Double Dealing (Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Series Book Two) (3 page)

8

The headache that had been knocking at his temples for hours was in danger of becoming a migraine. Jonathan Knight propped his forehead on his fist as the lines of text blurred before his eyes. His body needed sleep. As usual though, his brain had other ideas.

  He picked up the report and flipped to the first page, then began reading again from the beginning. Within minutes though, the letters were swimming. Knight stood up and went into his kitchen. Holding a glass under the tap, he filled it with water and knocked back a couple of maximum strength pain killers. They might hold off the worst of the headache, if he were lucky.

  He took the rest of the water back to the dining table and sat down again, shoving his feet into his battered old slippers. The heating had gone off hours before and the cold was beginning to bite. Casting a weary eye over the papers on the table, he sighed, rubbing his forehead, then picked up his laptop instead and headed up the stairs to his bedroom. Sitting with his back pressed against the headboard, he pulled the duvet around himself and turned on the laptop. It was even colder up here than it had been downstairs. As he waited for the machine to load up, he listened to the silence of the house. During their last case, Catherine Bishop had spent some nights in his guest room and though he found it difficult to admit, Knight had missed her presence. Though there would never be any possibility of a romance between them, he had found that he liked and respected her. Having her around had been an experience he had enjoyed far more than he had expected to. It was good to have her back at work too. He knew she had been missed in the CID office, though muttering and giggling had gone on amongst some of the uniformed officers. It might take a little time for Catherine to live down what some were seeing as a huge error of judgment. Knight didn’t take that view himself. He knew how easy it was to be blinded by attraction, by the sheer force of wanting someone. Anyway, hadn’t they all been fooled?

  When the laptop was ready, he opened his personal emails. There was one from his brother, whose wife was due to give birth any day to their first child. Knight read the excited words with a smile. He hadn’t told his family that there was the possibility that he would become a father himself in the spring. Until he knew for sure whether his ex-girlfriend carried his child, or whether the man she had had an affair with was the baby’s father, it didn’t seem worth mentioning. Far better to let his brother enjoy centre stage. If the baby was his, there would be plenty of time to share the news. He scrolled down the page to the email which contained the scan of the foetus that Caitlin had sent him. She kept in touch, sending him a text or an email every week or so to say she was fine and that the baby was developing as it should. There was little else to say at this stage. Knight replied politely, feeling most of the time as if he were talking to a stranger. He and Caitlin hadn’t had much to say to each other even when they’d been together, and the enforced continuation of their relationship, albeit as friends, had done nothing to change that. Caitlin was confident and sociable, but Knight was neither. Maybe her new boyfriend would be a better match.

  He typed out a quick reply to his brother’s email, then set the computer on the floor and hoped he’d remember it was there in the morning before he trampled it. He turned onto his side and pulled the duvet high around his ears, hoping sleep would come.

9

He couldn’t do it. He sat in the front of the van, his hands shaking. No doubt this vehicle had been stolen a couple of hours before.

  He couldn’t do it.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, the tremor in his voice obvious.

The older man cleared his throat and sniffed. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Can’t you just tell me?’

  ‘We’re almost there.’

He squinted at the windscreen but just saw the road stretching in front of them, narrow, more of a track. Tall hedgerows rushed by on either side as his stomach lurched. His companion was whistling. It had to be to calm his nerves; no one could be this relaxed with a job like they had to do. He glanced at the other man, but he didn’t look nervous. If anything he seemed to be enjoying himself, as if they were out for a drive with a picnic in the boot. He was singing now under his breath, the words unintelligible, as he steered the van to the left, then slowed it to a halt. Unfastening his own seatbelt, the older man nudged him.

  ‘Come on then, we don’t want to hang around.’

He swallowed.

  ‘Look, I . . .’

His companion wrenched the seatbelt off for him.

  ‘Get your arse in gear.’

