Cold Blood

by Jane Heafield

  Bennet understood why Turner had contradicted himself so often, on the one hand arguing that a Loper had abducted Sally, while also continuing to claim she’d ran away: the latter was a lie he had to perpetuate for his son. Even long after the fallacy disintegrated as child became adult.

  Bennet gave no response, but Turner clearly wanted one. ‘You and me, Bennet, are the same. We overstepped lines in pursuit of the same thing. Like you, I was just a father trying to do right by his son.’

  ‘You should have bought him a Lego set,’ Bennet said, and shut the hatch.

  69

  Bennet sipped his water and looked up from his phone, watching Joe running with the other kids in the pub beer garden. The boy was having a lot of fun, but Bennet wanted to get going soon.

  He returned to his phone and the email Detective Superintendent Sutton had sent him. In the three days since Richard Turner and his son had been arrested concerning the death and unlawful disposal of Sally Jenkins, Sutton’s team had acquired more information and evidence. A search of the councillor’s surgery had uncovered a missing tool: a graft passer. It was a hook-like tool used for feeding a graft through a joint. The missing implement hadn’t been found, but the pathologist who’d performed the film crew’s post-mortems believed such an item could have caused their neck wounds. Turner couldn’t say where he’d disposed of the weapon, but he had come clean and admitted murder. Exactly as Bennet had outlined it to his face: room to room slowly, starting with the males. Each victim incapacitated by a blow to the head and murdered by throat slice.

  And Lorraine, woken by a noise as Turner approached her bed, three already down, had fought her attacker, screaming for help that fell on dead ears.

  The police had learned more about Lucas Turner too. Before Sally vanished, he had been known around the village as more than just the tearaway Bennet had diagnosed. Weird was the term some employed. He’d been caught on more than one occasion exposing himself to older women. He shoplifted obsessively. And there was a rumour that he’d killed four or five cats. All of these things had been spoken about in hushed whispers because he was Councillor Turner’s son.

  Most telling: since the arrests, Anika Jenkins had changed her opinion on the relationship between her daughter and Turner’s son. Now unmenaced by fear of speaking out, she’d said Sally and Lucas had never truly been friends. Sally had been creeped out by his behaviour towards her, tolerating it only because she had to in order to ride his dad’s horses. Sally had certainly died by horse-kick, but had the rest of Lucas’s story happened the way he told it? He was sticking fast to his version, so maybe Sally had willingly gone with him that night, and maybe she hadn’t.

  Bennet looked up to see Joe running with little Tessa on his back. It brought a tear to his eye, much as it had at Lorraine’s funeral two hours earlier when the children had met each other for the first time. They had sat together at the gathering and stood side by side at the committal. Watching them watch their mother’s coffin being lowered into the ground, Bennet had had to sit down on the grass, his legs jelly. He had arrested the man who’d killed her, sat in the back of a police car with him, and interviewed the man for two hours, all of it while within reaching distance. And he had held his composure. But if Richard Turner had been in that graveyard right then, Bennet would have throttled the bastard until he was as cold as those who called it home.

  ‘Another drink?’

  Bennet looked up to see Ian, Tessa’s father, standing by him. Bennet stood. ‘Actually, no, I think it’s time we got going.’

  ‘If you’re sure. Help yourself to some of the food if you want.’

  Bennet thanked him and called for Joe, who came running with his new best friend.

  ‘So, I’ll text you about Saturday,’ Ian said. Earlier, the fathers had arranged a bowling outing at the weekend. Joe and Tessa versus the adults. A sleepover was on the cards for the future, as well as various days out. It could be the start of something long-term.

  The kids were eager, but the plans had been made on this emotional day and Bennet wondered if it would all fall through as time passed. He hoped not. Joe needed the company of good people. His last conversation with Richard Turner had set him thinking.

