On Laughton Moor

On Laughton Moor

Lisa Hartley

Copyright © 2015 Lisa Hartley

For my family, and in memory of Wack Woollas (1927-2009)

1

The victim lay on his back, arms spread wide as if pleading. His face showed traces of blood, though his injuries seemed to be at the back of his head where the liquid had pooled. A crime scene tent had been erected around him and Knight stood inside it, considering the dead man. Young, probably late twenties, and athletic looking, the sort of bloke you might think would be able to look after himself in a street fight. Knight didn’t think that a street fight was what had happened though. There was no bruising on the man’s face or hands. This incident may have started in a pub but it had ended out here, in an alley that ran parallel to one of the main tourist stretches in Northolme. The town had its fair share of visitors, nothing like the numbers that flocked to York or nearby Lincoln, but enough to keep the tea rooms and souvenir shops in business. Knight doubted many tourists had realised the alley was there; it seemed mainly to be a place where shopkeepers filled their dustbins, not exactly a sight worth seeing. No doubt the place would be full of gawping bystanders if they were being allowed near; however it and the surrounding area had been emptied of people and cordoned off, much to the outrage of the local shopkeepers.

  Emerging from the tent, Knight glanced around the alley. Heavy rain fell steadily. Knight made his way through to the cobbled street beyond before removing the protective clothing he’d put on to view the body. The photographer had done his work, and a video recording had also been made. Scene of crime officers were busy, always reminding Knight of worker bees as they moved around the area. A short, stout man strode over.

‘You’re DI Knight? I’m Beckett, the pathologist.’ He gestured toward the alley. ‘Not a good way to end your night out.’

Knight frowned.

‘By being killed, you mean?’

The doctor grimaced.

‘You’ve got to admit, it’s a strange one. Such a public place.’

‘Shops though, not houses. No pubs or restaurants on this street, not much risk of passers by. I’m presuming he was killed last night?’

Beckett nodded.

‘Without really committing myself, I’d say between midnight and 5am. Of course, he’s been out in the rain and cold all night so . . . There’ll be more to say after the post mortem, but the cause of death seems pretty clear, he’s taken a good few blows to the back of his head. More than a few.’

‘With?’

‘Blunt instrument.’

‘Right.’ said Knight, with a sigh.

Beckett was shuffling his feet, obviously keen to be on his way.

‘No sign that he fought back, he seems to have been taken by surprise.’

‘He’d probably had a few.’

‘And his jeans were undone.’

‘Any sign of sexual activity or assault?’

‘Not so far, but again, I wouldn’t say for certain until after the post-mortem. Maybe he’d just stopped for a pee.’

‘That’s what I was thinking. Thanks, Doctor.’

  In the station canteen, Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop waited impatiently behind an indecisive DC who was dithering over crisps, seemingly unable to make up his mind between cheese and onion and salt and vinegar. She prodded him in the back.

‘Hey Chris, why don’t you just have ready salted? Takes the pain out of choosing.’

He started and span around.

‘Very funny. What’s up with you?’

Bishop shrugged, spread her arms wide.

‘Just another day in paradise isn’t it?’

The DC grunted, turned back to the crisps and took a bag of cheese and onion. Bishop pushed past him, paid for a cappuccino and went to sit down. Chris Rogers followed and sat in the chair opposite her.

‘So what’s made you so cheerful?’ Rogers tore his crisps open and offered them to Bishop.

She crunched a couple loudly before replying.

‘Nothing, time of year maybe. Dark when you get up, dark when you get home. It’s miserable.’

‘Suppose so. Still, Christmas is coming.’

Bishop sighed. ‘And?’

Rogers shook his head, then tipped it back, shaking the last of the crisps into his mouth.

‘I see Inspector Wallpaper’s back in.’

Bishop nodded.

‘Back this morning. Not much of a tan to say he’s been away for a week.’

‘Depends where he’s been though. Not everywhere’s that hot at this time of year.’

Sitting back in her chair, Bishop folded her arms.

‘What’s the point then? If I’m going to spend a day travelling on a plane and buses I want it to at least be hot when I get there.’

‘Me too, but who knows with him? We went away with the in laws this summer – bloody nightmare.’

‘Really? I thought you got on with them?’

