Текст книги "Cold Kill"

Автор книги: Neil White

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Chapter Six

Jack was smiling by the time he reached the court, even though the shadow of the court building took away the warmth of the sun.

The drive into Blackley had done its job, with the wind in his hair and the roof down on his Stag, and so the ghoulishness of the murder scene began to seem a little more distant. He had driven as quick as he dared through the terraced back streets, avoiding the traffic lights and relishing the echo of the engine as he shot between the rows of parked cars, hemmed in between the solid line of brickwork dotted by windows and door frames. The car was his father’s legacy when he died, and so Jack liked to give it a good run out when he could, the feel of the wheel his link to those childhood Saturday mornings spent with his father.

He looked up to the four storeys of millstone with tall windows and deep sills, decorative pillars built into the walls on the upper floors. The police station had once been next door, the prisoners’ journey into court through a heavy metal door at the end of the cell corridor and then up some stone steps, the light of the courtroom making them blink as they arrived in the dock. The police station had moved out to an office complex by the motorway, but the court had survived redevelopment, if survival was measured by draughty courtrooms and bad acoustics. The prisoners arrived at court in a van now, the subterranean journey through the tiled cell complex replaced by a short walk across the town centre pavement in handcuffs.

Jack had no expectations as he approached the entrance. He always kept an eye out for the unusual cases, and so he listened in to the chatter of the lawyers, especially the prosecutors, because they always relished the chance to tell a good story. Something amusing or with low-shock value usually worked nicely, but the best cases rarely ended on the first hearing, so he kept a diary, just to make sure that he didn’t miss the hearings. The best cases attracted the internet spies though – those who looked at his reports and then turned up for the sentencing hearings – and so he preferred the unexpected.

He strode up the court steps and noticed how quiet it was. He was used to striding through the haze of old tobacco mingled with nervous sweat and last night’s booze, but there was none of that today. His feet echoed against the long tiled corridor cast in yellow lighting with interview rooms to one side. It was almost deserted, apart from three people waiting, staring into space. He glanced at the clock. It was just after eleven. It seemed too early to have cleared the morning list.

It should have been busier. He’d been attracted to crime reporting by the mayhem, the excitement he’d felt for the stories of bad men doing wicked things. It had always been crime that had interested him, from the television thrillers of his childhood to the Johnny Cash prison concerts that his father played constantly. His father had been a policeman, and Jack remembered the pride he’d felt when his father left each morning, his trousers dark and pressed, his boots shined, ready to take on the bad guys. Jack grew more distant from his father as he grew older, when they both retreated into themselves after the death of Jack’s mother, but when he was smaller, his father felt like his own private superhero.

He looked back at the security guards by the entrance, old men in crisp white shirts, security wands in their hands. They were already counting the minutes until lunch. So this was it? Jack Garrett, hotshot reporter. He sighed. A quiet court meant nothing to report.

The duty solicitor room – a small square room designed for client interviews usually filled with bored lawyers moaning about how they couldn’t make a fortune anymore – was slightly busier.

He put his head in to ask if anyone had a case worth writing up. There was a general shake of the head and then it went quiet. They spoke to him when they wanted publicity or an audience for their wit, but Jack would never be part of the lawyer-clique, he knew that. His old denims and long blue shirt didn’t fit in with the dark pinstripes. Some were doing crosswords, photocopies from the national papers that got passed around at court. Sam Nixon was there, one of the main players, who practised from a small office over a copy shop, where tattered sofas and plastic plants served as a reception waiting area.

‘Nothing at all for you, Sam?’

He shook his head. ‘Times are lean, Jack.’

‘I’ve just been up to a murder scene,’ Jack said. ‘They’ve found another girl.’ Everyone looked up at that. ‘Maybe you’ll get a slice of that when they catch the killer?’

‘You see, us lawyers are not that bad,’ Sam said, waving his hand at the others in the room. ‘We want the killer to be caught, not stay free.’

