dipping his wick elsewhere, that’s not her priority.’
‘Jesus, I can’t believe the Doc’s going to settle. The man’s as guilty as sin.’
‘It’s under consideration,’ Terry lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘the atmosphere is terrible here right now. There are people crying in the toilets and I’m not just talking about the women.’
‘I must be pretty popular.’
‘Don’t expect an invitation to the Christmas party.’
‘How did it go?’ asked Peacock, who’d been waiting in his DCI’s office for Kane to return.
‘Four men,’ Kane told him.
‘What?’ Peacock didn’t bother to hide his frustration.
‘Butwe can choose them.’
‘Right,’ his tone became more measured, but DI Peacock still wasn’t happy, ‘so the Super actually wants us to remove four men from an ongoing investigation into a missing girl to put them onto this?’
‘Look, John,’ Kane lowered his voice as a uniformed WPC walked by the opened door, ‘he’s basically given me the go-ahead to take our most feeble blokes off the Michelle Summers case and plonk them onto the-body-in-the-field. Draw me up a dead-wood list, containing the four men least likely to provide us with any kind of breakthrough. I’ll reassign them to this …’ he was searching for the right word, ‘… skeleton.’
‘I can think of four I wouldn’t shed any tears over and that’s just off the top of my head.’
‘Who?’
‘Vincent obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Kane nodded, ‘he’s as much use as a condom machine in a nunnery.’
‘Davies, because he’s always on the sick; Wilson, because he’s always on the sauce, and Bradshaw because he’s always bloody wrong.’
‘I wouldn’t argue with any of those.’
Betty Turner was sitting upright in her bed, her back ramrod-straight, waiting. It was late and raining outside but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except letting the other woman know that she knew.
She knew all right.
The old lady had waited till the house was silent and her three grown sons all asleep, before she padded softly downthe stairs and slipped the raincoat on over her nightie. She opened the door, the rain was coming down hard. She stepped out into it and closed the door softly behind her. Betty walked over the wet pavement in her slippers, ignoring the cold, thinking only of her destination.
The streets were empty at this hour and nobody witnessed the old lady’s slow and unsteady progress across the village. Her slippers were sodden and her feet soaking but she did not turn back. Betty was soaked through by the time she reached the front door of the old vicarage.
‘It was you,’ Betty told the locked, heavy wooden door as she slapped her palm hard against it, knowing that somewhere within those walls, someone was listening. She banged again, harder this time, ‘It was you!’ The rain stuck Betty’s hair to her scalp and she wiped it away with an impatient hand, ‘It was you!’
Betty had been right. Mary Collier wasn’t sleeping. She was lying in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin, eyes tightly closed and she could hear the slap of Betty’s hand on her front door, as regular and insistent as a drum beat, ‘It was you …’
Mary knew who was out there, taunting her. The voice was muffled by the door and the rain but the words were still audible, ‘… it was you …’ and each one of them pierced Mary Collier like a blade.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Day Three
DC Bradshaw didn’t have to be told he was on the subs bench. One glance around the room that morning at his fellow misfits was all it took for him to realise he was no longer part of the first team. There was the pot-bellied, permanently booze-flushed figure of Trevor Wilson, who made no secret of the fact that all he really wanted was a quiet life. Bob Davies was probably contemplating how soon and with what ailment he could feasibly go back on the sick again. In the past couple of years, Davies had taken long spells off
‘Jesus, I can’t believe the Doc’s going to settle. The man’s as guilty as sin.’
‘It’s under consideration,’ Terry lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘the atmosphere is terrible here right now. There are people crying in the toilets and I’m not just talking about the women.’
‘I must be pretty popular.’
‘Don’t expect an invitation to the Christmas party.’
‘How did it go?’ asked Peacock, who’d been waiting in his DCI’s office for Kane to return.
‘Four men,’ Kane told him.
‘What?’ Peacock didn’t bother to hide his frustration.
‘Butwe can choose them.’
‘Right,’ his tone became more measured, but DI Peacock still wasn’t happy, ‘so the Super actually wants us to remove four men from an ongoing investigation into a missing girl to put them onto this?’
‘Look, John,’ Kane lowered his voice as a uniformed WPC walked by the opened door, ‘he’s basically given me the go-ahead to take our most feeble blokes off the Michelle Summers case and plonk them onto the-body-in-the-field. Draw me up a dead-wood list, containing the four men least likely to provide us with any kind of breakthrough. I’ll reassign them to this …’ he was searching for the right word, ‘… skeleton.’
‘I can think of four I wouldn’t shed any tears over and that’s just off the top of my head.’
‘Who?’
‘Vincent obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Kane nodded, ‘he’s as much use as a condom machine in a nunnery.’
‘Davies, because he’s always on the sick; Wilson, because he’s always on the sauce, and Bradshaw because he’s always bloody wrong.’
‘I wouldn’t argue with any of those.’
Betty Turner was sitting upright in her bed, her back ramrod-straight, waiting. It was late and raining outside but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except letting the other woman know that she knew.
She knew all right.
The old lady had waited till the house was silent and her three grown sons all asleep, before she padded softly downthe stairs and slipped the raincoat on over her nightie. She opened the door, the rain was coming down hard. She stepped out into it and closed the door softly behind her. Betty walked over the wet pavement in her slippers, ignoring the cold, thinking only of her destination.
The streets were empty at this hour and nobody witnessed the old lady’s slow and unsteady progress across the village. Her slippers were sodden and her feet soaking but she did not turn back. Betty was soaked through by the time she reached the front door of the old vicarage.
‘It was you,’ Betty told the locked, heavy wooden door as she slapped her palm hard against it, knowing that somewhere within those walls, someone was listening. She banged again, harder this time, ‘It was you!’ The rain stuck Betty’s hair to her scalp and she wiped it away with an impatient hand, ‘It was you!’
Betty had been right. Mary Collier wasn’t sleeping. She was lying in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin, eyes tightly closed and she could hear the slap of Betty’s hand on her front door, as regular and insistent as a drum beat, ‘It was you …’
Mary knew who was out there, taunting her. The voice was muffled by the door and the rain but the words were still audible, ‘… it was you …’ and each one of them pierced Mary Collier like a blade.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Day Three
DC Bradshaw didn’t have to be told he was on the subs bench. One glance around the room that morning at his fellow misfits was all it took for him to realise he was no longer part of the first team. There was the pot-bellied, permanently booze-flushed figure of Trevor Wilson, who made no secret of the fact that all he really wanted was a quiet life. Bob Davies was probably contemplating how soon and with what ailment he could feasibly go back on the sick again. In the past couple of years, Davies had taken long spells off
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