by Lisa Cutts
‘You’re such a tosser, Jim. Make yourself useful, put the kettle on,’ said Harry.
Harsh but fair. Jim nipped through the open office door to the sound of sniggers.
‘As I was saying,’ said Harry, ‘you don’t have to give me an answer now and you can say no, but we’ve had a request from Pensworth prison via Winstanley solicitors for you to do a prison visit and speak to burglar and drug addict Joe Bring.’
I hadn’t expected my DS to mention Joe’s name. None of the problems over the last few months had been Joe’s fault – quite the opposite. He’d saved my life, tackled a serial killer and, for his trouble, got arrested for attempting to burgle my home when the police officers he’d summoned to my door had arrived. Nevertheless, it gave me a jolt. I hated feeling as though people were avoiding talking about my stabbing, but then I wasn’t always prepared for it when they did. No pleasing some people, was there?
I liked to think that I sat, impassive, taking in the information. It probably didn’t happen that way. Harry seemed to take my silence as a cue for him to continue. Chattering and laughing from two of the typists walking past the doorway on their way to a break filled the room. Harry leaned to his right and, so small was the room, he pushed the door shut without getting up.
‘Jim clearly lives in a barn,’ he commented. ‘Nina, Joe asked for you. He wants to talk about the train crash in ’64. He has some information but will only talk to you. We’ve told the solicitors that Bring can’t demand who visits him – ’
‘I’ll do it,’ I said. I’d had about ten seconds to weigh up whether I wanted to see Joe, assess how I’d feel about it and wonder why he wanted to see me. ‘Any idea what he wants to tell me?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harry, leaning back, and crossing his arms across his rugby player’s chest, just above his rugby drinker’s beer belly. ‘And we’re gonna need a statement.’
‘Don’t we always?’ I answered, tapping my foot.
‘Definitely in this case, since Joe wants to tell us how seven people were murdered that day.’
3
Whatever anyone’s political views and affiliations, I always told them that, whoever was in government, they would never stop the endless stream of documentation needing to be completed by police officers. To visit a prison required paperwork, and quite rightly so. Those inside had committed crimes and were serving custodial sentences. The governor of the prison had the last say. If they wanted paperwork, paperwork they would have.
I wrote a letter of explanation to get me into the prison. It was a fairly short request on my part – it was, after all, Joe who had asked to see me. I gave my name, rank, force number and the date and time I wanted to see him. Even getting the visit authorised by DI Dandy was relatively painless.
The quickest I could set up my meeting with Joe was Wednesday. It was to be me and Joe. No solicitor, no one else. That suited me. I wanted to thank him but didn’t really want to do so in front of another police officer. Even Wingsy being there would have felt strange, and I trusted him implicitly.
The rest of the morning went by without much of great interest happening. I took a dislike to Jim Sullivan such as I’d never experienced at work before, except for when dealing with a prisoner. He was a despicable specimen. I made an effort to tolerate him which I knew would turn into avoidance. That would be difficult with eight DCs crammed into one room and a passing DS thrown in for good measure.
I took myself off to lunch in the canteen with a sense of dread. The food was always awful, and overpriced, and the staff’s lethargy sapped your energy to the point of making you feel too tired to lift the burnt offerings to your mouth. Still, any port in a storm. I was hungry and couldn’t face the walk into town today. When I got back to the office afterwards, Harry, Jim and Wingsy were switching off terminals and gathering their stuff to leave the office.
‘Where are you off to, fellas?’ I asked.
‘Been a shooting the other side of town,’ Harry said. ‘Victim isn’t looking so good. Main CID office is short so, until the Murder Investigation team get here from Headquarters, we’re off to fill the gap.’
‘That must be the same one Bill went to last night. They took their time sending you to it. Need me to come?’ I found myself asking this without really thinking it through. A terrible habit of mine. As soon as I’d said the words, I wondered if I was being a bit rash.
