Know No Evil

by Hampton Graeme

  The Chief Superintendent had summoned her with an irate phone call: Daryl Bailey, ex-professional footballer – and probably soon to be ex-PE teacher – was suing the Met for releasing his name to the press in connection with an ongoing murder inquiry. Of course, the story in the Echo had been careful not to name Bailey, but social media had not been so reticent.

  The official line was that he had never been anything other than a suspect: questioned and released without charge. But the implications were clear.

  McKenna had already been on the phone to the editor of the London Echo to ask how they had come by their information, and roasting his nuts over the irresponsible article and the damage it would cause an ongoing police investigation, but tabloid newspaper editors had thick skins. He’d got his story, anything else was her problem, not his.

  ‘Has Bailey got a case?’ Denning asked.

  ‘Who knows? The Met lawyers are on to it now. In the meantime, muggins here has been ordered to give a press conference about this shit.’ She jabbed a finger at the folded copy of the Echo still sitting on her desk. ‘This, I could really do without.’

  ‘The timing’s not great.’

  McKenna tugged at her hair. ‘Are you sure that girl’s got nothing to do with it?’

  Denning wanted to believe Molly was innocent, but doubt lingered at the back of his mind. Nothing like this had ever happened before she joined the team.

  ‘Look, he said, ‘the damage has been done now. We can’t undo it. OK, it adds to the pressure, but maybe that’s a good thing.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Now we have an added incentive to find this nutter. We’ll be under greater scrutiny and if we fuck up it’ll be all over the tabloids.’

  She made a clicking noise with her tongue. ‘Personally, I can’t see how that helps.’

  ‘OK, so maybe it won’t, but we have to try and salvage something out of this mess.’

  ‘I agree with you there.’ There was a pause, which Denning took as his cue to leave. He was just about to get up from his seat when she said, ‘keep an eye on Fisher. I have a gut feeling there’s something she’s not telling us.’

  Denning looked puzzled. ‘You don’t believe her about leaking the story?’

  She threw a smile in Denning’s direction. ‘Call it feminine intuition, but there’s something about that girl I just don’t trust.’

  * * *

  Molly was still poring over the CCTV footage from the bridge overlooking the stretch of canal where Sandra Blake’s body had been found. It was a frustratingly slow and tedious process, not helped by the fact that she was sure she could feel a dozen pairs of eyes boring into the back of her head. Whispered conversations had abruptly ceased the moment she’d left Betty Taggart’s office. Trudi had shot her a sympathetic glance, but she’d ignored her and headed straight to her desk.

  It had taken all her inner strength not to tell Denning and Betty Taggart to go and fuck themselves. Did they really think she was capable of selling them up the river like that? She might be new to the team, but she was a good detective; a team player. And Denning had stood there looking at her with his condescending attitude, like she was sitting on the naughty step.

  She’d got as far as drafting a text message to Jon but had pressed delete before sending it. She needed to calm down first. She was tempted to ask Trudi if she wanted to go for a fag break, but maybe it was better to focus on work. It would serve as a good distraction if nothing else.

  Shortly after their bruising encounter, Denning had buggered off to chase up a lead. She’d wanted to go with him, but knew there would be no point in asking. She’d have to keep her head down for a while, prove herself to the team. Denning was back now, sitting in Betty Taggart’s office with a pained look on his face.

  Several hours’ worth of footage had been painstakingly scanned already, without yielding anything useful.

  She stared at digital images of people walking across the bridge, one or two stopping to look at the canal below. Cars and vans crossed sporadically, the frequency decreasing as night began to fall. She fast-forwarded the footage, watching the images become even more blurred and indistinct. This felt like a waste of time: she should be out there with Denning, speaking to people, trying to find that elusive lead instead of being stuck inside this sweaty office marking time. The footage whizzed past: lots of nothing, with the occasional person swaggering over the bridge. Then suddenly there was something there. She paused the video, and rewound slightly: it was a van, a Transit. It was impossible to make out the colour, and she couldn’t make out the registration number. It stopped in the centre of the bridge. The timestamp said 01:27. Someone got out and opened the back doors. After a couple of seconds they removed something from the back, slung it over their shoulder, then dropped it over the parapet into the canal. She couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure from the haziness of the footage, but it looked like a body.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Molly showed the footage to Denning. He peered closely at a freeze-frame of the suspect. ‘Looks like he’s got his face covered by a scarf or something, and he’s wearing a baseball cap.’

