by Helen Forbes
‘And the girl? Where was she staying?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. She could have been sleeping rough, or in one of the homeless hostels in the town centre; there’s plenty of them to choose from. I know you think I’m scum, but I have standards, and mixing with the homeless isn’t really my thing. I’m not sure I even saw this girl. Just heard about her.’
‘Do you know of anyone with a walking stick that hangs about with Todd?’
‘Definitely not.’
Joe gave him a card. ‘If you hear or remember anything else, call me.’
***
Chapter 22
Castlefield Apartments consisted of three blocks of glass-fronted luxury flats built on a north-facing slope that had once been part of Castle Heather Farm. There wasn’t much farm land left in the area, with new housing schemes extending the city ever outwards. ‘Must be some view from upstairs,’ Roberts said. ‘Right across to the Black Isle.’
Joe nodded and pulled away from the flats. The last thing they needed was Todd or Jimmy Spaz getting wind of them before they’d discovered the right flat and got a warrant and an armed response unit. Was Todd’s pal the Jimmy that Katya Birze had mentioned the day Tina Lewis and Joe went to the flat on Carlton Terrace?
It was going to take a while to get mobile phone records to show where Katya Birze had phoned Mikey from, but they had her previous address in London. The Met were looking into that. Her photo was about to be circulated to the press, and there was a flag on her passport. In the meantime, Joe wondered if she too was in danger.
At the station, Joe asked Roberts to see what he could find out about the occupants of Castlefield Apartments. ‘I’ll be back shortly; I’ve just remembered something.’
He had just remembered he had a girlfriend in hospital, possibly with a life-threatening condition, and he hadn’t texted, called or visited her today. He hadn’t even looked at his phone. It was on silent in his pocket. There were three texts from Carla and two missed calls. One of the texts said she might be getting home tomorrow. A bit late to be calling her now, but he tried anyway. Her phone was off. He left a grovelling message and sent her a text saying he could take her home tomorrow, of course he could.
There were two texts from Lucy asking if he had time to call round before he went home. He replied and told her he’d have to work late, but he’d see her soon. Well, soonish. He was making his way back to see how Roberts was getting on, when DI Black asked him into his office. He told Joe to sit down. ‘Awaiting a call. Could be interesting.’
The call came and DI Black managed to disconnect the caller twice. Joe took over. It was a DCI from Manchester. The prints on the back door handles of Sutherland’s car, and on the envelope and photo delivered to Roz Sutherland matched those found at the scene of a murder in Manchester in 2008.
‘Nancy Connor,’ the Mancunian DCI said. ‘Fifty year old prostitute in Cheetham Hill. A heroin addict, she was bipolar. Mad as a box of snakes, by all accounts. She was found in an alley close to her flat, strangled with a leather belt. His fingerprints were all over it.’
‘Any leads?’ DI Black asked. ‘Did you have a suspect?’
‘Big bald bloke in his early thirties had been asking questions about her. He’d paid two toms for information about her earlier that week. He wasn’t local. London, maybe. We got nowhere. I’ll get the file copied to you, and we can discuss it further.’
Fifteen minutes later, Joe found Roberts on the phone. He was grovelling. Must be Jill. A veterinary nurse, he’d met her when they were working on the Moira Jacobs case last year. She looked like butter wouldn’t melt, but it sounded like she was giving him hell.
‘Okay. Yeah. Okay. Bye.’ He cut the call, his face red. ‘Sorry Sarge. I thought I better take the call. Forgot to let her know I wouldn’t be round tonight. She’s not happy.’
Joe tried to smile, but nothing came.
‘What’s wrong, Sarge?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. There’s been a development, actually.’ He told Roberts about the murder of Nancy Connor.
‘So why are you looking so miserable?’
‘Just a bit tired. You seen Jackson?’
‘No. He probably sloped off hours ago. In his kip, lazy bugger. What do you want with him, Sarge?’
‘I don’t. I’d be more than happy if I never set eyes on him again, but see if he pushes it tomorrow, I might just have to kill him.’