10

It felt as though Catherine had been asleep for just a few minutes when she woke, the images of the nightmare still vivid in her head. She had seen Claire lying in a coffin, shrouded and pale, her beautiful blue eyes closed. All at once, Claire had sat up, her eyes unfocused, her fingers curling into claws. Her mouth had opened to reveal a black swollen tongue, and she let out a scream of anguish. To Catherine’s horror, Claire had begun to decompose before her as she lay back down, her flesh changing colour, sinking and disappearing, her face becoming skeletal within a few seconds.

  Catherine rolled over, wiped the tears from her face with the sheet and attempted to control her breathing. She turned on her bedside lamp, hoping the images would begin to fade. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she reached for the white towelling robe that hung on the chair nearby. The house was silent and cold. Catherine staggered across the landing to the bathroom, turned on the light and stared at herself in the mirror. She’d suffered heartbreak before, of course she had, but nothing like this. The feelings of guilt and those of betrayal. The numbing realisation that she had lost a relationship that had never properly begun, one that could never have been. She knew, not that she would ever say it out loud, not even to Thomas, that she would have forgiven Claire anything. She closed her eyes for a second, then turned on the tap and scooped up some water, splashing it over her face. She needed to stop thinking like this.

  Tying the robe around her waist, Catherine went downstairs to the kitchen and made herself a drink. Curled up on the settee, she wondered how much tea she must have drunk over the past few weeks: gallons. It wasn’t making her feel any better.

  Nine am. The police station must be open by now? Mark Cook had been awake most of the night, calling Lauren’s phone over and over, pacing the floor of the living room and drinking endless cups of coffee. He walked down the grey concrete path that led to the police station’s door, located at the far-right end of a building that was never going to win any design awards. Mark had been past it hundreds if not thousands of times, but he’d never been inside. He felt sick, still not sure if he was doing the right thing, but he squared his shoulders and pushed open the door.

  It was quiet, which he hadn’t expected. He had thought there would be shouts, threats, accusations. He should have known better. It wasn’t a prison, not quite, not yet. Mark hesitated, glancing around him. He finally noticed a tall desk, built into the wall, with an officer about his own age behind it who glanced up with a smile.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

His voice was pleasant. Mark stepped forward, almost falling over his own feet.

  ‘Yes, yes, please. I’m worried about my wife, she’s not come home and it’s not like her.’

  ‘Okay, I’m Sergeant Smithies. Can I just take a few details?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  ‘Thank you. Your wife’s full name, date of birth and address, please?’

Mark gave them, then cleared his throat. Smithies asked for her mobile and their landline number and Mark reeled them off.

  ‘And when did you last see her?’

Mark swallowed. ‘Friday. She was getting the ferry over to Amsterdam to meet some mates there for a hen weekend. I expected her home yesterday, but she didn’t arrive and none of her friends have heard from her.’

  ‘She was travelling alone?’

  ‘From Hull to Amsterdam, yes. The woman who’s getting married is called Sarah. We met her and her boyfriend on holiday, they don’t live around here. That’s why Lauren was meeting them there.’

  ‘And when did you last hear from her?’

  ‘I had a text to say she was on the ferry. I thought it was weird that she hadn’t been in touch since then, hadn’t answered my texts, but I thought with it being a hen weekend . . . Well, you know what they’re like.’

The desk sergeant scribbled down a few more notes, then met Mark’s eyes.

  ‘What I’m going to do, Mr Cook, is ask another officer to come and have a chat with you. If you wouldn’t mind waiting over there?’

He nodded towards a few battered-looking blue plastic chairs that had been set against the wall in the corridor. Mark nodded and turned away. Rich Smithies watched him for a few seconds, then picked up his desk phone.

