“I took him on,” Westmoreland said. “Major Crime Unit.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m the head of MCU Leeds. Detective Chief Superintendent Lisa Westmoreland.”
“Do you ever get writer’s cramp?”
“So why don’t you want to go back?” Jeffery asked.
“Can’t you just go and ask McCain? I went through all this a couple of days ago.”
“Who’s McCain?”
Jeffery looked at Westmoreland, “He’s the supervisor at CSI.”
“He’s a prick,” Eddie said.
Jeffery nodded, “Can’t argue with that.”
“Is that the only reason you left?”
Eddie sighed, apparently unable to stay off the subject of work for very long – despite not actually working there anymore. He lit a cigarette, reclined in his chair. “I’m sick of the hours. I’m sick of the shifts. I’m sick of the shit way we’re forced to do our job, and then being criticised for it.”
“That’s the modern police culture for you,” Jeffery said. “It was coming in before I left.”
“It’s not how I like my staff to work.” Westmoreland looked defensively at Eddie.
“I’m happy for them.” He flicked ash. “But if there’s nothing else—”
“Why did you go back to the suicide?” Westmoreland leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“I’m going to have a card printed up. It’s going to say, ‘It wasn’t a fucking suicide!’”
“Okay, fair point. But why did you go back?”
“Read the card! I just told you. You lot had it flagged as a suicide. You,” he pointed at Jeffery, “sent a young lad in to a scene that was obviously a double murder.”
They watched Eddie as he stood, threw his cigarette into the ashtray and marched around the lounge as though his head was on fire.
“And McCain was going to just leave it with him; I mean, he was content – no, he didn’t give a shit whether it was suicide or, to use his words, ‘whether there were two hundred murdered bodies in there’, we were off the job and that was that. He shouted at me to get my arse out of that scene. And that young kid, Whitely or Wheatley or whoever, was bricking it! No one would listen!”
They watched him.
Eddie calmed down eventually, scrubbed a hand across his face and then lit another cigarette, saw the one he’d left burning in the ashtray, closed his eyes and sighed. “Either the kid would have found out it was a murder, in which case good for him; or he would have processed it as a murder-suicide and no one would ever have known that it was a double murder, in which case—”
“The killers would have got away with it.”
“At fucking last,” Eddie said, sinking into his chair, holding a cigarette in each hand.
“And they’d be free to kill again.” Westmoreland cleared her throat. “I want you to come and work for me, Eddie.”
Eddie coughed smoke into the room and finally stubbed out one of the cigarettes. “What? No way.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m happy being a bum.”
Jeffery looked at Westmoreland, a “told you so” look on his face.
“It’s not like working as a CSI,” Westmoreland said.
“There’s no tedious volume crime, Eddie. It’s all major stuff, or it’s proactive. It’s a small unit—”
“It’s all bullshit,” Eddie smiled. “Look, I appreciate you popping round, really, I do, despite you killing my pet. But I left because not only is the job shit, but it’s full of arseholes.” He stared at Jeffery.
Jeffery stood. “See,” he said, “told you he was a knob,” and walked to the front door.
Westmoreland laughed. “I like you,” she said to Eddie.
“You still drinking, Eddie?” Jeffery asked.
“You still a prick?”
“Okay,” Westmoreland stood, held out her hand, “it was good of you to see us anyway, Eddie.”
Reluctantly, Eddie shook, nodded his head and walked to the door. “Where’s Ros buried?”
Jeffery stopped abruptly, and turned. He stared at Westmoreland, harder than he should have. “I don’t know, mate,” he said to Eddie.
“I’ve been in touch with Births, Deaths and Marriages; they’re as much use as a deck hand on a submarine. Personnel don’t know. Chris Ashley doesn’t know. Christ, all I want to do is pay my respects to her. I never got to see her before…”
“I’ll check into it for you. If I hear anything I’ll be in touch.” Still Jeffery stared wide-eyed at Westmoreland. “We’ll get off then.” He opened the door and then paused, “Oh, your phone,” he said, “it just rings out. Is it broken?”
“It’s in the bin.”
“Right,” Jeffery said, not at all surprised.
Both left, and Eddie closed the door, locked it and headed for the kitchen, “Strange,” he said.
Chapter Thirteen
Cooper wasted no time as he entered Westmoreland’s office. “What did you get from Tony’s scene?”
“Sit down, Francis.” Westmoreland looked him over as he brushed his tie straight and took a chair. He looked older than ever right now; she’d never seen him so drawn, and it concerned her. “You know what we got.” She stared at him, at his drooping eyes, his wispy white hair, and then she sighed, “You want a coffee?”
“No, I don’t want a coffee. I want to know, forensically, who killed Tony and his wife.”
“I’m sorry,” she shrugged, “We were lucky to find out he was murdered at all, but—”
“Come on, Lisa, you work at the cutting edge, don’t give me bullshit.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Cooper rubbed his face, sat back. “I’m sorry.” He sighed, “I just need everything from that scene. Has it been gone over thoroughly?”
“We’re still waiting for some lab results, you know. The answer might be there.”
