Ask No Questions

by Hartley, Lisa

  That was when she saw him.

  Walker. Glen Walker was on the train. His face was close to the window, teeth bared in a mocking grin. As he saw Caelan watching, he raised a hand, waving as the train picked up speed. Caelan turned, began to run. Beckett stared open-mouthed as Caelan shot past her.

  ‘What is it?’

  Caelan wanted to scream at her. Beckett was corrupt, she had to be. How else would Walker have known which train to board?

  ‘Walker’s on the train,’ was all she said.

  Beckett was instantly by her side, both powering along the platform. ‘Then we’ve got a minute before he arrives at St James’s Park station.’

  People were ducking out of their way, some glaring and muttering. Caelan held up a hand in apology as she barged through a group of young women, her mind spinning through her options. Was Walker a threat? Beckett looked flustered, panicked. But if she hadn’t known Walker was going to be there, who had sent him? Should they try to capture him? Caelan kept running. Whether Beckett had been compromised or not, Caelan knew she had to get away from Walker, out of the station to a place where she could safely reassess her situation. She could identify herself as a police officer, order people out of her path, but doing so would cause the kind of panic she wanted to avoid. The possibility of terrorist attacks had made people vigilant, and with the shots fired at herself, Nasenby and Ewan in Whitechapel still in the news, she couldn’t afford to the take the risk. Mass hysteria would help no one.

  ‘This is hopeless,’ Beckett muttered. When they reached the ticket hall, she dragged her phone from her bag. ‘I’m going to make some calls. I’ll try to halt the train, see if we can grab Walker at the station.’

  ‘You’re sending officers into the station, onto the train? People will be terrified. You’ll have a stampede on your hands.’

  Beckett was already stabbing at the screen. ‘A risk I’ll have to take. We need to bring Walker in.’

  ‘Can’t we do it discreetly? Do you want to tell me what’s going on, why I should believe a word you say? This is a set-up, isn’t it?’

  Beckett held up a hand. ‘There’s no time.’ She strode away. Caelan stared after her, totally confused.

  ‘Where are you—’

  ‘Just follow me. Please, Caelan.’ Beckett broke into a jog, moving as quickly as possible in her low-heeled shoes. Caelan glared at her.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘St James’s Park station. On foot, we can make it in five minutes if we hurry.’

  Caelan shook her head. ‘He’ll have long gone.’

  ‘Do you have any better ideas?’

  Caelan shook her head, her mind still running through the possibilities. Why had Walker been there? How had he known she and Beckett were on the train? His presence couldn’t be a coincidence.

  Beckett was beside her, the older woman breathing raggedly but easily matching Caelan’s stride. Beckett had organised the tube journey, Beckett had sent her driver away. Beckett’s husband knew that Caelan had been released, but no one else did. As far as any of her former colleagues knew, she was in a prison cell.

  The rain had stopped, though dark clouds loomed above them, the sky as dark as dusk. The pavement in front of them was busy, thronged with crowds heading towards Westminster Abbey. Caelan stopped, moved to the side. Beckett saw the movement and turned her head. ‘Caelan? Come on!’ She halted, throwing her arms wide, frustration clear on her face. ‘There’s no time.’

  ‘Why should I trust you?’ Caelan heard herself demand. Beckett scowled, shook her head.

  ‘This isn’t the time to play the prima donna.’ She turned away, but Caelan stood her ground.

  ‘What about my fingerprints?’

  ‘What?’ Beckett’s voice was icy. She glanced around. ‘Caelan, we need to move.’ People were staring at them now, and Beckett clicked her tongue. ‘We’re going to lose Walker.’

  Caelan could hear sirens in the distance. ‘My fingerprints were on the rope Sam was hanged with. What about the post-mortem?’

  Beckett’s hands were on her hips. ‘What about it?’

  ‘What did the pathologist say? What was the cause of death?’

  ‘The noose wasn’t enough of a giveaway?’ Beckett’s lips were pressed into an angry line. ‘You know how he died. All the evidence says you helped him along. Caelan, I’m not going to discuss this here.’

  ‘But you are, because I’m not going any further with you until you do.’

