Ask No Questions

by Hartley, Lisa

  Penrith leaned back, his shirt buttons straining over his gut. He tipped his head to the side, watching Caelan’s face as he spoke. ‘Adele Brady’s got you scurrying around London searching for the invisible man? It’s a good way to keep you out of the way, I’ll give her that.’

  Caelan said nothing, fought to keep her face blank. She would not give Penrith the satisfaction of rising to his bait.

  ‘Why don’t we stick to the facts?’

  ‘A first for you, Caelan. Sam Clifton heard Walker’s name linked with Lambourne’s first. It was a whisper, but a persistent one. Lambourne had his legitimate businesses – some pubs, a nightclub – and Walker was brought in to manage one of them.’

  ‘Not the Wheatsheaf?’

  ‘The one where you kicked ten tons of shit out of the barman?’

  ‘He wasn’t the barman, he was …’ Caelan hesitated. ‘It was Brendan Milne.’

  Penrith’s eyes bulged as a huge grin split his face. ‘Brendan Milne? The man Sam killed last night was, coincidentally, the bloke who assaulted you? Fucking hell. Another nail in your coffin, Caelan.’

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t make the connection.’

  ‘You didn’t tell us at the time, if you recall, and Milne didn’t report it. Strangely, he didn’t want the world to know he’d had his balls bruised and his foot split open by a woman.’

  ‘Might have ruined his image.’

  ‘Whereas yours is as perfect as ever. Come on, Caelan, you must see how this looks.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Sam killed him because he knew who Milne was, what he’d tried to do to you.’

  Her hands gripping the arms of the chair, Caelan forced herself to maintain eye contact with Penrith. ‘Ian, you’re delusional. The gun was found in Sam’s flat, no doubt covered with Milne’s fingerprints.’

  ‘And? Sam’s neck was bruised too. Doesn’t prove Milne shoved a gun into it. There are so many lies around you, Caelan, you’ve forgotten what the truth looks like.’

  ‘Oh fuck off, Ian. Your head’s so far up your own arse, you can’t see daylight.’

  He picked up the coffee cup again, lifting it in a mock toast. ‘But I can. Go to the Wheatsheaf, ferret around. Brady knows how to keep you busy. She’s probably enjoying watching you and your little friend here chasing your tails.’

  Caelan stood, placing a hand on Ewan’s shoulder, feeling the tension in him. No doubt he was restraining the urge to smash Penrith’s face in, as she was. Ewan got to his feet and Caelan stepped back, allowing him to leave the room first. As she reached for the door handle to slam it closed, Penrith muttered something.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, watch your back. From where I’m sitting, there’s a fucking huge target painted on it.’

  * * *

  ‘He’s a prick.’ Ewan’s face was red, his hands pushed into the pockets of his coat.

  ‘Yeah, but we don’t give him the satisfaction of telling him so.’

  ‘I came across plenty like him in the army. Arrogant arseholes who knew it all until they were under fire.’

  Caelan waited until they were out on the street before she said, ‘And how were you when you had people shooting at you?’

  ‘Me? Terrified, most of the time. If you weren’t … Well, if you weren’t, you were in trouble. You might get cocky, overconfident. Careless. Likely to be shot, or blown up.’

  There was a catch in his voice as he said the final two words. Caelan glanced at him, but knew better than to ask. She understood that there were some memories you could only live with if you never spoke of them, never acknowledged they were in your mind at all. They might scar your brain, haunt your nights, follow you through your days, but if you kept pushing them away, you could convince yourself they were powerless.

  ‘Where’s the pub Penrith mentioned?’ Ewan asked.

  ‘Whitechapel. Rumour has it the Krays used to drink there, but I think every pub in East London claims the same.’

  ‘Don’t you mind going back?’

  ‘Mind?’

  ‘After what Milne did to you?’

  ‘Tried to do. Not when he’s lying in a pathologist’s fridge, no.’

  ‘What if someone else recognises you?’

  ‘They won’t. I didn’t look like this when I used to drink there.’

  They skirted around an elderly couple wandering along the pavement hand in hand. Caelan exchanged a smile with them as they passed, Ewan acknowledging them with a nod.

