Ask No Questions

by Hartley, Lisa

  ‘Officers are on their way to your home.’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘Another change of plan,’ Beckett interrupted, her voice cold. ‘I’ve been informed of a new development. Did you see the rope used to hang Sam Clifton?’

  ‘The rope? No, I—’

  ‘A length of clothes line. Your fingerprints were found on it.’

  Caelan’s mouth was dry, a loud buzzing sound filling her head. ‘Mine?’

  ‘Yours, Caelan. No one else’s, not even Sam’s. How did they get there?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Caelan was stunned. Wheels were turning, unseen, out of sight, and she was being dragged along by their momentum.

  ‘The post-mortem on Sam Clifton is scheduled to take place this morning. Brady will be attending, and I’m going myself. We’ll speak later.’

  ‘Wait – am I being arrested for real? Do you think I killed Sam?’ No reply. Caelan gripped the phone, her legs trembling. ‘Ma’am?’ Beckett had gone. Caelan’s mouth filled with bile, and she swallowed it down.

  A knock on the front door – three polite taps. Caelan froze. Was Beckett serious? She crept forward, peered through the peephole. Two uniformed officers stood there, one male, one female. The male officer stifled a yawn; his partner tucked her hands into her armpits, either side of her stab vest. A giggle tried to force its way out of Caelan’s mouth, and she pressed her lips together, suppressing it. The situation was ridiculous. The whole case was a twisted mess, a web of nonsense. She no idea who she could trust, if anyone. Beckett, Brady, Adamson, Nasenby … All were changing shape before her eyes. Ronnie Morgan was dead; so was Sam. Glen Walker was drifting around London like a wraith. Lambourne was nowhere to be seen, and Caelan was about to disappear. Beckett was suggesting Caelan couldn’t trust the men she had worked with, while Ian Penrith wanted her to have faith in him. The gun used to kill Charlie Flynn had also been used to kill Ronnie Morgan. Who had fired it? Who had the opportunity, the stomach, to murder two innocent young people? The idea that it was one of her three colleagues sickened Caelan, yet she had to admit, it made a twisted sense. Now she was being removed from the firing line. She blinked through her exhaustion, knowing she had to stay alert, now more than ever.

  Four more taps on the door. She marched forward, flung it open.

  ‘Good morning, officers.’

  The woman mustered a smile. ‘You’re expecting us?’

  Caelan held out her wrists, nodding at the handcuffs. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘We’re not going to—’ The officer blinked, glanced at her colleague. He raised his eyebrows a fraction, but didn’t speak.

  Caelan gestured towards herself, the pyjamas. ‘Can I get dressed before we leave?’

  The pair exchanged a glance. ‘Of course,’ the male officer said.

  Caelan closed the door in their faces. It wasn’t their fault, they were here because they’d been told to be, but she was furious. Jitesh or Peter would have had no choice but to allow them access to the building. She could trust the concierges’ discretion, but another resident might have seen the two officers arrive and make their way up to her apartment; was probably already talking about it on Twitter or Facebook. How would she be able to work undercover after this?

  Another thought occurred to her as she pulled off Nicky’s pyjamas, found clean underwear. Perhaps that was the point. Perhaps preventing her from working again was the whole idea. Fear gripped her stomach, making her swallow hard.

  The net was tightening.

  She dressed quickly, throwing on jeans, a T-shirt, trainers. She had locked the gun away when she’d arrived home. It could stay where it was. Would they search her flat? It was possible. Let them. Let them imprison her, blame her, forget about her. What did it matter?

  The two officers were standing where she’d left them. She should have been supervised while she dressed, if they were arresting her for real. She could have destroyed evidence, armed herself. A hint that this was a ploy?

  She slammed the door, locked it, pushed the keys into her jeans pocket. She hadn’t brought her bag or her phone. Even the handset Beckett had given her she’d left on the worktop in the kitchen. There were a few coins in her pockets, but otherwise they were empty.

  The male officer cleared his throat. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Do you have an arrest warrant?’

  His colleague shook her head, bemused. ‘We were only told to come and collect you.’

