DS Jessica Daniel series: Locked In/Vigilante/The Woman in Black - Books 1-3 (21 page)

Jessica answered each question as clearly as she could, directing her answers towards the jury. The prosecutor’s examination was as extensive as it could be. He asked her how long she had
known Harry, what her relationship had been with him when she joined CID and other standard questions to establish that she knew him pretty well. Considering Harry kept to himself, she figured she
knew as much as anyone. She confirmed she had never seen him act unprofessionally in the course of duty, nor seen him be aggressive.

After the prosecutor had finished speaking, Peter Hunt stood up for the cross-examination. He looked straight at her, the first time she had noticed him do so. If he was annoyed about what had
happened a few days previously he didn’t show it, speaking with an even tone and steady pace.

He confirmed a few of the details she had already spoken about and made a special point to let her re-emphasise that she had become the person Harry was closest to on the force. The lawyer then
asked one of the questions she had been worrying about. ‘If you know the victim so well, how many times have you spoken to Mr Thomas in the last six months?’

It sounded odd hearing Harry called ‘mister’. He was no longer a detective, so it was technically correct but to her ear didn’t sound right. She knew her answer would sound bad
but had no intention of lying. ‘Once,’ she admitted, perhaps slightly more quietly than some of her other responses. She bowed her head almost subconsciously while she said it. In the
way legal professionals seemed to be trained to do, Hunt recoiled in mock surprise. Jessica thought that look of horror or shock must come on day one of legal training. Before you opened any books
or took any exams, you had to be able to show you could look stunned even when being told information you were already fully aware of. If he did ever get booted out of the legal profession, Hunt
could at least go for a job as a daytime soap actor.

‘Just the once?’

‘Yes.’

Hunt gave a smaller recoil and then looked directly at the jury to make the argument that she couldn’t know Harry that well if they had only been in contact once in recent times. She had
to concede he had a point.

The man on the end was frantically adding to his notes as Hunt continued. ‘In your experience, is Mr Thomas a big drinker?’

‘How would you define “big”?’

‘Let me rephrase it. Have you ever seen Mr Thomas drink while on the job?’

‘Not really.’

‘So yes?’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’ Jessica had seen most officers technically drink while on duty. She explained to the jury that sometimes it was easier to talk to sources or
witnesses in somewhere like a pub, where they themselves felt comfortable. She left out the part that, on occasion, you would have a drink or two with your colleagues a little before you had
theoretically finished for the day. It was a fairly common practice and, although Harry didn’t really drink with the other officers, she had certainly seen him talk to people in the pub who
could give him information.

Hunt listened to her and nodded slightly, apparently feeling as if his point had been made. Just for good measure, he added: ‘Even if you were to meet with witnesses and the like in a pub,
you wouldn’t have to drink yourself, would you?’

‘No,’ Jessica had to admit.

Hunt was on a roll. ‘Have you ever seen Mr Thomas act in a questionable way while on duty?’

It was the type of question that was difficult to answer. She had often seen Harry give his homeless contact money and food in return for information and what about the sealed brown envelope he
had given to the same man whose tip had led directly to an arrest? Was that ‘questionable behaviour’? Technically it could be seen as bribing a witness. She had seen him make vague
statements in interviews, perhaps claiming to know more about a situation than he actually did. It was definitely a tad dishonest but was it ‘questionable’?

‘No,’ she answered.

‘Never?’

‘No.’

Hunt’s next question threw her. ‘Have you ever acted in a questionable way yourself while on duty?’

She saw the steely twinkle in his eye as he asked, almost as if he had winked at her. He probably hadn’t but there was an awful lot behind the question. She remembered Wayne Lapham and the
interview room. The prosecutor leapt to his feet, objecting and pointing out Jessica herself wasn’t on trial. The judge interjected but Hunt hadn’t asked the question because he wanted
an answer, he had asked it to wind her up.

He had switched from looking at the jury to looking at her, fixing her with a steady stare. If his previous question had rattled her, his next one was designed to push things even further.
‘Have you ever been romantically involved with Mr Thomas?’

