Double Dealing (Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Series Book Two) (12 page)

23

He scrolled down the page to the local news, his throat tight. They’d found her then. It was no surprise; the boss had wanted the body to be discovered quickly, a message to show the others that they meant business and were in control. The quick departure of the Hughes family had left a gap that the boss was keen to fill quickly. There was always a market for coke, it was easy money. If you could bring it into the country yourself and cut out the middle man, so much the better. Less mess, less hassle and fewer people involved. They still had their small-time dealers pedalling weed to anyone who wanted it, but the coke market was different.

  Still, the police would be involved now and the thought terrified him. The boss might think it a good idea to give a public display of what they were capable of, but it seemed to him a stupidly risky boast. He didn’t like it and wished he had never got involved. The day job kept the wolves from the door, but he’d been greedy. When the opportunity had been offered, he’d jumped at it.

  Her face came into his mind again, the paleness of her skin, the yellowy fat that he’d had to slice through. He shuddered, remembering the relief he’d felt when the packets – treasure to them, but the reason she was dead - finally appeared. He’d not spoken to her much before she’d died, but she’d seemed nice enough. Desperate for the money, of course. Why else would you do it? Even swallowing the packets in the first place had to be a nightmare.     

  He remembered her heavy limbs as they’d washed her naked body, the other man making comments about what he would have liked to do to her had she lived. Laughing, he’d said it would have earned her a few quid more. He’d stayed silent. Running the cloth over her unresisting skin had reminded him of caring for his mother. His brow creased as he thought back to those days in the flat with his mother comatose. He had done his best to persuade her to eat, to go out and feel the sun on her face, but it had been futile in the end.

  The succession of men. The needles. Her death. He blinked, wiping a hand over his eyes. It was a common enough story.

  They’d carried her to the pond wrapped in plastic sheeting, then rubbed her down again with antibacterial wipes as she lay on the ground. Lots of precautions. People knowing they were now top dog was one thing, but the police being able to trace her back to them was another.

  There was the other problem to think about too. The boss didn’t like loose ends.

24

In the incident room, Catherine updated her team on the information provided by Jo Webber.

  ‘I’m meeting with Helen Bridges shortly to discuss an appeal in the press,’ she said. ‘Chris, you need to keep trying to find out who our mystery woman is. Until we have an ID, we’re struggling. Simon, go back to Mark Cook and Lauren’s parents and ask them if Lauren had any involvement with drugs. We have to start considering the possibility that Lauren’s disappearance is linked to our mule and start digging. The eyelash proves that Lauren has been in close proximity to our body at some point.’

  ‘I’ll chase up her mobile phone records again,’ Anna Varcoe said. ‘Maybe there’ll be a text or voicemail that can help us.’

Catherine nodded. ‘You never know. I want you to come with me to Lauren’s workplace as well, Anna, after I’ve seen the lovely Ms Bridges. Maybe she’ll have confided in a colleague there. Dave, get onto Lauren’s best friend - Steph Goacher? I know she said she couldn’t help us, but we need to talk to her again. Make the point that Lauren could be in danger and see if she knows more than she’s been admitting, please. Also, have a chat with Pete Davis about lending Mark Cook his van. Make sure he got it back in one piece, that there were no unidentified women in the back or blood stains on the seat.’

He grinned at her. ‘You still think Mark knows more than he’s telling us, Sarge?’

  ‘It’s a huge coincidence that he happened to arrive at the car park just after his wife, but maybe he’s genuine.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, our priorities are to find Lauren and to identify our dead woman. I’ll see you back here at five.’

Dave raised his hand as if he were at primary school. ‘What about talking to some of the local drug users?’ he asked. Catherine looked at him and he smiled, his eyes bright.

  ‘I was hoping Anna and I would have a chance to do that on our way over to Lauren’s workplace. Then again, there are quite a few people to talk to there. All right, Dave, see what you can dig up. Be subtle,’ she cautioned. ‘You might not get the warmest of welcomes.’

