Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) (4 page)

my dad, y’know? And he hated you lot.’

‘I’m not sure what you want me to say.’

Debbie tugged at her jumper, shrugging. ‘Two days later when Luke was out, I packed up my stuff

and came here. I saw an advert in the paper and phoned the landlord. I don’t know how he found out

where I was but Luke came knocking a few days after, crying, saying he was sorry and that he missed

me. Then he was back a day later, asking if I’d return. Two days later and he was angry again, going

on about how I was going to ruin his career because politicians needed to be married. Then he was

laughing and saying that I was in this shithole and that he’d make sure I didn’t get a penny of his

money. I didn’t even want anything.’

‘What happened last night?’

‘He was drunk, shouting worse than ever, saying that I was a whore and all the usual stuff. He said

no one would want me because I’m too old. Then he pulled out a knife – which is when I called you.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Not much. When I told him I was talking to the police, he said that I’d keep and then he

scarpered.’

‘And you’ve not seen him since?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve got to ask you this—’

‘I was at an AA meeting this morning. I used to drink a lot around the house – there wasn’t much

else to do – but when I moved out, I decided I was going to get myself clean. I can give you the name

of the guy who runs it. He’ll vouch for me.’

Debbie crossed to the kitchen, hunting through her handbag. Jessica knew the alibi would check out

but there was still a possibility that if the woman was desperate for revenge she could have hired

someone else to attack Luke for her.

Debbie passed Jessica a scrap of paper with the name ‘Shane Donovan’ and a phone number on,

adding: ‘You can’t think I’m involved. I’m just a normal person. I’ve hardly got any friends and the

ones I do know work in bakeries, hospitals. I go out for coffee once or twice a week with the woman

who lives next door and we moan about the people downstairs. She lost her dad recently, so it’s been

hard for her.’

‘Do you know anyone who might have it in for Luke?’

‘You name it. He wasn’t exactly popular with the main rival candidate when he got elected. The

guy Luke beat had been in the same seat for twenty-odd years but these leaflets went out to a bunch of

houses in the area, saying he was a paedo. Luke denied all knowledge and the election board said it

wasn’t provable. I don’t know for sure and Luke never said anything about them but it wouldn’t

surprise me – it’s the kind of thing he’d do. He ended up winning by a couple of hundred votes. Then

there’s Michael, of course.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Michael Cowell. We all knew each other at college. He and Luke used to be business partners but

it all fell apart. I don’t know the ins and outs but Luke used to rage about him all the time up until a year or so back.’

‘Do you have any details?’

‘Nothing that would have been recent – plus I left almost everything at the house. I only took what I

could carry when I moved out.’ She indicated around the room. ‘Most of this stuff comes from charity

shops.’

Jessica turned down a second cup of tea and checked a few more things, before leaving Debbie her

card. She told her which hospital Luke had been taken to but wasn’t entirely surprised by the reply:

‘At least I’ll be able to sleep tonight without worrying about him coming round here with a knife.’

At that, Jessica was gone; past the swastika, down the pissy stairs and back across the obstacle

course of a garden to her car.

‘Bloody . . . bastard . . . bloody . . . thing. Can you hear me?’

Detective Constable Izzy Diamond’s reply echoed clearly through the speakers in Jessica’s car. ‘I

can hear a lot of swearing, so if that’s you, then yes.’

‘It’s this Bluetooth thing, I never know if it’s working. It used to be quite the skill to hold a phone

between your ear and shoulder, steer with one hand, change gear with the other, overtake a string of

cars and talk someone through an interview all at the same time. Then they went and banned it and

now we’re at the mercy of technology. Philistines.’

‘I think there’s a few officers around here still suffering from post-traumatic stress after being in a

car with you, so perhaps they were onto something?’

Smart-arse.

Jessica waited behind a row of parked cars as a dustbin lorry sat in the middle of the road leading

off Debbie’s estate. The early morning sun had given way to the usual grey skies and a biting wind

and the bin men – or hygiene technicians as they were probably known nowadays – were draped in an

array of hats, gloves and scarves, their breaths spiralling into the air. They pulled a succession of

wheelie bins into the road, blocking both directions of traffic, as Jessica checked the car’s clock,

knowing it was going to be one of those days.

