Double Dealing (Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Series Book Two) (5 page)

13

Her face looked thinner than ever, but there was strength in the bony hand that gripped his own. The veins were clearly visible, dark blue, almost purple, lying flat under the thin, pale skin. Dan Raynor frowned and bent closer, tracing their path with a gentle fingertip.

  ‘You’re not drinking enough, Nan.’

Her hand fluttered back down onto the embroidered blanket, worrying a loose thread that she soon coiled around her thumb.

  ‘Rubbish.’ Her voice was the only part of her that was unchanged. She looked up at him, her green eyes dulled by pain. ‘They make tea constantly here, not very well most of the time. Too milky.’

He laughed. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t complained.’

She arched a silvery eyebrow. ‘They never listen, they just smile and pat your hand as if you’re an idiot, then dole out more bloody tablets.’

He sat in the armchair next to hers, her skinny legs sheltered by the blanket, her swollen feet stuffed into fluffy navy blue slippers.

  ‘You need your tablets,’ Dan pointed out. She snorted.

  ‘Says who? They do no good whatsoever.’

She shifted in her chair, her face creasing. Dan leant forward, concerned.

  ‘Nan? Are you okay?’

She batted him away and adjusted her blanket.

  ‘I’m fine, just a twinge. Have you been at work today?’

He hesitated, wondering if she was confused. ‘Of course.’

Pressing her lips together, she sat up a little straighter.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that. I was making conversation.’

  ‘Look at you like what?’

  ‘I know what you were thinking. My body might be falling to pieces, but I’ve still got my marbles.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s true.’ She folded her hands in her lap. ‘When you get to my age, you have to face facts. You just don’t know how long you’ve got.’

  ‘None of us do.’

  ‘There’s a fair chance you have longer left than me though.’

  ‘Well, try to hang on as long as you can, won’t you?’

Her eyes brightened, dancing for a second. ‘I’ll do my best.’

14

As usual, Detective Superintendent Jane Stringer looked as if there was an unpleasant smell. After meeting her a few times, Knight had realised it was her natural expression and not a result of any offensive odour that might be lingering around Northolme police station. Stringer wore her usual outfit: a well-tailored jacket and skirt, smart blouse and understated make-up. She rested perfectly manicured hands on the polished surface of her desk and said, ‘After speaking to the Assistant Chief Constable, I believe this is the right decision.’

Knight didn’t respond. He was annoyed but not surprised; he’d been expecting this, after all. DCI Kendrick shuffled in the chair beside him, impatient as always at having to sit still for any length of time, then spoke up.

  ‘With respect, ma’am, I’m not sure I understand. Why do yourself and the ACC think that another officer is going to have any more joy finding out who killed Paul Hughes than Jonathan has?’

Stringer inclined her head with a regal air, treating Kendrick to the sort of glance you might bestow on half a mauled mouse that the cat has dragged in.

  ‘Fresh eyes, Keith. You know how it is. It’s no reflection on the investigation you’ve been running here, of course.’

Oh, of course not,
Knight thought.

  ‘It’s not been easy with the Hughes family in London, ma’am,’ he said. ‘If I could have gone down there, spoken to them myself . . .’

Stringer gave him a hard look.

  ‘That wasn’t an option, Jonathan. Malc Hughes was interviewed by our very capable colleagues in the Metropolitan Police, as was his wife and the rest of the family. Their alibis were verified and they were eliminated as suspects. We need to press on with discovering who killed Paul Hughes, but at the same time you have other cases piling up here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say they’re piling up . . .’ Knight protested. Stringer’s lips pinched and her nostrils flared.

  ‘I’m afraid the matter is closed. Detective Inspector Shea will arrive tomorrow afternoon and I know you’ll make him welcome as well as offering him any assistance you can. He’ll be bringing a DS with him and they may need a couple of DCs to help out as necessary. He can use this office in my absence - I trust that won’t be a problem?’

Kendrick folded his arms.

  ‘None at all, ma’am,’ he said. ‘You do realise that he may never solve this case either, I suppose?’

She glared at him.

