was a pause, and then Bobby asked, ‘How long is ten minutes?’
I sighed, still not sure how to answer these questions. I’d had no training for this. It had been okay when I was just Mummy’s boyfriend who sometimes stayed over, but this was different. Now we shared the same house, vied for attention from the same woman.
‘A Postman Pat story,’ I said. He looked happy at that and turned back to the television.
As I watched him, I realised that this wasn’t a game any more. Bobby wasn’t just the noise in the house. He had to be nurtured, cared for.
I was about to stand up, to finish getting ready, when Bobby said, ‘Where’s Mummy?’
I stopped, thought about that. As always with children, a version of the truth was best. ‘You know she’s a police lady,’ I said, my voice soft.
Bobby nodded.
‘Well, sometimes police ladies have to go and help people. That’s where she is, helping someone.’
Bobby turned to look at me again. He didn’t look convinced, and already I sensed that his parents’ divorce had toughened him up too much for a boy of four. I found myself smiling, though. I could see so much of Laura in him. From the flickers of dimples to his mop of dark hair, stuck up around his crown, and the twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
I winked at him and ruffled his hair. This needed to work, I thought to myself, as much for Bobby as anyone else.
But then I remembered Laura, how she had looked this morning as she threw on her clothes in silhouette, the smell of her warm in my bed, the soft brush of her lips as she’d kissed me goodbye. No, I needed it to work for me, not just for Bobby.
As I thought about Laura, I realised that I needed to start looking for some more work. I’d built up crime contacts in London, people who would look at the stories I was selling, loose tongues in the police stations and hospitals. I was back at the start again, building up an address book, looking out for the angle the local papers might not report. The abductions would end eventually, but we had a mortgage to pay until then. Laura was at a murder. And where there is a murder, there is always a story.
I picked up my phone and dialled her number. After a few rings I heard her voice.
‘I can’t talk about the case,’ she said quickly.
I laughed. ‘Maybe I was calling to hear your voice.’
‘You heard it this morning.’
‘I’m a reporter, Laura. I’ve got to report, and I’ve got a source on the inside.’
‘Sorry, Jack, that ended when you saw me naked. It’s a rule of mine.’
I whistled. ‘Quite a price, but worth every penny.’
I heard a soft giggle, but when she asked about Bobby I knew that I’d had my final answer on the subject.
‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. The school is new to all the kids. Bobby will be no different.’
‘What are you doing today?’
‘I don’t know. I might have a creep around Blackley, see what I can find. Apparently there’s been a murder.’
‘Jack!’
I laughed. ‘If you won’t tell me anything, I’ll just have to find out myself
‘How long will you be out?’
I sensed the worry in her voice. Bobby needed collecting from school.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back.’
I sensed her relax. ‘Okay, thanks, Jack,’ she said. There was a pause, and then, ‘I’m sorry about all this.’
‘I knew you didn’t do nine-to-five when we met,’ I said. ‘Anyway, it’s good for me. I’ve gone straight to the school run and skipped the dirty nappies.’
She laughed. ‘I love you, Jack.’
‘I’ve always loved you,’ I replied, and then the phone went dead.
I looked down at Bobby, who had been watching me as I spoke. I nudged him lightly on the arm. ‘Come on, soldier. Let’s get you to school.’
And the glow I felt when he smiled at me took me by surprise.
Laura had gone to a quiet corner of the police canteen to answer her phone, but when she ended the call she turned round to see a grinning Pete holding two mugs of coffee. He was keeping her caffeine levels high.
‘That was beautiful,’ he said. ‘I feel all warm inside.’
Laura blushed and grabbed a cup from him. The canteen was small and busy, the tables filled by the extra uniforms, the footsoldiers, drafted in to help with the murder inquiry. The abductions were still the main focus though. There were posters on every wall and on the door, glossy blow-ups of a small business card, a simple image of large hands over a small head, protective, caring. One had been found in the pocket of each abducted child. The press knew about them but had agreed not to report them. In return they got daily updates. Every police officer in Blackley knew about them too, and had been told to keep a lookout. Every time someone was searched, their wallet and pockets were checked. If someone was brought into custody, their property was double-checked.
‘C’mon,’ Pete said. ‘Leave the bacon for these boys. Egan is about to address his generals.’
It felt quiet in the Incident Room when they walked in. Egan had pulled in a few more muscleheads from the proactive team, those officers who liked patrolling the alleys, watching the active criminals; burglars and dealers would be getting an easier time for the next few days. They found some seats at the back of the room, and as Laura sat back in her chair she looked around.
The police station was showing its age. The walls had been painted many times over, the current version of cream uneven and flaking, with large radiators beneath sash windows. The ceiling was high so everything below it looked jumbled, untidy, just a clutter of desks and paper. There was talk of a new station being built on the edge of town, but that was years away yet.
Egan paced at the front of the room and stroked his chin. He looked tense. He had watched Laura and Pete walk in, the last ones to arrive.
Egan turned to address the room, announced his presence with a cough and started with a summary of the case so far: how Jess’s body had been found, the usual list of inquiries. Boyfriends. Money. Stalker. He was a flipchart cop. He had done all the leadership stuff, put pictures of the dead woman on the wall, jotted down suspects and ideas. The others in the room had short attention spans, and Laura could sense their restlessness, as if they knew they wouldn’t get the resources to do the job properly. They had to get lucky, and quickly.
And it might take luck, because crime scenes had already reported back and the forensic sweep was looking slim. There were DNA tests to run, fingerprints to compare, but, for a bloody murder scene like that, nothing stood out yet. No bloody handprints on the walls or the doors, or any footwear marks on the floor. The evidence might be there once everything was looked at, but nothing instant had