  Beckett sighed, moved closer and took Caelan’s elbow. ‘You see the black van over there?’ She nodded towards a vehicle idling at the side of the road. Caelan had already spotted it, but hadn’t let Beckett see she had noticed its approach.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘There are four officers inside watching us. On my signal, they’ll come and arrest you again, and this time you won’t be home for lunch.’

  Caelan smirked. ‘You’re threatening me. Strange how your true colours emerge eventually.’

  ‘My true colours? What about yours? I’m on your side, Caelan, but we need to get out of here. Finding Glen Walker is our priority, not arguing on the pavement like a couple of fishwives.’

  ‘But you have officers mobilised. Several of them watching your back, for starters. Your job isn’t on the ground, it’s behind a desk. Why do you need to be out here? I thought you said no one was following us?’

  ‘They weren’t, but they are now.’ Beckett glanced at the black van. ‘Come on.’ She grabbed Caelan’s arm, tried to haul her towards it. Caelan stood her ground.

  ‘Let go of me.’

  ‘I suggest you moderate your tone.’ Beckett’s voice was cold. ‘For once, Caelan, do as you’re told.’

  The van swerved into the road, stopped beside them. Beckett clambered inside, two men reaching out and dragging Caelan in after her before she could react. The whole manoeuvre had taken less than ten seconds, and no one on the pavement seemed to have even noticed. Caelan caught her breath, furious. She had been dumped on a seat, a burly armed officer sitting either side of her. Beckett was having a hurried conversation with the driver. The van began to move, rapidly picking up speed.

  Caelan turned in her chair. ‘What the fuck—’

  ‘Shut up, Caelan, please,’ Beckett ordered as she turned back. There were no windows, and Caelan twisted her head from left to right, trying to work out where they were going. The two men she was sitting between exchanged an amused glance, as though she was an unruly child, and she held in a mouthful of abuse. Beckett had fooled her, and now had her trapped. Why had Walker made his presence so obvious? If he had kept his head down as the train pulled away, she wouldn’t have seen him. If Beckett had told him to be there, why had he allowed Caelan to see him, drawn her attention to his presence? Her head was thumping again.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she demanded.

  Beckett looked furious. ‘I’ve told you. We’re going to the next station.’

  ‘Let me out, and I’ll disappear,’ Caelan told her. ‘I’ll go away again, no one needs to—’

  Beckett’s phone began to ring, and she wrenched it from her jacket pocket, hurriedly fumbling with the screen. Caelan studied her face as she listened. Saw the frown crease her brow, watched her shoulders slump. Slowly she replaced the phone.

  ‘Let us out,’ she ordered the driver. He stopped abruptly, and Beckett jumped out, pulling Caelan with her. There was a cacophony of car horns and shouting as the van sped away.

  On the pavement, Beckett smoothed her hair, throwing a glare in the direction of the black van as it disappeared.

  ‘Baby-minders gone then? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ Caelan was deliberately chirpy. Beckett’s lip curled.

  ‘Walker wasn’t on the train. Officers boarded it before anyone disembarked. He’s not there, Caelan.’

  A rush in her ears, a lurch in her stomach. ‘But …’

  Beckett folded her arms, tight-lipped. ‘He never was, was he?’ />
  ‘He was, I saw him clearly. He waved at me, for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘In your imagination, maybe. In your own head. Come on.’

  Caelan stared. ‘This is insane. I’m going nowhere with you. You’re saying Walker isn’t there, was never there? What, you think I’m crazy?’

  ‘Not crazy, no. Under pressure, grieving. Maybe you should reconsider your retirement, Caelan. I’m sure there are grounds for medical discharge.’ Beckett managed to sound sympathetic, understanding. Caelan laughed.

  ‘Ten minutes ago you were desperate for my help, and now I’m being retired?’

  ‘Desperate?’ Beckett smiled. ‘I hardly think so.’

  ‘Walker was there, he—’

  ‘Follow me, Caelan.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  28

  The building was on Great George Street, a huge Edwardian structure that Caelan had passed many times but never taken much notice of. Beckett marched inside, her head high, her steps unhurried. Caelan followed, unwilling to trust Beckett but not knowing what else to do.

