Rod Lucas looked down at the addresses on his lap, the two other victims of recent explosions, and they were all on his patch, a rural area around Pendle Hill. Although he had worked in the towns nearby earlier in his career – Blackley, Turners Fold – he had spent most of his career patrolling the tight lanes around the hill. He understood the crime in his area, mostly diesel thefts or large brawls in remote pubs, country boys settling their disputes in the old-fashioned way. The explosions were different. They seemed planned, targeted.
He was outside one of the addresses. He checked his list against the number on the house, peering through the mud smeared on the windscreen of his Land Rover, and stepped out onto the pristine new tarmac of a modern housing estate. He looked along and saw a succession of green lawns, square and flat. As he walked towards the door, faux Georgian, with wooden panels and a frosted glass arch, he heard only the hard smack of his boots on the paved driveway, the curved streets quiet. It took just one knock to get the door to open.
‘Hello?’ said a female face from behind a security chain, young and cautious.
‘I'm Inspector Rod Lucas,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you about the explosion in your garden last week.’
‘You don't look like the police.’
Rod looked at his outfit. He couldn't argue with that. He was still wearing his pruning clothes, a checked shirt and grubby corduroys. He pulled out his wallet and showed the Lancashire Police crest.
The door closed for a moment, and Rod heard the rattle of the security chain. When the door opened fully, the face at the door turned into a teenage girl running down the hall. College girl was Rod's guess.
‘Mum?’ she shouted. ‘There's a policeman to see you.’
The girl turned round and pointed to a room at the front of the house. ‘Go in,’ she said. ‘Mum won't be long.’ When Rod smiled, she blushed and then skipped into a room at the back of the house.
Rod opened the door to the living room, and he was surprised. He had expected a modern look; laminated flooring, coal-effect fire, maybe a large television. Instead, it was similar in style to Abigail's cottage, like a Gothic lair, with a heavy black chandelier and dark red walls. The fireplace was high and open and made of dull grey stone, more suited to a castle than a modern box in a faceless estate.
He turned around when he heard the door open, and in walked a woman in her early forties, her hair dark and long, crimped into waves, wearing a long linen dress, her feet bare.
‘Isla Marsden?’ Rod queried. When she smiled
whimsically, he said, ‘I'm here to ask some questions about the recent explosion in your garden.’
‘It was in the shed,’ said Isla, her voice soft, an almost dreamy quality.
‘It's happened to someone else,’ said Rod. ‘Except that someone was hurt today.’ When Isla didn't respond, he said, ‘It was an old lady called Abigail Hobbs.’
Rod saw the flinch, just a widening of her eyes, before Isla quickly brushed her hair from her face, a reflex action, and resumed her faraway smile.
‘Do you know her?’ he asked.
Isla made a bad show of thinking about her answer, and then she shook her head. ‘I don't think so.’
‘Her cat died, and Abigail is in hospital, hurt quite badly. Are you sure you don't know her?’
Isla shook her head again.
‘Do you have any more ideas about who might have caused the explosion?’ he asked.
Again, Isla responded with just a shake of the head, and then she said, ‘I thought I had to ask you that question,’ her voice defensive.
‘We're trying our best,’ he said solemnly. When she didn't answer, he nodded and said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Marsden. I'll keep in touch.’
As he walked out of the room, heading for the front door, he paused. ‘It's funny, though, Mrs Marsden, about the coincidence,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
He turned round and saw that her composure had slipped. He looked down at her hand. ‘You share the same taste in jewellery.’ As her cheeks flushed, he pointed
at her right hand. ‘You even wear it on the same finger. Third finger, right hand. The screaming face, silver on black. Abigail has one too.’
As she looked at him, her eyes worried now, Rod nodded at her.
‘Thank you for your time,’ he said. ‘Call me if you want to talk,’ and then he clicked the door closed as he went back to his vehicle.
I was heading for the college, trying to shake off my unease about my private life. I wanted to speak to Katie again, to find a reason why Luke's friend had described Sarah's relationship with Luke so differently. I remembered that Katie said she had lectures, so college seemed like a good place to start.
I didn't normally feel old. I was thirty-four but had kept my hairline, just speckles of grey spoiling the dark waves, but suddenly I felt a generation gap as I hung around the college building. It was an offshoot of one of the Manchester universities, a seven-storey concrete slab in the middle of Blackley, next to a one-way system, so that lectures were disturbed by posing young men driving the loop, watching the girls and playing music at distorted levels, making the shop windows rattle as they went past. Young students with rucksacks and attitudes stared at me as I looked around, their faces obscured by hoods, their legs stick-thin in baggy denims. The security guard was chatting up the young female students, his chest puffed out, feet apart.
