DS Jessica Daniel series: Think of the Children / Playing with Fire / Thicker Than Water – Books 4–6 (41 page)

‘Can we come in, Mr Thompson?’ Jessica asked, even more sweetly than before.

‘What do you want?’

‘Just a chat. We’ll be quick if you’re busy.’

For a fraction of a second, Jessica caught the gaze of the single eye. It widened, the white lined with deep red veins, and then blinked shut. The face disappeared from the crack and the door
opened inwards slightly. Jessica took a half-step forward but, as she did, it was slammed in her face with a bang that sent a rush of air into her face. Jessica stepped backwards quickly, again
standing on Rowlands’s toe. He yelped and she felt his hand pressing into the small of her back through the borrowed coat.

‘Can you stop doing that?’ he said, his voice decidedly squeaky.

‘I’m only a little girl, stop whingeing.’

‘Not so “little” any more.’

Jessica didn’t get a chance to reply before the door rattled in front of her. At first it stuck in its frame and then it was wrenched open.

The pictures of Anthony Thompson that had been in the newspapers looked hardly anything like the man standing in front of her. In the media, he had sensible brown hair cut almost into a basin
style and had been wearing an open-necked shirt. Jessica wondered how long ago the photo had been taken because the man in front of her had straggly grey hair that hung to his shoulders, his cheeks
puffy and glowing red. He was wearing a thick green jumper with a hole in one of the shoulders and Jessica could smell the alcohol without having to cross the threshold. The only thing that told
her this was the man she was after was a scar that ran across his chin, finishing somewhere before it reached his neck. In the photos it had been visible, although somewhat faded. On the man in
front of her, it was white against the crimson of his skin. She knew from their files he was in his early fifties but he looked much older.

Without a word, Anthony turned and walked through a doorway. Jessica glanced around at Rowlands, shrugging before stepping inside. As she wiped her feet on a thinning grey mat, she
couldn’t help but notice everything seemed to be as faded as the paint of the front door. It reminded her a little of Adam’s house in that there wasn’t necessarily anything wrong
with it but its style was twenty years out of date. The crusty wallpaper had a raised oval pattern that had been painted over in white gloss that was also beginning to flake. Apart from the reek of
alcohol, there was also a stale smell which Jessica associated with the boot of her old car.

Jessica headed to the doorway she had seen Anthony go through. It was no surprise as she walked into the living room to see it had the same carpet and wallpaper as the hallway. Directly across
from the door was a white cabinet filled with books – except for one slot in the centre where there was a large framed photo. Without going any closer, Jessica knew it was of Alfie Thompson.
She had seen similar pictures in the file they had and, given the length of time since his death, she knew the photo had to be somewhere between eight and ten years old.

Anthony was sitting in a rocking chair steadily going forwards and backwards. It was made out of dark wood and creaked noisily each time it moved. He was holding a glass filled with a dark brown
liquid that Jessica assumed was whisky. She walked around the room until she was standing in front of him, Rowlands staying close to the door awkwardly leaning to one side.

‘Are you okay, Mr Thompson?’ Jessica asked.

Anthony sipped from his glass before answering with a croaky ‘Yup’.

‘Do you live alone?’

The man’s rocking increased in tempo, the back of the curved wood touching the floor. ‘Yup.’

With the obvious tension, Jessica didn’t think it was worth wasting any more time. ‘Can you tell me where you were between three and four this morning, Mr Thompson?’

She tried to use her sweetest tone again but it seemed to agitate the man further. The speed of Anthony’s rocking increased again, causing a few drops of his drink to splash over the top
of his glass.

‘Mr Thompson?’ Jessica persisted.

Abruptly, Anthony planted his feet on the floor and stopped the chair, springing up in a way that was totally at odds with his age and appearance. With an elegance Jessica could barely believe,
he switched from rocking to walking in one fluid movement, striding from one end of the room to the other. He sat in a brown armchair closest to the photograph of his son and leant back, pointing
at a matching seat across from where he was sitting. The whole incident had lasted a few seconds. As she walked towards the seat he was indicating, Jessica caught Rowlands’s eye but he too
seemed stunned by Anthony’s sprightly movement.

