THE POLICE PATROL car dropped Kate off outside her Bridgwater flat as it was getting light and her stony-faced ‘chauffeur’ didn’t wait to see her inside, but drove off the moment she slammed the door shut, without a single glance in her direction. The journey home had not been pleasant. She had sensed the hostility in the car the moment she had climbed inside; neither the uniformed constable behind the wheel or his front seat colleague acknowledging her presence or making any attempt at conversation throughout the whole twenty-minute drive. To be fair, that had actually suited her in her semi-traumatized state, but the atmosphere in the vehicle had shocked and unsettled her nevertheless and she was relieved when the police car’s tail-lights finally disappeared round the corner in a cloud of diesel.
Despite the coldness of the air and the need to get out of her still sodden clothes, she made no immediate move towards the door of the dismal tower block where she had lived for the past two years. Instead, she stood there for a few moments, shivering fitfully and staring at the curling exhaust plume the police car had left behind as it floated like a wraith in the pool of light cast by a street lamp, her mind in even greater turmoil than before.
What the hell was going on? She had done nothing to warrant the silent treatment she had received – unless the fact that she had survived the Transit blast was seen as reprehensible under the circumstances and her colleagues felt she should have perished in the explosion as well. Could that be what lay behind the DCI’s interrogation and the open hostility of the crew of the police car – resentment that she had survived while Andy Seldon and Alf Cross hadn’t?
OK, so it could be that she was imagining things – over-reacting due to a combination of trauma and fatigue – and it was possible that the bobbies in the car had not actually been giving her the cold shoulder at all, but just couldn’t think of anything to say after all that had happened. Tragedy affected some people like that, making them clam up, reluctant to discuss the circumstances with those involved; she had seen it many times in the job. Yeah, but not this time; this time it was different. That car had radiated hostility and there hadn’t been as much as a single ‘good morning’ or a ‘glad to see you’re all right’ from either of the pair, just a heavy smouldering silence.
As if to reinforce her feelings, the DCI’s words hammered away in her brain once more: ‘We don’t want the rest of the department to think you ran out on your colleagues, do we?’
Ran out on them? Why on earth would anyone think that? Could it be that Callow had resorted to spite because Kate had rebuffed her sexual advances – spreading poison about her among her colleagues in an attempt to get even? It did not seem possible that an experienced detective chief inspector would do such a thing, but something was certainly wrong and, on top of the acute emotional distress she was already suffering, Kate suddenly felt more alone and vulnerable than she had felt in her life before.
She was so wrapped up in her own misery, in fact, that she failed to notice the shadow lurking in the stairwell – a shadow that remained motionless as she climbed the stone staircase to the first floor and only emerged from hiding when she had slammed the door of her flat shut behind her. Then, as she wearily slipped out of her wet, badly singed clothes and started to run a bath, the shadow moved out of hiding and slowly, almost hesitantly mounted the staircase towards her floor.
Kate did not hear the bell at first. Her head was already under the shower hose attached to the mixer tap as she tried to wash the evil-smelling gunge from the rhyne out of her hair before climbing into the bath. The sight of herself in the full-length mirror had come as quite a shock – the scorching to her face from the explosion, the ugly bruises now materializing in the form of dirty mauve smudges down one side and along one thigh, the cuts to her hands and both forearms where she had scrambled up the bank out of the water and the ruination of her shoulder-length auburn hair, which had once gleamed like burnished copper when caught in the light and now resembled the matted head of a cleaning mop.
Visitors she certainly did not need and when she finally did hear the bell – which the caller now blatantly chose to lean on – her fury surfaced in a lava-like rush. Pulling on a silk dressing-gown, she wrapped a white towel round her head and marched to the door with murder in mind. Her jaw dropped, however, when she saw who was standing on the doorstep.
The young woman in the long, black hooded coat seemed to shrink before her gaze, sniffing and wiping her dripping nose with the back of one hand. ‘Hi, Sis,’ she said, looking down at her feet.
‘Linda?’ she breathed, gaping at the pale emaciated face and blistered lips.
‘None other,’ her visitor said, affecting a twitchy smile. ‘Can I come in?’
Closing her eyes briefly in resignation, Kate stepped back and watched her shuffle inside. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she queried, closing the door behind her. ‘You should be in rehab.’
