On Laughton Moor (19 page)

40

With his purchases lined up on the coffee table, Dave Bowles sank onto the carpet, its swirls of pink and gaudy flowers clashing horribly with the burgundy sofa as always. Bowles hated this room, hated the whole flat. Even his own home was a place he felt uncomfortable. It wasn’t a place you could invite friends to, or a woman. Bowles thought about his last girlfriend, one of the few if he was truthful. Leanne: light brown hair, very overweight, three children.  She enjoyed watching soaps and reading gossip magazines. They’d met in a pub in town when he’d gone there to watch football and have a quiet drink. He was sitting there, minding his own business, when she’d tripped over the legs of the bar stool he was perched on, already drunk. He’d gone home with her that night, scarcely able to believe his luck. She’d paid the babysitter, then marched Dave straight upstairs, and into the bedroom, stripped him off and shown him exactly what she expected from him. He’d done it before of course, but never with anyone quite so . . . demanding. He’d gone to sleep in a state of bliss, then had a rude awakening the next morning as he opened his eyes to see all three of her children staring at him. He sat with them and had breakfast, toast for him, cereal for them. By the end of the meal they were calling him Uncle Dave. He’d felt a little awkward at first, but the appearance of a strange man in their mum’s bed and at their breakfast table was obviously not unusual for the children and Leanne was a jolly, cheerful, loud sort of person, she made Dave feel safe. The relationship had lasted a few weeks, but ended when an ex-boyfriend of Leanne’s, her son’s father, came to the door one day begging Leanne to take him back and she’d accepted so her little boy ‘could know his dad.’ Bowles had been heartbroken. He’d hoped to move in with Leanne and be a father to her children, had even thought of suggesting him and Leanne have a baby of their own. He couldn’t remember ever being happier. Of course, it hadn’t lasted , the story of his life.

The whiskey bottle was in his bedroom and he couldn’t face standing up again, so he half crawled, half dragged himself down the corridor and found it amongst the tangled mess of his bed. Swigging from the bottle, he made his way back to the living room. There was a ball point pen under the coffee table and he managed to tear a piece of card big enough to write on from the box of tissues thrown on the chair. He didn’t have much to say so it didn’t take long. Looking again at the razor blades, he reached instead for the first box of paracetamol. With no idea how many he would need to take, he would just keep going until . . . what? Until he was unconscious, he supposed, when he couldn’t see to take anymore. He removed the foil wrapped tablets with shaking fingers and after a couple of false attempts, managed to extract two. Another slug of whiskey, and he put them in his mouth. These two were for Leanne. A couple more for the boy on the moor. Four more for him. Two for Steve Kent. He was onto the second packet, which was even harder to open than the first one had been. Perhaps he should get the other packets open ready, just in case. More whiskey.

All the tablets out on the floor now. More tablets. More whiskey, struggling to open the second bottle.

Brady stopped, sure he’d heard footsteps behind him. He turned cautiously – no one.
Come on, Nick
. He turned back, kept walking. Footsteps again, but he wasn’t going to stop this time. A side street joined the main and he hurried across, not looking right or left. Another two minutes and he would be home. It was freezing, no wind tonight but the air itself was biting, the chill numbing his ears and fingers. This was his street. Halfway down the road . . . here. He turned left and hurried down the path, fumbling in his pocket for his keys, not daring to look over his shoulder. There was a loud thud behind him and he jumped, dropping the keys, hardly daring to turn around. Next door’s cat meowed at him. The sound had been its paws hitting the bin as it leapt over the fence. Cursing, he unlocked the door, went inside and slammed it shut. As he took off his coat, he realised just how fast his heart was beating.

41

The nightmare again. Knight woke abruptly, sheets sticking to his sweat-streaked body. The clock said 04.14. His breathing gradually slowed, calming him. Talking about the Hughes family was obviously a bad idea, though it seemed there was no escaping them. Knight could admit to himself, if to no one else, that he’d heard Malc Hughes had a cousin in Lincolnshire long before he applied to transfer. One day, he’d be in the court that sent Hughes down.

