Double Dealing (Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Series Book Two) (4 page)

  ‘I was, I told her.’

He could hear Celia having a mumbled conversation, no doubt with Lauren’s dad Geoff. You had to feel sorry for the poor sod; it must be like being married to a whirlwind. Still, they’d been together a long time. There was no harm in Celia, Mark acknowledged, she was just overwhelming.

  ‘Right.’ She was back on the line, loud and clear. ‘Geoff and I are getting in the car now. We’ll be with you soon, then we’ll all go down to the police station and give them what for. Fobbing you off like that, honestly, it’s disgusting. What do we pay our taxes for, that’s what I want to know.’

Mark made a feeble attempt at protesting, but reasoning with Celia in full flow was like trying to stop an express train by shouting at it. No chance.

  ‘We’ll see you soon then. Have the kettle on. Bye now.’

Resignedly, Mark slipped his phone back into his jeans pocket. He should have known. At least he’d tidied up.

11

Catherine sat alone, sipping orange juice and nibbling at the corner of a cheese sandwich that she didn’t want. It was late for lunch, but she’d been trying to avoid the canteen. She should have brought a snack in from home but then she’d have had to come down here in the end, she couldn’t avoid it forever.

  The double doors opened, but Catherine didn’t look up. Anna Varcoe came in, crossed to the counter and selected a couple of items. As she waited to pay, she glanced over at her sergeant. Catherine looked exhausted, and though she was as smart and groomed as ever, she seemed to have lost weight. Her face was drawn, her eyes almost shuttered, no clues as to how she felt or what she must be going through. Anna wondered whether Catherine had been away from the station long enough, but then what would be the point of her being at home brooding?

  Anna thought back to the time she’d spent with her just after Claire’s death, with Catherine struggling to say a word and Anna herself stunned, attempting to take in what it all meant. She had gone home from the hospital feeling almost as if she were dreaming, sleepwalking into her own flat and taking the longest, hottest bath she could stand. The events surrounding Claire’s death had affected them all, the whole town in a sense. Anna knew Catherine was experiencing terrible guilt because she hadn’t realised what had happened, what was going to happen. She’d said as much. Anna frowned to herself and resolved to speak to DI Knight when she had a chance. She picked up her tray again and went over to where Catherine sat.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ Anna asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Catherine replied, blinking away an image of Claire standing in just the same spot, smiling down at her.

  Anna settled into the chair opposite her sergeant, picked up her jam doughnut and sank her teeth into it as Catherine looked on in envy.

  ‘Wish I’d got a doughnut now. I’m not sure how long these sandwiches have been there, but the sell-by date’s written in Roman numerals.’

Anna started to laugh, then was overtaken by a coughing fit as she struggled to swallow the mouthful of doughnut.

  ‘You see, they’re not good for you.’ Catherine grinned.

  ‘Just go and get one, Sarge, you know you want to,’ Anna replied when she was able to, wiping her eyes. Catherine shook her head in defeat and returned to the counter. Back at the table, she took a huge bite and closed her eyes with pleasure. Anna smiled, relieved. Catherine was still pale, the smile a little forced and brittle, but the overall the signs were good. Perhaps she wouldn’t need to voice her concerns to DI Knight after all.

  Back in the office, DC Lancaster was waiting.

  ‘Sarge, the Lauren Cook thing – I think you better come and have a look.’

Catherine followed him over to his desk.

  ‘What’s wrong, Dave?’

He sat down and she stood beside him, leaning forward as he pointed to the familiar website displayed on his monitor.

  ‘See? The only friend Lauren has on Facebook called Sarah hasn’t been on her hen weekend, not according to this. She spent Saturday and Sunday at home in Huddersfield decorating, not getting drunk in Amsterdam.’

Catherine squinted at the screen.

  ‘And there’s no other Sarah at all?’

  ‘No, Sarge.’

  ‘And none of her other Facebook friends have been on a hen night? Maybe Mr Cook got the name wrong.’

  ‘There’s no mention of anything like that.’

  ‘Hmm. Did you find out if Lauren is back in the country?’

  ‘That’s the weirdest part – I can’t find any record of her travelling abroad at all, not since the summer before last.’

  ‘Oh, so she’s been fibbing? You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive, Sarge. She went to Gran Canaria about fifteen months ago, but that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with the DCI. It worries me that she hasn’t been in touch with her husband, but then I bet she has a new bloke.’

