by Emmy Ellis
In the pub, she’d spoken about Jez’s day job—mechanic, so she reckoned, but that was all a load of bollocks. Jez was no more a mechanic than Kane was a criminal. Yeah, the man might go home with a bit of oil beneath his fingernails, but he’d have put it there on purpose. Jez ran a drug shop, Kane was sure of it, but he couldn’t just stroll into Jez’s fake garage and demand to search the premises.
The bloke was cute—and not in the sweet way. He knew how to keep his head down, how to disappear even though he was being followed by Kane or some other copper. At times, Jez was there, then he was gone, like someone had spirited him away.
It drove Kane up the wall.
He hadn’t meant to go to bed with Charlotte, but she’d been so damn pitiful when telling him about her life with Jez that he’d just wanted to give her some attention. He didn’t usually sleep with people off the cuff like that, or while on the job, so his actions had surprised him. She’d wanted a one-night stand, and that had been fine with him, until she’d cried halfway through and told him she’d never had sex like it. Never been held the way he’d held her.
Shit.
He didn’t need this complication, and he felt a right bastard for asking to see her again. That had been his intention all along—you know, gain her confidence, make her see there were places out there she could go to get away from her bully of a boyfriend. He wanted to help her do that, too, but he’d shagged her, hadn’t he, and things could get messy now. She’d find out he’d been using her, and he’d look a wanker.
Despite that, he’d continue with his plan, only he wouldn’t take her to bed again. He’d get back on track, get her sorted somewhere safe, then hopefully nail that son of a bitch for a long stretch.
He sighed again and shook his head. This case here, in the form of fire-ravaged remains, would have to take priority, and that pissed him off. He was this close to ensuring Jez Pickins went down, and if he took his eye off the ball, he’d lose the damn game.
Jez one, Kane nil.
Not going to happen.
“Boss?”
He turned, his white overalls scrunching, and faced DS Richard Lemon, an older fella sporting floppy ginger-grey hair and an orange monster of a moustache. His ruddy cheeks spoke of him loving whisky, his nose bulbous and red from overconsumption. His liver was probably pickled, but Kane couldn’t see the man giving up the booze now. If he had to guess, he’d say Richard took shots in his coffee throughout the day. He smelt of it constantly, and it usually churned Kane’s stomach.
“All right, Richard? Nice to finally see you,” Kane said. “Where the bloody hell have you been?”
“Sorry. Got caught up in something. Didn’t have my phone on.”
Kane narrowed his eyes. “Not good form, Richard.”
“I know. Like I said, sorry.” Richard coughed.
The air from it smacked Kane in the face. “You…uh…you been on the sauce?”
Richard reddened even more. “I was off duty.”
“So was I, but I managed to only drink one pint. You never know when we’ll be called out.”
“We have to have a life,” Richard grumbled, rocking back and forth, his white-bootied feet rustling on the sodden mud beside the bonfire.
Thank fuck the photos have already been taken. He could have buggered this scene right up the way he’s digging his heels into the ground. He needs to retire.
“So what do we have here then?” Richard asked.
The change of subject wasn’t lost on Kane, but he let it go. Couldn’t be arsed with explaining how being a copper wasn’t a nine-to-five job. He was tired, riled, and needed sleep. “A Mrs Smithson decided to chuck herself on her bonfire—no apparent reason so far. Neighbours said she’s nice, wouldn’t hurt a fly, the usual gumph.” Christ, he sounded sour.
“Interesting.” Richard looked like he didn’t give a shit.
Probably wants to get home to Johnnie Walker.
“Not much we can do here now, really,” Kane said. “Just got to speak to Gilbert. Maybe he’ll give us something to go on after he’s seen the body—or what’s left of it. House-to-house has already been done. We’ll go through the statements tomorrow.”
Richard’s mouth flopped open. Johnnie’s scent crept out of it again. “What, you mean you’re going home in a minute? Bloody hell, I needn’t have bothered coming. Thanks a bunch.” His top lip curled, lifting up his moustache hairs.