  Hearing footsteps approac
h
him, Mark glanced up from his phone. The woman who strode down the corridor wore a dark grey trouser suit with a black top underneath. Mark watched her pull the embroidered silk neckline away from her skin for a second, grimacing as if it irritated her. She held a couple of sheets of paper in her left hand which rustled as she walked, the tapping of her shoes on the tiles echoing down the corridor. When she stopped, Mark got to his feet, towering above her. She met his gaze and her eyes seemed to be assessing him. He felt his cheeks grow hot.

  ‘Mr Cook?’ Mark nodded. Her voice was quiet, the accent local. She seemed familiar, though he couldn’t remember seeing her before. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Bishop. My colleague tells me you’re worried about your wife?’

Mark nodded a few times, licking his lips. A detective. He’d expected an ordinary PC Plod. He glanced over Bishop’s head and down the corridor. Who knew what was going on behind those doors? Maybe they were looking into Lauren’s disappearance already?

  ‘Mr Cook?’ She was waiting for him to speak and he was flustered.

  ‘I’m sorry, yes, I’m so worried. I’ve not heard from Lauren and it’s not like her, she’s usually on her phone all the time.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s go and sit down and I’ll take some more details.’

She led him down the corridor, about halfway, then pushed open a blue painted door and gestured for him to go in first. The lights came on as he entered the room; some kind of energy saving idea, Mark assumed. It was cold, the window letting in a draught. One-way glass in the windows - not surprising in a police station. Mark could see an elderly couple making their way slowly down the pavement outside. The man leant on a walking stick and the woman clutched his arm protectively. Mark swallowed, images of Lauren helping him out of bed after he’d had his appendectomy vivid in his mind. On another occasion, they had both had heavy colds over Christmas and had spent most of the holiday snuggled up in bed together, watching films. He blinked. The memories were tainted now, spoiled. The tone in Lauren’s voice, the disgust in her expression.

  His lies.

Sergeant Bishop came into the room, closing the door behind her, and he forced himself to concentrate. Blue carpet tiles on the floor, a small square table with a fake wood top and black metal legs. More of the blue plastic chairs, the same as the ones in the corridor. A water cooler glugged in the corner. His leg was trembling, his knee bouncing. He rubbed the palm of his hand across his thigh and clenched his jaw, trying to relax.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of water, Mr Cook?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Mark replied. He just wanted to get on with it. She waved him into a chair and sat down herself in the seat nearest the door, then looked at him, her head tilted slightly to the right.

  ‘So. You’ve not seen your wife for three days?’

  ‘Yes, she left on Friday morning. She should have been home some time yesterday, but she never arrived. I’ve tried her mobile hundreds of times, she’s not phoned, not sent any texts, not been on Facebook . . . it’s just not her. Her phone’s not even ringing anymore.’

  ‘What happens when you call her number now?’

  ‘Nothing. It doesn’t even connect.’

Mark watched as she made a note, her left eyebrow lifting. He looked away, not wanting her to think he was staring.

  ‘And she was going on a hen weekend?’

  ‘That’s right, meeting a friend we met on holiday last year once she was in Amsterdam. The last text I have from her says she was on her way,but I’ve had nothing after that.’ Mark gulped. The sergeant radiated a calm tha
t
only served to make him even more nervous. He folded his arms, then uncrossed them again. She looked up, watching him as he fidgeted.

  ‘The friend’s details, please?’

  ‘This is going to sound bad, but I can’t remember her last name. Her first name’s Sarah.’ Another note. Another twitch of the eyebrow. ‘I could check on Facebook, see if I can find her surname? I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before. To be honest, I just found her annoying, her and her boyfriend, but Lauren got on well with them.’

  ‘That would be helpful, thank you. If I could just ask you a few more questions first?’

Mark dipped his head. ‘Of course.’

  ‘What about clothes? What was Lauren wearing the last time you saw her?’

He gawped, his mouth hanging open. Sergeant Bishop waited, pen poised.

  ‘Jeans, I remember that. The thing is, I nipped out to get some milk and when I got back she’d gone, so she might have got changed in the meantime. She took a little wheeled case with her, you know, hand luggage size? She’s had it for years, it’s a bit battered . . .’ Mark realised he was babbling and closed his mouth.

