Weekend in Weighton Final Amazon version 12-12-12 (5 page)

‘The phone call from Mrs Porson, did she say what the development was?’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe the development was she was dead?’

I hadn’t meant to sound irreverent, but that’s sometimes difficult to tell with me. Truth is, I knew that was the real purpose of the call. It just didn’t come out that way.

Bugg hit the table with his fist. ‘This is not a pissing joke.’

Hobbs pushed his number two’s hand from the table. ‘Okay. How did her voice sound?’

‘I don’t know. Normal, I guess. She called on the moby and sometimes the reception ain’t too good on the i4. Those Apple boffins, hey? Music player, check. GPS, check. Camera, check. Alarm, check. Games arcade, check. Shit, we forgot about the phone! That’s real innovation, right there.’ Before they could stick up for Apple, I raised a finger. ‘One thing, though, she was very quick, didn’t let me speak. It could’ve been a recording.’

Hobbs seemed lost in thought for a while. After a pause, he spoke again. ‘I’ve got some other enquiries to make, so I’ll leave DS Bugg to finish. You think of anything else, Eddie, I want to hear about it straight away. Okay?’

‘Sure, Chief.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Thursday – 15:05 (still the day before)

Bugg sat back, linked his fingers behind his head and placed his feet on the table. He smiled for what seemed like an hour, but was probably a lot less. Then the smile disappeared.

‘How old are you, Eddie?’

‘Gettin’ older by the second.’

‘No, seriously. How old are you? I’ll need a date of birth to put on your statement.’ He chewed his pen top.

‘Twenty-six.’

‘Married or single?’

‘Single.’

He nodded, then chuckled quietly. ‘That’ll be the only bit of your statement that rings true.’ He winked at the uniform on door duty. The door stopper risked a glance in my direction, so I held his eye.

‘Am I missing something? Or is this “bring a kid to work day”?’

‘Nice line in insults, Eddie,’ said Bugg. ‘I expect you make ‘em up as you go along. A bit like that story just now.’

‘Any more questions? Or can I go?’

‘Oh, plenty more.’

I slowly crossed my arms. ‘Let’s get it done.’

‘Where’d you live?’

‘Fifteen Meanwood Avenue.’

Bugg took his feet off the table. ‘That’s a posh part of town for a loser like you.’

‘This town’s full of ‘em. Ain’t it the truth.’

‘You rent?’

‘I live there with my mum.’

Bugg whooped with laughter and kept it up for longer than was natural. ‘Isn’t that sweet. Does your dad play house, too? One big happy family, eh?’

‘No.’

‘Where’s Daddy, then? Did he leave when you were young? Is that it?’

I glanced over at the uniform and shrugged. ‘What would he know about fathers?’

The door minder looked straight ahead, his impassive face undone by a small cheek bulge.

Bugg’s right hand twitched, but then he brushed imaginary crumbs off the table and smiled. ‘Am I getting to you?’

‘Nah. But I can see why people confess. Save ‘em from being bored to death.’

‘You ever thought about therapy, Eddie?’

‘Why, want to share?’

Bugg looked to the ceiling and blew his breath straight up. ‘I think you should. I can picture the scene.’ He lowered his head and stared at me. ‘"What’s the problem, Mr Greene?" he’d say. And you’d say, "Help me, Doc, I keep thinking I’m in a detective film, set in New York". It’s a common personality disorder.’

‘You’re the one having imaginary conversations.’

Bugg’s tone softened. ‘Look, maybe no one’s told you this recently, but you’re twenty-six and you live with your mummy in Weighton, not New York. You’re not tough, you don’t know anything about detective work, and you don’t have to spout jive talk. You’re not fooling anyone.’ His voice tightened. ‘What you
are
is in deep shit. Very deep shit and we’ve got enough to send you down. But I tell you what. Tell me what
really
happened and I’ll help you. I promise. What do you say?’

‘When do I get a phone call?’

~

As I was leaving the police station, I saw her. Kate Connolly. I was trying to sneak past Bob “The Desk” Jones at the time – I didn’t want him ratting me out again – and the fragrant Ms Connolly was gliding the other way. I’d often thought a reunion would come. Not that Weighton Police Station had figured large as the romantic setting, but that’s karma. And me on the cusp of a murder charge. Outstanding! Of all the cop joints in all the world …

At Northside Comp, Kate Connolly had always been in my top ten. Not that it did me any favours at the weekly chart meeting. The other guys were mystified. Despite my best rabble rousing, she failed to collect another vote. I couldn’t even cite her magnetic personality. They knew I’d never spoken to her. Mixing with girls was considered overrated back then. For some of them, it wouldn’t be classed as a favourite pastime now either.

But I never wavered in my dedication, even when they threatened to de-select me. There was something different about her. As if she deserved a whole indie chart to herself.

It took two years before we exchanged a word. Our first contact was brief and unexpected, but to me it felt like a glorious mid-term
parley.
After that she went straight to number one and stayed put. It might never have happened, but she sat next to me by chance one morning in assembly.

 When my name was called out, she smirked, then leaned over and whispered, ‘Where’s Mr Brown and Mr Pink?’

I replied, ‘Looting the school safe.’