Kane got up in Richard’s face, clenching his hands into fists. “Listen, I didn’t fucking call you, all right, so don’t take this out on me. The chief rang me, and I got here within eight minutes of the call. I was having a damn good evening, as it happens, and it got derailed. I was actually working overtime, unlike some people around here.”
He stalked off towards the house. Something had to be done about Richard. The man was past it, not much good these days—not on the job anyway.
As Kane reached the back door leading into a dining room cluttered with too much seventies furniture, knick-knacks on every available surface, and a tiger-striped shaggy carpet that belonged on a tip, not in a house, he stopped. Gilbert stood beside the scarred wooden table, staring out into the garden, his mouth agape.
“Shut it, Gilbert, you’re catching flies.” Kane grinned.
“Hey, Kane. Rum business this, isn’t it.” Gilbert came outside and stood on the pathetic excuse for a patio—six slabs, unevenly laid, bulging moss mounds growing out of the four-inch-wide gaps between flags, a dandelion hunched over as if in sadness. “Killed herself, did she?”
“So it seems.” Kane shrugged. “I doubt you’ll be able to give me anything tonight, will you? She’s charred, but it doesn’t look like she’s burnt all the way through. I don’t think she was on there long enough.”
“Maybe she took an overdose beforehand or slit her wrists. Nowt strange as folk. Come on, let’s have a butcher’s.” Gilbert ambled off, disappearing inside the marquee, his white forensic suit blending with the rear inside of the tent.
Kane followed, wanting out of his own suit and into a pair of lounge pants. This day needed to fuck off and do one. He’d had enough.
Beside the bonfire in the tent, Kane stood while Gilbert examined the remains. After he’d done his usual checks, Gilbert turned the body over. The hunks of burnt wood beneath her slithered against each other, as wet as the ground under and around them. Neighbours had put out the fire, having come in through Mrs Smithson’s front door, seeing as it had been wide open.
Had she wanted someone to save her and they’d been too late?
“Ah,” Gilbert said.
Kane knew what that meant. The M.E. had found something. “What’s up?”
Gilbert pointed to the back of the corpse’s head, brushing some of the damp clumps of ash and debris onto a white plastic sheet he’d placed under her. “She’s had a knock to the head.”
What? “Fuck me, I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Blunt force trauma, I’m afraid. I’d say she was murdered. Too much mess on her noggin to have bashed it herself, on the table corner, say. Besides, the wound shape indicates a pole or something of that description. Long, slim. Think of the iron bar in Cluedo.” He chuckled.
“I have no idea how you can laugh,” Kane said.
Gilbert glanced up at him and smiled. “You have to in my job.”
“I suppose.” Although Kane didn’t get it. He didn’t find this sort of thing funny. Laughing would be disrespectful. Wrong. “Right, well, I’m going home.” He eyed everyone in the tent. Richard obviously hadn’t followed Kane in and had gone home already. Kane gritted his teeth. If his partner made it into work on time in the morning, it’d be a miracle.
Useless bastard.
Kane left the house, taking off his white suit, the booties, the gloves, and wouldn’t you know it, his attention was pulled to the Pickins’ house. Typical, when he should be keeping it professional. He wondered whether he ought to go over there, but Jez stood on the path opposite, gazing across at him.
Does he know? Did he beat it out of Charlotte?
Kane clenched his jaw and returned the glare. Jez, as bold as ever, didn’t break eye contact and lifted a hand. He created a gun shape with his fingers then pointed the business end to his temple. Kane smiled—he wasn’t going to let this wanker bother him—and Jez frowned. The bloke was so used to people being frightened of him, it was clear he didn’t understand Kane’s reaction.
Good. Let him wonder what I’m thinking. Let him be on edge.
Jez rolled his shoulders, flipped Kane the middle finger, then swaggered down the street as though he had a broomstick crammed up his arse. Kane waited until the man was out of sight then strode to his car. He’d be a fool to think Jez’s gesture meant he was going to top himself. No, it had been aimed at Kane—watch yourself, copper, I’m after you.
Whatever.