Harry lifted his hand to scratch at an already stubbly chin. While he pondered my question, I marvelled at the speed of his advancing facial hair. He’d been clean-shaven that morning on my arrival in the office. Halfway through the day and he already had five o’clock shadow.
‘Best not, Nin. You’re supposed to be taking it easy. I’ll give you a call later. We’ve been on duty four hours. It happened ten hours ago. Don’t know why they couldn’t get their fingers out of their arses and sort this out earlier.’ He started walking away to catch up with Wingsy and Jim, then called back in my direction, ‘Take a job car home tonight. I doubt Wingsy is going to be back to run you home.’
I didn’t even need to appear disappointed, as he was no longer looking at me but talking into his mobile phone. I made out the words, ‘On our way, Ian.’
I went into the office, shut the door and logged on to a computer to check my email. I cast an eye over the ‘Question the Boss’ section on the intranet, where staff were able to ask practical and procedural questions of the force’s chief constable. I was in the office on my own; a shooting meant that no one else would be coming back before I went home. I felt exhausted and couldn’t really settle.
Motivation was missing from my day. I made an effort, albeit a small one, to get started on the buff file to prepare for my meeting with Joe Bring in two days’ time, but I was in the wrong frame of mind. Tomorrow was bound to be better. I wanted my shift to end so that I could go home to Bill and find out how Crown Court had gone. I’d also be finding out about the shooting that had got itself into the weave of his uniform and sent my new office scurrying off to the area’s latest major incident.
4
In the car, I put my handbag behind the driver’s seat, telling myself that it gave me more room in the front. But I couldn’t recall one single time I had checked the back seat or boot of my car since I’d been living with Bill. I didn’t know what horrified me more – that I’d been so careless, or that I’d come to rely on someone else so much.
I drove the borrowed Astra out of the car park, feeling unhappy with myself. Something felt wrong. It had taken me several months of hiding at Bill’s house to realise it. Perhaps it was going back to work that had jolted me awake, stopped me being such a pathetic individual, but I shook off my hesitation and decided to go to my own home.
The route I took was a familiar one but one I hadn’t done either alone or in the dusk for some time. There weren’t many other vehicles on the road and within fifteen minutes of leaving Riverstone police station I found myself outside my house. As I sat outside, steeling myself to go in, my phone rang. It was Bill.
‘Hi, lovely,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’
‘Just left work,’ I said. Well, it was true. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Fancy going out tonight? Thought we could try the new Thai place in Riverstone.’
Nothing was less appealing right at that minute. ‘That sounds great,’ I lied. He’d just finished five night duties. I’d languished in his home. It was the least I could do. ‘I’ll be there in ten.’
I hung up and rested my forehead on the steering wheel, breathing slowly until I had the energy to turn the key in the ignition. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said to no one in particular, before driving back towards my boyfriend’s home.
As I pulled up at Bill’s house, I felt a surge of pleasure at being back here. That annoyed me too. I was getting far too comfortable chez Bill. It wouldn’t do.
I got to the front door just as Bill opened it.
‘Hi,’ he said, reaching out to touch the side of my face. ‘You look tired.�
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Listen, you thoughtful bastard… I wanted to say, but realised how unreasonable this made me. I smiled, moving my face to nestle into the gesture.
‘I didn’t really think my idea through about going out,’ he said, moving back to let me inside the hallway. ‘It’s your first day back at work and you’re bound to want to stay in tonight. How about a takeaway?’
‘I could do with a drink,’ I said, kicking my shoes off. I was turning away so that he wouldn’t see how annoyed I was with him. Now he was trying to say I was weak and couldn’t handle being stabbed and going back to work! Coat, shoes and bag deposited, I went scouting for Rioja. As I picked up the bottle, my eyes halted on a white cardboard box sitting on the counter, the words ‘DC Nina Foster’ handwritten in black marker on the side.
‘Pierre Rainer dropped that round about a minute after I called you,’ said Bill, seeing me eye it.