The second whiskey bottle seemed to be empty and Bowles couldn’t feel any more paracetamol as he groped around on the floor. The pen was digging into his leg, but his hand couldn’t grasp it properly. He had no idea where his note was. It probably didn’t matter. Who would read it anyhow? Who would find him lying here, and when? Bowles suspected it wouldn’t be for weeks. The thought was comforting, somehow. His head drooped even further towards the floor. One leg twitched. Not long now, surely. He waited calmly for whatever would happen next.

42

Catherine Bishop lay on her side, her head resting on her arm, feeling more relaxed than she had in weeks. Her body seemed to still be tingling, though surely it must be imagination. Her eyes were open, a small smile on her lips. There was a rustling of sheets and the muffled sounds of a person reluctantly regaining consciousness.

  ‘Do you always wake up this early?’ Claire Weyton asked, squinting at Bishop from her own pillow.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve been to sleep.’

  ‘You’re joking – I have. Not for long, mind.’

  ‘I know – do you always snore?’

Claire laughed.

  ‘Cheeky,’ She snuggled into Bishop’s side. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Never better. You?’

  ‘Mmmm. I could have done with some more sleep though.’

  ‘Now you’re being cheeky.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, there’s no clock in here, is there?’ Bishop glanced around the room, still almost in darkness.

  ‘I just use my phone, but I’ve no idea where it is.’ Claire leant across and switched on the bedside light, climbed out of bed and picked up a fleecy pink dressing gown covered in white hearts from the chair in the corner. Bishop grinned.

  ‘Now that’s attractive.’

Claire threw a slipper at her.

  ‘Matching slippers too, even better.’

Laughing, Claire went over to her coat, which lay on the floor by the door. The rest of their clothes lay piled nearby. She rummaged in a coat pocket, found nothing and picked up her bag, saying, ‘Here it is. Just before six’ a few seconds later.

Bishop groaned. ‘I’ll have to get up, I need to be in for half seven.’

Claire walked back to the bed, hands on hips.

  ‘And I suppose you’ll want to borrow clean clothes, have a shower and go and get some breakfast?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Don’t ask for much, do you?’

  ‘Not really. I’m your guest though, you’re supposed to wait on me.’

  ‘Ha, you wish. I’ll make you a drink, and then you’re on your own.’

There was a pale wood wardrobe unit along the wall opposite the bed which housed a tiny kettle and two mugs. Claire went to fill the kettle in the small bathroom that took up one corner of the room. Bishop smiled to herself. She was very tempted just to lie here, to see how long it would be until she was missed. She was far too warm and comfortable to think about moving. If she didn’t think about the case, about Pollard and Kent, Kendrick and Knight, she could believe none of it existed, just for a few more minutes. With a sigh, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. No chance. She went into the bathroom where Claire was washing her face and stood behind her, slipping her arms around Claire’s waist. They smiled at each other in the mirror and Claire turned in the circle of Bishop’s arms to face her. They stood for a moment, Claire stooping slightly, forehead to forehead, eyes closed, Bishop hardly daring to breathe.

  ‘I’m sorry, Claire,’ she whispered eventually. ‘I’m going to have to go.’

Claire opened her eyes, lifted her hand to Bishop’s face and stroked her cheek, smiling faintly.

  ‘I know. I don’t want you to, though.’

Bishop moved away gently.

  ‘You go back to bed, get some more sleep. I’ll have a quick shower.’

She stepped into the bath, turned on the shower and picked up Claire’s shampoo. At least she could walk to the station from here.

43

Paul Hughes got out of his car and looked around. What a dump. He knew that few places looked their best in November, but Christ. Apart from the cathedral on the hill which loomed out of the mist, he could be anywhere. That would be good, anywhere but here. His dad had phoned at some stupid hour last night when he’d been in bed with Nadia to tell him to get his arse up to Lincolnshire. He’d booked into a chain hotel using a credit card associated with one of the many company names they used. Fine for staying anonymous, not so great for luxury and comfort. What his dad expected him to do up here was anyone’s guess. From what he’d said last night, he didn’t even know himself. Dougie’s son had always been an idiot, they all knew that, and Paul could never understand why he’d been allowed into the family business at all. There must be a useful job out there for him, just not this one.