Katie had said she was studying history, so I made my way inside and searched for the history department.
It didn't have much of one, not what you could call a faculty, just lectures taking place on different floors, marked out by timetables printed on notice-boards. I walked the corridors but I couldn't see her.
I headed out and decided to take a drive past the house. I struck lucky. Katie was just locking up the house as I drove up the street, and she looked startled as I scraped my wheels against the kerb, squeezing behind a scruffy green Fiesta. When I jumped out of the Stag, she relaxed and smiled. ‘Back so soon?’
‘I've got a few more questions,’ I replied.
‘Well, I was just going out.’
‘Let me take you,’ and I went to open the passenger door.
Katie looked up and down the street before throwing her bag into the passenger footwell and climbing in.
‘Where do you need to be?’ I asked.
Katie thought for a moment, and then said, ‘College will do.’
‘Again? How many lectures do you have a day?’
‘I need to go to the library, that's all,’ she replied. When I didn't respond, she turned towards me and asked, ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Just more about Luke and Sarah,’ I replied. ‘There are a few things I can't get straight.’
‘What like?’
I set off driving, the Stag struggling up the steep hill. ‘You told me before that Luke and Sarah were close, that Sarah loved him,’ I said. ‘It would explain a jealous rage, I suppose, the knife in the chest, but Luke's friend tells it differently. He talked like it was a casual thing
on both sides. That makes a rage less likely. So which one is real?’
Katie looked out of the window as old houses were replaced by traffic lights and a quick route out of town, the grey strip of the inner ring road, trees and flowers along the edge to break up the concrete. ‘The real Sarah is different to what people think,’ she said.
We were near the college again, and so I found somewhere to park and turned off the engine. Katie turned towards me, one knee onto the seat, and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘What do you think about Luke's murder?’
I could smell Katie's perfume, sweet and cloying. ‘I don't think anything,’ I replied. ‘Not yet. So tell me, why do you think Luke saw it differently to Sarah?’
‘Does it matter?’ she asked.
‘Maybe. It can't be a lover's rage if it was just a fling.’
‘Are you in love, Jack?’
I found myself about to say no, I didn't know why, like I'd been caught off-guard, but then I stopped myself and asked her why she wanted to know.
‘You're a man, Jack,’ Katie continued. ‘When have you ever told your friends that you loved a woman? I don't mean find attractive, or wanted to fuck, or whatever. I mean told a friend that you truly loved a woman?’
I didn't answer when I realised that she was right. And Callum too. That living up to being a man is all about the conquests, not the losses.
‘Sarah was in love,’ she said, her voice low and soft. ‘She talked about Luke all the time, like she was making plans. If Luke thought differently, well, that was his
choice. He wouldn't be the first man to say I love you and not mean it.’
‘So that's it then?’ I said incredulously. ‘This all happened because Sarah loved Luke, but he didn't respond? Was she that unpredictable?’
Katie pulled at some strands of hair, twisting it between her fingers before letting it fall to her head. ‘Some people are like that,’ she said. ‘Great fun when things are going well, but she could be nasty and hurtful, very hot-tempered.’
‘A lot of people snap,’ I said, ‘but they don't all plunge knives into their boyfriend's chest. They'd just been in bed together. It seems quite a leap.’
‘I wasn't there when it happened, so I wouldn't know,’ Katie said, and she sounded hurt, like I was pushing it too much. Then she sighed. ‘I've never seen a dead body before,’ she said quietly, and she dabbed her nose with her sleeve, like a nervous reaction, her cuff over her hand. ‘He was just sort of splayed out,’ she continued, although I was surprised at the evenness of her voice. ‘There was this knife, just there, sticking out, with blood all over the bed. I've never seen so much blood before.’
‘What did you do?’
Katie gave a small laugh, embarrassed. ‘It sounds stupid now, but I called an ambulance. I don't know why, I could tell he was dead, but it was like an automatic reaction. When they came, they called the police.’ She rested her elbow on the car door and looked at me, her eyes filled with worry. ‘I'm scared, Jack.’
‘You've no need to be,’ I replied.
‘Because you're here?’ She shuffled closer towards me
and put her hand on my leg. ‘You seem like a kind man.’ Her eyes stared into mine. Before I could answer, she said quietly, ‘Hold me.’