‘I do for a few hours, not for a week.’

Bishop grinned at him.

‘Don’t let your wife hear you say that.’

Getting to his feet, Rogers said with a mock shudder,

‘Don’t worry, I won’t. See you later.’

Bishop sipped her coffee, thinking about Inspector Wallpaper, as he’d come to be known since his arrival from the Met the month before. Detective Inspector Jonathan Knight. He was supposed to be a sound detective, but no one knew any more than that. She couldn’t understand what he was doing here; why would a good detective leave London with all its opportunity to transfer to Lincolnshire? All right, the job still needed to be done, but talk about strange decisions. Of course, it may not have been his choice, maybe he wasn’t a “good” detective after all. Perhaps he’d been a naughty boy and been sent somewhere he was well out of the way. No one knew, and Knight wasn’t telling. He’d been polite and pleasant when she’d had cause to speak to him, but also reserved, or as reserved as his rank allowed him to be. Time would tell. Bishop glanced at her watch, drained the last of her cappuccino and stood. Back to it.

  As she returned to her desk, Simon Sullivan, another of the DCs, called her over.

  ‘DI Knight’s just gone out at a hundred miles an hour, Sarge, said to tell you to call him as soon as possible.’

‘Right, thanks.’

Bishop sat down and reached for the phone on her desk. Why hadn’t Knight sent Sullivan to find her? There weren’t that many places she might be, only the canteen or the toilets. She shook her head as she dialled Knight’s mobile. He answered after the first ring.

‘DC Sullivan said you wanted me to ring you, sir?’

‘That’s right, I need you to come down to the town centre, a body’s been found. Bring DC Sullivan too.’

He gave the location and Bishop was up and out of her chair.

  Knight watched Beckett scurry away, trying to avoid the puddles. Knight stood for a few seconds, then made his way over to the head of the scene of crime officers, Mick Caffery.

‘What have you got so far?’

‘Well, there’s no wallet on him which seems strange, especially if he was on a night out. No mobile phone and no sign of the weapon so far either.’

Knight glanced back towards the alley. He’d noticed the victim wore black shoes rather than trainers and his jeans were smart, expensive looking, as was his designer T shirt.

‘The majority of the blood is obviously around his head, but we’ve found other traces in the area, probably deposited as the weapon was swung back and forth.’

‘Any urine?’

‘In that area, there’s probably gallons of it. We’ll see what we can get; the rain’s not helping. You’re meaning because of his trousers being undone? Caught short, as it were?’

‘Something along those lines.’

Caffery nodded and stepped away. Knight took a deep breath, then blew onto his hands. He was beginning to feel the cold, though not as much as the unfortunate young man who had found the body. He had started a fortnight’s work experience in one of the local shops that day and had stumbled on the body, almost literally it seemed, when taking some rubbish out into the alley. Knight had almost smiled when he’d heard that; it made a change from a jogger finding it, or someone walking their dog. Still, it wasn’t something the boy sitting hunched in the back of Knight’s car would forget in a hurry.

‘Sir?’

Knight looked up; DS Bishop and DC Sullivan had arrived. He was quickly explained the situation to them then, when they’d put on their protective clothing, led them towards the alleyway. Bishop and Sullivan approached the victim carefully. A suspicious death in Northolme was a rare occurrence.

‘Bloody hell.’ exclaimed Sullivan.

‘It’s Craig Pollard.’ Bishop whispered.

2

DCI Keith Kendrick sat back in his chair, resting his hands on his considerable belly. Knight, sitting across the conference table from Kendrick, waited as his boss organised his thoughts.

‘So Bishop and Sullivan both recognised the dead man?’

‘Yes, and according to them, most of our uniforms would recognise him too. Craig Pollard was well known around town. Fights in pubs, drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace . . . ’

‘The sort of person who could get himself killed in a bar room brawl and no one would raise an eyebrow then?’ said Kendrick.

‘If it had been a bar room brawl, but this wasn’t, at least it doesn’t look like it, unless he was followed.’

The phone on the table between them began to ring, and Kendrick reached out a hairy hand to grab the receiver. Knight watched Kendrick’s expression change from mild irritation at the interruption to confusion, then to disbelief.