‘That bad?’

Sam smiled. ‘It might keep me in business for another few months.’

‘You’re all heart,’ Jack said, and then nodded at the prosecutor, who was playing with a touchscreen phone. ‘And it might generate some excitement from him.’

‘I doubt it. I had to blow the dust from him before,’ Sam said.

The prosecutor looked up and raised his eyebrows, just greying on the fringes, to match the silver streaks along his temples. ‘My activity is all deep,’ he said, grinning. ‘That’s the trouble with defence lawyers: they’re all show and no substance.’ Then he pointed towards the door as the sound of bold footsteps clicking rhythmically on the tiles got louder and louder. ‘Just to prove my point.’

Jack put his head back out of the door and knew who it was before he even saw him: David Hoyle.

He was different from the rest of the defence lawyers. Most of the lawyers in Blackley were sons of old names, the firms passed through the generations, sometimes split up and married off to other firms. Hoyle was an outsider. He had been sent to Blackley to head up the new branch of Freshwaters, a Manchester firm trying to establish a foothold away from the big city. No one had expected it, and Hoyle had just arrived at court one day, in a suit with broad pinstripes and a swagger that no one seemed to think he had earned.

The other lawyers didn’t like him, because he made bold promises that made clients shift loyalties. Low-level crooks usually wanted nothing more than someone to shout on their behalf, and David Hoyle did that. And he didn’t work out of an office. Freshwaters had premises, but it was really just somewhere for Hoyle to park his Mercedes. He ran his files from home, did his own typing, and visited his clients on their own turf.

His client trotted behind him, a red-faced man in a grey suit, his stomach pushing out the buttons, his shoes shiny underneath the pressed hems of his trousers. He wasn’t the usual court customer. Suddenly, Hoyle turned to smile and shake hands with his client, but from the look of regret Hoyle gave, Jack guessed that things hadn’t gone his way.

There was the scent of a story, a disgraced professional always gets a column, and so he checked his pocket for his camera; get the picture first, the story later, because the shame sold better if there was a face a neighbour might recognise. It was the part of the job that used to make Jack most uncomfortable, but he’d learned a long time ago that he had to write stories that people wanted to read, and having a troubled conscience didn’t help sell a newspaper.

Jack watched them walk past and then headed after them as they made their way to the steps and then outside.

Hoyle had stopped at the bottom to straighten his tie and fix his hair, using the glass panel in a door as a mirror, before lighting a cigarette.

‘I’m too good for this place,’ he said to his reflection, and then turned round and blew smoke towards Jack, who had appeared over his shoulder. ‘Mr Journo, you’re looking twitchy.’

‘Where’s your client?’ Jack said.

Hoyle took another long pull on his cigarette. ‘Now, what do you want with that poor man?’ he said, wagging a finger.

‘When there isn’t much going on, I have to chase what I can.’

‘Didn’t you have bigger ambition than that when you first started out?’ Hoyle said. ‘Dreams of travel, interviewing presidents, uncovering conspiracies?’

‘What do you mean?’

He grinned, smoke seeping out between his teeth. ‘This?’ he said, and he pointed up the stairs. ‘Was this your plan when you left reporting school, or wherever you people graduate from, trying to shame people for stepping on the wrong side of the line sometimes?’

‘It’s not like that,’ Jack said, bristling.

‘So what is it like?’

‘It’s the freedom of the press,’ Jack said. ‘It’s about letting the wider community know what is going on around them, where the threats lie. Over the years, it paints the town’s history.’

Hoyle raised his eyebrows. ‘If that makes you feel better.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You flatter yourself, cover yourself in glory talk,’ Hoyle said. ‘It’s all bullshit, this freedom of the press stuff.’

‘And this was your life plan?’ Jack retorted. ‘Did you always dream of giving speeches to a bench of bored greengrocers in a backwater Lancashire town? Why are you here? Did it not work out in the big city?’

