On Laughton Moor (2 page)

3

I did it. I can’t quite believe it. When it was over, I waited. I didn’t think he was breathing. There was nothing left of him in his face, none of the arrogance and cruelty I’d seen there, none of the boastfulness he’d displayed in the pub or the confidence that radiated from him as he chatted to women in clubs. He was gone, I was sure of it. The back of his head was a mess. I held the mirror over his mouth, and although it was streaked with rain, there was no misting, no breath was left in him, no life. I stared down at him; there was blood but not as much as I’d expected, not that I’d really had any idea how it would be. There isn’t any way you can rehearse this, to have a practice or dry run. As soon as the first blow had connected I knew I could do it, knew I would. Such a strange sound, not like the crack of hitting a cricket ball, more of a solid sort of thump. I left him lying there. I’ll have to find somewhere to burn the clothes I wore soon.

One down.

4

‘All right, all right, let’s have a bit of hush, shall we?’ Kendrick bellowed over the racket as he barged into the briefing room, clutching a sheaf of paper in his hand. Placing the sheets on the desk in front of him, he rounded on his audience, setting both hands on the surface of the desk and leaning forward. The noise abated briefly, then stopped altogether as Kendrick glared at the assembled officers.

  ‘Better,’ he said. ‘You’re like a gaggle of school kids sometimes. Now. The PM on our victim, Craig Pollard was conducted this afternoon. I know that Pollard was a familiar face to many of you.’ Kendrick raised his eyebrows at a uniformed constable who had given a snort of derision at that. The constable shut up. ‘The report confirms that Pollard died sometime after midnight, but before four am. He was killed where he was found; the body hadn’t been moved.’ Kendrick consulted his notes. ‘The alcohol level in his blood indicated that his reactions would have been slowed by the amount he had drunk; in fact, Doctor Beckett was quite surprised that Pollard had been able to stumble along at all.’ Again, Kendrick was interrupted, this time by someone muttering, ‘Typical.’ not quite under their breath. Kendrick folded his arms, rocked back on his heels. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, dangerous. ‘Can I remind you that whatever dealings you’ve had with Craig Pollard in the past, he’s now our victim?’ He left a deliberate pause, just long enough to make his audience, especially those on the front row, right under the DCI’s nose, squirm a little. Eventually, Kendrick resumed his summing up, his voice businesslike again. ‘The report also states that several of the blows inflicted on the back of Pollard’s head could have been the one to actually kill him, such was the severity of the damage they had done.’ There were a few winces at this. ‘The person inflicting the blows was right handed and seemingly shorter than Pollard. However, as Pollard was six feet tall, this doesn’t exclude that many people.’ Kendrick spread his hands. ‘So. That’s where we are. The PM hasn’t really told us much that we didn’t know before. Doc Beckett did find a photo in Craig Pollard’s pocket, which was of our beloved police station.’ Kendrick gestured behind him with a sharp movement of his thumb. One of the constables on the front row raised his hand doubtfully.

‘A photo of this place, sir? Why?’

‘I don’t know.’ Kendrick said. ‘DI Knight, will you summarise what our friends in uniform have been able to find out please?’

Knight rose slowly from his chair and made his way to the front of the room. A couple of jokers on the back row nudged each other as Knight cleared his throat and took his time before beginning to speak.

‘Unfortunately, again, not much has come to light. We’ve collected all of the CCTV footage from the pubs in the area, and the streets Pollard may have walked down on his way to the place he met his death, but the officers who had been working on the film haven’t had any luck yet.’

Kendrick blew out his cheeks. ‘And that’s it?’

Knight nodded. ‘The local shop owners couldn’t help either, since Pollard died overnight and none of them were around. We’re going back later to the pubs, talking to people who may have been there drinking last night, but there’s very little to go on at the moment.’

With a shrug, Knight went back to his seat.

‘Our own Sherlock Holmes.’ a voice said softly. Bishop, seated in the front row, turned and glared over her shoulder. Innocent faces smiled back at her. Bishop shook her head, turned around. Knight didn’t help himself sometimes, she had to admit. She focused back on Kendrick.

‘DS Bishop? You and DC Sullivan went to find out Pollard’s movements last night?’

