Beneath the Bleeding (23 page)

‘You could give me a leg-up on to the toilet roof. It’s lower than the wall,’ Sam murmured. ‘At least I can keep an eye out, make sure he stays put.’

‘Bloody Keystone Cops,’ Carol muttered.

‘Yes, I’ve just caught two people trying to break into my house. I’ve got them trapped in my back yard…Butler. Rhys Butler.’ He gave them the address. ‘Like I said, they can’t get out, I’ve got them trapped…No, I won’t do anything silly, just wait till you get here.’ A pause then the voice shouted, ‘See? The police are on their way so don’t try anything stupid.’

‘We are never going to live this down,’ Carol sighed.

‘Help me to get up on the roof,’ Sam urged.

‘You just want to get a new suit on the firm,’ Carol said, following him round to the end of the toilet furthest from the gate. Nevertheless, she braced herself and made a cradle of her hands. She bent so Sam could get his foot anchored. ‘One, two, three,’ she breathed, straightening as he pushed himself off the ground.

Sam hit the roof at chest height, using the strength of his shoulders and upper arms to lever himself higher and on to the roof as Carol shouted, ‘You’re bang out of order, mate, you’re going to be so sorry,’ to cover the scrabbling of his body against the tiles.

‘You shut up,’ Butler shouted back. ‘The cops will be here soon and then you’ll be sorry you messed with me.’

It was, Carol thought, the bantam cock bravado of the small man with something to prove. Even in that short glimpse, she’d seen how slight Rhys Butler was. Taking on Robbie Bishop in a fist fight had been madness. All the more reason to take him on at arm’s length. ‘We’ll see who’s sorry,’ Carol shouted. ‘Little big man.’

She leaned against the toilet, pissed off and cold. She wasn’t given to standing on her dignity, but an episode like this would rocket round her own force and likely end up on somebody’s blog. Carol Jordan, captured by the villain she’d gone out to arrest.

It didn’t take long for the local bobbies to show up. Two of them, by the sounds of it. Butler, sounding over-excited as a birthday child, told them what he believed had happened. ‘I came home and there they were, breaking into my back room. They already broke the gate down, look, you can see where it’s all splintered, I had to chain my bike to the handle.’

Butler kept repeating himself. One of the cops evidently decided he’d had enough. ‘This is the police,’ he shouted. ‘We’re going to open the door now. I advise you to remain calm and stay where you are.’

Sam stuck his head over the edge of the roof. ‘Up or down, ma’am?’

‘Stay where you are,’ she grunted. ‘This is going to be very embarrassing.’ She took out her warrant card and held it in front of her. Various metallic noises came from the other side of the wall, then the door inched open. A very large man filled most of the
doorway, his torch held at shoulder height and blinding her.

‘What’s going on here, then?’ he asked.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Jordan from Bradfield Police,’ she said. ‘And that-she gestured up to the roof; the torch beam followed her arm, ’-is Detective Constable Evans. And he-’ she pointed over the PC’s shoulder to where Butler was frowning next to the other uniformed officer, ‘-is Rhys Butler, whom I am about to invite to return to Bradfield with me to answer questions relating to the murder of Robbie Bishop.’

Butler’s mouth fell open and he took a step backwards. ‘You’re kidding,’ he said. Then, seeing the look on her face, he said, ‘You’re not, are you?’ And, predictably, he took to his heels.

He’d taken two steps when Sam landed on top of him, knocking the breath out of his lungs and two teeth out of his mouth.

It was going to be a very long, very farcical evening, Carol thought wearily.

Paula ran her thumb and index finger down the glass, making a path in the condensation. ‘So you see, I don’t know what to do for the best,’ she said. ‘On the one hand, I owe Tony for the help he gave me after…after I got hurt. On the other hand, I don’t want to go behind the chief’s back.’

Chris had a pile of photographs they’d printed from the emails Stacey had solicited. All of the subjects had been at school with Robbie and none of them had alibis other than partners or spouses for the previous Thursday. She sorted through them again, rearranging
them according to some set of criteria known only to her. ‘You could always run it past her,’ she said.

‘According to Tony, she’s already blown it out of the water.’ Paula reached for the photos and looked through them critically. Most of them had printed up pretty well. They looked like people, as opposed to police mug shots.

