‘Fuck you.’ It was a whisper, little more than a breath.
Sam turned away, slumping to sit with his legs outstretched. ‘Your choice.’
When Nicky Sturgess had bled out on the floor of the cellar, her death had seemed instantaneous, though he knew his memories were unreliable. He had tried to forget it had happened at all.
He was shivering now, the adrenalin giving way to sickening realisation.
A dead body, and a lot of blood.
He dragged himself to his feet again. He needed help. His phone was on the sofa, pushed between the cushions. He retrieved it, scrolled through his list of contacts. Names and faces, people he had once trusted. Not any more.
He found the name he needed, and stared at the screen. Would the number still work? Would he even answer?
Four rings, then his voice, clipped, impatient.
‘What do you want, Sam?’
‘I need your help.’
17
Caelan hadn’t gone home. After calling into a supermarket for a change of clothes, she was on a bus, heading back to Northolt. As she had expected, the Underground trains weren’t stopping at Northolt station, indicating that the area was still being examined by scene-of-crime officers. She expected they would be busy there for hours yet.
She sat a few seats behind the bus driver with an elderly woman falling asleep by her side. Slowly, trying not to disturb the woman, who now was leaning against her, Caelan slid her phone out of her pocket. Having found her location, she decided to get off at the next stop and see how close she could get to the station. She still had her own identification and warrant card. Nasenby should have taken them from her, if she was being forced back into retirement. An oversight, perhaps. She shouldn’t have had her warrant card at all, not since before she went to Egypt. Not since she had handed Nasenby her letter of resignation. Caelan smiled as she stepped onto the pavement on Mandeville Road, judging she was about half a mile from Northolt Underground station. Penrith would have taken her ID and no doubt had her slung in the cells too.
As she neared the station, she saw the cordon. Traffic was backing up along the road, people opening car doors to peer out, even abandoning their vehicles entirely to gawp. A shooting in the UK was a rare occurrence, and would surely be a major news story for some days to follow. Uniformed police officers were standing guard, not allowing people too close, fending off journalists and television cameramen. Undeterred, people held up mobile phones though what they were filming was unclear. Behind the cordon, around the station, the bridge and the entrance to the underpass, there was no visible activity. Caelan slowed her pace, considering her next move. She took out her phone again.
Voicemail. She ended the call without leaving a message, and waited. In less than a minute, her phone rang.
‘Good evening, Tim.’
‘Detective Small. I’ve been informed you were told to go home.’
‘By Michael? He told me to leave the area, but he didn’t specify where I should go.’ She waited. Achebe was silent, and she could hear another voice in the background. Who?
‘Where are you, Caelan?’ Achebe said.
She moved her phone away from her ear, holding it out so the cacophony of noise in the street would be heard. Shouts, sirens, people chattering as they rushed past her.
She returned the phone to her ear. ‘Are you here too?’
Another whispered discussion. ‘I’m at South Harrow police station, where you were brought after … after the incident. We’re basing the inquiry here.’
Drizzle was beginning to fall, and Caelan ducked into a doorway. The choke of the car engine fumes and the press of people hurrying towards the action made her wish she had stayed away.
‘Have you found the gunman?’
A pause, then Achebe ignored her question. ‘Come to South Harrow, Caelan. We can discuss what’s happened here.’
‘Nasenby won’t be happy.’
She ended the call, checked the location of South Harrow police station on Google. Two and a half miles away. She buttoned her new jacket, deciding she would walk. Solitude and time to think would be welcome.
* * *
Tim Achebe looked exhausted. His pale-blue shirt was crumpled, his tie askew. He sat behind a scruffy wooden desk in a tiny office, frowning at the screen of a laptop. Caelan watched him for a second before rapping her knuckles on the glass in the door. Achebe started, closing the laptop as if he’d been caught looking at something he shouldn’t have been. When he recognised Caelan, he waved her inside.
Caelan sat in the only other chair in the room, facing Achebe. There was no one else in the office, and she wondered again who Achebe had been talking to when he phoned her.
