Ask No Questions

by Hartley, Lisa

  ‘Brendan. Brendan fucking Milne.’

  Caelan fought the urge to step back, to run. ‘Brendan’s dead.’

  The man laughed. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d wave goodbye to my money.’

  He stared at her, then at Ewan. ‘This true?’

  Ewan lifted his shoulders. ‘It’s what we’ve heard.’

  The barman said, ‘Fucker. He owes me too.’

  ‘Never lend Brendan money.’ Caelan forced down another sip of whisky, the burn of it hitting her throat, triggering another wave of nausea.

  ‘Lend? Gambling debts the bastard never paid,’ the barman spat. The other man frowned a warning at him.

  ‘Another mate of his used to drink in here too,’ Caelan said. Her stomach churned, a combination of whisky and fear. ‘Glen Walker. Heard of him?’

  There was a silence. Caelan worried she’d pushed too far, too soon. The door opened and three more men walked in, trailing the smell of cigarette smoke. They grouped behind Caelan and Ewan, effectively preventing them from leaving the bar.

  ‘We might recognise the name,’ said the barman. ‘Doesn’t mean we know him.’

  One of the newcomers moved close to Caelan, his breath hot on the back of her neck. ‘Why are you asking?’

  She stood her ground, knowing that if he lifted his hand, if he touched her, he would find the gun. Her cover would be blown, and she and Ewan would be lucky to escape with their lives.

  Or she would have to use the weapon herself. It would be eight against two, and unarmed, she didn’t fancy their chances.

  She relaxed her body, seeing Ewan clench his jaw as another man stood nose to nose with him.

  ‘Walker killed my friend’s kid,’ Caelan said. ‘Bet he didn’t tell you that.’

  The man behind her grabbed her chin and yanked her head back. Caelan held her ground, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. A quick sideways glance showed her that Ewan was surrounded by sneering, mocking faces. Her breathing quickened, adrenalin coursing through her. She could escape the man’s grasp easily, have him in a heap on the floor immediately, but then the rest of them would be on her. They might have knives, other weapons. There were plenty of glasses and bottles to hand.

  ‘What kid?’ His mouth was beside her ear, his lips brushing her skin. Caelan was aware of his other hand moving, and panic rose in her throat. If he touched her breast, her skin, she would have to act. His fingers dug into her face. ‘Did you hear me? What kid?’

  ‘His name was Charlie Flynn. It was all over the news.’

  His right hand brushed her arm, the side of her face. He tightened his grip on her jaw, turning her head so she was forced to look at him. His breath was hot, stinking of beer and fags, his groin pressed against her backside. Two of the others moved forward, circling like sharks. Their smiles, the blankness of their eyes – she could read their minds. She had entered their territory, spoken to them as an equal, and now she would pay.

  There were rules about using firearms. In this situation, however, Caelan was going to ignore them. Her left hand flew up, breaking the hold the man behind her had on her hair. He snarled, leaping forward as she pulled the gun out, only to fall back, stunned, as he realised what she was holding. Scowling, she turned on them. She didn’t raise the gun. She didn’t need to. The men were frozen, still as children playing musical statues. They stared at her, the shock so transparent she had to laugh.

  ‘Not so clever now, are you? Not such big men.’ She stood, one hand on her hip, the gun pointed at the floorboards. ‘Still going to grope me, push me around?’ She marched up to the man who had taken hold of her, chin jutting. ‘Well? Are we still talking? Maybe I should grab you by the bollocks, mate. See how you like it.’

  He swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, love, it was—’

  ‘It was you thinking you could do what you wanted to me, thinking you have a right to touch me, to speak to me like shit. Well, now we’re equal.’ He stared at her, his brown eyes wide, lips pressed together. ‘Answer my question. Do you know Glen Walker?’

  He glanced at the barman. ‘Like he said—’

  ‘He? What’s his name?’

  His tongue came out, moistened his lips. ‘I don’t know.’

  Caelan smiled. ‘And I don’t believe you. Tell me.’

  ‘Kane. Like Kane said, we’ve heard the name. He’s been in here.’

  The man he’d called Kane groaned, shutting up when Caelan turned her glare on him.

