From the Shadows Read online

  ‘We’re going to go through the statements we already have so you have some background knowledge. Our victim was last seen alive around nine o’clock on Saturday evening. The post-mortem isn’t being done until this afternoon. I’d like you to spend some time at the shelter. Chat to people, befriend them if possible, see what they can tell you.’

  ‘As a support worker, or a volunteer? Or…’ Catherine already knew the answer.

  ‘I’d like you to pose as a homeless person,’ Dolan confirmed. Catherine squirmed, and Dolan interpreted the movement correctly. ‘I know. Fooling individuals who are already vulnerable isn’t my idea of fun either. But if we’re to discover the truth, possibly protect them… They’ve closed ranks. Uniformed officers have been asking questions at the shelter, but have got nowhere. No great surprise, I suppose, but it doesn’t help us.’ Dolan pushed her fringe out of her eyes and checked her watch. ‘Why don’t we go and grab some coffee?’

  As they left the room, Dolan asked, ‘Have you spent much time here? I know you’re based at Northolme.’

  Catherine felt the familiar prickle of unease. How much did Dolan know about her? Her recent links to Headquarters were not a subject she wanted to revisit. Everyone who worked there thought her a total idiot. She knew for sure some of them did, anyway. Dolan glanced at her, and she replied, ‘I’ve never worked here for any length of time. I’ve attended courses, the odd briefing…’

  Dolan pushed through the door which led to the stairs and held it open for Catherine. ‘We need to be discreet, not only as far as the public is concerned, but…’ She glanced around. ‘Do you have a partner?’

  They were walking upstairs now, and it was difficult for Catherine to see Mary Dolan’s face. ‘No, I’m single,’ she said. ‘My brother’s living with me at the moment, but I’ll tell him I’ll be away for a few days. The only thing is…’ She hesitated again.

  Dolan waited. As they stepped onto the landing, she touched Catherine’s arm. ‘I’m aware of your history. DCI Kendrick told me.’ She lifted her shoulders, shaking her head. ‘You were blameless. We’re going to be working together closely on this, and I wouldn’t have asked you to come here if I wasn’t confident you could do the job. I’m expecting my team to arrive later this afternoon, but you’re going to be vital to the progress of the investigation.’ She kept walking.

  Catherine hurried after her. ‘Thank you. Something else I should mention – my brother is seeing Anna Varcoe, who’s one of our DCs back at Northolme.’

  Dolan smiled, unsurprised. Perhaps Kendrick had told her more than Catherine had guessed.

  ‘Yeah, fine. You can tell them you’re staying in Lincoln for a few days – some sort of training maybe? We’ll discuss it before you leave today.’

  The tic was pulsing again. Catherine kept her gaze on the floor, hoping the other woman wouldn’t see it. On first impressions, though, she doubted much slipped past Mary Dolan.

  * * *

  The man standing in front of him badly needed to wash his hair. Each time he moved his head, the stink of it wafted from him in stomach-churning waves. Lee swallowed, wanting to leave the queue but aware this was his only chance of a hot meal. Smelly Hair lifted a grubby hand and scratched at his greasy black curls. Lee pressed his lips together, his stomach heaving. The soup was tomato, he could see it being ladled into cups, but the only smell he was aware of drifted from the man standing in front of him. It wasn’t easy to keep clean, as he’d soon discovered himself, but there were places you could go. This was one of them; they didn’t offer washing facilities, but you could get some food and stash your bag safely for a while in a room off the church tacked on for some purpose which had been lost over the years. Unless they had always provided food for those in need here. Hadn’t religious buildings been places of sanctuary throughout history? Except when they were being demolished and plundered. He rocked back on his heels, hands shoved in his jeans pockets.

  Smelly Hair coughed, hacking and choking. Lee’s tension climbed another notch, the desire to escape flashing through his mind. Standing here, begging again, this time for cheap supermarket soup, hoping for a slice of thin white bread to dunk into the cup. It was degrading. Still, no one else seemed to mind.

  Smelly Hair was scratching again. The sound of the yellow, claw-like nails rasping against his scalp set Lee’s teeth dancing. He imagined tiny flakes of skin floating from the man’s head towards him, drifting into his nose, his mouth. Raising a hand, he covered the lower half of his face, trying not to gag. There were only two people in front of him in the queue now. One more minute, Lee promised himself.

