[DC Laura McGanity 05 ]Cold Kill Read online

  Then he stopped. He felt a jolt in his chest, winded, and his fingers gripped the side of the newspaper. His mind flashed back through the years, like a video on fast rewind.

  He put the paper down on his lap and looked out of the window again.

  The story had taken him back to just one boy, the one who had always troubled him. The abuse-driven anger he had always understood, but it had seemed to be more than that in his case. It was his coldness that stuck with him, the matter-of-fact way he talked about what he had done. A direct stare, a tilt of the head.

  He looked at the story again, and the memories from twenty years earlier became louder. The coffee machine bleeped that it had finished, but Rupert ignored it. He was thinking of something else now. Or rather, someone else. A quiet and withdrawn child, his hands on his lap, a flick of light hair, no emotions on his face.

  Jane Roberts was found strangled, with her mouth and other orifices filled with dirt and leaves.

  He glanced out of the window once more, but he thought the garden looked untidy this time, the cherry blossom cluttering his lawn and weeds emerging in the gaps between the flowers.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jack had been distracted by the emails, because the first time he realised he had unwelcome visitors was when the front door flew open. He hadn’t heard a car outside.

  Jack turned around, shocked, and then he looked for a weapon, a knife lying around, anything, but there was nothing to hand. Three men walked in, wearing black jeans and black T-shirts, hair cropped short, two of them with scars on their faces, memories of past conflicts etched into their skin. One of them was holding a dog, one of those muscled breeds, with menace in its eyes, straining at a leash. The man holding it was older than the other two, tall and angry-looking, his cheeks flushed booze-red. Don Roberts, Jack guessed.

  Jack tried to weigh up the situation. People like Roberts were all about intimidation, mean dogs and scowls, but Jack’s first guess was that Don wouldn’t attack him in his own home. They ruled by reputation, big men in a grim pond, self-crowned kings of a part of Blackley that most people aspired to leave, but Jack was not one of their subjects, and so was more likely to report them. Don was there to frighten, not harm.

  But Jack had written about Don’s daughter, about how she had been found. That would make him unpredictable.

  Jack tried to look relaxed. He crossed his ankles and waited for Don to speak first.

  It was a long and uncomfortable minute.

  Eventually, Don Roberts said, ‘You know who I am?’

  Jack nodded. ‘Jane’s father.’

  Don faltered at that. Normally people deferred to him, the big man, but Jack had referred to him in relation to his dead daughter.

  Don tensed and recovered. ‘So you know why I’m here.’

  ‘The article about the police leak.’

  Don scowled and moved forward, so that the dog was by Jack’s feet, its mouth open, panting slightly. ‘You wrote some disgusting things about my daughter.’

  Jack heard the break in his voice and saw how his eyes were rimmed red. He tried to remember that Don had lost a child. And Don wasn’t wrong, because Jack had mentioned what had happened to Jane.

  ‘If you read the story, you’d know it was about a police leak, not your daughter,’ Jack said.

  Don handed the dog to one of the other men and then bent down to put his face close to Jack’s. ‘You didn’t have to write it.’ He was so close that Jack could see the spittle on his lips and smell the lack of sleep on his breath.

  ‘It’s what I do.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ Don said, glaring at him.

  ‘Be angry at whoever is spreading stories, not me,’ Jack said, and tried to hide the nervousness in his voice.

  ‘I just want the fucker caught,’ Don said in a growl. There were the beginnings of a loss of control. His fingers shook and his breathing seemed laboured, as if he was struggling to hold onto his emotions.

  ‘So work with the police,’ Jack said.

  ‘What, so they can put him in a cell and give him a television, let him taunt me from prison with his Facebook page? Let him out in fifteen years’ time when he promises to be a good boy, and all the time my daughter stays dead?’ Don took some deep breaths and looked down. When he looked up again, his mouth was screwed up into a snarl, his fists clenched tightly. ‘That isn’t going to happen.’

