So, as the next diners arrived – a party of five men and two women in business clothing – James timed his approach. If he was spotted, he could always run. But no one clocked him as he went to the coat-pegs and fished in the pockets of the navy longcoat, locating a card wallet inside. After a quick upward glance, he opened it, and found the driving licence. Christopher Putman. 311 Victoria Tower, Salford. He slipped the wallet back where he’d found it – best not to raise suspicion – and walked out feeling breathless.
The dark city seemed a different place entirely now, the packed streets full of opportunity. He tried to maintain his composure, but it worked only for a few seconds at a time before his mind spiralled off into fantasies about what this could mean. A door into the past had opened just a fraction, and it could change everything.
Christopher Putman had claimed not to remember him, and fair enough. It had been over ten years, and their encounter had been brief. Probably just a few hours in the day of that bastard before he went back to his comfortable life. But for James it had turned his world upside down.
Soon the past would come back to Putman though. And when it did, he would be very sorry indeed.
Chapter 1
THURSDAY, 17TH APRIL
Jo Masters had attended dozens of dead bodies over the years and the majority of deaths – by far – weren’t suspicious at all. Road traffic collisions, freakish workplace accidents, squalid drug overdoses, elderly people who died alone and weren’t discovered until putrefaction set in and the neighbours raised the alarm. Death struck randomly, oblivious to notions of justice or moral standing, ready to snuff the lives of the living, and cast those left behind in darkness and misery. It was only when she became a mother that Jo realised quite how many threats lurked under her own roof.
The clock read 10.04, which meant her visitor was late. However, the extra minutes did give her the opportunity to do a final sweep of the house and make sure that it was, to all intents and purposes, completely death-proof for a six-month-old baby.
The magnetic strip that held the kitchen knives was way out of reach, so there was no danger there. The safety catches on the cupboards would keep any poisons safely stowed. All plug sockets had protective covers to prevent the insertion of conductive metals by curious fingers. Curtain cords were looped and fastened a metre above the floor, so there could be no accidental self-garrotting. Stairgates were braced so tightly against their wall-mountings that even a rugby prop forward running at velocity would fail to dislodge them. Never mind that Theo could not yet crawl. Jo had vacuumed, swept, dusted, and anti-bac-sprayed to standards that would have impressed Vera Coyne, Thames Valley’s forensic pathology supremo. Theo watched her with a mixture of smiles, squirms and frowning curiosity as she dashed about like a dervish trying to create the impression of parenting competence. He was probably wondering why all his stuffed animals were lined up on a shelf, as if awaiting a drill sergeant’s inspection, and why his mother had suddenly deemed to disinfect his favourite teething ring when she’d never bothered before. He, thankfully, didn’t understand the day’s significance.
It was a little stuffy, so Jo pulled up a sash window. Would that look like a hazard, though? Maybe. She closed it again.
Passing the phone, she noticed for the first time that the message light was flashing. There was only one person who used the landline these days, apart from the ambulance chasers and the other cold-callers. She played the recording as she brushed a few specks of dust off the windowsill.
The message was two days old.
‘Hello, Jo. It’s been a while. Listen, there’s something I need to talk with you about. I know you’ve got a lot on, but … it’s delicate. Maybe you could give me a call back when you’ve got a minute. Oh, it’s Harry, by the way.’
Harry Ferman. Former inspector with Thames Valley Police and her drinking buddy before life changed completely and she’d switched to gin-less tonics and early bedtimes. He hadn’t cared, of course – it was her company he valued. But she hadn’t seen him for, what, three months? Too long. She doubted he was busy that evening, and began to search for his number.
Before she could hit call, the doorbell rang. Jo pocketed the phone, and went to check her appearance in the hallway mirror. As so often these days, there was a moment of cognitive dissonance as she regarded the tired expression looking back at her. No amount of concealer could disguise the dark circles beneath her eyes, and she hadn’t even bothered to dye the grey streaks multiplying around her temples. What was the point, really?
‘Get a grip,’ she muttered to herself. This wasn’t a date, or an interview. It didn’t, or shouldn’t, matter how she looked. It was her house. Her turf. I’m in control.
She opened the door with the sincerest smile she could manage. Liz Merriman, the normal health visitor, was a diminutive five-foot-nothing, maybe thirty years old, with dreadlocks pulled back in a knot, and an easy, authentic expression that suggested she really did enjoy her job. She wore a blue nurse’s tunic, sensible flats, and carried a satchel. But she wasn’t alone today. The woman accompanying her was about ten years Jo’s senior, dressed in a tailored navy skirt and a pale blouse buttoned up to her throat, with short-cropped grey hair. She reminded Jo of a Victorian governess, and the contrast between the two women on her doorstep couldn’t have been more extreme.
‘Hello, Jo,’ said Merriman. ‘Sorry we’re late.’
Jo tore her gaze from Merriman’s companion and waved her hand dismissively. ‘Oh, you’re not, are you? Time doesn’t mean much to me these days!’
‘I’m Annabelle Pritchard,’ said the older woman, holding out a bony hand.
Jo took it. The woman’s skin was cold, despite the heat of the day.
‘Jo Masters,’ she said.
‘May we come in?’ asked Pritchard.
‘Have you got a warrant?’ said Jo. Annabelle frowned. ‘Just kidding. Occupational humour.’ Jo tried to form a disarming grin.
‘Of course,’ said Annabelle, looking troubled rather than amused. ‘I heard you were a police officer.’ She said it with about the same level of distaste as if Jo had said she worked in a slaughterhouse.
Jo moved aside, and let her guests pass. Merriman slid off her shoes before Jo could tell her not to bother.
‘How’s the little man doing?’ she asked.
I’ve managed to keep him alive, if that’s what you mean.
‘Fine, fine,’ said Jo, leading the way through to the living room. ‘He’s just through here. Can I get you a tea or coffee?’
‘Just a glass of water would be great,’ said Merriman. ‘Hotting up out there.’
‘And for you?’ Jo asked her companion.
‘Nothing, thank you,’ said Pritchard.
As Jo went to the sink in the kitchen to get the drink, she could hear Merriman cooing to Theo. A knot settled just under her heart. She’d known that this would be more than a routine visit, but the appearance of the other woman was still disconcerting. She carried the water into the other room. Merriman was already seated by Theo’s bouncer, spinning the mobile that hung in front of it. Pritchard was looking out of the window into the street below, as if appraising the drop, and Jo was pleased with her decision regarding ventilation.