  The woman doling out the food was round and middle-aged. She stood behind a trestle table half-covered by a garish plastic cloth. Drops of soup marked the ladle’s journey between the huge pan and the stack of polystyrene cups. He flashed his teeth at her as she held out his serving.

  ‘Here you go, love.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  He concentrated on not spilling the soup as her gaze slid over him. There were a few more tables with wooden benches, the kind he remembered from primary school, providing the seating. He had counted twenty-two people sitting around the tables while he waited in the queue, mainly men. A couple of young women sat together, talking and laughing. He decided to avoid them for now and instead slid onto a bench opposite a surly-looking chap with a thick dark beard. As he lifted the cup to his lips, the other man shoved a plate with slices of limp bread languishing on it towards him.

  ‘Not seen you here before,’ the man said.

  Great, a talker.

  ‘New to town.’ Lee mumbled it, hoping his companion would take the hint.

  ‘What made you come to Lincoln?’

  ‘There was a bus.’

  The man laughed as he crushed his empty cup in his fist. ‘Fair enough. Good luck, mate.’

  Drinking another mouthful of soup, he took a piece of bread. He wasn’t new to town, though it was true he’d been away a while. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to cover his tracks, confuse matters. He had a job to do, after all.

  * * *

  Over at the serving table, the volunteer was still holding the soup ladle. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. There were two other women on duty today, standing chatting by the far wall. She set the ladle back in the pan with a clatter and went over to them.

  ‘If I could interrupt you for a second – you wouldn’t mind giving soup to anyone else who comes in, would you, ladies?’ Her voice was calm, but she had made her point. One woman flushed while the other gave a resentful glance as she moved past them. She smiled to herself.

  The vicar was in his office, tapping away on his laptop. As the door was open, she knocked and stepped inside. He turned, annoyance flashing across his face before he caught himself and smiled. Closing the computer, he looked at her.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘There’s a new chap come in for soup. Maybe you could have a word?’

  The vicar stood, his expression eager now. ‘Of course.’

  Waving a hand to indicate she should follow him out of the room, he locked the door when she was out of sight.

  Couldn’t be too careful with these people around.

  * * *

  Back in the small room on the ground floor, Catherine hugged her coffee cup close. Dolan was in the doorway, dragging a clanking metal easel behind her, and Catherine went to help. The room was still cold, Dolan’s breath visible as she thanked Catherine. Above a scruffy whiteboard, Mary Dolan tacked a photograph to the wall, keeping her gaze fixed on it as she sat.

  ‘Our victim.’

  Both women were silent, absorbing the details of the image. A man’s face: pale, though angry red and purple bruising discoloured his jaw. His eyes were open, a cloudy blue. Unseeing. A gaping mouth displayed a swollen tongue and bloody gap at the front where several teeth were missing. He lay on the ground, one arm thrown out to the side, the other draped over his stomach.

  ‘Who was he?’ Catherine asked.
Did he look familiar? She wasn’t sure. There was a tug of memory, but she couldn’t place him.

  Mary Dolan pursed her lips. ‘John McKinley, better known as Mackie. He was a detective inspector once. He was one of us.’

  Chapter 6

  Ghislaine knew what he was going to say before he approached her. It happened a couple of times a week, usually in the evening, but some were more brazen than others. This one was with a gang of mates: men in their late teens and early twenties. It had bothered her more at first, but she had learnt to deal with them. She pressed her back into the rough pebbles which were set into the wall she was leaning against, and waited.

  ‘All right, love?’ He smirked. His hair was white-blonde, shaved at the sides with a ridiculous flicked fringe hovering above his eyebrows. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jogging bottoms, pulling them even lower on his bony hips. Acne reddened his jawline, his mouth slightly open in anticipation. She said nothing. His face hardened, and he took a step forward, conscious of the mocking gazes of his friends.

  ‘I’m talking to you, you ignorant bitch.’

  She beamed at him. ‘Malcolm! You’re here at last!’ She made her voice high-pitched, her gaze unsteady.

