nicholas Brady was missing, journalists were circling and Kendrick and Springer were on the warpath. The only bright spot in the day so far had been Milica Zukic’s confirmation that Jasna Dijlas was indeed the Ivona she’d known. Since Knight had been told to rein himself in on the people trafficking case until the killer of Pollard and Kent had been found, he could do nothing with the information. It frustrated Knight, but he understood. The Hughes family had been under surveillance more times than Knight could count, yet still they were free to do more or less as they pleased. Knight wanted to be sure that when he brought the empire down, it would be destroyed for good, and that would take time, patience and cunning. He’d been accused before of being obsessed with Malc Hughes, of allowing the fierce desire to bring him to justice to cloud his judgment and blind him to the facts. Knight had to grudgingly admit that there was some truth in the claim. He still bore the scars of his previous attempts to teach Hughes a lesson and had no desire to repeat his mistakes.

  Bishop tapped gently on his open office door, came in and sat down.

  ‘That’s what you call an interesting morning.’ she said.

  ‘We’ve still not found Nicholas Brady.’

  ‘We will.’

  ‘Hopefully he’ll be in one piece when we do.’

  ‘You don’t think … ’

  ‘Who knows? He’s the last on the list and he’s disappeared.’

  ‘Bowles thought he was next.’

  ‘We need Bowles to wake up and start talking. His note confirms the link between him, Pollard and Kent, and he seems to know who would want to kill them.’

  ‘Bowles could have killed them both, of course.’

  ‘So could Brady.’

  49

  Nick Brady heard a small noise behind him that broke his reverie and half turned. He was too late. The first blow struck him before he could fully register the figure he glimpsed. The second fell just as he hit the ground, the churned mud where he’d been standing splattering the side of his face. Brady was still aware of the figure standing over him, the black coat with the hood drawn tightly around the face. Narrowed eyes stared down at him. He couldn’t read their expression – fear certainly, apprehension, triumph? He thought so. A black scarf blanked the other features so he could gain no clues from the mouth. A satisfied smile, a grimace, a snarl? Surprisingly, he felt no pain. The figure bent closer, raised its arms again.

  ‘Please … ’ Brady mumbled.

  Brady didn’t see the weapon but he felt the impact and this time agony, light exploding in his skull, eyes losing focus, blackness. Again, his attacker bent over him, waiting. Seconds passed, the only movement the rustling of the wind through bare branches and the murky water of the stream just in front of them. Then, a flash of white as a dog came racing up out of nowhere, barking excitedly, and a distant shout as the dog’s owner lost sight of it. The black hood turned towards the sound. No time for the check, just a second to shove the laminated paper under Brady’s mud clogged boot and then run. The dog, frenzied now, kept barking, racing around Brady’s body, pawing at his legs. Eventually its owner, a broad shouldered man in his sixties, arrived at the scene out of breath and red faced. His eyes widened at the sight of the man on the floor.

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ he said, pulling his phone out of his jeans pocket.

  The call came through to Knight as he was still discussing the case with Catherine Bishop. She watched his face as he listened intently to what was being said, thanked the caller and softly replaced the receiver.

  ‘Good news is, we’ve found Nicholas Brady.’

  ‘And the bad news?’

  ‘He’s unconscious. Come on.’

  He was up and out of his chair, Bishop rushing after him.

  ‘How do you mean, unconscious?’

  ‘He was found out on the moors, he’s been smacked over the head but looks like our man’s dropped a clanger. Brady was still breathing when he left him.’

  ‘Disturbed then?’

  ‘Possibly, though he had enough time to leave his message.’

  ‘Catherine of Aragon again?’

  ‘Exactly the same.’

  Bishop shuddered.

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘Bloke walking his dog. What would we do without dog walkers? The dog found Brady first and barked its head off. Problem was, no phone signal, so the man who found him had to leave Brady for twenty minutes before he could actually ring for help. They got the air ambulance to him and he’s now in the same hospital as David Bowles.’

  ‘So we need one of them to wake up soon. Unbelievable. Did the man that found Brady see his attacker?’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like it.’

  ‘Typical.’

