One Bad Turn by Emma Salisbury Page A

her breath making him smirk. ‘You must be Charlie,’ Turnbull said to her, amicably, ‘you’ve changed.’ The snide look she’d greeted him with turned into a glare for time had been less kind. A bloated version of the picture held on the PNC, she wore a black beanie hat pulled down low over straggly dyed black hair. Her nylon bomber jacket was tight across her middle, a baby bump or flab Turnbull couldn’t determine. ‘What d’you want, copper?’ Bundy sneered. He raised his pint glass to his lips before realising it was empty, undaunted he tilted his head back to swallow the frothy dregs before replacing the glass on the table beside him. ‘Five minutes of your time,’ Turnbull said, pulling out the stool in front of the couple without waiting to be asked. Robinson remained standing by the exit, his back to the wall in case things got nasty. ‘Whatever it was, he was with me.’ Charlie mocked. Turnbull fixed her with a stare. ‘What makes you think it’s him I’m interested in?’ The smile froze on her lips. ‘You’ve got a history of serious assault,’ he added, as though she needed reminding. ‘History,’ she repeated, amenable, ‘that’s all it is, we’re a proper couple now,’ she patted her belly fondly. Turnbull eyed the cider and black in front of her, the packet of roll-ups beside them. ‘Very happy for you I’m sure,’ he responded. ‘What were you doing after last orders on Tuesday night?’
    ‘Eh?’ Charlie scratched her right breast absentmindedly. Her companion’s face broke into a grin, ‘Hang on, that’s when that darkie was murdered, it’s been all over the news, you trying to fit Chas up for this?’
    ‘Good luck to ‘em,’ someone muttered from another table. ‘Enough!’ Robinson ordered, careful not to single anyone out when he glared at a group of skinheads sat around a table. Turnbull turned towards Gerrard, ‘I’d like to know your whereabouts too, as a matter of fact.’
    ‘As a matter of fact,’ Gerrard mimicked, ‘I happened to be with Chas, we were down the hospital, thought she’d gone into labour but it was those pretend contractions.’
    ‘Braxton ‘icks,’ Chas added knowledgeably, ‘we’d gone in after the pub closed, didn’t get out again ‘till about four in the morning. Contact the hospital if you don’t believe me.’
    ‘I intend to,’ Turnbull said evenly, getting to his feet.
    *
    It was a day of little progress. Turnbull and Robinson returned to the station to report that Deeks and Bundy’s alibis checked out, as did the remainder of the suspects they’d tracked. ‘And they don’t know who’s behind it either,’ Turnbull added, ‘some of them have lost the plot that much they’d wear it like a badge of honour if they knew.’
    ‘So we can close the Hate crime line of enquiry,’ Coupland said pointedly, darting a glance in the DCI’s direction. Mallender returned Coupland’s gaze before nodding. The DCI was different from Curtis; he didn’t turn everything into a pissing contest. Coupland was well aware that wouldn’t be the end of it, at some point Curtis would come over the hill demanding an explanation so they’d need to type up their reports in double quick time but at least the investigation could continue on the right track in the meantime. Despite this, he couldn’t shake off a nagging disappointment: the truth was they had very little to go on. Sharon’s workmates had nothing bad to say about her, not unusual in itself, but people liked to rake mud, and if there’d been any hint of shenanigans between her and another colleague he’d have heard about it by now. DC Ashcroft had been tasked with carrying out background checks on the staff at Donald Gillespie and with James Grimshaw’s co-workers but nothing had been flagged up so far. Mallender traipsed off to the Super’s office looking like he had lead in his boots.
    *
    Coupland was halfway down a glass of red wine Lynn had poured them before dinner when