On Laughton Moor: A gripping crime thriller

By Lisa Hartley

A murderer is at large on the streets of Lincolnshire. But why?

When the body of a well-known local thug is discovered carrying a personal message for Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop neither she, nor her team, can figure out why.

Soon, a second victim is found and it is clear that Catherine and her enigmatic new boss, DI Jonathan Knight, are in a race against the clock to stop a merciless killer. Whoever it is, they are determined to put Catherine herself under scrutiny. Will the murderer be caught before they take more lives? And meanwhile will they reveal a sinister secret that threatens those at the heart of the investigation?

An atmospheric and heart-stopping crime thriller, perfect for fans of L. J. Ross, David Hodges and J. M. Dalgliesh.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Canelo
• Release date: Feb 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781788639392

Book preview

For my family, and in memory of Wack Woollas (1927–2009)

Northolme, its residents and its police officers do not exist in the real world. All characters and locations are entirely fictional, and although Lincolnshire Police is obviously a real organisation, it has no affiliation with this book.

Chapter 1

The victim lay on his back, arms spread wide as if pleading. His face showed traces of blood, though his injuries seemed to be at the back of his head where the liquid had pooled. A crime scene tent had been erected around him and Knight stood inside it, considering the dead man. Young, probably late twenties, and athletic looking, the sort of bloke you might think would be able to look after himself in a street fight. Knight didn’t think that a street fight was what had happened though. There was no bruising on the man’s face or hands. This incident may have started in a pub but it had ended out here, in an alley that ran parallel to one of the main tourist stretches in Northolme. The town had its fair share of visitors, nothing like the numbers that flocked to York or nearby Lincoln, but enough to keep the tea rooms and souvenir shops in business. Knight doubted many tourists had realised the alley was there; it seemed mainly to be a place where shopkeepers filled their dustbins. Not exactly a sight worth seeing. No doubt the place would be full of gawping bystanders if they were being allowed near; however, it and the surrounding area had been emptied of people and cordoned off, much to the outrage of the local shopkeepers.

Emerging from the tent, Knight glanced around the alley. Heavy rain fell steadily. Knight made his way through to the cobbled street beyond before removing the protective clothing he’d put on to view the body. The photographer had done his work, and a video recording had also been made. Scene of crime officers were busy, always reminding Knight of worker bees as they moved around the area. A short, stout man strode over.

‘You’re DI Knight? I’m Beckett, the pathologist.’ He gestured towards the alley. ‘Not a good way to end your night out.’

Knight frowned. ‘By being killed, you mean?’

The doctor grimaced. ‘You’ve got to admit, it’s a strange one. Such a public place.’

‘Shops though, not houses. No pubs or restaurants on this street, not much risk of passers-by. I’m presuming he was killed last night?’

Beckett nodded. ‘Without really committing myself, I’d say between midnight and five a.m. Of course, he’s been out in the rain and cold all night so… There’ll be more to say after the post-mortem, but the cause of death seems pretty clear. He’s taken a good few blows to the back of his head. More than a few.’

‘With?’

‘Blunt instrument.’

‘Right,’ Knight said.

Beckett was shuffling his feet, obviously keen to be on his way. ‘No sign that he fought back. He seems to have been taken by surprise.’

‘He’d probably had a few.’

‘And his jeans were undone.’

‘Any sign of sexual activity or assault?’

‘Not so far, but again, I wouldn’t say for certain until after the post-mortem. Maybe he’d just stopped for a pee.’

‘That’s what I was thinking. Thanks, Doctor.’

---

In the station canteen, Detective Sergeant Catherine Bishop waited impatiently behind an indecisive DC who was dithering over crisps, seemingly unable to make up his mind between cheese and onion and salt and vinegar. She prodded him in the back.

‘Hey Chris, why don’t you just have ready salted? Takes the pain out of choosing.’

He started and span around. ‘Very funny. What’s up with you?’

Catherine shrugged, spread her arms wide. ‘Just another day in paradise, isn’t it?’

The DC grunted, turned back to the crisps and took a bag of cheese and onion. Catherine pushed past him, paid for a cappuccino and went to sit down. Chris Rogers followed and sat in the chair opposite her.

