Chapter 5
Knight sat back on his sofa with a plate that had contained fish, chips and mushy peas on his lap. He didn’t think he had many vices, but fish and chips were one of them. He closed his eyes, relaxing for possibly the first time since Craig Pollard’s body had been found. It was a strange case. Initially, it had seemed fairly straightforward, but the lack of leads and witnesses, not to mention the absence of the weapon used to kill Pollard, bothered Knight. Then there was the photograph. He closed his eyes, wondering what it could mean, then started, almost losing the plate from his lap as his mobile phone began to ring. He snatched it up from the cushion beside him. The display told him the caller was Catherine Bishop.
‘Sir? Are you there?’ Catherine sounded strange, panicked almost.
‘Catherine?’
‘I’m sorry to call you but I’ve got a problem. I think it’s related to the Pollard case.’
‘What do you mean? I thought you were on your way home?’
‘I am at home. The thing is, I think someone else has been here too. Well, I know they have. They’ve posted me a photo.’
‘A photo?’ He frowned. Another one? ‘Of what?’
‘It’s me in my living room, taken through the window, and another picture that I haven’t completely figured out yet.’
Knight got to his feet, hurriedly setting the plate on the floor. ‘What’s your address?’
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Knight stood in Catherine Bishop’s kitchen. She lived in a semi-detached house on a new estate. At the back of the property, patio doors led into a small garden; that was the window the photo had been taken through. The picture lay on the pine table, DS Bishop clearly visible, relaxing on her sofa with a paperback novel.
‘It must have been a Sunday morning,’ said Catherine. ‘I don’t normally lie around in my pyjamas like that.’
‘And you live alone?’ asked Knight.
‘Yeah, for the last six months, since my partner moved out. Although,’ she gave Knight a sideways glance, ‘she wouldn’t have been much use with a face at the window anyway. She’d have been terrified.’
Knight’s expression didn’t change as he absorbed what Catherine had just revealed. He looked again at the photograph. ‘I just don’t see what he hopes to gain from this.’
She stared at him. ‘You think it’s a he?’
‘He, she, whoever. So he knows where you live…’
‘Yes, and God knows what else I might have been doing that morning. I’ve been trying to think when exactly it could have been. And then there’s this.’
Wrapping her hands in a piece of kitchen towel, she lifted the photograph of herself from the tabletop to reveal another piece of paper beneath. Knight stepped forward to have a look. There were two images, the first a colour reproduction of an old painting showing a pale-faced woman in a brown jewelled dress, the second the black and white outline of a chess piece. Knight stared, his mind unable to take in what he was seeing. He shook his head.
‘That’s…’
‘Catherine of Aragon?’ Catherine replied in a monotone. ‘I didn’t know, but if you put the name ‘Catherine’ in Google, this is the first image that comes up. The chess piece is a bishop, isn’t it, and that gave me a clue. Catherine Bishop. They’re talking about me. What is this?’
Knight shook his head, not able to make sense of what he was seeing. ‘I’ve no idea. You’re sure Pollard had no reason to have a grudge against you, or…’
‘None, none at all. Pollard’s dead, how could he be involved? I know it was probably posted yesterday, so he could have sent it. That would make sense if he’d meant it as a threat, if he’d been blackmailing me or whatever, but it’s ridiculous. I’ve done nothing to be blackmailed about. I knew his face, I knew his name, but I’ve never spoken to him, not had any contact with him whatsoever.’ Catherine closed her eyes for a second. ‘It’s like a nightmare. I feel like a suspect must feel.’ She gazed at Knight. ‘I don’t understand any of this, I swear.’
‘Neither do I, but I don’t like it,’ Knight said, looking again at the images. ‘We need to tell the DCI about this.’ He took his mobile out of his pocket as Catherine sat down at the table, propping her forehead on her hands, gazing down at the pictures.
Kendrick answered gruffly, and Knight explained as quickly as he could.
‘Bloody hell, this gets stranger,’ Kendrick said. He was obviously eating. Knight heard him chew then swallow. ‘And Catherine has no idea what’s going on? This might sound harsh, Jonathan, but do you believe her?’
Knight glanced at Catherine, her head bent, remembering the fear he had heard in her voice when she had phoned him, thinking about the quick, nervous movements she’d made since he’d arrived at her home.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Definitely.’
‘Good enough for me,’ Kendrick replied, taking another bite. ‘We’ll talk again in the morning, but in the meantime tell her to be careful. Tell her to book into a hotel or go to a friend or relative. If I was her, I’d be nervous. How’s she holding up?’
‘Okay, I think.’ Knight looked again at Catherine, who gave a shaky smile.
‘Typical Catherine. I’ll have to let the Super know as well, I suppose.’ Kendrick tutted. ‘See you both tomorrow.’
Knight ended the call and pointed at the pictures. ‘I know you touched these before you realised what they were, but I think we need to get all of this fingerprinted,’ he said. ‘I doubt we’ll get anything from it, but you never know. How do you feel about staying here after this?’
Catherine sighed. ‘To be honest I’d rather not, not tonight. I know the picture was probably taken weeks ago, but still. I was just going to say, I think I’ll go to a hotel. There’s one of those budget-type places on the ring road; they’ll probably have a room. I’ll give them a call.’
Knight folded the photograph, envelope and second sheet of paper into a tea towel that Catherine had ready for the purpose, then glanced at his watch. He wouldn’t normally offer, but this was an unusual situation.
‘It’s almost ten now. I’ve got a spare room. It would save you the bother of trying to organise a hotel. My bedroom has a shower room, so you’d have the bathroom to yourself. I know it’s not the usual thing to do but it’s not as if it’s going to start any gossip,’ Catherine smiled, ‘and if it was me I wouldn’t want to be in a hotel room. I’d want to know that there was at least someone else around.’
‘Thank you, sir, that’s really good of you. It’ll just be for one night. I’ll pack some stuff.’
She left the room and Knight frowned down at the tea towel containing the photo. The message to Catherine, though disturbing, didn’t seem like a threat. It was almost as though Catherine was being recognised, pointed out. Of course, it was worrying that not only did this person obviously know where Catherine lived but had actually visited the property. This was beginning to feel like no case he’d known before.
In her bedroom, Catherine Bishop threw clean underwear into a bag. She took a black suit from the wardrobe and looked frantically for a shirt or top to wear under the jacket that wasn’t too creased. It was going to be awkward enough staying at the DI’s house without having to ask to borrow his iron in the morning. The thought suddenly occurred to her that she had no idea whether he had a wife or partner, children… Perhaps the hotel would have been a better idea after all. At least he’d made it clear that she would have privacy; a few men Catherine had worked with in the past would have been only too happy to have tried to take advantage of both the situation and of her, whether they were aware of her sexuality or not. Being an overnight guest in the home of another officer, especially a senior one, was not an option Catherine would have even considered in any normal situation. This evening, however, had been anything but normal and it had shaken her more than she liked to admit. She’d always felt safe in her house, even after Louise left, but the thought of those patio doors and someone waiting outside them was too much t
onight.
Knight sat at the kitchen table, hoping Catherine wouldn’t be too long. Though she was attractive, it was in a fresh-faced way; he doubted she’d spend all night packing make-up and hair-styling products. He thought about the bathroom he’d shared with Caitlin – there’d been hardly any room for his stuff and it wasn’t as if he was vain. All he needed was a razor, shaving gel, shower gel, deodorant, a tiny splash of aftershave on special occasions. Caitlin had bought him moisturiser and facial scrub and had even wanted to have a go at his eyebrows with her lethal-looking tweezers. She’d only asked once.
Catherine called down the stairs: ‘Just need my toothbrush.’
Knight stood, carefully picked up the folded tea towel.
Catherine reappeared at the door. ‘Ready when you are.’
* * *
They’d agreed that Catherine would drive her own car and follow Knight to his house. Catherine’s home was fairly close to the centre of town, but Knight led her out into the countryside, down a maze of dark, quiet lanes. She was grateful for the way he was aware of her following, indicating early and never getting too far in front. Although Catherine had lived in the area all her life, she’d never been to the village that suddenly appeared over the brow of a hill, as if from nowhere. Knight drove slowly down what appeared to be the main street, past a church and tiny fish and chip shop. He indicated left and pulled into the driveway of a cottage, semi-detached and built from weathered grey stone. Catherine followed, squeezing her car in behind Knight’s, impressed.
