Payback Read online

  Even though the digital age had arrived, the handwritten report was still more practical.

  The ‘Detective Inspector’ signage was in bold letters on a plaque in the middle of her half-glass door, under the window. The window had a tatty, homemade blind on the inside of the door. She stopped for a moment and stood with her hand on the cold metal door handle, reading the names of her staff and their duties that were written on the dry-wipe board. A couple of names on it were new to her, but most were as well known to her as the paintwork. Before opening the door, she peered into the dark abyss. A blast of warm, stale air hit her as she flung the door open and stepped inside. The room appeared just as unimpressive as her greeting had been. It was deceptively small – smaller than she remembered – and it hadn’t been upgraded in the same way as the outer office. She looked at the large, black, leather executive chair that lorded it behind the solid wooden desk and the worn, red, cloth visitor’s chair in front – the one she had sat on when she’d visited the already old, kindly then-SIO. When she’d told him she saw herself sitting behind his desk in the future, he hadn’t discouraged her. ‘Never assume,’ he’d told her. ‘That’s the trick to solving a crime.’

  Charley slid behind her desk and pushed the button to boot up the computer. The PC grumbled into action, announcing the home screen, but its brightness soon turned to dark as it cut out, her passwords yet to be verified by HQ. Immediately she picked up the phone and dialled the technical support extension number. When there was no answer, she looked up at the clock above the cork board and rolled her eyes. Technical support would be better called at a later hour perhaps …

  Impatiently, and with nothing else she could do in the office until she had resolved the computer issue, she splayed her hands on the desk and slid from behind it. The newspaper clippings pinned to the cork board on the opposite wall drew her towards them, turning her thoughts to the controversy regarding the police station’s new custody suite Marty had spoken about. The cells, which had been recently upgraded to meet with health and safety regulation demands, were reported to have cost a mint and it appeared that the locals weren’t best pleased, according to the headlines in the local press. She understood it was hard for anyone to accept the lack of police officers on the streets, and to see the huge amount of money spent on refurbishing a facility to make it more comfortable for the wrong-doer, but she was well aware that the money allocated had never been in the manpower budget in the first place. Damn it, it was hard enough for her to accept the fact that funds were unavailable for extra personnel. It would leave her no option but to ask her staff to work for the love of the job, or for time off in the future, just to get necessary work done. Her sigh was audible. How could anyone put a price on catching a murderer? Charley would never be able to get her head around that.

  Heading towards the custody suite she knew she would let curiosity get the better of her, forcing her to take a look at the person her officers would be speaking to after his overnight arrest. In a way, it was a shame that the cells had been upgraded, she pondered, as her feet tap-tapped down the tiled steps. Those very cells had seen many a ‘cough’ to her from a criminal; simply because they didn’t want to spend a minute longer than they had to in the damp, stark, stone confinement. She pressed the button on the lower corridor wall, to the left of the custody suite door and, with only a moment’s delay, entry was permitted at the showing of her ID to the CCTV camera.

  On the sounding of a buzzer and the melodramatic clunk of the lock Charley was able to slide the cool, metal handle of the inner-sanctum gate to allow her to step over the threshold into an empty open space, where thick, foetid air met her. She smacked her lips together and screwed up her face and wafted her hand in front of it, to help dissipate the gasses as she walked towards the signposted custody suite. The smell was all but forgotten at the sound of murmuring voices that very quickly morphed into shouting, banging and laughing. Walking as if on a mission down the windowless corridor, she passed two empty interview rooms to her right, shoulder-barged a door and, this time, was met by a warren of cells. The banging came from within one, and the shouting from a drunken detainee at the end of the corridor, who appeared to have just head-butted the custody sergeant’s desk. The smell, it seemed, had emanated from his subsequent projectile vomit and, as she then became aware, the fact that he was defecating on the floor.