The receptionist at the hotel looked as if she’d been there all night and though she managed a smile for Paul, she didn’t respond with the instant devotion he was used to.
Snooty bitch
, he thought, sneering as she slid his key over the desk. The room was as drab and impersonal as he’d expected. Back outside, he wandered towards what appeared to be the city centre. Most of the shops weren’t yet open so he ducked into a fast food outlet for a quick breakfast. He was licking tomato sauce from his fingers when his mobile rang.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Got here about forty minutes ago. Not much to write home about, is it?’

  ‘It’s not bad, there are worse places. Here for one. Have you seen Dougie yet?’

  ‘Dad, I said I got here forty minutes ago, I’ve not had time to scratch my arse yet.’

Paul only felt brave enough to speak to his father in that tone when they were on the phone with over a hundred miles between them. Reading his mind, Malc said, ‘Don’t think you’re so far away that I can’t come up there and kick your backside, never mind scratch it.’

  ‘All right, I’m sorry. What do you want me to say to Dougie when I do catch up with him?’

  ‘I want you to find out where this safe house is. I want Zukic.’

  ‘I know that, Dad, but how do you expect me to find her?’

  ‘Use your initiative.’ The line went dead.

Paul Hughes snorted and sipped his coffee, then cursed as he scalded his mouth.

44

  ‘You’re sure Jasna Dijlas is Ivona?’ Bishop said sceptically to Knight.

  ‘She’s got a record, lots of wholesome activities like running a brothel, money laundering, GBH in her younger days, you can imagine.’

  ‘Sounds like our woman.’

  ‘We’ve got a mugshot, we can take it to Milica Zukic to check.’

  ‘How did you find her?’ asked Bishop. ‘I had a quick look, there was nothing.’

  ‘Lucky guess really. I looked up women’s first names used in Serbia on the internet, then checked our systems for all the ones in the age range Zukic guessed Ivona was in. There weren’t many. Nothing you or Claire in Intelligence couldn’t have done this morning. Although she won’t be here today, of course.’

He glanced at Bishop, who was silent, looking at her shoes. She knew she could have done just what Knight had, so why hadn’t she thought to? Because her mind had been full of Claire Weyton. Just why she’d never allowed her personal life near her job before.

  ‘So we can bring her in if and when Miss Zukic confirms it’s the right woman?’

  ‘The DCI and Super want us to concentrate on Pollard and Kent.’

  ‘We’re doing that as well, surely?’

  ‘They want the case closed.’

  ‘Don’t we all. Are you going to take the mugshot to Zukic then?’

  ‘I could always email it, quicker and safer probably. You’re going to talk to the last names on the list with Anna Varcoe?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Meet at noon then.’

Bishop watched as Knight left the room. For the first time, she’d felt uncomfortable with him, as if he somehow could tell where she’d spent the previous evening. In fact, she had a strange idea that the whole station would be able to see straight through the professional relationship she and Claire had agreed to maintain in working hours. Bishop knew she should have been able to find Jasna Dijlas as Knight had done, and was grateful to him for the way he’d shared the information he’d discovered without making a fuss about her not finding it first. She had to concentrate, try to forget about what was happening between herself and Claire and focus on whichever Nicks and Daves remained on Varcoe’s list.

Anna Varcoe was waiting, sitting at her desk but with her outdoor coat still on, takeaway coffee in hand. Bishop took a deep breath and strode over to her. Varcoe stood.

  ‘Morning, Sarge.’

  ‘Morning, Anna, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ said Varcoe, giving Bishop a curious glance.

  ‘Good, good.’ said Bishop, rubbing her hands together. She cleared her throat. ‘Where are we heading first?’

Varcoe consulted her notebook.

  ‘Other side of town, Sarge. Do you want me to drive?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

Bishop marched off, leaving Varcoe looking puzzled.
Lovely?

Bishop stalked back to the car, with Varcoe hurrying after her.

  ‘What a cocky little shit.’ she said, fastening her seatbelt aggressively.

Varcoe started the engine.

