On Laughton Moor (20 page)

45

After asking Bishop to travel with Bowles to the hospital and Varcoe to go on to the next name on her list, Knight sent Sullivan out to meet Varcoe and accompany her. The stakes had just been raised even higher. Not only did they now have two murdered men, they had a suicide attempt by a man who could potentially be either killer or victim. From what Bishop had said about the note she had found with Bowles, he seemed more likely to be a victim. If he had killed the others, wouldn’t he have admitted as much in a note he had expected to be read after his death? Knight didn’t know, he’d never claimed to understand how people’s minds worked. It was now more important than ever that they track down ‘Nick’, though again, they had no way of knowing whether he was the killer or another potential victim. Either way, he had to be found, and fast. Knight trudged towards the lair of DCI Kendrick. This case got more complicated by the hour.

Paul Hughes was meeting Dougie for what he called lunch; Dougie called it dinner. Paul hadn’t been expecting much of the food in a pub miles from anywhere called ‘The Lamb’, but his steak was perfectly cooked, the chips chunky and crisp, the salad as fresh as if it had just been picked. Dougie picked at a dish of lasagne. Paul gestured at it with his knife.

  ‘Something wrong with your meal?’

  ‘It’s not that, the food’s always fantastic here, that’s why I come. It’s quiet in the week too, they leave you alone. It’s manic at the weekend.’

Paul speared another mouthful of steak with his fork.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s this obsession your dad has with Milica Zukic. How does he expect us to get her back?’

  ‘No idea. I was hoping you could tell me.’

  ‘The police have her. Wherever she is now, it’s not going to be somewhere you can just wander in and take her by the hand.’

  ‘Pity Richie screwed up when he had the chance to grab her then, isn’t it?’

Dougie closed his eyes briefly.

  ‘We’re agreed on that. He said she fought like a lunatic.’

  ‘Any excuse. From what I remember, she’s about five feet tall, not to mention she was sitting in a car. How much could she struggle?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not defending him.’

  ‘Sounds like it to me.’

  ‘The point is we’ve not got a hope.’

Paul finished his meal and wiped his mouth, setting his cutlery neatly on the empty plate.

  ‘Dad said Knight’s in charge?’

  ‘We think so.’

  ‘So he’ll be going to see her. We can follow him and find her that way.’

  ‘Why would he? They must have given her a phone, it’s not like she’s under arrest.’

  ‘How do you know? She could be sitting in a cell somewhere, not many places safer than that.’

  ‘What would the charges be?’

   ‘Apart from come into the country illegally?’

  ‘She didn’t know that.’

  ‘You know what I mean. I don’t want to be the one who tells Dad we’ve failed, do you?’

  ‘But it’s impossible; he must see that, you must see it. Trying to snatch a witness from police protection? Come on, Paul.’

The waiter was hovering a few tables away and came to take their plates when Dougie nodded to him. Both men refused pudding but accepted coffee.

  ‘I know it’ll be . . . difficult.’

   ‘Difficult?’ snorted Dougie.

Paul studied the tablecloth, and then met Dougie’s eyes, a crafty smile flickering over his face.

  ‘Maybe we don’t need to actually grab her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t think my dad’s ever seen her.’

  ‘How do you work that out? He told me how much she weighed.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he’s seen her, Ron or someone could have told him that. I can take any girl back to him, give her a few quid to pretend she’s Zukic, Dad will rant and rave and then let her go. He wouldn’t hurt her, not the big boss’s niece. When the real Zukic goes free, she’ll be on the first plane back to Serbia and if she’s got any sense, she won’t set foot in the UK again. It’ll work.’

Dougie shook his head.

  ‘No way, Paul. There’s no chance I’m getting involved in a scheme to pull the wool over Malc’s eyes. He’d kill me.’

  ‘He’ll never find out.’

  ‘He will, I know him.’

  ‘So do I and I’m telling you . . . ’

  ‘I’m telling you no.’

Paul stood, towering over Dougie.

  ‘What do you think you can do about it?’

He turned and marched out, leaving a grim faced Dougie with two cups of espresso and the bill.

46

Bishop had to admit that there was something fascinating about a celebrity wedding. How people with so much money could be so utterly tasteless was beyond her. The magazine was well thumbed, other people must share her grudging interest in the lives of the rich and famous. She would never buy one but she couldn’t help picking the magazines up when she encountered them in hairdresser’s salons or in poky waiting rooms such as this one. There was a water cooler in one corner of the room and she went over, filled a plastic cup from the dispenser and took a sip. Warm. Wrinkling her nose, she forced the rest of it down, not able to remember the last time she’d had a drink. Probably tea with Claire that morning. She was trying not to think about Claire, but it was almost impossible. She took out her phone, and sure enough there was a text from her
:
Wish you were here
x
Their night together had been everything she’d imagined it would be, but the text she’d received that morning from Louise had been a shock
:
Working late? Sitting in the pub with some woman don’t you mean, holding hands, cuddling up and leaving together? Don’t bother contacting me again, Catherine. You can post my clothes back
.
Bishop had no idea how Louise had found out, perhaps one of her friends had been in the pub, but it meant Louise was hurt, and Bishop had never wanted to do that, it wasn’t what she deserved. Sleeping with two different people in the same week wasn’t usually Catherine’s idea of acceptable behaviour, but her present situation was anything but normal. She was only glad there had been no more bodies, no more messages cryptically pointing in her direction. Finding David Bowles in a pool of his own vomit had been a shock too. She’d seen much worse in her career of course, but this case was beginning to affect her as no other had done. The messages, the photograph, then the discovery of Milica Zukic, her story . . . it was like a nightmare. Her only hope was to see this case solved, only then would she feel safe to go back to her own home. There seemed no hope of understanding what motivated the killer until he was caught and could tell them himself.

