Double Dealing (Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Series Book Two) (16 page)

Kendrick drummed his thick fingers on the desk. ‘We’re getting nowhere. We’ve no witnesses, no leads except the person who told Keeley about the drug mule opportunity being at Worthy and Son. They might have left by now anyway. Didn’t Simmo know anything else about them?’

  ‘He said not, and I believe him.’

Kendrick pursed his lips. ‘Let’s hope we can find out ourselves tomorrow then. If not, we’re stuffed. Helen Bridges has put a short article about the body having been found on the newspaper’s website. It said there’d be more in tomorrow’s paper.’

  ‘Is it worth telling her we might have an ID?’ Catherine asked. Kendrick thought about it for a moment. ‘Let’s leave it for now. We’ll tell her when we’ve got confirmation, let her think she’s getting a scoop.’ Kendrick set his cup on his desk and leant back in his chair, closing his eyes. Catherine remembered Helen’s parting words about Claire and thought about sharing what she’d said with Knight and Kendrick. Knight glanced at her, but before she could speak, Kendrick opened his eyes and said, ‘Right, come on, let’s go. See you bright and early.’

31

The TV was blaring again, some cookery show with several contestants making ever more complicated recipes while a couple of chefs criticised their efforts. Mark thumped his mug of weak, sickly tea down on the coffee table just hard enough to make Celia glance at him, then turn back to the programme. Mark gritted his teeth. Geoff had offered to nip out and fetch fish and chips and he wished he’d gone with him. Even though the chippy was only a ten minute walk, it would be time away from Celia. Maybe he and Geoff could have had a pint too, killed another quarter of an hour or so.

  He ran a hand over his mouth and chin, his stubble rasping against his palm. Celia didn’t approve of stubble, which could be why Geoff had a beard, Mark thought; a tiny act of rebellion. Not really defying his wife and her unapologetic, unchanging opinions, but then not falling perfectly into line either. He glanced at Celia again, her profile softened by the glow of the television set, and wondered. Was she thinking about Lauren? Was the constant stream of soap operas, quiz shows and cookery programmes an attempt to distract herself from facing up to the fact that her daughter had disappeared? Mark crossed his legs, feeling restless. It had to be. It couldn’t be because she enjoyed watching them, surely.

  He picked up his phone from the arm of his chair and opened the photos. Lauren smiled back at him, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, a glass of wine in one hand and a half-eaten burger in the other. A barbeque, held only a few months ago, but it felt like longer, much longer. He scrolled again. Lauren in bed on a Sunday morning, the duvet pulled right up to her chin as always, smiling up at him as he brought her a cup of tea. His breath caught in his throat and he felt tears welling. He studied the photograph again; the easy, loving smile, the spread of her hair across the pillow. Her eyes, and the way she was looking at him as he raised the phone, wanting to capture the image of her, hold the moment for as long as possible. It had only been a few weeks ago, before the accusations and the argument. Angry again now, he stuffed the phone into his pocket. They had plans for the rest of their lives together. When he’d found a job, they wanted to have a baby, start the family they’d always talked about. Lauren couldn’t wait. What would happen now?

  The police had asked about drugs. What did that mean? They’d also found a body, a woman who must look like Lauren. Mark shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself. The central heating was on, had been all day thanks to Celia. She didn’t have to worry about paying the bill, of course. It was still cold. Lauren didn’t take drugs anyway. Mark thought about a few of his mates, hoping the police wouldn’t knock on their doors. Lauren liked a glass of wine or a lager or two, but drugs had never been her thing.

  Mark got to his feet and picked up the tea that he’d ignored, intending to chuck it down the sink and stick the kettle on again. He didn’t feel like eating, but when Geoff had suggested fish and chips he hadn’t liked to say no. It gave Geoff a chance to escape the house too. Mark felt sorry for his father-in-law. He was obviously worried about Lauren, but at least at home he would have been able to keep himself busy: pottering around, reading the military history books he loved, wandering down to the shop to buy a paper. Here, there was the TV and Geoff’s daily walks and that was about it. Mark and Lauren did read of course, but Geoff liked factual books and they didn’t have any.