  ‘What’s it like, becoming different people?’

  ‘Like? Difficult at first. Exhausting, because you can never relax, especially in deep cover.’

  ‘Do you ever get confused? Forget who you’re supposed to be?’

  ‘Sometimes, for a second or two. I’m lucky to have an uncommon name – less chance of someone calling it and me forgetting and turning around.’

  ‘Should we be talking about this on the street?’

  ‘No, but there’s no one listening.’

  ‘Sure?’

  She smiled. ‘You know there’s not. You’re as watchful as I am. Another reason why I wanted you with me.’

  He nodded towards a coffee shop. ‘Can I buy you a drink? My sister has a new baby, I’ve not had much sleep.’

  ‘Okay.’ Caelan’s phone began to ring and she pulled it from her pocket as they entered the shop. Ewan went to the counter, leaving Caelan to perch on a stool by the window.

  ‘Where are you, Caelan?’ Nasenby again.

  ‘I can wear a GPS tracker if you’re concerned.’

  ‘You’ve seen Ian.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘You’re going to the Wheatsheaf?’

  ‘I’ve no idea how to find Walker. It’s a place to start.’

  ‘You’re going there alone, openly introducing yourself as a police officer?’

  ‘I’m not alone, Ewan’s with me.’

  ‘I’d advise against it, Caelan. The place is a—’

  ‘Sorry, Michael, I’m losing you. Crap signal.’

  She turned the phone off, pushed it to the bottom of her bag. Bloody Nasenby, thinking he was her dad again.

  * * *

  Rain was beginning to fall as they left Aldgate East underground station.

  ‘It’s a five-minute walk,’ said Caelan.

  They turned onto Commercial Road, four lanes of thunderous traffic. Lining the street were shops of every description – bookmakers, takeaways, off licences, newsagents. The Wheatsheaf was sandwiched between a barber’s shop and a place selling suits. On the pavement outside, several people were smoking, despite the rain. One man ducked back inside the pub as he saw them approach. Caelan frowned.

  ‘Change of plan. We’ll order drinks first, see what happens.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘Honestly? I’ve no idea.’

  ‘A couple of pints it is then,’ Ewan smiled.

  As they neared the pub, a figure stepped out of the barber’s shop and grabbed Caelan’s arm.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Michael,’ she hissed. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Nasenby let go of her. ‘I’m coming in too.’

  Caelan looked him up and down, taking in the scruffy jeans, the faded sweatshirt. ‘Dressed to impress, I see.’

  ‘I’m not mad enough to introduce myself as a copper around here, unlike some. I’ll go in first; give me two minutes to—’

  The first shot shattered the barber’s window, the glass cobwebbing as Nasenby fell to the ground. Caelan spun around, searching for the shooter as a woman screamed, long and loud. People began to run as the second shot was fired, the sound echoing, ricocheting. Caelan seized Ewan’s arm, shoved him into the nearest shop.

  ‘Call it in,’ she told him. She crouched, crept forward, taking cover behind a parked car. She reached out to Nasenby, called his name. He lay face down, arms wide, legs splayed. Not moving.

  A third shot, pinging into the vehicle Caelan was
hiding behind. She shook her head, touched her face. Still here.

  Another shot. Screams, shouts, running feet. The screech of brakes.

  Silence.

  20

  Adele Brady looked exhausted, Caelan noted as she watched the Chief Superintendent pace the carpet in front of them. Six hours after the shooting in Whitechapel, Brady had called Caelan and Achebe into a meeting. Achebe sat behind his desk, Caelan taking a spare chair.

  ‘The road has been reopened,’ Brady was saying. ‘The armed response vehicle arrived within a few minutes, other firearms officers joining them soon after, but they found no trace of the gunman. I don’t need to tell you the media are hysterical, as are the public.’

  ‘They’re saying the shooter was a terrorist,’ Achebe said.

  ‘Of course they are. We can’t talk about Michael Nasenby or Caelan, or what they were doing at the Wheatsheaf.’ Brady glared at Caelan. ‘By the way, why did Nasenby show up?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting him.’

  ‘But our gunman was. He knew you’d be there. How?’