  ‘When? When was he here?’

  ‘Couple of years ago?’

  Caelan took a pace towards him. ‘Try again.’

  Another anxious look at the barman. ‘Last week.’

  ‘Better. Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘No. Honestly, I—’

  ‘Near King’s Cross,’ the barman, Kane, whispered. Caelan looked at him. He gave a quick nod of his head. ‘He mentioned the trains waking him early in the morning.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘No idea. I swear.’

  Caelan nodded, believing him. ‘Now, my friend and I are going to leave. I want you all to forget we were ever here. If you don’t, if you speak to anyone about what happened here tonight, I’ll make sure Glen Walker knows you were the ones who told us where he lives. I’m not sure he’ll be pleased, are you?’ Shaking heads. ‘If you try to discover who we are, if you seek us out, Glen Walker will be told who grassed, I promise you. Forget our faces, and our voices. Forget I had a gun.’ She smiled at Ewan, led the way to the door. ‘And next time you have strangers in your pub, I’d advise you to remember your manners. Have a good evening.’

  * * *

  ‘That was …’ Ewan managed to say as they ran for the car.

  ‘Fucking scary?’

  ‘Amazing, I was going to say.’

  ‘No, it was unforgivable.’ Caelan’s hands were clammy, the enormity of what she’d done hitting her as she limped along in the high-heeled boots.

  ‘You had no choice.’

  ‘I had the option to withdraw. We should have left as soon as we realised what sort of place it was. Nasenby did warn me.’

  ‘I’m sorry I was no help.’

  ‘Help? What were you going to do, take seven of them on?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘No.’

  As they reached the car, Ewan popped the locks with the remote. They threw themselves inside, Caelan tearing off her blonde wig as Ewan started the engine.

  ‘Where to?’ He wrenched the gearstick, flicked on the headlights.

  ‘Let’s get away from here. I don’t know after that.’

  ‘I thought you’d say King’s Cross.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Those lads won’t say anything.’

  ‘I hope not. I’d be in shitloads of trouble if Nasenby found out I’d drawn my gun on a gang of civilians.’

  ‘But you didn’t, or not really. You didn’t threaten them with it.’

  ‘Not how he’ll see it. I had a firearm; the threat was there, regardless of what I did with it.’ They were speeding towards the City. Caelan rubbed her eyes, forgetting the thick make-up she wore. What should she do? Brady would need to know what the barman had said about where Walker was living. He might have been lying, saying anything to get her and the gun out of his pub, but they needed to follow it up.

  ‘Let’s head for Southwark,’ said Caelan.

  ‘Why?’ Ewan indicated, changed lanes.

  ‘Taking the long way home.’ She allowed her head to fall against the headrest, closed her eyes. They were going to arrest her tonight, and after her actions in the Wheatsheaf, they should. A headache pushed against her temples, exhaustion clouding her brain.

  ‘Caelan.’ Ewan nudged her. ‘Caelan, your phone.’

  She forced her eyes open. Had she been asleep? Blinking, she stared out through the windscreen, trying to get her bearings. Fumbling in her bag for her phone, she dropped it in the footwell, had to
bend to retrieve it, the gun digging into her side. She checked the screen.

  Sam Clifton.

  The phone stopped ringing. Caelan stabbed at the screen, listened to Sam’s cheery recorded message.

  ‘Change of plan, Ewan. We need to go to Sam’s flat.’

  ‘Sam’s? In Battersea?’

  ‘Please.’

  Responding to the urgency in her voice, he stamped on the accelerator. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I don’t know, but Sam never calls me, not any more.’

  ‘You’re worried?’

  ‘After Brendan Milne turned up with a gun?’

  ‘You think—’

  ‘Let’s just get there, Ewan. Please.’

  He nodded. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to see if they can send someone else? There must be officers closer than we are.’

  ‘Sam called me.’

  ‘Or someone else did, using his phone. What if it’s a trap?’

  ‘It’s a risk I’ll have to take. Please, Ewan.’

  ‘All right.’

  The roads were quiet, allowing them to make decent time, cutting through Southwark and Vauxhall, arriving in Battersea in little more than half an hour. As they approached Sam’s building, Caelan sent Brady a text explaining where she was. If there were officers waiting at her flat to arrest her, they would have to wait.