  The building’s interior was impressive, with crystal chandeliers, marble floors and walls decorated with gold leaf and ornate plasterwork. Beckett kept walking until she reached a plain wooden door set close to the foot of a wide marble staircase. She took a bunch of keys out of her bag, and worked through them. Holding up a silver key, she nodded at Caelan.

  ‘Forget you were ever here.’

  ‘Seriously? Who’s waiting through there? Churchill? James Bond?’

  Beckett unlocked the door and pushed it open. She waved Caelan through.

  The door opened into a stone passageway, cold and lit only by a single, unshaded bulb. Despite herself, Caelan shivered.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  Beckett ignored her question. ‘Keep moving,’ was all she said. Caelan’s shoulders tensed, and she walked on the balls of her feet, readying herself to make a dash for freedom if necessary. She began to wish she’d brought the gun.

  The passage ran for thirty metres or so, sloping downwards, ending at another plain door. Beckett selected another key and held the door open again, light spilling through it.

  ‘In you go,’ she said.

  Caelan swallowed. She could see a bland conference room beyond, empty apart from a few tables and chairs.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ she muttered. Beckett smiled, allowing the door to close behind them. The room was hot, stuffy and windowless. The grey walls and carpet didn’t feel particularly welcoming. ‘Where are we?’ Caelan asked.

  ‘You already know. These rooms are under the building. Private and secure.’

  ‘And all this cloak-and-dagger stuff is necessary? I’m expecting to stumble over the Crown Jewels any moment.’

  ‘Do you think this caution is for my own amusement? That I enjoy it?’ Beckett shook her head. ‘Some of your colleagues may see our work as a game, but I certainly don’t. Lives have been lost, Caelan.’

  ‘You mean lives have been taken. People have been murdered.’

  Beckett waved a hand. ‘As you say. I’m going to explain to you what security measures we have in place here, and then perhaps you’ll see you can trust me.’

  Caelan narrowed her eyes. ‘Why should extra security mean I can trust you?’

  Beckett didn’t reply; merely pulled a couple of chairs out from beneath a table and poured three glasses of water. Caelan watched with trepidation. Three glasses? Who was Beckett expecting? ‘Why should I trust you?’ she repeated.

  ‘Because here I can be completely honest. I can tell you everything I know, I can let you into a few secrets. Have a seat, Caelan.’

  Caelan remained standing. ‘I’m not sure I want to.’

  Beckett shrugged as she sat down. ‘Up to you, but we’re going to be here for a while.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to be? What if I want to walk out of here?’

  ‘You’re free to leave at any time. I’d remind you, though, you’re supposed to be in prison. Any police officer who saw you on the street would have no choice but to arrest you. And if you were in possession of a firearm at the time … Well, you can imagine the years that would add to your sentence.’

  ‘Blackmail. I’m impressed, but you know I don’t have the gun with me.’ Caelan flung herself into a chair. ‘I suppose there are armed officers in the corridor now too?’

  Beckett smiled, stood and opened the door. A man stuck his head into the room, grinning, a semi-automatic weapon in his hands. Beckett thanked him and closed the door.

  ‘As I said, when it’s deemed necessary, security is taken extremely seriously here.’

  ‘Am I supposed to be frightened?’

  Beckett sat back down. She removed her glasses, set them on the table and rubbed her eyes. ‘Frightened? No. I was hoping to reassure you.’

  ‘Then tell me the truth. Stop feeding me bullshit and be honest. What happened at Westminster station? I saw Walker, you know I did. You were as shocked and surprised as I was. You spoke to someone on the phone, and then pretended I’d been imagining it. Why?’

  Putting her glasses back on, Beckett held Caelan’s gaze. ‘Of course Walker was on the train. We were in a public place, a busy one at that. Did you really expect me to discuss someone like Glen Walker on the street?’

  ‘Why not? Everyone else is talking about him.’

  ‘No, they’re discussing the death of Sam Clifton. I don’t have to tell you how many people are overjoyed to hear he’s gone. Have you seen the news today?’