  ‘No idea. You think he deliberately targeted Michael?’

  Brady’s face looked grey. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But how could he know Michael was going to be there? I didn’t until I saw him; how would anyone else?’

  Brady sighed. ‘He was shooting at you, or he was aiming for Nasenby. Either way, shots have been fired on the streets of London. People are understandably terrified. We’ve released a statement saying it was a lone gunman with a grudge, no links to terrorism, but people are sceptical, and who can blame them?’

  ‘We don’t have a clue who fired the shots,’ said Achebe. ‘We now have more CCTV footage to go through, more witness statements. We’ve been allocated extra officers, but it’s all going to take time.’

  ‘We’ve contained the story as much as we could, but there are eyewitnesses. People are talking about it on social media, and we’re appealing for anyone who saw anything to come forward. Some wanker probably recorded the whole thing on their phone.’ Brady came to an abrupt halt, leaning against the wall, running her hands through her hair. ‘We need to find Glen Walker, even more so now than before. Tim, tell us about the post-mortem.’

  Behind his desk, Achebe picked up a notebook, flicked through the pages. Caelan watched, surprised that he hadn’t used a tablet computer to record his observations. He could be a poster boy for the modern police force, with his smart suits and obvious ambition, someone comfortable with technology, eager to adopt new ways of working. She watched him run his finger down a page, frowning.

  ‘Ronnie Morgan was killed by a single shot to his abdomen. The bullet caused a rupture in an artery.’ He squinted at the page. ‘The abdominal aorta.’

  ‘Simply put, he bled to death?’ said Brady.

  Achebe nodded. ‘He was shot at point-blank range. In other words, the shooter was close to him, but it wasn’t a contact shot.’

  ‘The gunman was facing him when he shot him?’ Brady glanced at Caelan as she asked the question. Caelan said nothing, knowing that Brady needed confirmation of the facts, but angered all the same. She had told them what had happened. If the gunman had been behind Ronnie, she would have seen him, wouldn’t she? Unless he was already in the underpass when Ronnie entered it, had allowed Ronnie to pass him in the darkness, before rushing past him and firing the shot …

  ‘The shooter was directly in front of him when the shot was fired,’ Achebe confirmed. Caelan opened her mouth, took in some air. She should have been there, been closer. She should have prevented this. Brady’s eyes were on her again. Achebe hesitated, his gaze moving between the two women.

  ‘Carry on, Tim,’ Brady said softly.

  ‘There’s not much more to say. The Underground map Walker gave Ronnie was found in his back pocket, and it’s being examined. They’re still looking at the bullet, which was removed from Ronnie’s body, and they’re still processing the underpass. The fingertip search has turned up nothing.’

  ‘We don’t have a weapon, don’t have a suspect.’ Caelan’s face was grim.

  ‘What about Walker?’ said Achebe. Brady spread her hands.

  ‘We have to consider the possibility. Why would he shoot at Michael Nasenby, though?’

  ‘He might not have been.’ Achebe looked at Caelan. ‘Nasenby wasn’t the only person outside the pub.’

  ‘We’ve taken statements from the four people outside the Wheatsheaf, as well as the half-dozen inside,’ said Brady. ‘Some have records, none for gun crime. Mainly petty theft.’

  ‘Do we know where the gunman was standing?’ said Caelan. ‘I didn’t see him, couldn’t tell where the shots were coming from.’

  ‘We’ve an idea.’

  Caelan waited, but Brady was silent.

  ‘How many shots were fired, Caelan?’ Achebe said.

  ‘As I said in my statement, I heard four.’

  ‘The first shattered the barber’s window, two hit a parked vehicle and the fourth bullet was found embedded in the wall of the Wheatsheaf public house.’ Achebe folded his arms. ‘All extremely close to where the three of you were standing.’

  ‘But none of you were hit.’ Brady stared down at Caelan. ‘Nasenby cracked his head as he threw himself to the ground, but a mild concussion doesn’t compare to having your brains blown out.’

  ‘If the shooter was using a handgun, it would have been easy to miss us at that range,’ said Caelan.

  Brady’s head snapped up. ‘What range?’