Chris shrugged. ‘What you do on your own time is your own business. So long as you don’t do anything to jeopardize an existing investigation.’

‘But should I be doing it at all?’ As the evening had worn on, Paula had grown less convinced of the appropriateness of what Tony was asking.

Chris put her hands flat on the small bar table, thumbs underneath, as if she was going to tip it over in one swift movement. She looked down at her neatly manicured fingernails. ‘Once upon a time, there was somebody I thought I owed a favour to. Kind of like you with Tony, but for different reasons. She asked me for something. Just a phone number, that was all. A number I could get easily and she couldn’t, not without questions being asked. Anyway, I did the needful. And that was the first step on a journey that got her killed.’ Chris sniffed hard, then looked Paula straight in the eye. ‘I do not blame myself for what happened. If I hadn’t done her that favour, she would have found another way of getting what she wanted. What’s important to me is that when she called on me for help, I was there. When I think of her now, I know I didn’t let her down.’ Chris let go of the table and gave Paula a rueful smile. ‘It’s up to you. You know what it is to live with consequences. You have to think about
where you might be with this six months, a year down the road.’

Paula was touched. Chris didn’t often share personal stuff, not even with her. She knew everybody else thought there was a special bond between the two of them because they were both lesbians, but they were wrong. Chris treated Paula exactly as she treated everyone else. No special favours. No secret intimacy. Just a sergeant and a constable who respected each other professionally and liked what they knew of each other. Paula was comfortable with that. She had friends enough outside work and the one time she had succumbed to a close friendship at work it had ended up causing her more grief than she cared to think about. But tonight’s revelation was a reminder that she still had a lot to learn about her sergeant. She nodded. ‘Point taken. The only question is when I’m going to be able to follow it up. It’s not like this is going to ease up any time soon.’

Chris glanced at her watch. ‘You could be in Sheffield by nine if you left now. That would give you time to talk to people in the pub. And if you check into a cheap motel, you could talk to the housekeeper first thing.’

Paula looked surprised. ‘But I’m supposed to…’

‘Kevin and I can manage Amatis. It’s probably a waste of time anyway. I’ll cover for you in the morning. If Carol gets lucky in Newcastle, she won’t even notice you’re not around.’

‘If she’s doing interviews, she might. She likes to pull me in on those if they get sticky.’

‘Good point.’ Chris smiled. ‘I’ll buy you a couple of hours. I can tell her you were exhausted and I told
you to take your time coming in. But you need to do your bit. You need to make sure you catch up with the housekeeper bright and early. You think they do breakfast meetings in Rotherham?’

Paula grinned. ‘She’s Polish. They work all the hours God sends. She’ll totally get an early meeting.’

Chris shoved the pile of photos towards her. ‘You better take these. If it’s the same killer, he might be among this lot.’

‘What about you and Kevin?’

‘I’ll go back and print out another set. It won’t take long, not now Stacey’s got the file set up. If I call her now, she’ll have them done by the time I finish my drink and get back.’ She reached for her glass. ‘And you need to get your arse in gear, Constable.’

Paula didn’t need telling a second time. She scooped up the pictures and headed for the door, a bounce in her step. She didn’t want to think about how awkward it would be to prove Carol Jordan wrong. What she was focused on was proving Tony Hill right.

Paula had never done the lottery. A mug’s game, she’d thought. But as she walked into the Blacksmith’s Arms on the outskirts of Dore, she wondered if maybe she’d been wrong. Danny Wade’s house was only quarter of a mile away from the pub, and she’d swung past it on her way there. What she’d been able to see through the gates had made her whistle. She could think of lots of ways to fill a mansion like that without once having to resort to 00 gauge. She made a mental note to check out who was going to inherit. It never hurt to eliminate the obvious. Or not, as it often turned out.

The pub matched its environment. Paula reckoned
it was a lot more modern than it looked. The ceilings were too high, for a start. She guessed the beams might be polystyrene, but it didn’t matter. They looked authentic. The bar was decked out with wood panelling and chintz, tables and chairs grouped so that it imitated a drawing room rather than a saloon bar. At one end of the room, old church pews flanked an inglenook fireplace where logs blazed on substantial iron fire dogs.