‘I know what this is,’ I said, grinning at him. I put my hand out to open the box.
Bill put one of his hands on top of mine.
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit much?’ he said, glaring at the delivery.
I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t,’ I said. ‘This isn’t a celebration of a crime, it’s a memento for a job well done – an offender caught and charged.’
Bill removed his hand with a sigh. I teased the lid open and removed a crystal wine glass engraved with the words ‘Operation Guard 2013 DC Nina Foster’. Underneath was an engraving of a knife. Bill left the kitchen as I poured a healthy glug of red wine into my new glass and savoured every sip.
5
Most of the next morning was dominated by getting the borrowed Astra back to work and going for a hospital check-up at Wickerstead Valley hospital. Bill offered to come with me but I knew that he didn’t really want to spend his only day off hanging around the hospital. He’d be doing enough of that once he was back on duty.
Finding a parking space was tricky, but the beauty of having no money was that I drove the kind of car I was happy to park in the tightest of spaces and not worry about other drivers scratching the paintwork. Having found a space about two inches bigger than my old BMW, I made my way to the entrance, passing several marked police vehicles in the Accident and Emergency bay. I’d heard on the news that the victim of the previous day’s shooting was still alive. Little about the investigation had reached me through the nick, as I’d been knocking back Rioja at home by the time Wingsy and the others had got back to the office. Bill hadn’t had much to add: he hadn’t been the first on the scene, so had ended up helping with first aid until paramedics arrived, and then with scene preservation – which involved standing by the cordon. I’d got up to speed from the local media, which was usually accurate, if scant on detail.
Going over to the hospital map, I located the department I wanted and headed to the lifts. Getting out on the first floor, I turned left when I should have turned right. A familiar face was coming towards me from the antenatal unit: Belinda Cook. I’d met her carrying out enquiries on Operation Guard last year. She’d sworn a lot on our previous meeting. I regretted not taking the correct turn.
Her face softened as she saw me. This was a good sign.
‘Nina,’ Belinda said. ‘It is Nina, isn’t it?’ She put her hand out as if to take my arm but then seemed to think better of it as she dropped it back to her side.
‘Hello, Belinda,’ I said. ‘How are you?’
‘Really good. Just had my first scan. The next six months are bound to fly by.’ She was smiling the whole time she spoke.
‘Well, that’s great,’ I said, while wondering if it was possible to tactfully ask someone you’ve only been associated with because their boyfriend was a murder suspect whether that same boyfriend was the father of their unborn child. On the other hand, half an hour on daytime television was looking likely for Belinda. I decided I couldn’t be tactful, so chose to say nothing.
‘Good to see you, Nina,’ she said, heading towards the lifts. ‘And good luck with your baby,’ she added, glancing down at my stomach.
Now I was depressed. Several months of eating, drinking and sitting on the sofa, not to mention being knifed in the stomach, and Belinda thought I was pregnant. Chance would be a fine thing. With heavy heart – and apparently stomach – I stomped off in the direction of my appointment.
Forty-five minutes later, I made my way back out of the hospital, curiosity taking me past A&E in case there was anyone in there I knew from work. I saw two uniform PCs I vaguely recognised, talking to the receptionist, and two firearms officers I didn’t know going to wherever the shooting victim was being kept. I presumed that they were the shift change.
As I was about to give up on finding anything out, Wingsy came out of the triage nurse’s office, followed by a very attractive nurse. For a minute or two I watched him flirting with her. When it got to the stage where I felt embarrassed for him, I walked over to them. She smiled, perfect white teeth dazzling me. Wingsy looked guilty. A streak of red ran to the tips of his oversized ears.
‘Nina,’ said Wingsy. ‘Forgot you were up here this morning. How did it go?’
I glanced from Wingsy to the nurse and back again. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Feeling that he’d suffered enough discomfort, I said, ‘It went fine. Do you have a couple of minutes when you’re finished here?’ I gestured towards the car park with my head.
