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‘So there were other women?’
‘Luke was a good-looking bloke – there were always other women.’
‘Anyone special? Or any who didn't like being unsuccessful with him?’
‘He didn't tell me that much,’ Callum said, softening slightly. ‘Just man-talk, you know, all about the conquests, not the losses.’
I made some notes, scribbles that I knew I would have to make sense of later. He had some good quotes, but I was starting to feel uneasy. Katie had described the relationship as close, but now Luke's friend had described it as relaxed, and whatever it had been, Luke had ended up with a knife buried into his chest. The two things didn't add up.
‘Did Luke have a temper?’ I asked.
Callum looked surprised by the question. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I'm just wondering why Sarah would stab him, if it was so casual. Self-defence?’
‘No,’ Callum replied warily. ‘Luke was a pretty chilled-out kind of person.’
‘But maybe there was something affecting his mood.’
‘What like?’
I sensed some defensiveness in his question. I pointed at Callum's arms, the veins being throttled by the knitted sleeve of his polo shirt. ‘You work in a gym,’ I said. ‘You'll know what goes on in the pursuit of physique.’
‘Are you saying Luke was on drugs?’
I cocked my head. ‘I don't know, but you don't end up looking like you do on chicken and pasta.’
Anger flashed across Callum's face, his jaw clenching as he glared at me.
‘Roid rage,’ I pressed, trying to guess the answer from his response. ‘Perhaps Sarah was just defending herself?’
Callum stood up quickly, his chair rocking back on its legs. ‘Is that what you're going to write?’ he demanded.
‘I'll write the truth,’ I replied.
‘It doesn't sound like much of a tribute,’ he said.
‘You haven't given me much to admire about him.’
‘Please leave,’ he said, his voice low and angry, his brow furrowed as he stared at me.
‘Nothing else to add?’ I asked, pushing for one more quote.
Callum didn't answer, and we both knew the interview was over.
I thanked him for his time and walked towards the door. I stopped for a moment and thought about apologising. His closest friend had died and I was making allegations without proof. I had lost both my parents and so I knew how raw grief could be. Had I sold out my humanity for the value of a good quote? I glanced back at Callum, but from the hostile stare he was giving me, I could tell that any apology would be pointless.
When I got back to my car, I threw my pad onto the passenger seat and wondered whether I was wasting my time. Sarah Goode was missing, and her occasional lover was dead. It sounded straightforward. If I wanted to use it there had to be an angle, something different from the average murder report.
But there was something different. I sensed it. If Katie was right, Sarah had killed Luke in a lover's rage, passion gone wrong. But if Callum was telling the truth, it was a murder without reason.
I checked my watch and wondered what Laura would say if she knew what I was doing. No, I knew what she would think; the memory of the argument that morning was still sour. So if I was going to write the story, I wanted Laura to find out from me.
Laura McGanity tried not to look at the prisoner in front of her, as she sat on a plastic chair that was bolted to the floor to stop prisoners throwing them, in one of the interview rooms at the end of the cell complex. No windows, no natural light. The floor was dotted with old chewing gum and scarred by cigarette burns, souvenirs of life before the smoking ban. Pete was next to her, leaning forward to make the cramped space seem even smaller.
The prisoner in front of her had been arrested from the middle of the brawl, dishing out black eyes to anyone who came close, until a blast of parva spray sent him to the gutter, crying at the pain in his eyes. His bravado had melted now, and he had slept off most of the drink, but he was trying hard to keep his breakfast down. He'd been sick down his jumper, and he held it in his hands, putting it to his mouth whenever another wave of nausea hit him. Laura kicked the bin towards him and shook her head, trying to breathe through her mouth. This wasn't on the recruitment poster.
Pete Dawson was frustrated. ‘Doesn't look like he wants to explain himself,’ he said to Laura. ‘Looks like the court will form its own conclusion.’
‘Do you really think it will get that far?’ asked the prisoner's legal representative, a young police-station runner in shiny pinstripes and gelled hair who looked like he wanted to be much further away from his client than the bolted-down chair would allow.
‘I wasn't talking to you,’ barked Pete.
‘Okay,’ the legal rep replied, his smirk forcing Pete to take a deep breath to keep his anger at bay. He turned to his client and said theatrically, ‘For the benefit of the tape, let's hear it one more time.’
The prisoner held his jumper to his mouth. ‘No comment,’ came the muffled reply.
Laura turned away as the smell of the jumper wafted towards her. She was frustrated by the no comment mantra, but she knew the advice was right. The other fighters didn't want to help, so if he didn't confess, he would win the day.
‘Let's suspend the interview,’ she said. ‘I think we all need some fresh air.’
As Pete clicked off the tape machine, a twin-deck black cube, Laura said, ‘We're going to check out the CCTV. Your client can think about that as he sits in his cell.’
As she headed for the door, Pete just behind her, she heard a groan, and then the splash of the prisoner's vomit as he lost his battle with his stomach. From the curse that came from his rep, it seemed that he hadn't quite made it to the waste bin.
Laura stepped into the corridor and smiled at Pete. ‘That's one interview room out of action for a while.’
‘Do you think we should have waited?’ he asked. ‘Let him recover? He can't think straight.’
Laura shook her head. ‘The advice would have been the same, except the rep would have kept his shoes clean. I think I prefer it this way.’
‘So what now?’
Laura checked her watch. The cells were full, the others on the CRT working their way through the list, and so when they had finished with this prisoner, it would be time to move on to another.