Cooper was silent.
“If I think of anything we could do, I’ll get it done, okay?”
Cooper nodded. “I want to set up a joint operation. Major Crime Unit and Crime Division.”
Lisa leaned forward, peered into his pale old eyes, searching for duplicity of any kind. They might both work for West Yorkshire Police, but some people were always out to make a fast buck or impress someone enough to get them another stripe or another pip. Joint operations were a good way to get those things, and if you managed to get an advantage by blaming any deficiency on your partner, absolving yourself from blame, you could be in the good books come the promotion board.
Lisa knew this from first-hand experience.
“Objective?”
“To secure the demise of the three main Leeds gangs.”
That was a bold objective. And in accordance with her surprise, she raised her eyebrows and gave Cooper the smallest of smirks. A teaser.
“We can do it, Lisa. I have some intelligence on a few jobs of theirs, some drugs factories, cannabis farms, amphet factories and the like. We take that lot out, they’ll be in tatters; nothing to stop us totally dismantling what’s left.”
“Hardly in tatters. On the back foot maybe, but not in tatters, Francis.”
He stared at her, “We have to begin somewhere.”
“But what fills the void?”
“Police work fills the void. Police work can keep this shit off the streets.”
“Utopian crap.”
“What?”
“You dredge the sludge out of a sewer, new sludge will accumulate in no time.”
“Maybe so,” he said, “but you give the sewer a break, you let things flow more easily for a while. Any new sludge that begins to gather can easily be washed away.”
She thought about this for some time. There were two conflicting emotions within her right now: the fierce cry of independence, and a reluctance to be left out in the cold. She needed information right now, lots of it; and what he proposed, especially on the big event, was compelling enough for her to nod, and say, “Wha
t’s the structure?”
“Joint decisions where it matters. Crime Division provides the undercover surveillance, CHIS remains private; we investigate covertly. We’ll arrange for property confiscation, we’ll gather and share intel. Major Crime Unit investigates overtly, provides forensic expertise. Whatever we get, we share.”
“What about CID?”
“No go, Lisa. I’ll meet with the divisional commanders. Any gang-related activity of note gets logged and passed through to both our departments at source. We keep them out of it.”
“Okay,” she said, “but if there’s a big investigation, we’re going to need their manpower; we’re overburdened as it is.”
“Fair point. I’ll sort out some abstractions.”
Lisa took a breath and weighed up the proposal. On the surface she was in a win-win situation. She and the Major Crime Unit could only benefit, and privately she kicked herself for not suggesting the plan to him first. She did, after all, need all the intelligence he could give her. “You’re on.”
“Good. Operation Domino,” he said.
“Why Domino?”
He smiled, and then he actually laughed. “When one falls, kiddo, they all fall.”
Chapter Fourteen
Rachel kissed Declan on the arm, and then she rubbed it until he stopped crying. “There,” she smiled, looking right into his eyes as though no one or nothing else existed; making him feel special, “is it better now?”
The last of the tears rolled from Declan’s round face and he stared at her with innocent eyes. Eventually he smiled and he threw his arms around her, sinking his face into her pink hair. “Thank you, Miss.”
Over Declan’s shoulder she saw a Range Rover glide into the car park. Her smile withered. “Okay,” she whispered, “go play now, you’ve only got five minutes before it’s home time.” She relaxed her grip on the boy and he was off into the playground.
Rachel stood and folded her arms, suddenly cold.
* * *
She dug her hands into her jacket pocket and approached the Range Rover as the window opened. Around them, cars were filling up with kids, footballs rolled past, parents jabbered and kids squealed. “What do you want?”
Blake looked at her. Missing from his expression was the usual Jack-the-lad, the usual hateful smirk. “Get in, sis,” he said.
“I have work to do.”
“Please.”
That was shock enough for her. She climbed into the passenger seat and sealed the outside world away. “What?”
Blake licked his lips and tapped the steering wheel. “I want some advice.”
“About what?”
He cleared his throat. “Women.”
Rachel opened the door and had almost climbed out before he grabbed her. He looked at her, pretty much the same way she’d looked at Declan, eyes focused and burning. “Please.”
She closed the door again but left her hand on the latch. “Giving you advice about women would be setting up some poor cow for a very unhappy future.”
“I’ve changed—”
She didn’t interrupt him, but he stopped short at the look of incredulity on her face.
“I have!”
“Going to throw a tantrum now?”
“Give me a chance, man.”
She folded her arms. “Go on, then, I’m listening.”
Quietly, he said, “I haven’t got no one else to ask, but I’ve met someone, and I want to know how to treat her right.”
“You could try not raping her. That’d be a really good start to any relationship. And then you could try—”
“Shut up, Rachel!”
She did, stared front.
He tried to smile at her, and then took a deep breath. “I’m not like that anymore, I already told you that. I don’t want one of Dad’s whores, and I don’t want some junky tart either; I’m looking for a decent relationship.”
“Where’s all this come from?”
He shrugged, “What do you mean?”
“Why the change? Dad’s whores have been good to you; they never call the police afterwards.”