‘And you found this in his pocket? Why the hell didn’t you tell Knight this at the scene? Rain? What do you mean, it was raining? Christ, Beckett, you won’t melt, you’re not a bloody jelly baby . . . Email it then, email a copy, I want to see it now. Yes, now. Thanks.’ Kendrick, shaking his head vigorously, replaced the receiver. ‘You’ll never believe this – Beckett’s found a photo in the victim’s pocket, which he should have done at the scene, of course, but apparently he was getting wet.’ Kendrick’s face twisted in disgust. ‘Bloody idiot. Anyway, this photo is of - and it’s like the plot of a crappy TV programme – our lovely police station.’

Knight stared at him, brow wrinkled. ‘I don’t follow. Why would . . . ’

‘I’ve no idea why,’ Kendrick interrupted, ‘but the fact is, that’s what was there. Beckett’s emailing me a copy of the picture over. It’s bloody weird, if you ask me.’

There was a pause as both men puzzled over what Beckett had said. After a couple of minutes, there was a ping from Kendrick’s mobile, and he hauled it from his jacket pocket.

‘Right, let’s have a look, let the dog see the rabbit.’ he said, chunky fingers prodding at the screen. ‘Yes, he’s right. There’s the building, looking as depressing as ever, and a figure going in through the door . . . looks like . . .’ He held the phone out to Knight.

‘Catherine Bishop.’ Knight said, peering at the screen.

‘I don’t like it.’ Kendrick said, after another pause. ‘Did DS Bishop say anything else about Pollard?’

‘No, she just knew who he was when she saw him, but then Sullivan did too.’ Keith Kendrick stood, stuck his head through the door and spoke to the nearest officer. He collected a fresh jug of water from the dispenser and three plastic cups on his way back to his seat. Knight gratefully filled a cup with water, drank, and refilled the cup. There was a light knock on the door, and Catherine Bishop appeared.

‘You wanted to see me, guv?’

‘Sit down, Catherine,’ Kendrick, pulling out a chair as Knight poured a cup of water and slid it over the table towards her. She gave him a quick smile of thanks, not quite meeting his eyes. ‘Now then Sergeant, something a bit odd’s turned up and I wanted a quick chat about it.’ Kendrick said.

Bishop looked questioningly from one man to the other.

‘Odd? What do you mean?’

‘Doctor Beckett did a proper search of Pollard’s body - eventually,’ Kendrick raised his eyebrows. ‘And in Pollard’s pocket, he found this.’

He held the phone out to Bishop, who squinted at it.

‘In Pollard’s pocket? Looks like me coming into work – but why?’

Kendrick set his phone on the table.

‘Like I said, Catherine – it’s odd.’

‘Creepy is what it is.’ Bishop shuddered, taking a sip of water. ‘Makes no sense.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us about Craig Pollard?’

‘No, guv. I mean, as soon as I saw the body I knew it was him, but I think every other person in town would have been able to tell you that, definitely every copper. He’s been in trouble one way or another for as long as I’ve been in the force. I’ve never arrested him, and I certainly had nothing to do with his death, so . . . ’

Kendrick met her eyes.

‘No one’s saying you had, we just need to try to make sense of it. It looks like Pollard upset someone in a pub, or club, or wherever he’d been, who followed him and hit him a bit harder than they meant to.’

Bishop glanced at Knight, who said:

   ‘But does it? He was hit on the back of the head, several times, according to the doctor. It didn’t look like he’d been punched or kicked or glassed. Of course, we’ll have to wait until we get the post mortem report, but . . . ’

Kendrick pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, frowning hard.

‘Point taken, but it could still be some bloke he’d upset before who saw their chance, gave him a crack over the head and got carried away.’

Knight nodded.

‘Could be. But what did they find along the way to hit him with, and where’s the weapon?’

‘Until we get the full reports from Caffery and the pathologist, we can’t make up our minds about anything. We need to get Pollard formally indentified and start sniffing around his friends, see if anyone will give us anything we can use.’

‘Assuming he had any friends.’ muttered Bishop.

‘Blokes like Pollard usually know a lot of people, Sergeant,’ said Kendrick. ‘Whether any of them will care enough that he’s dead to tell us anything is another matter, and as for the photo . . . ’

Catherine Bishop gave another shudder.