‘Coffee?’ Caelan accepted, and Achebe stood. ‘Won’t be a second.’
He left the room, closing the door behind him. Caelan looked at the laptop, tempted to nip around the desk and see what Achebe had been studying. But he could return quickly, and being caught snooping wouldn’t be ideal.
He set a mug on the desk in front of her and sat back down, rubbing his forehead.
‘Long day?’ Caelan took a mouthful of coffee. Achebe gave a tired smile.
‘Not as long as yours.’
She nodded, acknowledging the point. ‘Tell me about the gunman.’
Achebe sat back in his chair, studying her face. ‘Michael Nasenby has forbidden me to speak to you.’
Not unexpected when she was supposed to be kicking her heels at home. ‘So why am I here?’
‘Because he’s not my boss.’ Achebe smiled.
‘Does he know you’ve called me in?’
‘Yeah, but he thinks I’m going to tell you we’ve discovered nothing about what happened today and send you on your way.’
Caelan stared at him, trying to read his expression, guess his intention. Ignoring Nasenby’s command was an interesting move, and not one she would have predicted him to make. She’d already decided he was a yes-man, committed to furthering his own career and no more.
‘He won’t like it.’
‘Then he can talk to the person who made the decision – Detective Chief Superintendent Adele Brady.’
Caelan recognised the name. ‘But Nasenby’s my boss.’
Achebe smiled.
‘Do you have your warrant card?’
She took it out, slid it across the desk. He picked it up, studied it.
‘What about Ian?’ Caelan said.
Achebe handed back the warrant card. ‘Ian Penrith? Still spouting nonsense.’
‘Nasenby said Penrith suspects me of the murder.’
‘The murder of Ronnie Morgan, or of Charlie Flynn?’
His tone implied the idea was ridiculous. Caelan knew he was observing her closely. She was unperturbed. Let him look. She had nothing to hide.
‘I meant Morgan, but probably both.’
‘Have you heard about the third death?’ Again Achebe’s eyes were fixed on hers. Caelan’s mind blanked. What was he talking about?
‘The third?’
‘Did you go to see an ex-colleague of yours this evening?’
Caelan stared at him, mouth open.
‘Sam Clifton? You’re not saying he’s dead?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m saying he was threatened in his home by a man with a gun. Fortunately, or perhaps not, Mr Clifton remembered his training. It’s the intruder who’s dead.’
‘Sam killed him? The man who shot Ronnie Morgan?’
Achebe shrugged. ‘We don’t know if it was this man who killed Morgan.’ He pushed back his chair, lifted a wool overcoat from the back of it. ‘Want to go and see?’
‘What about Nasenby?’
‘Like I said, if he has a problem, he can to talk to the boss.’
* * *
The windows of Achebe’s car were already covered with a thin sheen of shimmering ice, the first frost of the year making its presence known. Inside, Achebe sat blowing on his hands, waiting for the heated windscreen to do i
ts work. In the passenger seat, Caelan huddled deeper into her coat, wishing she had taken the opportunity to go home for a proper change of clothes.
An intruder showing up at Sam’s door with a gun raised questions. Though she welcomed being told to accompany Achebe, because it gave her a chance to be part of the investigation, she felt reluctant too. Her career had been built on her undercover work, her talent for disappearing in a crowd, her observation and acting skills. Achebe was clearly quietly ambitious; making certain he was part of the operation to locate Seb Lambourne proved as much. His superior officer, Adele Brady, was well known in the force. Caelan had never met her, but she would be more than a match for Nasenby, even at his most imperious.
Achebe sped as quickly as possible through the darkened streets. He was silent, songs Caelan didn’t recognise playing softly on the car’s music system – acoustic guitar, heartfelt lyrics. Crossing Battersea Bridge, his phone began to ring. A female voice with a pronounced northern accent filled the car.
‘Tim? Is Detective Small with you?’
Achebe glanced at Caelan. ‘She is.’
‘Good. I want you to give her a full briefing. You understand me, Tim? A full briefing.’