This time there was definitely half a smirk on his face as he eyed her. The jury wouldn’t have been able to see it from the angle they were at. Another objection came but this time Hunt
assured the judge it was a legitimate question to find out how closely the two knew each other. He pointed out that it could prejudice Jessica’s answers if they had been romantically
involved.

The judge ruled the question didn’t have to be answered but Jessica looked at the jury and said ‘no’ in any case. She looked at the man on the end and the two women on the
front row, the three people she wanted to convince, but knew her answer was irrelevant. Hunt hadn’t asked it because he thought it was true, he had asked it to put the idea in their heads and
make them doubt her. Jessica turned back to Hunt, who looked at the jury and then at her. ‘No further questions.’

His smirk had gone but his eyes told the story. ‘Take that.’

As she suspected, a catch-up drink with Harry never happened. The court broke for lunch shortly after her evidence and Harry had already left court by the time the prosecuting
lawyer had finished speaking to her. Jessica thought there was every chance he simply didn’t remember their conversation from Saturday. She hadn’t smelled it on him but, given
everything that had happened, maybe he had been lost to drink? He wouldn’t be the first police officer to have succumbed to its lure.

Back at the station, everyone was already fully aware of how her appearance had gone. The desk sergeant’s usual source, whoever it was, had apparently been spot-on about her showdown with
Peter Hunt and everyone was well aware that, while she hadn’t lost her temper and blown it, Hunt had got the better of her. Feeling in the mood to take her frustrations out on somebody, she
tracked down Rowlands in the canteen. He was sitting at one of the tables chatting to the now not so new girl from uniform he reckoned he was taking out the previous week.

The girl laughed at whatever had been said to her as Jessica sat next to Rowlands opposite the female officer. She was young, blonde and good-looking, still clearly enjoying being a member of
the police force. Jessica thought it wouldn’t take long to disappear. Eighteen months maximum was generally what it took before fresh-faced optimism was replaced by cynicism and reality.
Often it came as soon as you saw that the domestic violence victim you had spent time consoling had changed their minds about appearing in court and taken back their rat-faced boyfriend. Either
that or some drunken scumbag who had called you every name under the sun had gone to magistrates’ court and got off with a slap on the wrist. It wouldn’t take long . . .

‘You should watch this one,’ Jessica told the girl, nodding towards Rowlands. ‘I’ve heard that a lot of the girls he’s ended up with complain of feeling a bit, erm,
“itchy” down below not long afterwards.’

‘Hey,’ Rowlands said, putting down the fork he had been eating with.

The girl didn’t seem too fussed. ‘I’ve not had any of that.’

Jessica rolled her eyes and shook her head, nodding towards Rowlands again. ‘Whatever. I need a few minutes with him.’

The female officer took the hint and stood up. ‘See you later?’ she asked him.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he replied unconvincingly. ‘I’ll text you.’ The girl scuttled off, beaming.

‘Poor girl,’ Jessica said to the constable now they were alone.

‘What?’ he responded with apparent indignation but a big grin nonetheless.

‘Whenever you do muck
her
about, can you try not to muck her
career
about?’

‘What makes you think . . . ?’ Rowlands began to say but Jessica just looked at him, eyebrows raised. ‘Yeah, all right,’ he conceded. She went to speak but he carried
on.

‘I thought you were in court all day?’

‘I’ve done that, now I’m back.’

‘What do you want me for?’

‘You remember your magician mate?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I figured that, as I’m off the clock anyway, it would be as good a time as any to go find out what the weirdo’s got to add.’

‘I’ll have to check he’s free.’

‘How busy can he possibly be?’

It hadn’t taken long for Rowlands to establish his pal wasn’t over-encumbered with work and was happy to see them that afternoon. Jessica told Reynolds she was
going to be out for the afternoon but didn’t say where, making sure she reminded Rowlands to keep his mouth shut too. He insisted they go in his car, saying he didn’t want to risk
breaking down on the way if they went in hers.

‘Haven’t you got any original material?’ Jessica asked.

‘You’re the gift that keeps on giving.’

‘At least I don’t drive some souped-up GTI twat-mobile.’

