On Laughton Moor

by On Laughton Moor (epub)

  ‘Perfect,’ said Catherine. ‘Just what you need on a freezing cold, rainy night.’ She took a sip of beer. ‘Especially when your case is going to shit.’

  Knight picked up his plate, leant across the table and took Catherine’s. He rinsed them, dumped them in the sink and sat back down.

  ‘I know I keep banging on about it, but we’re missing something. Whoever killed Pollard will be sitting somewhere laughing at us.’

  ‘It feels like we’ve got nowhere to go. DCI Kendrick didn’t exactly mince his words, did he?’ Catherine sighed. ‘And he’s right. A murder around here, whoever did it’s usually still next to the body when it’s found, knife in his hand, blood on his fists, but this? Have you ever heard of a case like it, sir, when you were in the Met? You must have seen all sorts of goings-on.’

  ‘Come on, call me Jonathan.’ Knight rubbed his chin. ‘We had someone phone the station and accuse a DC of murder once. A bloke had been knifed in a fight over a woman. Wasn’t the DC at all, it was his cousin, though it caused a few headaches for a while. But I don’t think you’re being accused of anything here—’

  ‘Mainly because I didn’t do it,’ Catherine interrupted.

  Knight held up a placatory hand. ‘I know. It could be a plea for help, for understanding, or just two fingers up at you and coppers in general. It’d help if they’d been a bit more specific though, instead of pissing around with reproduced oil paintings.’

  Catherine raised an eyebrow. She couldn’t remember having heard Knight swear before.

  ‘What about the photo, what do you think he meant by that?’ she asked. ‘If it were of someone else and more recent, someone close to Pollard like his brother or Kelly Whitcham, it would make more sense, like they were gloating about killing him, rubbing their noses in the fact that they’re watching them suffer, even accusing them, but why me? It doesn’t feel like a threat, but then again, it’s shaken me up. I don’t mind admitting it.’

  Knight got to his feet again, crossed to the sink and began running hot water into the washing-up bowl. ‘I’m not surprised.’

  She gave a hesitant smile. Knight’s mobile began to ring, and he took it out of his pocket, frowning at the display.

  ‘I’ll take over, sir… Jonathan,’ Catherine said. ‘Where do you keep your washing-up liquid?’

  * * *

  In the living room, Knight took a deep breath, then touched the phone’s screen to answer the call.

  ‘Hello? Caitlin?’

  ‘Jonathan? I thought you were never going to answer. I was going to leave you a voicemail.’

  ‘I’ve only just got home. I was eating.’

  ‘Working late? There’s a surprise.’

  ‘It’s a murder investigation, Caitlin. As you know, we can’t always persuade people to kill each other during office hours.’

  ‘As charming as ever, Jonathan. And as defensive. It’s nice to hear people are just as brutal in the sticks as they are down here in civilisation.’

  ‘Did you ring me just to have a go, or…?’

  ‘Oh, no, there’s a point. I’m pregnant.’

  Knight’s eyes widened, and his sudden dry mouth was nothing to do with the curry he’d just eaten. ‘So why are you telling me?’ he managed to say. ‘Hadn’t you better phone Ben, or Dom, or whatever his name was?’

  ‘His name was, and still is, Jed, as you well know. And I don’t need to phone him, he’s here now. We’re living together.’

  Knight sat heavily on the settee. ‘How wonderful for you. So, again, why are you telling me instead of floating ecstatically around Mothercare together?’

  ‘You’re so funny, Jonathan, you really are. I’m four months pregnant, so if you can manage to work that out on your fingers, that means, God help us all, that the baby could be yours.’

  Knight shook his head. ‘You’re unbelievable. It won’t be my baby; we were barely speaking at that point, never mind anything else. It’s Jed’s baby and you know it. This is just you winding me up for your own amusement. You’re probably sitting there with a gang of your friends, with me on speakerphone for a laugh.’

