Chapter Nineteen

Back at the police station, Laura was showing Thomas how to watch the CCTV from one of the local supermarkets. It was never a case of click and play, Laura knew that, with every system needing different software. It showed nine different views, like a grainy Celebrity Squares, and isolating one camera view seemed more difficult than it needed to be, just to catch the pensioner dropping the bottle of cheap sherry into the tartan trolley.

She turned as she heard a cough from the doorway and saw a face she hadn’t seen for a few months, his hair cropped army-short, a folder under his arm. Laura felt her cheeks flush red.

‘DC McGanity,’ he said, and then he looked down at her uniform. ‘Sorry, is it plain old constable now?’

‘Joe Kinsella,’ she said, laughing, and her eyes followed his glance downwards, to the shine on her black trousers and her stumpy black boots. ‘Sometimes you’ve got to move sideways to find the route up,’ she said. ‘Enough about me. What are you doing in Blackley?’

‘Looking for you,’ he said.

Laura raised her eyebrows. ‘This sounds ominous,’ she said. ‘Where’s the rest of the squad?’

Joe worked on the Major Incident Team, based at headquarters a few miles away. Whenever there was a death that seemed too much for the local police, they descended on Blackley and took over the station. But Laura hadn’t heard of any recent murders.

‘It’s just me and Rachel,’ Joe said, indicating the woman standing behind him. ‘This is Rachel Mason,’ and he gestured towards Laura. ‘This is Laura McGanity. We worked a case together recently.’

Laura straightened herself as Rachel looked her up and down, just a quick glance and a smile, but the warmth didn’t make it to the eyes. Rachel was trim in a smart grey suit, cut closely to her body, with a shirt that gaped open at the breast. Her hair was Abba-blonde, sleek and straight and over her shoulders, her skin pale and smooth. Her ice-cold, blue-eyed stare told Laura that Rachel Mason had little interest in Joe catching up with old friends.

‘So the rest of the pressed-shirts have stayed at headquarters,’ Laura said.

‘For now,’ he said, and then he raised his file. ‘I’m here for a cold case review, so I’ll be hanging around for a while. I want to ask your advice though.’

Laura was surprised. ‘Me?’

Joe nodded. ‘Especially you.’

Laura turned to Thomas and told him that the footage needed to be on a watchable disk before the prosecution would use it, then followed Joe and Rachel out of the room, heading for the canteen. Joe didn’t say much and Laura sensed that he was avoiding her gaze. He bought three coffees and they all sat down.

‘I’m not sure what I can advise you on,’ Laura said, as she took a drink. ‘I’m off the big stuff now.’

Joe stirred his coffee and looked embarrassed for a moment. ‘It’s about Jack,’ he said.

Laura was taken aback. ‘Jack?’ she said. ‘What’s he been doing now?’

Joe put his folder on the table and leant forward, speaking in a whisper. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Laura, but we need to know what he’s doing.’

‘You’re talking in riddles,’ Laura replied. ‘Who is we? Do you mean you and Rachel, or is there a bigger we?’

‘There are others who are interested too,’ Joe said. ‘Tell me about the woman who went to your house yesterday morning.’

Laura had raised her cup to her mouth, but now her hand paused in mid-air. ‘Have you been watching us?’ she said, her voice indignant.

Rachel smiled, but it was sneering.

‘We haven’t been watching you,’ Joe said solemnly. ‘Or Jack.’

‘So it’s her,’ Laura said, almost to herself, and then she sat back and folded her arms. ‘Who is she?’

‘If she said she was called Susie Bingham, then she is exactly who she said she was,’ he replied. ‘But why was she at your house?’

‘To see Jack.’

‘Has he mentioned why?’

Laura paused and closed her eyes for a second. It was the same old story, Jack’s reporting career causing problems for her, once more torn between her duties as a police officer and her loyalty to Jack.

‘No, he won’t tell me,’ she said.

‘So you asked?’ Joe said.

Laura took a sip of her coffee to give her time to think of her answer. ‘A woman came to my home,’ she said. ‘I wanted to know who she was, but he wouldn’t say.’

Joe watched her for a moment, and then he nodded. ‘Okay, I understand,’ he said. ‘But will you call me if you find anything out?’

‘Don’t make me spy on my boyfriend,’ Laura said quietly.

He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want you to spy on Susie Bingham.’ He got to his feet. ‘And this conversation remains confidential. If no news comes this way, then none goes the other. Is that okay?’

Laura nodded slowly, and then gave a small laugh. ‘It will pique his interest more if I tell him.’

Joe smiled at that, but then he added, ‘I mean around the station too. We’ll pretend we haven’t spoken.’

