Page 107 of Maybe Tomorrow

She reached out to pick up the phone when her hand stopped in mid-air. A Post-it note stuck to the edge of her desk caught her eye. A message had been left for her. It simply said,Call Jennifer Ripley ASAP.

Not wanting to be overheard, Freya went to a side office and dialled the number on the note.

‘Jen, it’s Freya. You left me a message,’ she said, perched on the edge of a cold desk, her voice low so people walking by the closed door couldn’t hear.

‘Yes. I’m afraid I have some bad news.’

‘Good grief, not you as well. I don’t think I can take any more this morning.’

‘What’s happened?’ Jennifer asked.

‘Remember DI Bishop? He died last night. Fell asleep with a lit cigarette. The whole house burned down.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘I know.’ Freya nodded.

‘How are you?’

‘I don’t know. I’m a bit numb, surprisingly. I think it’s the shock of how he went rather than the fact that he’s dead.’

‘I know what you mean. Listen, I hate to add to your problems, but I had a phone call this morning from Blackmoor Prison.’

Freya gripped the phone hard. Over the years, Jennifer and Freya had grown closer and considered each other good friends, even though most of their conversations centred around Anthony Winstanley. Freya knew that if Jennifer was calling her during working hours, then it wasn’t for a chat about last night’sCoronation Street.

‘Go on,’ Freya prompted.

‘Anthony’s been badly beaten up. He’s currently in Leeds General Infirmary. He has a collapsed lung and has lost the sight in his left eye.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Freya said. Tears pricked her eyes. She was more upset by this than the news of Henry Bishop’s death. ‘Does Pauline know?’

‘Yes. The prison called her yesterday.’

‘What are we going to do, Jen?’

‘I was hoping you could answer that question for me.’

A thought popped into Freya’s mind. She suddenly felt buoyed. ‘I’ve got an idea. Leave it with me.’

Freya waited until lunchtime, then left CID on the pretext of buying a sandwich and drawing some money out of the post office for Henry Bishop’s whip-round. She reversed out of the parking space and headed for Tania Dove’s last known address, Carver Lane. She doubted she still lived there. It was four years since she’d last appeared on the police’s radar, but it was a starting point.

Freya knocked on the door and stood back, looking up at the building. The brickwork was in need of repointing, the door could do with a lick of paint and the wooden windowsills had borne the brunt of the harsh coastal weather and were crumbling. There was no reply, so Freya knocked louder. Eventually, the door was opened by a large woman in her forties. She looked shattered, as if she’d just woken up.

‘What?’ she said in a tone that oozed bad attitude.

‘I’m looking for Tania Dove.’

‘Never heard of her,’ she said and started to close the door.

‘Wait.’ Freya slapped her hand on the door to keep it open. ‘She lived here about four years ago.’

‘Well, she doesn’t live here now. I do.’

‘Do you know where she went?’

‘Seeing as I’ve never heard of her, I’m going to say no. Now, do you mind, you’re letting the warmth out.’

Freya removed her hand and the door slammed in her face.