  ‘Maybe, but it that case you’d have thought she’d have thought up a better lie than that. Maybe Mr Cook isn’t telling us the truth.’

Catherine puffed out her cheeks. ‘All right. I’ll go and speak to DCI Kendrick now. Looks like you and I might be having a ride into town after all, Dave.’

Keith Kendrick watched her as she sat down, taking in the dark smudges under her eyes and the slow, careful movements. He’d need to keep an eye on her.

  ‘How are you, Catherine? Really I mean, don’t give me any flannel.’

She laughed.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m fine.’

  ‘You only had three weeks off, it’s not long.’

  ‘I want to be here, this is what I’m paid for.’

  ‘What does that lass of yours say?’

  ‘Lass? Do you mean Louise?’

  ‘Aye, that’s the one. Mousy hair and a sour look on her face.’ Kendrick grinned, not sure if he was pushing his luck. Catherine shook her head.

  ‘No idea, I’ve not heard from her. Don’t expect to either.’

  ‘Very bloody supportive.’

  Catherine took a deep breath. She didn’t want to think about Louise; there was only so much guilt she could handle.

  ‘I need to talk to you about a missing person.’

She explained what Mark Cook had told her and what DC Lancaster had dug up so far. Kendrick listened, pinching his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Well, I think we need to talk to the husband again at least,’ he said. ‘You’d think the bride-to-be would have been putting photos and God knows what else on Facebook - who’s been sick where, how many times they’ve fallen over and all that. Have you ever been on a hen night?’

  ‘Not for a few years.’

  ‘They sound worse than a stag do, and they’re bad enough.’ He shuddered.

  ‘It could just be that Lauren was spending the weekend with someone she didn’t want her husband to know about, of course, but then why tell him a lie that was so easy to disprove?’

  ‘A boyfriend you mean? Could be. So what are you suggesting, we talk to a friend first, someone she could have confided in?’

  ‘It might be best. It shouldn’t take any time. DC Lancaster’s been looking into it so far.’

  ‘Good idea, give him some experience. Let me know what you find out and we’ll take it from there.’

  He held the mug of hot chocolate between shaking hands, blew across the top of the sickly-looking liquid and took a sip. It wasn’t so bad. He hadn’t wanted it but his colleague had insisted, saying it would do him good, that it was too cold to be just drinking the squash he would have preferred. He took another reluctant sip, the churning in his stomach not helping. He’d received a text early that morning, short and to the point as always
:
Pint tonight? Collect you at 7
.
They wouldn’t be going for a pint, of course. He screwed up his face. He didn’t know what to do and there was no one he could ask for advice. He’d been stupid; so very stupid. He might have more cash than before, but was it worth it? No. No way. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and who knew what he’d have to do tonight. It couldn’t be as bad as what they’d done already. He closed his eyes, the image of the knife blade sinking into the soft, pale flesh unbearable. Chewing on the inside of his lips, he pressed them together, willing himself not to be sick.

  The memory of what he had done afterwards was even worse.

  He gave up on the last mouthful of hot chocolate and turned to rinse his mug in the sink. He needed to think.

12

There was a tap on Kendrick’s office door and the desk sergeant, Rich Smithies, stuck his head into the room.

  ‘Sorry, Guv. I wondered if I could have a quick word with DS Bishop?’

  ‘Can’t it wait, Rich? We’ve almost finished.’

  ‘Not really, I’m afraid. The woman who was reported missing earlier, Lauren Cook? I’ve got her husband back downstairs, as well as her mum and dad. The mum’s causing a proper scene.’

  ‘Bloody Norah,’ Kendrick complained. ‘We’ve already told the husband that there’s nothing we can do.’

  ‘I know, that’s the bit she has a problem with.’ Smithies shrugged. Catherine heaved a sigh and got to her feet.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll come down. I wanted another word with Mark Cook anyway.’

Kendrick waved a dismissive hand. ‘Fine.’

Catherine reached the door and followed Rich down the corridor, smoothing her hair as they walked.

  ‘Is she really kicking off?’ she asked in an undertone.

Rich snorted. ‘I’m surprised you can’t hear her yet.’

  ‘Great. I can understand it, but . . .’