The haunted eyes looked away from her and the woman wiped her nose on her sleeve this time, her body noticeably shaking under the long coat. ‘I – I’m in trouble, Kate,’ she muttered. ‘Need some dosh.’
Kate pushed past her into the living room and closed the blinds. ‘Oh Linda, look at you,’ she whispered as the girl slipped off the hood to reveal a mass of auburn hair that was even dirtier and more tangled than her own. ‘You look like a corpse.’
The other treated her to another weak smile and appraised her critically. ‘You don’t look so hot yourself,’ she commented.
Kate muttered an oath. ‘Never mind what I look like. I thought you’d be off that crap by now.’
The girl nodded, still snuffling and shaking. ‘Bit of bad luck, Sis,’ she replied, her voice almost a whisper.
‘But you went to rehab?’ Kate repeated, frustration now getting the better of her. ‘You were doing so well.’
Linda shuddered violently, clutching at her stomach. ‘Couldn’t hack it,’ she mumbled. ‘Had to get out.’
Kate leaned against the back of a chair, studying her bitterly. The very last thing she needed was for her junkie twin sister to turn up on her doorstep with more problems for her to sort out. ‘So what is it now?’ she snapped. ‘Coke, “H” or what?’
Linda shuffled forward a few paces. ‘Need another fix, Kate,’ she said, desperation in her voice. ‘Just a few quid – honest. Then I’ll – I’ll go back.’
Kate snorted. ‘What, to rehab? Do me a favour. I’m not that naive.’
Her sister drew her arms about her and rocked on her heels for a moment, her face glistening with perspiration. ‘Sis, please, just a few quid.’
Kate’s mouth hardened. ‘Linda, you were sent to rehab as a condition of your suspended sentence. You were lucky you didn’t go down again. They’ll be looking for you – and I could get into a lot of trouble if you were found here.’
The young woman stared at her fixedly. ‘So, you going to turn me in?’
Kate didn’t answer her, but swung towards the kitchen. ‘First we’ll get a meal inside you and then we’ll talk. I think I can rustle you up some egg and chips at least.’
Linda shook her head several times. ‘Don’t want—’ she began, but Kate cut her short.
‘I don’t give a damn what you want. I’ve got enough problems at the moment without you as well. Now, either you sit and wait while I make you something, or I put in a telephone call to the nick.’
Linda’s shakes worsened as she sat down on the edge of the settee. ‘Egg and chips then,’ she said, forcing a smile and once more wiping her nose with her sleeve.
In the small galley kitchen, Kate could feel the walls closing in on her. She wanted to scream, cry and vomit all at the same time as she gripped the edge of the work surface for support, hyperventilating like some hysterical schoolgirl while her knotted stomach sent waves of acid surging up into her throat.
Broken visions of the blazing police Transit seared across the room in front of her, blotting out the cooker and the chuckling chip pan, and the smell of cooking fat gave way to the sweet nauseating stench of burning flesh as the chips thrust up through the fog like charred fingers. ‘We don’t want the rest of the department to think you ran out on your colleagues, do we?’ Roz Callow mocked again inside her head, as she reeled back against the refrigerator, knocking her egg box off the side with one flailing hand.
Then the bang of a door closing and fantasy and reality merged into one as she stumbled back into the living room. Her handbag gaped at her with malevolent mirth from the table and she saw with a sense of shock that her lipstick and other oddments were scattered across the polished wooden surface. Checking the handbag, she found that her purse was missing. True to form, Linda had seized her chance and gone, snatching her purse containing one of her two sets of keys, her credit cards and over fifty pounds in cash.
Sinking to the floor in a heap, she began to sob hysterically as the eggs in the kitchen bubbled over on to the electric ring and, seconds later, the fire alarm activated.
Twister was in the workshop of his funeral parlour, examining the newly crafted oak coffin, when his mobile rang at just before nine. All the coffins were made on the premises by local pensioner, Tom Grace, who had been with the firm since it had started, but as it was Saturday, the old man was off and Twister had the place to himself – which turned out to be just as well, for the call was not one he would have wanted to answer within the earshot of others.
‘You bloody fool,’ a familiar voice responded to his terse acknowledgment.
He started. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You missed one. A woman detective, named Kate Hamblin, was in the copse having a pee when you totalled the Transit. She was unhurt.’
His heart made a sucking noise as he thought about his faux pas the previous night. So the bloody mare was another copper, was she? Just his luck!