  They didn’t know whether she was a suspect or a witness. Caelan considered what that meant as she followed the male officer to the lift. The female officer walked behind her, not too close, but near enough to make the point that Caelan had no choice but to accompany them. They were being careful, polite and professional. Caelan stared at the back of the male officer’s neck as he pressed the button to summon the lift. She could escape them, even if they were armed to the teeth with pepper spray and batons, but what would be the point? It would be as good as an admission of guilt on her part. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

  The lift arrived. The journey down to the lobby seemed to take an age, the two officers staring down at their feet and Caelan holding a hand to her churning stomach, wishing she was in bed. Wishing she had stayed in Egypt.

  Wishing Nicky was by her side.

  Jitesh was behind the reception desk, head bowed, eyes on a textbook open on his lap. He glanced up, flushing as Caelan caught his eye. She grinned.

  ‘Studying hard?’

  ‘I … Yes. Exams next week.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Jitesh nodded his thanks, his face anxious. Caelan wanted to reassure him, to tell him she knew he’d had no choice but to let them in. He had no idea she was a police officer too. Even Peter, with whom Caelan often chatted, didn’t know what she did for a living. Most operations had required her to live away from home, so coming and going wearing different wigs and clothes hadn’t been an issue. Nicky had been mentioned, especially by Peter, but he had assumed Caelan had bought the apartment in the usual way. She had stayed there with Nicky, but only a couple of times. Moving into the apartment without her had been difficult. Nicky hadn’t been close to her family, who had accepted without complaint her wishes about Caelan taking ownership of the flat, especially since her life insurance policies had been paid out to them. At the funeral, Caelan had avoided them, leaving after the service at the crematorium and not attending the wake. Raising a glass in Nicky’s memory had not been high on her list of priorities.

  The squad car was parked outside the building’s main door, and Caelan headed for the passenger seat, before remembering and moving to the back. The male officer opened the door for her while his partner started the engine. Caelan slid inside without speaking, her mind on what Beckett had told her. Nasenby and Brady. Brady had talked about Nicky, introduced doubts about her death Caelan had never considered. Why? She must have known it was nonsense, even before Caelan had told her about inheriting the apartment. But then Caelan had no idea who she could trust. She had only Beckett’s word that Nasenby and Brady were having an affair. If she had had more time, she could have asked Ewan to go to Nasenby’s house, see who emerged. But Beckett had her own eyes on Nasenby. If Ewan was seen, Caelan’s betrayal would have been obvious.

  Too late now. They were speeding away from Caelan’s apartment building. She wondered where they were taking her.

  * * *

  Her question was answered quickly. Within twenty minutes, they had arrived at Limehouse police station. The custody sergeant was a cheery man who showed her into a cell as though it was a luxurious hotel room. As the door closed behind her and the locks engaged, panic hurtled through Caelan’s body. If this wasn’t a real arrest, Beckett was doing an excellent job of making it feel like one. Caelan had been searched, and had surrendered her house keys and few pounds in change, the only personal possessions she carried. Her shoelaces had been removed, and she’d been asked if she wanted legal representation. Since she had no idea
what else to say, she had refused. Now she sat on a thin blue mattress on a bed built into the wall of the cell, and waited. For what, she had no idea.

  The walls were white tiles, cold to the touch. The air was stale, but there was a tang of disinfectant, making Caelan wonder what the cell’s previous occupant had been up to. She remembered Saturday nights early in her career, bringing people into custody, vomit on the floor, the stench of regurgitated alcohol hanging around the custody area. She retched at the memory, drawing her feet onto the mattress and wrapping her arms around her knees. There was a toilet in the corner should she need to throw up, but she fervently hoped she wouldn’t have to use it. High in the corner, a CCTV camera kept its eye on her. Caelan glanced up at it, lowered her face onto her arms. She should use this time to concentrate on the case, on the conflicting statements, ideas and information she had heard. It wouldn’t be easy to sort through the rubbish, to pick the gold from the grit.

