A Cry in the Night (23 page)

Zoe didn’t want to seem too keen. In fact, she was extremely wary of meeting this woman at all, but she was also keen to get out of the station. She hung up before Helen could confirm anything more – her rather petulant attempt at control – and continued down the stairs. As she headed towards the exit she saw Gareth, standing by the door, watching her.

‘You alright?’ he asked, his voice flat.

‘Morning, Gareth,’ she replied brightly.

‘You done your report on last night?’

‘Who are you? My mum?’

‘Done mine,’ he replied and ran a hand over his hair, flattening it. ‘Done it good and proper.’

‘Well done you, gold star,’ she said.

‘Funny bitch, ain’t you?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I said you’re funny. Well, always trying to be funny. Must be hard work, all the effort you put in.’

‘It’s easier than trying to climb up Sergeant Cartmell’s arse all day. I’m amazed there’s any room, with you all fighting to get in there.’

Gareth didn’t have a ready reply to this so he just scowled. She looked at him for a moment. She remembered when he first joined, how eager and fresh-faced he was. He had shaken her hand earnestly and paid attention to everything she said. But now, a year in, he was snide and cold-faced; another faceless uniform, thinking and acting as he was told to do.

She pushed past him. After the claustrophobia of the station’s corridors, the city’s dusty, polluted air outside seemed wonderfully fresh and clean.

*

Back in his office, now finally free to get back onto the case, Sam was pleased to see Zoe head off. He noted that her exit was quiet, as though she was hiding something, but he put this down to the trouble she was having with Malcolm. He must talk to the crusty old bugger, he reminded himself. He didn’t like the idea of Zoe being scared, especially not in here, a police station.

But soon he was driving again, and the only thing in his mind was a missing witness, Helen Seymour and poor little Lily Downing.

Helen was sitting at a table at the back of the cafe halfway through a bacon sandwich when Zoe arrived. It was a tawdry place, catering for those who had no interest in fancy delicatessens and decaf macchiatos. Helen had to wipe some of the ketchup off her lips and stood hurriedly, grabbing Zoe into a hug.

‘Thanks for coming, really. Bacon sarnie? Lizzie does the best in town.’

Lizzie, a tall, sturdy woman, winked at her, and Zoe felt outnumbered by her presence and the unexpected hug. She looked around – an old couple were perusing newspapers in the other corner, but otherwise the place was quiet. It made a surprisingly good meeting place. She ordered a coffee and sat down as Helen cleared papers away off the table, stuffing them unceremoniously into her bag.

Once again, her clothes were simple and understated. It was only by the cut that Zoe could tell they weren’t just
high-street brands. It was as though everything Helen did was to avoid being noticed.

Lizzie returned moments later with two coffees that she dumped onto the table. She left an arm draped on Helen’s shoulder for a moment, before moving on. Helen sipped at hers and then sat back. Zoe waited, well aware of the game being played. She could wait as long as it took.

‘I have a small problem with your boss,’ Helen said eventually.

‘Which one?’

‘Your DI. Sam Taylor.’

‘So talk to him.’

Helen frowned in a way that made it clear she would if she could. She fiddled with her coffee cup for a moment.

‘He came at me, last night, when I was getting into my car.’

‘What does that mean? Came at you?’

‘I was going to my car, across from the station after some business – he hasn’t mentioned this to you?’

‘I haven’t seen him this morning,’ Zoe lied.

‘Well, I was about to unlock the door and I looked round, you know, as you do to make sure you’re safe, and there he was. He’d followed me. It scared me, Zoe.’

Zoe had seen Sam scare plenty of people. But he did it with lowlife dealers, with thugs and scrotes. Not with women, and never with someone like Helen. She didn’t know what to think.

‘What do you want me to do about it?’ she said.

‘I’d like you to calm him down.’

‘He seems fine to me.’

‘No, Zoe, he’s far from fine.’

‘Look, you put his back up – steamrolling over his case like that – what do you expect?’

‘So this is typical behaviour then, is it? He’s “got the hump” and it’ll all calm down?’

‘Sure.’

Helen shook her head, irritated at Zoe’s stonewalling.

‘You’re the smartest person in that whole department. Don’t shut down on me. I know he’s your boss and your friend, but don’t block me just because of some misplaced ideas about loyalty.’

