Free On Laughton Moor by Lisa Hartley

before do you? Especially now Pollard’s dead.’
      ‘There’s still Nick to think about. And that lad.’
      ‘Nick isn’t stupid, he’ll keep his head down. And the lad . . . we don’t know he saw anything. If he did why didn’t he come forward at the time, or since? He’s had twelve years to think about it.’
      ‘Maybe he didn’t see anything then. Maybe he doesn’t know. They said it was an accident after all.’
      ‘It was an accident, that’s the point, and I’m not going to be dragged into something that I didn’t do. Get that phone and sim card sorted. Don’t ring me again, not from your new number either. Remember what I said, Dave. I wasn’t there if they come for you.’
    Steve Kent shoved his phone back in his pocket. He should have known Dave would do something stupid, though at least he hadn’t gone to the police station in person and made a tearful confession. Kent paced around the living room of his flat. He couldn’t deny he was worried too, of course he was, but panicking would get them nowhere. He was still sure Pollard’s death was the result of a fight, an argument, something Pollard had got himself into as a result of his big mouth and cocky attitude. Until Kent heard differently, he was going to keep believing it. The worst thing he could do now was panic; he knew he mustn’t let Dave’s attitude infect him too. Nick was an unknown of course, Kent had no idea where he was but presumed the news of Pollard’s death would reach him eventually. He may have moved away or even emigrated. Kent had considered that himself, anything to make a new start, become an anonymous face. In the end he had moved albeit within the same county. Far enough though, away from the town, the moors, the memories and old friends like Craig Pollard.
     
     
    Catherine Bishop’s desk in the main CID room was in the corner and she sat with her back to the wall. She could see the whole room, all the comings and goings and bustle. It was quieter now but there were still people around. Looking at the notes and the day’s reports from the DCs and the rest of the team, it seemed to her they were no closer to finding Craig Pollard’s killer than they had been the previous day. Trying to find any of the girls Pollard may have met in the pubs around the town had proved as fruitless as their attempts to talk to his friends. Perhaps Pollard wasn’t as popular as his brother claimed. The post mortem had given them nothing new to go on and so far all the forensics had confirmed was that Craig Pollard’s blood had been found with his body and no one else’s. Bishop ran a hand through her hair. She’d had a headache since mid afternoon. She’d been trying not to think about the picture left with the body or the message posted to her, and especially not  the photo taken of her, through her own living room window for Christ’s sake. Why? If the idea was to frighten or intimidate her, the killer was in for a surprise. True, initially it had been a shock, the photograph in particular, but in the end Pollard had been attacked and killed, not Bishop. She considered Knight’s suggestion again, that the killer may have been posing a challenge to her or to the force, but she couldn’t understand that either. The evening meeting with Kendrick and Knight was in twenty minutes time and it was looking like she wouldn’t have much to report. It was frustrating and somewhat worrying to have so little information coming in so early. She bent over the reports again, elbows on the desktop, forehead propped on her fingertips. Nothing. There was nothing there, nothing stood out. Leaning back in the chair now she puffed out her cheeks in frustration, shaking her head. DI Knight was making his way across the room, eyes mainly on the worn grey carpet though occasionally he would smile at someone, respond to a greeting. Bishop almost shook her head again. He was a strange one. He reached her desk and stopped, gesturing to the