On Laughton Moor (15 page)

27

I knew of course that Kent’s body would be found at first light ,if not before, but I didn’t realise there was another person in the van. There was no one in the front with Kent though, I’m certain, and so they must have been in the back. Interesting. That will have the police scratching their heads; perhaps Kent’s out of hours livestock deliveries will be noticed now. That will open a real can of worms, I would imagine. I’m confident that even if their witness saw me, the suit will have made it impossible to describe me. Height and build, perhaps, but I have made adjustments for those too. I’m certain I’m safe, for now at least.  Anyway, I still have work to do.

28

Louise read the text from Catherine, shook her head resignedly and dropped the phone onto the sofa.
At least she sent a message this time,
Louise thought. She hadn’t always remembered.

Bishop stared at the red numbers of the clock in Knight’s spare room. She couldn’t explain why she hadn’t wanted to see Louise; too much too soon perhaps. The person running behind her still played on her mind too and she remembered that she still hadn’t mentioned it to Knight. She needed time to think about what she wanted to happen with Louise, and a murder case left room for little else. She was tired, yet her mind wouldn’t allow her to rest. The grimy terrace house she’d seen with Anna Varcoe flitted across her mind, images of the suffering of the girls that may have lived there. She didn’t like to admit that, to her at least, finding the people responsible for the virtual imprisonment of Milica Zukic and the others, however many there were, had become as important as finding who had killed Craig Pollard and Steven Kent, if not more so. If the person who had committed the murders was also part of the gang, so much the better. She hadn’t asked if Claire Weyton had discovered anything further about Ron Woffenden or the mysterious Ivona, and Knight hadn’t mentioned it in the briefing with Kendrick. The image of Claire’s face, those blue eyes, the jolt of electricity as they’d shaken hands . . . No. There was no point dwelling on that. Bishop had a self imposed rule – she never mixed business with pleasure, and she wasn’t going to start now, no matter who she met. She wrestled her mind away.

She wondered how Louise had reacted to her text. Knowing her, she would have sighed and gone about her business. It was only when Bishop had eventually arrived home, usually waking Louise up in the process, that the arguing had started in the past. Bishop wasn’t naive enough to believe that their relationship could ever be as exciting, as new as it was when they’d first met – part of that was because they hadn’t known each other, there was so much to explore, to discover. If they were to try again, this would be different, more mature perhaps, with no surprises. Maybe it could work. She sighed and turned over, ignoring the voice in her head that told it never could and never would. At least here, in Knight’s house, she felt safe, could relax a little, though it seemed her unconscious couldn’t. Hopefully, there would be no repeat of the dream she’d had the previous night. In the dark, still bedroom, she felt, all at once, very alone.

Knight wondered how Caitlin was, and the baby she carried. He should ring her, talk to her. Not now, not tonight, though there would never be a good time. His thoughts drifted to Milica Zukic; she was spending the night in a budget hotel, PC Roberts keeping a watchful eye on her. It was the only solution they’d be able to find, for tonight at least. The wary look on her face had touched him, the watchfulness in her eyes. To be betrayed as she had been by a member of the family must hurt. They would need to give her the opportunity to speak to her parents, he should have thought about that earlier. Insensitive. Another action for tomorrow.

29

The wind drove freezing rain against Dave Bowles’ face as he trudged down the long driveway. The house was large, imposing, uninviting. Bowles was beginning to regret rushing out in panic, especially after spending a long and uncomfortable night in a bus shelter, not to be recommended at this time of year. Still, he was alive and he intended to stay that way. Bowles ran his hands through his soaking hair, straightened his jacket. This wasn’t the sort of place he was used to. Raising his hand to ring the doorbell, a thought struck him. What if Nick had killed Craig and Steve? Had he worried for years as Bowles had, struggled to sleep as the guilt washed through him? Nick could have cracked, seen disposing of Pollard and Kent as a way to ensure his own involvement stayed secret. Bowles thought it was possible. He could be delivering himself straight into Nick’s hands, ringing the doorbell of a wanted murderer, a man who had already killed twice. Bowles’ hand hovered mid air and he backed slowly away from the white painted door, stepping back onto the gravel. It was too late, however, and the door opened to reveal a woman in her sixties, hair tightly curled, wearing a high-necked lavender blouse, grey skirt and sensible flat shoes. She looked disdainfully at Bowles.

