by Emmy Ellis
Once in his office, Kane slumped in his chair, drinking a Fanta orange from a multipack he kept in his desk drawer. He no longer gave a toss what Richard was doing—napping at his desk, boozing in the toilet, have at it, mate—preferring to get his thoughts in order instead. He pushed himself out of his seat, ants in his pants, and walked into the incident room.
His team worked at their desks, computer monitors filled with information. No one glanced up as he marched to the whiteboard and added the sex worker’s information. Done, he turned to address them.
“Listen up. Another murder. Sex worker, suffocated by someone’s hand. Nada and Erica, you two can go home now to get some rest because I want you out tonight questioning the women on the road opposite Clarks in town. Get there for seven, stay until you’ve asked everyone if one of them who’s usually there, isn’t. Hang around until after ten—some don’t come out until their kids are in bed. Alistair, I want you down at the hospital now—stop what you’re doing and listen to me, will you? Jesus.” Kane was of a mind to swing for someone. He was conducting without an orchestra here. “Find out where Old Bill is, the ward or whatever, and take a statement. He found the victim. Lara and Tim, keep sifting through last night’s statements regarding Mrs Smithson. Richard…” Richard wasn’t in the room. “Well, Richard can do what the fuck he likes. Why change a habit of a lifetime, eh? Okay, on you go. Let’s get some damn results here, all right?”
He stalked over to the door, kicking it open, incensed that Richard was off God knew where. How was Kane meant to work with a partner like that? The last couple of years, Richard had got worse, and Kane wasn’t putting up with it anymore. He’d be better off with Nada by his side. She was a good worker and didn’t mind pulling double shifts.
Down the corridor, he knocked on the chief’s door, the plaque gold with black writing: DCI OLIVER WINTER. Kane waited, the chief’s voice a mumble through the wood—probably on the phone—then leant against the wall opposite, taking a breather to calm himself. Sensible that he did. He couldn’t go in there, mad as a tormented rattler, hissing venom about Richard.
“Come in!”
Kane pushed off the wall, took a deep breath, and turned the handle. He stepped inside, and Winter’s face told a story—he was harassed and livid about it, and Kane suspected the last thing the chief needed was him in here chapping his arse.
“Take a seat, Kane. Thought we had our chat scheduled for tomorrow?”
Kane all but fell into the chair, exhausted by his anger. “We did, but I need to talk to you about something—not the cases.”
“Want a coffee?” Winter stood then walked military-style to his filing cabinet and the coffee machine on top. An ancient one, had to be years old, the glass jug cloudy from so much use.
“Please. I need something,” Kane said, “and don’t suggest a drink-drink. I’ve had enough of alcohol today.”
Winter turned his head and raised his eyebrows. “That’s got to mean something else. No way would you be drinking on the job.”
“No, but someone is.”
“Ah.”
Winter poured two coffees. Kane’s muscles stiffened, and insecurity strangled him in the awkward silence, the lump in his throat painful. Now he’d said something, even if he hadn’t named the drinker, he wasn’t sure he had the balls to dob Richard in.
Think about what he’s been like lately.
Yeah, Richard was a liability, no question, and if Kane wanted to work to the best of his ability, he couldn’t carry his partner any longer.
“Tell me,” Winter said, placing their cups on the desk, “it’s Richard, isn’t it?”
Kane hesitated for too long.
“I thought so.” Winter sat. Picked up a pen and tapped it on his keyboard. “I’ve refrained from saying anything, doing anything about it because…” He sighed. “But I’m going to have to do something now. I can see you’re worn out by it—that or ready to go a few rounds with him, minus boxing gloves. Hell on the knuckles, that.” He smiled. Dropped the pen. Lifted his cup. “Wouldn’t advise going down that route.” He blew his coffee then sipped. “Can’t beat an old-style coffee machine, can you. Stews it better than Granny stews apples.”
Kane didn’t know what the hell that meant, but he smiled anyway. Tightly. “I don’t like grassing on anyone, but Richard—”
“I know. Leave it with me. Drink your coffee. Take a breather.”
