by Emmy Ellis
He went in the house, frowning at the chill in the hallway. A draft coasted towards him, and he moved into the kitchen. The back door stood open a crack. He’d shut it last night, hadn’t he? Jez had had a quick ciggie in the garden after Charlotte and Barnett had left, and he was sure he’d locked it—or at least closed it—when that other copper had knocked to take him to the station.
He secured it then did a sweep of the house—nothing out of place or missing. Had someone broken in thinking he kept his stash at his own digs? If they had, they’d been tidy about it—and sorely mistaken.
With no time to think about it, he showered, threw some clothes on, and got back in H1’s car.
“All set?” H1 asked.
“Yeah.”
They arrived at the meeting spot, a street of decrepit houses that reminded Jez of his roots. He hated it around here, all those memories, the only bright one in it his sister. He loved her still, even all these years after her death. Everything he did was in her honour, although she’d be devastated to have learned what he did for a living.
He’d been building himself up to be top dog, and although he was, this new fella on the scene, today’s buyer…there was something about him Jez didn’t like.
He itched to take him down a peg.
Jez could supply whatever the young lad wanted, and as long as the kid didn’t pull rank, everything would bob along just fine. But if he did try to take over… Jez wasn’t sure he was hard enough to take him on. Although Jez was a beefcake, he’d heard his buyer was into some of that judo shit or other martial arts where you said “Yah!” every time you hand-chopped someone. One well-placed kick, and your nuts slid up into your throat, that kind of thing.
Coaching himself on remaining calm and hopefully giving off the aura he wasn’t to be messed with, Jez got out of the car and strode up the path of number seventy-two. An old fridge had its arse parked in front of a gate next to the house, the door open, revealing mould on the shelves and bits of dried cheese even a mouse would turn its nose up at. A black refuse sack, bulging, yellow tie handles trembling in the breeze, had holes in the sides.
Damn cats.
He sniffed—hadn’t had any coke for a while; might treat himself to some when he got home—and knocked on the door. The buyer opened it. A slim line of rooftop-shaped hair lived under his nose, plucked by the look if it, resembling the one What’s His Face had, that bloke in the black-and-white films. Name like a shoe shop. Clark? His black hair was slicked back the same and all, and his suit appeared out of place in that house—rich versus poor.
“Show me,” Jez said, oozing authority, rolling his shoulders and puffing his chest out.
The buyer kicked a holdall closer to the door, the front of his wingtip shoe disappearing into a fold of material. Wasn’t the bag full then? He partially unzipped it. Bundles of cash, that’s what Jez liked to find, and it reached the top.
“Now you show me,” the lad said.
Jez wanted to throw some rebuke at him but didn’t at the last minute. He liked his teeth the way they were, thank you. Back at the car, he tapped on H1’s tinted window. A sharp click, then the boot slowly lifted. He hefted out two of his own holdalls—a tenner each, Sports Direct online, got a free mug the size of a skyscraper with the order—and carried them up the path to the front door. The buyer must have people hidden, keeping an eye out, because Jez sensed he was being watched.
He drew the zip across on each bag, a quarter of the way along, the product green, quality shag in one, the other white and cut with things that shouldn’t be too taxing on the internal organs.
The buyer nodded. “Exchange.” He reached out and took the powder bag.
At the same time, Jez grabbed for the cash. Money held in front of him, Jez waited while his customer collected the second bag. “Let me know if you want any more.”
“Can you get the same to me by this time next week?”
Jez nodded. “Crops are doing well all over town—great strain this time round, growing like weeds.” He laughed, hale and hearty.
The buyer didn’t.
Jez cleared his throat. How could someone so young unnerve a man like him? Fucking little cock. “And I’m due another batch of the other stuff in two days, so yeah.”
“Make sure you deliver it on time.”
Jez’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m on time today.”
“Heard you might not have been. Best you don’t get yourself banged up again.”
“Or what?” The words were out before he’d had a chance to stop them.
