‘So,’ said Kendrick, throwing a copy of the previous night’s local newspaper across the desk towards Knight. ‘How do you two propose I explain this to the Superintendent?’
Knight shuffled his chair to one side so Catherine could lean over to read the article too. The gist was, as DC Rogers had said, that Craig Pollard’s mother was claiming the police had done absolutely nothing to find the person responsible for her son’s death. She said they had barely spoken to her or her husband and offered them no idea of when they might expect to bury their son. A photograph of a tearful Mrs Pollard clutching a gilt-framed picture of Craig dominated the front page, along with the headline MOTHER’S ANGER AT POLICE FAILURE.
‘We’re doing our best,’ Catherine said.
Kendrick leaned forward. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Catherine made herself meet his eyes. ‘We’re doing the best we can, sir.’
‘Are we, Sergeant? Then why is Craig Pollard’s killer not sitting in one of our delightfully welcoming interview rooms? Why did Craig Pollard’s killer not spend last night staring down into a bowl of prison soup, hoping the showers will be safe? Why aren’t we all digging out our black ties to go to Craig Pollard’s funeral and tell his parents how sorry we are, but at least we’ve caught the bastard?’
Catherine kept quiet. There was no reasoning with Kendrick in this mood; it was best just to let him burn himself out. She hoped Knight would realise this too, but then one of them would have to speak.
‘Cat got your tongue, Sergeant?’
Catherine stared at the floor, fiddling with one of the buttons on the suit jacket she held. Kendrick glared.
‘Leave that button alone, that suit cost a bloody fortune!’ He stood abruptly, snatched the suit from Catherine and stuffed it under his desk, along with the shirt and tie. ‘We’ll look even better if I have to go to a press conference about this fiasco with no buttons on my suit. Now,’ he took the newspaper back, ‘anyone got anything to say? I know this isn’t the run of the mill drunken assault that got out of hand, but we must have something I can take back to the Super. DI Knight?’
Knight chewed his thumbnail. ‘No more than we had last night. The main issue is the messages relating to DS Bishop, and we have no idea what they mean. Until we do…’
‘Until we do, we just hope the killer happens to wander into reception and give himself up?’ Kendrick was getting worked up again. ‘Brilliant. Mrs Pollard will love that. I can just see the headline now,’ he spread his arms wide, ‘police admit they have no bloody idea. All suggestions gratefully received!’
‘We do have some points to follow up.’ Knight spoke calmly.
‘Really? Well, that makes a change.’ Kendrick stared at him. ‘Let’s follow them up then, shall we? I want you both back here at two with something new to tell me.’
As they were obviously dismissed, Knight led the way out into the corridor. Catherine offered him a weak smile.
‘Well, that was fun,’ she said.
Knight grinned.
‘Let’s get a cup of tea.’
* * *
Catherine treated herself to a chocolate muffin as well as tea, Knight choosing a piece of flapjack.
‘Best make sure the DCI doesn’t come in and see us in here,’ she said. ‘Not after he’s just ordered us to find Craig Pollard’s killer before lunchtime.’
‘We won’t be hanging around,’ said Knight. ‘Anna Varcoe’s got a location for that anonymous phone call – a phone box in town. She’s off getting the CCTV footage now. We need to know who made that call; she’s telling them we need it prioritising.’
‘Agreed, sir. He must know something. What are we going to do about Mrs Pollard?’
‘Not much we can do now really. She’s got a point, I suppose. She doesn’t know about the messages, so to her eyes we just need to pick up whichever drunken gobshite Craig had a run-in with. You and I know it’s not that simple. And we’ve no forensics, no witnesses, nothing from the post-mortem that can help, no obvious motive or suspects. We’ve already talked about Kelly Whitcham and Mike Pollard, but I don’t honestly think either of them are our killer. So, back to the messages and the phone call. They’re all we have.’
Catherine nodded. ‘Makes sense.’