  ‘The suspect seen leaving the bar with Leanne was wearing a baseball cap,’ Molly said. ‘Could this be the same man?’

  Denning continued staring at the shady image on the screen. Poor street lighting had resulted in dark shadows pooling across the screen. ‘Possibly.’ He rubbed a hand over his chin. ‘Get onto traffic: trace the route of the van. If we’re lucky, we might get a clear shot of the number plate this time. I’d lay odds on this being the same van that Trudi spotted on the CCTV at Haggerston Park.’ He turned to her and smiled. ‘Let’s face it, we’re due a lucky break.’

  There was warmth in his smile. It was a marked contrast to the ice-cool, professional Denning who’d made her squirm in the DCI’s office that morning. She still couldn’t get the confrontation out of her head. It was gnawing away at her, punching her brain. She felt like someone was drilling a hole in the side of her skull.

  ‘Can’t argue with that,’ she said.

  ‘This is good work, Molly,’ said Denning. ‘Well done.’

  She returned to her desk feeling slightly vindicated. She should have felt buoyed by Denning’s encouragement: it was clear that, despite whatever reservations he may have had, he didn’t blame Molly for what had happened earlier after all. Or he had, but he’d since forgiven her. It was hard to read Denning. She suspected he would have made an excellent poker player, if he ever played poker.

  But the banging in her head was growing worse. She searched in her bag for some paracetamol but realised she’d used the last two at lunchtime. She could ask Trudi for some, but there wasn’t much point. She glanced at her watch: it had already gone five, and the end of a long, hard day. She was tempted to ask Trudi if she and any of the others wanted to head down the pub. But there was something she had to do first.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  The hospital reminded Denning of Bells Wood Prison: white-walled and sterile, except without the locked gates and unnerving sense of despair.

  He exited the lift on the second floor and spoke to the first person he saw wearing a uniform. An attractive young nurse showed him into a private room off a long, white corridor. The room was small but clean. The window framed a shimmering east London landscape, a view dominated by the monoliths of Canary Wharf and the fringes of the City. A local radio station chattered away in the background.

  Daryl Bailey was lying on a hospital bed, dressed in an unflattering grey and blue gown with a slight tear on the shoulder. A wire ran from a plastic clip on his middle finger to a portable monitor beside his bed, which gave off an intermittent bleep.

  Bailey’s face was a mass of red and purple; his right eye swollen shut and a crust of dried blood caked to the base of his nose. One of his arms was encased in a plaster cast.

  According the nurse Denning had just spoken to, Bailey was lucky it wasn’t worse. He had a couple of broken
ribs, a fractured wrist and a ruptured spleen. They’d managed to stem the bleeding to the spleen, which meant, luckily for Bailey, they wouldn’t have to remove it. Otherwise, the injuries were mostly superficial. He’d look a mess for a while but he’d recover.

  Bailey looked up when Denning entered the room. As soon as he saw who it was, he turned his gaze towards the view from the window.

  Denning pulled a chair over from the corner of the room and sat down. ‘Mr Bailey?’

  Bailey continued to ignore him. He kept looking out the window. The blind was pulled part of the way down to keep out the sun, but there was still a brilliant whiteness glaring through the glass. ‘Who did this to you?’ Denning asked.

  He’d been found by a road cleaner in a side street beside a trendy bar in Shoreditch just after lunchtime. According to the paramedic who tended to him at the scene, the smell of booze suggested his lunch had been of the liquid variety. His extensive injuries had resulted in a call to the local constabulary.

  Ordinarily, this would have fallen within the remit of regular CID, but under the circumstances, McKenna felt it would be prudent for Denning to speak to Bailey.

