Double Dealing (Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Series Book Two) (2 page)

Knight let his shirt fall back to his waist and Catherine looked away as he straightened his clothing before moving back behind his desk.

  ‘Not personally,’ Knight said, ‘but it was down to him. You can see why I don’t go swimming.’

Catherine managed a smile.

  ‘But why? What does it mean?’ she asked.

He shook his head.

  ‘I told you I had some history with the Hughes family, with Malc in particular. His name croppe
d
up in a few cases while I was with the Met and I got a bit obsessed, I admit it. I wanted to bring him down a peg or two and I was careless. This,’ Knight gestured over his shoulder with his thumb, ‘was his way of telling me he knew what I was up to, had seen me coming if you like, and wasn’t going to stand for it.’

  ‘But . . . assaulting a police officer?’

  ‘I don’t know who actually did it, I didn’t see anyone. They grabbed me off the street, I’d just come out of a chippy.’ Catherine had to smile at that, knowing Knight’s fondness for fish and chips. ‘They threw me into the back of a van and blindfolded me. I think I ended up in some garage or workshop. I could smell petrol fumes, oil, that sort of thing. I don’t know how many there were and I couldn’t identify anyone. They gave me a bit of a kicking, then when I was on the ground they did this. I thought they’d cut me at first, it seemed to go on forever. In the end they chucked me back in the van and dumped me at the side of the road.’

Catherine was appalled.

  ‘So he got away with it?’

  ‘I never reported it. What would be the point? No witnesses, no names or faces to identify and a million and one people with the initials MH. It wasn’t part of an official investigation, so . . .’

  ‘So you might have a motive for revenge on Malc Hughes yourself?’ Catherine kept her tone light.

Knight met her gaze.

‘He’ll start a life sentence one day, that’ll do for me. Anyway, while Paul Hughes was being tortured and killed, we were on our way to the hospital.’

Catherine closed her eyes for a second.

  ‘Of course we were.’ she whispered.

6

Two forty-five in the afternoon. Mark Cook raised a hand to his aching neck and rubbed it, wincing. He sat up straight, feeling slightly better than he had a few hours before.

  Then he remembered. Lauren. He snatched his mobile from the coffee table, prodding the screen into life. Who could he call? He jumped to his feet, scrolling through his list of contacts.

  ‘Mark?’ A baby bawled in the background.

  ‘Steph? Have you heard from Lauren?’

  ‘What? Wait a minute.’ A few seconds of muffled noise, then the sound of a door closing. Mark paced the living room. ‘What did you say?’ Steph asked.

  ‘Has Lauren been in touch?’

  ‘No, why? She’s away, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah, but she should be back in the country at least by now. She’s not answering her phone, I’ve had no texts, she hasn’t rung . . .’

A silence.

  ‘I’m sure she’s fine, Mark. She’ll just be hungover, she’s probably asleep on the ferry or at a mate’s house. You know what she’s like. She’ll be home soon, I’m sure,’ Steph told him.

Mark sighed.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so. All right, thanks.’

He closed his eyes for a second, wondering who else he could phone.

7

‘Please tell me you’re not growing a beard?’ Catherine asked as she wound a few strands of spaghetti around her fork. Thomas raised a hand to his face.

  ‘What’s wrong with it? Anyway, it’s not a beard, I just haven’t been arsed to shave for a few days. It wasn’t a priority while we were away.’

She chewed and swallowed, then picked up her slice of garlic bread and gestured to her plate with it.

  ‘I didn’t realise you could cook, this is delicious.’

He flushed a little.

  ‘Thanks. Anyone can chop up an onion though, chuck a few herbs in a pan.’

  ‘I don’t normally bother.’

  ‘Louise was a good cook, wasn’t she?’

Catherine gazed at him, chewing steadily.

  ‘Careful, Thomas, you’ve just been nice about her.’

He laughed.

  ‘It was an accident. Her moving out was the best thing that could have happened to you.’

  ‘You never liked her, I don’t know why.’

  ‘Honestly?’ He stood, picked up his plate and took it to the sink, then rinsed it under the tap and set it in the washing-up bowl. With his back to her, he mumbled, ‘I just never thought she was good enough for you, that’s all.’

She spluttered for a few seconds, surprised by his admission.

  ‘Not good enough for me? How do you mean?’

Thomas shrugged and turned to face her, leaning against the worktop his with hands in his pockets.

  ‘Always making snide remarks about your work and making you feel guilty.’

Her last mouthful of food finished, Catherine pushed back her chair.

  ‘I wasn’t always that considerate.’

  ‘She knew about your job when you met, she shouldn’t have blamed you for doing it.’

  ‘Well, maybe.’

  ‘Why are you standing up for her?’

Catherine squirted washing up water into the bowl and turned on the hot tap.

  ‘Because I feel guilty.’

  ‘You shouldn’t. I’m guessing what happened between you and Claire was different?’

  ‘Different? You can say that again,’ Catherine snorted, the conversation with DI Foster still raw.

  ‘I’m just saying that you deserve better.’

  ‘I thought I’d found it.’

  ‘You need to forget Claire too. Move on, Catherine.’

She slammed a couple of forks onto the draining board.

  ‘I
know.
I’m trying to.’

He grinned. ‘You know what they say, best way to get over someone is to get under . . .’

Catherine gave him a shove and he laughed, brushing soap suds from his sleeve.

  ‘Just because you’ve had more girlfriends than you can remember,’ she retorted, returning to the washing-up. He pulled a sad face.

  ‘How do you know I’m not heartbroken too?’

Her laugh was scornful.