  There was a pause. Caitlin spoke again, quieter now. ‘I’m pleased you think so highly of me. The truth is this baby could be yours or, as you so kindly point out, it could be Jed’s. I don’t know, and I won’t until after the birth. I just wanted you to know it was a possibility but obviously just calling you out of the blue was the wrong way to go about it. I’m sorry, I’ll go. Take care, Jonathan.’

  Knight stared at his phone. Caitlin had never apologised to him before, never acknowledged that perhaps she’d made a mistake or was in the wrong. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there when Catherine Bishop quietly came into the room with the tea.

  ‘All right?’ she said, holding a mug out to him, then, when there was no response: ‘Jonathan?’

  He started. ‘Sorry. Thank you.’

  Catherine crossed the room and sat down, holding her own mug close, wondering how quickly she could finish her tea and politely get out of Knight’s way. Then, to her amazement, he began to talk.

  ‘That was my ex on the phone. Ex-girlfriend. She’s pregnant.’

  ‘Oh.’ She had no idea what else to say.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How long since you split up?’

  ‘Just before I moved back up here. That was one of the reasons I transferred. She’d been seeing someone else for a while and eventually I found out.’

  ‘You hadn’t suspected?’

  ‘No. Some detective I am. You know how it is, working long hours, knackered when you eventually get in. Some weeks we barely saw each other, and she didn’t like that. She needs lots of attention – she’s hard work, to be honest. Not sure now what I ever saw in her except at first – she’s gorgeous, but there’s nothing underneath that, if you know what I mean. She’s like some amazing painting that you admire in a gallery, but you know you couldn’t live with at home. Too much for me, too loud, too confident, and I think I bored her to death. I’m sure she’s much happier with Jed. Is that even a real name?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Catherine softly. ‘So she’s having your baby?’

  Knight’s smile was rueful. ‘Helpfully, she isn’t sure. All she can say for sure is she’s having someone’s baby.’

  ‘Then until the birth…’

  ‘Depends if the baby comes out wearing a striped shirt and braces, or a police uniform. Jed’s one of those massive rugby types, works in the city doing something mere mortals can’t hope to understand.’

  ‘You’ve met him then?’

  ‘Once, at some posh do Caitlin dragged me to. Her friends seemed to think I was something the cat had dragged in. They used to call me “Caitlin’s policeman friend”.’

  Catherine screwed up her face. ‘Charming.’

  ‘It’s just how they were. I don’t think they meant anything personal. I didn’t fit in with their view of the world. They want the police to be sorting things out on the streets, out of their sight, not at their fancy parties.’ He paused. ‘Even the champagne was horrible.’

  ‘Caitlin goes to a lot of these types of things then?’

  ‘It was part of her job, though to be honest I couldn’t even tell you what she actually did. Lots of dinners, drinks parties and mincing around London as far as I could tell.’

  ‘How long were you together?’

  ‘Only six months. Long enough for both of us.’

  Catherine nodded. ‘And you moved here when you split up?’

  ‘Moved back here. This is where I grew up; not far away anyway. I’d had enough of London and I wanted a complete change.’

  ‘It’ll be quieter, if nothing else. I did wonder why someone would leave the Met to come up here.’

  ‘Like I say, I was ready for a change. I’d been down there long enough.’

  ‘Not as challenging though?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve not had a case like this before.’

  Chapte
r 11

  A few seconds passed before Steve Kent realised what had woken him. He’d had a few drinks last night. More than a few. He needed to sleep. When he heard the phone still ringing, however, he stretched over the side of his mattress and onto the floor to retrieve the phone from his jeans pocket. Only one person ever phoned that number; only one person knew the number and it wasn’t someone you wanted to have a missed call from.

  ‘Got a job for you tomorrow. Be at the lock-up at ten p.m.’

  The call was terminated with Kent having had no chance to speak even if he’d wanted to. He knew he was to be at the lock-up two hours before so if anyone was listening he’d have been and gone before they showed up. As always there was no choice, no chance to refuse or protest. He sometimes wondered if he’d done the right thing getting involved; after all, he’d tried to keep out of trouble. Then again, he had his legitimate day job and if he did a few deliveries here and there, cash in hand, no questions asked or answered, then who would know or care? He’d never asked what was in the brown parcels he was asked to deliver or collect, though he could have a guess. It was something he usually tried not to think about. There had been a larger parcel once, quite heavy and rectangular, as deep as a shoebox but about five times as long. He definitely didn’t want to think about what had been inside that one.