Rowlands’s vehicle was exactly what she would have expected it to be: a smallish car that had been upgraded with any number of over-priced ridiculous parts.

‘And you take the piss out of
my
exhaust?’ Jessica said as he started up the engine. His sounded as loud as hers, if not worse.

‘Mine’s deliberate.’

Rowlands’s magician friend lived in a flat above a bookmakers’ shop in the Stockport area of the city. The neighbourhood was pretty grim but her partner didn’t seem too
bothered by leaving his car outside, which at least said one thing. They went around the back of the bookies’ and the constable buzzed the intercom. The main door unlocked itself and Jessica
followed Rowlands up the stairs to the inner door. As they reached the top and were let into the hallway, Jessica had to concede it didn’t look like the typical type of accommodation you
would expect to find over a shop. The first thing she saw was an enormous stuffed tiger’s head hanging above the door facing them as they walked in.

‘Oh yeah, he’s into taxidermy too,’ Rowlands said, as if that explained everything.

The man who greeted them was thin with shoulder-length long brown hair. He was dressed unassumingly in jeans and a T-shirt with some pattern she didn’t recognise. Jessica did notice he was
wearing a watch on each wrist as well as odd shoes. One was a bright white trainer, the sort you might go running in, the other blue and made of some kind of canvas material. He greeted Rowlands
with a hug and an ‘all right, Dave?’ He also hugged Jessica. At first, she thought she would push him away but then just let him without reciprocating. She gave him a slight tap on the
back as if to say ‘all right, that’s enough’ but he was already in the process of letting go and hopped away, almost skipping through the door underneath the tiger’s head.
Rowlands was following him, so Jessica shrugged and did the same.

The room they had walked into was seemingly the living room. At first it didn’t look as if there was anywhere to sit, just an assortment of throws and beanbags. The room was dark, with big
thick curtains pulled at the back of the room and the only light coming from a selection of small electric lamps that looked like candles placed around the floor. There was a large elaborate
chandelier on the ceiling but it was either turned off or didn’t work.

The room was surrounded by tall heavy-looking bookshelves, most of which were packed with hardback books. On one of the shelves was something that looked decidedly like a stuffed chicken.
Jessica was going to ask if it
was
a chicken but figured she didn’t particularly want to know the answer.

Most living rooms had some kind of central point – people pointed their furniture towards a television or something like a fireplace or fish tank. This room seemed to have nothing like
that, not that there was any furniture anyway. There was certainly no TV and the only thing potentially central was a large round white shaggy rug. The colour stood out sharply against the rest of
the dark shades in the room.

The whole flat smelled faintly of a substance Jessica would assume was incense but certainly had the air of something decidedly more illegal. She figured she would let it go . . . unless this
guy really annoyed her.

The magician literally jumped onto one of the beanbags and sprawled himself out, bobbing up and down before arranging himself into a cross-legged sitting position. Rowlands seemingly thought
nothing of this behaviour and sat on another beanbag the other side of the rug. With little other option, Jessica sat on a different beanbag. It reminded her of Caroline’s flat at university
when they first moved to Manchester with a distinct lack of furniture. There were beanbags then too.

Rowlands was smiling at her but Jessica didn’t want to admit she felt a tad out of her depth, so asked the obvious: ‘What’s your name then?’ She thought it was a simple
enough question but the response made her less sure.

‘My actual name is Francis but you can call me Hugo.’ They had been there for less than two minutes but, not for the first time, Jessica figured she didn’t want to know the
answer. How could those two names be in the slightest bit connected? As if reading her mind, he added: ‘Hugo’s my stage name.’

‘Are you on stage often?’

‘Life’s a stage, don’t you think?’

She tried not raise her eyebrows but could see Rowlands smiling out of the corner of her eye. She ignored Hugo’s response but shot the constable a look to let him know they would be having
words later. ‘Okay then, erm, Hugo, Detective Constable Rowlands says you may have some information that could help our investigation?’

She wanted to add: ‘I personally doubt that very much, you mental case’ but held her tongue. It was as if he hadn’t heard her question anyway.