On Laughton Moor (26 page)

68

Bishop was bemused, her stomach churning.

  ‘Your brother? What do you mean, “was”?’

Claire took a step forward.

  ‘He’s dead. Everyone’s dead, more or less. Just me left now.’

She smiled. Bishop shivered.

  ‘But if he’s dead, he can’t have . . . ’

  ‘No, he can’t have.’

  ‘So . . . No. You?’ The realisation hit Bishop like a punch.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Claire was matter of fact.

  ‘You? You did this? Are you telling me you killed two people? Tried to kill another?’

  ‘I would have had a go at Dave Bowles too, given the chance,’ Claire said carelessly. ‘Still, it doesn’t matter now.’

Bishop shook her head, agonised.

  ‘But Claire . . . Claire, I don’t understand. I thought we . . . ‘

  ‘I know, my lovely,’ Claire took another step closer. Bishop shrank away from her on the bed. ‘Don’t be like that, Catherine,’ She spread her arms wide, a pleading expression on her face. ‘I thought you would understand, you more than anyone.’

Bishop’s phone started ringing, making them both jump, the sound cutting through the strange, charged atmosphere in the room that had seemed so warm and welcoming to Bishop. Now, she couldn’t wait to escape.

  ‘Where is it?’ Claire asked softly. She bent forward, hauling a holdall from under the bed. The phone continued to ring.

  ‘In my bag.’ Bishop gulped.

Claire removed an object from the holdall and held it up. A cricket bat, stained with dark brown and chipped in places. She held it up to Bishop.

  ‘I really wouldn’t answer it, Catherine.’

Bishop sneered at her, nothing left to lose.

  ‘You’d do that to me, would you? But I’m facing you, Claire, I can see you. You only usually batter people when they’ve no idea you’re there, don’t you? Can’t run the risk of anyone fighting back.’

Claire snorted as the phone stopped ringing.

  ‘Did my brother have a chance of fighting back when they taunted him? Did he? He was six, Catherine, six years old.’

  ‘And you left him. It was you, wasn’t it, on the moor that day? Not an older boy with his little brother at all, but you, a big sister, supposedly looking after him. Some use you were.’

Claire passed the bat through the air a few times.

  ‘I know that, I’ve lived with it ever since. Don’t think you can make me feel any worse than I already do about it. Now, you’ve heard my confession. It’s time I said goodbye.’

Bishop got slowly to her feet, her eyes never leaving Claire’s. ‘Claire Weyton, I am arresting you . . . ’

69

Knight listened to Bishop’s cheery voicemail in dismay.

  ‘No answer.’

  ‘Right,’ Kendrick ended the call he’d been on to headquarters in Lincoln. ‘Weyton’s staying at that hotel by the river. Let’s go. Keep trying Catherine, we’ll be there in five minutes anyway.’

Knight followed Kendrick out of the door, desperately hoping he was right.

70

Bishop’s voice wobbled and broke. She tried again. ‘Claire Weyton, I am arresting you . . . ’ She couldn’t finish, her throat choked with tears. ‘How could you, Claire?’ she whispered. ‘How could you work with us, come in every day knowing the person we were searching for was you? Letting me get close to you, letting me believe that you might feel something for me? And all the time it was pretence, just so you could keep an eye on our progress?’

Claire gripped the cricket bat tightly.

  ‘It wasn’t like that, Catherine. In the beginning, yes, I admit, I planned to use you as much as possible, but soon I felt . . . ’

  ‘What?’ Bishop spat. ‘You felt what?’

  ‘Something I’ve never felt before.’ Claire replied softly. Her blue eyes were dull, filmed with tears.

There was a silence. In the distance, they could hear sirens.

  ‘I need to go.’ Claire’s head turned towards the sound.

  ‘I can’t let you, you know that, I’m a police officer.’ Bishop said firmly.

  ‘You have to, Catherine,’ Claire pleaded, her voice tormented. ‘I can’t go to prison. Those men deserved it, you know they did.’

Bishop shook her head.

  ‘That’s not your decision, not yours or mine. Why didn’t you come forward before, or when your brother died?’

  ‘My parents wouldn’t talk about it. His death destroyed them. Jamie and I talked about revenge, and then when he died too – well, what did I have left to lose?’

  ‘So what, you got a job with the police and hunted them all down with your cricket bat?’

  ‘Tommy’s cricket bat. And yes, more or less. I didn’t bank on meeting you though.’

Bishop shook her head again, vigorously this time.

  ‘Stop it, Claire. It’s over, you must see that.’

The sirens were nearer now. Claire held the bat tightly.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Catherine, but I will if I have to. I can’t stay. They’re almost here. Let me go.’

  ‘No chance.’ Bishop snarled, and in one movement she leapt to her feet and sprang at Claire.

71

The police van screeched to a halt in the hotel car park, though Knight and Kendrick had leapt out while it was still moving. They raced through the double doors and into the hotel, screaming at the terrified receptionist that they were police officers, wanting to know which room Claire Weyton was staying in. She searched frantically on her computer system, yelling the number out in panic, saying that Miss Weyton had a guest . . .

They thundered down the corridor, any thought of doing this subtly gone as soon as they had realised that Catherine Bishop could be in danger. They reached the right room and Knight pounded on the door. Terrified guests began appearing, wanting to know what the problem was and Kendrick yelled at them to close their doors.

No response from Claire Weyton’s room.

  ‘Open the door, Claire,’ Kendrick bellowed. ‘Right, we’re coming in.’

He took a couple of steps back and gave the door an almighty boot. It flew open and Kendrick staggered inside, Knight on his heels.