  As Mark reached the kitchen, he heard the front door open. Geoff called, ‘Only me.’ Mark started to take plates out of the cupboards. He and Lauren ate straight from the cardboard boxes that the chippy had recently started using, but he couldn’t see Celia doing that somehow. Not, he thought, opening the drawer where they kept the cutlery, that they had had fish and chips for a while, not since he’d lost his job. Takeaways were a luxury they’d had to forgo as well as nights out, new clothes and their gym memberships. Mark had been for a few runs, but without people to chat to and the promise of a swim and maybe a sauna afterwards, it wasn’t the same. 

  Geoff came in and plonked a plastic bag on the table, decorated with a grinning blue fish and a pile of garish yellow chips. Mark held onto the worktop for a moment as bile rose in his throat, and the room span. Geoff glanced at him, concerned.

  ‘All right?’

Mark nodded, not knowing whether he was or not. He lifted his eyes to meet his father-in-law’s gaze.

  ‘Where is she, Geoff? She must know we’re all worried sick.’

Geoff began to unwrap the food, sharing the chips onto three plates.

  ‘I don’t know. It worries me that she hasn’t been in touch with anyone, not you, her mum, her friends . . . It’s just not Lauren.’ His face was drawn, his hands trembling as he cut a battered fish in half. ‘I just got one between Celia and me, she didn’t want a lot.’ Geoff paused for a second, studying the white flakes that were spilling from the batter. ‘Oh Christ, I forget to get her cod. Don’t mention it, for God’s sake.’

Mark managed a smile. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ Geoff glanced at him, then hesitated. ‘What?’ Mark asked.

  ‘It’s just . . . I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but . . .’ Geoff paused again, embarrassed.

  ‘Do I think Lauren’s left me?’ Mark shoved a chip into his mouth. The other man raised his hands.

  ‘I’m sorry, I . . .’

  ‘It’s fine, Geoff. It what everyone thinks no doubt, including the police. It’s the only thing that makes sense, that and the fact that I’m a gormless bastard who hasn’t realised yet that his wife’s gone off with someone else.’ His voice was flat, calm. He felt nothing, nothing at all.

Geoff shook vinegar onto his food, his eyes on Mark’s, assessing his mood. ‘Do you think she has?’

Mark sighed and began cutting up his fish. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Like I told the police, we’re happy. She’s happy, as far as I knew. If she wasn’t, wouldn’t she have said so?’

Geoff gave a tiny laugh. ‘Knowing Lauren, yes.’

  ‘Exactly. She doesn’t hold back.’

There was a pause as both men chewed. The door clattered open.

  ‘Did no one think to call me?’ Celia complained, pulling out a chair and settling into it. Geoff was immediately contrite.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, we were just talking about Lauren.’

Celia speared a piece of fish and brought it up to her mouth. ‘I hope she’s happy, wherever she is. Causing all this upset.’

Mark felt his jaw tighten but he kept eating, eyes on his plate. He wasn’t going to bite, no matter what Celia came out with. She popped the fish into her mouth, chewed for a second and then thinned her lips. ‘Geoff, this is haddock.’

Mark closed his mind to Celia’s voice, raised in complaint as usual and Geoff’s low, conciliatory tones. How much longer could he stand this?

32

Lauren opened her eyes. There was a noise in the hallway. Footsteps. And now a faint glow of yellow light creeping under the door. A torch?

  This was her chance.

  She sat up and swung her legs around to the side of the camp bed. After slipping her feet into her trainers, she crept over to the bottles of water, picked one up and weighed it in her hands. Two litres. It was only a plastic bottle but it was pretty heavy. She’d hardly drunk any of it.

  There were voices outside the door now, male voices. They were both here. Her heart sank a little but she gripped the bottle and stood at the door, holding her breath. It was worth a try. She’d have the advantage of surprise at least.

  A rattle as the door handle turned. Lauren raised herself onto the balls of her feet. When the door opened fully and the first man stepped inside, she swung the bottle with all her strength into the back of his head. He let out a cry and fell to the floor, clattering onto the filthy carpet as the torch flung across the room. Lauren staggered, then steadied herself just as the second man burst in. She swung the bottle again but he was ready for her. He lurched out of the way and the bottle flew past his face. The momentum sent Lauren sprawling and as she fell he snatched hold of her, holding both arms behind her back and binding them together at the wrist. Cold metal dug into her flesh and Lauren roared in frustration. He gave her a shove.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Lauren. Crazy bitch, what were you thinking?’