  Charley stopped in her tracks and stood at the partially open door of the small kitchenette from where she discovered the laughter was coming. A police constable, partially hidden inside, was talking on his mobile phone, presumably to a colleague. From here, Charley could see directly above the stocky custody sergeant’s head a large whiteboard with a list of cell numbers and the names of the prisoners who temporarily resided there. There was also space for any detainee’s medical issues, officers’ safety concerns and the reason the suspect had been arrested. The board was full of angular letters, blurred edits and multiple red warning marks. Many, she saw, had some kind of drink or drugs related medical condition; some were known to be violent. Beside cell M2 there were no warnings, just a name: Taylor Thomas. With the duty staff all otherwise occupied, Charley lifted the cell door hatch that housed the overnight arrest, took one look, and then a second, before letting the hatch slam shut with a bang.

  Loud enough to wake the dead, the noise ricocheted off the chewing-gum white, shiny walls. With her heart threatening to beat out of her chest, Charley stood in the quietness of the corridor for a moment, her back to the wall, allowing the solid, cold structure to hold her upright.

  It couldn’t be? Was her mind playing tricks?

  No, there was no denying it. On Saturday night, she had been in bed with the prisoner. ‘A salesman,’ Ruby had said, ‘from London.’

  ‘My arse,’ she muttered, gasping for air.

  Slipping as quietly as she could out of the cell area, she sneaked into the adjacent toilet. She grabbed hold of the sink, her knuckles white. The porcelain felt icy cold to her sweating palms.

  A brief encounter; no commitment, was what he’d said, and what she’d wanted. ‘Sex with no strings. Is that too much to frigging ask?’ she questioned her reflection in the mirror.

  She breathed in through her nose and slowly out through her mouth. Counting to ten with her eyes closed she threw back her head, looking to the ceiling. But hey, she thought, finally allowing her reflection a faint half-smile, he would never recognise the painted woman he’d slept with as the one looking back at her now in the mirror. Her pale, thin lips forming a straight line, she frowned: would he?

  She shook her head. Nah!

  But it wasn’t worth the risk – she’d just have to make sure he didn’t see her.

  Walking back along the corridor with her shoulders back and head held high, she pondered her dad’s advice always to look for the positive. ‘Well, at least he was good in the sack…’

  The little old lady, duster in hand, who stood aside for Charley to pass at the bottom of the stairs, looked at her questioningly. They smiled at each other pleasantly and the older woman declared loudly, ‘Well, Charley Mann as I live and breathe. What a sight for sore eyes you are, my girl!’

  Charley’s appearance out of uniform was unusual to her and caused Winnie to scrutinise her closely with cloudy, narrowed, cataract-ridden eyes. She touched her arm affectionately and Charley bent down and hugged the buxom woman.

  ‘Good God, Winnie! When the hell are you going to retire?’

  Winnie’s eyes were tearful. ‘You know me. Part of the furniture. No doubt they’ll carry me out of here in a box.’

  Charley eyed her sceptically.

  ‘Well, someone’s got to look after you lot, haven’t they?’ Winnie’s thick white brows knitted together and she grabbed Charley by the arm with an arthritic hand. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  Chapter 2

  Men have one-night stands without a second thought, Charley thought to herself, so why couldn’t women do the same without being judged
? She knew her professional credibility would be ruined if her secret was outed on the first day in her new role.

  Now she sat at her office desk with a little apprehension as she awaited her scheduled ‘welcome to the division’ appointment with the Chief Superintendent. Maybe, just maybe, she should go back down to the cells and ask the prisoner what the fuck he thought he was doing, tell him who she was and watch his arse drop out? The thought caused her to smile, albeit briefly.

  Absent-mindedly, Charley slid open her drawer to see someone had been diligent in supplying her with stationery. Taking a pen and a piece of paper, she drew a central line from top to bottom of the A4 sheet and began to scribble. On the left, she wrote the positives in the situation: the man in the cells didn’t know her real name, or her occupation – she hadn’t told him; the name she’d seen recorded on the night report hadn’t rung any bells – so he hadn’t told her his real name, either.

