‘We’re sure they killed themselves?’
Beckett pursed her lips. ‘As much as we’re sure of anything.’
‘In other words, no.’
There was a silence. Beckett lifted a hand to her throat, straightened the collar of her blouse.
‘We’re going to follow Ian Penrith and Michael Nasenby. I won’t tell you who’s on board, but rest assured, if they blow their nose, we’ll know about it.’
‘How reassuring. What about Adamson?’ Caelan waited, soon realising what Beckett was going to ask. She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘You’re the best we have.’
‘I’m not doing it. I thought my job was to look for Walker and Lambourne?’
‘It was. Now Sam Clifton’s dead. Even if Walker killed him, he isn’t acting alone. He has no reason to kill Sam.’
‘Unless he’s destroying everyone who was part of the Charlie Flynn case.’
‘You’re not even convincing yourself.’
Caelan was quiet, conceding the point. ‘I’ve worked with Richard before. He’ll know I’m there.’
Beckett shook her head, unconcerned. ‘No he won’t.’
‘I’ve tracked Walker as far as King’s Cross. Let me find him.’
‘You’d be wasted.’
‘No, I’d be wasted following Richard. You involved him, asked him to come to Egypt. You trusted him.’
‘Before this, yes, I did.’
Beckett went to the nearest desk, pulled out a chair. Ewan hurried over to help, passing Caelan a seat before settling into one himself. Beckett laced her fingers together on the tabletop, looking at Caelan over her glasses.
‘Who briefed you before you went into the house where Charlie Flynn was being held?’
‘Ian Penrith.’
‘Because it was Ian’s operation,’ Beckett said slowly. She allowed her hands to fall onto her lap, frowning, considering the possible implications.
‘Ian who’s been trying to get rid of me since I landed back in the UK.’
‘Who had you been reporting to during your time hunting Lambourne undercover?’
‘Michael. We’d known for a while that Lambourne was controlling parts of London. The idea was to find people we could turn, who’d be willing to testify against him.’
‘But you never found any.’
‘No. People didn’t want to talk about him at all.’
‘Because they were frightened?’
‘Possibly. He never visited any of the places he owned, left the managers to run them. It was like his staff knew nothing about him. As though he was a myth.’
‘A myth,’ Beckett repeated thoughtfully.
‘If you’re serious about investigating Ian, Michael and Richard, why aren’t we looking into their movements properly? Finding out where they were when Ronnie was killed, where they are tonight?’
‘You know why. We’ve got to be careful.’
‘But people keep dying.’
Beckett ignored her. ‘It was difficult enough to access the information we have already. If we start running the number plates of our senior officers, asking them to provide alibis, it’ll soon become obvious what we’re up to.’
‘Not if we’re careful, if we cover our tracks.’
Beckett barked out a laugh. ‘Caelan, we’re not MI5.’
‘No, but sometimes we’re not far off. Our work is clandestine, our operations hidden. We keep secrets.’
‘Granted. That doesn’t mean we can now come out all guns blazing. Discretion is imperative if we don’t want to alarm the person we’re looking for.’
‘Yeah, because they’ve only killed three people so far. Who knows what rampage they’d go on if they were alarmed?’
‘I understand you’re frustrated—’
Caelan slammed her hand on the table. ‘Frustrated? I knew Sam, had worked with him for years. I watched while he was destroyed, both by the media and by the passivity of the people who should have protected him.’
‘People like me and Chief Superintendent Brady?’
‘You said it, not me. You could have released a statement, said Sam was blameless. You didn’t, and the media ripped him to shreds. He could have been given a new identity, a new start. Instead you left him in a shitty flat, drinking himself to death.’ As Caelan said the words, they triggered a memory.
‘What are you thinking?’ Beckett was watching her face.
‘The first meeting, when Michael asked me to follow Ronnie.’ Caelan stared past Beckett, seeing nothing. ‘Ian said something about Sam.’ She looked at Ewan. ‘Can you remember?’
