Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) (3 page)

wouldn’t expect anything anyway – he knew where he was going. He could easily have changed his

clothes and gone back to the centre. We’re checking the alleys in case any clothing has been

abandoned but I’ve just got a load of people complaining about hunting through rubbish. Dispatch told

me one of our lot found a pile of used condoms under a flower pot. Knowing the area, it could’ve

been some sort of modern art thing but then it could just be a bunch of daisy-chaining teenagers. Either way, they’re pissed off.’

‘Is there actually any good news?’ Cole asked.

‘I wouldn’t call it that. We’ve been talking to the news channels to see if they captured our hoody

on camera without making it too obvious that we’ve got nothing ourselves. We’ve given them the old

“maintaining relations” line and slipped in that we could get a warrant – but if they had any footage of the guy, they’d be running it themselves. There’s nothing so far and we’re not expecting anything.’

Jessica saw the little colour that was left in Cole’s face drain away as he rubbed the skin above his

left eye until it began to flake. She guessed he was picturing the conversation he was going to have

with the superintendent: no suspect, hardly any camera footage, no witnesses, one councillor in

hospital – all in a daytime attack in the city centre as the Home Secretary watched on.

It wasn’t one of Greater Manchester Police’s finer moments.

‘What exactly are the news channels saying?’

Jessica peered over his shoulder towards the board, deliberately avoiding eye contact. ‘The usual

– some ex-Met police guy was on, saying that security should have been tighter and that he didn’t

believe something like that would happen in Westminster.’

‘They really think we’re all monkeys up here, don’t they?’

‘Well we do get paid peanuts . . .’

Another hint of a worry line creased onto Cole’s forehead, a tram map of interconnecting concerns.

Definitely not the time for jokes.

Jessica continued quickly before he could reply. ‘They’re speculating it was a failed attack on the

Home Secretary but we’ve got nothing to confirm that. In fact, the few vague witness statements we

do have say our hoody didn’t go anywhere near the stage. Callaghan was standing in the front row

with a few other councillors and the attacker dashed across the front of them before disappearing

across the plaza.’

‘So was Callaghan the target?’

‘Perhaps. He was on the Internet last night publicising the appearance, so if someone did have it in

for him, they’d know where he’d be.’

The door at the back of the room banged open as a slightly dishevelled-looking PC stumbled

through, arms wrapped around himself, hair limp and flat. ‘It’s bloody freezing out there,’ he said

through chattering teeth. When he realised he wasn’t talking to a sympathetic audience, he pulled out a

cardboard folder from inside his jacket. ‘I’ve been told to bring a few things up for you, Ma’am—’

‘It’s just Jess.’

No matter how high she was promoted, Jessica didn’t think she could ever get used to being called

anything other than her name. At a push, she could live with ‘Inspector’ and would even settle for ‘the

gobby one’ if it meant not being called ‘Ma’am’ or ‘Guv’. Anything official made her feel even older

than she was.

‘Right, er,
Jess
. . . we’ve managed to get a shot of the hoody from one of the hotel cameras facing the plaza. It was taken as he was crossing from the tram.’

Jessica reached out to take the folder. ‘Have you got a face?’

‘Not exactly.’

He wasn’t wrong. If she squinted, Jessica could just about make out the shape of the hooded

figure’s head. The face was partly in shadow but even the lighter bits were a speckled blur. ‘What am

I looking at? This is worse than what we’ve already got.’

‘Look at his hand.’ Because of the fuzziness, Jessica couldn’t say for certain that it was definitely a

hand but whatever it was had hold of a white blob. ‘Our guys say it’s probably some sort of flask, or

possibly a coloured glass beaker.’

‘Are you sure it’s not a coffee cup?’ Jessica asked, looking up.

The PC checked a Post-it note he was carrying. ‘Er, I don’t think so. Wouldn’t the acid have gone

through that?’

‘No idea but if it was someone carrying around some skinny latte thing, then we could have brought

in any of those TV people hanging around.’

‘Right . . .’

Definitely not the time for jokes.