I was surprised, her touch unexpected. I closed my eyes, knowing that I had to end it as her hand stroked my leg. An image of Laura flashed into my head, and I took hold of Katie's hand.
‘It's okay,’ she said softly, ‘it doesn't mean anything.’
‘It would mean something to me,’ I said firmly, and lifted her hand from my leg.
‘I just needed someone to be there for me,’ she said, sounding hurt. ‘I'm sorry. Just forget it.’
‘No, no, it's not like that,’ I protested, feeling guilty now. ‘It's just, well…’
‘You might get caught?’ She shook her head. ‘Like I said, it doesn't matter,’ and then she reached for the door handle.
‘Don't,’ I said, too quickly.
Katie turned around, a half-smile on her lips. ‘What is it?’
‘I just want to finish the story,’ I said. ‘There are more things I want to know.’
‘Call me then, so we can spend more time together,’ Katie replied, flirting, and then she opened the door and stepped onto the pavement.
I leaned across the passenger seat and asked, ‘Do you think Sarah killed him?’
Katie leaned into the car. ‘Who else could it be?’
‘If Sarah had killed Luke and run away,’ I replied, ‘she would go somewhere she felt safe, maybe a favourite holiday place, or with friends who didn't know about
Luke. Did Sarah ever talk about anywhere away from Blackley?’
‘Everyone in Blackley dreams of being somewhere else,’ she said.
‘Except that not everyone leaves,’ I responded. ‘So did she talk of anywhere else?’
Katie shook her head. ‘She's nearby.’
‘How do you know?’
Katie looked round, seemed worried that someone might be listening, and then whispered, ‘She has written to me.’
I was shocked. ‘What do you mean?’
She gave me a knowing smile. ‘Just that,’ she said. ‘I've been getting letters from Sarah.’
‘There's been nothing in the papers about that,’ I said.
‘The police are keeping them quiet, and they told me not to say anything about them,’ she replied.
I knew that sounded right. It was the sort of thing that the police would keep back, they had done ever since the Yorkshire Ripper tapes misled everyone and allowed Peter Sutcliffe to kill more women.
‘What do they say?’ I asked.
Katie shook her head at me. ‘Give me a call, Jack Garrett, and you might just find out,’ she said, and then she walked away, her bag swinging in her hand.
I jumped out of the car and shouted, ‘Wait!’, but Katie just kept on walking.
I watched her go, intrigued. I wanted to know more, I knew that, but I wondered what risks came with that, from the story and from Katie.
Blackley police station was on the edge of the town centre, in an old Victorian building next to the court, with steps to the front door and Roman arches over the windows. The interior showed its age, as paint flaked from the walls and cold draughts blew along the corridors. That would all be changing soon. The police were moving to a new-build station on the edge of Blackley, so the station was filled with boxes and crates as officers packed up exhibits and personal effects.
Laura was at the custody desk in its basement, a high wooden counter with dingy lighting and posters advertising prisoners' rights. The sergeant was hovering over a clipboard, watching Laura's prisoner count his change, making sure that he couldn't accuse anyone of stealing from him, before he got him to sign the custody record. An end to another fruitless day, thought Laura.
‘There'll always be another time,’ growled Pete.
‘You said that last time,’ came the reply, the prisoner smirking as he threaded his belt around his waist.
Laura placed her hand on Pete's arm as she saw him
tense, but then she saw someone through the glass in the custody door. DCI Karl Carson.
He was hard to miss, a large man in a lilac shirt and navy trousers, his tie bright purple, knotted large, like he had lost count when doing the final loop. His bald dome glowed bright pink, more scrubbed than shaved, his face just the same, with not even the trace of eyebrows to break up the shine. Laura knew his name, and his reputation had been whispered around the station when the murder squad moved in. Ruthless and rule-bending, sometimes arrogant, but he had a squad of eager young men devoted to him, knowing that Carson got results, either through sheer persistence, or often by persuading witnesses to talk to him when they had resisted the polite way, his squad happy to swap their social lives for long hours of overtime and the occasional glimpse of the spotlight.
Laura thought about her meeting with Jack, and she felt her anger bubble to the surface again, that he was interfering in a live case, and that it could affect her; she hadn't been in Blackley long enough to fall back on too much goodwill. But she realised that he was right about one thing: that it would look worse for both of them if it appeared that he was secretly helping Sarah Goode.