‘We’re both parasites,’ Hoyle said, his voice low, stepping closer to Jack. ‘Necessary evils, that’s all. A fair justice system is essential to our freedoms. That’s right, isn’t it, Mr Journo? Like a free press.’ He scoffed. ‘But that isn’t why I do it. I like the game, and if that means I help guilty people get away with bad things, so be it, because it is all a game, you know that. And if the odds are stacked against me, I’ve got to make sure that they don’t get the punishment they deserve, so they can skip out of court, laughing at the system. You like it that way too, because it means that you can write it up as an outrage. But I like what I do, because I get off on the fight, the challenge. What about you, Mr Journo?’

Jack rolled his eyes. ‘Do all defence lawyers think like you?’

Hoyle laughed. ‘Deep down, yes, but some are like you and cloak it in bullshit. All the stuff about protecting our freedoms? That is just crap, because it’s a dirty game, and you don’t pick your fight, your client picks it for you. It’s time for you to be honest with yourself now, and stop disguising your courtroom tales as freedom. It’s just gossip, tales over the garden fence, revelling in someone else’s downfall. God help us if the world is ever as bad as the papers make out.’

‘I can’t believe I’m having a debate about morals with a lawyer,’ Jack said.

Hoyle checked his watch and then winked, before flicking his cigarette stub onto the pavement outside. ‘You’re not,’ he said, with a grin. ‘You’ve been delayed. My client should be in his car by now, and well away from your camera lens.’

Jack sighed. Didn’t Hoyle ever stop playing the game?

‘You need to stop wasting your time in there,’ Hoyle said, pointing back up the court steps. ‘Go after a proper story.’

‘Give me one to think about.’

Hoyle smiled. ‘A good story always involves me,’ he said, and then patted Jack on the shoulder. ‘Next time, ask my client the questions, not me, because I’ll just protect my client every time,’ and then he set off, walking away from the court, a brown leather bag thrown over his shoulder.

Jack leaned against the door frame and watched him go. It was characters like Hoyle who made the courtroom a livelier place, made the day less tedious. And despite Hoyle’s brashness he knew Hoyle was right, he did need to kick-start his life again, instead of trying to get by on inquests and court stories.

Dolby had used the recession as an excuse to cut costs and streamline the paper, except that Jack knew it wasn’t just that. Newspapers were changing, with people going to the internet for the news, and so there was no longer the luxury of a cadre of staff reporters, with Jack providing the freelance stories. Dolby had just two full-time reporters left. He used freelance for the rest, and because there was always some eager new hack ready to provide the stories, Jack wrote whatever Dolby wanted. He hadn’t written anything of his own choosing for nearly a year now. It wasn’t why he went freelance, but he knew that his career was gone once Dolby looked elsewhere for material. He had thought about writing a book, but on the days he’d set aside for it, his fingers had just hovered over the keys and he’d written nothing.

Jack knew that the problem was deeper than just Dolby though. The court routine had become too comfortable, because going for the big stories had become too dangerous. Criminals were bad people, it came with the job description, but reporters didn’t come with the protection that police or lawyers enjoyed, because they weren’t players in the game. They were on the sidelines – observing, annoying, interfering. He was sick of the risk and had been hurt – badly – a couple of times.

Jack smiled ruefully as Hoyle disappeared from view, and then his mind drifted back to the murder scene. He thought about the victim from a few weeks earlier. The two deaths hadn’t been officially linked yet, but he ought to make the connection in his story, so that once it was confirmed, the story would be ready to run. An update from the first victim’s family would be a good way to start.

He glanced back up the court steps. There was nothing going on there, and so he walked back to the Stag, parked further along the road. It was time to concentrate on the murder story.

