Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) (14 page)

was quite pleasant.

The last thing Jessica expected was to be invited in for a cup of tea. Well, that was until she

walked into the living room where there was a life-size poster of Liam Gallagher pinned to the wall.

It was from his younger days in Oasis when he still pronounced ‘sunshine’ as ‘sunshiiiiiiiiine’, long

hair hanging across his face, sunglasses shielding his eyes, snarl in full effect. If that wasn’t the last thing that anyone would expect, then Jessica didn’t know what would be.

‘Don’t mind Liam,’ Carly said, leading Jessica across a bare unvarnished wooden floor into a

kitchen covered with patchy, ripped lino and green cupboard doors straight out of the 1970s.

She filled the kettle up, plugged it in and flicked the switch.

Nothing happened.

‘Bloody thing,’ Carly cursed, jabbing a fork into the socket as Jessica leapt out of the way in

surprise. ‘Oh don’t worry about this; it’s about finding the right spot, innit?’

Jessica wasn’t sure she wanted to know but after a gentle popping sound, Carly plugged the kettle

back in, switched it on, and the red light appeared.

‘Is it always like that?’ Jessica asked.

‘Oh yes, the electric’s been buggered ever since I moved in.’

‘That’s sort of what I was here for – I wanted to ask about your landlord, Alan Hume.’

‘That dirty bastard? He doesn’t like my Liam.’

Jessica peered back towards the living room where the Oasis lead singer was still pinned to the

wall, still snarling. ‘What’s not to like?’

‘Oh, I’m with you, darlin’. Alan wouldn’t know a real man if he got hit in the face by one.’

Jessica didn’t point out the irony of Alan having been hit repeatedly in the face by someone who

might turn out to be a real man. Probably not Liam though.

‘I wanted to ask you about the flat you’re living in. We’ve been talking to a few of Alan’s tenants.’

‘’Bout bloody time. Look at this place.’

Carly pointed to the ceiling where a large patch of damp was spreading inexorably towards the

light fitting which itself was hanging by two wires. As Jessica looked around the rest of the flat she

could see mould and damp in every corner. Carly said that every power point was on the blink; the

sofa sagged in the middle, the springs had gone in the mattress, the hot tap in the sink didn’t work and she had to leave mouse traps out each night.

Jessica wondered what Liam would think of that. She didn’t want to but as she sipped on another

perfectly made cup of tea, she had to ask the question. ‘If it’s so bad, why do you live here?’

The woman tightened the flowery tie in her hair, stretching her skin even tauter. ‘Darlin’, if you

ain’t got nuffin, then where else are you meant to stay? Me mam reckons this is an elf ’azard but I ain’t got a job, ’av’ I? Where else can I go?’

It took Jessica a few moments to realise that Carly meant ‘health hazard’, rather than the flat being

a direct threat to pointy-eared mythical creatures.

‘If I were to tell you that Alan Hume was seriously injured last night, what would you say?’

‘Good – the dirty bastard prob’ly tried it on with one too many girls.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He’s a fuckin’ perv, innee? When I were struggling wiv me rent, he said I could give him a blowie

and we’d call it even. I told the dirty bastard to piss off and borrowed some money off me mam.’

Charming.

Jessica had seen and heard enough. She said goodbye to Carly and Liam and returned to her car,

hoping it was still there and hadn’t been bricked up. Luckily all the wheels were still present,

although the smell of gone-off pizza and rat shite had drifted across the road and, now the rain had

stopped, it felt even colder. As she was about to call the station to tell Izzy that an obvious connection between Luke Callaghan and Alan Hume was that they were both shitbags, her phone rang anyway.

‘Iz?’

‘Are you on your way back?’

‘Yes, I’ve got a sort-of connection from Callaghan to Hume.’

‘Good, we’ve got one too.’

‘Really?’

‘Guess who one of Hume’s former tenants is?’

Jessica didn’t have to guess because Michael Cowell’s words suddenly flitted into her head: ‘I’ve

got a shit flat – though not as bad as the last one’. Luke Callaghan’s hairy-eared former business

partner used to live in one of Alan Hume’s houses.