‘About falling in front of a bus?’
Caelan snapped her fingers. ‘He said, “if he stumbles in front of a lorry or a train one day, well, wouldn’t that be tragic”. ’
Beckett had pulled a notepad out of her bag and was scribbling in it. ‘You’re sure he meant Sam?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Ian was saying he believed Sam to be at risk?’
‘I don’t know. At first I thought he was saying anything he could think of to provoke a reaction. Now, though … I told Sam that Ian had implied I was to blame for Charlie’s death. Sam said Ian was full of shit.’
Beckett looked up from her notes. ‘When was this?’
‘The day Ronnie was killed. I went to tell Sam, to warn him.’
‘So you thought he was in danger too?’ Beckett’s eyes burned into Caelan’s.
‘I didn’t know. Now, when I look back at the conversation … Sam’s reaction when I told him Ian had accused me of working for Lambourne was strange.’
‘Strange? In what way?’
‘He hunched his shoulders, curled up as though he was trying to protect himself. As though he didn’t want to hear.’
‘Not surprising. Who would want to hear a colleague being accused of corruption?’
‘But he wasn’t surprised. It was as though he was already aware of what I was saying but had deliberately put the knowledge out of his mind.’ She hadn’t considered it before, but now she replayed the scene with Sam in her head and knew she was right. Sam had known more, much more, than he’d admitted.
And now he was dead.
‘Do you think Ian had spoken to Sam about you?’ Beckett asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Caelan pushed back her hair, frustrated. ‘There’s nothing concrete, it’s all guesswork. What about Richard?’
‘Adamson? Same as the others. No suspicious amounts of money received or any spending beyond his means, which would obviously be a bigger giveaway if he’d received cash illicitly. Why do you ask?’
‘Because Penrith told him to follow me. I thought they could be working together. Adamson was on the scene when Ronnie was killed, and Brady said she thought he could have had time to do it. I’m not convinced, but …’
‘It’s been proved. Adamson did have time, if he was quick.’
‘He wasn’t out of breath when he …’ Caelan closed her eyes. ‘No, he was, slightly, but then he’d run the length of the underpass.’
Beckett sniffed. ‘A matter of what? Twenty-five metres? Were you out of breath, having done the same?’
‘No, but …’ There was something else. How had Adamson seen her at the end of the underpass? She hadn’t seen Ronnie lying there herself until she’d switched on her phone’s torch. Adamson could possibly have seen a silhouette, and he’d known Caelan was heading that way, but … She lifted her chin. No. She wouldn’t mention the thought to Beckett. She would speak to Adamson herself.
Beckett and Brady didn’t have to know.
‘I assume you’re keeping the news of Sam’s death quiet?’ she asked instead.
‘Trying to, though no doubt it’ll come out soon enough. The press will have a field day when they find out someone’s killed Sam. They’ll probably be queueing to shake his murderer’s hand.’
‘What if I go and break the news to Michael, Ian and Richard?’
‘See how they react, you mean? If anyone loo
ks guilty?’ Beckett thought about it, rubbing her chin. ‘Okay. I could be making a mistake, but okay.’
‘We’re not able to follow normal lines of investigation, we can’t find Glen Walker, especially since you won’t let me go and look for him …’
Beckett sighed. ‘How do you expect to find him, even if did I permit you to go to King’s Cross?’
Caelan wrinkled her nose at Beckett’s choice of word. ‘Ask around, talk to people.’
‘We don’t have the time. We’re going over the CCTV footage from both inside and outside King’s Cross St Pancras Underground station again, now that we know Walker’s living in the area. I’m hoping we spot him, get some idea of the direction he came from.’
‘Which will also take time, lots of time.’
‘A fact I’m only too aware of.’ Beckett leaned back in her chair. ‘Truth is, we’ve no idea how else to approach this. Walker knows how to disappear.’
‘We could go back to the café. Walker may live in King’s Cross, but we know he’s spent time in Ealing,’ Caelan said.