After that we riffed whenever we saw each other. It wasn’t a relationship, just a battle of hormonal wits. Now and then we agreed to a kind of truce and talked about normal stuff. Engaging, normal stuff. In truth, the normal stuff was what I’d enjoyed most – not that I ever let on. But at the beginning of year five she moved schools, and I never saw her again. Not until now:
ground zero
as it were. You want to know how it felt when she never showed at school that day? What can I tell you; my heart was a wound.

She looked to be in a rush as she walked purposefully towards me, her hair swirling but still immaculate. Her hair was one of the first things I’d noticed about her back then. Now its deep mahogany brown was beautifully cut in a slightly shorter, shoulder-length bob, and the framing effect was a seduction all by itself. With a heart-stopping blend of light and darker tones, her hair was a perfect match to those large, chocolate eyes. Eyes worthy of a pilgrimage. A pilgrimage so enlightening that you’d never come back. Not even to check the full-time scores.

She looked all grown up in her white, fitted blouse and caramel skirt. It fell to just above the knee, and the matching tailored jacket was carefully draped over one alluring shoulder. She’d always seemed on the petite side, but now, for the first time I noticed she had legs. Long, elegant legs. It was “shock and awe” made woman.

Even within Desk Sergeant range, I was stuck fast to the spot. I couldn’t look away. Then she saw me. I anticipated a hurried look-away, but instead she stopped and smiled: a genuine, warm smile that almost pushed me backwards.

‘Mr Greene,’ she said, ‘you here bailing out Mr Brown or Mr Pink?’

I paused, held my guns. ‘Just beating a murder rap, if you want the actuality. But so as we’re clear, I’m more “Nice Guy Eddie” than Mr Greene now.’

‘If you say so. But you’ll always be Mr Greene to me.’

I kept to a polite smile. ‘So what brings you to Weighton PD?’

She paused and tilted her head, as if wondering how much to say. ‘I’m a junior solicitor,’ she said finally. ‘I’ve brought some papers for one of the partners.’

My polite smile wavered. ‘Where were you three hours ago when I needed you?’ I glanced from side to side, making a point of not looking her up and down. That would have to wait.

She curled some stubborn strands of hair behind her ear. ‘Timing is everything. Remember?’

I nodded. ‘Yeah. I brought you an apple that day.’

‘Leftover lemons, hey? Go make lemonade. Dale Carnegie.’

‘May the force be with you. Yoda.’

Her delicate mouth widened into an extravagant smile. Then she waggled her brief case. ‘Sorry. I have a deadline.’

‘You almost had me at “deadline”.’

‘Seriously.’

I frowned. ‘Wow. That’s a first.’

Her body tilted towards the custody suite, but her feet seemed sticky. She said, ‘You know the Blue Café? Prospect Street?’

‘Sure. I’m like a celebrity diner down there.’

‘Good. I’ll see you there in fifteen minutes.’ She lightened her tone. ‘I’m thinking an Americano and a blueberry muffin would be a shrewd investment.’

‘I’m thinking you may have to work on my appeal?’

‘We’ll see.’

We smiled at each other. Then she agitated her briefcase again. ‘I do have to go.’

‘Then do go.’

We moved past each other whilst curving in the same direction. She flicked her hair. And that, my friends … was the “tell”.

I held her eye-line and spoke in a hush. ‘Promise me something?’

‘I may take it under advisement,’ she said, peering down her lovely nose.

‘Stay out of trouble and don’t be late.’

She edged past. ‘I’ll keep you guessing on both.’

CHAPTER SIX

Thursday – 15:38 (still the day before)

I didn’t spot him at first. I was too busy thinking about Kate, and the case … then more about Kate. But that nagging sixth sense couldn’t be suppressed for long.

Having crossed from Police Central, I walked down Bath Road onto Prospect Way, hoping the street name alone would bring a change in fortune. It didn’t. With my brain approaching overload, I went straight past the Blue Café. Luckily, the glorious pastry aromas turned me back. And that’s when I spotted the tail. He was heavily built, late twenties, black, with a shaved head.

After I’d executed my slick about-turn, it was difficult to miss him. My shadow pulled up abruptly, hesitated, steered his gaze away from mine and then continued walking at the only tangent the pavement width would allow. He stopped a few feet away by a litter bin and plunged his hands in his pockets, searching for a wrapper that clearly didn’t want to be found. As he went through the charade, I sneaked a closer look. His nose was bent like a boomerang and his eyeballs were the colour of a snow storm in Alaska. From under a dark T-shirt, the curve of his belly hung over grey cargo pants. Somehow I didn’t figure him as po-leece. But whoever, whatever, I aimed to find out.

After a brief, forlorn gaze at the doughnuts, I continued past the café and turned left into the High Street, quickening my pace. Up ahead was a right turn into Cathedral Street and the traffic was busy, which suited my plan. When a small gap opened up, I sprinted across the road, somehow avoiding the usual blaring car horns. Once I was safe on the other side, I slowed a little and then turned down the quiet stretch of Cathedral Street. Twenty paces down I saw the narrow courtyard entrance that would provide the perfect place to launch “Operation Turntable”. I nipped through the opening, swung onto a cobbled path and stopped, pressing my back against the courtyard wall.