  ‘I know. She’s insistent, she was going on about phoning the papers, the Chief Constable, her MP and I don’t know who else. The Queen and the Prime Minister, I expect.’

Catherine stopped walking and looked at him, making as if to turn back.

  ‘You’re not selling this to me, Rich.’

He gave a tired smile as she caught him up.

  ‘She’ll be fine with a bit of reassurance.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have reassured her?’

  ‘I’m not the detective who spoke to her son-in-law.’

Catherine groaned.

  ‘No, lucky me.’

They had arrived at the bottom of the stairs. Rich put out a hand and stopped Catherine.

  ‘Wait a minute. I’ll go first and tell her you’re coming. Then you can rush in as if you were in the middle of a meeting and look like you’re doing her a real favour.’

  ‘I
was
in a meeting.’ She hesitated. ‘I think there might be a bit more to this than meets the eye.’

Rich stepped forward before she had time to explain that Lauren hadn’t left the country.

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ he said as he went through the double doors, allowing them to swing closed behind him. Catherine took a deep breath.
Fingers crossed,
she thought.

  Mark Cook and his in-laws were waiting in the room in which she had spoken to Cook earlier. As Catherine approached the door, she could hear a female voice raised in complaint. She could sympathise with Lauren Cook’s family, but at this point there was little more she could do. After a second’s pause, she pushed open the door.

A woman, tall and slim with short black hair, jumped out of her chair as soon as she saw Catherine and demanded, ‘Is this the person you spoke to, Mark?’

Mark Cook was nodding, but Catherine held up a hand.

  ‘Please, Mrs . . .’

The other woman pounced on her hesitation.

  ‘You see? She doesn’t even know our name, Geoff, that’s how many details she took. Doesn’t even know Lauren’s maiden name. It’s Chantry. Do you want me to spell it for you as well?’

Catherine felt her eyes narrowing, but when she spoke her voice was calm.

  ‘Mrs Chantry, I apologise for the delay. I understand you have concerns about your daughter. Could we sit down and discuss them, please?’

Thrown for a second, Celia Chantry glanced at her husband, who had a weather-beaten face, thick grey hair and a beard. He reached out a hand to his wife and took her arm.

  ‘Come on, love, sit down.’ His voice was quiet, soothing. ‘Let’s hear what she has to say.’

Catherine shot him a grateful smile as Celia sank back into her chair.

  ‘Thank you. I think Sergeant Smithies told you my name.’

Celia folded her arms.

  ‘
He
didn’t tell us anything, Mark remembered – somebody Bishop. Good for you. Can you explain why you’ve done nothing to find our daughter?’

  ‘Mrs Chantry, as I explained to Mr Cook this morning, we have certain procedures . . .’

  ‘I don’t want to hear about your procedures, I want to know where my daughter is.’

  ‘Why don’t we let the officer speak?’ her husband said in that same soft, calming tone. Celia Chantry looked mutinous, but she was quiet.

  ‘As I said, we have procedures we have to follow. As it stands, Lauren is considered at low risk. There’s no reason to believe that she’s a danger to herself or anyone else. I’m sorry to sound blunt, but we just don’t have the resources to launch a full-scale operation every time an adult doesn’t come home when they’re expected.’

Catherine knew she sounded like a manual or handbook, but what she was saying was true. However much she wanted to help, she was in no position to be able to do so. There was a pause while Lauren’s family digested what Catherine had said. She prepared herself for another onslaught from Celia Chantry, but when the other woman spoke her voice was quiet, almost reflective.

  ‘So we’ve just got to wait for her to get in touch or come home? Assuming she ever does?’

Catherine nodded.

  ‘At the moment, yes. I’m sorry, I know it’s frustrating. There was a point that I wanted to check though. Mr Cook, we couldn’t find any mention of a hen weekend on the Facebook pages of any of Lauren’s friends and from what we can see, Lauren hasn’t left the country at all.’

Catherine’s voice was gentle, but there was no kind way of suggesting that Mark’s wife had lied to him. Mark himself seemed stunned, his mouth open. Catherine kept her eyes on his face, but his bewilderment seemed genuine.

‘But Lauren said . . . She told me . . . I don’t understand, she said she was going to Amsterdam.’

  ‘What’s this, Mark?’ Celia demanded.