‘I was sleeping,’ Anthony said crisply, still holding the drink in his hand.

‘On your own?’ Jessica asked, already knowing the answer.

‘Yes.’

‘Did some officers visit you a couple of days ago?’ Jessica again knew the answer.

‘Yes.’

‘And you told them you hadn’t threatened Mr Chadwick?’

Anthony downed the rest of his drink in one and winced slightly. ‘Yes,’ he replied, his voice hoarser.

‘Have you had any contact with him since then?’

The reply came instantly, although the man was staring at his empty glass, refusing to acknowledge Jessica. ‘No.’

From her first impression, Jessica would have doubted Anthony being able to throw a brick but it was now clear the man was a lot more agile than he looked. They had no evidence to connect him to
the scene of vandalism at Martin’s house and, although the specialist team were looking for footprints or anything else of note, she didn’t expect them to come up with anything. Jessica
didn’t want to tell Anthony what had happened; for now, she wanted to get a feel of what he was like, especially after the time she had spent with Martin and Ryan.

She’d been hoping Anthony’s words had been taken out of context by the newspaper. Instead, her fears that something could happen between the two parties had only increased.

After a host of one-word replies and general lack of cooperation from Anthony, Jessica glanced sideways at Rowlands, who had a blank look on his face. It was clear they weren’t going to
get anything. Jessica stood and offered her hand for the man to shake. She didn’t know if he would, but the man reciprocated, sending a shiver through her from the coldness of his hand.
Jessica left him one of her cards and followed Rowlands out of the house. Anthony hadn’t moved to show them out, so Jessica closed the door behind them.

‘He’s friendly,’ Rowlands said once they were outside.

Jessica clicked her tongue into the top of her mouth. ‘Did you see how quickly he moved?’

The constable hummed in acknowledgement. ‘I thought he was going straight towards you before he went for the armchair.’

‘I hope we can keep him and Ryan apart. I don’t trust either of them.’

As she was talking, Jessica bumped into the back of Rowlands, failing to notice he had stopped in front of her. She peered around him and saw why: at the end of the pathway leading to
Anthony’s house was a woman with a camera with a telephoto lens pointing towards them. Even at this distance, Jessica could hear the click and whirr as the person took their photo.

She pushed ahead of Rowlands and strode purposefully towards the gate, opening it as the photographer stepped backwards, still taking pictures.

‘Who are you?’ Jessica demanded.

The photographer answered without lowering her camera. ‘Press.’

‘I can see that,’ Jessica snapped, trying not to take the bait. ‘Where are you from?’

The woman finally moved her camera down to her hip. ‘
Herald
.’ Jessica turned and realised there were two more photographers a few metres away also taking her photo.

Before she could say anything, a male voice sounded from behind her. ‘Sergeant Daniel?’

Jessica turned to see a man holding a silver metal device towards her. He was somewhere in his mid to late twenties with spiky dark hair, wearing a black pinstripe suit that looked as if it was
tailored specifically for him. It fitted perfectly around his trim physique and he was also sporting a thin dark tie. His smartness coupled with the fact he was standing on a pavement uttering her
name made Jessica take a step backwards in surprise.

‘Who are you?’ Jessica asked, noticing that the electrical object had what looked like a small microphone pointing out of it.

The man’s response was as sharp as his attire. ‘Sebastian Lowe,
Manchester Morning Herald
. Why are you visiting Anthony Thompson, Ms Daniel?’

Jessica winced at the use of the word ‘Ms’. She hated it and had long figured you were either a ‘Miss’ or a ‘Mrs’. Or an idiot. She wondered if he had said it
to deliberately annoy her.

‘It’s Sergeant Daniel,’ Jessica replied. She hardly ever asked anyone to use her title but the man’s directness had annoyed her.

‘Why are you visiting Anthony Thompson, Sergeant Daniel?’ he asked.

‘Detective Sergeant Daniel.’

Jessica could hear the click of one of the cameras behind her as she locked eyes with Sebastian. She was annoyed with herself for noticing how attractive he was. He had long dark eyelashes, his
eyes an intoxicating mix of brown and black. His high cheekbones and blemish-free skin only added to the impression with his short dark brown hair stylishly pointed to one side. He stared back,
expecting an answer. ‘Detective Sergeant Daniel,’ he added sarcastically.

