The strange thing is, when I recalled the altercation afterwards, picturing Ray Hegarty’s calm hostility, I found myself feeling sorry for the bikers. It was as if the odds were always stacked against them.
Turning the corner into Station Road, I spy the battered Land Rover parked out front of the terrace. Ronnie Cray is sitting behind the wheel with her eyes closed, resting her head against the doorframe.
‘Morning?’
Her eyes half open. ‘You shouldn’t leave your door key under a rock. Second place I looked. Had to use the little girl’s room. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘You could have stayed inside.’
‘I don’t mind the cold.’
Climbing out, she shakes my hand. Holds it. Looks into my eyes. ‘You didn’t stop earlier.’
‘I saw you were busy.’
Her hands go to the pockets of her overcoat. She’s short and round with a wardrobe of tailored trousers and men’s shoes. Dark shadows beneath her eyes betray her tiredness, but there’s something more.
‘I’ve come to check on the cat,’ she says.
‘Yeah. Sure.’
Eighteen months ago the DCI dropped by unexpectedly and presented me with a box. Inside was a straw-coloured kitten, part of a litter that had been born in her barn a few weeks earlier.
‘I have a dog,’ I said.
‘You need a cat.’
‘Why?’
‘You own a dog but you need something to own you. That’s what cats do. She’ll boss you around. Run the place.’
The detective put the box on the floor. It contained six cans of cat food, a bag of cat litter and two plastic dishes. Reaching inside, she pulled out the kitten, which hung over her palm like a sock.
‘Isn’t she’s a beauty? She’ll keep you company.’
‘I don’t need company.’
‘Hell you don’t. You sleep alone. You work part-time. You’re home a lot. I got all the stuff you need. She’s vaccinated but you might want to get her neutered in about four months.’
She thrust the kitten at me and it clung to my sweater as if I were a tree. I couldn’t think of what to say except, ‘It’s very thoughtful of you, Ronnie.’
‘If she’s anything like her mother, she’ll be a good ratter.’
‘I don’t have any rats.’
‘And you won’t.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Call her what you like.’
Emma named her Strawberry - ‘because she’s coloured like straw’ - don’t ask me to explain the logic of a preschooler.
When Charlie was kidnapped, Ronnie Cray was in charge of the police investigation. I think she blamed herself for not protecting my family. Some tragedies forge friendships. Others are touchstones for too many bad memories. I don’t know what I have with Ronnie. Maybe it’s a friendship. Maybe we’re sharing the guilt.
Whatever the case, the detective has stayed in touch, calling me every so often to ask about the cat. Occasionally, she talks about cases that she’s working on, dropping in details she thinks might intrigue me. I don’t take the bait.
One night she phoned from the scene of a hostage crisis where a man had barricaded himself in a house with his ex-wife who he’d doused with petrol. Ronnie asked for my help. I said no.
Afterwards I sat up late watching Sky News, listening to the reports on failing banks, repossessions and market meltdowns, hoping the stories would stay the same. I also prayed, which is bizarre because I don’t believe in God. I’m not superstitious either, yet I crossed my fingers. I willed things not to occur, even though that’s impossible.
I sat up all night watching the news, certain that if I maintained my vigil nothing bad would happen. I didn’t go to bed until the sun had come up and the beautiful TV couples were smiling brightly from their morning sofas. I had saved another life.
Cray has stepped past me into the hallway without waiting for an invitation. She shrugs off her coat and tosses it over the back of a chair. I always forget how short she is until we’re standing side by side. I’m looking at the crown of her head. Her bristled hair is pepper grey.
‘I saw you on TV the other week,’ I say. ‘You’ve been promoted.’
‘Yeah, I’m sleeping my way to the top.’ Her laugh sounds like gravel rash. ‘How’s the shaking business?’
‘Up and down.’
‘Is that a Parkinson’s joke?’
‘Sorry.’
She’s about to light another cigarette.
‘I don’t let people smoke in the house.’
The lighter sparks in her cupped hands. ‘I appreciate you making an exception.’ She inclines her head as she exhales. The smoke floats past her eyes. I can’t hold her gaze.
As if on cue, Strawberry appears, walking silently into the kitchen and sniffing at Cray’s shoes. Perhaps she can smell her mother. The DCI leans down and scoops up the cat with one hand, studying her eyes for answers.
‘She’s getting fat.’
‘She’s part sloth.’
‘You’re feeding her too much.’
Cray drops Strawberry and watches her twist in the air, landing on her feet. The cat walks to her food bowl, looks unimpressed, and saunters off to find a suntrap.
The DCI takes a seat, ashes her cigarette in a saucer. ‘You don’t seem very happy to see me, Professor.’
‘I know why you’re here.’
‘I need your help.’
‘No you don’t.’
The statement comes out too harshly, but Cray doesn’t react.
One part of me desperately wants to know what happened to Ray Hegarty, why Sienna was covered in blood, why she ran . . . At the same time I feel a swelling in my throat that makes my voice vibrate. I shouldn’t want to do this again. The last time it cost me almost everything.
‘You know this girl.’
‘She’s a friend of Charlie’s.’
‘Did she say anything to you?’
‘No. She was too traumatised.’
‘See? You know all about this stuff.’
‘I can’t help you.’
Cray glances out the window where a swathe of sunshine has cut across the field turning the grass silver.
‘The man who died last night was a retired detective by the name of Ray Hegarty. He worked for Bristol CID for twenty years. He was my boss. My friend.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She makes a quick sucking noise and her eyes glaze over. ‘I thought Hegarty was a prick when I first met him. He didn’t want me on his team and he did nothing to stop the bullying and cruel pranks. He gave me every shit job he could find - the dirty bodies, death knocks, cleaning out the drunk tank - I thought he was trying to break me or force me out, but it was just his way of toughening me up for the bigger challenges.’
Ophidian eyes blink through the smoke and her thumb passes over her lips. ‘He taught me everything I know. His rules. I guess I grew to respect his achievements and then to respect the man.’
‘I’m sure you’ll work out what happened.’
Anger in her eyes now, ‘If you’re having a mid-life crisis, Professor, buy a Porsche and forget about it.’
‘It’s not a mid-life crisis.’
‘Then what’s your problem?’
‘You know the answer to that.’
Cray stands and hitches up her trousers. ‘In another lifetime I might sympathise with you, but not this one. You don’t have a monopoly on fucked-up families. I’ve got an overweight bad-tempered son who’s living with an ex-junkie and claims to be writing a book about how his parents’ divorce screwed up his life even though I was pregnant longer than I was married.
‘And now a man I respected is lying dead in his daughter’s bedroom and the kid is so traumatised she’s not saying boo to a goose. So you see, Professor, you won’t get any pity from me, but I will give you some advice.’