Kane thought it would be odd sitting there not saying anything, but it wasn’t. He cleared his mind of everything and concentrated on chilling out for the time it took to finish his drink.
“Better?” Winter asked.
“Better.”
“Now go and do what you do best. I don’t want to see you until tomorrow.” Winter drained his cup. “Where is he?”
Kane shook his head. “I have no idea. We had a bit of a set-to in the car. He had a hip flask, open, and had smoked at a scene. I lost it. Said some things I maybe shouldn’t. He said he had something going on later, that me going on at him wasn’t helping.” He shrugged. “No idea what he was on about. I came up here, went to my office. Came back out to talk to the team, and Richard wasn’t there.”
Winter narrowed his eyes. “I see. Right. Thank you. Oh, and you didn’t come in to see me, right?”
“No, sir. If I can just ask something… Just say I was getting a new partner… Can you consider Nada?”
“Any particular reason why you think she’d be a good fit?”
“I can list a few. Dependable, trustworthy, hard worker, empathetic, and she deserves a break in life. She gives so much of herself to everyone around her, so it’d be nice if she had something for herself for once.”
“That’s enough for me. Consider it done. Catch you tomorrow, Kane.”
“Right, sir. Thank you.”
Kane left, and instead of feeling lighter, vindicated for what he’d done regarding Richard, two sacks of guilt smacked down onto his shoulders, outweighing the good he’d done by suggesting Nada as his new partner.
The sacks were heavy, the labels on them saying ARSEHOLE.
FOURTEEN
Dear Charlotte,
I so hate writing these bleedin’ letters. I know why you insist on it, but… Yes, yes, I realise Jez can use your laptop and read your emails. You can’t tell me that’s normal for a woman to be worried about her boyfriend nosing at her private business. It would be so much easier to speak on Messenger, and we could talk in real time instead of just once a week via the post.
I miss you. I’ll always miss you. And I’ll never forgive him for turning you into this recluse who can’t even come to see her own mother. I’ve said this before, in the early years, remember, but you didn’t listen, so I kept my mouth shut. But now? Now you’ve told me he’s hitting you and messing about with other women? No more holding my tongue, my girl. It’s time to come home.
Ah, don’t think I can’t see you shaking your head, muttering about him finding you, knowing this is the first place you’ll go, but let me tell you something. I know more about Jez than you think, and that man is into some seriously bad business if the rumours are right. Want to know why he keeps you indoors? Why he’s restricted Facebook and the like on your laptop and phone? Why he’s made it so you can only ring him or businesses, no residential or mobile numbers, like he’s got some sort of block going on there? Because he doesn’t want you finding out what he’s up to. If you can’t speak to anyone except that fella over the road, or the old woman you mentioned, you can’t gather any evidence.
I’ll tell you why he does those things. He deals drugs, Char.
DRUGS. I even underlined, look, because it’s a big bloody deal. He supplies to the whole town, and do you know what? I’m going to the police. I have some information that’ll put him away, and I’m not afraid to use it. It’ll all be set in motion by the time you get this. No going back.
Someone I know, her son gets drugs off him, and Jez, your precious bastard boyfriend, beat the shit out of
him because he didn’t pay him on time—he’d had some weed on loan a week back. Five minutes late with the payment, he was, and the result? Broken jaw, ribs, leg, and the poor lad was all for telling his mum to keep her mouth shut. She won’t. I won’t either. I can’t bear the thought of you living with a man like that, and what if he drags you into it? Says you’re in on it? What if there are drugs in your house, for Pete’s sake?
Get out. Come to me, and we’ll work something out. Or use that money you told me you’ve been saving. LEAVE. Go down south, as far as you can go. Cornwall, that’ll do. Can’t get much farther in the country than the tip of it, can you?
It’ll be all right, I promise. Leave everything behind. Don’t even pack a bag. Your life is more important than possessions, and from what I’ve heard, he’s got something bigger going on—bigger than before. If he messes with the people he’s going to be supplying to, they’ll do more than break a few bones. I hope they do. The world’s better off shot of him. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.