  Caelan shrugged. ‘I couldn’t see him. He must have been in the shadow of a building, or … Out of sight, anyway. At least ten metres away, probably more.’ Brady and Achebe were both staring at her, and she felt a flicker of panic. ‘At least you can’t suspect me this time.’ She forced a laugh as she spoke, but nausea welled in her stomach. Brady pushed away from the wall.

  ‘Caelan, I want you to go home. This has been a difficult day for us all, and we need to focus on our next steps. I’ll speak to you in the morning.’

  Caelan stared at her. ‘You’re dismissing me?’

  ‘You were shot at today. Yesterday, a murder, another shooting, happened a few feet away from you. Are you beginning to see a pattern?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘For your own safety, Caelan, please. Go home.’

  Caelan looked at Achebe, who was studying his notebook, his shoulders hunched. Knowing she had no choice, she got to her feet.

  ‘And if the gunman comes to my door?’

  Brady shrugged, already turning away. ‘Don’t answer.’

  * * *

  Ewan waited outside South Harrow police station for Caelan to emerge from her meeting. He had given a statement about the incident at the Wheatsheaf and knew from the questions he had been asked that they hadn’t captured the gunman. Had Ewan seen him? Seen a vehicle he might have arrived in? Had he heard the shots, seen where they came from? Each time, he had to say no. All he knew was that shots had been fired. The churning in his gut, the sweat still dampening his shirt told him so, as well as his eyes and ears. If he closed his eyes, he’d feel the heat of the sun on his back, the sand in the breeze, the fear. Relentless and brutal – always the fear. The constricting band of pressure tightening around his chest each time he was sent on patrol. Senses hyper-alert, the tension increasing as the armoured vehicle trundled along. Trying to switch off long enough to sleep when you got back to base. The anxiety, the responsibility. Knowing that each minute could be your last, or worse, bring the death of those around you. Then, the day it happened. The building, the stench of human waste, of decay and despair.

  The boy’s face.

  Wide brown eyes staring, pleading. A second to decide. Death sentence, or suicide? No real choice, not with your men behind you and death tapping you on the shoulder.

  Seeing his eyes in the face of everyone you met as punishment, even your newborn nephew.

  Forever.

  ‘Ewan?’ Caelan’s hand
on his shoulder startled him. Her expression told him how he must look, and he rubbed his face. ‘Ewan, listen. After this morning … I think you should go back to your own job. I’ve been sent away again, and this time I’m going to do what I’m told.’

  He looked at her face, saw the exhaustion. They were shutting her out, and it angered him. She was as confused as they were about the events of earlier. He could see it; why couldn’t they? They were her colleagues, they’d known her a good deal longer than he had. She didn’t know what had happened, really happened, the day Charlie Flynn died either, Ewan would swear on his life. He’d heard her speaking to Ian Penrith, to Sam Clifton – no one was that good an actor, not even Caelan Small. She’d been bemused, horrified.

  But then this was nothing to do with him. She wasn’t one of his men. He could walk away. You never left a man behind, even if you had to carry him on your back, but Caelan wasn’t a soldier.

  He looked down at her. Her hands were loose by her sides, her face blank. She was waiting for him to reply, and he wondered why he couldn’t walk away from her. His army mates would laugh: Because you fancy her. But Ewan knew it wasn’t that simple, not at all. She was attractive, there was no doubt, but there was more. He admired her, was drawn to her. When she had insisted on him accompanying her on her assignment in Lincoln, he’d been flattered, though he had also wondered whether she had an ulterior motive. She had given Nasenby no option but to allow her to have her way, and Ewan knew Nasenby had been annoyed, even angered. But he had also protected her, defended her.

  Caelan touched his arm, repeated his name.

  He smiled. ‘Sorry, miles away.’

  ‘I said I think this is the end of our partnership.’ She looked up at him, eyebrows raised. ‘Thanks for everything.’ She lifted a hand, took a step backwards.

  ‘Caelan, wait.’

  ‘I’m going home, Ewan. You should do the same.’

  ‘Why?’ It came out whiny, and he moderated his tone so he sounded less like a six-year-old. ‘You’re letting them win.’

  She narrowed her eyes, hands moving to her hips. ‘Pardon?’