On Laughton Moor (22 page)

51

I’ve been forced into a mistake and I promised myself that would never happen. I shouldn’t have followed Brady there, I wasn’t properly prepared and being at that place with one of them . . . I couldn’t help myself. Even if a car full of police officers had been watching, I would still have done it. I’m not even sure Brady is dead, since that stupid bloody dog turned up. Where there’s a dog, there must be an owner. It had a collar on and looked well fed, so I doubt it was a stray. At least I had time to leave the message. Brady might still survive though and all I can hope is that he can give no proper description. I wasn’t wearing the suit, it would have made me too conspicuous and I didn’t really intend to do it then, I just wanted to see what he was doing, if he was really going back there. He could have gone there often, I don’t know. He might feel some guilt. None of the others seemed to, but he might. He should do. In my eyes, they’re all as guilty as each other. My message was there, and surely it will all be linked together in the end, even if I have to spell it out myself in words of one syllable. Bowles is next, the last. Little Dave Bowles. It will have to be soon. I need to find out what has happened to Brady. There’s been nothing in the news yet, though it’s early. If he’s dead, it will be made public soon enough.

52

Bishop skulked around the hospital, waiting for her phone to ring. Brady’s father hadn’t been able to add anything to his wife’s answers to their questions. Brady had a driving licence they told her, but hadn’t owned a car since his last one failed its MOT and was deemed not worth repairing. It was languishing on a garage forecourt nearby, hopefully to be sold for parts. Bishop hated waiting around and wanted to be busy, but Knight had again asked her to stay at the hospital. She wasn’t even sure why. She was a DS, surely there was more she could be doing than killing time here? She could speak to neither Brady nor Bowles. Brady’s parents had taken both the chairs near their son’s bed and hadn’t offered her one of their boiled sweets. Feeling a little sorry for herself, Bishop made yet another trip to the hospital café, ordered a cappuccino for a change and settled back in her chair. Claire answered on the first ring.

  ‘Catherine?’

  ‘I just wanted to give you a call.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you, I thought you’d be too busy.’

  ‘I’m having a bit of a break.’

  ‘Where are you? It doesn’t sound like the station.’

  ‘No, I’m . . . I’m out. We’ve had a few developments.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I’m just waiting around while we follow up a few leads.’

  ‘Can’t you come back and wait around with me?’

  ‘I’d love to. Not sure DI Knight would agree though.’

  ‘We will meet up later? If you can?’

   ‘Definitely.’

There was a pause.

  ‘I really enjoyed last night, you know.’ Claire said softly.

  ‘I did too. Claire, I’m really sorry, I’m going to have to go, I’m expecting some call backs. I just wanted to say hello.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. I’ll see you later then.’

Bishop sat smiling to herself.

53

Kendrick was pacing. Knight was surprised to see the dark blue carpet tiles in his office didn’t have a path worn through them.

  ‘You’re telling me we’ve still no suspect?’

  ‘We’ve lots of suspects, it’s narrowing them down that we’re struggling with. We’ve still nothing on Mike Pollard, Kelly Whitcham, anyone.’ said Knight.

Kendrick rounded on him.

  ‘That’s right, Inspector, make a joke. It’s just the time to try to be funny. Christ, you’ve been telling me the same thing since Pollard was killed. Following leads, questioning people and here we are, days later and all you’ve got to show for your efforts is another dead body and two of his mates flat on their backs in the hospital. Not exactly Sherlock Holmes, are you?’

  ‘I never said I was. You know as well as I do that this case was never going to be easy.’

  ‘Have we made any progress at all? That’s what the Super’s going to want to know and that’s what the press will be asking. It’s only a matter of time before Bowles’ suicide attempt and the attack on Brady are front page news. We’ve had some calls already.’

  ‘Only to be expected.’

Kendrick exploded.

  ‘For God’s sake Jonathan, do you actually care that this whole investigation is well on its way to becoming a national joke? We’ll probably be held up as an example of how not to run a murder enquiry to new recruits. If you came up here to resurrect your career, you’ve a strange way of going about it.’

Knight’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘I wasn’t aware my career needed resurrecting, as you put it. I came here as a transfer, not a demotion.’

  ‘Come on, I bet you thought life up here would be a piece of piss compared to London. Well, you were wrong. You’ve been thrown in at the deep end and it seems to me that at the moment you’re struggling to stay afloat.’

