On Laughton Moor (Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Book One)

by Lisa Hartley

  I doubt it, Hughes almost said, but he thought better of it. Under no illusions, he knew his dad saw him less as a son, more as an employee. His father didn’t seem to have the emotions other people had, either for his family or anyone else. Hughes knew he was entirely dispensable. His captors exchanged a glance and the smaller man left the barn, soon returning with what looked to Hughes like a tool box which he set down at Hughes’ feet, along with several large petrol cans.

  Hughes stared the box warily.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Tools, of course. The tools we need for our work.’

  Bending, the smaller man opened the box, took out pliers, a hammer, a chisel, screwdrivers and a Stanley knife. His eyes bulged, panic hurtling through him, one word racing through his brain. Torture. They were going to torture him to death. The smaller man grinned, picking up the hammer and weighing it in his hand.

  ‘I see you guess our intentions, Paul. We will have fun, just like your customers had with our sisters, our cousins, our friends, our compatriots. Now,’ he bent over the box again and retrieved a digital camera, ‘Smile for your daddy.’

  In the glare of the flash, Paul Hughes screamed.

  61

  ‘So what do we do with Bowles?’ Bishop asked Knight, who shrugged.

  ‘He can go back to the hospital for now. The DCI will probably ask the Superintendent Stringer about it.’

  ‘What could we charge him with?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Finding the boy from the moor has to be our priority; we know where Bowles is.’

  ‘Yeah, crying like a baby in his cell apparently.’

  ‘Poor thing.’

  With a shake of her head, Bishop turned back to her monitor. Knight moved over to Varcoe’s desk. The DC shook her head despairingly as he reached her.

  ‘Nothing, boss, I can’t find anything, how can we have no records on these people? Tommy Heron and his parents seemed to have arrived from nowhere and after Tommy’s death, his parents must have gone back there.’

  ‘It’s difficult with no permanent addresses. Where did the parents die?’

  ‘The mother Birmingham, the father Newcastle. Seems he’d been on the streets for some time.’

  ‘Get onto Northumbria then please.’

  Knight went to his office, half closed the door and turned on his monitor. He knew they were close, yet the man they sought still seem to be in control, out of their reach. An email from Caitlin had arrived since he was last at his desk and feeling guilty he quickly read through it. She was well and the baby was fine, that was all. He’d hardly thought about the unborn child, possibly his own son or daughter. There was already a stirring of emotion, a sense of wonder, almost a longing and Knight knew to protect himself he would need to take care. There was no point allowing himself to become attached to a fantasy. He might never see, never hear it mentioned again after its birth because he was not after all its father. He swore, deleting the email then immediately regretted doing so. Caitlin should never have told him, not until she knew herself. She would find out the sex of the baby, he knew, regardless of what she had said before. She would want to start shopping and if Knight himself heard whether the child was a boy or a girl, it would be harder still. The child would become even more real than it was now, a person in its own right with the beginnings of an identity. He would ask Caitlin not to tell him, not to contact him again until after the birth and the paternity test. Jed could do that. A test before the child was born was apparently possible, Caitlin had said, but she wouldn’t consider it. Knight wasn’t sure why, a risk to the baby, perhaps? Or to Caitlin’s power?

  An hour or so later, there was a thud as his half closed office door was barged open by Varcoe, closely pursued by Bishop, Sullivan and Rogers. Varcoe triumphantly waved a piece of paper at him.

  ‘Jamie Fletcher, boss, he’s our man, here, look.’

  She slammed the paper down on Knight’s desk and he scanned it. Fletcher was the son of Annie Bacon, born before she married Christian Heron. Tommy’s half brother, and there was a half sister too. The age seemed to fit what Bowles had said. Jamie was six when Tommy was born, making him twelve when Tommy died.

  ‘We need to find Fletcher.’ Knight said. ‘Great work, Anna, everyone.’

  He picked up his phone and called DCI Kendrick, who shot through the door from his own office in record time.