  There was every chance that a loose screw in the councillor’s head contributed to his son’s obvious social and mental problems – that was the media angle. But how much had a home sans a mother during his adolescence pulled him off track? It was hard not to worry about the future of Joe’s journey along that path towards adulthood.

  Epilogue

  The next afternoon, Bennet met with Liz at a pub in Sheffield. She had returned from Spain the previous night, with no resolution to her ongoing case. He tried to shake her hand, but she leaned in to kiss his cheek. A week ago that would have given him a buzz, but not today, with his head still in a maelstrom. Not for a while, maybe.

  Her first question, even before the kiss, was about his job. He still had one, for now. There was a back-to-work meeting in two days that he was required to attend before he’d be struck off compassionate leave, but he was also going to face questions and possible reprimand about his actions in Lampton. He wasn’t thinking that far ahead, but there was a stillness in his gut that spoke volumes. He told her he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back to work.

  ‘I think you should. Throwing yourself into work will be the best way of getting past this.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. I’ve changed. Remember Pond Street?’

  ‘What about it?’

  Pond Street was the unofficial operation name of a double murder they’d both worked back in December. While chasing a lead in Wales, she’d suggested they should work in that country without informing the local police. He’d agreed.

  ‘You’re talking about breaking protocol?’ she said as they walked to the bar. ‘Heck, I was the one who suggested it. That makes me worse.’

  ‘I also led a suspect to a crime scene to force a confession, instead of recording the interview in a station. And he got killed.’

  ‘I know. That haunts me too. But it wasn’t your fault. You’re worried about your morals, is that it? What you did the system would frown upon, but it was the only way. We wouldn’t have solved that case otherwise.’

  Maybe, maybe not. But there had been other transgressions over the last few days. He’d broken into Ronald Crabtree’s house and threatened the man; he’d played a mammoth piece of evidence for the public; worst of all, though, the CaraHome… Lorraine’s body… or maybe it was that he’d planned to hurt Don The Man, chief suspect in the Buttery Park stabbing. He could think of a dozen activities that he could be sacked for, that would irritate his moral fibre.

  She waved the barman over. After they were served and heading back to their table, she said, ‘But you got the job done. At least it was all about what was right. And if your boss thought you’d really overstepped the line, he wouldn’t be welcoming you back to work in a couple of days.’

  ‘He’s been my friend for years. There’s bias. He would have suspended anyone else.’

  They sat and sipped in silence for a moment. ‘You’re a good man, Liam, and you know it. Your boss knows it. And if you go before a misconduct panel, they’ll know it and it will count for a lot. Look, what are you telling me? That you want to quit because you don’t think you’re right for the job? After all these years?’

  ‘It’s not after all these years. I’ve changed. Recently.’

  ‘This is the first time that a case was personal. Your son’s mother. Completely understandable. Maybe the next time a family member is hurt, you’ll do the same. But you can’t worry about such a thing all the time. The police service needs people like you. And I know you won’t want to bow out of the Buttery case right now. You can’t just abandon that unfinished. It’ll eat you up. That’s something your moral compass definitely can’t handle, especially if the killer gets away with it.’

  He wasn’t sure. ‘Anyway, even if they keep me, there’s no guaran
tee I’ll be returned as SIO of that investigation. The boss is leading it at the minute and it’s not impacting his workload. Besides, I’ve been thinking about spending more time with my son. He doesn’t see me enough. I rush out of the house at all hours.’

  ‘Well that would be a better reason. But you’ve coped so far. And he loves being around Patricia.’ Liz grabbed a menu and leaned back in her chair. She hadn’t mentioned wanting to eat, but if they did, that would make this a dinner date. Again, a week ago he would have loved that… ‘Don’t think about work right now. And I should take my own advice. We’re here to relax. I’ve been stuck with work for the last week and I don’t want to talk la hada.’

  ‘What’s la hada?’