Kane sat in his car and eased along the road to stop outside the Pickins’. He scoped out the façade—no light on. Pretentious-as-fuck stone ornaments either side of the entrance, lions as far as he could make out. Fancy knocker, standing out in the light from the street lamp. Slightly mottled glass panels, two of them, filled the top of the black UPVC door. Ah, light shone now, as though someone had opened the door of a room at the top of the stairs.
He waited, battling with himself on whether he should knock and see if Charlotte was okay. Jez was long gone, but if he knew what had happened between Kane and Charlotte, he might come back.
Sod it. I have backup a few feet away. I’ll knock her up.
He grimaced at that turn of phrase and hauled himself out of the car and to the front door. The lions stared straight ahead, as if making out they hadn’t seen him, wouldn’t tell Jez he’d been here. He shook his head to clear out the ridiculous thought and rapped with the knocker.
What he thought were two lower legs appeared at the top of the stairs, a silhouette against the creamy-yellow light backdrop. He sighed, thinking if she had taken a slap or two, she wouldn’t want to open the door anyway. But the legs moved, blending with the darkness halfway down the stairs until they disappeared, and he straightened his jacket lapels, his stomach doing a number on him. Churning, it was, like he was meeting up with a date.
Sort yourself out, mate.
He blew out a breath. She came towards the door, close, so close she could only be peering through the fish-eye peephole. He’d bet his face looked convex, his nose too big, his eyes recessed. Then the door opened, and she glanced up and down the street.
“Hello. DI Kane Barnett.” He held up his warrant card for effect. “I need to ask a few questions.” He widened his eyes, willing her to play along.
“Best if you come in,” she said and moved back, then to the side a tad.
He walked in. Bloody hell, Jez was making a packet, it seemed. Even just going by the hallway, with the plush white carpet on the stairs and the real-wood floor buffed to a reflective shine, the telephone table that was antique if he wasn’t mistaken… Yeah, Jez was raking it in all right.
All those lives he’s helping to ruin. I’ll have him, mark my words.
FIVE
Charlotte closed the door, mind spinning, legs wobbly. What was Kane doing here? Was it to solidify her alibi, prove he’d visited her house to get information on her whereabouts this evening, only to discover she was the bird in the pub he’d seen earlier?
Yes, that must be it.
She led him into the living room, flicking on a lamp via the electronic wall panel beside the door—no common or garden light switches here, everything was state-of-the-art this and up-to-date that.
All pointless. None of it matters.
A soft glow bathed the room, and it was as though she looked at it for the first time, through Kane’s eyes. It was posh, no doubt about it, and not something a woman like her should be living in. She didn’t come from this part of town, where everyone had money, flash cars, amazing jobs, and more cash in the bank than they could count. No, she was council estate through and through—damn proud of it, too. She’d grown up where the neighbours had been in and out of each other’s houses, teabags here, a bit of milk there, maybe even the loan of a tenner if you were short. And street parties whenever it was someone’s birthday—God, she’d loved them.
Here, she’d only had the pleasure of talking to Mrs Smithson if the old girl was out in her front garden watching life go by while propping herself up on her black iron curlicue gate. Odd that she had a fantastic front garden but a shitty one out the back—keeping up appearances? And there was Henry Cobbings, her coffee buddy once or twice a week if she could manage it. Everyone else minded their own business, except tonight they were either out in force or nosing through their windows.
Weird how death brought people out of their shells in some respects.
She gestured to the white leather corner sofa, and Kane took a seat on the curve. Charlotte eased herself into the matching recliner—it was Jez’s, and she shuddered knowing his arse had touched it, sometimes bare and all—but she didn’t trust herself to sit beside Kane.
What if he started talking about what they’d done? For all she knew, Jez could have installed cameras throughout the house—and it wouldn’t surprise her. Otherwise, how did he know so many of the things she did while she was alone all day?