“Or I’ll slit your throat.”
The way he’d said that… Chills broke out all over Jez’s body, and he laughed to cover up his immense discomfort. “Whatever, mate.”
“I’m not your mate.”
This bloke didn’t seem right in the head, one twist short of a Slinky, and for the first time in his life, Jez wanted to back away from someone. The buyer’s eyes had a maniacal gleam, at odds with his passive expression. Blank, he looked, as though he hadn’t just threatened to kill Jez.
“Shame we’re not mates,” Jez said, “because I’m good to have on your side.”
Jez turned and stalked down the path, and whoever had been observing the exchange was still there, holed up somewhere, the force of their stares seeming to burn into him. He closed the boot he’d left wide open then got in the passenger seat, dumping the holdall on his lap. H1 sped off, and Jez waited until they were well away before he pulled three bundles out and tossed them in his footwell.
“Three?” H1 frowned.
“Call it a bonus.”
“Thanks.”
It was actually to keep H1 sweet in case that old-fashioned-looking twat back there started any funny business. H1 was a mean bastard when he wanted to be. A great ally who didn’t mind getting blood on his hands.
****
Kane stared at the whiteboard and the timeline written out for the Smithson murder. Every neighbour appeared accounted for except for Pickins. His alibi of being in bed with Charlotte was false, and although Kane could say he’d seen her in the pub, he hadn’t wanted to tell Pickins where she’d really been. If Charlotte didn’t leave town and start afresh elsewhere, she still risked seeing Pickins, and Kane wouldn’t put it past the man to give her a clip round the earhole, even if they were no longer a couple.
His office phone rang, and he went in there to answer it.
“Vic, sir.”
“Got something for me?”
“You have a visitor. She’s in the waiting room. Rothers, her name is.”
What the hell is Charlotte doing here? “I’ll be down in a second. Thanks.”
He barrelled out of his office, through the incident room, and at the front desk, eyed the civilians sitting there. None of them were Charlotte.
“Where is she?” he said to Vic.
“Just there, sir. Animal coat.”
There she was, a woman, about fifty-five, leopard-print leggings, furry light-brown jacket, over-the-knee black boots, Bet Lynch from Corrie on acid, complete with bottle-blonde beehive.
What the actual?
She stood, minced over to him, and tilted her head sharply towards the door on Kane’s right which led to interview rooms. Blue makeup shadowed the lids of her bright-green eyes, kohl thickly drawn below with a not-quite-steady hand. Skin like a goddamned walnut shell. Red lipstick bled onto the outer skin in thinner-than-hair spiderwebs, a chunk of it gathering in one corner. She smiled, revealing lipstick on her teeth, too.
Bloody hell…
“Quickly,” she said. “Before someone comes in who I know.”
Kane glanced at Vic, who pressed a flat red button on the wall, and the door buzzed. Kane pushed it open, and Mrs Rothers scuttled through, spindly legs so thin he wondered how they held her up.
The light above interview room four was on. “Room one,” he said and plugged a code into the metal panel on the wall beside the jamb. He allowed her to go in first. “Please, sit down, w
on’t you?”
She perched on a plastic black chair, its legs scuffed, silver showing through where the coating had been scratched over the years.
“What can I do for you, Mrs Rothers?” he asked and sat opposite on the other side of the desk.
She produced a phone from her bag—big enough to carry twin babies in—and jabbed at the screen a few times. “I think you’ll want to see this.”
She handed him the phone.
Kane looked at the image.
And smiled.
“You’ll need to set up a meeting with that man in the suit,” she said. “He’s not available for a week, though, but rest assured, the stuff in the two bags he took from Jez isn’t going anywhere. Another exchange has been organised for the same time next week, four o’clock, and him there”—she pointed at the suited fella—“wants you at that house while it goes on.”
“Why has he done this?” Kane asked. “Not that I’m complaining, mind. We need all the help we can get.”