‘We’ve had officers posted inside and around the café all day. No one’s seen him.’
Caelan pursed her lips. ‘What about Milne’s flat?’
‘What about it?’
‘Is it empty?’
‘There was a uniformed officer there earlier. I’m not sure. Why? Walker’s never been there.’
‘But we know he’s spent time with Milne. He must know that Milne’s dead, or at least missing. What about Milne’s phone?’
‘He didn’t have one, at least not when he went to Sam Clifton’s flat.’
‘Which is impossible. Every small-time villain needs a mobile, don’t they?’
‘You’d think, but where is it?’
‘Can I go to Milne’s flat?’
‘Why? Do you think the search team missed something?’
‘No, but it makes no sense. Have we checked if Milne owned or rented any other property? A garage, another flat? A vehicle?’
‘We have, but found nothing. He probably dealt in cash transactions, though, leaving no paper trail.’
‘Someone was paying him to go to Sam, to ask about me. Where’s the cash?’
‘Maybe he was going to be paid after he’d done the job.’
Caelan blew out her cheeks. ‘It’s like searching for the invisible man. Invisible men.’ Hadn’t Penrith said the same?
‘Which is no doubt the point, exactly what they were aiming for.’
‘It doesn’t tie in with Adamson, Nasenby or Penrith being involved either. Why would they pay Walker to talk to Sam?’
‘To cover their tracks? Caelan, we can discuss this all night. The truth is, we’re no nearer knowing who killed Ronnie Morgan. Let’s focus on that crime first.’
‘Which means we’re back to finding Walker.’
Beckett gritted her teeth. ‘I think I’ll scream if I hear Walker’s name again, unless it’s followed by the words “is in custody”.’
‘So let me go and look for him. Let me do it my way.’
‘Fine. But Caelan …’ Beckett seemed to run out of steam. ‘Never mind. Stay in touch.’
‘Using the phone you gave me?’
‘The safe phone, yes.’
Caelan pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll speak to you in the morning.’
‘You’re going home?’
As she and Ewan reached the door, Caelan turned back with a smile.
‘I didn’t say that.’
26
Richard Adamson lived in Kentish Town. Caelan stood on the pavement outside his building, hands on hips. It was long past midnight, but a light glowed in one of the windows of his flat.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come in?’ said Ewan.
Caelan looked down at him in the driver’s seat.
‘No, it’s fine. I won’t be long.’ He said nothing, obviously disappointed. She smiled. ‘I need to speak to him alone, Ewan. You can go home if you want to.’
‘What about the others? I bet you’re not planning on waiting until the morning to speak to them?’
‘I can get a taxi.’
‘I’ll wait.’ He closed the window, giving her no opportunity to argue further.
Adamson’s flat was on the ground floor of a shabby terraced property. Caelan approached the front door quietly, noting the four doorbells. Beside each one was a label with a name printed on it. She considered pressing Adamson’s, but instead stepped away from the door, towards the window with the light on. She stood in the shadows, able to see in if she crouched. Inside, Adamson slumped on a brown leather sofa, his eyes closed. He wore pyjama bottoms, a white T-shirt and huge headphones, a bottle of lager cradled close to his chest. Caelan counted to three then hammered on the glass with her knuckles. Adamson leapt into the air, his headphones and beer bottle going flying. He glared at her as he retrieved the bottle from the carpet. He approached the window and opened it a fraction.
‘Good thing the bottle was empty. What the hell are you doing here, Caelan? Couldn’t you have rung the bell?’
‘I did, several times,’ she lied.
Adamson sighed. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to you. I have news.’
He stared, realising she was serious. ‘Give me a second.’ He left the room.
The front door opened quickly and Adamson stood back, his eyes never leaving Caelan’s face. Was he rattled, or concerned? She couldn’t say.
In the living room, he hovered, shifting his feet as though nervous.
‘Coffee?’
Caelan shook her head. ‘Sit down, Richard. Let me tell you what’s happened.’