‘What’s made you so cheerful?’ Rogers tore his crisps open and offered them to Catherine.

She crunched a couple loudly before replying. ‘Nothing, time of year maybe. Dark when you get up, dark when you get home. It’s miserable.’

‘Suppose so. Still, Christmas is coming.’

Catherine sighed. ‘And?’

Rogers shook his head, then tipped it back, shaking the last of the crisps into his mouth. ‘I see Inspector Wallpaper’s back in.’

Catherine nodded. ‘Back this morning. Not much of a tan to say he’s been away for a week.’

‘Depends where he’s been though. Not everywhere’s that hot at this time of year.’

Sitting back in her chair, Catherine folded her arms. ‘What’s the point then? If I’m going to spend a day travelling on a plane and buses, I want it to at least be hot when I get there.’

‘Me too, but who knows with him? We went away with the in-laws this summer – bloody nightmare.’

‘Really? I thought you got on with them?’

‘I do for a few hours. Not for a week.’

Catherine grinned at him. ‘Don’t let your wife hear you say that.’

Getting to his feet, Rogers said with a mock shudder, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t. See you later.’

Catherine sipped her coffee, thinking about Inspector Wallpaper, as he’d come to be known since his arrival from the Met the month before. Detective Inspector Jonathan Knight. He was supposed to be a sound detective, but no one knew any more than that. She couldn’t understand what he was doing here; why would a good detective leave London with all its opportunity to transfer to Lincolnshire? All right, the job still needed to be done, but talk about strange decisions. Of course, it may not have been his choice – maybe he wasn’t a ‘good’ detective after all. Perhaps he’d been a naughty boy and had been sent somewhere so he was well out of the way. No one knew, and Knight wasn’t telling. He’d been polite and pleasant when she’d had cause to speak to him, but also reserved, or as reserved as his rank allowed him to be. Time would tell. Catherine glanced at her watch, drained the last of her cappuccino and stood. Back to it.

As she returned to her desk, Simon Sullivan, another of the DCs, called her over.

‘DI Knight’s just gone out at a hundred miles an hour, Sarge, said to tell you to call him as soon as possible.’

‘Right, thanks.’

Catherine sat down and reached for the phone on her desk. Why hadn’t Knight sent Sullivan to find her? There weren’t that many places she might be; only the canteen or the toilets. She shook her head as she dialled Knight’s mobile. He answered after the first ring.

‘DC Sullivan said you wanted me to ring you, sir?’

‘That’s right. I need you to come down to the town centre, a body’s been found. Bring DC Sullivan too.’

He gave the location and Catherine was up and out of her chair.

---

Knight watched Beckett scurry away, trying to avoid the puddles. Knight stood for a few seconds, then made his way over to the head of the scene of crime officers, Mick Caffery.

‘What have you got so far?’ Knight asked.

‘Well, there’s no wallet on him which seems strange, especially if he was on a night out. No mobile phone and no sign of the weapon so far either.’

Knight glanced back towards the alley. He’d noticed the victim wore black shoes rather than trainers. His jeans were smart, expensive looking, as was his designer T-shirt.

‘The majority of the blood is obviously around his head, but we’ve found other traces in the area, probably deposited as the weapon was swung back and forth,’ Caffery said.

‘Any urine?’

‘In that area, there’s probably gallons of it. We’ll see what we can get; the rain’s not helping. You’re meaning because of his trousers being undone? Caught short, as it were?’

‘Something along those lines,’ Knight said.

Caffery nodded and stepped away. Knight took a deep breath, then blew onto his hands. He was beginning to feel the cold, though not as much as the unfortunate young man who had found the body. He had started a fortnight’s work experience in one of the local shops that day and had stumbled on the body, almost literally it seemed, when taking some rubbish out into the alley. Knight had almost smiled when he’d heard that; it made a change from a jogger finding it, or someone walking their dog. Still, it wasn’t something the boy sitting hunched in the back of Knight’s car would forget in a hurry.

‘Sir?’

Knight looked up; DS Bishop and DC Sullivan had arrived. He quickly explained the situation to them, then, when they’d put on their protective clothing, led them towards the alleyway. Catherine and Sullivan approached the victim carefully. A suspicious death in Northolme was a rare occurrence.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Sullivan.