She glared at him. ‘I was thinking it might be nice to get out of this shithole.’

He gave a nasty smile. ‘Oh, you’re going. Come on, time’s up.’

The other man, finally back on his feet, rubbed his stomach, then lifted his hand to explore the back of his head.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he groaned.

His companion grinned. ‘Not having much luck, are you, mate?’ Lauren made a sudden dash for the open door but he grabbed hold of her again. ‘Do you want us to just kill you here? You need to come with us.’

  ‘Why should I?’ Lauren spat.

He shrugged. ‘We’re going for a nice drive.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, he pulled out a knife and snapped open a wicked-looking blade. Lauren eyed it, fear closing her throat as he held it up, glinting in the torchlight. She’d never have believed it of him.

  ‘You already know what this can do,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Now move.’

  When she turned into her street, she was greeted by the bright headlights and loud engine noise of a gritter sweeping past on the other side of the street, sending salt skittering over the tarmac in front of her. A hot bath and straight into bed with a book. She couldn’t wait.

  For a change there was a parking space outside her flat, and Anna Varcoe shuffled her car into it, then locked up and turned towards the tall, Georgian building where she lived. Her flat was on the top floor and Mr Kemp downstairs was a perfect neighbour – quiet, friendly and happy to take in any deliveries. That, Anna reflected as she hurried up the path, blowing on her hands, was an important consideration when you ordered most of what you bought online and worked long hours most of the time. Having a police officer live above also made Mr Kemp, an elderly widower whose main aim in life now was to marry Anna off to his grandson, feel safe.

  After collecting some boring-looking post from the hall table, Anna ran up the stairs, unlocked her front door and filled the kettle. The tall ceilings in the flat almost made up for the small rooms. Almost. It was much better now she had painted all the rooms white; the previous occupant had had a preference for dark, rich colours like plum and burgundy, but they had made the whole place feel stuffy and constricting, the way you’d imagine a funeral parlour to be decorated. Anna didn’t know, never having been in one. Even the mortuary was more cheery than her flat had been. Only lack of funds and patience with living with her parents for another minute had made her sign the lease on the place.

  With her tea made, she slipped off her shoes and went through into the bathroom, poured some of her favourite bubble bath into the tub and turned on the hot tap. With a book, her tea and a half-hour soak, she’d soon wind down and, more to the point, warm up. Then she could get into bed and relax. It wasn’t that late, not compared to some nights, but she was tired and it had been a frustrating day. Thomas had sent her a couple of texts but hadn’t pushed to see her, and she was glad, though a little disappointed too if she admitted it. She smiled as she remembered his grin when they’d been eating their curry and she’d teased him, telling him he was surrounded by police officers and that he’d better watch his step. And last night, the way he’d made her laugh with stories from his teaching jobs, his dancing eyes that were darker than his sister’s. That might be weird, thinking of Catherine Bishop every time Thomas leant towards her. His hand, warm in hers as they walked back to her flat and his lips, gentle and teasing when he kissed her goodnight. She smiled to herself, aware that she was thinking like a soppy teenager. She didn’t care. It had been a long time since she’d felt anything even approaching this, and she was determined to enjoy it for as long as it lasted.

  Anna turned off the tap, set her drink on the side of the bath and took off her jacket. As her fingers found the top button of her shirt, the doorbell downstairs rang. She swore, checking her watch. She waited, but the bell rang again and she slipped her jacket back on with a sigh. She’d have to go down. Mr Kemp would be in bed already, keeping warm, and it wasn’t fair to disturb him.

  She slipped on the security chain, a precaution she had insisted on the landlord installing when she moved in, for both her and Mr Kemp’s peace of mind. She worried about him as if he were a member of her own family. When she opened the door, a blast of cold air forced its way through the gap, making her shiver. On the step, his features masked by the gloom, stood Rob Hunter.