Double Dealing (Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop Series Book Two) (23 page)

  Then he heard the voice: controlled, almost amused.

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

44

‘Which interview room is he in?’ Kendrick asked.

  ‘Two,’ answered Catherine.

  ‘Nasty.’ He cringed. ‘Is it warm in there?’

  ‘A bit. It still smells like sweaty Simmo too.’

  ‘Delightful.’

  ‘He doesn’t want a solicitor with him.’

  ‘Let me guess.’ Kendrick slipped his thumbs through the front belt loops of his trousers and bent his knees. ‘“I don’t need some Fancy Dan with a string of letters after his name babysitting me when I’ve done nowt wrong.”’

Catherine shook her head. ‘Uncanny.’

  ‘Where’s DI Knight?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Catherine realised she hadn’t seen him for ages. ‘Who do you want to talk to John Worthy?’

Kendrick bounced up and down on his toes a few times. ‘I thought I’d do it myself.’

Catherine looked at him. ‘Really?’

He looked wounded. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, because you’re a DCI.’

  ‘A mere puppet master, I know. Come on, you can sit in, give me a nudge if I ask the wrong questions.’ He set off across the incident room, gleeful as a five-year-old on Christmas morning. Catherine trotted behind him. ‘Did you speak to someone about the little planes?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, eventually.’

  ‘Is it possible?’

  ‘He said so, yes.’

Kendrick clapped his huge hands together, making a couple of uniforms who were chatting on the stairs jump. ‘Excellent. What about property?’

Catherine was hurrying now, trying to keep up with him.

  ‘Similar to Lambert – a couple of houses. No shops though. One house is out in the countryside.’

  ‘Aha. And is it occupied?’

  ‘We’re not sure. A squad car is going to do a recce.’

  ‘Just a casual drive past, in no way infringing the privacy of anyone who might be lurking inside the house?’

  ‘In no way whatsoever.’

They were outside the interview rooms now and Kendrick wheeled around to face her.

  ‘Okay. I’m going to be blunt with him because I think he’ll respond best to that, looking at the reports and what’s been said about him. Do you agree?’

  ‘Yeah, old boys at the golf club is the way to go.’

He looked at her. ‘Steady on, Sergeant. Less of the old, thank you.’ She grinned as he stepped up to the door.

  John Worthy had his back to them when they entered the stuffy, claggy little room, absorbed in draping his jacket over the back of his chair. As he turned, his face registered alarm for a second at the sight of the DCI, who didn’t leave much space in the doorway. Catherine poked her head around Kendrick and chirped, ‘Hello again.’

Worthy dredged up a smile.

  ‘Sergeant Bishop. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Kendrick stomped over to Worthy and arranged himself in the chair opposite him, which creaked and groaned a little but held firm. Catherine sat in the one remaining seat, over to the side of the room, out of Worthy’s eyeline. Kendrick was filling most of that anyway. He bared his teeth in an expression distantly related to a smile. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Kendrick. I thought it was time we had a chat, Mr Worthy.’

Worthy nodded. ‘As I said – a pleasure.’

  ‘Good man. Now, you understand why you’re here?’

  ‘Some follow-up questions, they said. I wanted to stay in my office, but the officers you sent were quite insistent that I came down here.’ He allowed a little outrage to colour his tone. ‘I’m a busy man, Chief Inspector. I trust this won’t be a waste of my time.’

  ‘I hope not, nor a waste of ours. Sergeant Bishop has her crochet class tonight.’ Kendrick sat back and folded his arms while Worthy tilted his head, trying to figure out whether the DCI was serious. Catherine cleared her throat.

  ‘Starts at eight o’clock, sir.’

  ‘Best crack on then. Mr Worthy, tell us about your relationship with Lauren Cook.’

Worthy stared.

  ‘I’ve been through this before. She works for me.’

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘In my packing department. She knows.’ Worthy nodded at Catherine, who bent her head over her notepad.

  ‘And is that all Lauren did for you?’

Worthy narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Not blunt enough? Okay, did you offer her any out-of-hours opportunities?’