  The deliveries he really didn’t want to think about were the three people he’d had to collect in Southall one day and bring up to Lincoln. Two young women and a younger man, a boy really, only about eighteen. Their blank eyes and pale faces would stay with him, as would the pathetic looks of gratitude and attempts at thanks they gave him when he brought them bottles of water and egg sandwiches back from the services where he’d stopped for a pee. He couldn’t let them out of the back of the van, of course; he’d been given strict instructions about that. They didn’t seem to be able to speak much English, but he did hear them exchange a few words in a language he’d didn’t recognise. When he’d arrived at the address in Lincoln and opened the doors they’d been huddled together as if comforting each other. It didn’t sit well with him. Delivering parcels was one thing, people was another. He wanted no part of it but had no idea how to get himself out of the situation. He could give the police a tip-off, give them the addresses he knew, but he knew he’d probably be signing his own death warrant or at the very least setting himself up for the beating of his life. He didn’t know for certain, but if his suspicions were right and the man in charge was who he thought it was, the death warrant was a certainty. The bloke who phoned him wasn’t the boss, just one of his minions, but even he sounded threatening enough. They wouldn’t think twice about killing him and throwing his body into the foundations of some project one of the many companies the boss owned were working on, if rumours were to be believed. Steve Kent did believe them. That the boss was now dealing in people came as no surprise. Kent had only seen him in the flesh once but he’d somehow ended up being one of his men and was starting to feel out of his depth. The delivery jobs had been occasional at first, once every couple of months, but now it seemed the phone was ringing every week, even a few times a week. Perhaps the boss and his cronies had decided Kent could be trusted, maybe he’d passed his probationary period and was now accepted as a fully fledged member of the gang. Not exactly something he’d rush to put on his CV.

  * * *

  Nick Brady had been made redundant three times in as many years and was starting to feel a little sorry for himself. Take this last job for example. All right, it wasn’t as if he was saving lives or doing some good in the world, but he turned up and picked the right things, packed them in the right boxes, kept his nose clean. No sneaking out for a fag break every half hour like some of the lads, no coming in late and going home early. All he expected in return was his wages in the bank when they were supposed to be, and they’d been late two months running. Now, no great surprise, he’d been laid off – permanently. Bloody brilliant. He should be okay for the rent this month, but he’d have to find something else quickly or he’d be out on his ear, back to his mum’s. He didn’t want that. He’d have to go down to the job centre in the morning, see what they had. If past experience was anything to go by, it wouldn’t be much.

  Nick opened the door to his flat, picking up the post on the way in; just a gas bill and his credit card statement. He left them unopened on the table and went through to the bathroom for a shower, to wash that place off him for good. As he pulled his T-shirt over his head, his mobile rang in his jeans pocket. He wrestled it out, checked the display.

  ‘All right Mum, what’s up? I’m just getting in the shower. Got a bit of bad news, actually – I’ve been made redundant again.’

  ‘Oh no, Nick, you don’t have much luck with jobs, do you? Your Auntie Kay’s coming round later. I’ll see if Uncle Martin’s heard of anything going at the steelworks.’

  Nick shook his head silently. He’d have to be desperate to work with Martin Newsome. The bloke was a nightmare, full of big-mouthed bravado about his latest drinking exploits and nights out with the lads, conveniently forgetting he was a married man of fifty-three.

  ‘Anyway,’ his mum went on, ‘I’m ringing about something I’ve seen in the paper. That lad you knew at school, always in trouble, you were mates for a bit? Was his name Craig Pollard?’

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘He’s dead, been murdered apparently.’

  ‘Murdered? Come off it, Mum.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘What, because it’s in the local rag? More likely he got drunk and said something clever to the wrong person and they knifed him. It wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘I’m just telling you what it said in the paper. They’ve interviewed his mum. She’s saying the police don’t care, haven’t done anything.’