  He glared, confused. ‘Malcolm? What the fuck are you on about?’

  ‘Have you brought the picnic?’ She widened her eyes, still smiling. The other lads were laughing now, jeering. She tensed. What would he do?

  Hesitating, he eyed her before spitting on the ground at her feet.

  ‘Fuck this, lads, she’s mental.’

  He turned away, shaking his head in disgust, and joined his mates. One slapped him on the back, and they all moved off together.

  She closed her eyes for a second, relieved. Sometimes they stood their ground, sometimes they screamed abuse. She’d been grabbed, hit and pissed on. Never, though, not once, had she allowed them to touch her skin, to violate her – pay her. She had promised herself she never would.

  ‘Here.’ A cardboard cup of coffee and a paper bag appeared beneath her nose. Jasmine squatted beside her, biting into a sausage roll. ‘Shove up. Hey, what’s wrong?’

  Ghislaine took the bag and peered inside. ‘Thanks, Jas.’ She’d eaten half her own sausage roll before she mumbled, ‘A bloke.’

  Jasmine snorted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Wanting to save you, lecture you or buy you? Or even all three?’

  Ghislaine screwed the paper bag into a ball and pushed it into her coat pocket. ‘Buy me.’

  ‘He’d be lucky.’

  ‘Yeah, ’cos I’m gorgeous,’ Ghislaine scoffed. She rubbed her hands together, watching flakes of pastry drift towards the pavement.

  Jasmine nudged her. ‘I keep telling you, when we get our flat I’ll do your hair, paint your nails… You’ll be stunning. I’m qualified, remember.’

  Ghislaine suppressed a sigh. She had only known Jasmine a few months, but she’d heard about her friend’s beauty therapy diplomas more times than she could count. She smiled, ignoring the tug of desolation in her stomach. Why shouldn’t Jasmine be proud of past achievements, look forward to her future? It was a glimmer of hope. What was wrong with clinging to it?

  * * *

  ‘We don’t know what he’s been doing since leaving the force.’ Dolan’s eyes were still fixed on John McKinley’s face.

  There was a note in her voice which prompted Catherine to ask, ‘Did you know him?’

  Dolan sighed. ‘I worked with him briefly once, a long time ago. I was still training, new and desperate to learn. He was kind, which is why I remembered him. Not everyone was.’

  Dolan’s involvement made more sense now Catherine knew McKinley had been a police officer.

  Dolan’s mobile phone beeped. ‘Right, the rest of my team have arrived.’

  Catherine nodded, questioning again whether she should be at work, much less embarking on an undercover investigation. Remembering the struggle she’d had earlier to motivate herself enough to even leave the house, she looked at Mary Dolan. Had the DCI not noticed her tapping foot, her trembling hands, her barely contained urge to flee the room? She doubted it.

  Sure enough, Dolan met her eyes. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Her voice was gentle. ‘If not, tell me now, and I’ll send someone else. I know it’s not appealing – you’ll be cold and uncomfortable for a few days…’

  Catherine wanted to find the right words, but it was impossible. Her brain had fogged. ‘I’m… I want to do it.’

  ‘Good. We have a phone for you, and some cash. I’ll be your primary contact, but my DS will be available if I’m not. You won’t be able to access the shelter until tomorrow evening, but the soup kitchen will be open at lunchtime.’ Dolan drummed her fingers on the tabletop, thinking aloud. ‘I’d like you to go home shortly. Get the bus or train back to Lincoln tomorrow morning instead of driving, to make it look as if you’re running away from something. It’s a precaution, your cover story. Bring a few of changes of clothes in a bag and the money in your pocket. If anything concerns you, if you feel unsafe or threatened, we can have officers with you immediately. The presence on the streets has been increased anyway because of the robberies – you’ll have heard about those?’

  ‘A bloke stealing phones, wallets and purses, armed with a knife?’

  ‘I’d be surprised if he tries it again now a body’s been found, but you never know.’

  There was a tap on the door. Dolan was out of her chair to open it and greet her team. Catherine stood too, as a man and woman entered the room. ‘We’ll need to scrounge another chair,’ Dolan said. ‘DS Bishop, meet DS Rafferty and DC Zaman. Isla and Adil, this is Catherine.’

