On Laughton Moor

by On Laughton Moor (epub)

  Catherine and Knight didn’t disagree.

  * * *

  ‘How did you know?’ asked Catherine as Knight drove them back to the station.

  ‘Know what?

  ‘About Mike Pollard not being his brother’s biggest fan?’

  ‘A few things in his statement, and what he said when he heard Craig was dead. “He’s been knifed at last then”, and “he had it coming”, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Do you think he did it? Sounds like Mike’s resented his brother for years. Craig bullied him, stole his girlfriend and then to rub his nose in it even more, got her pregnant. Maybe they met on Sunday night, or they spoke on the phone. Craig said something clever and it was the final straw. It tipped Mike over the edge, and he went after Craig with a baseball bat or whatever.’

  Knight changed gear. ‘Can you see him doing it?’

  ‘Not as he was today; he soon dropped the big man act. But after a few drinks, in the middle of an argument, a couple of punches thrown… Who knows? What do you think, boss?’

  ‘I don’t think we should rule him out, but why would he send you the photos? That’s premeditated. A person who knew Pollard would go that way home and would be waiting for him.’

  Catherine nodded. ‘I know we’re looking at it like that, but it could just be to throw us off the scent, make it look like a premeditated killing when in fact it wasn’t. Mike Pollard could have punched his brother, grabbed something in the alley and battered him with it, realised what he’d done, panicked…’

  Even as she spoke, Catherine knew it hadn’t happened like that. It made no sense. Nothing about this case did yet. She changed the subject, starting to feel a little more comfortable with DI Wallpaper now she’d spent a night in his house and knew he had a brother and a sister, that he was human after all. She wasn’t quite brave enough to talk about anything other than the case outside the cosiness of his home though.

  ‘I can’t believe Pollard stopped swearing when you pulled him up on it,’ she said.

  ‘I think Mike’s a lad who’s used to doing as he’s told. I’m wondering if Mr and Mrs Pollard realised too late they’d let Craig get away with too much and came down on Mike like a ton of bricks so he didn’t go the same way. Plus, I don’t suppose the blokes he works with say please and thank you too often, just order him around.’

  ‘From what Mike said, I think you could be right. If his mum and dad are arguing about whose fault Craig’s death is, could be they’re each saying the other was too easy on him.’

  Knight nodded. ‘Maybe so.’

  ‘Interesting that Kelly Whitcham was Mike’s girlfriend first, too,’ Catherine said. ‘He could be hoping she’ll run back to him now Craig’s out of the picture; that could be another motive. Or they’re in it together. Kelly could be the brains, Mike the muscle.’

  Knight swung the car back into the station car park. ‘Neither of them have a real alibi,’ he said. ‘I think it’s time we had another talk with Miss Whitcham. You can take one of the DCs, maybe Dave Lancaster. He’s young, and I think she might respond better if there’s a man there with you.’

  ‘How do you mean? Don’t you want to speak to her yourself?’

  Knight shook his head and explained about the late-night text message as they got out of the car.

  ‘She probably won’t want to tell you much,’ he said, ‘but I think she’ll talk to Dave. Or take Chris Rogers. They’re both on the CCTV tapes. I bet either one would be glad of a break.’

  They went into the station, Knight heading straight for his office, and Catherine turning into the Ladies before going off to give Lancaster or Rogers a reprieve from watching CCTV footage. She had a lot more respect for DI Knight after their meeting with Mike Pollard. How many other DIs or DCIs would have picked up his contempt for his brother? She’d like to think all of them, but she wasn’t so sure.

  Catherine headed for the canteen. She was making her way up the stairs towards the office when she spotted DI Knight heading towards her, smiling.

  ‘I think we’ll both go to see Kelly Whitcham after all,’ he said. ‘I’ve just found an interesting message on my desk.’

  * * *

  Whitcham had acquired a pair of jeans from somewhere but still wore the hooded sweatshirt Knight had seen her in the day before. She was sitting in the living room of her mother’s house, feet drawn up onto the settee underneath her. Her hair needed washing, her face was pale and her expression showed plainly she was not particularly pleased to see Knight again. She didn’t so much as glance at Catherine as Knight introduced her.