‘It’s Craig Pollard,’ Catherine whispered.

Chapter 2

DCI Keith Kendrick sat back in his chair, resting his hands on his considerable belly. Knight, sitting across the conference table from Kendrick, waited as his boss organised his thoughts.

‘You’re telling me Bishop and Sullivan both recognised the dead man?’

‘Yes, and according to them, most of our uniforms would recognise him too. Craig Pollard was well known around town. Fights in pubs, drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace…’

‘The sort of person who could get himself killed in a bar room brawl and no one would raise an eyebrow then?’ said Kendrick.

‘If it had been a bar room brawl, but this wasn’t, at least it doesn’t look like it, unless he was followed.’

The phone on the table between them began to ring, and Kendrick reached out a hairy hand to grab the receiver. Knight watched Kendrick’s expression change from mild irritation at the interruption to confusion, then to disbelief.

‘And you found this in his pocket? Why the hell didn’t you tell Knight this at the scene? Rain? What do you mean, it was raining? Christ, Beckett, you won’t melt, you’re not a bloody jelly baby… Email it then. Email a copy. I want to see it. Yes, immediately please. Thanks.’ Kendrick, shaking his head, replaced the receiver. ‘You’ll never believe this – Beckett’s found a photo in the victim’s pocket, which he should have done at the scene, of course, but apparently he was getting wet.’ Kendrick’s face twisted in disgust. ‘Bloody idiot. Anyway, this photo is of – and it’s like the plot of a crappy TV programme – our lovely police station.’

Knight stared at him, brow wrinkled. ‘I don’t follow. Why would—’

‘I’ve no idea why,’ Kendrick interrupted, ‘but the fact is, that’s what was there. Beckett’s sending me a copy of the picture over. It’s bloody weird, if you ask me.’

There was a pause as both men puzzled over what Beckett had said. After a couple of minutes, there was a ping from Kendrick’s mobile, and he hauled it from his jacket pocket.

‘Right, let’s have a look. Let the dog see the rabbit,’ he said, chunky fingers prodding at the screen. ‘Yes, he’s right. There’s the building, as depressing as ever, and a figure going in through the door. Looks like…’ He held the phone out to Knight.

‘Catherine Bishop,’ Knight said, peering at the screen.

‘I don’t like it,’ Kendrick said, after another pause. ‘Did DS Bishop say anything else about Pollard?’

‘No, she just knew who he was when she saw him, but then Sullivan did too.’

Keith Kendrick stood, stuck his head through the door and spoke to the nearest officer. He collected a fresh jug of water from the dispenser and three plastic cups on his way back to his seat. Knight gratefully filled a cup with water, drank and refilled the cup. There was a light knock on the door, and Catherine Bishop appeared.

‘You wanted to see me?’ she said.

‘Sit down, Catherine,’ Kendrick said, pulling out a chair as Knight poured a cup of water and slid it over the table towards her. She gave him a quick smile of thanks, not quite meeting his eyes. ‘Now then, Sergeant, something a bit odd’s turned up and I wanted a quick chat about it,’ Kendrick told her.

Catherine looked from one man to the other. ‘Odd? What do you mean?’

‘Dr Beckett did a proper search of Pollard’s body – eventually.’ Kendrick raised his eyebrows. ‘And in Pollard’s pocket, he found this.’

He held the phone out to Catherine, who squinted at it.

‘In Pollard’s pocket? Looks like me coming in to work – but why?’

Kendrick set his phone on the table. ‘Like I said, it’s odd.’

‘Creepy is what it is.’ Catherine shuddered, taking a sip of water. ‘Makes no sense.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us about Craig Pollard?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I mean, as soon as I saw the body I knew it was him, but I think every other person in town would have been able to tell you that, definitely every copper. He’s been in trouble one way or another for as long as I’ve been in the force. I’ve never arrested him, and I certainly had nothing to do with his death, so…’

Kendrick met her eyes. ‘No one’s saying you had, we just need to try to make sense of it. It looks like Pollard upset someone in a pub, or club, or wherever he’d been, who followed him and hit him a bit harder than they meant to.’