Now, I’ve said my piece. Take it or leave it, but if you decide to stay, know that I’ll love you forever, no matter your decision. I just wish I could make you a pie filled with sense, and when you eat it, you’ll truly see the light.
God love you, my darlin’.
Mum
Tears streamed. Charlotte had read the letter three times now, and it hadn’t got easier with repetition. She’d been secluded for so long she hadn’t a clue who she’d been living with, despite finding those bloody scales and baggies under the sink, and somehow, because her mum had told her things, it seemed a hundred times worse. Why hadn’t she listened to her at the beginning? Because she’d thought she knew best, that’s why. She’d thought she was in love and that Jez loved her back. But he hadn’t. He’d just wanted someone to own, anyone would do, and she’d been the stupid bint who’d fallen for his charms—and he’d had some back then, all sweetness and light, butter wouldn’t melt.
God, she’d fallen for it, right down to the bottom of the well.
No more. She knew for sure about him now, and there was no denying it when a copper told you what was going on, too. Now Mum knew, and no wonder people never shopped him to the police if he was going around breaking people’s bones.
What kind of monster was he?
She had the answer to that already. He’d smacked her around often enough, and she had a few scars to prove it. A hairline one above her lip, and a jagged streak from where he’d shoved her backwards and she’d caught the nape of her neck on the corner of the kitchen island. It had dug in then ripped as she’d gone down, pain searing, blood dripping in a hot stripe down her skin, curving at her shoulder to meander south to pool at the dip above her clavicle.
She should have left then, but he’d locked her in from the outside for a week straight—no idea where he’d stayed—and she’d patched herself up the best she could, and with no sutures to stitch the wound together, it was unsightly, the scar wide.
Charlotte had stopped putting her hair in a ponytail after that.
To take her mind off the past, she moved to the kitchen, shoving things aside in the freezer to find ingredients to make a nice meal for Kane. She’d had enough practise at cooking, one of the main things she’d done at home.
It. Isn’t. Home.
While she shallow fried some chicken to seal it, she thought about how, as a kid, she’d loved looking through her mum’s recipe book, flour or the odd grain of sugar in the spine side between pages, butter smears in the corners, the scent of cake mixture wafting up. Those days were long gone, light years away, almost as though she hadn’t really lived them.
Nostalgia unfurled inside her.
Should she use Kane’s house phone to ring her mum? The number was the same as it always was, so Mum had said in a letter once, and it would be lovely to hear her voice again. She hadn’t spoken to her since she’d moved into Jez’s, not wanting her mother to deal with any backlash—he’d threatened to go round there and ‘duff her up’, taking Charlotte with him so she could watch.
But what if her mum told her friend Charlotte had called, then that friend told someone else, and eventually, Jez would find out and pay her mum a visit?
No. Charlotte would have to wait until Jez had been put inside.
Then she could talk to her mum as much as she wanted.
FIFTEEN
Kane had a mate who worked at a private lab where, for a price, he’d rush through samples—and rush was the right word. Four hours. Couldn’t argue with that, even though he knew damn well testing blood for type only took five minutes. He’d taken the risk earlier and bagged one of the flecks from Pickins’ temple and asked a uniform to drop it, and an envelope of money, to Ian Yates, who promised to have it done by one at the latest, but it was past that now. The copper Kane had entrusted it to had agreed to Kane buying him a drink at the local when they were both in there next. Some would say he and Kane were crooked, but he’d argue with that. He did what had to be done, and if it meant spending his own money, getting told off by Winter for breaking rules, so be it.
The rest of the fleck sample, an inside cheek swab from Pickins, the scrapings from beneath his fingernails, and Mrs Smithson’s toothbrush had been sent to the usual lab, and the results from that would take between seventy-two hours and four weeks. Six weeks was more likely. Kane didn’t have time for that. Now, if the killer turned out to be Pickins, he’d have to wait for the official report to save any inadmissible evidence issues—and the bloke would go free for now anyway until proof had been obtained.
