On Laughton Moor

by On Laughton Moor (epub)

  * * *

  Knight stood at the back of the press conference watching Stringer’s face growing redder by the second. He was pleased he wasn’t sitting at the highly polished wooden desk at the front of the room, where DCI Kendrick was attempting to reassure the assembled journalists, and in particular local reporter Helen Bridges, that bringing the murderer of Craig Pollard to justice had always been a priority, and that it hadn’t taken a second murder to force them to take Pollard’s death seriously.

  ‘So you do admit there’s a link between the two cases?’ Bridges said.

  ‘We can’t comment.’ Kendrick folded his arms, remembered it made him seem defensive and uncrossed them.

  Bridges wasn’t going to give up. ‘Come on, Chief Inspector. Two men, both with their heads beaten in, their bodies found a couple of days apart? Did Pollard and Kent know each other? Should young men in the area be worried? Can you confirm you’re investigating both deaths simultaneously?’

  Kendrick cast a panicked look at Stringer, who cleared her throat.

  ‘No comment,’ she said.

  Bridges gave a scornful laugh. ‘Are you actually going to tell us anything, Superintendent, or should we just all leave now? Your statement gave us nothing.’

  Kendrick leant forward. ‘We can tell you that we have a possible witness to the Steven Kent murder and that person is helping us with our enquiries.’

  ‘Man, woman? What did they see?’ Bridges was up out of her chair again.

  ‘No further comments about the witness,’ Stringer said firmly.

  Bridges looked outraged. ‘You can’t just say you have a witness and leave it at that.’

  Stringer looked down her nose. ‘We can, Ms Bridges, and we have.’

  Bridges continued to splutter, and a young man stood up.

  ‘Superintendent Stringer, would it be fair to say that at this point in time you have no idea who killed Craig Pollard or Steven Kent?’ he said.

  Stringer took a deep breath. ‘It would be fair to say our investigations are ongoing in both cases. That’s all everyone, thank you.’

  She stood quickly and began making her way towards the end of the table and escape. The media liaison officer looked shell-shocked. Knight thought it would be a good idea to make himself scarce and headed back to his office.

  * * *

  Jodie Kent’s house was warm and clean, modern and bright, as was Kent herself, or would have been had it not been for the news of her brother’s death. She welcomed them in, apologised for the mess though there was none and offered tea or coffee. She was pale, grief plainly visible on her face, but she managed a smile as she handed them their drinks. They went through to the living room where a toddler was playing with a brightly coloured toy kitchen. Varcoe smiled down at him and was rewarded with a grin.

  ‘He’s gorgeous,’ she told Kent.

  ‘Thank you. He’s almost walking; we’ve got to watch him every minute.’

  ‘Firstly, Ms Kent, please allow me to say how sorry we are for your loss,’ said Catherine formally. She hated these occasions, always uncomfortably aware how trite every condolence could sound when you had never met the victim.

  Kent bowed her head.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘call me Jodie.’

  ‘Thank you, Jodie. DS Etheridge from your local station called to say you had some information you wanted to share with the officers investigating your brother’s death. Is that correct?’

  Kent nodded. ‘I didn’t want to tell Etheridge anything. The woman that came with him to tell us about Steve was nice, but he was a… pig,’ she said, glancing at her son.

  ‘I see. I’m sorry to hear that,’ Catherine said.

  ‘Oh, don’t you apologise for him. You don’t even work with him, do you? You’re from Lincolnshire. I grew up in Northolme, came here to university and met Mark, never moved back.’

  ‘Were you close to Steve?’ Catherine asked gently.

  ‘I’d say so. He’s… he was a few years younger, and we used to fight when we were little, like you do, but as we got older we got on fine. He used to call in if he was out this way with a delivery, stayed over occasionally… My partner’s a paramedic, does long shifts like yourselves, so I was glad of the company if Mark was working. After Mum and Dad were killed, Steve and I were each other’s only family. He loved Toby,’ the child looked up and smiled, recognising his name, ‘and he and Mark always got on well. We all used to watch football and have a few beers.’

  ‘Your brother worked as a courier?’