She stood abruptly, jerked her head at the door, and said, “I need some air. This has been such a shock. Would you mind if we chatted in the garden?” She copied his wide eyes from when he’d stood on her doorstep, and he nodded imperceptibly then followed her out into the hallway and through the massive kitchen. Self-conscious in her marl-grey lounge pants and baggy Take That T-shirt, she unlocked the back door and stepped outside. Moving over to the patio set—some outdoor wicker jobbie Jez had turned up with, saying he’d got it off the back of a lorry, wink, wink; ugh, fuck off with those winks, will you?—she sat in the farthest seat from the house. The branches of next-door’s pear tree gate-crashed over the fence, curving above her, a wooden, skeletal hand. A drop of rain from the earlier downfall plopped on her head, cold, and she shivered, patting the bubble to disperse it.
Kane closed the back door then joined her, lowering himself bedside her. “What was that all about?” he asked quietly.
“I just…he could have cameras, sound equipment,” she whispered, her skin cooling rapidly from the chill in the air. She’d forgotten to cover the patio furniture with the waterproof gazebo last time she’d been out here, and damp from the cream-coloured cushion seeped through to her backside. “The seat’s wet. Your suit.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m only here to establish the alibi and to make sure you’re all right. Are you?”
“Yes. Thank you.” She shook, remembering what had happened once she’d got home, then it all came tumbling out in a mad rush. She told Kane everything—her need to get away, the lot. “I can’t stand it anymore, walking on eggshells. It’s doing my head in.”
“That’s why I approached you in the pub tonight, funny enough. I wanted to help you get away—in return for you helping me put him away. Then things…escalated. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I can’t say I regret it because I don’t.”
“How the hell can you help me? I’m rarely able to get out of the house without him finding out about it, and tonight was too much for me. Coming back and finding him here, wondering whether he was going to batter me or not… No one should have to live like that. And I still don’t know whether he’s hiding something, whether he made it all up about Henry telling him I went out for milk. There was milk in the fridge when I left earlier—I know because I had a cup of tea and had to open a fresh carton. So he’s messing with me. Probably tipped the milk away.”
She shot out of her seat, her lounge pants sticking damply to her bum, the backs of her thighs, and ran indoors. She swung the fridge door open, the heaviness of it pulling on her arm muscles. It was a double-wide one, same as Americans used, and too big for just the two of them, but Jez h
ad insisted.
The carton of milk sat where it always did, wedged between his Smirnoff and a large jar of gherkins, which he crunched during the rare evenings he was home, right in her earhole.
She wanted to kill him when he did that.
So what did this mean, this milk business? That he hadn’t seen it and believed Henry? Or he had seen it and was fucking with her mind? She leant more towards the fucking option—and the images that created, of him on top of her, his breath, his hands…
Don’t. Don’t think about that.
She swallowed bile, slammed the fridge shut, and rubbed her French-manicured acrylic nail over her bottom lip—nails applied by a woman who had a mobile beauty van. Charlotte’s lips were slightly sore from kissing Kane. His sharp stubble had made its mark. She lunged towards the odds and sods drawer, rooting around for lip balm. Finding a little pink pot, she rubbed the cream over the faint chaps—raspberry coulis, apparently, though it tasted more like those nasty dried berries mixed with nuts Jez was always forcing her to eat so she didn’t put on weight.
She worried some more. Should she leave the milk there? If he hadn’t seen it, he’d think she’d gone out again tonight when he’d ordered her not to. But if he hadn’t seen it, when he went to put a new carton there in the morning, he’d spot the current one.
Her whole body ran cold, and it seemed like she had no stomach, no innards whatsoever. She was just skin, loose and frighteningly without substance, her soul floating inside, desperate to find peace.
She slipped the balm pot into her lounge pants pocket and managed to stagger out into the garden, the door arcing shut behind her. Once again, the air assaulted her, a stiff breeze coming from nowhere and shunting her towards the patio from behind. Her hair, damp from the shower, slapped forward and whipped against her cheeks, the strands hard, the ends sharp as knife points. One stabbed into her eye, and she cried out, raising her hand to rub it. God, she wanted to scream. To rage at the unfairness of it all, that even her hair, the wind, everything hated her and wanted her to suffer. She made it to her seat and plunked down, her tailbone jarring at the force. Eye watering from not only her hair attack, the other one joining in the pity party, she looked at Kane.