  Her fingerprints had been found on the rope Sam had hanged from. Caelan shuddered. She hadn’t touched the rope, hadn’t touched Sam’s body. She had visited Sam’s flat a few times, but had never seen a washing line – Sam hadn’t had a garden. She needed more details about the fingerprints. Were they even there at all, or was this another part of the elaborate scheme seemingly designed to trap her? Was Penrith behind it? He had been at Sam’s flat after Sam had killed Brendan Milne. Why? Caelan didn’t own a washing line either, dried her clothes in the laundry room in the basement of her apartment building, or on hangers in her bedroom. Beckett would know that Caelan wouldn’t have been able to hoist Sam into the air herself – no one could do that alone. Were the fingerprints positioned in a way to suggest she had knotted the noose, or that she had handled the rope? Were there other prints on it?

  Caelan raised her head, blinking back tears. She didn’t know. Nothing made sense, none of it. She needed to speak to … who? Maybe legal representation would have been a good idea. The custody sergeant hadn’t mentioned Caelan being a police officer. Did he know? Did any of them know? No crime had been mentioned, no reason for her being brought here. A good sign?

  She heard people in the corridor outside, the deep tones of the custody sergeant and a female voice raised in complaint. A door clanked open, then Caelan heard the heavy locks move into place as it was closed.

  Then the screaming started, continuously, as though the woman in the next cell didn’t have to breathe between screeches. Thumping as she hammered her fists against the blue mattress, her feet stamping the floor, the sounds merging to produce an unholy din, like some dreadful percussion section. Caelan clamped her hands over her ears, willing the woman to stop. More screaming, shouts of abuse. She was pounding her hands against the door now, punctuating each thud with a scream. Footsteps outside, the voice of the custody sergeant again, politely asking her to keep the noise down. Receiving a volley of vitriol in return.

  Caelan lay back, curled onto her side, staring at the wall. The woman would tire and shut up eventually – they all did in the end. More screaming, then a loud and prolonged bout of vomiting. The smell drifted into Caelan’s cell despite the thick walls, locked door and closed hatch. Someone asking the woman if she wanted water. More screamed abuse. Caelan closed her eyes, exhaustion finally claiming her.

  * * *

  She woke to silence, her face turned to the wall. Someone else was in the room, she knew before she turned around. Their presence had woken her.

  ‘Good to see they’re looking after you,’ Elizabeth Beckett said. She was standing by the door, her hands behind her back. Caelan swung her feet to the ground. The floor lurched as she sat up, though the pounding in her head had receded. ‘Yeah, it’s five-star accommodation. I’ll be leaving a decent review on TripAdvisor.’

  Beckett smiled, held out her balled fist. Frowning, Caelan stepped closer, and Beckett deposited her shoelaces, coins and keys into her hands. ‘Come on, let’s get you out of here.’

  As they passed the front desk, the custody sergeant was studying his monitors. ‘Mind how you go,’ he called without looking up.

  Caelan flashed a grin. ‘Don’t think me rude if I tell you I never want to see you again.’

  He raised a hand in farewell. ‘That’s what they all say.’

  Caelan expected Beckett’s chauffeur to be waiting, but when they emerged from the station into the grey and misty mid-morning, Beckett kept walking.

  ‘We’re getting the train,’ she called over her shoulder. Caelan hurried to catch her up.

  ‘To?’

  ‘Cannon Street, then the Underground to Westminster.’

  ‘What’s at Westminster?’

  ‘A room I use occasionally as an office.’

  ‘What about your driver?’

  ‘I didn’t want anyone to know I was coming to you. I trust my driver, but as far as anyone knows, you’re locked away somewhere safe for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Except the custody sergeant.’

  Beckett glanced up at the sky as she strode along, opened her handbag and took out an umbrella. ‘He won’t say anything.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘He’s my husband.’

  Caelan opened her mouth, unsure how to respond. Eventually she said, ‘Oh.’

  ‘Surprised?’ Beckett unfurled the umbrella as the first spots of rain began to fall, held it between them. Caelan ducked beneath it.