‘Sure,’ he replied to me before turning his attention back to the nurse. ‘Thank you for your time, Elspeth. You have my number if there’s anything else I can help you with.’
We walked through the automatic glass doors back into fresh air. The crispness of the day pinched me after being inside in the stale hospital air.
‘Does your mate Elspeth know that you’re a happily married baldy?’ I asked as we made our way out of earshot of the patients in wheelchairs smoking cigarettes outside the entrance.
‘You’re so funny,’ said Wingsy, as we parted ways to walk either side of a man attached to a drip trying to roll tobacco into a cigarette paper with his free hand. To get his voice to carry across the gap between us, Wingsy increased his volume. ‘Does Bill know that you were going to ask the doctor at your appointment this morning if it’s safe for you and him to have sex yet?’
The man on the drip looked startled at this remark. Some of his tobacco drifted to the floor from his Rizla. As he looked up from his task, I saw how jaundiced he was.
‘That’s the last time I confide in you, Wingnut.’ We were now clear of the smokers and I was back by his side. ‘What’s the story up here at the hospital, then?’
‘It’s a bit of a strange one,’ said Wingsy, leading me by the elbow into a more remote part of the car park. He made a cursory sweep of the area to make sure no one was about, checking the parked cars too. Satisfied that we couldn’t be overheard, he leaned towards me and said, ‘Very unlikely to have been a robbery, and, besides, nothing seems to have been taken. The victim’s alive, but he’s been unconscious since someone called 999 and the paramedics arrived on the scene. We know a bit about him. He’s not long been released from prison for a serious domestic incident, apparently. I don’t know much else at the moment, until I do a bit of digging later. We’d missed the briefing by the time we got called out today. Someone’s clearly displeased with him, ’cos he was shot a number of times. Whoever dialled three nines did it from an unregistered mobile phone. The interesting thing is, though, that one of the shots was heard by the operator.’
‘So whoever made the call was very close to the scene at the time of the shooting.’
6
Having been prodded and poked at the hospital, I didn’t feel like hanging around with Wingsy. I hadn’t even asked him the victim’s name. I was tired and not back on track yet. I went back to Riverstone police station and spent much of the remainder of the day reading through the Cold Case file.
I had to admit, I was bored. My mind kept going back to what Wingsy had said abo
ut the anonymous caller still being present when the shots were fired. Why would you call the police but not wait around, unless you were in some way involved?
Curiosity won at the end of the day. The file I was supposed to be reading was older than me and not doing much to set my world on fire. I looked up the original log of the call to the police for the previous day’s shooting but could find very little. A man who didn’t give his name said that someone had been shot twice and was lying outside Screwfix on the industrial estate off London Road, Kilnchester. The operator then typed on the log that a gunshot was heard before the caller cleared the line. The operator tried to call the number back but the phone was switched off. I read from the log, ‘Firearms officers arrived at the scene – an area search for the male caller was negative.’ They did, however, find an unconscious man bleeding from chest and leg injuries.
I knew that I should be concentrating on the railway accident from 1964, especially as I was due to see Joe Bring the following day and he was going to tell me all about it. I turned my attention back to the paperwork in front of me.
The rest of Cold Case who weren’t called in to help on the shooting were at Crown Court for a rape trial, for an offence in 2002. A woman had been attacked walking home from her friend’s house just past midnight after she missed her last bus. That part of the team’s working day had begun in the office and before I’d left for the hospital I’d eavesdropped on their run-down of the previous day’s evidence. Several months ago, about the time I was working on my first murder enquiry, Barry Oakes, rapist and waste of a skin, decided that the time was right for him to punch his wife in the face. He was arrested, and his DNA taken and loaded into the database. We then had a match against our unsolved crime from 2002. Not to mention a rape victim who could stop peering at every man she met and wondering if it was him.
It would appear that the defendant was a low-life lying bastard and the jury were openly sneering at everything he said. It was to be expected: we had his DNA. It might have taken twelve years, but we’d never stopped looking.