‘We need a list of Pollard’s school friends from his parents, if they’ll even talk to us now. Can you speak to the family liaison officer again, please? I’ll work with DC Varcoe, try to get an image we can use from the CCTV stuff. Maybe Pollard’s parents will recognise whoever made that call if we get really lucky. We could check with Kelly Whitcham and Mike Pollard too. Someone must know who he is.’ Knight ran his fingers through his hair, his hand straying to his shoulder blade. Catherine frowned, pretended not to notice.
‘Assuming he really did know Craig Pollard years ago, of course.’ The last of the chocolate muffin disappeared into Catherine’s mouth.
‘Assuming we get an image. Assuming the CCTV camera was working. Assuming he wasn’t wearing a mask, or a balaclava, or a fucking motorbike helmet.’
Catherine stared at him, eyebrows raised. She stood up. ‘I’ll speak to PC Stathos, sir,’ she said, and walked away.
Knight, feeling slightly guilty, closed his eyes and pushed his chair back. It seemed they were going to need some luck.
* * *
Kendrick’s two o’clock deadline was still a few hours away when Catherine arrived back at the station. She crossed the CID room to her desk, smiling at some of the uniforms that were scurrying around. Taking out her notepad, she flipped through the list of names she’d scrawled during her visit to Craig Pollard’s parents. This would be one in the eye for Knight, after the way he’d snapped at her earlier. She wouldn’t show him he’d annoyed her, but he’d probably realised. Irene and Pete Pollard had provided a short list of names and a quick phone call to Mike Pollard had added a couple more. The information wouldn’t necessarily be much use on its own but depending on what Varcoe and Knight got from the CCTV tapes, both her list and any image produced could be used together to narrow down any suspects. After the frustration of the last couple of days, it had been good to get back to actually making progress. She didn’t often feel as if she was wasting her time, but a little of that had crept in. Her personal involvement in the case was beginning to come to the front of her mind more often, and that was something Catherine didn’t want. She knew herself well enough to realise the only way to keep any worry, concern or fear about why Craig Pollard’s killer had identified her at the scene at bay was to keep the case moving forward, to make sure they found the answers as soon as possible.
* * *
Knight leant forward, squinting at the image on the screen. Anna Varcoe scrubbed at her eyes with her fingertips, the beginnings of a headache making its presence felt.
‘And this is as clear as it gets?’ said Knight. It was more of a statement than a question.
Varcoe nodded. ‘We’ve worked with worse. Someone might recognise him.’
‘And no motorbike helmet…’
Varcoe glanced at him, bemused. ‘No, sir. Not as far as I can make out.’
Knight got to his feet. ‘Okay. If you talk to DS Bishop, she was trying to get a list of Pollard’s school friends together. If she’s got something, we might have matey in an interview room this afternoon.’
Varcoe left him gazing at something only he could see on the wall. She shook her head as she made her way to the CID room. Knight was a strange man, she thought. Inspector Wallpaper strikes again, though he had said more to her today than ever. Even he couldn’t ignore the unsolved Pollard case breathing down their necks, especially with Kendrick on the warpath. Catherine Bishop was sitting at her desk in the corner, frowning into the mug she held. Varcoe approached, waited.
‘All right, Anna?’ said Catherine, peering further into the cup.
‘Something wrong with your drink, Sarge?’
‘I’ve dropped half a Rich Tea in it, was hoping I could salvage something. I think
it’s a goner, though. What’s that?’
Varcoe held up the print. ‘Our mystery caller. Craig Pollard’s “old schoolfriend”.’ To Catherine’s relief, Varcoe refrained from illustrating the quote with her fingers.
‘Hmm, that was quick. Let’s have a look,’ she said. Varcoe handed over the sheet. The image was grainy, the man’s face turned slightly away from centre. ‘Not exactly a looker, is he?’ Catherine tipped her head to the side, turning the paper in her hands, then glancing up at Varcoe, who grinned.
‘Don’t know, Sarge. Hard to tell from that, I’d have thought.’
