Free On Laughton Moor by Lisa Hartley Page B

the moment I’m finding it difficult. It’s not that he deserves anything less, it’s just . . . I can’t explain it, even to myself. It’s reluctance. Craig was different, I was ready, even eager to get that done but this time I’m more wary. One death could be explained away, even with the calling card I left for them, a prank or a joke. Another death seems to make it much more serious; a lunatic on the loose maybe? There’s also more of a chance of alerting the others or of one of them coming forward with the whole story. I could stop now, Pollard was the one I wanted most after all, the ringleader, the proper rotten apple in the barrel. The others are just weak, not evil as he was. They were still there though, they stood by and let it happen, thinking more of themselves than of Tommy, too afraid of Pollard to stand up to him. So was I though, I need to remember that while I’m passing judgement.
     

 
     
    10
     
     
     
     
    Bishop shovelled the last of her chicken bhuna into her mouth and let out a long, satisfied breath Knight, tearing off a final piece of naan bread, glanced up at her and smiled.
      ‘Perfect,’ said Bishop. ‘Just what you need on a freezing cold, rainy night.’ She took a sip of beer. ‘Especially when your case is going to shit.’
    Knight picked up his plate, leant across the table and took Bishop’s. He rinsed them, dumped them in the sink and sat back down.
      ‘I know I keep banging on about it, but we’re missing something. Whoever killed Pollard will be sitting somewhere laughing at us.’
      ‘It feels like we’ve got nowhere to go. DCI Kendrick didn’t exactly mince his words, did he?’ Bishop sighed
      ‘And he’s right. A murder around here, whoever did it’s usually still next to the body when it’s found, knife in his hand, blood on his fists, whatever, but this? Have you ever heard of a case like it, sir, when you were in the Met? You must have seen all sorts of goings on.’
      ‘Please call me Jonathan. We had someone phone the station and accuse a DC of murder once, a bloke had been knifed in a fight over a woman. Wasn’t the DC at all, it was his cousin but it caused a few headaches for a while. But I don’t think you’re being accused of anything here . . . ’
      ‘Mainly because I didn’t do it!’ Bishop interrupted. Knight held up a placatory hand.
      ‘I know . It could be a plea for help, for understanding,  just two fingers up at you and coppers in general . . . it’d help if they’d been a bit more specific though, instead of pissing around with reproduced oil paintings.’
    Bishop raised an eyebrow. She couldn’t remember having heard Knight swear before.
      ‘What about the photo, what do you think he meant by that? If it were of someone else and more recent, someone close to Pollard like his brother or Kelly Whitcham, it would make more sense, like they were gloating about killing him, rubbing their noses in the fact that they’re watching them suffer, even accusing them, but why me? It doesn’t feel like a threat, but then again it’s shaken me up, I don’t mind admitting it.’
    Knight got to his feet again, crossed to the sink and began running hot water into the washing up bowl.
      ‘I’m not surprised. If it had been a “knight” chess piece in the pictures, I’d feel the same . . . and you really don’t need to keep calling me sir.’
      ‘Oh yes, I’d not thought of that - Bishop and Knight.’
    She smiled at him hesitantly. Knight’s mobile began to ring and he took it out of his pocket, frowning at the display.
      ‘I’ll take over, sir . . . Jonathan.’ Bishop said. ‘Where do you keep your washing up liquid?’
     
     
    In the living room, Knight took a deep breath, then touched the phone’s screen to answer the call.
      ‘Hello? Caitlin?’
      ‘Jonathan? I thought you were never going to answer, I was going to leave you a voicemail.’
      ‘I’ve only just got home, I was