  Bishop turned at the sound of soft footsteps. A man entered the room, white coat, weary expression. A doctor.
You should be a detective.

  ‘You’re Sergeant Bishop? You found Mr Bowles?’

  ‘Yes. How is he?’

The doctor passed a hand across his brow.

  ‘He’s had a lot of whiskey, plenty of tablets. We’re doing all we can.’

  ‘At least he’s alive, I’d thought . . . well, I’d thought he might not recover.’

The doctor was grave.

  ‘He still may not, but we’re fairly confident he’ll make a full recovery.’

  ‘I’ll need to speak to my boss. He’ll probably want a guard with Mr Bowles.’

  ‘A guard? Is he suspected of a crime?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

With a rueful smile, the doctor said, ‘Most things are in here.’

  ‘Is there a place I can use my mobile?’

  ‘Follow me, you can use the phone in my office.’

For the second time that day a neighbour had come to the rescue. Varcoe and Sullivan had hammered on the door of the terraced house that Nicholas Brady rented until the woman next door had wandered out to tell them he’d gone out early that morning and she’d not seen him come back in. When they asked for a work address, she said she’d heard from his aunt he’d been made redundant again so who knew where he’d been rushing off to earlier? After some persuading, she invited them in while she called Brady’s aunt to see if she had any ideas.

They went back to the car with Brady’s mum’s address.

  ‘Worth a try.’ Sullivan commented, rejoining the traffic.

  ‘I think it’s called clutching at straws.’

  ‘She might be able to help.’

  ‘Maybe so, but why would his mum know where he’d gone? Do you tell your mum your every move?’

  ‘No, but she’d probably like me to. Brady could be a proper mummy’s boy.’

  ‘He could also be lying somewhere with his head smashed in.’

Sullivan glanced at her.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘The way it’s going, I wouldn’t be surprised. Bowles could be our man, had a fit of remorse after killing three of his old mates, decides he should be next and takes an overdose.’

Sullivan indicated, turned right.

  ‘I thought you said the note he left sounded as if he was scared of someone?’

  ‘It did. He could have been denying he’d committed the murders, or he was scared of some part of himself, a Jekyll and Hyde type of situation.’

  ‘I think you’ve been watching too many films.’ Sullivan said, shaking his head. ‘Convenient if it was Bowles though. Case closed.’

  ‘Too easy, we wouldn’t be that lucky.’

  ‘If he dies, we may never know.’

  The rest of the journey passed in silence. Sullivan parked on the side of a road that was terraced houses on one side, bungalows the other. The door opened immediately.

  ‘You’ll be the police? I’m Helen Brady. Come in, my sister phoned and said you were on your way.’

They followed her into a homely kitchen with wooden units and the smell of cake baking filling the air. Sullivan sniffed appreciatively.

  ‘Fairy cakes. They’re not ready yet, but I can offer you a drink? Tea, coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Varcoe and Sullivan chorused.

  ‘Mrs Brady, have you heard from your son Nicholas today?’

  ‘Nick? No, not today. Why? Is he okay?’

  ‘We’re investigating the deaths of two men we think may have been friends of your son when he was younger, and we need to speak to him. Have you any idea where he could be?’

  ‘Do you mean Craig Pollard and the other one, Steven Kent was it? Nick did know them, he told me that. He was quite upset about it. You don’t think he’s in danger?’ She moved to the kitchen table and picked up a mobile phone. ‘I’ll ring him.’ She listened intently, her expression becoming panicked. ‘It says the number’s unavailable, what does that mean? It’s never said that before.’

  ‘It means his phone’s switched off, or he’s in a place without a signal.’ Varcoe tried to ignore the feeling of dread that was crawling through her.

  ‘He’s never switched his phone off before, why would he? What would be the point? Even when he’s been fishing on some lake in the middle of nowhere I’ve been able to reach him. Something must have happened, can’t you go and find him?’

Wordlessly, Varcoe stepped out of the room, leaving Sullivan trying to placate Mrs Brady. She called Knight, who agreed it was imperative Brady was found and said he would put an alert out. He wanted Sullivan and Varcoe back at the station and they eventually managed to extricate themselves from Mrs Brady, who had luckily been distracted by the smell of burning coming from inside her oven. With a squeal, she leapt over to retrieve the ruined cakes, leaving the two detectives to make their escape after promising to keep her informed. She was making a breathless phone call to her husband as they closed the door behind them.

47

Nick Brady still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being followed. Even here, out in the wilds, he could feel eyes watching. He kept telling himself he was imagining it, that he should relax and enjoy the views, but it wasn’t that easy. The bleakness of the moor, especially at this time of year, suited his mood. Memories filled his head, the heat of the sun on his back as they walked, the easy banter, the teasing, the cans of lager Craig had brought that had grown steadily warmer but were still so welcome when they eventually sat on the bank side. Brady didn’t want to remember any more. He stood, lost in the past, eyes searching the opposite bank for the exact location. This was the spot, he thought. There should be a marker, a shrine, but there was only pale grass, mud and the ever moving water.

A figure approached slowly, stealthily. Brady didn’t turn.