‘I’ve been running the names we got from Mr and Mrs Pollard through the PNC, but nothing so far on any of this lot. Thought we might get lucky, but I should have known better. Fancy a trip out to the Pollard house with me?’
Varcoe shuffled her feet. ‘What’s the mood like in there?’
‘The mood? Mrs Pollard’s liable to snap at you like a shark that’s just come off hunger strike as soon as she knows you’re a copper – I was there this morning. Alexa Stathos is still there, making loads of tea and trying to stay out of the way.’
‘What about the story in the paper? Didn’t Alexa know about it?’
‘You would think. Seems Mrs Pollard was sneaky, and I suppose Alexa can’t be there all the time. Helen Bridges wrote the story, of course, and we know her of old, don’t we?’
Varcoe nodded, sighing. ‘Oh yes, she’ll want to get the nationals involved if she can, then. Remember the story she did about the ACC getting out of paying a parking fine? Talk about a load of trumped-up rubbish.’
‘She was right thought, wasn’t she?’ Catherine whispered.
Chapter 13
By one o’clock, Catherine and Varcoe were feeling a lot less cheery. Craig Pollard’s parents hadn’t been able to identify the man on Varcoe’s printout, and they’d been more or less ordered off the premises after a few minutes. PC Alexa Stathos smiled apologetically as she showed them to the door, then told Catherine and Varcoe in a furious whisper that she didn’t know what she was doing in the Pollard’s house, they obviously resented her presence, and could they talk to someone about it please? Catherine promised to see what she could do. Back in the car, Varcoe turned to Catherine.
‘What now, Sarge?’
Catherine sighed. ‘I think we should go to the pub.’
Varcoe waited.
‘No? Okay, maybe we should go back to the station as I’ve got a meeting with His Highness DCI Kendrick at two and I don’t know what’ll happen if I’m late. He’ll probably have my head cut off and stuck up on the outside of the station as a warning to others. Although, we do have time to go via the building site Craig Pollard’s brother works on. Looks like he’s our final chance until we go to Pollard’s old school.’
‘There’s always Kelly Whitcham.’
‘True. Let’s see what Mike says first, though. I don’t think Kelly was around when Craig was at school. If we don’t have any joy, as I say, we’ll go to the school, the pubs and maybe – don’t let Kendrick hear – the local press.’
‘You know where this building site is then?’
Catherine started the engine. ‘Let’s hope I can remember.’
* * *
The drive took about ten minutes. Catherine chatted away about all sorts of things, Anna Varcoe adding comments when she could get a word in. Varcoe couldn’t remember working like this with the DS before and she was enjoying the experience. She’d once been told Catherine could be prickly and difficult to get on with, but she’d never found this herself and wasn’t one to judge on hearsay. All sorts of gossip travelled around the station, rumours, scandals and plain lies, but Varcoe tried to keep herself away from it as much as she could. She also didn’t want to be the talk of the station and had always kept her work and her personal life as separate as she could. It had worked pretty well so far.
* * *
Catherine bumped the car up onto a grass verge and brought it to a halt. They climbed out and made their way over to the nearest builder, who nodded his head towards a muddy path through the site. Following it was a tricky business as it was potholed and wet, but they made it through unscathed to where Mike Pollard was unloading sheets of insulation from the back of a trailer. Catherine sauntered over.
‘Afternoon, Mike. How’s it going?’
Pollard turned. ‘How’s what going? I’ve spoken to you once today already, can’t you leave me alone? Have you found out who killed my brother yet?’
In response, Catherine stuck the printout under Pollard’s nose. He stared at it.
‘Who’s this?’
‘We were hoping you could tell us.’
Pollard took the sheet, held it up to the light. ‘Looks like one of Craig’s old mates. Nick… no, Steve something.’
‘Steve who? This is really important, Mike.’
‘I don’t know, I just know him as Steve. Used to be a pal of Craig’s years ago. I’m sure that was his name.’
Catherine took the paper back. ‘And this was when Craig was at school? Was he a school friend, or did Craig know him from somewhere else?’