‘Like I said, I'm heading out to the town hall, see if the cameras picked anything up. Maybe we'll get something more than midnight lovers.’
Pete scowled. The camera operators used to liven up their evenings by looking out for drunken couples snatching romance in alleys, just behind the bottle crates and dustbins, but two people had lost their jobs when the cameras missed an assault that put someone in a coma. Pete had been the one who had explained that to the victim's parents, and the memory wasn't a pleasant one.
‘And if we've nothing?’ he asked.
She joined him in a scowl. ‘Then he walks, like always.’
Laura felt her phone buzz. As she looked down, she saw that it was a text from Jack. ‘Coffee somewhere? Got some info for you.’
‘Got to go,’ she said to Pete. ‘Get him in a cell and write up the interview summary. I won't be long.’
As she turned to walk away, the legal rep opened the door, his face white, his mouth set in a grimace. He glanced down towards his trousers. ‘Have you got a towel?’
Laura was smiling as she left.
Chapter Eleven (#ulink_c05ca449-456d-51ed-89f6-3f366653f857)
Rod Lucas had been to the hospital shop, and he looked up from his newspaper when he heard Abigail stir.
He checked his watch. He had been there for a couple of hours.
Abigail groaned and tried to roll over.
‘Miss Hobbs?’
She turned towards him and reached out. There was a bandage over one eye, and the other one looked swollen and red. ‘Who is it?’ she asked, sounding quiet and weak.
‘It's all right,’ he said, and took her hand. Her skin was cold and her hand felt brittle. ‘There's no need to move, Miss Hobbs. I'm a police officer.’
Abigail raised her head, and then she winced and lay back down again. ‘Am I still in the hospital?’ she asked, her Lancashire accent slowed down by the drawl of the countryside.
‘Yes, you are,’ he replied, his voice gentle and soothing. ‘You'll be home soon.’
She took a few short breaths, and then asked, ‘What happened?’
‘Someone set you a trap,’ he said.
She swallowed, and Rod could tell that she was thinking back to the events of the morning.
‘Tibbs? I could hear Tibbs. Is he all right?’ she asked.
He took hold of her hand and gave it a squeeze, as if the action would make her stronger. ‘Tibbs is dead, Miss Hobbs.’
Abigail gave out a small cry as the events of the morning came back to her. She gripped his hand tightly as she realised what had exploded in front of her eyes.
He let her cry it out for a while, but when her quiet sobs died away, he asked gently, ‘Who would do that to you?’
He passed her a tissue, and as she wiped her nose, she replied, ‘I don't know. I've done nothing to harm anyone.’
‘No enemies?’
Abigail waved her hand dismissively. Rod took that as a no, but he wasn't too sure.
‘It's happened to other people, not just you,’ said Rod, watching her face for some recognition, but Abigail didn't respond. ‘Have you heard that?’ he pressed. ‘Do you know these other people?’
She turned away.
‘Miss Hobbs?’
‘Go to your family,’ she said.
‘How do you know I've got a family?’
‘You have a kind voice,’ she said softly. ‘That comes from contentment. And your family are waiting for you.’
That stalled him for a moment, but he asked again, ‘What's going on, Miss Hobbs?’
Abigail didn't answer. She rolled over in the bed so that he couldn't see her face any more.
He stood. ‘Sorry to have disturbed you,’ he said. ‘If you want to tell me anything, get in touch.’ And he wrote his name and number on a scrap of paper and placed it on the small cupboard next to Abigail's bed.
His footsteps were just light taps as he left the room. No one else stirred. He took one last look at Abigail, but she hadn't moved.
I waited for Laura in a coffee bar a few minutes' walk from the police station, in a cobbled backstreet with views over the cathedral gardens. It had a mocha coloured shop-front and rickety metal tables, none of the bright lights of the chain coffee-houses, but it sold good coffee and that was enough.
I had been thinking about Katie Gray, how she had been with me, that touch of her hand before I left. But then I saw Laura at the end of the street, and I felt a jump. Was it guilt? Or was it something better than that? Perhaps it was the excitement I used to have when I saw Laura, that feeling that I had got luckier than I deserved.
She flashed a quick look down the backstreet but then she waved when she saw me looking out of the window. I asked the café owner for another cappuccino and reached out my hand as she sat down. My fingers brushed over her knuckles, like we were stealing moments together.
‘I'm sorry about this morning,’ I said softly.
Laura moved her hand away. ‘Are you softening me up for something I don't want to hear?’
‘What do you mean?’
Laura sighed and then it turned into a smile. ‘I love you to death, Jack Garrett,’ she said, ‘but if you need to see me, and it's to do with work, I need to worry.’
I reached out for her hand again. She didn't move it this time, and I felt her fingers grip mine. They felt different to Katie's. Older somehow, her skin dry, the veins showing on the back of her hand.
‘I went to see Sam Nixon this morning,’ I said.
‘I know. Keep going.’
‘He wanted me to meet someone. Two people in fact.’ I paused for effect, to make sure I could properly gauge Laura's response. ‘They were Sarah Goode's parents.’
Laura didn't react at first. Then I saw her eyes widen.
‘The teacher wanted for murder?’
I nodded slowly.
‘Jack, what are you playing at?’
‘Nothing. That's why I'm telling you.’
‘What did they want?’
‘In an ideal world, to turn the clock back,’ I answered. ‘But as they can't, they want me to find their daughter.’
‘Why? Do they think she is innocent?’
‘I don't know. Perhaps they just want to stop her from doing something stupid.’