  Kent nodded, shifting anxiously in her chair. Here we go, thought Catherine.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk about.’

  ‘Steve’s job?’

  ‘He called here one night, it was about seven o’clock. I asked him if he wanted tea, wanted to stay, and he did. We’d eaten, we were sitting in here watching the TV when Steve’s mobile rang. He got a strange look on his face, like he felt guilty or was worried. He took the phone out of his pocket, and I could see it wasn’t his usual mobile. He had a fancy one, all singing, all dancing, but this one was really plain and simple. He listened to whoever was ringing, didn’t say a word, not hello or goodbye or anything. He put the phone away and sort of slumped down in the chair. I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, but it seemed really odd to me. I asked if it was work, and he mumbled. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, and then he changed the subject. I thought it was weird, and I mentioned it to Mark when he came home, but we didn’t worry too much; it was just strange. A few weeks later, Steve was staying again, and I could tell he was worried. He was quiet, snappy, not himself.’

  She paused and took a mouthful of her tea, then pulled a crumpled tissue from her pocket and wiped her eyes.

  ‘You’re doing really well, Jodie,’ Varcoe told her.

  ‘Mark was here. He said he’d take Steve down to the pub, have a talk to him, see if he could help. They came back later than usual, and Steve was in a state. Mark said every time he went to the bar he’d had a double whisky, according to the barmaid. He could hardly stand up, so Mark brought a duvet and pillow down and we just left him to sleep on the settee in here rather than trying to get him up to the spare room. Mark told me Steve had said he could be in trouble. His mate had done something daft that could drop them all in it. He’d mentioned some deliveries too, stuff he didn’t want to be involved with. Mark wasn’t sure what he meant. Steve said he’d been doing a few cash-in-hand jobs outside of work, good money. It had been fine to start with, a few parcels, but he was worried he was getting in over his head. He wouldn’t say any more than that.’

  Kent’s son reached out a pleading hand to his mother and she excused herself, saying she needed to fetch the child a drink. Catherine looked at Varcoe, who nodded. Both thought Kent had something new to tell them, hopefully significant. Kent was back, bending to give the child a plastic-lidded beaker. She sat back down, hugging a cushion close.

  ‘Anyway, when we were sure Steve was asleep, I think he probably passed out to be honest, I took his keys from his jacket pocket and Mark went to have a look in the van.’ Her eyes sought out Catherine’s, willing her to understand. ‘He didn’t want to, neither of us did, but we were worried, and we thought if we knew what was going on, maybe we could help. Mark came back in. He was shaking his head, told me to go and look. I went out, opened the back doors. There were sandwich cartons in there, empty bottles of water, some blankets… I didn’t understand. It looked like people had been in there, travelling in there, but why would they be? Why wouldn’t they sit in the front? I went back in, asked Mark what he thought. The only idea we could come up with was that Steve had taken a person, or some people, in the van who didn’t want to be seen. And why would that be? It had to be something dodgy, didn’t it?’

  Catherine and Varcoe kept quiet, and Kent continued her story.

  ‘It could just have been some labourers or farm workers, I suppose, but… anyway, we didn’t know what to think, and we cou
ldn’t ask Steve. We did write these down though.’ She took a sheet of folded notepaper from her pocket and handed it to Catherine. ‘It’s the postcodes from Steve’s satnav.’

  Varcoe glanced at Catherine, who shook her head slightly. No satnav had been found in Kent’s vehicle.

  ‘I’m not sure if they’ll be any use to you. We were going to drive to them when Mark had his next few days off, see if we could find out what Steve was up to, but it’s too late now.’ Jodie Kent fought to keep her composure. ‘I don’t think he would have done anything illegal. I’m sure it was just some of his mates, a favour, cash in hand, that sort of thing. He wouldn’t have been involved in anything really dodgy.’

  Chapter 24

  Back in the car, statements from Jodie Kent and her partner who had been asleep upstairs taken, Catherine unfolded the paper again. There were ten postcodes written neatly in blue biro; six were Lincolnshire area codes, the rest further afield.