  ‘Do you know what time it is? Can I help you?’ she said, her tone implying that she very much doubted it.

  ‘I was looking for Nick.’

  ‘Nick? I think you have the wrong house.’ She began to close the door, and Bowles stepped forward.

  ‘His family used to live here, it was about ten years ago?’

She shook her head imperiously.

  ‘We’ve only been here three years, I’ve no idea who was here before.’

The door slammed. Bowles resignedly walked away. It had been a stupid idea, anyway. He reached the end of the drive, glanced around, not sure what to do next. What about Pollard’s brother? He was younger, but he might know what was going on. Bowles set off walking again, then stopped. Surely the police would have spoken to Mike Pollard though? If they were looking for Bowles, which he suspected they might be since he’d made that stupid phone call, he couldn’t take any risks. His shoulders slumped, and he turned resignedly to plod back the way he had come. He’d have to go home. If Nick found him, he wouldn’t fight.

30             

Anna Varcoe had arrived at her desk early, even DI Knight and DS Bishop were nowhere to be seen and they were usually around first. She made a mug of coffee and sat down, quickly checking through her emails. Nothing to distract her from digging into the ownership of the house she and Bishop had seen the previous night. They didn’t know for sure that the property was anything to do with either the murders or the traffickers, but while she waited for someone to give her further instructions she was going to see what she could discover.

  The door opened, and she glanced up; DC Simon Sullivan, pale and drawn, stumbled into the room, tottered over to his desk.

  ‘All right, Si?’

Sullivan groaned, head in his hands.

  ‘No sleep whatsoever again, she’s either teething or she’s got a cold. I’ll get more peace here with people giving me orders every two minutes. Where is everyone? I thought Catherine slept here these days?’

The door opened again and Bishop slunk in.

  ‘No, Simon, it just feels like I do.’

Sullivan ducked behind his monitor. Bishop’s desk phone started ringing and she shuffled across to pick it up. Varcoe and Sullivan kept their heads down as she had a short and very terse conversation with the caller, then slammed down the receiver, scowling.

  ‘That was our helpful DI from Intelligence, calling a day late to confirm that the address we were at last night, Anna, was going to be the site of a raid but that somehow the occupants got wind of it and disappeared. Tell me something I didn’t know, you useless sod.’

  ‘Can’t he give us any more than that? No names?’

  ‘Not so far. Be fair, Anna, it’s taken him nearly a day to tell us that much. We don’t need him anyway, we’ve got one of his team in the building, Claire, and she’s been much more help than him so far.’

  ‘Bloody hopeless.’ muttered Varcoe.

  ‘At least we know we were in the right place.’

  ‘It still might not be the house Milica Zukic was held in.’

  ‘True. And it gets us no nearer to whoever killed Pollard and Kent.’

There was a silence while they all considered Bishop’s statement. All three sighed.

   ‘You know Claire Weyton’s gay, Sarge?’ Sullivan asked softly.

Bishop glared at him.

  ‘Don’t you start,’ she snapped.
Of course I do
, she thought. ‘Honestly, this place . . . ’

  ‘I’ll make some drinks.’ said Sullivan hurriedly, pushing his chair back and scurrying out of the room.

  ‘There are still the other postcodes to check though.’ Varcoe brought them back to the point.

Bishop nodded.

  ‘Yeah, I know, but let’s face it, we’re getting nowhere fast. No forensic evidence for one thing, how can that be?’

  ‘Everyone’s an expert these days, people have ideas about covering their tracks.’ Varcoe shrugged.

  ‘Think they can, you mean. But this . . . how can you leave nothing, absolutely nothing behind?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

‘We’re missing something, we have been from the start, way before Kent was killed. The boss said so, and he was right.’

  On cue Knight arrived, looking as dejected as the rest of them. He knew his job was to motivate the team but this morning it would be a struggle, both for him and for them. The beginning of another day of following leads that came to nothing, talking to people who couldn’t help, wading through piles of paperwork and reports and getting no nearer their goal.

He glanced around again, taking in the despondent expressions, slumped shoulders. Sullivan approached, mug of tea held out to Knight, who took it, offering a smile.