The curtains fluttered limply in the freezing gust that was blowing through the open window. In the centre of the floor was a heavy cricket bat, stained, well used. Just beyond that lay Catherine Bishop, face down, blood staining the carpet around her head. Of Claire Weyton, there was no sign. The rain continued to pour as Knight fell to his knees beside his sergeant, and Kendrick sombrely took out his phone.

72

The body of Claire Weyton was recovered from the River Trent a few hours later, just before Catherine Bishop’s first visitors were admitted. She lay in the hospital bed, her face mottled with bruising, her broken nose set. She had been crying, though Kendrick and Knight didn’t mention that.

  ‘Who’d have thought it eh, Sergeant?’ boomed Kendrick, heaving himself into a green plastic chair and leaning forward to pat Bishop’s hand clumsily. Bishop smiled ruefully, and then winced in pain.

  ‘Not me, guv, that’s for sure.’

  ‘We have some news.’ Kendrick tried to arrange his face into an expression that conveyed regret, but couldn’t quite manage it. ‘I’m afraid Claire Weyton is dead. Threw herself straight into the river after she left you. Drowned. Like her brother, I suppose.’

Knight winced, and Bishop looked away for a second.

  ‘She told me I’d have to let her go, I suppose she always planned to kill herself as well. I thought she just meant not arrest her.’

  ‘About that . . . ’ Knight stepped forward. ‘We’ll have to take a formal statement, of course when you’re up to it, but . . . ’

Bishop gave him a watery smile.

  ‘She didn’t do this.’ She raised a hand slowly, gesturing to her injured face.

Kendrick snorted in disbelief.

  ‘What are you on about? Looks just like her handiwork to me, apart from you’ve got a broken nose and a couple of shiners instead of a big hole at the back of your head.’

  ‘She didn’t do it, honestly. She’d already told me that she’d killed Pollard and Kent. I . . . I tried to arrest her, but I couldn’t get the words out. We heard the sirens, and she said I had to let her go. I told her I couldn’t and went for her.’

With a gesture of impatience, Kendrick said, ‘So she battered you with her trusty cricket bat.’  ‘No, I keep telling you, she didn’t. I tripped over something on the floor, my bag I think, and I smashed into the corner of the bathroom wall where it juts out into the room, must have knocked myself out cold.’

Kendrick stared then shook his head, muttering ‘Jesus Christ Almighty, Keystone bloody Kops.’ He got to his feet. ‘I know you’re in pain, Sergeant, and feeling sorry for yourself, so I’ll leave you now. No doubt the Superintendent will be along for a chat.’

  ‘Can’t wait.’ mumbled Bishop.

  ‘Now now, Sergeant Bishop, that’s no way to talk is it?’ Kendrick grinned.

As Kendrick crossed the room, the ward sister strode in purposefully. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re upsetting the other patients.’

Kendrick gave an exaggerated glance around.

  ‘What other patients? This is a private room.’

  ‘The ones out there,’ she gestured to the door, ‘and on every other ward in the hospital. Your voice carries very well.’

Kendrick drew himself up. ‘I should think so, I’m a detective chief inspector.’

  ‘Congratulations, sir, now off you go.’ She herded him to the door.

  ‘Can I at least say goodbye?’ Kendrick was enjoying this. She tutted.

  ‘If you’re quick.’

  ‘Look after yourself, Sergeant. I’ll call in again tomorrow.’ Bishop waved. The sister rolled her eyes.

‘We’ll all look forward to it. Now, please . . .’ she said.

  ‘I’m going.’

The door closed behind them. Knight moved over to the bed, looking down at Bishop. Her cheeks flushed and she turned her face away.

  ‘Don’t.’ said Knight gently. ‘You weren’t to know.’

  ‘I just feel such a bloody idiot,’ Bishop croaked, tears falling again. ‘Some detective I am, falling for the prime suspect.’

  ‘But she wasn’t the prime suspect, we had no idea, none of us, so how could you?’

  ‘Why didn’t her name come up before?’

  ‘Because we presumed the killer was a man? There was no reason it had to be, of course. Questions will be asked, no doubt,’ Bishop grimaced. ‘But honestly, I don’t see what more we could have done. Nothing pointed to her, nothing at all.’

They were silent for a while, until eventually, Knight said, ‘Anna’s waiting outside, wanting to see you. You need to get some rest too, I’ll see you later on. They said you'll be able to come home tomorrow. You could stay with me again, if you like, or go home? It’s up to you of, course, no rush to decide. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Bishop said. ‘For . . . you know. At the hotel.’

Knight nodded, not trusting his voice. He’d held her in his arms until the ambulance arrived, then travelled in it with her to the hospital.

Anna Varcoe was sitting on a chair in the corridor and she jumped to her feet when she saw Knight.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Not a pretty sight, but she’ll survive, that’s the main thing,’ said Knight. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Anna.’

  ‘Okay, boss. Goodnight.’

He began to walk away.

  ‘Will she be in trouble?’ Varcoe asked, softly.

Knight turned back, meeting her eyes for once.

  ‘I honestly don’t know. Let’s hope not.’

She nodded,  pushing the door open, taking a deep breath and walking inside.

  ‘Hello, Anna. Here I am, detective of the year.’ Bishop said, her voice hoarse.

  ‘Rubbish. How were you to know? Stop that, Sarge, we all worked with her and none of us twigged.’

  ‘Yes, but you didn’t all sleep with her did you?’

There wasn’t much Varcoe could say to that, so she stayed quiet. Bishop muttered, ‘Sorry.’

Anna shook her head. ‘Nothing to apologise for. Anyway,’ she gestured to Bishop’s face with its mess of blooming bruises, ‘that colour’s good on you.’

Bishop started to laugh, and Varcoe touched her hand.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Sarge,’ she said. ‘Honest.’