Staring at him, Knight got to his feet.
Does anyone really talk like that?
he thought. Kendrick sighed, gestured to Knight to sit back down. When he spoke again, his voice was soft.

  ‘I know this case is a bastard. These messages that have been left . . . I don’t see what they’re supposed to tell us. That’s probably the point. Either way, you know how it is. The Super’s on at me for progress, she’s being pressured from higher up, the press are haranguing everyone, we’ve got nothing to show for all our man hours, we’ve uncovered a people trafficking gang that we’ve so far no chance of breaking, and to top it off, somehow we’ve got mixed up with the Hughes family, which isn’t where we want to be. We need to close this case soon, before the whole force becomes a laughing stock.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Catherine Bishop?’

  ‘She’s fine, coping well.’ Knight had his own ideas about what Bishop had been up to, but he wasn’t going to share them with Kendrick.

  ‘We’re expecting Bowles at least to be ready to talk soon?’

  ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘I’ll want an update later on.’

Knight realised he was dismissed. As he left Kendrick’s office and headed to his own, he stopped by a window that gave a view over the street below. It was a grey day, murky and miserable. Through the gloom, Knight thought he could see the car that he’d thought was following him earlier. He could even make out a figure in the driver’s seat, but as the car was parallel parked, there was no chance of seeing the number plate. His usual caution deserting him, Knight strode down the stairs and out into the car park. Taking the narrow path between the police station and the old post office building next door led him back onto the street, just behind the car. Stepping back into the alleyway, he gave the number plate to his colleagues in control, who told him the car belonged to a national hire company. Back in his office, Knight found the phone number of their head office, and after a few more minutes was staring down at the name of the company who’d hired the car out in London. It was one he knew well, he’d seen it several times during his life in the capital. Huggy’s Cabs. It didn’t take much imagination to substitute Huggy’s for Hughes’ and then the picture became clearer. One of Malc Hughes’ many taxi companies. It was no surprise to find his new friend was part of Hughes’ gang. In the corridor, Knight took another peek out of the window. The car was still there. Retracing his steps down through the alley and around to the back of the car, Knight crept as close as he dared.  A woman waiting for a bus on the opposite side of the road watched curiously. Standing at a bus stop seemed a good idea, less conspicuous, so Knight made his way across to stand in the bus shelter, making sure the occupant of the car could only see his profile.

  ‘It’s okay, I’m a police officer.’ he told the woman, showing his warrant card discreetly. She visibly relaxed.

  ‘You just never know these days, you hear such stories.’ the woman said. Knight nodded. He still couldn’t see the figure in the driving seat clearly.

  ‘Fuck it.’ said Knight audibly, causing the woman beside him to gasp, ‘Charming!’

He marched across the road, up to the car and hammered on the driver’s window. The man inside had a baseball cap pulled low over his brow, but Knight caught a glimpse of his face as he instinctively turned towards the noise. Paul Hughes. Hughes, panicking, wrenched the car into gear and sped away. Knight stood in the road, hands on hips. Interesting. No doubt here to do some dirty work for his dad. A car slowed to pass him, the driver angrily gesticulating and Knight made his way back to the pavement. As he reached it, his phone started ringing. Catherine Bishop.

  ‘You better get back here, sir, Bowles is awake.’

  ‘Lucid?’

  ‘Chattering away to the nurses. He doesn’t know I’m here yet.’

  ‘Don’t let him find out.’

54

David Bowles was sitting up in bed flicking through a dog-eared magazine as Knight and Bishop approached.

  ‘Any good knitting patterns?’ asked Bishop, nodding at Bowles’ reading material. He threw it down, blushing.

  ‘One of the nurses brought it for me. Who are you?’

Bowles was still pale, his voice slightly husky. Bishop wondered if this was a result of whatever they’d had to do to get all the whiskey and paracetamol out of his system. Perhaps he always sounded like that. Bowles looked tiny in the hospital bed; Bishop bet he was about the same height as herself, on the small side for a man.

  ‘Detective Inspector Knight and Detective Sergeant Bishop.’ Knight said, observing Bowles closely to gauge his reaction. It wasn’t subtle. Bowles grew even paler and shrank back against his pillows.

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Well done.’ Bishop replied.

  ‘But trying to commit suicide isn’t illegal . . . is it?’