  ‘How much do you bet that one of these is Milica Zukic’s brothel?’ she said.

  ‘I should think it’s almost definite. Question is, which one?’

  ‘Only one way to find out. I’ll give DI Knight a call. Do you fancy some more driving?’

  Starting the engine, Varcoe pulled a face. ‘Not much choice, Sarge. We’re about sixty miles from home.’

  ‘Don’t be facetious, Anna, it doesn’t suit you.’ Catherine grinned, rummaging in her bag for her phone. ‘Hello, sir, how was the press conference?’ She couldn’t help but smile as Knight filled her in on the grilling Stringer and Kendrick had endured, then told him about the postcodes given to them by Jodie Kent, and the name she had given them – Dave. Another popular one for Kendrick to moan about. ‘What do you want us to do? We’re just leaving Leeds. We could have a look at the Lincoln address on the way back to the station, or shall we leave it?’

  Knight pondered for a few seconds before agreeing it was a good idea to see what they could find out that evening.

  ‘Drop Claire in Intel an email too,’ Knight said. ‘See what she can dig up tomorrow.’

  ‘Put your foot down, Anna,’ said Catherine, settling back into her seat. She should have driven, she reflected; it would have kept her mind busier. She glanced in the wing mirror, studying the car behind them. Paranoid, she thought. She welcomed the chance to contact Claire again, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush on a pop star as she thought about it. Idiot.

  ‘Shouldn’t Milica Zukic visit this place with us?’

  ‘She probably will eventually. Let’s see them ourselves first. We don’t know whether one of these places was where she was held, and even it was, chances are it’ll be empty now. As DI Knight keeps saying, the person who killed Pollard and Kent may not be involved with the gang that kept Milica prisoner.’

  ‘We know Pollard spent just about every penny he had, Sarge – what if he was a punter at this place?’

  Catherine frowned, thinking. ‘Milica Zukic did say some of the girls seemed younger than her sister, who was only seventeen, and we know from Mike Pollard that Craig was keen on girls who were just legal – who’s to say his tastes didn’t run to even younger?’

  Varcoe grimaced, hands tightening on the steering wheel. ‘He wouldn’t be the first, Sarge.’

  ‘Let me speak to the DI again.’

  * * *

  Knight was wandering around the incident room, looking lost. DS Cuthbert watched him, muttering to PC Lawrence: ‘Do you think he even knows where he is?’

  The constable smiled warily. ‘He must have done something right to be a DI,’ she pointed out.

  Cuthbert snorted. ‘Maybe they were desperate, having a two-for-one offer or something.’

  Knight glanced in their direction, then moved away. PC Lawrence looked worried. ‘You don’t think he heard, do you?’

  Cuthbert snorted. ‘Do you care?’

  ‘Of course I care. I don’t want to be a constable all my life.’

  ‘I don’t think cosying up to DI Knight will do your chances of promotion any good, if I’m honest. He’s not set the world on fire since he’s been here, has he?’

  ‘He must have seen all sorts in the Met though.’

  ‘Seen it, yes, but solved it? We don’t know about that, do we? We know nothing about him. Proper mystery man.’

  ‘I’m not getting involved in slagging him off, anyway.’ The PC turned away, and Cuthbert moved off, scowling. Knight was now standing with his face to the wall, mumbling into his mobile phone. Cuthbert rolled his eyes, went back to the whiteboards.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of people running the same checks on the name Dave that we ran on Steve and Nick. We’ll see if that gets us anywhere. Pollard’s parents and brother are being contacted too, to see if they remember anyone called Dave. He could be our mystery caller, but he could be our killer too. We need to remember that,’ Knight said.

  ‘Yes, sir. What do you think of DC Varcoe’s suggestion that Pollard could have been a paying customer as well as perving around town?’ Catherine’s voice echoed in Knight’s ear.

  ‘I can’t hear you very well,’ he told her. ‘We can show his photo to Milica Zukic, unless you did that earlier?’

  Catherine admitted she hadn’t thought of it.

  ‘I’m not sure if our interpreter is still here. Probably not. Even without him I’m sure Miss Zukic will understand what we want her to do if I show her the photo. Did you get an up-to-date shot of Steven Kent from his sister?’