  ‘Why didn’t you reply to my text?’ Whitcham asked, glaring at Knight.

  Whitcham’s mother tutted as she left the room after asking them to sit down and offering tea. She’d displayed no particular interest or concern at their appearance at her front door. Knight and Catherine sat in armchairs either side of an unlit gas fire, the top of which was covered with framed photographs – school pictures, mainly. Several were of Kelly Whitcham herself, the gap-toothed smile and pigtails a sharp contrast to the scowling adult version sitting opposite them. Whitcham’s own daughter and son smiled out from a blurry shot that looked as though it had been printed at home rather than developed professionally.

  ‘How are the children?’ asked Knight. He could hear them playing upstairs.

  Whitcham snorted. ‘As if you care.’

  Catherine opened her notebook. ‘Kelly, one of your neighbours from the house you shared with Craig says Craig’s brother Mike was a regular visitor to the house, that she saw him at the front door almost every night,’ she said. ‘Can you explain what he was doing there and why you told DI Knight he only visited “a few times”?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Catherine looked down her nose. ‘Because this isn’t a social call, Miss Whitcham. We’re here to ask you questions about the murder of your boyfriend. If you haven’t realised how serious this is, maybe you should start thinking about it now. If you don’t start being a bit more co-operative, we’ll see if you’re more in the mood to answer questions down at the station.’

  Whitcham stared at her, then turned on Knight. ‘Are you going to let her talk to me like that? Is she allowed to? You’re her boss, aren’t you?’

  Catherine leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs at the ankles, looking a lot more relaxed than Whitcham did.

  ‘You seem to be under the misapprehension that DI Knight is a friend of yours, Miss Whitcham,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not under any “misapprehension”. He was nice to me yesterday and I don’t see that anything’s changed to make him not even speak to me today. I’ve done nothing wrong. It was my boyfriend that was killed, I’m one of the victims and you’re talking to me like I’m a criminal. I could have you done for this!’

  Mrs Whitcham came back into the room with a tray of tea and biscuits. ‘Stop shouting, Kelly, you’ll upset the children,’ she said, handing out the mugs of tea. Knight and Catherine thanked her.

  ‘They’re only accusing me of killing Craig,’ Whitcham spat.

  Her mother shook her head. ‘I’m sure they’re just doing their job. How will they find out who killed him if they don’t ask questions?’

  Whitcham scowled at her. ‘There’s no point asking me since I didn’t do it; they’d be better off asking whoever did.’

  Mrs Whitcham gave another tut and went back out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her. Knight leant forward.

  ‘Kelly, we’ll get this over with a lot quicker if you just answer the questions.’

  Whitcham glared at him over the top of her mug. ‘I didn’t kill him. There were times I might have felt like it, but I didn’t actually do it. Mike came to the door to check me and the kids were all right, that’s all. It was daft really, all I could do was talk to him through the letter box. There’s no way he came every night, though, whatever the lying, nosy bastards in that street have told you.’

  Catherine pretended to look through the
notes in her pad. ‘You said that on the night Craig was killed you were at home with your children as usual,’ she said. ‘You didn’t see anyone, you didn’t speak to anyone.’

  ‘Yes, same as every other night. Have I got to go through all that again now? Didn’t they write it down the first time?’ Whitcham sipped her tea, pulled a face and slammed the mug onto the coffee table in front of her.

  ‘So you’ve got no real alibi?’ Catherine pursed her lips.

  ‘Alibi? What do you mean, alibi? I was at home with my children. I was locked in, the doors and the windows as well, I couldn’t get out if I wanted to. Which part of that don’t you understand, for fuck’s sake?’

  Catherine leant forward and looked Kelly Whitcham in the eye. ‘What I don’t understand, Kelly, is why you would live like you were doing with Craig Pollard when you could have escaped that house any number of ways. You’re not stupid, we know you’ve got qualifications. Why did you stay?’