Caelan saw Achebe’s Adam’s apple jerk as he swallowed. ‘Ma’am …’
‘As we discussed earlier. She needs to know everything.’ The blast of a car horn echoed down the line, followed by a tirade of swearing. Achebe and Caelan exchanged a glance.
Caelan mouthed, Brady?
Achebe nodded.
‘Bloody taxis,’ Brady muttered. ‘Tim, change of plan. Bring Detective Small to see me when you’ve finished at Battersea, please.’
Achebe drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘It’s already late, ma’am.’
‘You think any of us will be going to bed tonight?’
Achebe sighed. ‘Where?’
‘I’ll go to South Harrow.’
The music resumed as Brady disconnected.
Caelan glanced at Achebe. ‘A full briefing? What haven’t you told me?’
‘You heard her. She’ll speak to you later.’
* * *
When they reached Battersea, Sam Clifton’s building had no cordon, no visible police presence. As Achebe parked the car, Caelan looked around for Nasenby’s vehicle, expecting him to be waiting for them. She had no idea what he was driving these days, but it would be large, new and expensive. None of the cars nearby were likely candidates.
Between the blocks of flats the patch of tattered grass was deserted, though as they climbed out of the car, a black cat sauntered into view, pausing to sniff at a fast-food wrapper.
Achebe took in the scene. ‘What a shithole.’ He locked the car doors, his eyes searching the shadows.
‘Worried it’ll be nicked?’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised.’ He glanced at Caelan, ran a hand across his mouth. ‘I grew up a few miles away.’
Considering the neighbouring areas, she guessed, ‘Camberwell?’
‘Peckham.’
‘Cushty.’
Achebe laughed. ‘These days maybe.’
Sam’s front door was closed, but as they approached, it swung open. Ian Penrith stood there, his face expressionless.
‘Caelan.’ He didn’t look surprised to see her. ‘It seems Nasenby’s orders are meaningless, even though he outranks all of us.’
She lifted an eyebrow. ‘I wasn’t expecting you, Ian.’
Smirking, Penrith nodded. ‘I bet. But you know how it is. Sam might be useless now, but he was one of us once. We’ll help him clean up. You, though,’ he stabbed a finger at her, ‘should be at home.’
‘Take it up with the Chief Super,’ Achebe told him. ‘Are you going to let us in?’
Penrith inclined his head. ‘Tell me why you’re here.’
‘It’s a crime scene. We’re detectives.’
‘A crime scene?’
‘A man’s dead.’
Penrith stepped aside, allowing them into the narrow hallway. Achebe hesitated.
‘No protective clothing? No cordon, no scene-of-crime personnel?’
‘No need.’
Achebe stared. ‘But—’
‘Door’s wide open.’
A new voice, loud, coming from behind them. Caelan turned to see a woman enter the flat. Her dark hair was cut in a chin-length style, emphasising strong cheekbones and wide green eyes. She paused, staring at them.
‘Where’s the body?’
‘Good evening, ma’am,’ Achebe murmured. Penrith had paled, his fury clear.
‘Caelan, this is Adele Brady. She seems to think she’s your new commanding officer.’
Detective Chief Superintendent Brady laughed. ‘Because I’ve asked Detective Small to come here? I want to know if she recognises this man.’
Penrith’s voice was condescending. ‘And a photograph wouldn’t have done?’
‘Not if we want an identity confirmed tonight.’ Pointedly Brady turned away from Penrith, smiling at Caelan. ‘Well? Do you recognise him?’
‘I haven’t seen him yet,’ Caelan had to admit. Brady tutted, nodded towards the other end of the hall. ‘In the living room. You know where it is, don’t you? Hard to miss it in a place this size.’
Caelan moved forward. Brady was clearly aware that she and Ewan had been here earlier, and was letting her know as much. The feeling of unease, present since Ronnie Morgan had boarded the train bound for London, intensified as she approached the living room door. It was closed, but she could smell blood, sense the unnatural stillness of the room beyond.