Bishop stood, then turned and faced her colleagues. She had worked with most of them for a number of years now, and knew they were generally a good bunch.  In death, Craig Pollard seemed to be generating about as much sympathy as he had in life – none. Still, his life had been cut short, and he hadn’t deserved that, no matter how much trouble he had been. Bishop flipped open the cover of her notebook.

‘We spoke to Craig Pollard’s brother, Mike, who was able to tell us where the pub where Craig usually started his nights out, so we went there first. It turns out that Pollard actually spent the whole night in that same pub. The bar man we talked to was working last night and he was able to confirm that Pollard had arrived there around 9pm, drank steadily until around 12.30, then stumbled out of the door. He spoke to a few people, but not been in the company of anyone for more than a couple of minutes. He left alone.’

‘Sounds like this bar man had nothing better to do than watch customers all night.’ said Kendrick. ‘Quiet, was it?’

Bishop nodded.

‘Seems so, although Sunday nights usually are apparently. Pollard was one of the few Sunday night regulars. Friday and Saturday he’d just call in for a few drinks, then go off elsewhere, but his Sunday routine was just to sit at the bar and drink himself silly.’

‘And always by himself?’ asked Kendrick.

‘Usually. Occasionally, his brother or someone else joined him for a couple of pints, but not very often. The bar man said Pollard seemed to be in a world of his own, just interested in staring at the bottom of a glass. Pollard wouldn’t enter into conversation, even if someone spoke to him.’

‘Interesting.’ said Kendrick. ‘Worrying about something?’

‘Doesn’t sound like Pollard.’ Bishop replied, and there were nods of agreement all over the room.

‘And only on Sunday nights, from what you’ve said.’ added Knight.

Bishop nodded, then glanced down at her notebook.

‘Pollard’s brother Mike said as far as he knew, Craig had no worries, no problems. Pollard’s a complete saint according to his mum and dad too.’

Kendrick snorted. ‘Hmm, a hint of rose tinted spectacles there, I think. What did his girlfriend have to say, Jonathan?’

Knight smiled faintly.

  ‘She didn’t agree.’

Kendrick waved him forward again.

  ‘Let’s hear it, then.’

He’d gone himself with one of the uniformed officers, PC Emily Lawrence, to speak to Kelly Whitcham, expecting her to be grief stricken and tearful. The address wasn’t officially Pollard’s, but according to his family, this was where he often slept. The house was in the middle of a terrace, one of the streets on the outskirts of town where the local council had bought many of the houses and rented them to tenants. It wasn’t run down exactly, but there were better places to live. Whitcham’s house had vertical blinds and a broken upstairs window. Further down the street, two small boys bounced a football across the road to each other. Knight knocked on the door, eventually seeing movement behind the frosted glass panels. Fingers appeared, holding the metal letterbox open from the inside.

‘Who is it?’

Knight glanced at Lawrence, feeling a little silly, then squatted slightly and leant closer to the door.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Knight.’

‘Oh, right. Police? I can’t open the door.’

‘You can’t? Why not?’

‘Because Craig kept us locked in here and I haven’t got a key, that’s why not.’

Knight frowned. ‘You mean you can’t get out?’

‘We can’t get out, you can’t get in, unless you want me to smash a window, and I’m not doing that with my kids inside.’

Knight shook his head in disbelief.

‘You can’t stay in there forever. Would you have any objection to me calling some colleagues and asking them to break the door open?’

There was a pause. Eventually, Whitcham said, ‘And how would I explain that to the landlord?’

‘We’d sort that out, don’t worry.’ Knight reassured her.

‘All right then.’

Sighing, Knight took out his phone and called the DCI. There was muttering and complaining, but Kendrick agreed to send some officers over. Knight told Kelly Whitcham what was happening, then he and PC Lawrence went to wait in the car, Knight starting the engine and turning the heater on full, blowing on his cold hands. After ten minutes or so, a marked police van drew up, and two grinning uniformed officers climbed out. Knight went over to meet them, Lawrence not far behind.

  ‘Afternoon, sir.’ said one, opening the back doors of the van.

  ‘Having a bit of trouble?’ the other asked.

‘Something like that.’ Knight agreed.

‘No problem, we’ll soon be in with this little lovely.’

The officer lifted the Big Red Key from the back of the van. It was a battering ram, constructed from steel, painted red. The officer approached the door, Knight trailing behind him.

‘Stand away from the door, Miss Whitcham.’ Knight called.