‘Excuse me? I shouldn’t even bloody be here.’

‘What has he told you about me?’ Helen asked, and Zoe was surprised by the abrupt change of direction.

‘Fuck off.’ It was a stock reply in times of trouble, and it suited her well enough now.

Helen sighed. ‘Okay. Stop. Rewind. Let’s start this again. I’m sorry, I’ve come at this the wrong way, but please, don’t think of me as some sort of adversary.’

‘You’re a sodding defence barrister!’

‘We’re both part of the same system, serving the law. You know that.’

‘You’re being ridiculous.’

‘No, you’ve just spent too long with your macho buddies.’

Zoe thought of Gareth and his stupid sneer. It shut her up.

‘You’re not one of them, Zoe,’ Helen said more quietly. ‘I think Sam’s a good guy and a good cop, but I think he’s too desperate to get a result on the case. I would be too. A boy’s dead and a girl is missing. But he seems more driven than seems reasonable.’

This was a waste of time. Zoe downed her coffee and prepared to leave, pulling at her coat from the back of her chair.

‘He was shaking with rage, Zoe. I thought he was going to explode.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘So he’s not been acting oddly with you then?’

‘No.’

But he had. He’d been secretive and angry for months now. Not like that, though, not violent or dangerous. But she could imagine it, even if she’d never seen it. He’d had his moments in the past, before Andrea died, when he was terrifying.

‘Why would he be so angry with you then?’ Zoe asked.

Helen raised an eyebrow in response. ‘You know why.’

‘You’ve been messing with witnesses.’

Zoe saw Helen’s fingers tighten on the gingham table cloth and she felt a sting of irritation and regret – Helen had got her to play her hand.

‘Why do you think that?’ Helen said, and Zoe was pleased to see how uncomfortable she was.

‘No, you don’t get to pump me for information. You know what you’ve done. And if you’ve done wrong, then you deserve to be punished for it.’

‘And if I haven’t?’

‘Then you’re not a concern of ours.’

‘I think I’m a gigantic concern of Sam Taylor’s, even though I haven’t been messing with any witnesses.’

‘I doubt that. And I have to go now.’

‘I fight hard for my clients,’ Helen interrupted, her eyes locked on Zoe, ‘and I do it by the book. But I pay for it. I used to be a lot brasher than I am now. I thought at first that I should do it like the boys – fight and play like them, be loud and unbending. But that didn’t go down so well. Now I’m quieter and they prefer me like that. Quieter, but I tell you, I still fight. And they hate it. They hate a woman like me just because I’m clever and successful and all the other things that women aren’t allowed to be in this enlightened age. So I get my share of enemies. You get yourself into trouble when you speak your mind. Don’t you?’

‘Oh God, are you trying to get me to shit on my boss because of some women’s lib?’

‘I’m not asking you to shit on anyone.’

Zoe pushed the empty cup away from her. Helen stood, straightening the sleeves of her jacket and throwing her bag
over her shoulder. She looked down at Zoe. ‘I’ve done my homework on you, Zoe. You’re an exceptional talent. But you’re also too loyal to Sam. And it could get you hurt. I just wanted to warn you.’

‘I don’t believe a word you’ve said,’ Zoe snapped. Helen didn’t respond to this. This only annoyed Zoe more, so she continued. ‘And the fact that you talk about loyalty like it’s some sort of optional extra only makes me think less of you.’

‘I love the way you talk. But I bet they bloody despise you back in that cop shop,’ Helen said, and walked away.

Zoe remained at the table, her mind whirling. She knew that Helen had dropped a vial of slow-working poison into her ear – seeding doubts against those she trusted and loved. She recognised that Helen had secrets of her own and that she was trying to manipulate her. She should go back and tell Sam now, tell him everything and not let Helen come between them. That’s what loyal colleagues do. They’re open and honest at all times.

But Sam wasn’t being honest with her. And the way he was right now, she wasn’t sure if her loyalty wasn’t indeed dangerously placed.

The poison was working. She could feel it spreading cancerous tentacles through her, making her shivery and suspicious. Or maybe it was only awakening emotions that were already there.

She got up. Lizzie was clearing a table by the door.

‘Does she meet people here often?’ Zoe asked.