‘Why round here?’ Laura asked. ‘Who the hell is she?’

‘I’ll tell you one day, but not just yet.’

Laura thought back to the early morning visit. Whatever the woman had said, it had sent Jack to London.

‘Is Jack in danger?’ Laura asked.

Joe thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, and then he walked off, his folder back under his arm, Rachel trailing behind him.

When she was alone again, Laura glanced over towards the room she had been in before to see Thomas looking over, a concerned look on his face. As Laura turned away, she took a sip of coffee, just to occupy her mind—but her hand was shaking on the polystyrene cup.

We turned into Lower Belgrave Street, and it seemed to immediately fall quiet, a haven so close to the bustle of Victoria. We found a pub halfway along, the Plumbers Arms, a dimly lit, one-room place with a dog-legged bar and high wooden seats, beer mats pinned up behind the bar and bright purple pansies hanging from baskets outside.

Susie sat at one of the tables as far from the bar as she could, her eyes concealed behind dark glasses. She asked for a vodka and coke, and I settled for a pint of bitter. I watched as the froth disappeared before I had taken my first sip.

I raised my glass. ‘To Claude Gilbert.’

Susie nodded, although she seemed uncomfortable.

‘He must live around here,’ I said.

Susie flashed a thin smile. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because you’re hiding, here in the corner, behind those dark glasses,’ I replied.

‘It’s the clientele, that’s all,’ she said, looking down. ‘They make me uncomfortable.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, looking around. There were a couple of suits by the doorway, their shirt collars unbuttoned, their ties pulled down, and the rest looked just like normal drinkers, except better dressed. ‘They’re just like you and me, relaxing after work.’

‘No, they’re nothing like you and me,’ she said. ‘They’ve had all the chances, and I haven’t, and I can tell that they know that when they look at me.’

I patted her hand. ‘You’ve been in the North too long,’ I said, and then tapped my shoulder. ‘You need to lose the chip.’

Susie shuffled in her seat. ‘Yeah, maybe, but I know that you wouldn’t see people like that in Blackley, with that confidence, that sureness, like an arrogance, because the ones that have it leave Blackley and end up somewhere like this.’

I didn’t pursue it. I had come to London on the promise of a long-lost murderer coming out of hiding, and it had come to very little so far, so I wasn’t in the mood for Susie’s northern neurosis. Self-deprecation was the northern default, I knew that—get the hits in yourself before someone else has a go and hits even harder. I turned the conversation instead to small talk and kept on glancing around the pub as we chatted, watching how the barman worked the bar, always polishing and talking, like he knew the customers. He waved them goodbye and called them by their first name, so he was more than just some Australian working his gap year.

Susie grabbed her cigarette packet. ‘I’m going outside,’ she said, leaving me alone at the table. The barman walked over to me, collecting glasses on his way.

‘Does the lady want another vodka?’

I shook my head. ‘Not yet,’ I replied. I looked towards the door and saw a small plume of smoke drifting away from her; she had her phone clamped to her ear. ‘Does she come in here much?’ I asked the barman.

He shrugged. ‘Ask her.’

‘She might lie to me,’ I said.

‘And I’m not going to get between you both,’ he said, before walking back to the bar, glasses in his hand.

Susie came back into the bar, pocketing her phone as she came to the table. She glanced at the barman walking away. ‘What were you talking about?’ she said.

‘Nothing, just taproom chit-chat,’ I said. ‘He asked me where I was from, that’s all.’ It was a lie, but Claude was in control at the moment, and I didn’t like that. ‘So where is he?’ I asked.

‘He’s not ready,’ she said.

‘What do you mean, he’s not ready?’ I said, slamming my glass down on the table, making everyone in the pub turn round. ‘He better get ready, because I’ve come a long way for this. I’ve set it up with an editor. If he pisses me around, I write what I’ve got, which is you.’

‘This is a big deal for him,’ she said, her voice barely audible. ‘He’s scared. He’s giving up his freedom on a gamble that people will believe him. Just be patient. He’s booked us into a hotel. You’ll meet him tomorrow.’

I closed my eyes for a moment to keep my temper in check, and I thought of Victoria station, just around the corner. I could hop on the Victoria Line and be at Euston within fifteen minutes. I could catch the next train north and cuddle in behind Laura instead of spending the night in whatever fleapit London hotel Claude had found for us. But then the headline came back to me, front-page exclusive.

‘If there’s no sign of Claude before lunchtime tomorrow,’ I said, ‘I go home and the story dies.’

Susie nodded. She understood.

‘And I tell the police all you’ve told me.’

Susie didn’t reply to that.