Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

‘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.’

Her cigarette hisses in the sink.

‘Suck it in, Princess, and put on your big-girl pants. You’re playing with the grown-ups now.’

Squeezed behind the steering wheel, the DCI sits forward so her feet can reach the pedals. Eyes ahead. Jaw masticating gum. She drives as if she’s travelling at speed, even though the Land Rover can’t hold fifth.

A cigarette is propped upright in her fist. She blows smoke out of the far corner of her mouth. Speaks, giving me just the facts, the bare bones. Ray Hegarty retired from the force eight years ago and set up a security business - doing alarms, CCTV cameras, patrols and personal protection. He had offices in Bristol, Birmingham and Manchester.

He had a meeting in Glasgow on Monday afternoon and stayed overnight before driving to Manchester the next day. He was supposed to stop overnight and fly to Dublin on Wednesday morning for two days of meetings but the trip was cancelled. Instead he drove back to Bristol and had a late lunch with a business partner.

‘Bottom line - he wasn’t expected home until Friday - not according to his wife.’

‘Where was Helen?’

‘Working at St Martin’s Hospital in Bath. Her shift started at six.’

We pull up outside a house on the eastern edge of the village. Six uniforms stand guard, blocking off the street. Blue-and-white crime-scene tape has been threaded between two cherry trees and the front gate, twirling in the breeze like old birthday decorations. A large white SOCO van is parked in the driveway. Doors yawning. Metal boxes stacked inside.