Catherine glanced at Knight, who said, ‘But does it? He was hit on the back of the head, several times, according to the doctor. It didn’t look like he’d been punched or kicked or glassed. Of course, we’ll have to wait until we get the post-mortem report, but…’

Kendrick pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, frowning hard. ‘Point taken, but it could still be some bloke he’d upset before who saw their chance, gave him a crack over the head and got carried away.’

Knight nodded. ‘Could be. But what did they find along the way to hit him with, and where’s the weapon?’ he said.

‘Until we get the full reports from Caffery and the pathologist, we can’t make up our minds about anything. We need to get Pollard formally identified and start sniffing around his friends, see if anyone will give us anything we can use,’ said Kendrick.

‘Assuming he had any friends,’ Catherine mumbled.

‘Blokes like Pollard usually know a lot of people, Sergeant,’ said Kendrick. ‘Whether any of them will care enough that he’s dead to tell us anything is another matter, and as for the photo…’

Catherine Bishop gave another shudder.

Chapter 3

I did it. I can’t quite believe it. When it was over, I waited. I didn’t think he was breathing. There was nothing left of him in his face, none of the arrogance and cruelty I’d seen there, none of the boastfulness he’d displayed in the pub or the confidence that radiated from him as he chatted to women in clubs. He was gone, I was sure of it. The back of his head was a mess. I held the mirror over his mouth, and although it was streaked with rain, there was no misting. No breath was left in him, no life. I stared down at him; there was blood, but not as much as I’d expected, not that I’d really had any idea how much there would be. There isn’t any way you can rehearse this, to have a practice or dry run. As soon as the first blow had connected I knew I could do it, knew I would. Such a strange sound. Not like the crack of hitting a cricket ball, more of a solid sort of thump. I left him lying there. I’ll have to find somewhere to burn the clothes I wore soon.

One down.

Chapter 4

‘All right, all right, let’s have a bit of hush, shall we?’ Kendrick bellowed over the racket as he barged into the briefing room, clutching a sheaf of paper in his hand. Placing the sheets on the desk in front of him, he rounded on his audience, setting both hands on the surface of the desk and leaning forward. The noise abated briefly, then stopped altogether as Kendrick glared at the assembled officers.

‘Better,’ he said. ‘You’re like a gaggle of schoolkids sometimes. Now. The PM on our victim, Craig Pollard, was conducted this afternoon. I know that Pollard was a familiar face to many of you.’ Kendrick raised his eyebrows at a uniformed constable who had given a snort of derision at that. The constable shut up. ‘The report confirms that Pollard died sometime after midnight, but before four a.m. He was killed where he was found; the body hadn’t been moved.’ Kendrick consulted his notes. ‘The alcohol level in his blood indicated that his reactions would have been slowed by the amount he had drunk; in fact, Dr Beckett was surprised Pollard had been able to stumble along at all.’

Again, Kendrick was interrupted, this time by someone muttering ‘Typical,’ not quite under their breath. Kendrick folded his arms, rocked back on his heels. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, dangerous.

‘Can I remind you that whatever dealings you’ve had with Craig Pollard in the past, he’s now our victim?’ He left a deliberate pause, just long enough to make his audience, especially those on the front row, right under the DCI’s nose, squirm a little. Eventually, Kendrick resumed his summing up, his voice businesslike again. ‘The report also states that several of the blows inflicted on the back of Pollard’s head could have been the one to actually kill him, such was the severity of the damage they had done.’ There were a few winces at this. ‘The person delivering the blows was right-handed, and seemingly shorter than Pollard. However, as Pollard was six feet tall, this doesn’t exclude that many people.’ Kendrick spread his hands. ‘So. That’s where we are. The PM hasn’t really told us much that we didn’t know before. Doc Beckett did find a photo in Craig Pollard’s pocket, which was of our beloved police station.’ Kendrick gestured behind him with a sharp movement of his thumb.

One of the constables on the front row raised his hand doubtfully. ‘A photo of this place, sir? Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kendrick said. ‘DI Knight, will you summarise what our friends in uniform have been able to find out, please?’

Knight rose slowly from his chair and made his way to the front of the room. A couple of jokers on the back row nudged each other as Knight cleared his throat and took his time before beginning to speak.