“Well, that Jez busted his brother up something bad—broken this and that—and he wanted to get him back for it. Thought the best way was to pose as a buyer, get Jez’s trust with the first drop-off, so he’d come back the following week. The money he paid is fake. High-quality, you’d never know the difference apparently. Amazing how quick these counterfeit people can copy the new versions of notes. And you’ll forgive me for not telling you their names. They’ve helped out, see.”
Kane thought of that money getting lost amongst the real stuff and winced.
“Oh, don’t you go looking like that,” she said. “Cos you’ll want to have a peek at this and all.” She drew a piece of laminated A4 out of her bag and pushed it across the table. “Serial numbers for all the notes. You alert all the banks or whatever you do in these situations.” She smiled, her teeth the kind you put in a glass of water at night. “I’ll be off, then. Got a back way I can nip through, have you?”
Kane nodded. “If you don’t mind me asking…why are you doing this?”
“For my daughter,” she said.
“Charlotte?”
Her mouth gaped.
“Thought so.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “She’s safe, you know. Not with him anymore.”
“Shut the front door!”
He laughed at the expression. “She’s fine. Just give her a few days—or until after the second exchange—and I’m sure she’ll come to see you.”
Tears filled her eyes. “Gawd…” She sniffed. “That man will be in contact soon. The exchanger, I mean.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll never forget this, I promise you. I’ve been after Pickins for years.”
“You and me both.”
SIXTEEN
Debbie shovelled a forkful of Bolognese sauce into her mouth and burnt her tongue. Well, that was going to spoil their first kiss later, wasn’t it. She silently cursed Mum for making the dinner too hot and ruining what could have been something wonderful if her taste buds weren’t throbbing.
“What’s the rush, Deb?” Dad asked.
“Got homework to do, then I’m meeting the gang at the park. Be back about ten, yeah?”
“Make sure you get that lad Ben to walk you home.” Dad twirled spaghetti. “Aren’t you two an item yet?”
Keeping up the façade—she’d told them she fancied Ben to get them off the scent of who she really had her eye on—she said, “Not yet, but I’m hoping he says he’ll go out with me tonight.”
“Nice boy,” Mum said, “although his mother’s a bit of a snooty one. So glad I don’t have to walk you to school anymore. She used to look down her nose at me in the playground.”
“She might be part of the family one day,” Dad said. “So be careful what you say to our Debbie.”
Debbie tuned them out, thinking of her fantasy guy and what they’d get up to once she was on the other side of his front door. With her alibi etched in stone, she could enjoy herself without worrying.
Must remember to set an alarm on my phone so I’m not home late.
After dinner, she helped load the dishwasher, taking her time so it meant wasting more. It was quarter to six now—still so long wait—so she offered to make her parents a cuppa.
“What are you after?” Mum asked, smiling.
“Nothing!” Debbie flushed. “Can’t I make you tea now?”
“Oh, you’re welcome to make it all right, but you’ve never done it before, so I’m wondering if you even know how.” Mum ruffled her hair.
Totally bugging.
“I won’t bother then,” Debbie said and flounced off up the stairs.
Why did they have to say stuff like that?
She sat on her bed and stroked the outfit she’d chosen. A lovely red dress. Fake black leather jacket. And Converses, black with white trim. She reckoned he’d like her in those.
She texted her friends to let them know she couldn’t come out because she had a boyfriend now and was busy this evening. A flurry of responses came back.
WHO IS IT?
DO WE KNOW HIM?
WHAT ABOUT BEN?
She sighed. What about him? He was childish.
She didn’t reply. They wouldn’t understand, anyway, so what was the point?
Huffing out a breath to calm the rapid butterfly wings in her belly, she ran a bath, humming Ed Sheeran’s Perfect and imagining her fantasy guy singing it to her. It could be their song, and they’d dance to it at their wedding, and later, every time it came on the radio, they’d smile that secret smile of love and gaze at each other until the last note ended.