Chapter Seven

Laura chewed her lip as Carson approached the home of Don Roberts, a shiny redbrick detached house, with bright double-glazing and pillars under a small porch. A bay window jutted out towards the lawn. It wasn’t how she thought it would be. Joe had made Don Roberts out to be the local thug, and so she was expecting something a bit less suburban, although she did spot stone lions on either side of the front door, de rigueur for the criminal set. There was an Audi parked at the front, an RS8, black and sleek. Although Don’s house looked like the flashiest on the street, Laura guessed that he was still looked down on by the rest of the neighbourhood.

They’d come straight from the crime scene, and so they hadn’t had much time to plan what to say. When Carson looked at her, Laura nodded. She was ready.

A metal gate blocked the driveway, and it clinked loudly as she opened it. This was the part of the job she hated most, delivering bad news, knowing that whatever shade of normality was behind the door, it would soon be gone forever.

Carson took the lead, rapping loudly on the door. Laura noticed the lens of the CCTV camera in the shadow of the porch, and when the door opened, a woman appeared, her hair streaked blonde and pulled tight into a ponytail. The darker roots were showing through and there was a line of foundation around her face. She had a stud in her top lip and the pucker of lines around her mouth showed her as a heavy smoker.

‘Helen Roberts?’ Carson asked.

She nodded in response, her hand gripping the door jamb. Her stare was hard, as if she was used to dealing with the police at her doorstep, and Laura knew that they had been clocked straight away as that. But Laura sensed her uncertainty. Bad news or another pointless warrant?

Carson gave her a regret-filled smile. ‘Can we come in?’

‘Why?’ she said, the colour draining from her cheeks.

‘It really would be better if we came inside.’

‘Is it about Jane?’

Carson paused just long enough to give away the truth, and the woman’s eyes widened in shock.

She seemed to recover quickly, her default reaction to the police coming back, but still she couldn’t help swallowing hard when she asked, ‘Have you found her?’

Carson stepped towards her and let out a long, heavy sigh. ‘Did Jane have a butterfly tattoo on her wrist?’

At that, Mrs Roberts’ grip on the door slackened, and her eyes glazed over before she slumped to the floor.

Carson looked at Laura and then stepped forward to help her into the house.

Jack rooted through the newspapers he kept in his car to find the name of the first victim – Deborah Corley. He remembered her house, he had driven past it on the day she’d been found but had been beaten to the scoop by one of the employed writers. The newspapers were now strewn across the passenger seat, with pictures of Deborah and posed photographs of Deborah’s parents, looking tearful, a framed photograph of their daughter held on the mother’s knee.

The house was a large Victorian semi on the edge of Blackley, with a small square patch of flowers behind a low stone wall, the red brick of the house dark and covered in moss in places. A flower basket hung by the front door and the curtains in the white-framed sash windows were tied back neatly.

Jack stepped up to the front door. A woman watched from the house next door, and her look of disapproval said that she knew what he was doing: intruding. He steeled himself and turned away. He knew that her parents didn’t deserve the attention. He had the jump on the other media though, because he was on the spot. Blackley wasn’t a large town, and young women didn’t get murdered too often here. When the out-of-town press made the connection, this quiet crescent of driveways and two-car households would become busy with cameras.

He rang the doorbell.

There was a pause as the soft chimes echoed around the house, but then there was a twitch of a curtain, and when the door opened a few seconds later, a woman with a pale face and bags under her eyes looked out. Jack recognised her from the newspaper, although he could already see the weight dropping from her.

‘I’m sorry for the intrusion, Mrs Corley,’ he said. ‘My name’s Jack Garrett and I’m a reporter. I’ve come to see how you are doing, whether you’ve got any more news.’

She looked at him for a moment, as if she was going to slam the door in his face.

‘If Deborah’s killer is going to be caught, we need to keep her story in the news,’ he said.

She faltered at that, and then just turned and went inside. Jack followed.

It looked like she had spent the past three weeks cleaning the house, perhaps just to keep herself occupied. There was a strong smell of air freshener and the stair rails that climbed out of the hallway looked polished.