He ignored the snipe, “Like I say, I’m ready for a change. She’s a lady; she’s a bookkeeper. Respectable. I’m ready for commitment.”
She raised her eyebrows at this.
“It’s true, man. I just need to know how to treat a lady.” He stopped looking at her; her facial expressions – mocking one minute, chastising the next – were putting him off. He looked at the dashboard. “I haven’t got no one to ask, do I? I can’t ask Dad—”
“No, because he’s a rapist too!”
“Okay!” He sighed. “So, I can’t ask him; I can’t ask the guys because they’ll just take the piss. It was Monty suggested I come and speak to you. You’re the only normal member of the family left.” Now he did look at her. “I get nervous, tongue-tied, and stupid.” He grinned at her. “I just need to know where to take her, Hilton or a pub, or a club even? Do they like flowers, chocolates, that kind of crap, or is that just wasting time, would she think I was stupid because men don’t do that stuff anymore?”
“So what’s she like then, this amazing woman. And what does she call her Labrador?”
He ignored the remark, and said, “Well, I haven’t actually met her yet.”
She smiled, “I’m listening.”
He swallowed nervously, yet it was obvious he was longing to share his news. “I’m taking her out this Friday. I thought maybe the Hilton at Garforth?”
“How did you two get to know each other?”
“Internet dating site.”
“Oh my God!”
“What?”
“You haven’t told her you’re a business man with a Range Rover and his own house, have you? Have you told her about your prison—”
“Stop it!” His face was contorted like that of a child who’d just been told off for whipping a puppy. “I’m trying!”
“You can’t control yourself, Blake!”
“I can, dammit!”
“Internet dating sites are an excellent way to trap vulnerable women.” She pointed a finger at him, “And now you’ll pretend to me that you didn’t know that, you were just trying to find a decent woman outside your crumby circle of friends.”
“That’s right, Rachel. That’s exactly what I’m doing, man. I want someone not connected to any of this shit. I want someone who doesn’t know my past so I can start all over afresh; someone who won’t judge me by past deeds.”
“Did you read that on the side of a bottle of Rohypnol?”
Blake grabbed her arm in his left hand, thumb digging in to her slim bicep, and with his right he aimed a row of bony knuckles directly at her nose. She was prepared. She closed her mouth, screwed up her eyes and pursed her lips, ready for the crunching blow. But it didn’t come.
She opened her eyes and the fist was there, right before her face. But her brother’s eyes were staring past her out of the passenger window. Rachel turned to look. Outside, was the face of a small boy. He was probably clinging on to the door handle and standing on the chrome running boards. He had tears in his eyes, and a look of abject horror on his face as he saw what was happening inside the car.
“Declan,” she whispered and opened the door.
Blake’s fist dropped and his clamping left hand released her. She closed the door and walked away, holding the kid’s hand.
Chapter Fifteen
— One —
Eddie had never really believed in God.
He believed that God, any god, was nothing more than a placebo for the faithful. And that was fine by him. If that belief held people’s anger in check, if it guided them morally or even spiritually, and if it made them help others, then religion was alright in his book.
But Eddie still didn’t believe in God.
Eddie believed in facts. Evidence. And he believed in searching out that evidence, those facts, and he believed in one thing above all others. Himself.
Strange then, that this crea
ture of fact should find himself in a church because of a sudden fancy that struck him. It was a Norman church, built around 1100AD, and it was the building itself, the architecture, the romance if you like, that caused him to stop his car, walk past the familiar graveyard, head down, watching his feet, and arrive inside as though guided by some spiritual sat nav. There was no one around. He was entirely alone; just him, his thoughts, and the pews, the stone floor. And the feeling of being watched.
It ran like a shiver up his back yet when he turned, emptiness was all he saw.
There was something else, however. It was a strange intangible feeling he supposed that a church-goer, a believer, might call the Presence of God. But Eddie didn’t believe it. He preferred to think of it as a thinning of two worlds; a place where one might connect with things forgotten or with things wished for. That’s what he preferred to think of it as; but he didn’t believe it any more than he believed you could pay some charlatan to bring back your loved ones for fifteen minutes in a community hall séance.
Jilly had been dead two years, one month and sixteen days. She had been thirty-six. And Sam was twelve, and would be forever: his son; his best mate… his future. And of course, as one does, Eddie had been to their graves in the churchyard outside often, thinking at first that their souls were where their bodies were, that it was where he might touch them both again, and relive the happy times. It was a fallacy. He felt their presence more in abstract dreams than he ever did looking at two granite blocks in a field. He missed them. But he didn’t go to their graves much any more. He didn’t feel bad about it either, realising that the graves were nothing more than markers – something a person can leave so the rest of the world knows they existed. To Eddie, they had never really left.
And those two years had blunted the blade that he stabbed himself with, but they couldn’t stop the tears.
Yet here, in a building he had been in only four times before – to marry Jilly, to baptise Sam (perhaps hypocritically) and later bury him, and then to bury his wife, he felt strangely peaceful, as though it might, after all, be possible to touch your dreams at the thinning of the worlds.
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