Gripping the handles on the Big Red Key with both gloved hands, the officer swung it towards the door. There was a thud, and the door was open.

‘Pah,’ the officer said, disappointed. ‘An easy one.’

Knight grinned at him. ‘Thanks very much.’

‘Anytime.’ he replied, and strode away.

Knight turned back to the open door. The girl who stood there seemed to be only in her late teens, but he knew Kelly Whitcham was twenty four. Thin, with light brown hair and tired eyes, she wore grey jogging bottoms, a light blue hooded sweatshirt and what Knight’s mother would have called bed socks. They might once have been white and fluffy, but were now grey, thin, and in need of a wash.

‘Miss Whitcham good afternoon. I’m sorry about Craig’s death.’ said Knight awkwardly.

‘I’m not.’ said Whitcham. ‘You’d better come in, now you can.’

They followed her through a short hallway, carpeted in a dingy brown, to the living room. It was almost completely empty. Two small children sat on a double mattress in front of a huge flat screen TV that was fixed to the wall above their heads. They wore pyjamas, though it was mid afternoon, clean but faded and creased. They turned as Knight and Lawrence followed their mother into the room, and looked at them with interest. A boy and a girl around three years old, the boy fair, the girl with long, tangled dark hair. They were sharing a bag of crisps, the space between them on the mattress and a second bag of crisps showed where Whitcham had been sitting when Knight knocked on the door.

‘Connor, Jessica, stand up so these people can sit down please.’

Whitcham bent over the mattress, sweeping crisp crumbs from it.

‘No, please, it’s fine, we’ll stand. Could we talk in the kitchen?’

With a strained smile, Whitcham said,  ‘It’s okay, they know about Craig. His brother Mike came to tell me, shouted it through the letterbox. It was ridiculous really, didn’t feel real. What do you want to know?’

Knight hesitated.

‘All right, we’ll talk in the kitchen. I’ll warn you though, it’s not up to much.’

She led the way across the thin carpet.

  The kitchen was also almost empty of furniture, except the unit that held the sink, and a kettle and microwave on a low pine table. Mismatched plates and cups were stacked on a tray that sat on the floor nearby. A cardboard box held bags of crisps, cereal bars and sachets of soup. There were a few tins of baked beans, a half empty jar of coffee, a bag of broken biscuits. Kelly Whitcham gave a bitter laugh.

‘You can see why I’m thin.’ she said. ‘Whatever you’ve been told about Craig, you can see what sort of person he was from this house. We’ve no furniture, but we’ve got a top of the range TV. The kids have a couple of second hand outfits each and some pyjamas, and everything of Craig’s is designer. I have to do our washing in the sink, try to clean the carpets with a dustpan and brush and feed us with a microwave, a kettle, and whatever food Craig’s managed to remember to bring from the corner shop. You’re lucky you’re here when the electricity’s on.’ Her voice broke, and she put her hands to her face, turning away from them. She spoke from behind her hands, her voice choked with tears.

‘If you’re expecting me to be heartbroken because Craig’s gone, you’re in for a disappointment.’

She told them how Pollard had controlled everything, keeping all of the money, even the family allowance that she wanted to spend on the children, bringing home a minimum of food, and discouraging her from seeing friends or family.

‘My mum lives miles away, I’ve no money for a bus, no mobile to ring her. Craig let me use his phone to text her now and again, so she knew we were okay, but he always read the message before he sent it. I had to keep making excuses when she replied and asked to come around. I don’t know anyone round here to ask them for help, my friends are all at home.’

Knight gently asked if Pollard was violent, but she said no, never, not to her or the children. He didn’t bother with them much at all really, she said, though he had come home with a football and a teddy one day around Christmas. She didn’t know what Pollard did with the money. She’d met Craig around three years earlier, becoming pregnant soon after. She’d lived with her mum for a couple of years after the birth of the twins with Craig just as an occasional visitor, until he’d persuaded her that they should live together as a family. He’d brought her to this house in a borrowed van. Smiling sadly, she said it had a full kitchen then. Seemingly, Pollard had sold the kitchen units and anything else he could, including the downstairs interior doors and the shed that had been in the back garden. She couldn’t tell them much about Pollard’s friends or family, as she’d never met any of them; Pollard’s brother had come to the door a few times, but he’d not been inside the house. Craig had taken the children to meet his parents a couple of times; again, they’d never visited.