  Whitcham looked away. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You could have smashed a window and attracted attention to yourself or even climbed out. Apparently one of your upstairs windows needs mending, so they can’t be that hard to break. You could have asked Mike Pollard for help.’

  Whitcham sneered. ‘Oh yeah, right. What could Mike have done? Craig would have killed him.’

  There was a pause, Whitcham biting her fingernails as she realised what she had said. Catherine broke the silence.

  ‘Then why, when you could have escaped the house, did you stay? You’ve already said you weren’t scared of Craig, that he wasn’t violent. Why didn’t you just say, “Look Craig, I’ve had enough and I’m leaving. I’m going back to my mum and taking the kids”. Why couldn’t you do that?’

  Whitcham shook her head helplessly. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘What he was like, what Craig was like. He just… He had a way of making you believe everything he said. Charming, I suppose.’

  ‘Charming enough to make you believe that living in an almost empty house was normal? That your children having no clothes, no toys, was normal? I know he was good looking, but come on, Kelly,’ Catherine scoffed.

  ‘How would you know he’s good looking? I’m more your type, aren’t I?’

  Catherine kept her face blank.

  ‘Not as clever as you thought you were, are you?’ taunted Whitcham. ‘I always know. How would you see if Craig was good looking or not?’

  ‘I’m gay, Kelly, not blind. I can see when a man’s attractive.’

  Whitcham’s eyebrows rose theatrically. ‘Maybe that’s why you wanted to come to question me, eh, Sergeant? Maybe you fancy locking me in a cell for the night and paying me a visit?’

  This time Catherine didn’t bother to hide what she thought as she stared at Whitcham, with her unwashed hair, grubby clothes and sour breath.

  Knight asked, ‘What did Craig know about you, Kelly?’

  Whitcham froze, the mocking expression disappearing from her face. ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ Knight said in a friendly tone, ‘as DS Bishop has pointed out, you could have got out of that house and situation any time you wanted, especially with your children being there too, so why would you stay? If Craig hadn’t threatened you physically, what had he frightened you with?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Whitcham whispered.

  ‘I think you do, Kelly.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘All right. I’d done a few things when I first met Craig, just things to help him out. He said if I left, he’d tell people, tell you lot.’

  Knight was nodding. ‘He said he’d tell the police? These “things” were illegal?’

  ‘Yeah. It was nothing major, just keeping a lookout, selling a few things. But Craig said it was enough. He told me I’d go to prison, the kids would go into care and I’d never see them again. I thought at least in the house we were all together and we were safe, even if we weren’t living in luxury.’

  Knight glanced at Catherine.

  ‘You realise how this looks, Kelly?’ she said. ‘You’ve no real alibi, you’ve got a motive and even if you didn’t kill Craig, which let’s face it you could have, you might have persuaded someone else to do it for you.’

  ‘Really?’ Whitcham’s lip curled. ‘Like who? It’s hardly something you’d ask a mate to do as a favour.’

  Knight got to his feet. ‘A person you had a relationship with who’s never really got over you. Someone who might have his own reasons for wanting Craig out of the way. We’ll leave you to think about it.’

  As they drove back to the station, Knight’s phone rang. He handed it to Catherine, keeping his eyes on the road. She had a brief conversation, then ended the call.

  ‘Forensics. Apparently, there were no fingerprints at all on either the picture from Pollard’s pocket, or either of the ones I received at home. Just mine on the picture of me and loads on the envelope – Post Office staff, who knows.’

  ‘None at all on the one from Pollard’s pocket?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Which suggests it was put there deliberately by a person who was very careful to leave no trace of themselves, rather than Pollard having taken and printed it himself.’

  ‘I suppose it does,’ said Catherine, with a shiver.