Leaning forward, Worthy set meaty elbows on the table in front of him.

  ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

  ‘Not any more. Where’s Lauren?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Worthy snapped. ‘She’s not being paid for the extra day she’s had off, I can tell you that.’

Kendrick gave another nasty smile. ‘You think she’s coming back.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Do you read the local newspaper, Mr Worthy? Watch the news?’

  ‘When I have the time.’

  ‘So you know the body of a young woman has been found?’

  ‘Yes, Keeley Pearce. Alex told me you were asking about her. She didn’t last long at Worthy and Son, I’m afraid. Some people just don’t seem to want to work. I haven’t seen her since she walked out.’

Catherine raised her eyes to the ceiling as Kendrick frowned. ‘Walked out of where?’

  ‘My office. I’d just told her we were letting her go.’

  ‘I thought she was providing some sickness cover?’

  ‘She was supposed to be, but she wasn’t even capable of that.’ Worthy shook his head in disgust. ‘We didn’t want her sort.’

  ‘Keeley Pearce died of a drug overdose.’ Kendrick’s eyes were fixed on Worthy’s face. The other man’s expression didn’t change, though his cheeks flushed a little. He pulled a white handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped his face.

  ‘That’s sad, Chief Inspector, but I’m not sure what it has to do with me. I don’t employ people who use drugs.’

Catherine snorted and Kendrick let out a chuckle. ‘Keeley didn’t have a drug habit, Mr Worthy. She died when one of the many packets of cocaine she was carrying in her stomach burst.’

Worthy stared at him, his jaw working. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means she’d been employed as a drug mule, paid to carry cocaine secretly into the country.’

Out came the handkerchief again, and Worthy took his time formulating a reply.

  ‘Again, this has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Can you fly, Mr Worthy?’ Catherine asked. He glanced at her.

  ‘Not without an aircraft, Sergeant Bishop.’ He gave a nervous titter, then swallowed a few times. ‘Yes, yes I have a licence. It’s all up to date, I assure you.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. Do you pilot planes?’

  ‘Mostly microlights these days. They’re cheaper to run.’ He attempted a smile.

  ‘Interesting. And the cost is a factor, is it?’

  ‘Well, yes. We all have to watch what we spend these days.’ Worthy blinked a few times and ran a hand over his balding head.

  ‘Especially when your business is struggling?’ Kendrick enquired, his tone friendly. Worthy glared at him.

  ‘Now, just a second . . .’

  ‘Are you denying that your company is in trouble?’ Kendrick pressed.

  ‘It’s not doing as well as in previous years I admit, but it’s not struggling.’

  ‘You can see why we’ve brought you in?’

He glanced from Kendrick to Catherine. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Let me spell it out. You have access to people who are struggling for money. Your own business could do with a cash injection. You fly planes, small planes that could sneak in and out of the country undetected. A woman who was employed by you dies, and another woman, also employed by you, is missing. We have a witness who states that Keeley Pearce was offered the chance to earn some money as a drug mule by someone at your company. Are you beginning to see our reasoning?’

Worthy’s eyes were wide, his face pale. ‘It’s nonsense.’

  ‘Who are you working with?’ Catherine asked now. ‘Alex? We know he can fly too. There would need to be two of you to have carried Keeley down the path to where you left her. Two men were also seen with Lauren Cook just before she disappeared.’

Worthy gulped. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, there are lots of people who can pilot planes around here.’ He hesitated, then a look of cunning crossed his face. ‘Perhaps I could help you after all . . .’

  There was tap on the door and Simon Sullivan stuck his head into the room. ‘Can I have a word please, Ma’am?’

45

Maybe when they had to stop at traffic lights he could jump out? No, that wouldn’t work. Too risky.

  ‘How did you know where I was?’ he asked, finding as he spoke that he didn’t much care. Chances were he wouldn’t live to see the morning anyway, so what did it matter? The other man laughed.

  ‘There’s an app on your mobile that I can use to track you. Haven’t you seen it?’

He shrugged. ‘I hardly use my phone.’

  ‘No, not blessed with friends, are you?’

  ‘I used to be.’