  ‘Where does this Jamie Fletcher live?’ Kendrick demanded.

  ‘There’s an address over the other side of town.’ Varcoe said.

  ‘Right. Let’s get some transport organised, bring him in. No messing this time.’ He glanced over at Bishop, who was shutting down her computer. ‘Sorry to break it to you, Sergeant, but you’re not going.’

  Bishop turned to stare at him.

  ‘Not going? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean what I say. You are not going to bring Jamie Fletcher in.’

  ‘But … ’

  ‘No. These messages, the photos, we’ve still no idea why he’s been taking them, much less sending them to you. I don’t want you anywhere near him. Go home.’

  ‘There’s no way I’m going home,’ Bishop retorted. ‘I want to be here to interview him at least.’

  Kendrick folded his arms, every inch the immovable object.

  ‘It’s taken us long enough to find him, I don’t want the investigation compromised by you arresting him or interviewing him. I don’t want him to see you. Now, off you go. We’ll let you know how it goes, I promise you that, and there’s nothing to stop you coming in once he’s here to watch the interview on the monitors, but there’s no way you’re conducting it. Do I make myself clear, Sergeant Bishop?’

  Bishop muttered: ‘Crystal.’ and turned away. Without a word to her colleagues, who were all watching sympathetically, she picked up her bag and slipped on her coat.

  ‘Good luck, then.’ she said over her shoulder, and then she was gone, the door banging closed behind her.

  62

  Paul Hughes could no longer see, could no longer feel. His body was numb, senses overloaded, his will broken, his mind almost gone. His last conscious action was to offer a prayer to the God he had never believed in to end his life.

  63

  Bishop drove as quickly as she dared through the quiet streets. It was raining, more like fine mist than an actual downpour. The orange glow of the streetlights blurred in the drizzle, traffic lights changing to a fizzing red as she approached them.

  ‘Typical.’ Bishop muttered to herself, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. She glanced around as she waited. An old warehouse had been converted into flats, the lights in the windows warm and welcoming. Bishop looked beyond them, to the River Trent. It was wide at this point, just down the road from the only bridge that spanned its depths for miles. Bishop glanced at the icy blackness, the whirlpool currents and deceptive pace of the river well known by all who lived in Northolme. She thought of Richard, the brother she had never known, who had died at the age of two. Her parents had always tried to make sure Catherine and her younger brother Thomas were aware of Richard. They celebrated his birthday, lit a candle on the anniversary of the day he died and spoke of him often, and had lots of photographs on display. Against her will, she felt a link to Jamie Fletcher, having lost a brother in a similar way to herself. How much worse would have been for him though? His brother’s death had not been an accident, but a result of the callous actions of four young men.

  A car horn sounded sharply behind her and Bishop cursed, shoving the car into gear and moving off. Who knew how long the light had been on green. He colleagues would be no doubt on their way to Jamie Fletcher’s house now. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Kendrick couldn’t let her go with them, of course he couldn’t, but she still felt hurt, dismissed, as if it were all her fault somehow. She drove on, concentrating only on the road ahead.

  Jamie Fletcher was unlikely to be expecting them, but Knight, Varcoe, Sullivan, Rogers and Lancaster were accompanied
by a van full of uniformed officers as they made their way to his address. This was it, the final hours of their case.

  Varcoe felt Sullivan shift in the seat beside her and glanced around at her colleagues. They all seemed apprehensive, nervous but excited. Only Knight sat still, preoccupied with his own thoughts. Varcoe had to smile; nothing new there then. Rogers caught her eye and smiled and she nodded back. They were about ten minute’s drive away from Fletcher’s address. Varcoe tried to relax, chewing on a fingernail. Sullivan grinned nervously at her.

  ‘All right?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Yeah, fine. Hope Catherine is.’

  ‘Oh, you know her. She knows it’s for the best, however much she might sulk to begin with. She’ll be there with bells on later, you watch.’