  ‘Spanish thing. I think gang members use it to describe the police. I got called it over there. I ask you, does any other profession have such a vast amount of negative nicknames? Don’t all these criminals realise vigilantes would lynch every single one if we didn’t exist?’

  Bennet grunted. ‘Like peelers. I got called that one recently. In the last few days I’ve heard everything from Lopers and Alt F4 and peelers and now la hada…’

  ‘What on earth is Alt F4? Is it… what’s wrong?’

  She’d seen his face change. He felt it: the blood draining from his cheeks. He stood up and kissed her cheek.

  Sanderstead Avenue was a commercial drag in Wombwell and there was a small car park behind the Co-op. Bennet parked on double yellows and strolled past shops, towards a Triumph bike showroom and a Weldricks pharmacy. Between them was a thin alleyway that delivered him into a backyard with an iron spiral staircase leading to a peeling green door above the pharmacy. He saw that the door – probably to a first-floor flat – was open. A Rhianna song floated out.

  Halfway up the staircase, he smelled burning and knew why the back door was open. He knocked on the door, but quietly. And said hello, but not too loudly. If he was later questioned about why he’d entered the house unbidden, well, he’d knocked and called out and gotten no answer, and the open back door was a red flag.

  He stepped inside and crossed a small kitchen, sparse and grimy. The washing machine, flashing a warning light, seemed to be the cause of the burning smell. A door ahead was also open. No knock this time.

  The living room was small and made tinier by a four-seater sofa under the window overlooking the commercial drag. The only other seat was an armchair facing the TV, its back to him. Poking over the backrest was a blonde pixie cut with a hint of blue. He could see a hand with long green nails holding a mobile phone.

  Bennet stepped up to the chair and the girl’s legs came into view. She wore a short skirt, no shoes, and he saw a life-sized skeletal foot tattooed over her own instep.

  The girl was also wearing headphones, which would aid Bennet’s lawful entry excuse. He leaned closer so he could read her phone. A text message from The Man said:

  3 FOR £20 & GARLIK BREAD YOU WANT THREE?

  As the girl typed her reply to The Man at the speed of light with two thumbs, Bennet extracted his warrant card and lowered it slowly in front of the girl’s face. Peripheral vision should have alerted her long before the card slid in front of the phone, but such was her obsession with what she was typing, the wallet eclipsed the top of the device before she noticed. And when she did, she jumped as if plugged into the mains.

  The teenager got to her feet and backed off, right into the sofa, which tripped her into its embrace. Bennet sat on the armchair and held out his hand.

  ‘Why’d you just walk in here?’ the girl said.

  ‘Let me have the phone, Erica. The one you told us you lost. The one that, somehow, all your friends and family didn’t have the number for.’

  Erica clutched the phone with both hands, as if Bennet might just rip it from her with telekinesis. ‘How did you know?’

  He couldn’t help a grin. Liz’s use of police slang in the restaurant had sparked a connection between two people. Helium Girl, who had called the Buttery Park stabbing incident room from a phone box: ‘I don’t have anything for you peelers. I was wrong. So I won’t be coming in. But I know it was a black man from Bradford what did it.’

  And this young lady, Erica Smith, girlfriend of the prime suspect in the murder of sixteen-year-old Mick Turton. When defending her partner’s alibi for the night of the stabbing, she had said to Bennet: ‘So, what, you peelers saying I’m lying as well?’

  But he explained none of this to Erica. He just continued to hold out his hand. ‘I don’t know where Don is. I haven’t seen him for ages.’

  Bennet said nothing. His hand waited. Eventually, Erica tossed him the phone. She then stood, but he suggested she should sit. She did.

  Bennet cycled through text messages, rolling back the days. Such was the text energy of youngsters these days, it took a while. Hundreds of texts. Erica just sat there, watching.

  Soon, he found the all-important date. Thursday January 2nd. He flicked by inert morning texts from Erica to a friend, and then the afternoon flicked by with only a single contact with her mother, and then the evening of the stabbing came onstage with an explosion of messages.