  Her pen hovered over the opposite side of the line, now for the negatives … But, instead of putting pen to paper, Charley put her head in her hands. She heard a loud moan and realised it had come from her. ‘Oh, Jesus…’

  Taking a deep breath she leaned back in her chair and cracked her knuckles, a habit she had inherited from her dad. She wheeled her chair away from her desk with the push of one foot, then decided against leaving and wheeled herself back in. If she confronted the prisoner, the team would be suspicious of the attention she was paying him, given the senior post she held; gone were the days when an officer could visit a prisoner without it being recorded on the detention sheet. Charley slammed the palm of her hand on the desk. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ She hadn’t intended to see him again – no further contact, no exchange of numbers, nothing; that was the point of one-night stands. It was easy to be invisible in London, but back here this had probably been bound to happen one day. The first day back on promotion, though? Jeez … the timing could not have been more perfect for those who would love to watch her demise – and there were a few, as Marty had said; especially those who thought the job of detective inspector should have been theirs, and certainly not a woman’s…

  She watched her staff walk into the CID office from where she sat.

  Detective Sergeant Mike Blake’s team were the early shift, comprising old-timer Detective Constable Wilkie Connor, DC Ricky-Lee Lewis and, new to the division and to CID, Annie Glover, recently relocated from the south of England. The team were now all present, and with their heads down they appeared to Charley to be busy. They’d clocked her, that was a certainty, but no one had yet set foot over the threshold of her office. Charley took a deep breath and eased herself out of her chair. Propping her hand against the doorjamb, she leaned forward into the outer office.

  ‘There’s one still in the traps from overnight, Sergeant Blake: black Merc, back yard. Let’s see if we can sort it and get rid asap.’

  ‘DC Connor, can you deal? I’ve got to get these to court in…’ Mike lifted his right arm to read the time on his watch. In his left hand he lifted from the top of his desk a collection of brown paper bags, with elongated windows through which showed exhibits ‘…five minutes. I’ll catch you when I get back, ma’am,’ he said, as he hurried towards the door, his free hand held high in a wave. ‘Nice to have you back where you belong.’

  Charley felt a glow of warmth spreading through her. It was nice to be back.

  Wilkie Connor was sitting, reading the night report. ‘Name doesn’t ring a bell,’ he said nonchalantly, turning up his nose at the banal task his supervisor had bestowed upon him.

  ‘I don’t mind dealing, ma’am,’ Annie said, pushing aside her thick, blonde fringe with a jaunty smile. At six feet, Annie was the tallest of the group. Attractive, but gangly, with long, slim arms and legs, she wasn’t model-perfect – she attempted to disguise her English pear shape by wearing a tunic over her trousers – but she had a finely chiselled face that was interesting rather than beautiful.

  Charley shrugged a shoulder. ‘I don’t care who executes the action. Glean what you can about him and tell me when he’s gone.’

  ‘No probs. I’m on it.’ Annie walked towards Charley and, leaning forward, looked left and right to make sure the others weren’t listening. ‘Like the eyebrow ring. It’s cool.’

  ‘I think the Chief Super might have something to say about it, though, don’t you?’ Charley said. The women exchanged a knowing look. ‘They’re not quite as accepting of things here as they are in the city.’

  ‘Since when did it bother you what the hierarchy thinks?’ Wilkie was as round as he was tall. His large, mischievous, brown eyes met hers. He undid the top button of his shirt, loosened his tie and plopped down on a chair behind the desk that Charley presumed was his, as he promptly opened the drawer and fumbled around inside. He smiled when he found what he was looking for – in what was, in fact, his colleague’s desk – took out a tin and fiddled with its combination lock. When he opened it, his eyes widened to see the treasure within, which he promptly popped into his mouth. As he busied himself collecting crumbs from the container, it was snatched away and Charley became aware of a middle-aged woman, Ellen Tate – Tattie to her friends – who now stood in front of the desk she had claimed, next to the window, where she could place her beloved green plants on the windowsill. She had lipstick on her buck teeth and a nest of frizzy, sandy-coloured hair, pulled back from a remarkably wrinkle-free forehead, smooth mostly because of the tight hairdo.