  Adil Zaman came forward first, holding out his hand with a smile. He was in his late twenties, a slim-fitting white shirt emphasising a lean, athletic build. His handshake was firm without being overbearing, and Catherine liked him immediately.

  As Zaman went off to find a chair, DS Rafferty held out her hand. She was slender, her gleaming black hair pulled into an elegantly messy bun. Her eyes skimmed Catherine’s face, but there was no smile.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Nor was there any warmth in her tone – the words were perfunctory. They shook hands, Rafferty’s cold fingers pressing against Catherine’s for the briefest moment. Catherine saw the glint of an expensive-looking diamond engagement ring as Rafferty held out a battered mobile phone, a charger and a sealed brown envelope. ‘These are for you.’ She seemed to be addressing the wall behind Catherine’s shoulder. ‘DCI Dolan’s number is stored under “Mary” and mine’s under—’

  ‘Isla?’ Catherine took the phone, summoning a grin which Rafferty ignored.

  ‘You also have Adil’s number.’ Turning to the nearest chair, Rafferty sat and rummaged through her leather shoulder bag.

  Catherine lifted her chin. What’s your problem?

  Mary Dolan had been scrolling through the emails on her phone, but now she came closer to Catherine, apparently oblivious to the rudeness of her sergeant. She waved Catherine back into her chair.

  ‘Thanks, Isla.’

  Rafferty half-turned as her boss spoke, favouring Dolan with a quick quirk of her lips which could almost have been called a smile. Zaman returned with a fourth chair, which he pushed close to the table and settled into, taking his laptop from a case and and switching it on. Rafferty turned away again, but not before Catherine had glimpsed the sneer.

  Dolan was speaking again. ‘As I said, statements have been taken from people who were staying at Phoenix House, but they’re fairly useless. Even the staff weren’t particularly forthcoming. Of course, there could be people out on the street who know something, but finding them is a different matter. That’s where you come in, Catherine.’

  ‘They won’t trust me though,’ Catherine pointed out. ‘I’m a stranger.’

  ‘But you won’t be a police officer; you’ll be one of them. Vulnerable, worried, scared. Wanting reassurance you won’t end up dead like John McKinley. Conce
rned about what he was involved in, wanting to know how you can stay safe.’ Dolan leant back, flashing Catherine a grin. ‘There might be an Oscar in it for you.’

  Isla Rafferty snorted, but quickly concealed it with a cough. Catherine’s cheeks flushed as Dolan sent a frown in Rafferty’s direction.

  ‘Something to add, Isla?’ the DCI asked.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Rafferty replied.

  Dolan smiled, catching Catherine’s eye, causing her blush to deepen. ‘We have statements from the manager of the shelter, the bloke who does counselling there, two night wardens and six of the clients, as they call the people who sleep there.’ Dolan pulled her laptop towards her and opened the lid. Catherine took out her phone, ready to make some notes. Ordinarily, she would have used a tablet or notebook, but she wouldn’t want to take either item to a homeless shelter. The phone would be more discreet. ‘We can email you the statements too, so you’ll have them for reference once you’ve met the residents and staff.’ Dolan waved a hand. ‘Come and sit around here, and we’ll go through it all together.’

  Catherine got to her feet, catching another glare from Rafferty. She lifted her chair, set it next to Dolan’s. The DCI’s perfume was subtle, but Catherine caught a note of it as Dolan shifted in her seat, leant forward and ran her finger along the data displayed on the laptop’s screen. She steeled herself: a schoolgirl crush on her new boss was not going to be helpful.

  Dolan bit her thumbnail as she read, her eyes fixed on the screen. Catherine swallowed. The emotions, the reactions that had been dormant during her encounter with Ellie, had sparked back into life at the most inoppportune moment. She ignored them. This assignment was going to need all her focus, all her concentration. Allowing herself to become distracted could be disastrous.

  ‘The manager of the shelter is called Maggie Kemp,’ Dolan said. ‘She was keen to help, but she couldn’t tell us much. According to her, John McKinley hardly slept at Phoenix House at all, except in the depths of winter.’