‘Nice house,’ she said, following him to the front door.
‘Thank you – it’s not quite finished, but it’s getting there.’ Knight fumbled with his keys.
The hallway floor was grey slate, the walls painted white. Knight took off his coat and draped it over the stripped-wood bannister, then led the way into the living room. More white walls and stripped wood, this time the floor, door and skirting board. A battered brown leather sofa stood against the wall, with a plate on the floor in front of it showing traces of what looked to Catherine like mushy peas. She realised she’d not eaten since early that afternoon. Knight hurried forward and picked up the plate.
‘Sorry, I’d just finished when you phoned,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry, it’s your house.’ Catherine nodded at the plate. ‘Fish and chips?’
‘Yeah, I got there just before they closed. The chippy in the village is the best I’ve ever been to.’
She smiled. ‘Was that why you moved here?’
Knight grinned. ‘It wasn’t the only reason, but definitely one of the main ones. Can I get you a drink? Tea or coffee, or I think I’ve got a couple of bottles of beer somewhere? Sit down, by the way, unless you want to go straight to bed? I’ll take your bag up to your room. It’s on the left as you go up the stairs and the bathroom’s straight in front of you.’
Catherine made herself comfortable on the sofa.
‘Tea’s fine thanks. Just milk, no sugar. Thank you.’
As Knight left the room, Catherine had to smile to herself, shaking her head. It was surreal, sitting back while your boss took your overnight bag upstairs and made you a cup of tea. It was especially bizarre when that boss was Jonathan Knight, a man seemingly so reserved as to almost blend into the background altogether. He’d earned the name Inspector Wallpaper within two weeks of arriving in Lincolnshire and it wasn’t difficult to see why. Since they’d arrived at his home, however, Knight had visibly relaxed and become friendlier, almost chatty. It was one surprise after another tonight. They’d never believe it back at the station; not that she would be telling anyone. She gazed around the room, liking what she saw, gradually relaxing. The room was cosy and comfortable, a brick fireplace with a log burner dominating one wall. Catherine got to her feet and made her way over to have a closer look at some framed drawings that hung on the far wall. They were pen and ink sketches, a couple seemingly drawn somewhere far more exotic than Lincolnshire, judging by the plants and buildings. Catherine turned as DI Knight came back into the room, mugs in one hand, a packet of chocolate digestives in the other.
‘These are amazing.’ Catherine gestured at the drawings.
‘Thank you. My sister drew them. I practically had to beg her to let me put them on the wall; she doesn’t seem to see how talented she is. She loves drawing, always has.’
Knight handed one of the mugs and the digestives to Catherine. ‘Not sure if you fancy a biscuit?’
‘Thanks very much, sir,’ Catherine said, struck again by the oddness of the situation. Knight had accidentally shared some information about himself; there were those amongst her colleagues who would be amazed that Knight had any family at all, that he hadn’t just been hatched inside the police training college.
Knight seemed to feel awkward once he’d completed the pleasantries of tea making and biscuit sharing and sat back, cleared his throat, then sat forward again. Catherine smiled to herself through a mouthful of tea, wondering again why Knight had turned up in Lincolnshire. He obviously hadn’t made DI by accident, but compared with other officers of his rank Catherine had encountered, Knight was different. He seemed ill at ease with people, unsure and unconfident. Of course, get him in an interview with a suspect on the other side of the table, and he might turn from Jekyll into Hyde. As Knight stared at the fireplace, seemingly lost in thought, Catherine had a good look at her boss. It was strange how you could work in the same place as people day after day without really seeing them. She knew from experience how difficult witnesses found it to describe the woman they’d seen, the car that had been hanging around, the man’s accent. She had tested herself and doubted she would do much better in their place. The first word that came to mind when she looked at DI Knight was average. It was no description at all, but it was true. Average height, average build, no sign yet of grey in his hair. She couldn’t see him colouring it, though, and smiled again at the thought of Knight worrying over his roots and sneaking into the chemist to buy some manly hair dye. She doubted if he’d notice if his hair went white overnight. Clean shaven, small neat sideburns. Serious face – totally unremarkable.