  Wilkie wriggled out of the chair. Mouth still full of cookie, he grinned a wide, toothy, chocolate grin at the normally quiet and inoffensive administrator who, having seen what he had done, looked at him with disbelief. In the moments that followed, his expression softened, sharply in contrast to the anger displayed on Ms Tate’s face. If steam could come out of people’s ears, Charley was sure it would have happened there and then.

  ‘One day … one day you’ll get what’s coming to you, just you wait and see,’ Ms Tate hissed, grabbing the tin and clutching it to her chest.

  ‘Hey, you know what they say, Wilkie. The quiet ones are the most dangerous,’ said Annie. ‘You’d better watch your step.’

  ‘I’ll get my own back. You see if I don’t!’ Ms Tate said.

  Charley looked on, comfortable with the banter.

  ‘At least you can tell when she’s mad, which is more than you can say about you,’ Wilkie said, nodding his head towards Annie.

  Annie was clearly not intimidated. ‘I’ve had Botox,’ she whispered to Charley conspiratorially. ‘I know this woman who does it cheap if you ever fancy a dabble.’

  Charley frowned as she scrutinised Annie’s facial features. ‘Where?’ Cheap Botox didn’t sound good.

  ‘Hebden Bridge.’

  ‘No, she means where on your face, imbecile!’ said Wilkie.

  Annie giggled and pointed to the gap between her eyebrows and her crow’s feet. She attempted a frown, but her eyebrows didn’t move and it only left her looking angry. ‘He’s right,’ she said with an attempt at a wink. ‘My face gives nothing away these days. You should try it.’ Annie prodded Wilkie Connor in the shoulder. ‘And I suggest you mind your own!’

  The administrator turned on her heels, slightly appeased by the reprimand Wilkie had been given, and headed towards the door of the kitchenette.

  ‘When you standing us a drink to celebrate the promotion then, boss?’ asked Ricky-Lee.

  ‘Railway Inn still open for business?’ Charley asked.

  ‘Yeah, but there’s no sawdust on the floor, or black pudding on the bar these days,’ said Wilkie.

  Charley pulled a face. ‘Shame.’

  The office phone rang and Annie picked up. Her grimace told Charley that Annie hadn’t had Botox in her lips and lower jaw.

  ‘Apparently, Roper the groper is ready for you,’ she said, replacing the phone slowly.

  Charley raised her eyebrows. ‘See if you can behave in my absence, will you?’ she said over her shoulder when she reached the door.

/>   ‘Be careful. He’s not changed while you’ve been gone,’ Wilkie called after her. ‘He’s still a twat.’

  Charley had reached the third floor when she heard someone calling her name. She stopped.

  ‘Boss, we’ve got a body.’

  The words that the senior investigating officer often heard in her sleep sent her into automatic pilot.

  ‘What do we know so far, Annie?’

  ‘The body – it’s hanging from a tree.’

  ‘And it’s not thought to be a suicide?’

  ‘Uniform think not, no. And there’s something else you should know. It’s not any old tree, it’s the Bramley Elm.’

  On duty for less than two hours and she’d already been called to take charge of what was deemed a suspicious death. She spun round to look directly into the eyes of her younger colleague. Adrenalin-laced hunger stared back. Those loitering on the landing looked at the pair with some curiosity as they turned and began to retrace their steps posthaste.

  Annie followed her boss down the steps in double-quick time. Such was their haste those who passed by turned their heads to look after them asking the unspoken question, what’s the rush?

  ‘The English Elm tree, located at the north-west corner of the parish church graveyard.’ Charley quoted the statistics verbatim. ‘It stands thirty-three metres, fifty-two centimetres tall and has a diameter of one metre, forty-two centimetres. Named after James Benjamin Bramley, the local hangman who, according to local folklore, hanged many a villain for relatively minor offences, lawfully, from it.’