  ‘So what is coming to Jane’s killer?’

  ‘Justice,’ Don said. ‘My brand, not the official version, and you’re going to help me.’

  Jack’s tongue flicked across his lips, his mouth dry. ‘How?’

  Don reached into his pocket and pulled out a small craft knife. He turned it in front of Jack’s eye, the blade glinting in the light that filtered in through the window. ‘I’m not going to hurt you right now, but I just want you to know how dangerous it is to say no.’

  Jack swallowed. ‘I don’t know how I can help you.’

  ‘It’s easy,’ Don said. ‘There is someone in the police contacting you, because that is what your story is all about.’ Don pressed the flat of the blade against Jack’s face, the tip pointing towards his eye. ‘Get him on your side and tell me what he says.’

  Jack didn’t respond. He wanted to shake his head, but the blade was too close.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Don said. ‘Got a pang of conscience?’

  ‘It’s more than a pang,’ Jack said, his voice hoarse. ‘It would just be wrong.’

  Don Roberts smiled, just a flicker, and then he pressed the blade down more firmly against Jack’s skin. ‘I didn’t give you a choice.’

  Jack struggled to keep his face still, not wanting a grimace or twitch to send the blade into his eye. ‘What if I don’t accept?’

  ‘Anybody who stands in my way is my enemy, and you do not want to be that person.’

  Jack’s gaze flitted between the blade and Don’s face. He could hear the dog growling, like a low rumble, his paws making light clicking sounds as he tried to get closer.

  Don stepped away and put the blade back into his pocket. Jack let out a long breath and looked towards the two apes standing behind Don. They were smirking.

  ‘So do you agree, Mr Garrett?’ Don asked.

  Jack chewed on his lip and then looked down as he shook his head. ‘I can’t do it,’ he said, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘It would be illegal, and if you caused the murderer any harm, I would be implicated. So no, I won’t do it.’

  Don stared at him, his hand inside his pocket. Jack thought he was going to go for the blade again, but the silence grew, and then Don snarled, ‘I expected that response, but I’ll persuade you eventually.’

  With that, Don turned to leave, his two henchmen in his wake. When the door clicked closed and he was alone again, Jack let out a long breath and cursed the leak story. Now he was really getting attention he didn’t want.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Rupert glanced towards the building that had been his practice until a few years ago. A building at the end of a long row of shops, painted white and with vertical blinds blocking the view inside, a small brass plaque by the front door, Barker and Holmes. He knew it would be quiet, because it wasn’t even ten o’clock. Most appointments were in the afternoon. The morning was for writing reports.

  He pressed the small silver button on the intercom, and after a click, heard a familiar voice ask him what he wanted.

  ‘Hello, Anne,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘It’s Rupert. Can I come in?’

  There was a laugh and then a buzz as the security lock allowed him in. He gave the heavy wooden door a push and then he was inside the building he thought he would never enter again.

  The smell was familiar, polish and air-freshener, the heating on too high, as always. A corridor stretched ahead, leading to some of the small rooms where he had tried to put right some of the disturbed young minds that had walked through the door. All Rupert could hope for was that some walked back along the same car
pet tiles with healthier minds than when they first entered.

  He turned towards the reception area, the low table covered with back copies of Lancashire Life, and saw a smile that had aged since he’d last seen it, but was still as welcoming.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling round,’ he said.

  ‘How can you say that?’ Anne said. ‘This is your practice.’

  ‘It was my practice,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m glad to be where I am.’

  ‘How is retirement?’

  ‘Quiet, but that’s how I wanted it.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Anne said, fast running out of conversation. She smoothed down her cream blouse and toyed with her fringe, her hair grey and brittle. He remembered her when she had first worked for him, an attractive brunette fresh out of a bad marriage. Twenty years later, Anne was moving towards old age. ‘Can I get you a drink, Doctor Barker?’ she said.