‘I didn’t quite catch that,’ Jessica said. ‘The line is all crackly. Anyway, I’ve got some names for

you.’

‘From the wife?’

‘Yes, she’s Debbie Callaghan; married Luke not long after leaving school. He sounds like quite the

shite. She says he used to beat her, mental abuse, made her stay indoors, probably cheated at Cluedo

too. A right nasty bastard.’

‘Do you believe her?’

Jessica leant on her horn as the bin men stood having a chat in the middle of the road. ‘Probably –

she’s got the marks, plus there was a lot of detail she would have had to make up on the spot. She’s

got an alibi for this morning too – she was at an AA meeting run by some Shane Donovan bloke. I’ve

given him a call and will go have a word.’

Jessica heard the sound of a keyboard rattling. ‘So you reckon Luke might have been the target?’

Izzy asked.

‘Maybe. She had quite a story.’

‘So could she be involved, with an accomplice?’

‘I doubt it but check her out anyway.’ Jessica also asked Izzy to find some details on Michael

Cowell, the candidate Luke beat in the election, and Debbie’s next-door neighbour. If in doubt, cover

your own arse. ‘How’s the CCTV hunt going?’ she added.

‘How do you think? We’ve got a marginally better image from a camera just off the square but it’s

still a fuzzy grey mess. The tech guys are going to see what they can do but we’ll probably end up

with a slightly less fuzzy mess. Witnesses are a waste of time – and they’re the ones we can find.’

‘The Guv?’

‘He’s not left his office. One of the girls said she heard shouting and that when she walked past it

looked like he was untying his shoelaces.’

‘I hope she bloody stopped him – we’ve got enough paperwork.’ Jessica continued to speak as she

undid her seatbelt and leant across the passenger’s side to see what was going on with the unmoving

dustbin lorry. It was apparently nothing, while there was now a string of traffic behind her. ‘The poor

guy’s had a shite year since his missus left him. Every time we have a conversation, it’s about what an

arse the super’s being – or how much of the budget he has to cut. Who’d be a chief inspector, eh?’

‘At least he’s not cleaning used johnnies out of plant pots.’

‘You heard about that?’

‘There’s a whole search team gunning for you.’

‘That’s what they’re getting paid for.’

‘Anything else?’

‘See what you can dig up about Debbie Callaghan’s father – he apparently died in prison twenty

years ago. Got put away for holding up a post office. It’s probably nothing but you never know. Give

it to Dave.’

‘He’s on holiday, remember?’

Another long beep of the horn. ‘Still? How long’s he been gone? If he’s off for any longer, it counts

as emigrating, doesn’t it?’

‘He only left four days ago.’

‘I thought it’d been quiet. Right, I’ve got a group of dustmen to kill—’

‘There’s one other thing. We’re still checking but there was a post on some anarchist web forum

congratulating them for the success of the attack.’

‘That’s all we need. Isn’t there enough porn on the Internet to keep this lot occupied? What do the

tech guys reckon – is it legit?’

‘Not sure, it could be a hoax or someone getting the wrong end of the stick. It relates to a group

called Anarky.’

‘Spelled with a K-Y?’

‘Exactly, do you know them?’

‘I know a man who does. Well, either that or a certain pen-thieving PC has been answering the

phones again.’

4

Jessica walked carefully through the tight streets of the Northern Quarter, just in case any of the

search team were still out and wanting revenge. Stray carrier bags fluttered between the grimy

buildings as the arctic breeze was joined by a thin film of mist, just to make the day even better. One

lone police van was parked on the main through road but, aside from that, the back alleys were a mix

of the usual shoppers who’d got lost and locals using the area as a shortcut and potential toilet.

With its live music, pubs, cafes and independent shops – not to mention the ‘characters’ often found

roaming the alleys along the backs of the main streets – the Northern Quarter provided its own unique

form of entertainment.