  ‘They must have done.’

  ‘Well, they’ve not arrested anyone. That’s what she means.’

  Nick felt a familiar dread in his stomach. It couldn’t be, couldn’t have anything to do with it.

  ‘Which paper, Mum? I’ll nip out and get one.’

  ‘Why don’t you just come round and read ours? I’ve got a cake in the oven.’

  * * *

  Knight lay back on his pillows, willing himself to relax. Caitlin’s news had hit him like a body blow. He still didn’t believe she was carrying his baby, but if the chance was there – and he supposed Caitlin should know – it was a possibility he was going to have to get used to. He couldn’t understand why she’d chosen to tell him now. The baby wasn’t due for another five months. Why hadn’t she waited until nearer the time? She may have thought it was his right to know now – maybe Jed had persuaded her to tell him, or perhaps one of her less nauseating friends had? He knew he’d need to speak to her again, but not now, not tonight. A baby… He’d thought about what it might be like to be a father, of course he had, but never seriously, just with a sort of passing curiosity when a colleague or friend’s child was born. The biggest surprise was that Caitlin had allowed herself to become pregnant at all. He couldn’t imagine her pushing a pram around the designer shops she favoured or carrying the baby onto the Tube. Knight shifted as his hand unconsciously crept up to his right shoulder blade. He knew how fragile life could be, his job had taught him that early on, and it continued to reinforce the lesson most days. In some ways, he hoped the baby would be Jed’s child, mostly for its own sake. Another part of him, though, felt a slight hope, a stirring of emotion at the thought of being a father.

  * * *

  He was there, she knew it, but she couldn’t see him. It was dark, unnaturally so, the blackness so thick and complete it seemed to engulf her. Catherine Bishop reached out a trembling hand, attempting to make sense of the place, trying to find her bearings. The fetid air felt heavy and hot. A scurrying sound, the scratching of tiny claws. The sound of another person breathing, but no one in sight. Catherine froze, span around. Nothing. No one, but he was there. A chuckle, low, cruel. Unamused,
mocking.

  ‘Are you lost, Catherine? Feeling helpless?’

  All at once, a shove, hard, two hands in the middle of her back. She fell to the floor, clattering without dignity. He laughed as she cried out. Flashes of light, hundreds of them, blinding and dazzling, unwelcome and threatening. Catching her unaware, at her most vulnerable, her most exposed. Forcing her to gaze at herself, her flaws, her weaknesses, everything she tried to keep hidden during the day. This was night though, the blackest of nights.

  The lights died away, and he was gone. She awoke with a cry.

  Chapter 12

  DCI Keith Kendrick didn’t often lose his temper, impatient irritation being his usual state of mind, but when he did, the whole station knew about it. Catherine stumbled towards her desk, coffee in hand to ward off the morning. She squinted at Chris Rogers, who was making strange gestures with his hands, pointing towards Catherine and miming wringing someone’s neck.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ said Catherine, plonking herself heavily in her chair. ‘Twitch getting worse?’

  ‘You’ll have a lot more than a twitch when the DCI gets his hands on you.’

  ‘He should be so lucky. What are you on about?’

  ‘Apparently, Craig Pollard’s mum’s been shouting her mouth off in the local paper: her poor little boy dead, police not bothered, useless, piss-up in a brewery, arse with both hands, etcetera, etcetera.’

  Catherine groaned. ‘Oh Christ.’

  ‘Exactly. Kendrick’s looking for you and DI Knight. He came storming through about five minutes ago, said to tell you to get to his office before your backside hit your chair.’

  Catherine got up resignedly. ‘That’s just bloody great.’

  She approached the DCI’s office, hearing what sounded like Kendrick muttering as she tapped on the door.

  ‘DS Bishop, good of you to join us.’ Kendrick nodded at the spare chair in the corner. Knight already sat opposite Kendrick, his eyes fixed on a spot just above the DCI’s head. Catherine lowered herself carefully into the chair after removing what looked like a complete change of clothes from the seat. She held the suit and shirt on her lap, not really sure where else to put them.