‘I don’t understand,’ Knight said suddenly, causing Catherine to start and spill tea over her hand, ‘why the photo was taken, why it was sent to you. Obviously, there’s a message there, especially when there was a photo of you found on Craig Pollard’s body, but it’s so cryptic. I just don’t see the point.’
Catherine leant forward, surreptitiously wiping her hand on her trouser leg.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Ever since the DCI showed me the photo I’ve been trying to think what they could be trying to say, and whatever it is, why say it to me? And why Pollard? I can’t believe it was just a random attack on a man so drunk he’d not be able to fight back. Pollard must have said something, done something, and whoever walked away at the time hit back later. But it still doesn’t make sense.’
Knight nodded, and then shrugged apologetically. ‘And the worry is that the only way it will make sense is if you’re contacted again.’
* * *
Kelly Whitcham lay in the bed she’d slept in as a child, staring up at the ceiling. She could hear her children’s even breathing as they slept on the old inflatable mattress her mum had unearthed from the depths of the airing cupboard. They were so good; they never complained and were always cheerful. It had been such a struggle at times to keep them occupied as they grew older, to begin to educate them as best she could in a house empty of almost everything except that ridiculous television. It would have been so easy to just sit and lose herself in the mindless programmes, many of which featured people who had somehow got themselves into situations which were even more unlikely than her own. Inventing games and stories had kept her mind at least halfway busy, and whatever memories the children were going to have from their first few years, she hoped they would remember that she had done her best. Shamefaced, she’d told her mother the truth about her life with Craig. Her mum had been disbelieving a
t first, outraged and then puzzled, not able to comprehend why Kelly would stay. Kelly had just shaken her head helplessly. She hadn’t been afraid of Craig; her mum had assumed that he’d beaten her and the children, threatened worse if she’d tried to leave, but it wasn’t that. Kelly had tried to argue that she couldn’t have left, with both doors and windows locked, but she and her mother both knew that she could have attracted a neighbour’s attention somehow, smashed a window. Kelly had admitted to herself, if not her mum, who no doubt knew anyway, that she hadn’t been able to leave because she was ashamed of what her life had become. Her children weren’t hungry, although their diet probably hadn’t been the healthiest, weren’t abused, and so she had allowed the situation to continue. She’d known that the children would need to be registered for school and Craig would have had to make changes to their lives then – they could hardly go to school in second-hand pyjamas. The authorities would soon be called in, and there was no way Craig would have allowed the truth about the life of his family to be exposed. Kelly closed her eyes. She’d failed her children and she could now admit it, at least to herself. Before she’d met Craig, she’d been doing well. Good grades at GCSE and A level, a job with a local solicitor. General administration at first, but with her eye on more qualifications, progression, a career. Settling down and having a family was only distantly visible on the horizon. She would never regret having the twins, but it never should have happened as it had. She hoped she would have the chance now to stand on her own two feet, to provide for her children. She still had those qualifications, and she was only twenty-four. Jessica and Connor would be at nursery soon, then school, and she could work, maybe study as she’d planned. Kelly turned on her side, promising herself that she would find out in the morning who she could speak to for some advice on what to do next.
Kelly hoped that the police officers who’d come to the house had seen that she wasn’t just some brainless kid who had no idea how to look after herself, much less two small children. They might tell Social Services how they’d found them. Maybe they would come to see her, to see the children, talk to them, examine them? They could, but they would see that the children were clean, healthy, not underweight. Their speech was good as far as she could tell; Jessica talked more than Connor, but that was just their personalities. They knew their colours from the packaging of food their father had brought in; they could recognise numbers. Let Social Services come if they wanted to. The inspector had been kind, not letting his face show what he must have thought, what anyone would think walking into that house. She should thank him, but surely you couldn’t just ring up and ask to speak to a policeman, especially not an inspector. She could send a card, but again, was that really the right thing to do? He might think she was trying to be friendlier than she meant to be. Maybe they thought she had killed Craig and was trying to throw the inspector off the scent. It crossed her mind that because she’d used Knight’s phone to ring her mother, his number should show in her mum’s call log. She’d send him a quick text. No one could blame her for that. No one could say it was wrong or that she was trying to bribe him or something. She sat up slowly, moving the duvet as quietly as she could, and stepped carefully around the inflatable mattress. There was just enough room to open the bedroom door and move out onto the landing.
On Laughton Moor Page 3