Double Dealing (Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Series Book Two) (22 page)

42

Lauren lay on her side, her knees drawn up to her chest. She pulled the plastic sheeting around her, as tight as it would go. It might as well have been tissue paper for all the warmth it was providing. The concrete floor was like ice, leeching the warmth and strength from her limbs. She shivered, her head empty of thoughts other than those linked to her pain and discomfort. Clamping her teeth together, she managed a sketch of a smile. Lying in the foetal position. What a cliché. She stretched out her legs, then pushed herself onto her hands and knees. She managed to get to her feet and lurched over to where the plastic bottle lay on the floor by the door. After unscrewing the cap laboriously, she tipped back her head and held the bottle over her open mouth, willing just another drop to emerge.

  Nothing.

  A low moan crept from her as the bottle fell to the floor, bounced, rolled and then lay still. She slunk back to her plastic nest. The puddle in the corner had long since disappeared and she hadn’t needed to go again. Not a good sign.

  Curling up again on the floor, she closed her eyes. Where was Mark? Why wasn’t he looking for her? Where were the police?

  A sob choked her throat but her hand was cold and dry as she wiped her eyes. No tears. What did that mean?

  She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried, before all this had begun. When Nan had died? When Katie Thomson pushed her over in the park? No. No. That was years ago. Pigtails and plaits. Patent leather shoes and mud pies. Katie Thomson was coming around to play. Her mum was having a baby soon and Katie hoped for a brother, because she already had a sister. Lauren had a brother. His name was Mark.

  Lauren lifted her chin, blinking hard. No. Mark was her husband. She didn’t have a brother, she was an only child. What was happening? Her vision blurred, the plastic sheeting rising from the floor to meet her.

  Her heart seemed to thud against her chest, the beat rattling the pain in her head around like a pinball.

  ‘Where are you Mark?’ she screamed, startling herself. ‘Where are you, you selfish bastard? Don’t leave me here. I’ll die, you know. I’ll die.’ She raised her hands and tucked them under her armpits, whimpering. ‘Mum. Mark. Mummy. I can’t see you. I can’t see you now.’

43

Alex Lambert looked relaxed as Catherine and Dave resumed the interview.

  ‘Mr Lambert, you told us earlier that you couldn’t remember Keeley Pearce, that you didn’t even know who she was. Correct?’

  ‘Back to this again?’ he sighed. ‘Yes, Sergeant, that’s what I said. I’ve no idea who Keeley Pearce is.’

Catherine nodded. ‘And yet when she rang you on your mobile a few days ago, you spoke to her for almost two minutes.’

  ‘Quite a long conversation to have with someone you don’t know.’ Dave smiled. Lambert sat up straight, his face stricken.

  ‘What are you talking about? I told you, I’ve never heard of her.’

Catherine pushed the sheet of paper Anna had given her over the table towards him. ‘I’m showing Mr Lambert a print-out of Keeley Pearce’s mobile phone records.’ She indicated the relevant line with a fingernail. ‘That is your phone number, isn’t it, Alex?’

He stared, his face growing red. ‘This is bollocks, I’ve never . . .’ he blustered. His solicitor glanced down at the sheet, then scribbled in her notepad. Lambert ran a hand over his face. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘Looks like I’ll have to tell you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Mr Lambert, I . . .’ Sophie Townsend interrupted. Lambert held up a hand.

  ‘The sooner I explain, the sooner we get out of here.’

Dave smirked.

  ‘We’re waiting, Mr Lambert.’ Catherine was stern.

  ‘Okay, I lied. I admit it. I lied.’ Lambert looked at the two officers in turn, expecting some kind of reaction. There was none. ‘Keeley phoned me, desperate for money. I didn’t know who she was at first, didn’t even know she had my number. Anyway, she begged and pleaded for a while, saying her kids were hungry, she’d no money for the electricity, she hadn’t eaten for two days, blah blah blah. A real sob story. I kept telling her I wasn’t going to lend her anything. I had to hang up on her in the end.’

  ‘You expect us to believe that this woman phones you out of the blue, asking for money, then happens to turn up dead a few days later?’ Dave shook his head.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ Lambert said, maintaining eye contact. Catherine stretched her arms over her head and yawned.

  ‘We’ll see you again later, Mr Lambert.’

  ‘Wait a minute, you can’t keep me here.’ Lambert sounded outraged. Catherine gathered her papers again with a smile.

  ‘We can, I’m afraid.’

  A print-out of the photo Knight had taken lay before DCI Kendrick on his desk. He studied it for a few seconds, turning it this way and that with his fingertip.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘So what’s your theory?’