  ‘Thank you. Why should I be surprised?’

  Beckett laughed. ‘Most people are when I tell them my husband’s a sergeant. He’s retiring next year, and he can’t wait. I can’t imagine him sitting around at home, doing the gardening, but …’

  ‘I thought I’d love not getting up and going to work. I didn’t.’

  ‘The circumstances are a little different. I have to admit, though, I expected more of a battle to get you back on board.’

  ‘A battle?’

  ‘Michael Nasenby said you wouldn’t even consider it. Richard Adamson wasn’t confident either.’

  ‘But you were?’

  ‘They didn’t know about you and Nicky.’

  ‘How did you?’

  Beckett waited until they had reached and rounded a woman walking five dogs of varying breeds and sizes before she replied. ‘Nicky told me herself.’

  Caelan had expected to be told to mind her own business. Why had Nicky been confiding in Beckett about their relationship? Caelan hadn’t realised the two women had ever spoken. Nicky hadn’t mentioned talking to Beckett, much less divulging details of her personal life.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she said.

  ‘You wouldn’t.’ Beckett lifted her arm, allowed her sleeve to fall back so she could check her watch. She increased her pace, meaning Caelan had to hurry too. ‘Nicky was reporting back to me, without the knowledge of Michael Nasenby, Ian Penrith or anyone else.’

  Caelan stopped, raised a hand to grab Beckett’s arm but thought better of it. ‘What does that mean? Nicky was spying on us?’

  Beckett halted too, met Caelan’s eyes. ‘Not exactly. When there was something I needed to be aware of, she informed me.’

  ‘Spying, like I said.’ All at once, Caelan was furious with Nicky. Their relationship had been none of Beckett’s business. It hadn’t impacted on their work, had no bearing on their assignments. Why would Nicky tell Beckett about it?

  ‘She wasn’t spying, not at all. I told you before, I need to know what’s happening. Not the official lines, not the reports and briefing notes. I wanted to hear about the gossip, the arguments, the grudges. Nicky was able to provide the information I required.’

  Beckett began to walk again, giving Caelan no choice but to follow, especially if she wanted to stay dry. The rain was heavy, the passing traffic switching on headlights, pedestrians scurrying into shops or doorways. Beckett put her head down, lengthened her stride. Caelan kept quiet, trying to equate the Nicky she had known with the person who had run to Beckett with insider information about her colleagues. It wasn’
t easy.

  Neither woman spoke again until they were on the Underground train between Embankment and Westminster. It was busy, and they were forced to stand closer together than Caelan would have liked. She could smell Beckett’s perfume, see the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. Beckett turned her face away, and Caelan wondered what she was thinking. Did she hate being down here in the warm, close air? Resent the crowds, the press of the bodies of tourists and ordinary Londoners? For someone used to being driven in a large, luxurious car, it was something of a comedown. Caelan knew little about Beckett’s career. Perhaps she was adept at working undercover, blending in, but Caelan couldn’t see it. Beckett wore her intelligence, her capability, like badges of honour. Posing as a drug addict or on a street corner wouldn’t come easily to her. In the past, Caelan had loved taking on different personas, the chance to live a life far removed from her own for a time. She didn’t think Beckett would understand.

  ‘The office is a couple of minutes’ walk from the station,’ Beckett said as the train began to slow. As they pushed their way through the crowded carriage, Caelan looked behind them. No familiar faces, no one taking an interest in them. Why then were her senses suddenly charged, her skin prickling? She saw no threat, but her instincts were screaming that danger was close. As they stepped off the train, she pushed near to Beckett, her eyes sweeping over the people around them. On the platform, she grabbed Beckett’s arm, heedless of the other woman’s glare, and pulled her close to the wall.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  Caelan pressed her back against the tiles, eyes constantly scanning the bustling mass of people.

  Beckett looked perplexed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Have you asked someone to follow us?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Caelan stared at her, unsure whether Beckett was telling the truth. ‘You’re sure?’

  Beckett pushed past her, clearly exasperated. Caelan turned, her eyes drawn back to the train as it began to move away.