14

Michael Cowell invited Jessica and Izzy into his living room by eyeing DC Diamond up and down

and saying: ‘Blimey, why didn’t you bring her last time?’

Ever the charmer.

The heating was cranked up in his flat, providing a welcome relief from the howling, frost-ridden

gale outside, but any satisfaction was immediately forgotten at the sight of him wearing shorts and a

white T-shirt exposing a freakish amount of hair. Jessica had seen wildlife documentaries on primates

where the subjects had less fur than Michael Cowell. Thick black hair coated his legs and arms, as

well as sticking out from the V in his shirt. When he turned, the T-shirt was so tight and thin, she could see the dark hairs through it.

As soon as Michael led them into the living room, Izzy asked where the toilet was. Jessica didn’t

blame her – she was close to vomiting too. The worst thing was that none of it distracted from the

quite extraordinary ear hair, as if he had crammed a small dark mouse above each lobe. Jessica

couldn’t stop staring at it.

With Izzy gone, she felt out of her depth, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of hair. It was like

making small talk with a gorilla. ‘How was the strip club?’ she asked, not wanting the answer.

‘Amazing. There’s this nineteen-year-old Ukrainian, Alanya. I had the night of my life.

Ugh. Jessica doubted Alanya would be saying the same.

When Izzy returned looking paler than she had been before she left, they sat down. ‘I do have some

more news for you, Mr Cowell,’ Jessica said.

‘Call me Mike. Or Mikey. That’s what Alanya called me.’

Double ugh. ‘It’s about someone else you know. Alan Hume was attacked last night. He’s in

intensive care.’

‘As in the builder Alan Hume?’

‘Your former landlord.’

Jessica didn’t think he would collapse to his knees and confess, nor did she think he would be

upset. She definitely didn’t expect the reaction that came. Cowell leapt up from his armchair,

blubbery stomach releasing itself from the bottom of his T-shirt, exposing the hairiest belly-button

Jessica thought she would ever see. He punched the air. ‘You little beauty. I’ve definitely got some

champers around here.’ Before either Jessica or Izzy could say something, he had scuttled across to

the open-plan kitchen and opened the fridge.

‘Mr Cowell, you do realise we are looking for suspects for both attacks and you’re the only person

we can find who links the pair?’

He stuck his head out from the fridge. ‘When was he attacked?’

‘Last night at around seven o’clock.’

‘I was still at work – we’d been out to the strip club and me and Alanya, well, it was a late one. I

was delayed getting to work yesterday, so had to stay late. Check with my boss, check the call

records, whatever.’ He plonked a bottle on the counter top. ‘Now, do you want some Blanc de Noirs,

or don’t you?’

‘I was hoping you could tell us a bit more information about your relationship with Alan Hume. We

could visit the station.’

There was a loud popping sound as the cork hammered into the ceiling. ‘Aww, bollocks, we can’t

do that now, can we? I’ve opened the bottle.’

‘Perhaps if you answer the questions in a calmer manner, we can do this here.’

‘Aye, good thinking. Do you want a glass?’

And so the conversation continued. Cowell could barely contain his excitement, telling a similar

story to Carly’s about the state of the flat in which he’d lived, albeit without Hume’s invitation to give him a ‘blowie’ instead of rent money. He did say that Hume had kept his deposit and an extra month’s

rent for no reason and refused to answer his phone calls. Three-quarters of a Champagne bottle down

and he wasn’t flagging, talking about ‘getting the lads round’ for a ‘big night’.

He might have been glad to hear of the attacks on Callaghan and Hume – and certainly had a motive

– but with his alibis, they had no reason to arrest him. Jessica thought he was relatively harmless

anyway, unless you were a nineteen-year-old Ukrainian, in which case he was likely your worst

nightmare.

On their journey back to the station, it was already beginning to get dark. Gentle flurries of snow

were fluttering to the ground with the radio weatherman predicting a cold night – as if it wasn’t

something they could figure out for themselves. Izzy called in for an update but no one had uncovered

anything else on Michael Cowell. Everything he had told them about his history checked out and his

alibis were sound. They had looked at his bank accounts but there were no suspicious deposits,

transfers or withdrawals. He was as clean as could be. Not literally of course, not with that hair.