  ‘Have you checked her wardrobe to see what clothes Lauren might have taken with her?’

  ‘No. No, I’m sorry, I didn’t think to.’ He hung his head like a child after a telling-off.

She smiled.

  ‘It’s not a problem. Can you think of any reason why Lauren might have chosen to stay away from home, Mr Cook?’ Again, her eyes were on his face. There was no accusation in her voice, but Mark shuffled in his chair, feeling more uncomfortable with each passing moment. She was friendly enough, polite and professional, but there was a stillness in her manne
r
that he found unsettling.

  ‘No, none at all. She’s happy, we’re happy. She’d been looking forward to going away, once we’d saved enough.’ He swallowed again, wishing he had accepted the water she had offered him. ‘I was made redundant a while ago, you see, and I’ve struggled to find work. Lauren’s parents gave her some money for her birthday and we managed to find enough in the end. I wanted her to go, she deserves a weekend away.’ He raised his eyes, anxious to make Sergeant Bishop understand. ‘I’ve done my best to find a job, but it’s not easy.’

She nodded. ‘Have you spoken to Lauren’s parents?’

  ‘About her not being in touch?’ He hesitated. ‘To be honest, no. Her mum . . .’

  ‘Perhaps Lauren’s staying with them?’ Catherine suggested.

  ‘No, she wouldn’t do that.’ Mark’s voice was firm. ‘Her mum’s not easy to live with. Their house is the last place Lauren would be. Now Lauren’s dad has retired, she’s even worse, going on and on at him. No, Lauren won’t be there. Maybe she’s been in an accident?’

She didn’t reply, and after a few more questions, Mark found himself outside the station again, wondering just what he’d achieved by going there. Perhaps he should have stayed away.

  ‘Do you think she’s got a new boyfriend then, Sarge?’ Detective Constable Dave Lancaster asked over the hubbub of the office. Catherine shook her head, her mouth full of chocolate digestive.

  ‘I bet she’s just sleeping off a hangover somewhere, but . . . Do me a favour, Dave, see if you can find out whether she’s back in the country at least. Maybe she’s just missed the ferry or forgotten her phone charger. I’ve got her car registration number here too.’

Lancaster nodded, his eyes bright.

  ‘I’ll do it now, ma’am.’

  ‘And don’t call me ma’am!’ she bellowed after him as he trotted away from her desk. ‘If you must call someone ma’am, make it the Super, she loves it,’ she added in an undertone. ‘Makes me feel like the Queen.’ She practised a royal wave. ‘No good, I haven’t got the wrist action.’

Chris Rogers grinned at her. ‘Wonder why that is?’

Catherine stood to mime a belly laugh, then chucked a pen at hi
m
before logging into her computer as she sat back down. Lauren Cook, age twenty-four. No criminal record, and neither had Mark. Well, there wasn’t a lot they could do. Lauren Cook was a responsible adult with no history of mental or other health issues. If she’d decided to have an extra day or two in Amsterdam without telling her husband, then that was up to her.

Back at home, Mark Cook was on the phone again. Lauren’s parents need to know that he had reported her missing, though he knew she wasn’t at their house. He steeled himself, ready for the inevitable onslaught of questions.

  ‘So you’ve not heard a thing from her and the police won’t help?’ Celia Chantry was outraged. Mark closed his eyes for a second, willing himself to stay calm.

  ‘I saw a detective. She said to give it another day or so and to contact her again if Lauren hadn’t shown up by then,’ he told her.

  ‘Fat lot of good that is, she might be dead in a ditch somewhere,’ Celia snapped. ‘It’s not like Lauren, did you tell them that?’

  ‘Yes, I . . .’

  ‘Did you, Mark? Because I know you, you’re a lovely lad but you’re too soft. You need to be firm.’