‘None of your business,’ Jessica replied loud enough for the small crowd of photographers to hear. She motioned to stride past Sebastian but, before completely passing him, she
stepped close enough so she could hiss in his ear. ‘Stop stirring this up.’

Before he could react, Jessica strolled past him towards her car, forcing herself not to turn around to see if his suit fitted him as well at the back as it did in the front.

Blending in was something Andrew Hunter had always felt able to do. Some people turned heads when they walked into a room, their natural charisma drawing people towards them.
Others would attract attention for negative reasons, exuding a lack of confidence as strongly as somebody else might exert natural magnetism. Andrew knew he fell almost exactly in the middle of
those two extremes. He first realised it at school when he was eleven. His form tutor, who had been his teacher for eighteen months, couldn’t remember his name one morning. She had asked a
question and, when Andrew had raised his arm, the teacher pointed at him. She stuttered and, as her face turned to confusion, the woman reached across her desk and checked the register book.
Eventually she looked up and said, ‘Yes, Andrew’. Some students didn’t understand what had happened but Andrew did. She had simply forgotten who he was.

Keira was the first person who saw him in a different way. For whatever reason, she saw something in him most others didn’t.

Andrew was thinking of his ex-wife as he leant back into the chair and tried to avoid touching the armrest, which he had discovered rather disgustedly had a distinctly sticky coating. He glanced
sideways towards where Sienna Todd was staring at her mobile phone and chatting to her friend, seemingly oblivious to the film playing on the cinema screen in front of them.

If Andrew had any interest in the movie, he might have been annoyed by the distraction but he was more interested in keeping an eye on Sienna. He had followed her unnoticed from the college she
attended to her friend’s house, then to the more-or-less empty cinema for an early-evening screening. The first thing that struck him about the young woman was how striking she was –
although how much of it was natural he didn’t know. She had long bright blonde hair and a glow to her skin that most likely came from either a sunbed or a bottle. Despite that, she possessed
that invisible attraction that didn’t just come from her looks. If anything, her friend was the more physically eye-catching of the two with her tighter clothing and loosely tied black hair
– but Andrew would have felt more drawn to Sienna even if he wasn’t being paid to find out who the father of her aborted baby was. Despite being just eighteen, there was something about
her that seemed older. He figured it could come from the growing up she had to do after discovering her pregnancy and the subsequent termination. Either way, there was something alluring about her
that went far beyond her looks.

Sienna started giggling as she held the phone up for her friend to see. Even through the darkness, Andrew could tell there was something about the laugh that was forced. Someone towards the back
shushed loudly but the young women didn’t seem to notice as Sienna dropped it into the large bag she had been carrying all afternoon.

Andrew glanced towards the screen where something apparently funny was happening. A man towards the rear of the cinema, possibly the person who had made the shush noise, was laughing
hysterically to himself as the character on screen said something that Andrew didn’t think could have amused anyone.

The investigator was across the aisle, five rows behind the two women. He switched his eyeline back towards the pair, who were leaning in close whispering to each other. Because of the way the
screen flickered, it was hard to tell exactly what was happening but what seemed like light-hearted chatter moments before now appeared to be becoming a little heated. Their whispers grew in volume
until Sienna uttered a perfectly clear and taut, ‘Right, well, fuck off then’, only to be shushed by the person at the back again.

Sienna stood and, for a moment, Andrew thought she was going to storm down the aisle out of the room. That would leave him in an awkward position considering how tough it would be to follow her
without being obvious. As he held his breath, Andrew watched the young woman straighten her loose-fitting tracksuit bottoms, and then sit down again. He realised that not only had she been talking
into the phone rather than to her friend, but also that he had been oblivious to her taking it back out of her bag in the first place.

Focusing back on the women instead of the film, or the laughing buffoon at the back, Andrew watched them lean in and begin whispering – this time definitely to each other. The friend put
an arm around Sienna’s shoulders and pulled her closer, seemingly consoling her about whatever had been said on the phone.