‘Anything else?’

The PC checked a second Post-it note and began to read. ‘The team searching the Northern Quarter

alleys said to tell you that . . . oh . . . this is more a stream of abuse than an actual message. Fat Pat’s on the desk today – I’m not sure why he kept this.’

Jessica snatched it away, read it quickly and then screwed it into a ball, before launching it at – and

missing – the bin. ‘Sodding thing.’

‘There’s one more. Apparently Luke Callaghan’s wife called 999 last night to say he was trying to

attack her.’

3

Jessica edged around a rusting skip filled with scrap metal and hopped over a patch of mud onto a

crumbling path. Landing unsteadily, she narrowly avoided falling over what looked like some sort of

ancient boiler, made sure no one had been watching, and headed for the front door. The crimson paint

and cracked glass of the opening led into a concrete hallway that gave off the unmistakeable smell of

eau de piss.

Considering her husband was a councillor and ran his own business, the area of Hulme in which

Debbie Callaghan lived was quite the comedown.

Jessica went up the steps, being careful not to touch anything, as she made her way to the third

floor. The wall in front was decorated with the spray-painted slogan ‘fuk da policje’ – which was

either part-English, part-gibberish, part-Polish, or someone local went to the same school as PC Pen-

Thief. The other option was that it was a postmodern comment on the integration of Eastern

Europeans into British society – but given the swastika drawn above, Jessica doubted it.

A middle-aged woman with greying brown hair pulled back into a ponytail invited Jessica into the

poky phone box masquerading as a flat and apologised for the mess. She was wearing an unflattering

jumper and a pair of jeans that were too long and hanging over her socks. As she entered the living

room-cum-kitchen-cum-bedroom, Jessica had to admit that, compared to the outside, the flat’s interior

wasn’t too bad. Bright prints took the edge off the flaking grey walls and Debbie’s cushions, throws

and ornaments at least made the place look hospitable. As for the mess, if she thought this was untidy,

Jessica thought Debbie should come to her house.

Debbie invited Jessica to sit on the blanket-covered sofa as she fussed around the room, moving

her ornaments, wiping away specks of dust and moving onto the next. ‘Sorry about this, I’ve not been

in long and it’s . . . well, it’s a complete dump around here. Your people last night said someone

would be round.’

With nothing in their official records, Jessica had used the details given to the 999 operator the

previous evening to find the address.

‘This isn’t quite about your reasons for calling 999 last night,’ Jessica replied, before explaining

that Debbie’s husband had been attacked that morning. If she knew anything about it, the woman had a

good poker face, even if she didn’t seem too concerned.

Debbie continued to move around the room, glancing over her shoulder towards Jessica as she

replied. ‘I suppose I’m not listed as Luke’s next-of-kin any longer. It’s not a surprise no one called. I moved out around three months ago but we’ve not had much of a relationship for years.’

‘What happened last night?’

‘I told them I didn’t want to make a statement.’

‘It didn’t sound like that when you called 999 – you said your husband was attacking you.’

Debbie paused by a small heater and crouched, using a cloth to wipe between the grooves. She

didn’t look up. ‘I made a mistake. It doesn’t matter now, does it?’

‘When you phoned, the operator heard a male voice shouting abuse in the background.’

‘It was someone down the hallway – you can see what it’s like around here.’

‘You do realise that wasting police time is an offence and that you could be jailed for making a

hoax call?’

Debbie sighed, sitting on the floor and turning around to face Jessica. ‘Fine, he was here – but I

still don’t want to make a statement.’

‘Perhaps we can just have a brew then?’

Debbie didn’t reply, so Jessica stood and crossed to the kitchen area, filling the kettle and clicking

it on before starting to hunt through the cupboards.

‘Tea bags are under the sink with the sugar, mugs are next to the cooker, milk’s in the fridge. Mine’s

a Julie.’

‘A what?’