Pollard shook his head. ‘I don’t know, honestly. I think it was after school, maybe when Craig was working, but I’m not sure. They didn’t want me hanging around with them.’
‘And there’s nothing else you can tell us about him?’
‘I don’t think so. They were quite matey for a while, but I think they had some kind of an argument. Maybe not though. Craig had so many friends back then, different ones every week it seemed like.’
‘All right, thanks Mike.’
Pollard turned away, went back to the insulation. Catherine and Varcoe left him to it, made their way gingerly back to the car. Catherine dropped into the driver’s seat and sighed.
‘Shit,’ she said.
‘It’s a start,’ said Varcoe.
‘I know, but the DCI wants a finish. There must be a million Steves in town, and that’s assuming Pollard remembered the right name and this mysterious Steve even lived here. He could be from anywhere.’
‘We’ll have to go to the school, then.’
‘Yes, but not now. I need to get back to the station. You go on after you’ve dropped me off, take someone else with you. Here you go.’ Catherine held out the now slightly creased printout. Varcoe reached out and took it from her quickly as Catherine threw the car into gear and sped off.
* * *
Knight paced the conference room as Catherine shot through the door. It was a couple of minutes after two o’clock, but there was no sign as yet of the DCI. Catherine Bishop ran her hands through her hair as she sat down. Knight stood beside her.
‘How did you and DC Varcoe get on?’ he asked.
‘We got a name from Mike Pollard, but only a first name. Pollard’s parents didn’t recognise him. Mike says the bloke’s called Steve, but obviously that’s about as helpful as him being called John Smith. Anna’s on her way over to the school Pollard used to go to now, to see if anyone there knows our man, but I think it’s a bit of a long shot to be honest. Mike Pollard thinks Craig might have been friends with our mystery caller after school, and anyway, will there be any teachers left who remember Craig Pollard, much less all his mates?’
Knight settled in the seat next to Catherine. ‘Maybe, maybe not, but we have to try. This case is a bloody nightmare. Every report we write might as well just say “we don’t have a clue”.’
They both turned to look at the door as Kendrick’s unmistakeable voice was heard in the distance, followed by him guffawing. Catherine and Knight stared at each other, and Catherine made the gesture with her index finger screwed into her temple to indicate ‘he’s mad’. It wasn’t something she’d done since school, but it made her and Knight smile. They heard footsteps outside the door.
‘Brace yourself,’ Knight murmured.
There was something about Keith Kendrick that meant everyone sat up straight when he entered a room, and Catherine and
Knight were no exceptions. Catherine felt the urge to chant ‘Good afternoon DCI Kendrick’, as if she was at primary school.
Kendrick yanked a chair from under the conference table and settled his considerable bulk in it.
‘In case you’re wondering,’ he said, ‘the probably only momentary lifting of my bad mood is due to DI Hawkins bringing in two members of the gang we think are responsible for all the four-by-four thefts we’ve had recently. The other two men involved are being collected from their respective nasty little day jobs as we speak. So. Let’s keep this elation of mine going. What have you two got for me?’
Knight handed him a new copy of the image of the mystery caller.
‘His name’s Steve,’ Catherine added helpfully. Kendrick stared at the paper, his huge hands turning the page around to look at it from every angle as if that would make it clearer, just as Catherine had.
‘Have we found him? Had a little chat about why it’s extremely rude to refuse to leave your name and number when you call your friendly local police station for a cosy chat about a murder victim?’
Catherine shifted in her chair.
Knight said, ‘Not exactly. We only know his first name so far. DC Varcoe is off at Pollard’s old school now, trying to find out if anyone there can help.’
Kendrick was drawing himself up, no doubt in preparation for another rant, so Catherine butted in.
‘And we’re compiling the details of every Steve in the area who’s around Craig’s age to see if any of their surnames ring any bells with his brother or parents,’ she said. ‘It was Mike Pollard that gave us the name Steve in the first place.’
On Laughton Moor Page 8