After one full circuit through the zigzagging maze of streets, Jessica had barely seen anyone, let

alone the man she was looking for. It also looked like the search team had done quite the clean-up

considering the general lack of rubbish and half-eaten abandoned takeaways that would usually be on

the streets.

Jessica returned to her car wondering what to do next when she figured there was no harm in trying

the obvious. She headed towards a nearby pub and the adjacent white plastic door with the shabbily

scrawled ‘43’ that was written on in permanent marker. The door buzzer was hanging on by a thin

wire but Jessica pushed it anyway, feeling the vibration in her finger as a low angry rumble echoed

from inside. She waited for a few seconds and had already stepped away, ready to head back to the

station, when she heard a chain unclinking as the door opened inwards.

It took Jessica a few moments to realise that the person in the doorway was who she was after.

‘Toxic’ Tony Farnsworth was an alcoholic drug user who, despite having this flat, often lived on the

streets. He had a long string of convictions, generally for low-level thefts, and had once been banned

from every licensed premises in the city centre. Then he’d had shaggy unkempt hair, a track of razor

nicks across his cheeks where he’d tried to shave and a thin nothingness of a frame from years of

living on little but booze and the contents of a syringe. The man in front of her had almost the same

features but everything was tidier. His hair was short and flat, his cheeks fuller and covered with a

thin layer of stubble. Instead of the enormous coat he used to wear, Tony was in skinny jeans and a

tight-fitting long-sleeved sweater. Although he was still lean, his chest and arms were larger and he

no longer looked like a government warning poster for anorexia.

‘Tony?’

His eyes widened. ‘Do I know you?’

Jessica pulled out her ID card. ‘We’ve met before – quite a few times.’

Tony squinted at her card and withdrew into the entrance of his flat, hugging his arms around

himself. ‘I don’t exactly remember that much about the past few years. Daniel . . . Daniel . . .’ He

rolled the name around his tongue a few times. ‘Did you once arrest me in an off-licence?’

‘Twice. One time you’d tried to steal some brandy from the top shelf, slipped and knocked yourself

out on the ice-cream freezer; another time, the shopkeeper hit the panic alarm and left you alone in the shop. You’d panicked and—’

‘Pissed myself . . . I remember. You were blonder then, bit younger. Told me to stop fucking my life

up or I’d end up dead or in prison.’

‘Sounds about right.’

‘You bought me breakfast another time too.’ Tony rubbed the back of his head nervously, making the

hair stick up. ‘I’ve not done anything wrong. I know you lot used to be around all the time ’cos I’d

been out nicking but I’m clean now.’

‘That’s not why I’m here.’

At first Tony seemed confused but then his eyes widened. ‘Oh, it’s not me ma, is it?’

‘It’s to do with Anarky.’

‘Oh . . . you better come in.’

Tony led Jessica up a flight of stairs into a flat that was bigger than Debbie’s but much emptier.

Aside from a tiny portable television, a sofa and flat-packed ready-to-fall-apart coffee table, the

living room was bare.

Tony headed straight for the doorway at the back of the room. ‘Fancy a tea? That’s what you lot

drink, ain’t it?’ Indeed it was – Jessica was drowning in the bloody stuff. A police officer’s opium.

Tony continued without waiting for an answer, his voice echoing through the open door. ‘I’ve got

ginseng, Earl Grey, Lung Ching, Bancha, mixed berry, Koslanda, Assam, Darjeeling, Covent Garden

and a bit of Oolong somewhere. Any one in particular?’

He’d replaced one addiction with another. Jessica didn’t know which was worse; she might even

prefer the hard drugs. ‘Whatever you’re having.’

Jessica would usually have had a poke around but there was nothing to poke at, so she sat on the

sofa instead. A few minutes later, Tony returned with two dainty china teacups on a tray with a

matching teapot.

‘I went for the Bancha,’ he said, putting the tray on the table and sitting on the floor. ‘Best leave it for a bit to let the leaves do their thing.’