  ‘Whatever you say. Should have turned your mobile off anyway.’ He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, smiling to himself.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

They were driving along the side of the River Trent, the blackness of the treacherous waters flowing below them. He turned his head and stared out at the darkened sky. It was bright and clear, thousands of stars visible. It would freeze tonight. 

  ‘To see the boss?’

  ‘Well, he is keen to hear your explanation for your top secret trip to the railway station. You’ve got a date first though.’

He closed his eyes.

  ‘A date?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about Lauren?’ Fat chance. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, alone and no doubt freezing. ‘Look on the bright side,’ his companion continued. ‘She’ll be half-dead already.’

  ‘Great,’ he mumbled, opening his eyes and fixing them on the road ahead.

  ‘Makes your life a lot easier. I’ve even brought you some rope.’

  ‘Rope?’

  ‘Look, I understand stabbing someone’s a big ask. Strangulation though, you don’t even need to look at her, you just keep on pulling.’

He almost laughed. ‘Much easier then.’

They were approaching the police station now. He felt the bile in his mouth again, the sense of his life disappearing before him. Stupid. Stupid and pathetic. Why was he sitting here, allowing himself to be driven like this, as passive as a child? Why had he even got into the car? He swallowed as an idea crawled into his mind. It was ridiculous, suicide, but it had to better than being a murderer. It all depended on chance now though.

  He slid his left hand from his lap to the side of his leg, careful not to make any sudden movements, then held his breath. The other man hadn’t noticed. He was whistling again, irritating and tuneless.

  Another second passed before he made a similar movement with his right hand, allowing it to hover near his trouser pocket. It was out of his control now. He stared at the traffic, hoping, willing it.

  And then it happened.

  The car in front of them braked, then halted. A few people were waiting to cross the road at a pelican crossing fifty meters or so away. Swearing, his companion brought their car to an abrupt standstill. He gulped and moved, knowing he had seconds to act. His left hand snaked out and grabbed the door handle just as his right released his seatbelt. When the door flung open, the other man grabbed his wrist, yelling, ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ He yanked away, tumbling onto the pavement hard on his hands and knees. His palms burned as he scrambled to his feet. The driver stared at him for a second, then shook his head. ‘You’re a dead man,’ he snarled, wrenching off his own seatbelt.

 
Move!
he told himself, and started to run. The police station was a couple of hundred metres away. If he made it, even if he reached the pavement outside, he’d be safe.

  His bruised knees screamed out as he pounded along, his cheap plimsolls allowing every stone to punch painfully into the soles of his feet. He could hear the grunts of the other man pursuing him.

  He kept running, dodging an elderly man walking a Jack Russell, skirting round a group of laughing teenagers. One girl shouted, ‘My mate fancies you!’ as he ran by. Their giggles rang in his ears as his breathing became laboured. He was slowing, a stitch burning his body, his saliva thick and choking.

  He held a hand to his side, panting. Why was he so unfit? He was jogging now, limping along, willing his aching knees to move a little faster. He couldn’t hear the other man – had he given up?

  There was a squeal of tyres behind him, and a theatrical scream rose from the gang of teenagers as the car he had just escaped from accelerated up the road, its engine roaring. The rest of the group cheered, waving their hands in the air like football supporters whose team have just scored a goal. He covered his face with his hands. At least the other man didn’t have a gun – or did he? He waited for the crack, the pain.

  Nothing happened. The car flew past as he stood there panting, its lights disappearing around the corner. He swallowed again, tasting blood on his tongue. The police station stood in front of him, a few lights flickering. He wanted to turn and run again but he knew what he had to do. Glancing up at the stars again for a second, he turned and began to limp down the path.

  He tried to push open the door, but it held fast, and he stared stupidly at it before noticing the sign. The police station was closed.

  He let out a roar of frustration. What now? He could call 999, but that didn’t seem right. Turning back to the station door, he spotted the out-of-hours number. Without giving himself time to think, he tapped it into his phone and waited until a pleasant-sounding male voice answered. He panted that he was outside Northolme police station and that he had important information regarding a missing woman.