He gave an enthusiastic nod, grabbed his notepad from the desk in front of him and rushed towards the door, tripping over the legs of a chair in his haste to be out and getting on with his task.

  ‘Daft bugger.’ Chris Rogers shook his head.

  ‘Anna, just give me half an hour to talk to Helen and then we’ll go.’ Catherine pushed back her chair.

  ‘Good luck with that one.’ Chris smirked, heading over to a spare computer.

  As the door closed behind their sergeant, Chris turned to Anna, who was gathering a pile of reports together, preparing to go back to her own desk. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Catherine. She seems a bit brighter since our night out, don’t you think?’

  ‘Hard to tell.’

  ‘She phoned Ellie.’

  ‘You didn’t leave her much choice.’ Anna laughed. Chris opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking hurt.

  ‘We were only trying to help,’ he said. Anna came over and patted his shoulder.

  ‘I know you were, but don’t push her, that’s all I’m saying. Thomas says she’s struggling, having nightmares and stuff.’

  ‘God. That doesn’t sound like Catherine, she’s always been so . . .’

  ‘Solid?’

  ‘Yeah, steady.’

  ‘I think the thing with Claire really hit her hard. Imagine it though, Chris. Talk about a betrayal of trust.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Ellie would be good for her.’

  ‘Chris!’

He held up his hands. ‘All right, all right. I’ll not mention it again. Anyway, you’re a dark horse.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You and the Sarge’s brother?’ He looked up at her, fluttering his eyelashes, and she shoved his arm playfully.

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  Helen Bridges was sitting at a corner table when Catherine entered the café.

‘Full English please, Sergeant, and another coffee,’ the journalist called. Rolling her eyes, Catherine made her way to the counter. The place was quiet, just an elderly couple sipping tea in one corner and a young woman frowning at a tablet computer in the other.

  ‘And for yourself?’ the man behind the counter asked, his hand poised over an order pad. Catherine screwed up her face.

  ‘Just toast thanks.’

  ‘Only toast? You’re sure?’

  ‘Maybe some scrambled egg,’ she relented. The man beamed and Catherine couldn’t help smiling back at him. ‘And I’ll have a pot of tea, please.’

  ‘That’s more like it. I’ll bring it over.’

Helen Bridges was waiting, her long tan-coloured coat slung over the back of the chair beside her. She had her notebook ready, sitting on the red and white checked tablecloth, with a pen lying beside it. As Catherine pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down, Bridges smoothed her already immaculate hair and leant forward.

  ‘How are you, Sergeant Bishop?’

  ‘Never better, thanks.’

  ‘Really? Well, if you say so.’ Bridges looked doubtful, her eyebrows climbing towards her hairline. ‘What can I do for you?’

Catherine didn’t wait to consider what Bridges had meant by her comment and ploughed on.

  ‘You know that a woman’s body was found yesterday?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be much of a reporter if I didn’t, it doesn’t happen every day after all. I was down by the pond most of the day, but no one had the decency to come out and tell us anything. The constable who spoke to me was quite abrupt.’ Bridges pouted as Catherine hid a grin.

  ‘We need some help from the public to identify her.’

  Bridges nodded, a knowing smile flitting over her lips. ‘I thought you might say that. What’s in it for me?’

  ‘I can tell you she died from a drug overdose.’

  ‘That’s not front page news, Sergeant.’ Bridges shook her head. ‘There must be more to it. All that activity at the pond yesterday, you and that new DI down there? I’m not stupid.’

Catherine sighed. Bridges was right. She was a lot of things, but stupid certainly wasn’t first on the list.

  ‘All right. As I say, the woman died of an overdose.’

  ‘And that was enough to warrant all this interest?’ Bridges probed.

  ‘Off the record, there was a substantial amount of cocaine involved. Her body was . . . mutilated.’

  ‘Mutilated in what way?’

  ‘Well, we’re not going to be able to provide yo
u
with a photograph of her face to use, put it that way.’

  ‘Nasty.’ Bridges grimaced.