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘Malc Hughes is the head of an organised gang of criminals. I know it, Jonathan knows it, the whole of the Met knows it, and yet we can’t touch him. Of course he has a solid alibi, he always does when anything kicks off. He has lots of unscrupulous types ready and willing to do just about anything to get in his good books, so why would he dirty his own hands?’

Stringer tapped a fingernail on the desktop a few times. When she spoke, her voice was quiet.

  ‘If Malc Hughes killed his son, either with his own hands or through someone else, we will prove it. Looking at the evidence though, I don’t think he did. Do you?’

She gave Knight a pointed look and he shook his head with a sigh.

  ‘No. No, I don’t.’

  ‘And so our priority, regardless of who Paul Hughes’ family is, regardless of what he may or not have done, is to find the person or persons who killed him. Also regardless of any involvement he might have in any other case, including the one involving the people trafficking and prostitution ring. I don’t think I need to remind either of you that that particular case is no longer your responsibility either.’

  ‘So we just fob both investigations off onto someone else? Heaven forbid they sit around mucking up our stats.’ Kendrick couldn’t let it lie and Stringer looked at him with what almost seemed like pity.

  ‘It’s not like that and you know it.’

With a noise of exasperation Kendrick said, ‘I have good officers here, officers who want to do their jobs.’

  ‘Your officers’ abilities aren’t being questioned. It’s time for a change, that’s all, especially after what happened here during the Pollard case. You know how that would have reflected on the force had it become public knowledge. If there are any links between any of the cases, they’ll be investigated too. I’m assured that DI Shea is a capable officer.’

  ‘Good for him,’ Kendrick muttered.

Stringer ignored the comment, allowing herself a tiny smile. ‘I’m sure he’ll fit in well here.’

  He stood by his living room window, gazing down onto the street below. There had been a police car parked outside earlier, not that it was unusual to see one around here. His partner, if that was the right word for him, wouldn’t come to the flat, he’d wait in the car. He had all sorts of tricks designed to avoid being noticed or followed. It was no doubt paranoia, but then if they were caught it would be the two of them serving the time in prison, not the man who gave them their orders. The boss would never be caught, they knew that much. It would be the likes of himself and other young lads, turning to this sort of life because they had little other choice who did the time. He sighed, knowing it wasn’t true. There was always a choice, wasn’t there? No one had forced him to miss his exams, to drop out of college, to smoke dope, to start dealing. No one had forced him to become a servant to a career criminal. His childhood hadn’t been great, but then whose really was? There were still options, different paths. People from the most privileged backgrounds often had miserable lives while people from scruffy estates like the Meadowflower excelled. In the end, everyone made their own choices. He turned away from the window. He had made his.

  It wasn’t the car they usually used. This one was newer, sleeker, faster. Still anonymous, of course. He opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, hoping his reluctance wasn’t visible in his face.

  ‘Evening,’ he said, yanking the seatbelt over his chest. ‘New car?’

The older man turned to face him and he froze for a second, hating the dead snake eyes that seemed to see right into his thoughts. He swallowed. They pulled away from the pavement and the silence stretched until he could bear it no longer.

  ‘Why have we got a different vehicle?’ he asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

  ‘There’s a problem,’ came the terse reply.

15

‘What are you drinking?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘Just an orange juice, please,’ Catherine replied, running a hand through her hair, glad she’d had time to rush home for a quick shower and change of clothes. Both she and her brother were casual in jeans and t-shirts under their winter coats.

  ‘Evening all.’ Chris Rogers strolled up to the bar and joined them. ‘Faye and her mate have gone to the loo.’

Catherine raised an eyebrow at him, instantly alert. ‘Her mate?’

  ‘Yeah, a woman she works with. I might have mentioned her before.’ With a swift movement, Rogers turned away from Catherine and smiled at the barman. ‘Pint and two halves of lager, please.’

Thomas handed Catherine her drink and she took a sip, annoyed and dismayed.

  ‘Chris, please tell me you’re joking?’

He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘It was Faye’s idea.’

Catherine groaned.

  ‘Shush, they’re coming in. Be nice, Sarge . . .’

  ‘Cheek, I’m always nice.’ Catherine forced a smile. ‘Hello, Faye.’

Faye took her drink from her husband and beamed.

  ‘Lovely to see you again, Catherine. I’d like you to meet my friend, Ellie.’