  ‘I know. All had he had to say was that he was working offshore when Pollard was killed, no need for all the fannying around.’

  ‘We had to get the confirmation though. Anyway. On to the next one.’ She consulted the list. ‘David Bowles.’

  ‘And he lives . . . ’

Bishop gave the address. ‘Just around the corner. I knew there was method in the madness.’

They arrived at the address in less than five minutes. Varcoe’s face showed exactly what she thought of the place – not a lot.

  ‘What a bloody dump.’ she grumbled, carefully stepping over a half eaten kebab that had been dropped on the pavement as she climbed out of the car. Bishop couldn’t disagree. It seemed Bowles lived in the top half of a crumbling semi midway down the street. The front gate stood half attached to its post. It had once been white but now was a dirty grey. A dingy lawn was surrounded with litter filled borders. A few evergreens struggled on, but failed to make an impression. No doubt in a different season, weeds would be rampant. A pile of black dustbin liners were piled at one side of the lawn; some had been scratched open by cats or vermin and their contents strewn across a patch of grass – chicken bones, pizza crusts, some mouldy slices of bread. A clear plastic bag bulged with beer cans, a few takeaway boxes, wine bottles.

  ‘At least they’re trying to recycle.’ Bishop said.

  ‘Yes but taking it further than the garden would help.’

They approached the front door. There were two doorbells, one labelled 14, the other 14a.

  ‘It’s 14a.’ Bishop announced. ‘What’s the betting neither bell works?’

Varcoe shrugged. She pressed the bell for 14a firmly, then wiped her hand on her trousers. Bishop grinned and nudged her.

  ‘Haven’t you brought some antibacterial spray?’

  ‘If the inside’s anything like the garden, we’ll need biohazard suits.’

They stood for a few seconds, then Bishop pressed the doorbell again.

  ‘Come on, you lazy so and so.’

  ‘He’s probably seen us through the window, he’ll be hiding behind the settee.’

  ‘He’ll be lucky to see anything through those windows. Anyway, do we look like bailiffs?’

  ‘Not sure I’ve ever seen one.’

There was still no movement behind the dull panes of glass that filled the front door.

  ‘Right, I’ve had enough.’

Bishop pressed the doorbell for number 14 instead, holding it down for a good thirty seconds with her thumb. There was still no response for a minute or so, then they heard footsteps, keys jangling.

  ‘Bingo.’ muttered Bishop, warrant card at the ready.

The door was wrenched open by a stocky, unshaven man wearing boxer shorts and a well worn T shirt that had originally come free with a case of cheap beer, judging by its logo. His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot. He looked the two women up and down.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

Bishop eyed him back. She held up her warrant card but he was too busy rubbing his eyes to notice it.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Bishop and Detective Constable Varcoe. We’re here to see Mr Bowles.’

The man scratched violently at his hair. Varcoe grimaced and took a step back.

  ‘Bowles? You mean Dave upstairs?’

  ‘Yes, 14a.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ring his bloody bell then?’

  ‘We did, he didn’t answer. Do you know if he’s in?’

  ‘He’s always in, except when he creeps off to the corner shop.’

  ‘Can you let us through then please?’

  ‘If it means I can get back to bed, I will with pleasure, I’m at work in a few hours.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr . . . ’

  ‘Munroe. I suppose I should ask for some ID first, shouldn’t I?  You don’t look like thieving types, but you never know.’

Bishop showed him her warrant card again and he stepped back, allowing them to follow.

  ‘When did you last see Mr Bowles?’

  ‘Yesterday morning. He was coming down the stairs as I came in. I said hello but he scurried off like a frightened rabbit as usual.’

  ‘Not very chatty then?’

  ‘Dave? I don’t think he’s ever had a chat with anyone except himself. He’s a bit odd, you know? Very quiet though.’

  ‘The sort of person you want living above you then really?’

  ‘I suppose so. I never thought I’d end up in a place like this, I’ve got a nice house a couple of miles away, but the wife’s moved her fancy man in and I’m stuck in this hole. Landlord keeps telling me he’s going to get a bloke round, clear out the garden, do some repairs, but he never does. Still, it’s cheap and that’s what I need these days.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ agreed Bishop, shuffling towards the stairs. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Munroe.’

