Needing (12 page)

Langham patted her hand. “It’s fine,
Mrs Ros
é. Please don’t worry or blame yourself. You’ve been a great help. This may be a long shot, but did you happen to notice the licence plate?”

She smiled and pulled her hand from his. Stood on rickety legs and shivered over to the mantel. “Now
that
I can help you with. I had seen the car so often, but that was not the reason I remembered the plate. I wrote it down but have not forgotten it.” She took a slip of paper from behind one of the photographs and handed it to Langham.

Oliver leaned across to read it. In her spidery handwriting,
Mrs Ros
é had given them shocking information. It was a personal plate. Just a name. One Oliver hadn’t expected to see. It had to be a mistake. Was that man capable of abducting a child? It went against the grain, all he stood for—unless he’d turned into one of the bad guys recently. Oliver looked at Langham, who had paled significantly. It wasn’t an uncommon name. Could belong to any number of men. And besides, there was no way a cop could afford a Mercedes. Not unless someone had died and left him shitloads of money.

5H13LD5.

He wasn’t imagining it, was he? Wanting to see something that would bring that smarmy wanker down?

Langham cleared his throat. “Thank you,
Mrs Ros
é, you’ve been more help than you can imagine.”

“Will you… Will you come back and tell me when you find her?” The old woman smoothed her skirt then patted her hair. “I have grown to love her. Would not wish ill on her.”

“Of course,” Langham said. “And if I don’t call round, I’ll telephone, all right?”

She nodded, then wrote down her phone number. After handing it to Langham, she showed them to the door on unsteady legs, fingers fluttering beside her.

They stepped outside, the front door closing behind them with a soft snick, and Oliver inhaled a deep breath. He had so many questions battering around inside his head he knew a headache wouldn’t be long in coming. The lack of sleep was getting to him too—he was all liquid bones and weary muscles—but his brain, man, it buzzed. He walked to the end of the path, turning to see Langham still standing by the front door, finger and thumb toying with his lips as he stared at the carefully cut grass. It reminded Oliver of when the detective stared at the carpet, how he’d got so angry about it, then their resulting closeness.

Langham lowered his hand. “It can’t be him, can it?” He looked up, frown firmly in place, mouth a hard laceration across his face. “I mean, he’s a cop. So fucking righteous. So
correct
all the damn time.”

“People change,” Oliver said. “Who knows what the lure of money does. If he’s involved, that is. If that’s the way this is panning out.”

Langham nodded, gaze back on the ground, although he walked towards Oliver and met him on the pavement. “You reckon he has it in him to be involved? To be on some psycho’s payroll? Taking a kid, for fuck’s sake?”

Oliver swallowed. “I’d like to say no. That the way he carries on tells us he’s well into law enforcement, wouldn’t be involved in anything dodgy. But honestly? He’s a bastard—I’ve always said that. An out-and-out bastard. With that personality? He’s capable of anything, if you ask me.”

Langham nodded again. “Shit. So what do we do? Ask him? Watch him? Tell the chief?”

“No idea, man. Not my call. Unless you’re not asking me, just thinking out loud.”

“Both. I’m stumped.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

Langham looked up.

Oliver smiled. “For what it’s worth—my opinion, that is—I say we have him watched, see where he goes, what he does.”

“Have him watched? That means letting someone else in on this. Trusting someone not to tell him.”

“Right. Uh, right. What about running that plate. Should be the first thing you get done anyway—stupid of me to suggest anything else. Might not even be him. Just us jumping the gun. We’d look stupid approaching him without doing that first.”

“Yep. Right. Come on.”

Oliver trailed him down the street, back towards Glenn’s home. Shields was outside, a posturing peacock, tail feathers splayed as though he’d caught some woman on his sexual radar. But no woman was around. He was alone, strutting up and down the path, mobile phone to his ear.