  ‘No doubt.’ Varcoe replied, gazing past Sullivan and out into the rain.

  ‘Eight minutes.’ called the driver.

  64

  Bishop aimed her car carelessly at a space in the hotel car park, grabbed her bag and ran through the now pouring rain. The wind was strong too, her hair immediately drenched to rat’s tails, whipping around her face. She reached the main entrance, dragging her mobile from her bag.

  Claire was waiting at the door to her room, a huge smile on her face. She slid an arm around Bishop’s shoulders and guided her inside, rainwater dripping from her coat onto the beige carpet.

  ‘I’m making a mess.’ Bishop protested.

  ‘I don’t care,’ Claire said, closing the door and kissing Bishop softly. ‘I didn’t expect you this early. Oh, you’re freezing. Why don’t you have a shower? Are you staying?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Bishop said, shrugging out of her soaking coat. ‘Can we go and have a quick drink when I get myself sorted out?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ Claire smiled. ‘How was your day?’

  Bishop half closed the bathroom door.

  ‘Ha. Not as long as it should have been, really.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Claire called, draping Bishop’s coat over a chair.

  ‘I’ll tell you when I get out.’ Bishop yelled back, turning and sighing as the hot water began to cascade over her. She hadn’t realised how cold she was.

  65

  ‘Four minutes.’

  The atmosphere in the van was tense, the excitement palpable. This was what they had been waiting for. Knight’s mobile rang, making several of the officers jump. The display read DCI KENDRICK.

  ‘Hello, guv?’ Knight said.

  ‘Knight,’ Kendrick roared. ‘Where are you?’

  Knight glanced around.

  ‘We’re about four minutes away from Fletcher’s house, I’m told. Why?’

  ‘Turn around now and get your arses back here now, quick as you can!’

  ‘I don’t understand, what’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is that Jamie Fletcher was killed six months ago in a motorbike accident. He’s not our man!’ Kendrick’s voice was loud enough for them all to hear. ‘Get back here, Knight, and I’ll show you something interesting. Very interesting. That’s if I don’t decide to change the bloody locks and get rid of the lot of you – Jesus!’ Kendrick hung up, cutting himself off mid rant.

  Knight leaned forward to the driver, bemused. ‘Well – you heard him.’

  The driver clenched his jaw. ‘The whole bloody town heard him, as usual.’

  66

  Bishop wrapped her wet hair in a towel, dried herself with another and slipped her clothes back on. Claire had thoughtfully put them to dry on the heated rail and they were hardly damp at all now.

  In the main part of the bedroom Claire lounged on the bed, watching the news. She switched off the television as she saw Bishop and sat up, smiling.

  ‘So what happened today? You seemed a bit … ’

  ‘Upset?’ Bishop threw herself down onto the bed.

  ‘Well, maybe.’

  ‘We had a breakthrough, well, Anna Varcoe did. The whole lot of them, Knight, Chris Rogers, Anna and everyone are off to arrest our suspect, but I was told to come home.’

  Claire frowned.

  ‘But why? You’ve worked the whole case, haven’t you? Since when do they send detectives home early on murder investigations?’

  ‘Since … well, since there’s a conflict of interest, you could say.’

  Claire got up from the bed, went and stood by the window.

  ‘What you mean, Catherine?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. I can go back in later anyway, so it might be a flying visit after all. Shall we go and have that drink?’

  Claire moved again, over by the door this time.

  ‘This suspect …’ she said carefully.

  ‘You know I can’t talk about it.’ Bishop said, sitting up on the bed and swinging her legs around so her feet were on the floor. ‘What’s wrong, Claire? Are you worried we’ve missed something?’

  Claire shook her head, slowly.

  ‘What then? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Is your suspect called Jamie Fletcher, by any chance?’

  Bishop gaped at her.

  ‘How the hell do you know that? We only knew ourselves this evening, you weren’t even at work today.’