  ‘Come on, Thomas, this is you we’re talking about.’

  ‘It’s true. Why do you think I came rushing over from Manchester? Why I fancied a week in Egypt completely out of the blue, even if it took every penny I had?’

Catherine raised an eyebrow.

   ‘I thought out of concern for me, but it was because you’ve been dumped? I suppose it had to happen in the end.’ She emptied the water out of the washing-up bowl and squeezed out the dishcloth, setting it on the draining board. ‘So tell me more.’

Thomas picked up the tea towel and dried a plate half-heartedly.

  ‘I met this woman at the gym, Gina. Little bit older than me, gorgeous . . .’

  ‘Usual story so far.’ Catherine smirked.

  ‘Ha ha. Anyway, I thought things were going well, but one afternoon we were at her house, up in the bedroom and we heard the front door slam. She hadn’t told me she was married.’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Oh yes. Turns out her husband is a soldier, bloody huge great big bloke.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I got dressed while she rushed down to distract him, then climbed out of the bedroom window, onto the garage roof, and legged it.’

  ‘Meanwhile, the neighbour was on the phone reporting you for burglary.’

  ‘It was a bit of a shock to say the least. Anyway, it gave me a kick up the arse. I was getting sick of Manchester anyway; no job, sleeping on the sofas of anyon
e
who’d have me … I’d had enough.’

  ‘So here you are.’

  ‘When you phoned and asked if I could come on holiday, it gave me a chance to get away.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ she shot back.

He shook his head. ‘I was thinking of coming back to Northolme anyway. I need to find a job, get a place to live. Do you think I could stay with you until I get myself sorted? Please?’

  ‘Of course you can, you know that. Why aren’t you teaching? You’re qualified, why don’t you use it?’

  ‘I’ve started looking, but I might have to wait a few months. I‘ll go down to the leisure centre in the meantime and see if they’ve got anything, maybe do some lifeguard shifts.’

Thomas had decided to train as a PE teacher when his promising football career had been ended by a knee injury. He dried the last knife and set the tea towel down. Catherine filled the kettle and flicked it on to boil.

  ‘So what about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘I’m not daft, Catherine. You’re thin, you weren’t yourself on holiday and you won’t tell me what happened with this Claire you’d met. What’s going on? I couldn’t get it out of you while we were in Egypt, but if I’m going to be living here for a while . . .’

Catherine sighed, taking two mugs out of the cupboard and dropping tea bags into them.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Thomas. The last major case I was on was . . . difficult.’ 

  ‘Well I know that, your face had been battered for a start.’

  ‘All right. Well, it was a murder case. There were two victims actually, and a third man had been attacked.’

  ‘In Northolme, the land that time forgot? Bloody hell, I’m surprised I didn’t hear about it in the news.’

They took their mugs into the living room. Thomas headed for the armchair and Catherine settled on the sofa, where she grabbed a cushion and held it close.

  ‘It was in the news, though we tried to keep it as quiet as we could. Anyway, we had no real suspects until Anna and I – you remember Anna Varcoe?’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember Anna.’ Thomas gave a lascivious grin.

  ‘Stop that. We called at this house to interview a bloke and found him unconscious – an overdose. When he came to, he told us enough to make it possible for us to work out who we needed to arrest. While it was all going on, I’d . . . well, I’d met Claire. She’d been working with us at the station for a while.’

  ‘Aye aye.’

  ‘She was perfect, Thomas: funny, intelligent . . .’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘Yeah. We’d spent some time together and it was going well. I hadn’t felt like that for a long time, not since Louise and I first met, if ever. Oh, and I’d also spent a night with Louise before I’d got together with Claire. Louise was keen for us to try again.’

  ‘Bad idea.’

  ‘Well, I was thinking about it.’

  ‘Until you met Claire?’

  ‘Yeah. Then Louise found out I was seeing Claire and sent me a text telling me to never contact her again.’

  ‘No great loss.’

  ‘It was awful though. I didn’t want to hurt her, but when I met Claire, it was just . . .’

  ‘Spare me the details. You liked her, she liked you, you had butterflies in your stomach when you saw her, you spent every minute you could in bed . . .’

  ‘Thomas!’

  ‘I know how it is. So what went wrong?’

Catherine laughed a little. ‘You might well ask.’ She reached forward and took a tissue from the box on the coffee table. Thomas looked concerned.

  ‘If it’s going to upset you, Catherine, I’ll mind my own business.’

  ‘Claire’s dead,’ she told him, her voice choked.

Thomas stared at her

  ‘I’m so sorry, I never would have . . .’

  ‘It’s okay.’ She wiped her eyes, giving her brother a shaky smile. ‘And that’s all I’m going to say.’

  ‘All right, fair enough.’

  ‘You know the worst of it though?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I liked her. I liked her a lot, and I thought she felt the same.’

  ‘It sounds like she did.’

  ‘Well, maybe. I think she used me.’

  Thomas frowned, confused.

  ‘Used you for what?’

  ‘Enough, Thomas, please.’

There was a silence.

  ‘God, Catherine, I thought my love life was a mess, but you . . . ’

He shook his head in mock despair as she threw the cushion at him.

  They sat up until around eleven, when Thomas began to yawn. Catherine knew she should try to sleep at least. Thomas led the way up the stairs, pausing outside the bathroom.

  ‘Thanks for letting me stay. I’ll find some work, pay my way.’

  ‘I know you will.’

Catherine turned to go into her own bedroom, then stopped.

  ‘Thomas?’ He stuck his head back out of the bathroom door. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

He grinned.

  ‘I think you need a night out.’