*
Ryan’s body felt like it was made of stone. Maybe he was so heavy, he’d sink the boat. Might not be a bad thing. Slip into the water, into unconsciousness, oblivion. What else was there for him? The police would have the bus and train stations covered. He peeped out from under the tarpaulin. It was almost dark. He couldn’t stay here. He’d go mad.
He slipped from the boat, his feet light on the walkway so he wouldn’t alert anyone. Shit. The gate was locked with a dirty great padlock, and there was no way he could get over the high fence with three rows of barbed wire at the top. Idiot. Of course it would be locked at night to keep people like him out. He should have sneaked off the boat earlier, but there was too much activity going on. There was no way he was going back in that boat. Maybe he could find one with more facilities, a comfy bunk and some food. He turned to go and look, and then he heard the rattle of a chain.
The guy on the other side of the fence was trying to get the key in the padlock, with no luck. Pink jumper, polo shirt, cream chinos and soft black deck shoes. Definitely a yachtie. He peered through the fence at Ryan. ‘Evening.’ The smell of booze nearly knocked Ryan over.
‘Good evening.’ Ryan used the posh voice he kept for taking the piss out of his teachers. ‘Have you had a good night?’
‘Excellent. Too good.’ He winked. ‘You wouldn’t have a torch, would you?’
Ryan used the torch on his phone to light up the padlock. It took a while, but at last the guy opened it.
Ryan smiled. ‘Excellent. Don’t worry; I’ll lock it behind you. Take care getting on your boat.’
‘Cheers, mate. Have a good one.’
Ryan left it open; he might be back. He crossed the main road, and made his way along the canal bank. Up the slope, down the steps, and along the path at the back of his pal’s house. Despite the light in Sean’s bedroom, it took several handfuls of small stones to alert him. He came to the window, headphones round his neck. ‘Ryan? Is that you? Police were here looking for you.’
‘Tell the world about it, why don’t you? You going to let me in?’
Sean held out his hand. ‘Respect, man. Pigs everywhere. Put it there.’
‘Piss off.’ Ryan pushed past Sean into the kitchen. It was the usual stinking mess. ‘I need water, something to eat. Where’s your mother?’
‘Who knows? Haven’t seen her for a couple of days. Probably with that Pole she’s been seeing. Junkie bastard. Anyway, enough about my mother. What you been up to? Is it something to do with that bald guy that picks you up from school? I didn’t mention him to the pigs. Who is he?’
‘The less you know the better. Food? Water? Then I’ll be on my way.’
‘Plenty water.’ Sean filled a pint glass. Ryan held it up to the light, studying the faint remnants of Sean’s mother’s lipstick. ‘Too much to ask for a clean glass?’
‘You’re on the run. Can’t expect silver service. Turn it round, mate; that side’s clean. Now, food.’
‘Is that a lip and eye pie?’ Ryan poked the cold pie with his fork. ‘And what the hell’s that?’ Slices of something red and slimy, swimming in a pink juice.
‘Beetroot. Can’t beat it – get it? Can’t beet it? Never mind. It’s the dog’s bollocks, that – meat pie and beetroot. Why d’you call it lip and eye pie?’
Ryan smiled. ‘Just something my auntie’s man says. He works in a bakery. Turned vegetarian after seeing what they put in these pies.’
The tanginess of the beetroot went well with the pie. Ryan washed it down with a second pint of water.
‘Jeez, you’re thirsty. Where you been hiding?’
‘If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.’
There was a hint of fear in Sean’s eyes. How much had the police told him?
‘Sorry, mate. I’m joking. I was down the canal in an old boat. Listen, it is that bald bastard that’s got me into trouble, but you’re better not knowing the details. Any chance I could use your laptop before I get off?’
While Sean played the PlayStation, Ryan fired up the laptop. He didn’t dare check his email or Facebook, just googled his name. Shit; he was on the BBC news website. Police were worried about a missing child in Inverness. Aw, not that photo. First time his mother had the money to pay for a school photo, so he’d ruined it. Dark greasy hair and a scowling, dour, spotty face. A frightening face; he’d never seen anyone look guiltier. At least they hadn’t linked him to the next story – two people wanted in connection with two murders in Inverness. A woman, Katya Birze, the dark haired woman that was arguing with Danielle. Must be the Kat that Todd often spoke to on the phone. There was no photo of Todd, and no name. Just a description – bald, well-built, about six foot, in his late thirties. And extremely dangerous. And below it, a photo of Danielle in her school uniform. So young and fresh-faced. And beautiful. Ryan wanted to cry.
Ryan hadn’t expected to ever laugh again, but when he saw himself in Sean’s bathroom mirror with his hair bleached almost white, and his eyebrows as dark as coal, he collapsed into a fit of giggles. Sean poked the back of Ryan’s head. ‘Shit, there’s a big dark patch at the back. What a mess. I think you can well and truly kiss Natasha Scott goodbye now.’
Ryan nodded. ‘Probably. Keep your hands off her, though. I might be back…well, doubt it, but you never know. It’ll get me on a bus to Glasgow. Shame I can’t grow a beard overnight.’
‘You wish.’ Sean stroked the dark shadow on his own chin.
‘Mate, would you go and buy the ticket tomorrow morning at the station? I can just slip on the bus at the last minute. Less likely to be seen that way.’
Sean shrugged. ‘Aye. Whatever. You going to stay here tonight?’
Ryan hadn’t intended to, but he suddenly felt exhausted, and he had no better plan. ‘Might as well.’
‘Sound. You have my bed; I’ll sleep in my mother’s room. Just hope the old cow and her Pole don’t decide to come home tonight. I’m going to snib the doors, just in case.’
While Sean was downstairs, Ryan checked his phone. Three texts from his mother, and two calls. In the last text, she mentioned London and Christopher’s sick mum. He swithered before replying. Should he tell her Christopher was involved with Todd? Did he even believe Todd? He wasn’t sure. Christopher had been good for his mother. Sorted her out. Expensive presents, private dentistry, anything she wanted. Helped her reduce her methadone. Stopped her smoking. No more temper tantrums, vodka binges or drugs. Why burst her bubble now? He sent a text, then he switched off the phone.
***
Chapter 23
Christopher had been quiet all evening. Sharon understood. He was worried about his mum, and his leg was playing up. Not that he’d said anything. Just kept rubbing it, when he thought she wasn’t looking. She checked her phone again. Nothing from Ryan. Christopher took her hand. ‘No word?’
She shook her head.
‘What are we like?’ He stroked her face. ‘It’ll get better, I promise. Will we go up?’
His progress on the stairs was slow. He was only half way up when he stopped. He leaned against the wall and turned. ‘Sorry, honey. This might take a bit of time. You go up. I’ll get there.’
His face was so pale. ‘Can I get you something? Your stick? Pain killers? A drink?’
‘Thank you, but no.’ He tried to smile. ‘It’ll pass.’
‘What about a bath?’
He nodded. ‘Thanks, love. That might help.’
Christopher came into the bathroom in his dressing gown. He thanked Sharon, and hugged her. She smiled. ‘Go on; it’ll get cold. Shout me if you need a hand to get in. You know me; always keen to help you get your leg over.’
They both laughed. She pulled away, but he didn’t let her go. ‘Will you come in with me?’
‘Yeah. Will I put the light off?’
He shook his head.
It took all Sharon’s self-control not to gasp when he took his dressing gown off. It looked like the muscle of his upper right leg had been mangled and twisted, deforming the shape of the leg. There was a great hollow in his inner thigh, where the skin sagged and puckered. The front of his leg was like a jigsaw, with scars from the knee to the hip. Some were criss-crossed, and others were long and straight and red.
He looked embarrassed, apologetic, as if he was worried the state of his leg might offend her. It was all she could do not to cry, as she turned away to take her clothes off. When she turned round, he was in the huge roll-top bath. He lay stretched out and Sharon knelt between his legs, covered her hands in soap, and massaged his leg. He lay with his eyes closed and she saw his body relax as the pain eased.
‘Better?’
He nodded. ‘Thank you.’
The taps were in the middle of the bath, so they lay facing each other, their bodies side by side. Christopher’s eyes were still closed, and it felt safe for Sharon to ask. ‘How? Will you tell me?’ She could hear the soft whirring noise of the fan on the roof. Christopher was staring over her head, as if he could see something horrible. He looked as if he might cry. ‘You don’t have to. I shouldn’t have asked.’
He nodded. ‘I should have told you ages ago. I’m sorry; I’m not very good at relationships. The last one was nine years and eleven months ago.’
That hurt. Fool. Of course there had been others. He just hadn’t mentioned them. She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘She must have been special, if you’re still counting.’
He shook his head. ‘Not really. It’s not about her. It was the night before the…the accident. If we hadn’t split up that night, I wouldn’t have moved out. I wouldn’t have been on that train the next morning.’
‘You were in a train accident? In London?’
He nodded.
She did a calculation in her head. ‘July 2005?’
‘Yes.’
As the memories of that day flooded her, she felt sick. It wasn’t just the television images of the London bombings. It was where she was at the time. A hospital bed after another ‘fall’, courtesy of Peter. Another miscarriage, the third in less than two years. She’d seen the news and she’d turned her face to the wall. Her life was so full of misery, there was no room for the misery of others.
She wiped tears from her eyes. ‘It must have been awful. All those people that died.’
‘Fifty two. And countless lost limbs and horrific injuries. I was fortunate, Sharon. I didn’t appreciate it for the first few years, with more operations than I can count, and indescribable pain. You wouldn’t think so to look at it, but a lot of time and money went into making my leg this good. My parents and I weren’t always close, but they did everything they could for me, and I’ll never be able to repay them. I wasn’t easy to be around, and I regret so much. Especially the way I was to my father. Too late now to do anything about that, but I can still be there for my mother.’ He sat up and took her hand. ‘It’s so long since I’ve been home; I didn’t want to go alone, but it was selfish of me to ask you, with Ryan missing. I’d understand if you changed your mind.’
Sharon had changed her mind several times; she just hadn’t told him. She might have looked like she was reading that magazine earlier, but what she was really doing was dithering back and fore between her responsibilities to her man and to her boy. She had to put Ryan first, there was no doubt about that. But he wasn’t here, and she could sit around for days waiting for him. She owed Christopher. He’d do the same for her. But what if…
‘No need to thank me. But you know I’ll have to come straight back if Ryan shows up, or if he needs me?’
&n
bsp; ‘Of course, love; I wouldn’t expect anything else.’
There it was again. That word. Sharon had never loved anyone but her boys. Peter had known it. No matter how often he used physical or mental force to make her say those three words, they both knew she didn’t mean it. She didn’t feel it. She never would. And as for feeling loved, the only time she’d ever felt that was for the short time she’d been with Alison and Mark, and even then she hadn’t been sure. They were paid to be good to her. That didn’t make it love.
But the way Christopher was looking at her now, his eyes, his smile. The way her heart and her stomach were melting. The way she felt when she looked at his leg. It felt a lot like she imagined love should feel.
Later, she lay in the dark and waited for her heart and her stomach to calm down. She told herself not to be stupid. She was temporary; she had to be. No matter how good he was to her, he wasn’t going to fall in love with her. It just didn’t happen like that. Beside her, Christopher’s breathing settled into sleep. She checked her phone, one last time. There was a text from Ryan.
Go 2 London, Ma! Am ok. Miles away.
*
Christopher wasn’t sleeping. Just focussing on his breathing, rather than the pain and the memories. And the worry that his mother might die before he got there. He should have gone home before now. His mother had asked him often enough and his excuse was always the same; his leg was playing up, and he didn’t feel up to the journey. And every time, she accepted it, though she probably knew it was only an hour and a half in the plane.
His sister hadn’t been so understanding. He was a selfish pig, she told him regularly. And he was. But London had taken on the proportions of a monster in his head. The accident and the pain, the shame of all he’d done and been since. It had been with him constantly, growing and growing, until he couldn’t breathe, and he had to leave. He’d come to the Highlands just over a year ago on Todd’s recommendation, and every new day felt like a reprieve.