Jack followed her along a tiled hallway, stepping past a fishing rod and bait box, and into the room at the front. There was a dining table in the room behind, and the brief glimpse out of the rear window gave a view of a neat lawn surrounded by a splash of flowers. The room looked spotless. There were the tracks of a vacuum cleaner in the carpet, and the fireplace gleamed, the flowered tiles reflecting the light streaming in through the window. Photograph frames sat in a neat row on the mantelpiece. This had been a happy home.

As Jack looked out of the window, he was surprised to see the reservoir in the distance, where Deborah had been found. What must it feel like to see that all day, knowing what it meant?

‘I know this is not a good time,’ Jack said, as he settled into a chair, to make sure he stayed, ‘but I meant what I said, that we need to keep Deborah’s story in the news.’

She looked at the television for a moment. It was playing but the sound was turned down, as if it was there for the sake of distraction, not entertainment.

‘The police told me that, but it doesn’t make it any easier,’ she said. ‘Reliving it.’

‘And how are you?’

Tears welled up in her eyes and she took a deep breath. ‘Just getting by.’

‘What about your husband? How is he doing?’

She looked down. ‘Not good,’ she said. ‘He wants to go back to work, but he can’t face being there, because he knows everyone will be talking about Deborah.’

Jack shuffled in his chair, knowing that he was getting to the difficult part. ‘You know there’s been another?’ he said.

She stared into space for a few seconds before looking down at her lap. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The police called earlier and told me to expect press visits. I’m expecting Mike back soon.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘For a walk,’ she said. ‘He does that a lot now.’

Jack couldn’t respond to that. ‘Can you think of any reason why your daughter should be a target?’ he said instead.

Her chin puckered and her hand shot to her eyes, to wipe away the tears.

‘None at all,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘It’s a bloody cliché, I know, but she was a lovely girl, would do anything for anybody, and then some bastard comes along and just takes her away.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry for swearing,’ she said, her voice softer now, ‘but that’s what he is. Can you imagine what it is like to watch your daughter leave the house and never return? It had seemed like just another day. If I’d known…’ and she shrugged. ‘Well, things would have been different.’

‘You would have kept her safe at home, if you’d known,’ Jack said gently. ‘But you couldn’t know, and that’s why it is so cruel.’

She nodded, a smile breaking through the tears. Then there was the slam of the front door, followed by footsteps.

‘It must be Mike,’ she said, her eyes suddenly wary.

A small black-and-white mongrel bustled into the room and sniffed at Jack’s hands, checking out the stranger in the house.

‘He’s harmless,’ she said, her voice husky, and then looked up when Mike Corley walked in. He was dressed in jeans and a jumper, holding a dog lead. Jack guessed his age as early fifties. The faint boozer’s flush to his cheeks and the sag of his belly told him that he was dealing with his loss quite differently to his wife.

When he saw Jack, he scowled.

‘Hello, I’m a reporter,’ Jack said.

‘I guessed that much,’ he said sharply. ‘You didn’t waste much time.’

‘I know the police have told you about another girl being killed.’

‘So you want one more quote?’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll give you one: get out of my fucking house and leave us alone.’

‘Michael!’ Mrs Corley said.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Corley,’ Jack said, ‘but the more press exposure you get, the more chance the police will have of finding whoever killed Deborah.’

‘I’m a fucking police officer. Do you think I don’t know how the police work?’ Mike said, tears brimming onto his lashes. ‘You see, it’s not really about Deborah, is it, because when it was hinted that she’d had affairs with married men, it was like some kind of sick fatal attraction story, an excuse for you people to pick apart her life just to sell your papers? You don’t care who you hurt, provided that you put a few words on the page. So no more. Not from me.’

‘I’m not saying the press are perfect, but this is your chance to tell Deborah’s story.’

Mike pondered that for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘And I don’t want anything to do with it.’

Jack stood to go, and then pulled out one of his business cards and handed it to Mrs Corley. ‘Call me if you change your mind,’ he said.

Deborah’s father didn’t move as Jack left the house.