‘Unfortunately, again, not much has come to light. We’ve collected all of the CCTV footage from the pubs in the area, and the streets Pollard may have walked down on his way to the place he met his death, but the officers who had been working on the film haven’t had any luck yet.’

Kendrick blew out his cheeks. ‘And that’s it?’

Knight nodded. ‘The local shop owners couldn’t help either, since Pollard died overnight and none of them were around. We’re going back later to the pubs, talking to people who may have been there drinking last night, but there’s very little to go on at the moment.’

With a shrug, Knight went back to his seat.

‘Our own Sherlock Holmes,’ a voice said softly.

Catherine, seated in the front row, turned and glared over her shoulder. Innocent faces smiled back at her. Catherine shook her head, turned back around. Knight didn’t help himself sometimes, she had to admit. She focused back on Kendrick.

‘DS Bishop? You and DC Sullivan went to find out Pollard’s movements last night?’

Catherine stood, then turned and faced her colleagues. She had worked with most of them for a number of years now, and knew they were generally a good bunch. In death, Craig Pollard seemed to be generating about as much sympathy as he had in life – none. Still, his life had been cut short, and he hadn’t deserved that, no matter how much trouble he had been. Catherine flipped open the cover of her notebook.

‘We spoke to Craig Pollard’s brother, Mike, who was able to tell us where to find the pub Craig usually started his nights out, so we went there first. It turns out that Pollard actually spent the whole night in that same pub. The barman we talked to was working last night and he was able to confirm that Pollard had arrived there around nine p.m., drank steadily until around twelve thirty, then stumbled out of the door. He spoke to a few people, but wasn’t in the company of anyone for more than a couple of minutes. He left alone.’

‘Sounds like this barman had nothing better to do than watch customers all night,’ said Kendrick. ‘Quiet, was it?’

Catherine nodded. ‘Seems so, although Sunday nights usually are apparently. Pollard was one of the few Sunday night regulars. Friday and Saturday, he’d just call in for a few drinks, then go off elsewhere, but his Sunday routine was just to sit at the bar and drink himself silly.’

‘And always by himself?’ asked Kendrick.

‘Usually. Occasionally, his brother or someone else joined him for a couple of pints, but not very often. The barman said Pollard seemed to be in a world of his own, just interested in staring at the bottom of a glass. Pollard wouldn’t enter into conversation, even if someone spoke to him.’

‘Interesting,’ said Kendrick. ‘Worrying about something?’

‘Doesn’t sound like Pollard,’ Catherine replied, and there were nods of agreement all over the room.

‘And only on Sunday nights, from what you’ve said,’ added Knight.

Catherine nodded, then glanced down at her notebook. ‘Pollard’s brother Mike said as far as he knew, Craig had no worries, no problems. Pollard’s a complete saint according to his mum and dad too.’

Kendrick snorted. ‘Hmm, a hint of rose-tinted spectacles there, I think. What did his girlfriend have to say, Jonathan?’

Knight smiled faintly. ‘She didn’t agree.’

Kendrick waved him forward again. ‘Let’s hear it, then.’

Knight had gone with one of the uniformed officers, PC Emily Lawrence, to speak to Kelly Whitcham, expecting her to be grief-stricken and tearful. The address wasn’t officially Pollard’s, but according to his family, it was where he often slept. The house was in the middle of a terrace, one of the streets on the outskirts of town where the local council had bought many of the houses and rented them to tenants. It wasn’t run-down exactly, but there were better places to live. Whitcham’s house had vertical blinds and a broken upstairs window. Further down the street, two small boys bounced a football across the road to each other. Knight knocked on the door, eventually seeing movement behind the frosted-glass panels. Fingers appeared, holding the metal letter box open from the inside.

‘Who is it?’

Knight glanced at Lawrence, feeling a little silly, then squatted slightly and leant closer to the door. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Knight.’

‘Oh, right. Police? I can’t open the door.’

‘You can’t? Why not?’

‘Because Craig kept us locked in here and I haven’t got a key, that’s why not.’

Knight frowned. ‘You mean you can’t get out?’

‘We can’t get out, you can’t get in, unless you want me to smash a window, and I’m not doing that with my kids inside.’

Knight shook his head in disbelief. ‘You can’t stay in there forever. Would you have any objection to me calling some colleagues and asking them to