  ‘It’s just Rupert now,’ he answered. ‘I’m here to look at an old file.’

  Anne looked surprised at that. ‘Why? And how old?’

  ‘One of my former patients has looked me up,’ he said, lying to her. ‘He might want some more help, but I can’t remember enough about him. I’ll be able to refer him to the right place if I can remember the specifics.’

  ‘Is he still young enough to come here?’

  Rupert shook his head. ‘He’s a really old client. Maybe even before you joined.’

  Anne looked towards the back room, looking unsure. Rupert glanced the same way, towards the new partners of the practice, some young blood he had recruited not long before he retired to make sure that there was someone to buy him out. They were her bosses now.

  ‘What’s his name?’ she asked.

  ‘He wouldn’t say. He came to my house, became really agitated, and then left. I think he’ll come back.’

  Anne swallowed, nervous now.

  ‘He was my patient,’ Rupert said.

  Anne nodded, looking embarrassed. ‘Okay, I’m sorry. You know where they are. Promise you won’t take anything.’

  Rupert smiled. ‘I won’t.’

  He turned to leave the reception area and go through the fire door, but then he turned to see Anne holding up a small key. ‘You’ll need this.’

  Rupert took the key from her and thanked her, and then went back into the hallway.

  He walked quickly and quietly. He didn’t think the new partners would mind, because he was one of them, a fellow professional, not a rival, but still he was hoping to slip in and leave unnoticed.

  He unlocked the door to the cellar and then clicked on the light, squinting to make out what lay below in the mute glare of a naked bulb. There were wooden shelves lined with boxes, divided into years in accordance with a patient’s final consultation, each box packed alphabetically.

  As he thought of the boy, his mind flashed back to the end of the eighties. New age travellers and the Manchester scene. The 1985 box was on the middle shelf at the end of the row, the brown cardboard faded now. It was a good place to start. The lid had a film of grey dust and he sneezed as he lifted it down.

  As he raised the lid, the names on the files were like small nudges to his memory, just flashes of frightened young children, made angry by the big kicks life had given them. Yet none of them were the one that he’d had in his mind since he’d read the newspaper that morning.

  He pulled down the box for 1986. Still nothing.

  He grunted with exertion as he put a box back, and then worked his way through the late eighties. He felt a tremble of excitement when he pulled out the box for 1990.

  It took him a few seconds to work out the reason, but then he realised that it was the colour of the files. They had been buff-coloured before 1990, but as soon as he saw the blue files, he knew that he was closer.

  He flicked through the files slowly, the faces coming to him now as if he was flicking through photographs. Then his fingers stopped at a name. Grix. Shane Grix.

  Rupert’s fingers trembled as he reached into the box and pulled out the file. The file cover felt cold and his nose was filled with the scent of damp paper. He flicked through the contents, speckles of mould soiling some of the pages, and started to read, the scribbled notes from two decades ago jogging his memory.

  He put the file down and looked up at the cellar door. He had been right, but that didn’t make him feel better. People had died. The question now was whether he was prepared to stop it from happening again.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Jack trotted across the road to the court building. He was still angry from Don’s visit, and when he saw a police car further along the road, he remembered the emails again. Was he being watched? Was the killer a police officer, in that very car? Except that he also knew that police cars were often outside the court, waiting for police witnesses to finish giving their evidence.

  He wanted to get back to his routine though, but he saw that it was another slow news day as he climbed the steps – just the usual collection of deadbeats and villains mixed up with nervous first-timers. He headed for the courtroom, hoping for a hint from the prosecutor, and he walked quickly past the ushers’ kiosk, where they were clustered in their black gowns like caged rooks, waiting for the call to let them know which name they had to bellow out next. He got close to the courtroom door when he felt a tug on his arm. He looked round. It was David Hoyle.

  ‘I was looking for you,’ Hoyle said.