Langham held his arm out, stopping Oliver mid-stride. He tugged him closer to a hedge high enough to hide behind and not be seen. Close enough to hear. “Listen…”

“It’s not like that,” Shields said. “Well, that’s what I’m about to do, go and find her. That’s my job… No, I didn’t expect for her to escape—no one did… Like I
meant
for this to happen? Muddy the waters? Christ, the last thing I want is my job complicated. Bad enough we had Alex going around killing people, let alone her.”

Who was he speaking to? Not knowing burned Oliver up. It could be an innocent conversation, but that licence plate coming to light had shed a whole new slant on what Shields was saying. He could be talking to Jackson…

Oliver remembered a time similar to this, back when he’d been a kid. The evidence in an overheard conversation had pointed to the speaker, his sister, being guilty of having sex, to being involved in something she shouldn’t have been at fourteen years old, and he’d gone flat-out and accused her, told his parents too. Probably to divert attention from himself—he got too much of that with his ‘weird ways’. Turned out she’d been discussing her homework, the latest gossip-fest about sex education the previous week. She’d been subjected to their mother marching her down to the doctors, having her checked out. Mum never could do anything by halves. Had to always have proof.

“Your ghosts tell you that?” his mum had said. “They tell you to get your sister into trouble?”

He’d shaken his head, tears welling, the flame of getting it wrong flaring in his gut. Bile had flashed up his windpipe, and he’d moved to walk away, unable to face her.

“Don’t you bloody walk away from me, you little freak. You’ve got a lot to answer for. Always did act up, didn’t you, wanting more attention.” She’d planted meaty fists on equally meaty hips. “That’s what this ghost shit is all about, isn’t it? You getting attention. Well, it stops and stops now, you hear me?”

He’d nodded, prayed the voices would leave him alone, hurt on their behalf that they were getting the blame for this. They hadn’t said a word, his sister had, and he’d read it wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong!

Shame burned Oliver’s cheeks now. He never wanted to feel that way again—the overwhelming guilt, sadness that he’d caused his sister such embarrassment. Even though it was that arsehole Shields in question now, Oliver still couldn’t bring himself to accuse the man.

“It might be innocent,” he whispered. “We might be hearing what we want to hear, having it sound like we want it to.”

Langham gritted his teeth. “Shh.”

Oliver strained to listen some more.

Shields coughed lightly, then, “Langham? He’s interviewing a neighbour. What? Am I worried about that? Why should I be?”

Oliver’s guts bunched.
Innocent conversation? Is whoever is on the other end of that line reminding him his car might have been clocked in this street? Berating him on that personal plate?

Shields laughed, strutted up and down some more. “Hell, no. I’ll give Mrs Roosay a visit once Langham’s gone. Check what he said to her. Whether she saw anything.”

Panic thudded through Oliver. That had sounded sinister, like Shields would be warning
Mrs Ros
é off. He struggled to work out whether these were just his thoughts or if the spirits were whispering to him, telling him what Shields had in mind. Confused as to what to believe, he closed his eyes, tried to tune in to the other side, begging for someone to come through.

Nothing. No one.

“Right,” Shields said. “Damn right. We’ll have this one dealt with in no time.”

Oliver couldn’t stand it any longer. He snapped his eyes open and walked forward, out into the open, making his way towards Shields. The detective had his back to him, his greasy hair shining despite the pale, feeble sunlight. On Glenn’s path, a crisp packet crinkled under Oliver’s tread.

Shields spun around, eyes narrowed, his eyebrows quivering. “Yes, I hear you, sir. Will do.” He snapped his phone closed, stared harder at Oliver. “Where’s Langham?”

“Here,” Langham said, his voice gruff, barely concealed emotion sneakily bristling out of him. He looked as though he struggled to keep himself in control, that those emotions showing themselves could fuck right off and not come back. Like he didn’t need the display giving him away.

“Any news from the Roosay woman?”

“No,” Langham said quickly. Too quickly. “She’s just some old French woman.” He shrugged and shook his head. “So now we need to regroup, work out what we’ve done so far, who’s dealing with what and where we go from here.”

Was it Oliver’s imagination, or did Shields sigh with relief just then?

“Right.” Shields whipped out a notebook. “Go for it.”