‘That’s awkward,’ he replied, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice.
‘Awkward, you stupid prat? It’s a lot worse than that. She might have got a look at you.’
‘Very unlikely,’ he replied, trying to convince himself as much as his caller. ‘It was too dark.’
‘And what about the motor? She must have clocked that.’
He emitted a short laugh. ‘I hope she did.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I used an old Land Rover I managed to find—’
‘You did what?’
‘A Defender, like Duval’s, but with replicas of his index plates front and back. A bit of insurance, just in case I was spotted near the scene. If your lady cop did clock the number, it will only put Duval even more in the frame.’
‘I didn’t tell you to do that.’
‘Maybe you didn’t, but I only agreed to do the job for you; how I go about doing it is my business.’
‘Not if it means I could be compromised, it isn’t. You’d better get rid of that Land Rover pronto.’
He sighed. ‘You worry too much. There are dozens of ’drovers like mine all over the Levels.’
‘Dump the thing and torch it nevertheless.’
‘Bit dodgy with Old Bill swarming all over the place, don’t you think?’ He paused to light a cigarette. ‘And anyway, if I did dump it, I’d have to get another motor and I don’t need to tell you, I’m a bit boracic at the moment.’
There was a snort of anger. ‘Your financial state will be the least of your worries if it turns out Hamblin can ID you, so you’d better fix her PDQ – just in case.’
‘I would if I knew where to find her?’
‘She has a flat in Bridgwater. I’ll give you the address.’
He breathed a sigh of relief; the information he needed at last. Grabbing a biro and an old newspaper from the workbench holding the coffin, he pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder and quickly took down the details on a piece of white space, adding, ‘It would help if I knew what she looked like.’
An irritable hiss. ‘Around 5' 6'', slim, with auburn hair, blue eyes and lots of freckles. Is that enough for you?’
‘Sounds exactly my type – especially the freckles bit.’
‘Just fix her, OK. I don’t care how you do it – but do it.’
He exhaled slowly. ‘Sorted.’
‘It had better be – for both our sakes.’
There was a click and, pocketing the mobile, he stood there for several minutes, absent mindedly caressing the brass handles of the coffin and pulling on his cigarette as he thought about his next move.
Kate Hamblin was history – had to be. He couldn’t afford to mess up on this contract with his finances the way they were. He had taken over the family firm from his father after an ignominious exit from the SAS had pushed him into working for the mob as an enforcer and earned him a term inside. The old man had run the firm successfully for nearly forty years until he had ended up in one of his own nice oak coffins, and he had obviously thought his only son and heir would carry on the good work when he died. But the confidence he’d expressed in his will had been misplaced.
Twister – as young Larry had been nicknamed by his army comrades for his preferred method of dispatching combat targets by snapping their necks – was no businessman. Drink and gambling had soon depleted the family coffers and even the money he had made out of fencing property burgled from the unoccupied houses of deceased clients had been insufficient to fill the black hole in his finances. Most of his father’s long-serving retainers had deserted him following empty promises in lieu of pay. Of the original crew, only Albert Price, his senior assistant who virtually ran what was left of the business for him as his deputy, and master carpenter, Tom Grace remained. With the resignation of Maggie Page, the elderly receptionist who had fronted the business for over thirty years, he had also been forced to rely on single mum, Sue Dennis, to do the job – when she deigned to turn in, that is – and, but for Albert’s wife who helped out from time to time, he would have had to do the laying out of the cadavers himself. As a result, his business had been reduced to a basic ‘cadaver disposal’ service, as Albert Price described it, and he could no longer offer clients the additional frills, like embalming, that his father had been so proud of. Even his pall-bearers were hired in – not that that mattered much, for he’d only had two funeral bookings in the past month anyway.
With the banks and other creditors breathing down his neck, the light oak coffin on the workbench beside him was likely to be the last one old Tom Grace made and he smiled grimly as he ran his fingers over the imitation brass plate on the lid. Poor Mary May was the only cadaver left in his mortuary fridge and she would very shortly be heading for the crematorium anyway. Then what? Bankruptcy, seizure of his cars, his flat and other property and public humiliation? That was unthinkable and now this lucrative contract had come along, offering the solution to all his problems, there was no way he was going to let some bitch of a bluebottle ruin it for him. But first he had to find her.