There were updates from the hospital, though: Hume had been moved from critical to stable,

although he wouldn’t be giving a statement any time soon. Callaghan wasn’t coping with his blindness

too well and was demanding to be allowed home.

Izzy hung up as Jessica pulled into the stream of traffic heading towards Longsight. ‘Are you off

this weekend?’ Jessica asked.

‘Yes, Mal and me are doing nothing for two days: telly, takeaways and beer. Well, that and looking

after Amber. I’m turning my phone off, so don’t even bother.’

‘Good for you. Me and Adam are going to IKEA.’

Izzy laughed. ‘What have you done to deserve that?’

‘I think it’s all the swearing and this is payback. We need a few new cabinets for the spare room.’

‘I hope you’ve put aside seven or eight hours – once you get in that place, there’s no getting out. It’s a giant flat-packed hall of doom.’

‘I’ve never been. Adam got talked into it by his sister – he thinks it’s going to be a quick in-out,

then back to the house with the furniture. I’m not putting any of it together so he’d better know what

he’s doing.’

‘How are things between you?’

‘When we’re actually together, it’s like we’re an old married couple. Having Georgia at the house

is awkward but she’s looking for her own place.’

‘What about . . . ?’

‘No.’

Jessica pulled onto Stockport Road for the final part of the journey. Traffic had started to clear but

the red lights still stretched far ahead, eating into the grey of the early evening as the snow eased off, replaced by a light drizzle.

Izzy remained quiet for a few moments, before adding: ‘If you want to talk, we can.’

Jessica didn’t reply. The low rumble of the engine rippled around the vehicle alongside the gentle

scrape of the windscreen wipers flip-flopping across the glass. ‘We’ve not done . . .
that
. . . in a couple of months,’ Jessica croaked. ‘It’s not him. After they said I couldn’t get pregnant, it’s all the tests and the inspections and the talk about it. It feels so mechanical – everything’s talked through with the doctor to make sure you’re doing it at the right time and you just end up going over it all so much

that it’s like changing a tyre or . . . putting together a flat-pack cupboard.’

‘Have you ever done either of those?’

Jessica forced a laugh. She hated talking about these things to anyone, least of all with a doctor she

didn’t know. Izzy was seemingly good at everything – if you wanted a job doing, give it to Iz.

Parenting tips? She was a natural. And the fact the constable had made her laugh about this proved it

was something else she was good at.

‘Of course I’ve never done either of those. I just mean that it’s not about being together, or having

fun, it’s just another chore. I’ve not felt right since I got back to work. Adam’s really good about it –

infuriatingly good – he’s so bloody nice about everything and everyone that it drives me mad.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘You end up wondering if it’s worth it? When I was pregnant before, I was used to the idea of

leaving this behind and going to do something else.’

‘You wouldn’t have come back?’

‘I’m not like you – you can multi-task, you’re naturally good at everything—’

‘I’m really not.’

‘It seems like it. My point is that I just want to be good at one thing. If I’m going to be a mother,

then I’ll have to make sure I’m brilliant but I don’t think I could do that and this, not now, not after the promotion.’

‘So why did you accept becoming a DI?’

Jessica sucked in the warm air spewing from the vehicle’s heater. In front, the traffic surged

forwards a dozen car lengths before stuttering to a halt again. Jessica wrenched the handbrake into

place and rested her head on the driver’s side window. ‘Because it was there. It’s a justification of

everything from the past few years, isn’t it? Having a stun gun used on me, the injection, the fire, the shotgun – even the house. There are other things that you don’t want to hear. You go into these places

hoping to come out the other side and when you do, and they offer you a reward for it, you feel like

you should take it.’

‘Perhaps you should think about what makes you happy. Is it the job or is it the idea of being a

mother? Could it be both? Or something else entirely?’

‘It’s not this sodding weather, that’s for sure. It’s nearly summer – I’m off to that ParkFest thing

soon but everyone’s going to be wearing coats, scarves and hats at this rate.’