  Jack gave a small laugh. ‘I thought you were too good for this place, and now you need the publicity?’

  Hoyle shook his head slowly. ‘Come into a room. We need to talk privately.’

  Jack was curious, and so he nodded his agreement and then followed, but there was something about Hoyle’s attitude that made Jack decide that private didn’t mean off the record, and so he reached into his pocket to switch on his voice recorder.

  Hoyle led Jack to a small square room, fitted out with a square table and four chairs, the seat pads worn out by years of bored lawyers listening to tired old excuses. He put his files on the desk. ‘I saw the article in the paper this morning,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want me to sign it for you?’

  Hoyle frowned and put his hands on his hips. ‘You really are a smart arse, aren’t you,’ he said. ‘This is for your own good.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  Hoyle stepped closer, so that Jack felt the air around him fill with the cloying smell of old cigarettes. ‘I act for Don Roberts,’ Hoyle said, his voice almost a whisper, as if the news was supposed to elevate his status.

  Jack felt a ripple of anger when he heard Don’s name. ‘Which case is that?’ he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Because Don hasn’t been in trouble for a long time, so I’m told, and you haven’t been around that long. No, what you mean is that he sends all his cronies and runners to you, and although you think it gives you the power, so you can play your game, it’s really the other way around. It makes you one of his lackeys now, except that you don’t see it like that, because you wear a suit and carry a file.’ Hoyle’s cheeks were starting to flush red, but Jack wasn’t going to stop. ‘I had a visit this morning from Roberts and his goons, unhappy with my story, and I got too close to a blade for my liking,’ he said. ‘Well, tough shit, because writing stories is what I do, and so I’ll tell you what I told him, that I’ll keep on writing what I want to write, and I will not pass on information to him.’

  Hoyle took a deep breath, and the glare in his eyes said that he was trying to stay calm. ‘I’m not interested in your fucking artistic fulfilment, or whatever it is that drives you,’ Hoyle hissed angrily. ‘I’m telling you for your own good. I know what Don Roberts and his cronies can do. Remember, I’ve helped them get away with plenty, and there are cases that you don’t hear about, because I helped to keep them away from the court.’

  ‘Bully for you,’ Jack snapped back. ‘The difference between you and me is that I can pick and choose what I do, but you can’t, because you’re on th
e payroll.’

  ‘What if I can get you access?’ Hoyle said.

  Jack laughed bitterly. ‘Access? To what?’

  ‘To Don, to write his story,’ Hoyle said. ‘Don wants you to contact the leak, to send information to him, but there is another way. You could write about Don Roberts, but just write it up how Don wants it, not how the police do. It might bring people forward.’

  ‘Why should I want to? I’m not sure anyone would be that interested.’

  Hoyle considered Jack for a few moments, and then he sighed. ‘Let’s not talk around it, okay. This is off the record.’

  Jack thought about that and then nodded, and Hoyle’s eyes widened as Jack reached into his pocket to turn off the voice recorder. ‘It must have switched itself on,’ he said, as Hoyle shook his head, disbelievingly.

  ‘We both know that Don Roberts doesn’t exactly lead a regular nine-to-five,’ Hoyle said, once he saw that the red light was no longer on. ‘In one sense, he’s a businessman, except that he likes to keep his methods and profits to himself. Fine, that’s his problem. I don’t give him tax and business advice. I just help his casual employees when they get into trouble.’

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘Because he thinks I’m good, and because I work from home. I know I’ve got a big firm’s name on the letterhead, but I’m left alone to do the work in Blackley. Provided that I bill properly, the firm is happy, and Don Roberts doesn’t want a building full of clerks and secretaries in Blackley knowing his business. And he needs me handy. He pays me privately for those special friends of his, and so I don’t have to do all the Legal Services Commission bullshit with him.’

  ‘But why the turn around?’ Jack said. ‘Roberts was snarling threats this morning, and now he’s offering the exclusive. I don’t understand.’