  Chapter 8

  Steve Kent felt terrible. The crossing from Zeebrugge to Hull had been a nightmare, the ferry feeling to Kent as if it must surely capsize any moment. He’d spent the night curled on his bunk staring through the porthole into the blackness of the night sky and sea and wishing himself elsewhere; anywhere would do. Staggering out of his cabin early that morning in search of coffee, he was greeted by smiling stewards who assured him that the crossing had been a little choppy, sure, but nothing out of the ordinary. Kent couldn’t agree. It was the fourth time he’d made the journey and it had been the worst so far by quite a way. He enjoyed his job but much preferred driving around the UK to having to make these sea crossings. It wasn’t too often though, and it paid well; it was just a bit rough on the stomach, or on his stomach at least. He wondered whether one of the freshly baked croissants he could smell would help, decided against it and leant back in his chair, eyes closed. They were due in Hull in half an hour or so. Maybe a quick nap would make him feel better. As he shifted in the chair, his mobile began to ring, and he swore under his breath. He checked the display and frowned. Talk about a blast from the past.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Steve?’

  Kent grinned. ‘All right, Dave, what’s up? Not heard from you in years.’

  ‘Thank God for that. I thought you might have changed your number. Have you seen the news?’

  ‘News? What news?’ What was he babbling on about? ‘I’m on a ferry mate, have to drive over to Belgium and France every now and again. Not seen any news, papers, nothing.’

  ‘Craig Pollard’s dead.’

  Kent’s eyebrows rose under the brim of his baseball cap. ‘Dead? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean he’s been murdered. They’re not saying how, but somebody’s killed him.’

  ‘You’re joking. Doesn’t surprise me though, he was a mouthy little shit when we knew him, and I doubt he’s changed much over the years.’ Kent leant back in the chair again.

  ‘Exactly. That’s what I mean. What if we get the police knocking on our doors?’

  ‘Why would we?’

  ‘You know why. We knew him years ago and… well, you were there, you know what happened.’

  ‘Yeah, years ago. Twelve years ago. Why would they come for us? No one knows about it, you know that.’ Kent took off his hat and ran his hand over his shaved head. The voice on the other end of the line was anxious, panicked.

  ‘Pollard knew about it.’

  ‘Of course he fucking knew, it was his fault!’ Kent smiled apologetically at a passing middle-aged woman who was frowning at him. ‘I can’t talk here; let me call you back later.’


  He stuffed the phone into his pocket and stood up to make his way back to the cabin for his bag, mind reeling. Craig Pollard dead, and not accidentally. He couldn’t say he was sorry, despite growing up near Craig. They’d been mates, good mates, but one Sunday afternoon all that had changed, and they’d gone their separate ways – himself, Craig, Nick and Dave. They’d all sworn to keep the secret and Steve Kent himself had never told another soul what had happened. It couldn’t come out now – the life he had, the life he’d worked for would be over. Would they still be in trouble? He didn’t know, but surely they would be. Hopefully with Pollard dead the whole thing would be put to rest forever. He hadn’t spoken to Craig Pollard since that day, had exchanged a few phone calls with Nick and Dave, but even that hadn’t lasted. He’d wanted to turn his back on that time in his life, forget the whole thing. He’d never been able to, of course, but he’d lived with it. And now? He hoisted his rucksack onto his shoulder. He’d have to wait and see.

  * * *

  Staring out of the window, Dave Bowles pursed his lips, chewed his thumbnail then got up and paced the room. It was all very well Steve saying it was ages ago, no one knew, it was fine. This was the day Bowles had been dreading for twelve years. He’d known that it would all be brought up again. There was another person who knew what had happened. Craig and the others may have forgotten that, but Bowles hadn’t. He didn’t know what to do. He had to find out more, but how? He couldn’t just saunter into the police station for a chat, and they weren’t giving much away in the press. He sat down again, took a deep breath, forced himself to calm down and think rationally. Craig Pollard had been just the sort of loud-mouthed idiot who would get himself into a fight he would come off worst in. Bowles knew that as well as Steve Kent did. If that was what had happened, then they were safe. Bowles himself was safe. If that was true though, why were the police being so cagey? Surely they would have the culprit in custody by now, bar room brawls usually being quite public. If Pollard had been killed in a punch-up or a knife fight, would it even have made the news? Bowles didn’t know. He’d have to watch and wait, and keep his fingers crossed, much as he’d been doing for the past twelve years.