In the bath, she shaved her legs, armpits, and down below—not that she had much hair there anyway. She’d heard some men liked women without any, so she went the whole hog and lopped the lot off.
Finished and in her room, she checked the time—OMG, she’d been in the bath so long; seven o’clock—then quickly gave her hair a blow-dry, putting it up in a messy bun. She looked older that way, so that was sick, fam. She cringed at falling into the way her friends spoke. She had to stop that if she wanted to come off as mature, would do anything to appear as though she could be his girlfriend without people frowning at the age gap. They’d get through anything together, though, wouldn’t they? Love was strong like that.
She applied foundation and eyeshadow, stuck on fake eyelashes, and concentrated on using the kohl pencil, singing their song and tearing up at the line about her looking perfect tonight. Her eyeliner wing smudged, and it took a fair bit of repair work until she was satisfied with it. Her face didn’t seem like hers now. She was eighteen, twenty maybe. Shame she was still almost sixteen inside, those butterflies misbehaving again.
Not long to go now, and she’d be in his arms.
If she sang their song through twelve more times, she reckoned it would just about be five to eight.
SEVENTEEN
Sitting on the dining room chair, Charlotte gasped at the sound of a key in the door, for a moment forgetting where she was, thinking she was back at home and Jez was coming in. She caught sight of the baking tray she’d cooked the enchiladas in, sitting on top of the shiny, ultra-modern stove, and remembered she was safe, that it was just Kane, no one else.
He appeared in the kitchen doorway, blinked while staring at the dinner, then switched his attention to her. His smile lit up everything inside her, and she tamped down the happiness—it was too dangerous to like him, to want to be with him, to think he’d even want a fucked-up woman like her. Besides, how could she trust another man again, copper or not, after what Jez had done to her? Her mum had been lucky with Charlotte’s dad, but they hadn’t had much time together before—
“You cooked.” Kane walked over to the large bowls she’d set out on the work surface—salad, home-baked soda bread because he had no yeast in the cupboard. He lifted the tea towels covering them. “You actually made that bread?”
“Well, yes.” What was so amazing about that? “You said not to leave the house, so I couldn’t buy any. What
you had in the crock over there was mouldy, so I put it in the bin.”
I wish I didn’t have to lie about not leaving the house. He’s been good to me. I should tell him…
He shook his head. “Jez has no idea, has he?”
“No idea of what?” She felt sick.
“No idea what he had in you.”
To mask her surprise at his compliment, if that’s what it was, she jumped up to dish some enchiladas onto a plate then warm them up in the microwave. While the three minutes ticked by, she poured wine into bulbous glasses, possibly meant for brandy, but it didn’t matter, did it, and all the time he watched her from a seat at the table, the one she’d vacated.
“Been a long time since anyone cooked for me,” he said, flicking a fork handle back and forth.
“Been a long time since I cooked for anyone who was interested in the result. Mostly, it ended up in the bin because he’d eaten elsewhere.” The microwave dinged, and she pulled out the steaming food, sharing it between two fresh plates.
Once she’d carried everything to the table, pleased Kane hadn’t got up to help—she was better left alone in that respect—she sat, and they locked gazes.
Kane looked away first.
Good. It saved her having to do it.
“Eat up then,” she said, serving him some salad.
“You don’t have to wait on me,” he said. “But I appreciate it. Long day. Had a bit of a barny with a colleague, who then went missing for the rest of the shift. Had to do something I’ve been putting off for a while, too, but never mind about that.” He paused, then, spreading butter on a thick slice of bread, said, “I have some news for you.”
Her stomach flipped. Would she always be a nervous wreck? Even when speaking with Kane in the pub, then going to the hotel with him, she’d imagined she’d been watched by everyone, Jez’s spies as customers, people on the streets, the hotel staff. She had a feeling it would never leave her, this out-of-sorts, anxious discombobulation. She’d just have to learn to live with it, hopefully to a lesser degree.
“What’s happened?” she asked, her appetite dying a little, the edge of her hunger shaved away by his six sharp words.