Langham acted cool, his emotions back in check. “Louise is at the morgue, her scene still being searched. Mark Reynolds, I presume, is in the same place, his scene being inspected. The old woman, Reynolds’ grandmother. What’s the status on that?”

“She’s with Louise and Mark.” Shields jotted in his pad.

“And Ronan Dougherty?”

“Last I heard he was still in situ.”

Oliver studied Shields while the man’s head was bent. He looked for signs of discomfort, of guilt, but found none. Either he was one clever bastard at disguising how he felt, at acting innocent, or he had nothing to do with this. Not knowing for sure would eat away at Oliver, his past accusation leaving him indecisive, unsure of what to believe.

“And then there’s these two.” Langham wrote in his own pad. “Three, including the foetus. You dealing with them?”

He’ll say yes, because then he can visit
Mrs Ros
é. Can’t see him taking Langham’s word for it that the old bird doesn’t know anything. Shit.

“May as well, seeing as I was first on the scene.” He smirked, like Langham being out of the loop at that house in the middle of nowhere had made him a lesser detective. “I’ll also put things in motion to find Glenn.” He chuckled. “Glenn Close. Jesus…”

Arsehole.

“Fine,” Langham said. “The men at the house are being dealt with—must get an update on how that’s going. Any news on Jackson?”

“He’s being watched until the warrant comes through to search Privo,” Shields said.

The man looked affronted, as if Langham questioning him wasn’t right. As if having to answer to him didn’t sit well. Of course, it wouldn’t, Shields being Shields, but Oliver looked at him with new eyes now. Wanted to find the buried nugget that proved he was in on this shit. He shook his head, thinking of the times Shields had accused him of having a hand in the murders Oliver had brought to their attention, when all along he was—
possibly
—involved in shit like that himself.

“So we’re up to date. I’ll call in, see if there are any tox results back yet. Yep, I’ve got high hopes on that, but I want to know what the hell’s in those sugar strands that makes a person act like this.” Langham gestured to the house, arm raised, then let it slap back down to his side. “This has turned into a fucking nightmare.”

Shields turned away, muttered, “And it’ll only get worse.”

“What was that?” Langham said.

Oliver’s instincts screamed that Shields was guilty, but he shushed the roaming thoughts—the words sliding through his mind sounded too much like his own voice, not those of the dead. He couldn’t trust it, just couldn’t.

“Let’s pray it doesn’t get worse,” Shields said, louder this time, before disappearing inside the house, that damn hanky covering his nose and mouth.

That’s not what you said the first time. Not what you fucking said!

“Come on.” Langham strode towards his car, stiff limbed, anger seeping out of him. He raked a hand through his hair, tightened it into a fist and jerked open the driver’s-side door with a more-than-annoyed tug.

Oliver trotted to keep up then climbed inside the car, knowing exactly what he was about to hear. Or was that what he
hoped
to hear? Shit, he wasn’t sure—wasn’t sure of anything anymore. He needed sleep, a clear head for this crap. To see things objectively and not as a jumble of suspicious words.

Langham started the car. “If it isn’t him, if he isn’t involved, I’ll eat my fucking badge.” He let the engine idle, taking his phone out of his inside jacket pocket. Stared at
Mrs Ros
é’s phone number. Jabbed his phone buttons. “
Mrs Ros
é? Ah, hello again. It’s Detective Langham. I was at your house a short while ago. No, we haven’t found her. I’m calling on another matter.” He glanced at Oliver, his face grim. “If another detective calls at your door, don’t answer. In fact, if anyone you don’t know knocks, ignore them. For now. Until I get back to you. Why? It’s better that you deal with me, seeing as I spoke with you. That all right? I’ll send someone out to keep an eye on you.” He waited a beat, then said goodbye, dropping his phone back into his pocket. “That’s her safe and sorted. Now, I think we need to visit Ronan Dougherty’s place, see him for ourselves, unless he’s been moved since Shields last got an update.” He clamped the steering wheel. “Fuck. The licence plate. Must remember to run that through the computer.”