  Rain was falling, had been for some time judging by the puddles. Caelan swung out of the car, the canvas pumps she’d changed into soaked as soon as her feet hit the gutter. Ewan had parked around the corner from Sam’s building so they could approach quietly, on foot.

  The grassy area between the blocks of flats was deserted tonight, most of the windows in the surrounding buildings in darkness. Caelan’s hand strayed down to her hip, touched the handle of the gun. She lifted her face, rain hammering her cheeks, a biting wind cutting through her leather jacket, her black T-shirt already soaked.

  ‘No lights on,’ said Ewan.

  ‘Let’s go. Stay behind me.’

  Moving quickly, they climbed the stairs to the third floor, treading as softly as they could on the concrete. The thump of Caelan’s heart echoed in her ears. Sam’s front door was closed, the hallway beyond it dark. Tugging her sleeve over her fingers, Caelan reached for the door handle with her left hand, gripping the gun in her right. Silence. The door wasn’t locked, opening easily, without a sound. She peered into the murky hall. No sound, no movement. Ewan was close behind her, and she reached out, laying her hand on his arm, asking him to wait. She took a breath, stepped forward. Her damp shoe squeaked on the laminate floor, the sound as shocking as a gunshot in the silence. She froze, waited. No one moved. The flat was cold, quiet. A smell in the air – not blood, but familiar. Caelan shut it out, fear hurtling through her veins.

  ‘Sam? Sammy?’

  No reply. Caelan cursed, strode forward, all attempts at stealth forgotten.

  The kitchen was untidy, the sink filled with unwashed pots, the bin ready to overflow. No Sam. At the end of the hallway, the living room was empty too, the TV turned off, a half-drunk bottle of beer on the windowsill. Caelan saw it, frowned.

  ‘Where the hell is he?’

  She turned, retraced her steps. There were two more doors leading off the hallway, both closed. Caelan pushed open the nearest. A tiny bathroom, with a shower cubicle, a sink and a toilet.

  No Sam.

  She stared at the final closed door, gave a shuddering sigh. Ewan touched her sleeve.

  ‘Do you want me to go in first?’

  ‘It’s okay.’ She glanced up at him. ‘Thanks, though.’

  A step forward. The dread coiling in her stomach climbed higher, knotting around her throat. Slowly she took hold of the handle.

  The stench hit her like a punch, the sight of Sam’s ruined body smashing into her brain a second later.

  He hung from the light fitting, his tongue protruding from his mouth like a hideous swollen tumour. A pool of urine and other stinking fluids soaked the carpet beneath him, his bare feet a couple of inches from the floor. A wooden chair lay on its side nearby, his mobile phone face down by the puddle of waste.

  ‘Sammy,’ Caelan heard herself say. She hadn’t known she was going to speak, the sound escaping involuntarily. She was aware of Ewan moving to stand behind her, his hands gripping her shoulders. ‘Jesus, Sam.’

  ‘Come away, Caelan,’ Ewan urged. ‘Please. We can’t help him now.’

  She made a sound between a sob and a shout. ‘I didn’t know …’

  Ewan gently pulled her arm, and Caelan allowed him to lead her away.

  25

  South Harrow police station was quiet, offices empty, computers left to idle for the night. Tim Achebe met them at the front desk again, holding his hands out to Caelan, grasping hers for a second before releasing them.

  ‘They’re upstairs,’ he said, turning to lead the way.

  ‘How could this happen, Tim? Why wasn’t Sam protected?’

  ‘He refused to leave his flat. We didn’t realise …’

  ‘Wasn’t it being watched?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘We’re still trying to determine what happened.’

  ‘In other words, someone fucked up.’

  Achebe was silent. Their footsteps clattered, echoing in the wide, empty corridor. Caelan’s hands were bunched into fists, her chest tight as she marched along. Another death, another wasted life. Sam had been floundering, lost in a mess he was not responsible for, blamed and ostracised. Caelan knew she could have reached out to him, offered help or a place to stay. Once again, she was too late.