  At 1959, eleven minutes after he’d slid a blade into a boy’s flesh, Don The Man wrote:

  Hey babe.

  Her return message:

  Whos this?

  The Man. New phone. Tossd mine cos cops can work out where it was. You gonna have to toss yours. Cant tell police what phone numbers we have. Trace.

  What talking bout? Why cops want phone?

  I stab someone babe. Kid in park tried it on stab him.

  Bennet’s heart almost stopped. The proof he needed.

  He dead? You dick.

  Dunno. I’m coming round to yours, need you to say I was there all night. You watch summat on tv?

  You dick. Gotta stop doing that. Just watching Australian bushfires. Carla reckons they could burn all earths oxygen away.

  Then thats what we watchd together. Be there in twenty. You gotta tell me some things the people on tv said so it looks like I watchd it.

  You owe me for this.

  Love you babe.

  Not enough. Owe me.

  Tagged onto that final message of Erica’s was a picture. It was an engagement ring.

  Bennet scrolled through a horde of nonsense texts between the loved-up teenagers that had nothing to do with the stabbing, until he reached Thursday the 16th. Here, Erica besieged The Man with messages. Where was he? Was he with that bitch again? She was going to mess them both up if he didn’t answer. No reply from Don.

  Until the following Saturday. At 11.34 in the morning, he finally got back to her with a denial to all accusations that he was with another girl. The following argument took place over ninety-eight texts within under an hour. At 12.27 Erica wrote:

  I’ll tell the fucking cops you stabbed that kid.

  I’ll fuckin stab you. You threatn me? Yeah, I was with a girl last night. Shaggd her silly and we cussd you down. Better shag than you.

  It all made sense now. Erica had called the police on that Thursday because she was angry with Don The Man. Woman Scorned had intended to ruin his life because he’d been with another girl. So, with a voice disguised by helium, she had called the police to say she would meet and give them the killer. This had been her plan right up until her next call to the police, on the Saturday, at which she’d claimed a black man killed Mick Turton. Now, Bennet saw the reason for her change of heart.

  Early on Saturday, Don The Man had sent a text:

  Sorry babe I love you.

  what me and the bitch you mean?

  No just you I lied about other girl your only one for me can I come round?

  Why should I let you?

  The final text from Don The Man that day had been a picture. Another engagement ring. Erica had told him he was forgiven and to come round. End of argument. End of her plan to sell him down the river. It didn’t matter: this was beautiful evidence.

  Bennet stood up. ‘No more game
s. This is serious. Don is going to prison. You need to think about whether you want to go there too. No phones allowed there, Erica.’

  ‘I don’t.’ She wiped a tear away.

  ‘Then I need you on my side. Don is done, but you’re not yet. You can still come out of this a free woman. But you have to help me. Invite me into your home. Offer me the text messages on your phone. Don’t fight us and things won’t get worse for you.’

  ‘You won’t find him, you know? He knows people. He’s been reading spy stuff about counter-intelligence. He’s a ghost. So what are you going to do?’

  Bennet had to suppress a laugh. He sat on the sofa, facing the doorway. ‘He’s a ghost who’s planning to share three pizzas and garlic bread with his girlfriend. So I’m going to do what all coppers these days do, according to my son’s friend. Sit on my fat arse and wait for him to come to me.’

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  As you’ve probably heard before, no one writes a novel alone. Behind the scenes are editors and publicists and publishers, all of whom do their bit to convince an author that the dross she’s so proud of needs work before it can be handed to readers. The convincers in most need of thanks for this book are, as always, Betsy Reavley, Ian Skewis, and Tara Lyons.

  All the good stuff is down to them; each confusing or misplaced snippet, and every unfunny joke, is an instance where I put my foot down and insisted I knew what I was doing. However, if you come across certain aspects of police procedure, history or geography that furrow the brow, know that I took few liberties for the sake of drama.