Ellie gave a shy nod. Her dark blonde hair was quite long with a heavy fringe which emphasised her eyes. Catherine smiled back, ignoring the tiny pang in her chest. This was not what she needed.

  ‘This is my brother Thomas.’ She waved her hand towards him and he grinned.

  ‘Pleased to meet you all.’

  ‘Is DI Knight coming?’ Chris asked.

  ‘He said so.’

  ‘Did you ask Dr Webber as well?’

  ‘Ha, no, I was joking. I’m sure he fancies her though.’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ Chris winked at his wife, who laughed and gave him a playful push. Ellie caught Catherine’s eye with a smile.

  An hour and several drinks later, the table was filled with food. Faye had managed to orchestrate the seating so that Catherine and Ellie were next to each other. Thomas had grabbed a chair by Anna while Dave Lancaster sat between two constables from uniform, Emily Lawrence and Natalie Roberts. Lancaster was in his element, like a giddy puppy that you couldn’t help patting. DI Knight had turned up at last, still wearing the crumpled suit he’d had on at work.

  ‘Sorry, I was in a meeting with the Super,’ he explained. Catherine threw him a questioning glance and he nodded.

  ‘Now, now, we’re not talking about work tonight,’ chided Chris.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ Knight’s smile was awkward. He glanced around. ‘Dr Webber not here then?’ His colleagues smirked knowingly. ‘Just wondered.’ Hastily, he broke off a piece of garlic naan bread. Faye leant across to rescue him, leaving Catherine and Ellie sitting in silence.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ said Ellie in an undertone. ‘I know you weren’t expecting me. Faye was insistent and she’s my boss, so . . .’

  ‘You’ve had your arm twisted then?’ Catherine grinned. Ellie looked horrified.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’ she backpedalled.

  ‘I know, I’m joking.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to be here.’

Catherine gave her a sideways glance, then opened her eyes wide.

  ‘Really?’

Laughing, Ellie lifted her glass.

  ‘All right, I was dreading it. It’s too much like a blind date and I’ve always hated the thought of them.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Faye just presumed that I’d want to meet you because we’re both single and . . .’

Catherine took a swallow of orange juice.

  ‘And we’re both gay.’

  ‘She seems to think that’s all it takes.’ Ellie shrugged.

  ‘She’s not the only one,’ Catherine said, giving Chris a hard look that he pretended not to notice.

  ‘Faye told me you’d had a tough time and needed cheering up.’ 

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s awkward. I know what it’s like to have people think they can wave a magic wand and make it all better.’

  ‘I’m sure they mean well.’

Ellie met Catherine’s eyes. ‘Faye told me your last girlfriend died.’

  ‘Did she?’ Catherine raised her glass again, aware of the coldness of her tone.

  ‘It’s just that . . . well, so did mine.’ Ellie’s gaze was on the table top.

Catherine looked at her properly for the first time. A dimple in her left cheek. Perfect teeth.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’ Now she felt terrible.

  ‘How could you have?’

  ‘Anyway, Claire wasn’t my girlfriend, not really. We’d only been together a few days.’ She twisted the tablecloth in her fingers. ‘Did Faye tell you what happened?’

  ‘No, not the details. It’s none of my business.’

Catherine didn’t know how to respond to that and the awkwardness returned. They were quiet for a few minutes, mechanically shovelling rice and curry into their mouths, their thoughts far away. After a time, Ellie put down her fork.

  ‘Your brother seems nice.’

Catherine looked at Thomas, his arm thrown across the back of Anna’s chair.

  ‘He is. The trouble is he’s a bit of a flirt, always has been. I’m hoping Anna has enough sense to see that, but . . .’

They watched Anna laugh at some joke Thomas had made, her eyes never leaving his face.

  ‘You think so?’ Ellie laughed.

Catherine let out a groan.

  ‘I have to work with her every day, which would make it awkward if he dumped her – and he would.’

  ‘You never know, maybe he just hasn’t met the right person.’

  ‘I doubt it. He’s lovely, he just needs to grow up a bit.’

Ellie swallowed the last of her lager.

  ‘Good luck to them, I say.’