‘I guess.’

‘Doesn’t seem her sort of place. I imagined she’d eat somewhere fancier.’

Lizzie just shrugged.

‘You don’t say much, do you?’

‘I don’t know you.’

‘But you know her.’

‘Oh yeah. We all know her,’ the waitress replied. It sounded, somehow, as though she was describing an army.

Zoe walked back to the station. She had known that visiting Helen would be a mistake. And now she’d done it, although nothing had happened and no deal had been agreed, she felt she’d somehow signed a little bit of her life away.

Sam went back to visit Arnold Heath in his musty, book-strewn flat. The academic prickled with excitement, desperate to help and be a part of the adventure, and Sam was soon able to get what he wanted. Some post had arrived, incorrectly labelled, as Sam had assumed. It was an electricity bill with a large amount unpaid and had sent Arnold into a tizzy. As a result, he had rung the contact number left for him (Helen Seymour’s chambers) and had been disappointed to be put through to a temp who was unhelpful and unprofessional. However, Arnold was so concerned that he would be forced to pay the bill himself, that he forced the young woman to dictate the tenant’s forwarding address down the phone so that he could ensure its arrival with a recorded delivery. He had even kept a copy of the receipt (with the address included) in case the bill remained outstanding.

Sam thanked him politely for his tenacity and let him ramble on about society and the deterioration of manners
until his bulk and the silence did their work and Arnold felt too uncomfortable to speak any more. Sam shook his hand, promised to be in touch with further developments (which caused a flurry of excitement all over again) and left.

The address was in Nottingham, far from his jurisdiction. But that didn’t stop him; he drove there straight away. He turned on the radio, then snapped it off, his concentration skittish. It was only as he approached the outskirts of the city, nearly two hours later, that he remembered he’d failed to buy any of the provisions on his supermarket list. What had happened? He’d been in there and then … then the case had distracted him and dragged him away. He consoled himself with the thought that he could buy the things he needed on the way back. Right now he needed to concentrate on Lily. And Richard Howell.

The address took him to a depressing part of town. The building itself was a crumbling brick ruin on the corner of two busy roads. Heavy trucks grunted and hissed as they passed, and Sam had to shield his eyes from the grit that they kicked up. He looked at the sky, but there were no rolling clouds here, just a thick, dull blanket of grey.

It was impossible to tell if the intercom worked or not, but it drew no response, and Sam had to wait for a workman to enter, slipping in behind him and heading up to the top floor, the stairs sagging alarmingly under his weight. He knocked on the door, saw a buzzer and tried that as well.
After a few minutes, he was about to give up when he heard a shuffling behind the door. He stopped and listened.

‘Open up. Police,’ Sam barked.

The shuffling stopped. Busted.

‘Come on, I know you’re there. You’re not in trouble, I just want to ask you some questions.’

After a lengthy pause, the door opened and a scrawny man peered out at him. He was shirtless, with pyjama bottoms that hung loosely over his thin hips. From his research, Sam knew that Ricky was in his late twenties, that he never answered to Richard, and hadn’t done a day’s work in his life. But on first observation, the pallid figure in front of him could have been anything between twenty and forty. His skin was deathly grey, and a fine line of stubble only heightened the sense of a body in decay.

‘Yeah?’ Ricky said.

Sam introduced himself and pushed his way into the flat. The curtains were closed, but so thin that the daylight still bled through. Ricky lived in a nauseous half-light. He led Sam across the unopened post that lay thick on the floor and into an awful sitting room which was composed solely of a sofa, a large TV and a low coffee table covered in needles, dope, silver foil, matches and empty vodka bottles.

When he saw Sam looking at all of the drugs paraphernalia, he sniffed.

‘It’s medicinal, innit?’

He wavered by the sofa, his body swaying slightly. His eyes had a yellowy, nicotine-stained sheen to them, and Sam tried to work out just how far gone he was.

‘So what is it, then?’ Ricky asked, flopping down onto the sofa. His eyes drifted towards Sam and then away from him as though he were coming in and out of focus. If Sam had stood still for long enough, it was quite possible that Ricky would forget he was even there.

‘You used to live at 221 Dalton Street?’

Ricky sniffed a confirmation. He started to fiddle with cigarette papers and rolling tobacco.