  The incident room was silent, the blinds closed, the lights turned off except for in one corner, where Elizabeth Beckett and Adele Brady stood waiting. Brady’s arms were folded, Beckett’s face grim.

  ‘Do you want to explain what the fuck’s been happening?’ Caelan heard herself bellow as she approached them. The fury that had been building since she’d received Brady’s call erupted, the fear and frustration of the past few days raging.

  Brady uncrossed her arms, took a step forward. Held up her hands. ‘Caelan, we understand you’re upset—’

  ‘Upset? Fucking upset? Sam had already been attacked; now you’ve allowed him to be killed.’

  ‘Calm down,’ ordered Beckett. Her words, her demeanour infuriated Caelan further.

  ‘Let me guess – no one saw who went into his flat. We’ve no idea who’s behind this, or who’s going to have a bullet in their head this time tomorrow.’ She glared from Beckett to Brady, wanting to grab them by the shoulders and shake them, to scream in their faces.

  ‘You’re right, Caelan,’ Brady said gently. ‘We’re struggling.’

  Caelan’s legs were weak, tears blinding her. She turned away, scrubbing her eyes again with her fingertips, her cheeks wet, the make-up she had applied so carefully smudged and ruined. She rounded on them. ‘You can’t believe he killed himself?’

  Beckett and Brady exchanged a glance. Caelan saw it, wondered what it meant. ‘We’re keeping an open mind,’ Brady said neutrally.

  ‘There’s no need. It’s another murder.’ Caelan tried to match Brady’s bland tone, but found it impossible. She wanted to rant, to rail against their passivity, their ineptness. Brady’s face reddened, but her voice was measured.

  ‘Scene-of-crimes officers are at Sam’s flat, collecting what they can for—’

  ‘Analysis. Because forensics have been so helpful so far.’ Realising her fists were clenched, Caelan relaxed them. ‘What about Walker, the address Suzanne Morgan gave us?’

  ‘He’s not there,’ said Achebe, stepping forward to stand beside Brady. ‘We’ve had no more calls from people claiming to have seen him, though we’ll put the appeal out again, mentioning that he might live in the King’s Cross area.’

  Caelan nodded. She’d told Brady on the phone what she’d found out in the Wheatsheaf, leaving out the part involving the gun.

  ‘Walk
er’s wandering around London and you believe Sam’s death was suicide?’ She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. Beckett frowned a warning, her eyes on Achebe.

  ‘Tim, let’s go to your office,’ said Brady. ‘We need to discuss tomorrow’s press conference.’

  Achebe looked like he might protest, but then followed Brady out of the room. As the door closed behind them, Beckett turned to Caelan.

  ‘You need to calm down,’ she repeated. ‘This situation can only be resolved if we work together.’

  ‘I thought you were arresting me?’

  ‘We’ve had a rethink, in light of this evening’s events.’

  I bet you have. ‘Another body, you mean?’

  Beckett nodded. ‘You know as well as I do that if Sam was murdered, whoever did it will have left no trace of themselves. This is a professional, someone with access to firearms and information, someone who Sam would open his front door to.’

  ‘Unless they forced their way in.’

  Beckett waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’m talking about one of Sam’s former colleagues, Caelan, as you know. One of your colleagues.’ She looked at Ewan. ‘I’m going to trust you, Mr Davies. Caelan will need your help.’

  Ewan moved closer to Caelan. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said.

  ‘Good. I’ll speak freely. We’ve been conducting extremely discreet investigations into the finances and communications of your three friends, Caelan. We’ve found nothing untoward. As you’ll appreciate, being allowed to do so hasn’t been easy.’ Beckett reached behind her, held up a thick sheaf of papers.

  ‘You’ve found nothing to suggest that Richard, Michael or Ian is involved?’

  ‘Not so far.’ Beckett frowned, frustration clear on her face. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Brady and I have also reviewed the financial records of Charlie Flynn’s parents, to see whether a ransom payment could have been made that they didn’t tell us about. Again, we found nothing. The Flynns had plenty of debt but no cash, at least not until they sold their house, which as you know was after Charlie died.’

  ‘What happened to their assets after their deaths?’

  ‘There were still debts outstanding, credit cards and so on. Their parents inherited the rest, but there wasn’t much.’