  ‘That this is how they brought the drug mules into the country.’ Knight was staring at a spot on the wall just above Kendrick’s head.

  ‘But why bother to have them swallow the coke then?’ Kendrick demanded. ‘Why involve the mules at all? Couldn’t they just have packed it into a bag and flown it over? It would have saved them money too.’

   ‘It makes no sense,’ Catherine agreed. ‘Unless it was just a safety precaution, some extra insurance if anyone caught them.’

Kendrick picked up the photograph and frowned at it.

  ‘What do you know about these things?’

Knight shrugged. ‘Not much if I’m honest. Looks like a death trap to me.’

  ‘It might have been for Keeley Pearce,’ Catherine reminded them. ‘And Lauren. I keep expecting her body to be found.’

  ‘We’ve still no evidence that she’s involved,’ Kendrick pointed out.

  ‘She must be though.’

  ‘Then where is she? She’s had plenty of time now to get the drugs out of her system and trot home with her cash, hasn’t she?’

Catherine screwed up her face. ‘Yes, if it was that straightforward. We know it wasn’t for Keeley. They’re taking a massive risk.’

  ‘So who are we looking at?’ Kendrick preferred action to speculation. He set the photo back on the desk top. ‘Alex Lambert?’

Catherine nodded. ‘He’s arrogant enough to believe he can get away with anything. We know he’s been involved with drugs before, however much he denies it. Our witness has signed a statement saying that Lambert offered to sell him drugs. Also, we know he’s charming and persuasive and that he knew both Keeley Pearce and Lauren Cook.’

  ‘Have we tracked down this young girl he’s supposed to have had an affair with?’ Kendrick wanted to know.

  ‘Anna and Chris have gone to see her,’ Knight told him.

  ‘Excellent.’ Kendrick pinched his lip. ‘We need to get some more information on these kite things too.’

Catherine began to stand up. ‘I’ll do it now.’ She hesitated. ‘There is another possibility.’

  ‘Which is?’ Kendrick shoved back his chair and got to his feet. Catherine was quiet, thinking it through. Kendrick tutted in exasperation and pushed out of his office door, only to barge back in holding three plastic cups of water which he doled out. ‘Well, Sergeant?’

  ‘I’m not sure if it makes sense . . .’

Kendrick gulped his water. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘Okay. The eyelash has been bothering me.’

  ‘Lauren Cook’s eyelash?’

  ‘Yeah. We know it means that Lauren was near Keeley’s body after she died, unless they met before Keeley’s death and Lauren’s eyelash was transferred onto Keeley’s clothing somehow.’

  ‘It seems more likely that she was near the body after the incision was made, based on what Jo told us,’ Knight added. Catherine glanced at him with a half-smile. She still hadn’t had a chance to grill him about his date with the pathologist.

  ‘Yes, agreed,’ she said instead. ‘So, did Lauren do the cutting? Was she present when it took place, or did she somehow find the body afterwards? We know that Keeley didn’t die at the side of Moon Pond.’

  ‘We still need to find out where she did die,’ Kendrick pointed out. ‘What have we got?’

Knight fidgeted. ‘We made a few enquiries but we didn’t get very far. There was nothing to go on, either from the post-mortem or from the crime scene reports.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Catherine interrupted. ‘Alex Lambert owns several properties, he told me so himself.’

  ‘Would he have done that if he knew a woman had died in one of them? I suppose it looks less suspicious than if we found out and he’d said nothing,’ Kendrick answered himself. ‘Let’s get some addresses and we’ll take it from there. ’

  ‘Would Lambert use a property he owned though?’ Knight queried. ‘He seems too clever for that. I know we need to check, but . . .’

  ‘What else do you suggest we do?’ Kendrick made Knight meet his eyes. ‘All lines of enquiry are leading to Alex Lambert at the moment.’ Knight nodded, acknowledging the point. Kendrick held up a finger. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked. Knight smiled a little. ‘Come on, none of your mystery man rubbish. Tell us.’

  ‘There’s another man in the photograph, that’s all.’

Kendrick’s gaze flicked over the image once again.

  ‘John Worthy? You think we need to have another look at him?’

  ‘He knows Keeley and Lauren. He has property and we know he likes to give offenders a chance to earn an honest living. I’m just wondering if that’s all there is to it.’ Knight switched his gaze to the wall again as Kendrick sighed.

  ‘Catherine, what do you think? You’ve spoken to him.’

She frowned.

  ‘It’s difficult to say. As Jonathan says, he has access to all that Lambert has.’

  ‘Including a plane,’ Kendrick nodded.

  ‘It’s a microlight, Guv.’

Kendrick flapped a hand.