He frowned, setting the headphones on the floor and curling into the corner of the sofa.
‘What’s going on, Caelan?’
She sat on the floor, her back against the wall, the window she’d watched him through above her head. Stretching out her legs, she kept her eyes on his.
‘Richard, there’s no easy way to say this. Sam died tonight.’
She watched his face working as he absorbed what she had said. She saw shock, disbelief, horror. If he’d known about Sam’s death before she’d arrived, he was the best actor she’d ever seen.
‘But …’ he managed to say. ‘How?’
‘Depending on who you ask, suicide or murder. I found him hanging from a light fitting.’ Caelan had to work hard to keep her voice level. She was being brusque, but she had to see how Adamson reacted. She had to push the image of Sam’s body from her mind, get on with her job. There would be time later to think, to feel. She pushed herself to her feet, sat on the sofa, leaving a cushion free between herself and Adamson. He stared at her, hunched over as though he had stomach ache. He rubbed the palms of his hands over his cheeks. ‘You found him? Was he at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you go there?’
‘To ask what he’s been hiding.’
Adamson screwed up his face. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Good. Then you’re probably safe.’ Caelan pushed off her shoes, pulled her legs up onto the sofa. ‘Richard, listen. Ian’s been accusing me of being corrupt, hasn’t he? To you, to Nasenby, to anyone who would listen.’
‘Like I said, I told him it was nonsense. I know you, Caelan.’
‘I want to talk to you about Ronnie Morgan’s death. We’re both under suspicion.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Both?’
Caelan explained what Brady had said. ‘They’ve proved that if you ran—’
Adamson snorted. ‘Do they think I’m an Olympic sprinter? Why would I kill him?’
‘The same reason any of us would. To draw Lambourne out of hiding, or to teach him a lesson.’
‘Isn’t it more likely one of Lambourne’s enemies did it? Charlie Flynn’s family? Have they looked at Ronnie’s friends, what he was up to? He could have been into drugs or … And we still haven’t found Walker.’
‘We will.’ Caelan spoke with more cert
ainty than she felt. ‘Richard, I’m going to trust you, because I think I can. I know I can. Elizabeth Beckett suspects you, Nasenby and Penrith. She thinks one of you killed Ronnie Morgan, and Sam. Charlie Flynn too.’
Adamson blinked. ‘Everything Penrith is accusing you of, in other words? She thinks he’s trying to set you up?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘What about Nasenby?’
‘What about him?’
‘He told me he wanted you to look for Lambourne so he could keep you close. Save you from yourself, he said.’
Caelan laughed. ‘He knows I was looking for Lambourne in Egypt.’
‘Were you?’
‘In a way.’
‘And you didn’t care if Lambourne knew it. That’s what Nasenby meant. He thought you were being reckless.’
‘Because Nicky had died, and I didn’t care what happened to me? He didn’t know about us. Spare me the amateur psychology.’
Adamson said nothing. He tipped back his head, staring up at the ceiling.
‘Why did you come here tonight?’ he said eventually.
‘To tell you about Sam.’
Now he looked at her. ‘And to see how I reacted?’
‘Yes.’
‘And? Did I pass?’ His tone had changed, anger biting off the ends of his words. ‘You’re my judge and jury, is that it?’
‘Don’t be stupid. I want you to help me.’
‘How magnanimous.’
‘There’s more to this than we thought, Richard. More to Charlie Flynn’s death, to Nicky’s.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
He laughed. ‘Then it’s going to be a long night.’
‘Walker’s living in King’s Cross.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Someone in the Wheatsheaf told me.’
‘How did you manage that?’ Caelan drew back her T-shirt, allowed Adamson to see the gun. He shook his head. ‘You threatened them?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
A pause. Caelan studied Adamson’s face, the man she had shared a bed with for half a year. It had been work, yes, but you couldn’t live in such proximity to someone without seeing through the disguise. Adamson was genuine, she’d bet her life on it. She could trust him. She had to.
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