‘A Julie – as in Andrews. A white nun: milk, no sugar. Sorry, my dad was in the navy.’ Jessica leant

against the cooker and waited for Debbie to meet her gaze. ‘It was a last resort to call you,’ Debbie

said. ‘Luke’s been round here every few days since we split up. At first he was begging me to go back

to him but when I kept saying I didn’t want to, he’d turn up drunk and shouting. Yesterday was the

worst.’

‘Why did you leave him?’

Debbie picked herself up off the floor and moved to the sofa. ‘We’ve been married since we were

seventeen. When I left, I’d just turned thirty-five and it took me most of those years to realise that it’s not normal to be in a relationship where the other person wants to know where you are all the time.’

The kettle started to steam and Jessica filled the two mugs before crossing to the sofa and sitting

next to the woman, offering her the drink.

Debbie took a sip before continuing. ‘After we left college, I gradually lost all of my friends

because he didn’t like it if I went out by myself. He’d stay up and then want to know exactly where

I’d been and who I’d spoken to. Then he’d keep going on about men that were out, wanting to know if

I’d talked to anyone or if they’d tried to chat me up. If I said I’d only been with my mates, then he’d

go on about how I must have something to hide but if I said someone tried to buy me a drink, or held a

door open for me, he’d hit the roof. He’d accuse me of wanting to sleep with them. Eventually, I

stopped going out.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Twenty-three? Twenty-four? It was the same everywhere. If I went to the supermarket, he’d want

to know if I’d been served by a man or a woman. When I got home from work, he’d want to know

what I’d done all day. I worked in an office and Luke was obsessed with my boss because he was a

bloke. He kept saying I wanted to sleep with him to get a promotion. Eventually I ended up quitting.

As my career fell apart, his took off with his business and then the politics thing.’

Jessica couldn’t stop herself. ‘He sounds like a right charmer.’

Debbie had another sip of her tea. ‘Quite. When he got elected, he liked having me there just for the

image of having an adoring wife behind him. But then he’d have meetings and other business, so I’d

be alone at the house a lot. Have you been there?’

‘Not yet.’

‘We’ve got this beautiful place out Withington. We bought it when Luke’s business started to do

well. Because I was at home all the time, I had nothing to do except tidy the place up. By the end, I

was staying with him more because I couldn’t face leaving the house.’

‘What made you change your mind?’

Debbie finished her tea and put the mug on the floor. As she leant back, she rolled her sleeve up,

waiting for Jessica to digest the criss-crossing red scars on her bicep.

‘Did you—?’

‘I didn’t tell anyone, least of all your lot. He came home drunk one night. There’d been a problem

with the washing machine and an engineer had been round. He wanted to know what he looked like

and how old he was, then if I’d made him tea. I said that the guy just came, fixed it, and left but Luke wasn’t having it. He pinned me up against the wall, screaming in my face, calling me a bitch and a

slag. He said he’d slash my throat in my sleep and bury my body where no one would find it.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us? We have people—’

Debbie’s demeanour changed instantly, shuffling away from Jessica and standing quickly, knocking

over the empty mug with her foot. ‘You must think I’m stupid. Luke might have had his problems but

I’d rather trust him than your lot.’

‘Mrs Calla—’

Debbie cut her off, shouting: ‘No, you listen. I told you I didn’t want to make a statement and I

don’t. If you’ve just come here to tell me about what happened to Luke then you’ve done that, so you

can leave.’

Jessica didn’t stand, rolling up the sleeves of her jacket and blouse until the thick red marks around

her own wrists were visible. She sat with her palms facing up, feeling Debbie’s eyes on them, before

pulling the material back down. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she said.

Debbie picked up the mug and sat back on the sofa, wrapping her fingers through the handle and

closing her eyes. ‘Sorry . . .’

‘You don’t have to apologise.’

Debbie shook her head, remaining silent for a few moments, gaze fixed on Jessica before she

started to speak slowly. ‘I said my dad was in the navy but that was when I was a kid – he died in

prison when I was a teenager. He was no angel but he always said one of you lot fitted him up for

some post-office job. Said he wasn’t even in the city at the time. I don’t know the truth – but he was