  50

  The journey to the hospital was quiet. Bishop was valiantly trying to keep her mind on the case, on Bowles, Brady, Kent and Pollard, but Claire kept creeping in. Bishop wondered if she’d gone back to bed, if she was lying there now, catching up on her sleep. Perhaps she was watching TV wearing the fleece dressing gown and slippers, sipping tea, eating biscuits. Bishop forced herself to concentrate. The attack on Brady was again causing them to rethink. Bowles could have killed Pollard and Kent, then tried to take his own life in a fit of remorse, but he couldn’t have attacked Brady. Brady could also have been the murderer, but obviously hadn’t hit himself over the head. Who the hell was leaving the pictures and posting the photos? Why? She felt the creeping sensation along her arms and the back of her neck again. Knight’s face was grim, his jaw tight. Bishop checked her phone and found another text from Claire.Thinking of you. See you later? xx Bishop quickly typed Definitely xx

  They arrived at the hospital’s main gates, Knight swung the car into the nearest place approximating a parking space he could find and they hurried into the building. One look at their warrant cards and expressions was all the receptionist needed to give precise instructions as to where Nicholas Brady could be found. His mother was with him, his father on his way. A uniformed officer nodded as they approached, recognising them. As they rounded the corner onto the ward, Brady’s mother glanced up from her seat at his bedside. She stood, still gripping her son’s hand.

  ‘Let me guess,’ she said, glaring at them. ‘you’re the police? Well, you’re too late. I told the other two earlier it wasn’t like Nick to turn his phone off, and look at him. Why didn’t you find him before? Why wasn’t he warned? I told him to be careful. I was only joking, but it seems I was right.’

  Knight and Bishop exchanged a glance. Bishop stepped forward.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, Mrs Brady?’

  ‘I don’t want a bloody drink, I want to know why my son’s lying here!’ Tears started to fall. ‘I’m sorry. Tea, please. Tea will be fine. No sugar.’

  Bishop nodded and left the room.

  ‘Are you close to your son?’ Knight asked gently.

  ‘Yes. He’s just been made redundant, he was spending more time at our house. I think he wanted to be looked after a little, if you know what I mean, made to feel everything would work out fine.’

  She attempted a smile.

  ‘Did your son mention Craig Pollard and Steven Kent to you?’

  ‘I saw about Craig Pollard’s death and mentioned it to Nick because I vaguely remembered the name. Nick had known him years ago, then when Steven Kent’s death was in the paper, Nick said he’d known him too. It upset him, I could tell. That’s when I told Nick to be careful. Turns out I was right.’

  ‘Was Nick at school with
Craig Pollard then?’

  ‘Different years, but they knew each other. They were quite matey for a while, but Nick eventually stopped mentioning Craig. We weren’t sorry, to be honest. I know he’s dead but Craig Pollard wasn’t the sort of person you’d want your son to be friends with.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Haven’t you talked to people that knew him? Full of himself, bad mannered, rude. Not above stealing either.’

  ‘Did Nick and Craig argue?’

  ‘He didn’t say so. I’m not sure what happened, his dad and I kept telling him Pollard was no good, but I don’t think that’s what did it.’

  ‘Did you ever hear him mention the name David Bowles?’

  Bishop slipped unobtrusively back into the room and offered a mug to Mrs Brady, who took it with a watery smile.

  ‘A proper cup, I could only get plastic. Thank you. Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘Did Nick ever talk about a friend called David Bowles?’ Knight repeated. Mrs Brady frowned.

  ‘Bowles? Not that I remember. It’s a while ago though, you understand. He might not have mentioned a surname anyway, he didn’t always.’

  ‘You know Nick was found on the moor, Laughton Moor? Do you have any idea why he might have been up there?’

  ‘None at all. He used to like fishing when he was younger, he went with his dad a few times, but I don’t think they fish up there do they? It’s the wrong time of year to be sitting fishing all day anyway. He didn’t like bird watching or walking or any of that. I really don’t know.’

  Knight seemed lost in thought and so Bishop took over.

  ‘You can confirm that Nick knew Steven Kent too?’

  ‘Oh yes, he told me so himself.’

  A nurse bustled over, telling Knight and Bishop they’d have to leave as the doctor was on her way. Knight protested that they wanted to speak to the doctor too, but the nurse wouldn’t hear of it, telling him they would have to wait outside.