  They said their goodbyes on the pavement outside the restaurant. Thomas and Anna were heading off for a ‘nightcap’ as he told his sister with a smile. A genuine, beaming smile Catherine couldn’t help but notice, not borrowed from his collection of knowing grins or lascivious winks. Maybe Ellie would be proved right, but Catherine doubted it. Knight had already headed home, offering to dro
p
off Dave Lancaster and the two female PCs on his way. Chris Rogers grinned at Ellie and Catherine.

  ‘I’ve phoned for a taxi, he said five minutes, so you’ve not got long.’ He gave a tipsy giggle and Faye nudged him, then took his arm.

  ‘We’ll give you some privacy,’ she said, smiling as if she were doing them a huge favour.

Catherine rolled her eyes as Faye and Chris moved down the road a little.

  ‘Subtle as a brick through your living room window, as always.’  Ellie winced. ‘I’m sorry about all this, Catherine.’

  ‘It’s okay, it’s not your fault.’ Catherine shuffled nervously. ‘It’s been good to meet you, however much you were forced into it.’

Ellie laughed. ‘Thanks. I’m glad I came, believe it or not.’

They looked at each other, smiles uncertain.

Catherine said, ‘It would be good to . . .’ just as Ellie began, ‘I’d like to . . .’

They laughed, the tension broken.

  ‘It would be good to meet again, I was going to say.’ Catherine made herself voice the words. ‘If you want to, I mean. Maybe a coffee?’

  ‘I’d like that. I don’t have many friends in the area, so . . .’

Catherine nodded.

  ‘Goodnight then.’

There was a second of confusion as they dithered over whether to hug or shake hands, then Catherine found herself pressed against Ellie for a second. Cold skin against her cheek, fruity shampoo, a tiny note of perfume. She walked away, raising a hand to Chris and Faye in farewell.

  In her car, she shoved the keys into the ignition and gripped the steering wheel. Who was she trying to kid? Ellie wasn’t Claire. She felt an irrational fury that Faye and Chris had forced herself and Ellie into the position they’d been in tonight. It had been a mistake to go, the whole evening seeming like an elaborate sham, a farce that she and Ellie had been caught up in. Just because they were both single, it had been assumed that they’d be irresistibly drawn to each other like magnets. She thumped the steering wheel, furious. It was all Thomas’ fault; he’d only arranged the meal so he could see Anna again. Back in Northolme for a couple of days and he was already turning her life upside down. She felt as though she should phone Ellie to apologise, but then why should she? It wasn’t her fault. She gave a bitter laugh. Ellie hadn’t passed on her mobile number, so she couldn’t have rung if she’d wanted to.

  At home she slammed the door, tempted to leave the keys in the lock so Thomas wouldn’t be able to get in. She didn’t, of course. Thomas wouldn’t change and both he and Anna were adults; what they did was up to them. A tiny voice asked her if her anger stemmed from a touch of jealousy, but she ignored it. That the person she’d thought she was falling in love with had deceived her was irrelevant.

  Catherine climbed into bed, snapped off the light and glared out into the dark. The truth was that the person she was really angry with was Claire. She should have been there tonight, sitting beside her, laughing and joking, chatting - loving. Instead, Claire was dead and gone, buried without ceremony in the corner of the cemetery on the other side of town. Catherine and Jonathan Knight had been the only people at her funeral apart from the minister, who had said a few perfunctory words and then left them to it. She had stared down into the grave, unable to untangle the emotions she was feeling. Grief, yes, but more than that. Disbelief. Horror. Anger; a violent, white-hot fury. Knight had stood beside her, his face expressionless, skin almost as pale as the white shirt collar that just showed beneath his thick black overcoat.

  She was grieving for a love that had almost been, a future that had been snatched away. Stronger still was the fury. She wouldn’t live like this anymore. Claire wasn’t coming back, and she didn’t deserve Catherine’s devotion. She had made her own choices and set herself on a path that could only have ended in disaster, then paid with her life.

  Catherine reached for the bedside cabinet, picking up her mobile phone. She looked again at the name and closed her eyes for a second, remembering. Claire’s smile, the delicate, thrilling touch of her hand . . . No. Edit. Delete contact. She replaced the phone and turned onto her side.

  It was over. She was alone.