  ‘You mean there’s no hen weekend?’ Mark whispered, his eyes wide like those of a bemused child.

Catherine pushed back her chair a little. ‘It could be someone who’s not on Facebook, but obviously I don’t know.’

Mark Cook looked close to tears. ‘But Lauren said they’d arranged it through Facebook.’

Geoff Chantry looked at Catherine, his blue eyes entreating. She blinked. They were the same shade as Claire’s had been.

  ‘Is there nothing you can do, Sergeant? It’s not like Lauren at all.’

  ‘I believe you, Mr Chantry, but as I know you’ll understand, people don’t always behave in the way we expect them to. I am sorry.’

  ‘Of course. It’s just that Lauren . . . Well, she’s always been so steady . . .’ His voice trailed off.

With another apologetic smile, Catherine got to her feet.

  ‘Please contact us again if you’ve still not heard from Lauren in another day or so. There’s no doubt a simple explanation for why she hasn’t been in touch.’ Another platitude. She hated spouting this stuff. Her instinct was to make Mark Cook and the Chantrys a cup of tea, then crack on with finding Lauren, but she couldn’t do that.

  Celia stood, her expression pensive. When she’d heard that her daughter had lied to her husband, the fight seemed to have gone out of her. The glance she gave Mark was scornful.

  ‘Well, thank you for seeing us. We’ll be back though if she doesn’t come home, whatever she’s been up to.’

Catherine stepped backwards, opening the door as the two men also stood, their expressions unreadable. Standing back to let them pass her, Catherine met Geoff Chantry’s eyes again. He nodded a goodbye.

  After following them out into the corridor, Catherine waited until they’d left by the main doors, then went over to Rich Smithies on the desk.

  ‘You managed to persuade her that we know what we’re doing then?’

  ‘She’s just worried about her daughter, Rich.’ Catherine frowned.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know, it just seems odd. Lauren hasn’t even left the country. Why would she lie, a lie that’s easy to disprove as well?’

  ‘Really? It’s obvious then - new bloke. It’s her way of letting her husband down gently.’

  ‘Maybe so.’

  ‘Suppose you’ll be after another sherbet lemon now?’

She grinned, holding out her hand and blinking the gnawing doubt away.

  ‘Suppose so.’

  Back upstairs, she sat behind her desk with a quick glance at the clock on the wall.

  ‘Catherine.’ She started. Jonathan Knight was smiling down at her. ‘Sorry. You know we were discussing the Paul Hughes murder yesterday?’ She nodded. ‘Well, the Superintendent left me a voicemail saying she was coming over from Lincoln to see me. Anyway, she’s just rung to say she’s running late, but to expect her soon. It’ll be about the Hughes case, no doubt.’

Detective Superintendent Jane Stringer had an office at Northolme police station but she spent most of her time at headquarters. Catherine pursed her lips.

  ‘I might nip off now before she gets here then, in case she wants to see me too. What do you think she’s going to say?’

With a sigh, Knight shrugged.

  ‘I’m not sure. She may just want a progress report, but I think it’s likely that she’ll tell me the case is being reassigned.’

Catherine tipped her head to the side, trying to gauge Knight’s mood.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised. She needs results.’

  ‘Oh yes, she loves her facts and figures.’

  ‘I’ve had three weeks and I’ve made no progress whatsoever. It’s not unexpected.’

His tone was impossible to read and there was a silence, broken only when Catherine’s phone beeped to announce the arrival of a text message and she pulled it out of her jacket pocket. It was from Thomas
:
Managed to find a few hours’work at the leisure centre. Shall we go out for a curry to celebrate? Invite some of your workmates
.
Catherine rolled her eyes. She could imagine who Thomas would want her to ask: Anna Varcoe. He’d met Anna once at a meal Louise had organised for Catherine’s birthday one year and hadn’t been able to stop going on about her. It looked like nothing had changed. She glanced over at Knight, who was studying his computer screen. Why not?

  ‘Are you doing anything tonight?’ Knight looked up, surprised. ‘It’s just that my brother’s staying with me and he’s suggested a few of us go out for a curry. I’m going to ask Anna and Dave, Simon will probably want to get straight home to the baby, but Chris might come. Maybe a couple of the uniforms, depending who’s on shift tonight. I could phone Dr Webber . . .?’