Knight didn’t reply, just settled himself in the chair at the head of Bowles’ bed. Bishop plonked herself down next to him, set the carrier bag she’d been holding on the floor and opened her notebook. Bowles’ eyes flicked worriedly between them.

  ‘Why are you here? Do I need a solicitor?’

  ‘We just want to have a chat, Mr Bowles.’

  ‘A chat? About what?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell us about Craig Pollard and Steven Kent?’

Bowles’ face crumpled like that of an unhappy child. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he did nothing to hide or stop them.

  ‘They’re dead.’ Bowles managed to say.

  ‘We know that, Mr Bowles. Why?’ Bishop was curt.

Bowles glanced quickly around the ward. Of the four beds, only two more were occupied, one by an elderly man who was snoring. In the other, a younger man read a thick paperback.

  ‘I don’t want to talk here. Can’t we go somewhere else?’

  ‘We can have a trip to the police station if that suits you better.’ said Bishop, making as if to stand.

Bowles protested, ‘I’m ill, I’ve got to stay here.’

  ‘Your doctor’s just told us you can leave when you’re ready.’

Staring, Bowles said, ‘But that’s rubbish, I’ve only just woken up, how can I go home?’

  ‘Think of it as a miraculous recovery.’ Bishop deliberately sounded bored.

  ‘I’ve got no clothes. . .’

Bishop bent down to open the carrier bag, then threw a black tracksuit and plain white T shirt onto the bed.

  ‘Put these on. We’ll wait.’

She and Knight stood and a nurse stepped forward to pull the curtains around a stricken David Bowles’ bed. After a few minutes, Bowles reappeared dressed in the tracksuit.

  ‘It’s too big.’ He flapped his arms pathetically, the sleeves hanging over his hands.

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers Mr Bowles, haven’t you heard that one?’

Bishop strode away from the bed, Bowles scurrying along behind her, Knight following.

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re being so awful, I’m ill, I’m . . . ’

  ‘You’re coming with us.’ Bishop said grimly.

In the interview room, Bowles looked terrified, glancing around him as if he expected to be attacked at any second. Perhaps he did. Knight sat quietly opposite Bowles, content to let Bishop do the talking. She entered and placed a plastic cup of water on the table in front of Bowles.

‘Thank you.’ His hand shook visibly as he lifted the cup to his lips. ‘Am I . . . have I been arrested?’

‘No, Mr Bowles. You’re just answering some questions.’

Bishop took the seat next to Knight. Bowles licked his lips.

  ‘Helping with enquiries?’ He risked a smile.

  ‘If that’s how you want to describe it.’

  ‘About Craig and Steve?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I didn’t kill them.’

  ‘Can you help us find who did?’

Bowles looked wretched.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why don’t we start at the beginning? How did you know Craig and Steve?’

They knew Bowles was the man who’d made the anonymous phone call asking for details of Pollard’s death. Even from the grainy image they had there was no mistaking him.

  ‘I lived near Craig. He knew Steve from somewhere, I don’t know how.’

  ‘So you were friends with Craig?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say friends, he wasn’t really the sort of person you were friends with. He was the leader around where we lived, people followed him.’

  ‘You followed him?’

Bowles’ head went down.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Did you like Craig?’

  ‘How do you mean, like? I just hung around with him sometimes.’

  ‘When Craig asked you to?’

  ‘I didn’t go with them very often. He . . . they liked to tease people.’

  ‘They teased you?’ Bishop’s voice was gentler now.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Craig especially?’

Bowles glanced at her.

  ‘Yeah. Everyone joined in, but he always started it.’

  ‘A bully.’ Knight added.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You were in hospital because you took an overdose of paracetamol, Mr Bowles. Could you tell us why you did that?’

  ‘I’d had enough.’

  ‘Enough of what?’

  ‘Of everything. I left a note . . . ’

  ‘I know. I read it.’

He frowned, confused. ‘How could you have?’

  ‘A colleague and I went to your flat to question you and found you unconscious.’

  ‘So you called the ambulance?’

  ‘My colleague did.’

  ‘Oh. I suppose I should thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. In your note, you said,’ she glanced at her notebook, ‘“I’m not going to wait for him to come and get me like he did Craig and Steve”. Who were you referring to?’

  ‘I thought it might be Nick, but now I think it’s the boy from the moor.’

Bishop paused, startled. ‘Which boy from the moor?’

Bowles raised his head to meet her eyes.

  ‘The one whose little brother we killed.’ he said quietly.