  Caelan snorted. ‘Strangely enough, no. Between discovering my friend’s dead body and being arrested, I’ve not had a spare moment.’

  Beckett glanced at her watch, then rested her hands on the table, lacing her fingers. ‘The headlines say that one of Sam’s former colleagues has been arrested on suspicion of his murder. Who could they mean, do you think?’

  Fury erupted in Caelan’s chest again. ‘You’ve given them my name? You really are determined to end my career, aren’t you?’

  ‘End your career?’

  ‘Sending uniformed officers to my flat to bring me in? How would that have looked to the neighbours? Some chance of me ever being able to work undercover again.’ Caelan tipped back her head, blinking tears away. She had no idea why she should be crying – anger, perhaps. Exhaustion.

  ‘You haven’t been named, Caelan. The press have no idea who you are. We’ve fed them the information we want them to have, as usual.’

  ‘Except where Sam Clifton was concerned. You made sure they had his name, you hung him out to dry.’

  ‘We had no choice.’ Beckett’s expression made it clear there would be no further discussion of the subject.

  ‘It’s convenient for you that he’s dead, though,’ Caelan couldn’t help pointing out.

  Beckett continued as if Caelan hadn’t spoken. ‘There’s no possibility of your identity being revealed to anyone.’

  ‘The people who live in my building could easily put two and two together.’

  ‘We had to make the arrest look real.’ Beckett didn’t sound in the least apologetic. ‘If necessary, say you witnessed a mugging or saw a shoplifter, and you were coming in to make a statement. I doubt anyone will link you to Sam’s death, much less ask you about it. Why should they?’

  ‘You could have had me arrested in the street, in a shop, rather than at my home.’

  Beckett eyed her. ‘You feel safe there.’

  It wasn’t a question, and Caelan stared back at Beckett, trying to read her expression. There wasn’t one. Her face was as impassive as ever.

  ‘Yes. Doesn’t everyone?’ Caelan knew it was a stupid thing to say, even as the words left her mouth. No. Millions of people didn’t feel safe in their homes; felt threatened and unsafe even in the country they lived in.

  ‘You must miss Nicky.’

  Caelan narrowed her eyes. Beckett’s statement was even more stupid than her own ha
d been. ‘We’re not here to talk about me.’

  ‘Fine.’ Beckett was brisk. ‘The pathologist who performed the post-mortem on Sam Clifton’s body confirmed he was strangled.’

  Caelan swallowed. ‘He was already dead when he was strung up there?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘You know it does.’

  Beckett blinked a few times. ‘Then yes, he was.’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘How do you explain your fingerprints being on the rope?’

  ‘I can’t. I wanted to ask you about them – was it made to look as though I’d tied the knot?’

  ‘Numerous prints were found on the surface of the clothes line. Not around the knot specifically, no, or at least no more than on the rest of the rope. You know as well as I do that it makes little difference. Your fingerprints are on the rope that killed your friend and former colleague; your DNA was found in his flat. That’s all most juries would need to hear.’

  Caelan forced a laugh. ‘What about on his skin, around his throat?’

  Beckett shrugged. ‘No, but it wouldn’t matter. A case convincing enough to convict you would be easy to build.’

  ‘You’ve made your point. I’m in the shit.’

  ‘Which is why we need to find the people behind all this as soon as possible. Today would be preferable. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but …’ Beckett looked momentarily uncomfortable, ‘I’m coming under increasing pressure to have you charged. The arrest we staged should shut them up for a while, but it’s a temporary fix.’

  ‘Pressure from whom? You’re the big boss, aren’t you?’

  Beckett shook her head. ‘I’m accountable to more people now than when I was a probationary constable.’

  ‘But with a sight more clout.’

  ‘You lived in Camden before moving to your current address, am I right?’

  ‘You don’t need me to confirm it. No doubt you know everything about me.’

  Beckett acknowledged the point with a quirk of her lips. ‘I sent someone there. You had a washing line in the back yard?’

  Caelan frowned. ‘You mean …?’

  Nodding, Beckett spread her hands. ‘The line has been removed. No one’s bothered to replace it yet.’