  ‘Mr Bailey, I’m not going to leave until you tell me what happened and who’s responsible. I can stay here all day if I have to.’ It was a lie, of course, but it seemed to have the desired effect. Bailey shifted his focus onto Denning.

  ‘Do you want to know who’s responsible for this?’ His voice was hoarse, as though the very act of speaking seemed to drain the energy from his body. ‘Do you really want to know? Then I suggest you look in a mirror, Denning.’ He coughed suddenly, his whole body shuddering. Denning poured him a glass of water from a jug on the cabinet beside his bed. He offered it to Bailey, who batted it away with a swipe of his hand. Some of the water splashed onto the bedclothes as well as Denning’s sleeve. Bailey looked at Denning. His right eye might have been out of action, but his left eye was red and bloodshot and full of anger. ‘If you hadn’t tried to nail me for Leanne’s murder, I wouldn’t be lying here now. And I’d still have a fucking job. You’ve destroyed my life.’ His gaze returned to the window.

  ‘Maybe if you’d been honest with me in the first place…’ Denning tried to sound sympathetic; there was no point in antagonising Bailey further. ‘Look, if it’s about that newspaper story, you can sue the arse off them. OK, maybe they didn’t actually name you, but they weren’t exactly discreet.’

  The bloodshot eye flashed back onto Denning. ‘I’m suing the arse off you lot. And my lawyer reckons I’ve got a strong case. You had no real evidence linking me to Leanne’s murder, Denning, and no reason to arrest me. According to the local news, there’s a psycho out there, and you wasted time chasing after me when you should have been out there looking for him. You’ve fucked up, and you know it.’

  ‘We had evidence that placed you with Leanne the night she was killed. We know you lied about having had a relationship with her. We strongly suspect, but can’t prove, you had been involved with her whilst she was still a pupil at Dalston Academy.’ He looked despairingly at Bailey. ‘We had enough evidence to justify going after you, but I’m sorry it came to this. If you tell us who did it, we’ll go after them and you can get your life back.’

  Bailey didn’t reply, and Denning let a silence fall between them. From outside the room there was the distant sound of an alarm followed by the clatter of running feet. Somewhere in the hospital someone’s life was about to be saved. Or end, depending on the outcome. But he knew he’d done nothing wrong. Even if Bailey wasn’t bluffing and he did sue, Denning knew he’d done everything by the book. And he would rather that than end up like Walters and be silently eaten up by a decade’s worth of regret at having let a killer off the hook because it made for an easy life.

  ‘I told you, I’ve lost my job.’

  ‘The school have told you this, have they?’

  ‘They want to see me as soon as I get out of here. And it’s not because they want to offer me the head’s job.’

  ‘You don’t know that. Even if they do try and sack you, you’d have a good case against them for unfair dismissal.’

  His one working eye shot Denning a dark look. ‘You are having a laugh, aren’t you? Did you not read that fucking story in the paper? They as good as accused me of being a sodding paedophile. What parent is going to let their kid go to a school with a nonce on the staff?’

  ‘Then sue the paper, not us. They’re the ones who printed the story and put all this in the public domain.’

  ‘What’s the bloody point? The damage is done now.’

  When Denning had first met Daryl Bailey, he’d put him down as another arrogant tosser who thought the rules didn’t apply to him. Now, looking at Bailey lying battered and sore in a hospital bed, he actually felt sorry for him. Whatever he was, he didn’t deserve this. ‘Tell me who did this to you, Daryl.’

  But Bailey remained tight-lipped. ‘That’s up to you lot to find out. I assume you can get it right some of the time.’

  * * *

  Denning sat at the dining table and poured himself a glass of German beer. He needed to soften the rough edges off a bad day.

  Bailey’s words had hit home. He refused to feel responsible for what had happened, but there was a part of him that had felt at least a pang of guilt when he’d seen Bailey lying in that hospital bed.