  Claire said, ‘He was my brother.’

  67

  Kendrick’s huge paw pointed at the monitor, his finger jabbing at the lines of text.

  ‘Jamie Fletcher died earlier this year, he’s not the one we want. Look. Look Knight, you bloody idiot. Look at his sister’s name. The half sister, she’s the one we want. Claire Fletcher, now masquerading as our own charming, smiley Intel officer – Claire bloody Weyton. HOLMES spat her name out straight away. Not quite as clever as she thought.’

  Knight gawped at the screen. ‘But how? She must have had background checks, the whole deal, same as we all have. Why the hell hasn’t this been picked up before?’

  Kendrick turned to him, as furious as Knight had ever seen him.

  ‘I’ve no idea, but the Super’s on her way in, no doubt the press are gathering outside and meanwhile we have one of our own picking off half the town. Where’s she staying?’

  Knight shook his head, trying to coax his brain into life through the shock.

  ‘I don’t … Oh, Christ.’

  ‘What now?’ Kendrick snarled, grabbing his phone and stabbing at the screen.

  ‘Catherine Bishop.’

  ‘What a-bloody-bout her?’

  ‘The rumour is, she’s been seeing Claire. She probably went straight to meet her after she left here.’

  ‘You’re joking. This gets worse by the fucking second. Phone her!’

  Knight did as he was told.

  68

  Bishop was bemused, her stomach churning.

  ‘Your brother? What do you mean, “was”?’

  Claire took a step forward.

  ‘He’s dead. Everyone’s dead, more or less. Just me left now.’

  She smiled. Bishop shivered.

  ‘But if he’s dead, he can’t have … ’

  ‘No, he can’t have.’

  ‘So … No. You?’ The realisation hit Bishop like a punch.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Claire was matter of fact.

  ‘You? You did this? Are you telling me you killed two people? Tried to kill another?’

  ‘I would have had a go at Dave Bowles too, given the chance,’ Claire said carelessly. ‘Still, it doesn’t matter now.’

  Bishop shook her head, agonised.

  ‘But Claire … Claire, I don’t understand. I thought we … ‘

  ‘I know, my lovely,’ Claire took another step closer. Bishop shrank away from her on the bed. ‘Don’t be like that, Catherine,’ She spread her arms wide, a pleading expression on her face. ‘I thought you would understand, you more than anyone.’

  Bishop’s phone started ringing, making them both jump, the sound cutting through the strange, charged atmosphere in the room that had seemed so warm and welcoming to Bishop. Now, she couldn’t wait to escape.

 
; ‘Where is it?’ Claire asked softly. She bent forward, hauling a holdall from under the bed. The phone continued to ring.

  ‘In my bag.’ Bishop gulped.

  Claire removed an object from the holdall and held it up. A cricket bat, stained with dark brown and chipped in places. She held it up to Bishop.

  ‘I really wouldn’t answer it, Catherine.’

  Bishop sneered at her, nothing left to lose.

  ‘You’d do that to me, would you? But I’m facing you, Claire, I can see you. You only usually batter people when they’ve no idea you’re there, don’t you? Can’t run the risk of anyone fighting back.’

  Claire snorted as the phone stopped ringing.

  ‘Did my brother have a chance of fighting back when they taunted him? Did he? He was six, Catherine, six years old.’

  ‘And you left him. It was you, wasn’t it, on the moor that day? Not an older boy with his little brother at all, but you, a big sister, supposedly looking after him. Some use you were.’

  Claire passed the bat through the air a few times.

  ‘I know that, I’ve lived with it ever since. Don’t think you can make me feel any worse than I already do about it. Now, you’ve heard my confession. It’s time I said goodbye.’

  Bishop got slowly to her feet, her eyes never leaving Claire’s. ‘Claire Weyton, I am arresting you … ’

  69

  Knight listened to Bishop’s cheery voicemail in dismay.