  ‘Right, let Lambert go, but have someone follow him. I want to see what he does next. Bring Worthy in. Find out about all of his property too. Let’s poke him a few times and see how he reacts.’

  Catherine checked her mobile as she sat down at her desk. There was a voicemail from the journalist, Helen Bridges, wanting a progress report. Catherine smiled.
Dream on, Helen
,
she thought, switching on her clapped-out old monitor. If only they had made any progress. She found a mobile number for the local flying school and tapped the digits into her desk phone. It rang a few times before going to voicemail. She put on her best clipped tones and asked for a call back as soon as possible. Simon Sullivan glanced over from his own desk.

  ‘Scary, Sarge. You should have been a teacher.’

  ‘No chance,’ she smiled. ‘Can you do me a favour, Si?’

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ he winked.

  ‘Now you mention it . . . No, I need you to look at Alex Lambert’s property, see where it is and if it bears any relation to the locations we already know about, like Moon Pond. Also, find out if it’s standing empty or if it’s occupied by tenants or shopkeepers. We’re looking for the place where Keeley Pearce died.’

He nodded understanding. ‘And where she was cut open?’

  ‘That too.’ She shuddered.

  ‘No problem.’ He turned back to his keyboard. Catherine tapped her feet on the floor a few times, looking at the phone and willing it to ring. She decided to give it five minutes, then try another flying school. It was early evening, but someone would be answering their phone. She stood up.

  ‘Si?’ He span his chair around again. ‘Tea or coffee?’

 
He didn’t even go home to pack in the end. There was a bus stop outside the factory and he stepped onto the first one that approached, heading for the railway station and a one-way ticket out of Northolme. If he could get to Retford, he was on the mainline to London, and from there he would be safe.

  He might be safe, there was no certainty. He knew too much and he was entirely dispensable. Not a good combination if you wanted to stay alive.

  The first step was getting out of town. He sat on the back seat, slumped in the corner, keeping his head down and his baseball cap pulled low. There were a few other people on the bus but no one he recognised. He flexed his hands and cracked his knuckles. Pulling his phone out of his jeans pocket, he checked the display. Ten to six. Almost time. Would he guess that he’d done a runner? No doubt. Not much got past him.

  He huddled further down into his coat, his mind racing. What would he do even if he reached London? Get a job, he supposed. Anything would do. Washing pots, cleaning, kitchen work. A straight job, he knew that much. No way was he getting into anything dodgy again. The rewards weren’t worth the risk.

  The bus trundled through the town centre. He kept his face turned away from the window in case anyone saw him, but kept flicking wary glances at the pavement outside. Groups of young women with pushchairs, laughing and smoking. Men striding along swigging lager or energy drinks from tall cans. A few elderly people dotted here and there, dragging shopping trolleys or carrying a couple of plastic bags. Thick winter coats and boots, trainers and thin, fashionable jackets. He thought about Lauren, locked inside that freezing room, biting down on his lip as guilt coursed through him. She hadn’t deserved that. She certainly didn’t deserve to be killed. The whole mess sickened him. That girl, Keeley. She’d been so pleased, so eager to have the chance to earn some money. She had plans, she’d said.

  She had kids.

  He swallowed and checked the phone again. Six o’clock. Nausea rose in his throat and nudged him. He’d be waiting. How long until he gave up and came looking? They were still a few streets away from the railway station. His eyes fixed on the cab in which the driver sat.
Come on mate, put your foot down.
It was hopeless of course. The traffic, even in a one-horse town like Northolme was choked at this time of day.

  At least he wasn’t due at work until Monday. He’d miss the place, and the people.

  Some of the people.

  The bus slowed again as it approached a mini roundabout. He took some deep breaths. Another few hundred metres and they would reach the station. The bus trundled forward and he shuffled in the seat, preparing to move down the aisle. He had no bag, no clothes, just his phone and his wallet. He’d lose his flat; no doubt the council would soon realise he wasn’t living there and move some other poor bastard in. He didn’t envy them. The black spots of mould on the walls that grew back whatever paint or cleaning solution you slapped over them, the constant noise and turnover of neighbours.

  He stood as the bus finally lurched to a stop across the busy main road from the station. He thanked the driver and stepped out onto the street, pulling his hat even further over his face. Cars hurried by as the bus indicated hopefully for a while, then gave up and pulled out into the streaming traffic regardless. He glanced from right to left and made a run for it, hesitating in the middle of the road for a few seconds before nipping through the slowing traffic.

  The car park had half a dozen spaces and each one was occupied. He hurried across the tarmac, towards the platform. As he drew level with a dark blue estate car, the window was wound down. He hesitated for a second. It couldn’t be.