  ‘We did,’ Catherine confirmed.

  ‘Okay, good. I’ll see you back here.’

  Knight disappeared into the corridor.

  ‘Off to save the world,’ muttered Cuthbert.

  Chapter 25

  Milica Zukic stared up at the ceiling of the cell she’d now been lying in for about seven hours, save looking at the photographs with Catherine and Dr Whelan. Whelan was pleasant, reassuring. He’d told her the police meant her no harm, that the only reason she was in a cell was for her own protection. Could she believe that? Did she have any reason to trust the police? No, but then she had no real reason to distrust them either. She shivered, shuffling on the bunk. The sweatshirt she’d been provided with wasn’t very thick, and she needed to shower and wash her hair. She thought about her parents in Serbia worrying about her and hoped her uncle had told them she was safe. She’d been stupid to believe her uncle, should have known what he said was too good to be true, but he was family, and if you couldn’t trust your family… She worried that her sister had suffered the same fate, that even now she was locked in a house somewhere in Britain – a living hell. Compared to the other girls in that house and many others like it, Milica knew she had been lucky. She shivered again, wrapping her arms around her body.

  The cell door opened, and Milica shrank back into the corner where her bunk met the wall. The man who entered the cell was smiling, his eyes kind. She recognised him as the inspector who had spoken to her earlier. He held a tray of food which he offered to her: sandwiches, a banana, cake and a bottle of orange juice. She smiled gratefully and took the tray. He had a sheaf of papers under his arm and he studied them while she ate. Milica felt she could trust this man. She couldn’t have said why, but she was sure of it and she felt her body relax. Her meal finished, she placed the plates, banana skin and empty bottle tidily on the tray and looked expectantly at Knight. He stepped forward, offering her a sheet of paper which she took and studied. It was another of their photographs; a man of a similar age to herself. She considered. Had she seen him before? No. Never. Shaking her head apologetically, she handed the sheet back to Knight.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, with a hesitant smile. He smiled back, shrugging.

  ‘Thank you for trying,’ he said.

  Milica, understanding thank you, shook her head, meaning It was nothing. She wanted to ask him what would happen now, where she would go and if she was to stay here could she wash or at least have a blanket, but she didn’t have the words and she felt stupid and inadequate. Knight becko
ned to her with his hand, and she got warily to her feet. He opened the cell door wide, and in the corridor stood a uniformed police officer, female, young, smiling pleasantly at Zukic, who looked at Knight questioningly.

  ‘You go with PC Roberts,’ said Knight, using a few more hand gestures. Zukic understood the gist of what he was saying.

  PC Roberts pointed at herself and said, ‘Natalie.’

  Milica smiled in understanding, made the same gesture and said her own name. Smiling broadly now, the two women shook hands. Knight walked quietly away.

  * * *

  Catherine and Varcoe sat squinting through the darkness at a row of dilapidated terraced houses, car engine idling.

  ‘That’s number twelve, green door,’ Catherine said, slouching lower in her seat as a scrawny man lurched unsteadily down the pavement. She tensed, but he passed them without a glance.

  ‘Weird how it looks just the same as all the other houses, but then I don’t suppose they’d want to advertise what was going on inside,’ Varcoe said, rubbing her hands together.

  ‘People must have some idea though, surely?’

  ‘You would think so, but then, as we know, people are good at turning a blind eye to things they don’t want to get involved with.’

  ‘True. Come on, let’s get out of here. I think we have to say this is a possibility, but we need Milica Zukic to confirm it. It could be perfectly innocent, just a place Kent had to bring an everyday parcel to, but… I don’t know.’

  Varcoe glanced over her shoulder and accelerated away from the kerb. ‘No signs of life anyway. No lights on, no queue of punters in the front garden.’

  ‘Do you call that a garden? Looks like the local tip to me. We’ll see what we can find out about the place when we’re back at the station. It’s bloody freezing and I’m dying for a warm drink.’

  As Varcoe concentrated on finding the way through the warren of identical streets, Catherine typed a text: