‘And you won’t need to pay me a penny,’ she said, sweetly. Alex swore Killingback’s ears went red and she wanted to laugh before the thought came to her that Nikki probably didn’t need to take money from Killingback because she was going to demand it from her.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ he said.
‘And I’ve warned you,’ said Alex.
‘What?’
‘Stay away from my son. He doesn’t want to speak to you. If you ambush him again I will have you for harassment. Okay?’
Killingback nodded. ‘Fair enough.’ Then, as he reached the door, he turned. ‘Malone.’
‘What about him?’ she said.
He pursed his lips. ‘I’ve seen him somewhere before, I’m sure of it. I know that voice, too.’ Then he winked at her and left.
Oh God.
But Alex couldn’t feel even a small sense of relief that at least Killingback had left, because Nikki was still ensconced in front of the fire, still sipping her wine, still smiling at her in a mildly superior way.
‘He’s a slimy bugger, isn’t he? Though pretty good-looking.’ Nikki crossed her legs, settling in for the long haul. ‘I hate the press anyway. They give you nothing but shit.’
Alex was surprised. ‘I thought you were interested in becoming a journalist?’
She shrugged. ‘Not particularly. And if I was, you could help me, couldn’t you? But those sorts of people like to puff themselves up and believe they’re something special, don’t they? And they’re more likely to let something slip if you massage their fucking great egos. Anyway,’ she put down her glass and for one glorious minute Alex thought she was about to leave, ‘I did just want to see how you were. Honestly. I meant it when I said the whole thing must have been quite a shock for you. Especially as…’ She left the sentence hanging.
‘Especially as I said she had a migraine when she was actually lying there dead, you mean?’ The words tumbled out.
Nikki smiled. ‘I did wonder.’
‘I really didn’t know what to do when I found her; I was shocked, you know, worried, disorientated, I suppose. Just wasn’t sure what to do.’ She had to stop gabbling.
‘You panicked. Anyone would be the same. Anyway, I didn’t tell that police detective woman anything about that. After all, you didn’t kill her, did you? Just said I didn’t hear anything the evening before because I was too busy watching telly, and the next morning I had a half shift and then went shopping. That’s all.’
‘Half shift?’
‘Yeah. Stacking the shelves ready for the hordes. I had to leave home bloody early.’
‘How early?’
‘What?’
‘How early did you start?’
‘I left the caravan about half past four. Sodding freezing and miserable at that time, I can tell you.’
‘And you didn’t see or hear anything?’
‘What are you? The bloody police?’
Alex laughed, an unnatural and forced sound. ‘Sorry. No. Just wondering, that was all. But thanks for not saying anything.’
She sniffed. ‘That’s okay.’
They both stared into the fire, at the orange-red flames that were licking the sides of the grate, listened to the crackle of the wood.
‘It’s hard.’
‘Hmm?’ Alex got up and poured them both another glass. If the wretched woman was intent on staying then she might as well have some alcohol to dull the pain, she thought.
‘Working. At Tesco’s. Doesn’t bring in a lot of money. And, as I said, I’m fed up of doing a succession of dead-end jobs.’
So this was it. ‘Really?’
‘Ed Killingback said his paper could pay me if I remembered anything, well, juicy was the way he put it.’
‘I thought you didn’t like Killingback? And that he was “a slimy bugger”?’ Alex stopped herself making commas in the air. She drank her wine quickly. Put the glass on the floor. Picked it up. Wondered if she should have another glass. No, Nikki had barely drunk any of hers.
‘I don’t.’ Nikki shook her head. ‘I really don’t.’
Alex wasn’t going to make it easy for her, so she looked at her watch and sighed. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, but it’s been a long day, as you said, and I need to have some food and get to my bed.’
‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’
Oh, what a game they were playing.
‘But,’ she continued, ‘as I said, Tesco’s doesn’t bring in a lot and…’
Alex reached into her bag for her cheque book.
25
‘Mmm, something smells good.’ Chris came into the kitchen from his workshop and stopped to give Kate a kiss on the back of her neck as she stirred the sauce. ‘Sorry I’ve kept you up so late.’
She leaned her head back into his chest, glad to feel the solidity of him, inhaling the smell of him, linseed oil and resin fighting with the aroma of basil and tomatoes and mushrooms filling the kitchen. ‘That’s okay. It feels like it’s been ages since I’ve seen you, awake that is. And ages since we’ve been able to eat together.’ She needed to reconnect.
‘True,’ he said, burying his face into the soft skin of her neck. ‘We’ve been like ships that pass in the night, as the saying goes. If I didn’t know you better I’d think you were avoiding me.’
She wriggled out of his hold. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said, guilt making her words sharper than she intended. ‘Anyway, it’s just spag bol, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’
Chris was finishing an oak table with eight chairs – a commission for a local farmer – that had taken him a great deal of time and effort, but the result was looking beautiful. His craftsmanship was impeccable – he lavished care and attention on all his furniture and had built up an excellent reputation in the area. Kate couldn’t tell him that she had gone into his workshop one day when he was out to look at some of his pieces. The table took pride of place in the centre of the room, with four of the finished chairs along the wall.
Then she’d spied it in the corner – a baby’s crib. She went over and stroked it. The lines were smooth, the wood warm, she could feel the love Chris had poured into it radiating out into the air. Her heart constricted. She knew she couldn’t tell him she’d seen it.
‘Do you want to grate some Parmesan?’
‘No problem.’
She watched as he washed his hands and dried them on a towel before reaching into the fridge for the cheese. He smiled across at her, and began to grate the Parmesan. Smiling back, she tried to shake off her usual feeling of irritation knotted through with guilt. And where was the love? Had she lost it amid the not-wanting to have children? Surely, if she loved him enough, she would want to have his children, whatever it took? If she loved him enough she would be able to overcome her feelings of fear, inadequacy; the sheer hopelessness she felt when she looked at him.
‘Have I got a spot on my nose or something?’ he said, rubbing the side of it to make the point.
‘No.’
‘It’s just that you were looking at me rather intently.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe I’ve grown another head.’ He carried on grating.
Kate thought that if he wasn’t careful he would grate his fingers. ‘That’s enough, darling, really.’ She began stirring the sauce again, this time a bit too vigorously, as some splashed onto the side of the cooker. ‘Damn and blast,’ she said, wanting to bang the wooden spoon down on the worktop and wanting to cry at the same time.
‘Okay.’ He put the hunk of cheese and the grater down. ‘What’s bothering you?’
‘I…’ Kate said the first thing that came into her head. ‘It’s been difficult.’
‘Cherry?’ He had been ambushed by her boss at a drinks do. Knowing that Chris was, as he put it, ‘a creative’, he’d banged on about art and life and ended up inviting Chris to view his paintings – an invitation Chris hadn’t yet got round to accepting. ‘You mustn’t worry about him.’ He went up to her and put his arms round her, pulling her c
lose. She tried to relax into him. ‘He’s not giving you grief about the drugs raid, is he?’
‘Not exactly.’ She sighed. ‘It’s not just that, though Chris. He’s brought in a Detective Inspector to help or hinder me, I’m not sure which, on the investigation.’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘Is that such a bad thing?’
‘Only in as much as he acts as though he’s a reincarnation of Gene Hunt and I don’t trust him.’
‘Ah. Not so good, then. But Kate, you’re a fantastic officer. Impressive. You’ll sort it.’
‘Do you really think so?’ She hated her own neediness.
‘Yes, yes I do.’ He peered at her. ‘You look tired.’
Kate sighed. ‘You know what, I am.’
‘You sit down and I’ll pour you a nice glass of wine, then you can tell me about your day – and the last few days as we don’t seem to have seen much of each other – while I put the spaghetti on and make the salad, okay?’
Kate nodded, feeling overwhelmed. What had she done to deserve this good man? That was the problem, though, wasn’t it? He deserved someone who could give him what he wanted.
She sat down at the table, and Chris set down a glass of red supermarket plonk in front of her. Her favourite. She enjoyed the mellow taste on her tongue and the liquid warmth as it slipped down her throat.
Kate watched as Chris busied himself with a pan, water, and spaghetti. ‘So is that the only thing that’s bothering you?’
She opened her mouth, wanting to tell him, talk to him properly, not just about the case, and the desperate sadness that surrounded Sasha and how Jez was a slippery eel and she wasn’t sure how to handle him, but needing to tell him about the visit to the doctor’s, the real reason why she wasn’t falling pregnant, maybe even discuss the counselling option, see what he thought about that.
The moment passed.
‘I went out and did some proper plod work the other evening,’ she said, hating herself for the evasion. ‘It was all a bit pointless though.’
While Chris got on with making a salad and a dressing to go with it, Kate told him about the determination with which the four of them – her, Steve, John, and Eve – had set out. A bit of door-knocking seemed infinitely preferable to sitting in front of mounds of paperwork or sifting through photographs of Jackie Wood’s dead body. There were definite disadvantages to climbing up the greasy pole, and desk work was certainly one of them. She couldn’t understand how Cherry stood all that, as well as the interminable meetings he had to go to. She felt she might get somewhere doing some honest police work.
But it hadn’t turned out like that. It was very much see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil. The man who’d been walking his dog – Jim Cassidy – had seen absolutely nothing, heard nothing, and was very definitely saying nothing. Had seen a light in what may or may not have been Jackie Wood’s caravan, but hadn’t seen anyone going in or out. They knocked on doors, but were mostly greeted by silence or by other people who’d seen nothing, for whom it was ‘none of their business’. There had been several empty vans in the vicinity of Jackie Wood’s caravan, and the one that did have an occupant, one Nikki Adams, said again she had been watching television all evening. They had yet to check on the programmes. Kate had barked at Eve to get on with it as soon as they got back to the station.
‘This Nikki character,’ said Chris, draining the spaghetti, ‘she sounds someone worth looking at a bit more?’
‘Maybe.’ She tried not to feel irritated that Chris was putting his tanks on her lawn. ‘We’ve certainly got to see if she really was watching television.’
‘It just seems odd that she didn’t see or hear anything when her caravan is right opposite, you said. There isn’t much distance between them.’
‘Hmm, maybe. How’s supper coming on?’ she said, wanting to get off the subject of her police work before she snapped at him for interfering.
‘Just about ready.’ He began ladling thin strings of pasta and dollops of sauce onto the plate. Kate knew by the set of his mouth she had hurt him.
What the fuck was wrong with her? She sat down and sprinkled Parmesan on top of the bolognese before beginning to fork twists of spaghetti and sauce into her mouth. ‘There is something a bit odd that I found out.’
‘Oh?’ Chris poured her another glass of wine before topping up his own. ‘What’s that?’
‘Martin Jessop had another lover.’
Chris frowned. ‘Martin Jessop? He’s the guy who was—’
‘Put away for the murder of Harry and Millie Clements. Killed himself in prison.’
‘Another lover? You mean…’
Kate nodded. ‘Not just Jackie Wood. Maybe not even Jackie Wood.’
‘And this mistress stashed away on the side, that hasn’t come out before? Not at the trial or anything?’
‘No. And I hadn’t heard a whisper until recently. But more worryingly—’, she reached across and poured herself another glass of wine, ‘it’s said the detective in charge of the investigation knew.’
‘And who was that?’
‘A Detective Inspector Edward Grainger. He’s retired now. I do remember meeting him, though, just briefly, before I went to court.’
‘To court?’
‘Yes, you know, when I had to give evidence about finding Harry Clements.’ Damn, how had she let that slip out?
Chris stared at her. ‘No, I didn’t know. You’ve never told me about that.’
‘Haven’t I?’
‘No. Not that you actually found the little boy.’
She waved her hand, closing that compartment in her mind. A splodge of spaghetti and sauce landed on the floor. ‘I’ll tell you about it sometime. Anyway, Grainger knew about the lover and the investigation was closed down – with the help of Jez Clements.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that – Clements apparently managed to get any lines of inquiry into whether Martin Jessop had another lover closed down. Shut off. Grainger obviously didn’t look into it any more.’
‘But from what I remember you telling me’, Chris wrinkled his brows, ‘was Jez Clements nothing more than an ordinary PC at the time?’
‘Yes, you’re right. Nothing more than that.’
‘So how could he have had any sort of influence over that sort of investigation? And surely, as the father of the twins he was part of it all? Too close to be involved?’
‘Yep. And that’s the fifty-thousand dollar question, Chris. Except, I suppose, it’s obvious really. He must have had some sort of hold over Grainger for him to be able to do something like that.’
She put her chin in her hand. ‘Of course, this is all supposing the rumours are true. I mean, I’ve got no evidence, just this gut feeling.’
‘Copper’s instinct?’ He smiled.
‘Don’t knock it. It’s solved many a case. I don’t know, Chris. I tried to talk to Clements about it today, but he wasn’t giving an inch. And I suppose part of me does feel sorry for him. But if it did happen, it’s plain wrong, that’s the point. Whether or not it would have had any bearing on anything is not the issue. It might have done. It should have been part of the investigation and it wasn’t.’ She smoothed her hair down with both hands. ‘It matters, Chris, it really does.’
Chris put down his spoon and fork and put his hand on her arm. ‘That’s what I love about you, Kate. You always look for the truth.’
Now she wanted to cry. Guilt gnawed at her stomach. She couldn’t tell him, give him hope.
‘I went to the doctor’s the other day.’ The words spewed out of her mouth.
She could hardly bear the way his face lit up.
‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier? And? Did you ask about tests?’ He chewed his lip. ‘You know I don’t mind doing more of that if it would mean our own children.’ He took a gulp of his wine.
Kate thought about the antidepressants hidden away at the back of her cupboard. How bad did she have to feel to allow herself to start taking t
hem? Was this it? This cloak of doom that had settled on her shoulders and grew heavier by the day? She’d spoken to people with real depression, how everything looked bleak, how they could hardly bear to get up in the morning – if they did at all – how worthless they felt, and how they were sure the world would be a better place without them. She didn’t feel like that. She just had a weight on her shoulders and the relentless rolling of anxiety in her stomach.
And it was self-inflicted. If she could give this kind, generous man what he wanted then she felt certain the cloak would lift, the fog clear, and the knot in her stomach dissolve. But how could she, when every time she thought about holding a baby in her arms she saw the little body of Harry Clements, his limbs bent at an angle so he could fit inside the suitcase? Why couldn’t she tell Chris this? Did she think he wouldn’t understand? But telling him would mean confessing to all the lies by omission she had told. All those times when he’d lamented their lack of fertility because there might be something wrong with one of them and she’d stayed silent. The lies would destroy him…them. What did that say about her? Shame washed over her.
‘I know you don’t, Chris,’ she said softly. ‘I just feel—’
‘Look,’ he said, a note of desperation in his voice. ‘You don’t have to say anything now, don’t have to tell me what the doctor said.’
‘But I want to, Chris.’ She swallowed. ‘We didn’t talk about tests just yet. She wondered if there was some psychological reason for me not getting pregnant.’ Okay, she couldn’t quite get the words out, couldn’t make herself, but at least she was giving him a version of the truth.
‘Psychological? What, it’s in your head?’
Why was he being so obtuse? ‘That’s generally what psychological means, yes.’
‘Like what?’
Now was the time to tell him. How involved she’d been in the case. How she’d held that poor, broken body after her colleagues, the pathologist, after everyone else had had their little piece of him. The feeling of lightness in her arms, the sense of a life cut short before it had even begun. The insistence to everyone that she was fine, she was okay, she was a police officer and would have to deal with that sort of thing for the rest of her career convinced everyone she was coping. And she had thought she was. She went to serious car accidents and saw the mutilated bodies of the victims and didn’t have nightmares. When she moved to serious crimes she saw her fair share of murder victims – shot, stabbed, bludgeoned – you name it, she’d seen it. But when it came to children she was a mess.
The Bad Things Page 20