She mumbled to Pete that she would be back in a moment and buzzed herself out of the custody office with the swipe card that hung around her neck whenever she was in the station. Carson was moving quickly along the corridor, heading for the Incident Room. Laura caught up with him just as he was about to step inside.
‘Can I have a word, sir?’
He stopped and looked at her, and then gave a quick smile.
‘How can I help?’
Laura paused for a moment as she saw those in the Incident Room stop what they were doing and look at her. The scene was as it had been since their move from headquarters, a temporary stop-over from their normal base on the outskirts of Preston, just in Blackley for the Sarah Goode case: paperwork and coffee, fingers tapping on keyboards, eyes concentrated on computer monitors, pastel shirts and bright ties. But now the activity had stopped, and all eyes were on Laura.
‘Can I have a word about the Sarah Goode case?’ Laura asked.
She noticed Carson tuck in his stomach and puff out his chest. The trips to the gym didn't keep off the weight, but it turned his bulk into something solid. He looked to his colleagues before he answered, a smirk on his face. ‘Fire away, sweetheart.’
Laura looked into the Incident Room again and wished she had waited. Most of the faces were smiling, but they weren't friendly. They were waiting for the show – and Laura knew that it was too late to back out.
‘My boyfriend is a reporter,’ she said, ‘and he's been approached by Sarah Goode's parents.’
Carson blinked, the information registered, but then he started to grin. ‘Boyfriend?’ he said, turning to his team. ‘How old is he? Sixteen?’
Laura went red, but from anger, not embarrassment. She didn't respond, knowing that she would say something she would later regret.
‘Tell me more,’ he said, smiling. ‘What's your name?’
‘DC McGanity,’ replied Laura. ‘On the CRT.’
‘First name?’ he said.
‘Laura.’
‘Okay, Laura, what did Sarah's parents want with your boyfriend?’
‘They want him to find Sarah,’ she replied. ‘They went to their solicitor first, and he set up the meeting.’
‘So it's coming through a lawyer?’ Carson queried, sounding sceptical. ‘And if he finds her?’
‘He's got to tell her to hand herself in.’
‘Why are you telling me?’
‘Because he asked me to,’ she replied.
‘And what if he tells you more but doesn't ask you to repeat the favour? Will you still come and speak to me?’ Before Laura had the time to respond, he said aggressively, ‘Because pillow talk is not confidential. You hear anything, little lady, come down here and tell me. Understand?’
‘I just thought you ought to know,’ Laura replied, feeling humiliated, her heart pounding with anger. When she turned to leave the room, someone spluttered a laugh behind Carson, and he started to grin.
As she walked quickly back down the corridor, she was aware of a pause, and then she heard the noise of Carson's team laughing. She guessed that Carson was leading the chorus.
When Laura burst back into the custody office, she saw her prisoner's arrogant grin.
‘If you hit him because he was messing around with your girlfriend,’ she said to him, her stare hard and direct, ‘you might have chosen the wrong tactic.’
The grin wavered. ‘Why?’
‘Us girls don't like to get lonely,’ she said, stepping closer. ‘I can bet who she spent last night with.’ Laura looked at her watch theatrically. ‘Do you want me to call her, to give him time to leave?’
The prisoner's face turned into an angry flush before the custody sergeant buzzed open the exit door. Laura stomped away quickly, slowing down only when Pete caught up with her.
‘I could learn from you,’ he said, as he got alongside her. ‘Menace with a smile.’
Laura sighed. ‘I let myself down,’ she replied.
Pete laughed and waved it away. ‘No, it was fun.’
As they walked along the corridor from the custody area, Laura heard laughter ahead. She guessed what was coming even before Carson appeared in the doorway, a few members of his team just behind him, sharing the joke.
They went quiet as Pete approached them, although the smiles remained. As Carson went past, Pete nodded and said, ‘Afternoon, sir’, more out of obligation than respect. Carson didn't respond. Instead, he looked down at Laura, before raising what should have been eyebrows at his team.
Laura looked down and took a deep breath, not yet ready for formalities. As their footsteps receded, she glanced back. One of Carson's men looked back towards her at the same time. He was dressed differently to the rest, in a dark polo shirt and casual trousers, bulky pockets on his thighs. As Laura looked, he smiled and nodded.
‘If ever you need a reason not to get promoted, there's a few to choose from there,’ said Pete.
Laura didn't respond at first. Instead, she walked on ahead, stopping only when she was back at her desk, holding another handover package.
‘C'mon,’ she said quietly. ‘There's another cell to empty.’