Munroe took the hint and wandered back towards the open door of his own part of the house, calling ‘Tell Dave to answer his door in future’ as he went.

Bishop kept walking, Varcoe close behind.

A tiny landing had been created at the top of the stairs and there was flimsy looking door with‘14a’ painted on it in wonky black letters. Paint had dripped between the numbers. The place was starting to get to Bishop, and she thumped on the door.

  ‘Mr Bowles? Open up, please, it’s the police.’ Silence. She hammered again. ‘Mr Bowles? Police!’

Varcoe said, ‘This is starting to look bad.’

Bishop nodded, pulling a pair of latex gloves from her bag and slipping them on before passing a pair to Anna. Bishop reached out and tried the door handle. It moved easily, unlocked. Cautiously Bishop stepped forward. The door opened onto a short hallway, three other doors leading off it, two open, one closed. Bishop felt the skin on her arms prickle. The place smelt musty, damp. The carpet underfoot was stained and worn, years of the dirt of everyday life trodden in to it. After bellowing Bowles’ name a few more times, Bishop gave up. Glancing left and right, she headed for one of the open doors, her stomach a knot.

  ‘Bathroom.’ she said to Varcoe, who leaned around her to have a look.

  ‘Christ.’

The bathroom was in desperate need of a clean, if not fumigation. The doors of the cabinet above the sink hung open, the usual items inside. Bishop peered at a couple of packets of condoms that had seemingly fallen out of it onto the floor.

  ‘Even I’ve got some newer than those.’

Varcoe laughed, then wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Looks like vomit in the sink, Sarge.’

  ‘If you say so, Anna. I’d never have taken you for someone who vomits in bathroom sinks.’

Varcoe blushed.

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘I’d be amazed. He’s not in here, anyway, so where next?’

Varcoe led the way to the next open door, hesitantly poking her head around to see inside.

  ‘Bedroom. He’s not in there either.’

The room was almost filled by a double bed, a coverless duvet screwed into a ball thrown on it. One pillow was on the floor, the other still on the bed, bearing the imprint of a head. Reluctantly, Bishop sniffed the air.

  ‘Smells like . . . ’

  ‘Whiskey.’

  ‘I’ll be changing my opinion of you at this rate, Anna.’

  ‘My dad used to drink a lot of it.’ Varcoe said, her face expressionless. Bishop touched her arm gently, then stepped away.

  ‘He must be in the other room, if he’s here at all.’

They went back down the short hallway and approached the closed door. Bishop glanced at Varcoe, who shrugged. Swallowing, Bishop eased the door open.

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s here, get an ambulance, Anna.’

Hurrying forward, Bishop dropped to the prone man’s side. There was more vomit here, a pool of it on the sofa, another by his head. Bishop found a pulse but it seemed weak. Two huge empty whiskey bottles caught her eye, foil packets that had contained tablets were strewn across the floor. On the coffee table, its surface pitted with scratches and stained with spilt food, a torn piece of card was covered in spidery scribble. Bishop leant forward, trying to make out what it said:

I’m not going to wait for him to come to get me like he did Craig and Steve. I know I won’t be missed and I’m sorry for causing any trouble. I’m sorry for it all.

Bishop looked down at the figure on the floor. ‘Hang on, David.’ she said softly.

Varcoe appeared.

  ‘Ambulance is on its way, Sarge.’ Sharp eyes scanned the room. ‘No prizes for guessing what’s happened here then.’

Bishop got to her feet, knees cracking.

  ‘No prizes.’

Varcoe spied the card covered in handwriting.

  ‘Suicide note?’

  ‘Something like that. Will you go downstairs and wait for the paramedics please? I don’t want to rely on Munroe, we’ll probably all be dead of old age by the time he lets them in, never mind Mr Bowles here. I better let DI Knight know.’

Varcoe nodded, left the room. Bishop took out her phone.

  ‘Hello, sir. We’ve found David Bowles and it’s looking like he’s definitely involved.’