Paula guessed they had a lively lunchtime and weekend trade. But at quarter past nine on a Friday evening, it was much quieter than a city-centre bar would be. Half a dozen tables were occupied by couples and foursomes. They all looked like accountants and building society managers to her. Smartly dressed, nicely turned out, scarily interchangeable. Stepford couples. In her leather jacket, black jeans and solitude, she stuck out like a hoodie at a Tory fête. As she walked to the bar, she was aware of conversations pausing and heads turning. A middle-class version of
Straw Dogs.

There were a couple of blokes sitting on high stools at the bar. Pringle sweaters and dark slacks. They could have wandered straight off the nearby golf course. As she drew nearer, she realized they were probably a couple of years younger than her. Barely in their mid-twenties, she guessed. She thought her dad probably had more sense of adventure. Probably right up Danny Wade’s street.

Paula smiled at the barman, who looked as if he’d be more at home in a Spanish karaoke bar than here. ‘What can I get you?’ he said in an accent that matched her preconception.

God, how weary she got of soft drinks when she was working. ‘Orange juice and lemonade, please, she said. As he prepared her drink, Paula pulled out the bundle of photos. There was no point beating about the bush in here. Nobody was going to become her friend. Not the Spanish barman, not the Nick Faldo clones, not the cosy couples. She had her ID ready when the drink was placed in front of her, precisely centred on the beermat. ‘Thanks. I’m a police officer.’

The barman looked bored. ‘It’s on the house,’ he said.

‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll pay for it.’

‘Up to you.’ He took the money and brought her change back. The Pringle twins were openly staring at her.

‘I’m investigating the death of Danny Wade. He lived up the road?’

‘He the one who got poisoned?’ The barman’s interest was barely awakened.

‘That’s what happens when you use cheap foreign labour,’ the Pringle nearest her said. He was either incredibly stupid, incredibly insensitive or incredibly offensive. Paula couldn’t be sure which. She’d have to wait for his next utterance to be sure.

‘Mr Wade was poisoned, yes,’ she said coolly.

‘I thought that was all sorted out,’ the other Pringle said. The housekeeper made a tragic mistake, isn’t that what happened?’

‘We just need to clear up one or two details,’ Paula said.

‘Bloody hell, are you saying she did it on purpose?’ Pringle One said, turning round properly and giving her an avid look.

‘Did you know Mr Wade, sir?’ she said.

‘Knew him to speak to.’ He turned to his friend. ‘We knew him to say hello, didn’t we, Geoff?’

Geoff nodded. ‘Just to chat at the bar, you know. He had a lovely pair of Lakeland Terriers, very well-behaved dogs. In the summer, he’d bring them down with him and sit out in the beer garden. What happened to the dogs? Carlos, do you know what happened to the dogs?’ He looked at the barman expectantly.

‘I have no idea.’ Carlos carried on polishing glasses.

‘Was he always on his own?’ Paula asked. ‘Or did he come in with friends.’

Pringle One snorted. ‘Friends? Do me a favour.’

‘I was told that he ran into an old school friend in here recently. You don’t remember that?’

‘I remember,’ said Carlos. ‘You two know the guy. He came in a few times on his own, then one night Danny came in and he recognized him, this other guy. They had a couple of drinks together over by the fire.’ He pointed across the room. ‘Vodka and Coke, that’s what he drank.’

‘Do you remember anything else about him?’ Paula asked, deliberately casual. Never make them think it’s important; then they want to please you, so their imagination fills in the blanks.

The Pringles shook their heads. ‘He always had a book with him,’ Carlos said. ‘A big book, not like usual.’ With his hands, he described something about eight inches by ten. ‘With pictures. Flowers, gardens I think.’

‘Not enough to do with your time, that’s your trouble,’ Pringle One pronounced.

Paula spread the pictures across the bar. ‘Do you see him here?’

All three crowded round. Geoff shook his head dubiously. ‘Could be any one of these,’ he said, pointing to three dark-haired, blue-eyed men with thin faces.

The barman frowned, picking up a couple of the pictures to study them more closely. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Is not them. Is this one.’ He put his index finger on a fourth shot and pushed it towards Paula. This image had dark hair and blue eyes. His face was long, like the other three, but much broader across the eyes, narrowing to a blunt chin. ‘His hair is shorter now, combed to the side. But it’s him.’

Geoff stared at the chosen photo. ‘I wouldn’t have picked that one, but now I look at it…you could be right.’