  ‘Thank you.’

Sullivan nodded back. ‘No problem, boss.’

Knight said, ‘Can we all go through to the conference room, please?’

He led the way, the rest following him, glancing at each other with raised eyebrows. Kendrick generally headed the morning briefings with Knight commenting occasionally. This morning, however, the DCI was nowhere to be seen. When everyone was seated, Knight took a deep breath and stood in front of them.

  ‘I know that from the beginning this case had been unusual, the way Pollard’s death  looked like a simple fight gone too far, the messages concerning DS Bishop,’ all heads to turned to look at Bishop who stared resolutely at Knight. ‘Then the murder of Steven Kent. We knew the two had to be linked, but how? We do have a couple of leads, we know now Pollard and Kent did know each other, but why they’ve both been killed still needs explaining. We’ve had a panning in the press with regard to both the Pollard murder and now the death of Kent, but we’re hoping that by telling the press we have a witness from Kent’s van, we might see some movement.’

DC Rogers raised his hand.

  ‘How do you mean, boss? We’ve not made Milica Zukic’s identity public, have we? Do you mean knowing there was a witness could draw the person who killed Pollard and Kent out, panic them?’

  ‘Possibly. We don’t want to risk naming Miss Zukic, at least not yet. We know there’s a tenuous link between Pollard and Kent, we need to find our mystery men, Nick and Dave - either of them could be our killer.’

  ‘Or both.’ Sullivan added.

  ‘Or neither.’ Anna Varcoe put in.

Knight nodded.

  ‘We still haven’t identified our anonymous caller; again, Nick or Dave are in the frame. We need to find them, and we’re going to do that today. We also know Steve Kent was delivering more than parcels and again, more work on that today. We need to find out who killed Pollard and Kent; if we can also round up a ring of people traffickers, so much the better. Today’s the day we get a breakthrough; we’ve got the leads and we’ve got the right team to follow them. See DS Bishop for your duties, we’ll meet again at five.’

Knight strode from the room.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Sullivan. ‘What did he have for breakfast?’

31

Nick Brady sat eating freshly baked Victoria sponge in the warm kitchen of his mum and dad’s bungalow. He was still feeling pretty fed up about losing yet another job, but the cake and his mum’s encouragement were helping. She bustled around the kitchen, chatting about this and that as she washed pots, iced fairy cakes and folded washing. Brady sat back, sipping coffee, and tried not to think about Craig Pollard. A huge tabby cat sauntered in, looked around, leapt onto Brady’s lap. Brady shifted as she kneaded him with her claws; she could be vicious and he didn’t want to upset her.

  ‘Wimp.’ said his mum, scooping up the cat and shooing her away. They both heard the letterbox clang shut, and Brady got up to retrieve the post and the local newspaper which also lay on the doormat. He picked it up, unfolded it, and received his second nasty shock of the week. Kent. Steve Kent was dead. Craig Pollard and Steve Kent, both dead in a week. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  ‘Nick?’

He blinked, turning towards her, holding out the newspaper.

  ‘Mum . . . ’

She took it from him, fumbling in her apron pocket for her glasses.

  ‘Steven Kent?’ she stared at him. ‘Don’t tell me you knew him too?’

Brady nodded wordlessly and his mum shook her head.

  ‘What’s going on? This used to be a nice town, now we have two young lads murdered in a week? What does it say the police are doing?’

She held the article up to the light, peering at it through half closed eyes.

  ‘You need your eyes testing.’ Brady said automatically.

  ‘Rubbish, there’s nothing wrong with my eyes. It’s a good thing you moved out of town, Nick, I’d watch my back if I was you.’ She was only half joking. Setting the newspaper on the table, she went across to fill the kettle again. Brady agonised; he wanted so much to confide in her, he always had, but he’d never been able to find the right time and it was too late now, there was too much at stake. This meant there was only himself and Dave left. He couldn’t remember Dave’s surname, Knowles he thought. He’d been a strange lad, credulous and naive, he’d only tagged along a few times. Pollard had only included him so they could take the piss. Brady shook his head silently. What a little cruel little shit he’d been back then. He’d paid for it since though, and, seemingly, so had Pollard and Kent. What the hell was he going to do?