  There was a yellow Stick-it note stuck to the front of the fridge-freezer. In Sarah’s barely legible scrawl it read: Gone for a drink with Miles and Victoria. Hendry’s Bar, Shoreditch – we’ll be there anytime from 7 p.m. onwards. Drop round. x Miles Crawford was a friend from uni, now working for one of the major banks. Miles and his wife Victoria had introduced him to Sarah at a dinner party five years ago. Ordinarily, he would have enjoyed catching up with them, even in somewhere as pretentious as Hendry’s, but he wasn’t in the mood for socialising tonight. He just wanted to chill and watch some rubbish on the telly.

  Although it was another warm evening, the flat was pleasantly cool. It should have felt empty without Sarah, instead he found himself enjoying the peace and quiet. He checked his phone for missed calls: there was another one from Claire, and a new message indicating he had a voicemail. He didn’t have the energy to listen to whatever minor drama was playing out in her life today. He’d call her tomorrow, if he remembered.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Jon was in the kitchen when Molly let herself into the house. He was sitting at the kitchen table staring into space. There was a half-eaten plate of pasta on the table along with a can of Stella.

  She’d opened and closed the front door quietly, trying to make as little noise as possible. Already this no longer felt like her home.

  He looked up when she walked into the kitchen. A smile briefly flitted onto his face, but quickly faded when he it wasn’t reciprocated.

  ‘Molly… How are you?’ He pushed the plate to one side and pulled out a chair, urging her to sit down. ‘I was worried about you.’

  She sat down opposite him. She wanted a glass of water, but the sink was full of dirty dishes. Her headache was getting worse.

  ‘I think we need to talk.’ She took a copy of the London Echo from her bag and dumped it on the table in front of him. ‘Have you seen this?’

  He picked up the paper, scanning the front page. ‘Shit, but…’ He threw the paper onto the table. ‘You don’t think I gave them this, do you?’ He looked pleadingly at Molly. ‘You think I’m selling stories to the media about you and your police mates?’ He shook his head. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong.’

  Molly could feel bile rising in her throat. ‘I’ve been behaving “strangely” because you lied to me about your relationship with Magda Kilbride.’

  She watched his mouth open and close, but without any words coming out. ‘What are you talking about? What relationship? That’s shite.’

  ‘I know it for a fact, Jon.’

  A vein began to pulsate in his temple. He was wearing a shabby blue and black
checked shirt that badly needed an iron, with a stain down the front that looked suspiciously like pasta sauce. ‘We had a brief fling, nothing more. It was ages ago and it wasn’t serious.’

  ‘The two of you were living together. I’d say that was pretty serious, wouldn’t you?’

  She watched as his face flushed crimson, either with embarrassment at being caught out, or anger because she’d found him out. She couldn’t tell which, and she didn’t really care.

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  She dropped the eye contact. ‘I did a PNC check.’

  His jaw fell towards his chest. ‘You’ve been checking up on me? Spying on me! That’s great. I mean, that’s really great.’

  She didn’t want to tell him that she’d done more than that. She’d gone over and over the events of the week that Leanne Wyatt and Tanya Russell had been murdered, trying to remember what Jon had been doing and where he’d been. The night Leanne was killed she’d gone to bed early. Jon had stayed up late to watch a film, or so he’d said. But had he waited until she was asleep and crept out in the early hours? She couldn’t remember what time he’d come to bed. And then there was the night of Tanya Russell’s death. That was when she’d first mentioned Mags; flagging up an unhappy reminder of his past. Had that sparked something rotten inside him? She knew his personality changed when he was in the pits of one of his black moods, but did that despair turn him into something ugly? And what about twelve years ago? He had been in a bad place then too; the break-up of his marriage having sent him to the brink…

  She hated herself for thinking this. It was paranoia of the worst kind. Or so she desperately hoped. She was a good detective; she’d know if she was living with a murderer, wouldn’t she? She knew Jon wasn’t capable of killing anyone, let alone a bunch of random women, and yet, did she really know him well enough to make that assumption with any real certainty? He’d lied to her about his relationship with Mags, and the violence. What else had he lied about?