She pulled back her shoulders, seized the door handle, conscious of Brady and Achebe close behind her.
Inside, Sam Clifton sat on his beanbag, as she had seen him earlier. His knees were drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. He stared at the floor, not seeming to register their presence. Tim Achebe glanced at him, but Sam didn’t respond.
The dead man lay on his back, eyes open, lips drawn back over his teeth. A knife handle protruded from his neck, blood pooling beneath on the grubby carpet. Caelan stepped closer, studied his face.
‘Well?’ Brady demanded.
Caelan raised her head. ‘I don’t know him.’ She stared at Sam. He hadn’t moved. Brady’s hands were on her hips.
‘You don’t know him? Or you’ve never seen him before? Two different things.’ Her eyes searched Caelan’s face. Caelan turned away, her stomach lurching.
It couldn’t be.
Sam stirred, lifting his eyes to meet Brady’s. ‘He wouldn’t tell me who’d sent him.’
Shut up, Sam, Caelan silently urged.
‘Detective Small?’ Brady was watching her with interest, and Caelan knew she had to be careful. She had no reason to trust the Chief Super.
‘Like I said, I don’t know who he is.’
Penrith sauntered into the room.
‘She doesn’t recognise him, Superintendent. Now, can we all go home?’
Brady shook her head. ‘I’m not stupid.’ No one replied, and eventually she gave a huff of disgust. ‘You can go, Detective Small.’
Caelan stared at her. ‘Sorry?’
‘Have I been unclear? If you don’t recognise him, you’re no use to us. Forget what I said about us chatting.’
Tim Achebe cleared his throat. ‘Ma’am—’
‘Go back to South Harrow, Tim. I’ll join you later.’
Achebe tightened his lips. ‘Fine.’
‘Don’t slam the door on your way out,’ Brady grinned. As he left the room, she jerked a thumb at Caelan. ‘Off you go.’
Penrith was in the hallway, concentrating on his phone. Caelan turned her head as she passed him.
‘I’m leaving too,’ she said.
‘So soon?’ Penrith drawled.
Caelan marched out of the front door. How the hell was she going to get home? On the balcony, she took out her phone. Clapham South tube station was a couple of miles away, but the quickest route there would mean her going
via Clapham Common. At this late hour, she opted for the longer way, which meant she would be on residential streets instead. It would take an extra ten minutes, but she hoped it would be safer.
She had been walking for less than five minutes when a car drew up beside her. She ignored it, gripping her phone, ready to run. It crept closer, the passenger window down.
‘Get in,’ Adele Brady called. Caelan stopped, surprised. ‘Come on, I haven’t got all night.’
* * *
Brady’s car was small, its silver paintwork filthy. In the passenger footwell, a pair of muddy wellington boots took up most of the legroom.
‘Where do you live?’ Brady asked as Caelan fastened her seat belt.
‘Globe Wharf.’
‘Which is?’
‘Rotherhithe.’
‘Thought you were going to say Manchester or somewhere.’
‘Would I still have had a lift?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
Brady glanced across. ‘On you. Why do you think I wanted you brought here tonight?’
‘No idea.’
‘After the incident earlier today? The death of the person you were tailing?’
Caelan tipped her head back against the headrest. ‘You know.’
‘Most of the bloody Met knows. Your name’s being kept out of it for now, but there are those who think you should be spending tonight in a cell.’
‘You mean Ian Penrith?’
‘Amongst others.’ Brady paused. ‘Listen, Caelan, you’re in the shit. Tonight, Sam Clifton killed a man. He’s not said much yet, but we’ll be interviewing him thoroughly.’
‘I’m sure. And then?’
‘His mess will be cleaned up.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You know how it goes. He won’t face criminal charges.’
‘Which indicates that you know the identity of the man he killed, regardless of what you said before.’
‘Why does it?’
‘Because if you didn’t, you’d be handling his death differently. He could have a family waiting at home for him who wouldn’t take kindly to his body being quietly cremated and no more being said, but you must know he hasn’t.’
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