  ‘We need to find out who she is, Helen. Some bastard let her die so they could get hold of the drugs she was carrying.’

Helen Bridges stared, her mind working.

‘A drug mule? Are you serious?’

  Catherine folded her arms. ‘We need to speak to anyone who can help us.’

‘I bet you do.’ The journalist whistled.

Their food arrived and Bridges tucked in with enthusiasm. Catherine enjoyed her scrambled egg more than she had expected to.

  ‘I’ll email the description we have of her over. Don’t mention the amount of drugs or the fact she was carrying them,’ Catherine told Bridges.

  ‘I’ll keep it quiet for now, but if anything comes of the story . . .’

  ‘You’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘There’s no chance at all of a photo?’

Catherine allowed the woman’s ruined face into her mind for just a second, then shut it away again, out of sight.

  ‘None, at least until we can identify her.’

  ‘A facial reconstruction then?’

  ‘Not at the moment. Maybe in time, if we need one.’

Bridges drank the last of her coffee and wiped her mouth on a red paper napkin, shrugged on her coat, then collected her notepad and bag.

  ‘The story will run in tomorrow’s paper and I’ll get it up on the website as soon as I can. Thanks for the food.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Catherine poured out the last of her tea.

  ‘Oh, and Sergeant?’ Bridges was by the door now, a smile hovering around her lips. Catherine glanced up. ‘It’s such a shame you didn’t have a chance to introduce me to that gorgeous Claire Weyton.’

  Catherine cradled her tea cup between both hands. What did Helen Bridges know? She was no fool. DCI Kendrick had said there had been nothing in the papers about herself and Claire, and if Bridges hadn’t written about it there must be a reason. It certainly wouldn’t be because she was afraid of hurting Catherine’s feelings. Perhaps the Superintendent had had a word? Catherine sipped her tea. No. Bridges would have taken no notice if she thought she had a story, and it would have been quite a scoop. Claire Weyton had murdered two men and badly injured another. She had been working on the investigation with Catherine and her colleagues as part of their civilian support staff, all the time knowing that the person they were seeking, the vicious killer, the monster, was herself.

  Catherine closed her eyes, remembering her conversations with Claire, the intimacy, the excitement. All of it a lie, a fabrication, on Claire’s part at least. Catherine had been in no doubt of her own feelings; she had believed that she and Claire were beginning a relationship, that Claire’s feelings mirrored her own. She had thought they were falling in love. Catherine screwed up her face. It was a cliché, a clumsy attempt to attribute words to emotions that went beyond description. Still, it was true. Her shock, her disbelief and the pain that followed choked her, even now. The deceit still took her breath away. There had been no sign, no indication that Claire was anything other than what she appeared to be – clever, confident and dedicated to her job. The circumstances that had driven her to kill, the persona she kept so well hidden, had only emerged when it had become absolutely necessary. Even then, Catherine knew, it had been a monumental struggle for both herself and Claire to play out their story. Catherine had a duty, an obligation to bring those responsible for crime to justice. That kind of justice wasn’t enough for Claire. She had pursued her victims as a victim herself, a person driven to kill by circumstances beyond her control. Claire had paid for her own brand of justice with her life and Catherine was left to pick up the pieces of the life she had thought she was building. She wore the guilt like a skin, wrapped in shame, in regret. There were questions she hadn’t answered – if she had known the truth about Claire, what would she have done? She had confronted her, it was true, had attempted to do her duty as a police officer. If she had realised before though, what then? If Claire had escaped exposure, had escaped capture? Would they have built a life together? Catherine set her cup on the table, fighting tears. No. She could have forgiven Claire, tried to understand her, but that would have been too much.

  She couldn’t believe that Kendrick would have lied about Bridges not exposing her and Claire’s relationship, so the only other explanation was that the journalist had withheld what she knew for reasons of her own. That she’d just dropped the scoop into conversation could be seen as a warning. It wouldn’t be as crude as blackmail; perhaps “leverage” was a better word. Either way, it meant Bridges had ammunition.