Kane sat at his desk and fired up his computer, accessing his personal email account. Ian had written, the subject line: HERE’S THAT THING YOU ASKED ME TO DO, YOU SHITBAG.
Kane smiled and clicked OPEN.
Fuck.
The blood was the same type as Pickins’.
Shit, shit, shit!
Kane signed out of his account then set the computer to sleep. He still hadn’t checked in on Charlotte, but that would have to wait. Kane had a man to release.
Annoyed that the blood was a match to Jez’s and not one of the other types, he descended the three flights down to the front desk and drummed his fingertips on top while Vic dealt with some prat who’d been brought in for shoplifting, denying it while the spoils of his adventure sat on the desk inside evidence bags.
Impatient, Kane bit his lip and made eye contact with Vic, who leant over so Kane could speak to him. “Pickins will be leaving shortly, soon as you’re ready. I’ll just go and inform him now.”
Vic nodded and returned to his duties.
Kane took his time on his way to the cells. Four in a row, there were, and he scanned the chalked names on the small board beside each door. Pickins was in the last one. Kane slid open the hatch. Reclined on the bed, Pickins turned his head to look at him.
“Nice nap, that was,” he said, sitting up and swinging his legs round, planting his feet on the floor. “So, come to have another pop, have you?”
“You’ll be processed shortly,” Kane said, voice strained. “You’re leaving.”
A smug grin appeared. “Good. What’s the time?”
Kane checked the clock on the wall above door number three. “Two-forty. Got a hot date?”
“Something like that.”
What’s he up to? “Don’t behave yourself, will you. It’ll give me the chance to catch you doing something.” Kane slammed the hatch shut, anger beating along with his pulse, fuelling him to kick the wall and curse at the pain lancing up his big toe.
****
Jez hurried out of the station, hands shoved in his pockets, and scanned Jude Street. Codename H1 (Holder One), the main bloke who stored Jez’s drugs, waited in a car a few metres down the way, and Jez got in.
“Cheers, mate,” Jez said, clicking his seat belt on. “I would have walked back, but the lousy bastards didn’t let me out in time.”
“Don’t worry about it. There are other things to concern you.” H1 peel
ed away from the kerb. “Your missus was spotted today.”
“I see.” Jez gritted his teeth. “So much for being taken to a safe house then.”
“What?” H1 gripped the steering wheel tight. “We haven’t had a chance to talk, have we, so I’m not up to date. Tell me what’s going on.”
Jez told him about coming home to find Barnett taking Charlotte off, Jez being hauled down the nick because of a few scratches, and, “My blood type on my face, no one else’s, as I knew it would be. I’d washed the other lot off. Scratch on my face had bled, see, and had dried. I must admit, I thought they had me for a minute there.”
H1 nodded. “Glad you’re out. Didn’t like the idea of all the gear being at mine when it’s been promised to the buyer, and you in the nick. Fucked if I’m dealing with the sale—my thought while you were banged up.”
“I’m close to the wire, but we should make it. Yeah, we’re golden.”
“Better be.” H1 slowed to a stop outside Jez’s gaff. “I’ll wait here for you. No point in me coming in. Make it quick, because I have other shit to do. Just a shower you’re having, is it?” He pointed to the dash clock. Three-thirty. “Cutting it fine. If you’re late…”
“I know.” Jez’s arsehole spasmed. Last thing he needed was this deal to go belly up. Too much cash depended on it—and his reputation. “The buyer might be a young lad, acts like his antenna doesn’t pick up all the channels, but he’s clever underneath. It’s just a front. I need to be there bang on four, otherwise…”
“Yeah, otherwise isn’t a good option, because if you mess this up, you’ll be viewed as someone who eats soup with a fork, know what I mean?”
“Ha ha. Yeah.” Jez would normally have flattened someone for saying that, but H1 had been his informant for years, someone he trusted, who had his back. Jez could take a jibe or two off him without having to retaliate. He opened the door. “Right, give me five.”