“In which case,” said Connie. “Why would a new gang kill Howard Petersen, who was connected to Trevor Hamm, as well as a bent DS?”
“That’s the million-dollar question,” said Zoe.
“Maybe Hamm’s got in with a new gang.”
Zoe shook her head. The car in front was moving again. She pressed the accelerator but couldn’t go above ten miles per hour. “I don’t see it. He wants to be in charge. He wouldn’t join someone else’s organisation.”
“He’s lost all his men. He’d be desperate.”
Zoe looked ahead, her vision blurred. “Where is he? Where the hell has Hamm been hiding out all this time?”
“We need to find him, boss.”
“You’re right, Connie. Find Trevor Hamm, and we’ll discover what’s going on with all these cases.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Ian watched as Detective Superintendent Randle walked from his seat to the stand. He was composed as ever, wearing a dark blue suit and white shirt with a pale blue tie. His hair was combed back and his face calm.
David Randle was like a goddamn duck. Legs belting away like mad under the surface but calm as a cloud on a spring morning where it could be seen.
Randle took his place and was sworn in. He kept his eyes up as he did so, his face still. He looked the epitome of professionalism.
Ian knew better.
The CPS barrister, Ms Hegarty, was going first. She approached the stand, her movements breezy. It was half past three and Ian knew from yesterday that the jury would be getting restless. They dipped after lunch; he’d even seen one of them nod off yesterday. It had been ten minutes before the foreman had noticed and roused him.
“Detective Superintendent Randle.”
“That’s me.” Randle gave her a pleasant smile.
“Mind if I just call you Superintendent? It’s a bit of a mouthful.”
“Not in the slightest.” The smile didn’t waver.
“Tell the court your connection to the defendant.”
Randle’s eyes travelled over Ian as he spoke. “DS Osman was a member of the Harborne Force CID team from late October last year to February this year. As the Head of Force CID, I was his indirect manager.”
“Do you know how he came to be recruited to Force CID?”
“We had a vacancy. He was recommended to me by the Chief Inspector in charge of the South Birmingham Local Policing Unit.”
“Was there a recruitment process?”
“A recruitment process isn’t necessary for officers to undertake a transfer within the same force and at the same rank.”
“So no, there wasn’t?”
“No.”
“Were there any other officers in line for the role?”
“We’d recently lost a few of our number. DI Finch had been promoted from Sergeant. DI Whaley had completed his stint in the team. It meant some shuffling around at DS level.”
“You mention DI Whaley.”
“He reported to my colleague DCI Clarke.”
“And how long was he on the team?”
“Six months in total.”
“What was DI Whaley’s role in your team?”
“He was SIO on a couple of cases. He—”
“What was his real role?”
Randle pushed his shoulders back. Ian tensed as he watched.
“He was an undercover officer from the Professional Standards Department.”
“Were you aware of this at the time?”
“Not when I was a DCI, no. After my promotion to Superintendent, I was fully briefed.”
“Fully?”
“Yes.” Randle licked his lips. Was that sweat on his brow?
“So why was he placed undercover in Force CID?”
“We were working a major organised crime case, referred to as Canary. His remit, I believe, was to ensure that there were no opportunities for impropriety.”
“So he was spying on you?”
“He was spying on all of us.”
Ian remembered the briefing he’d had from Whaley when he’d been brought onto the team. His job had been to watch Randle, and report back.
Randle frowned at the barrister. “I fail to see what DI Whaley’s role has to do with DS Osman planting evidence.”
The hair on the back of Ian’s neck was bristling, he could feel it. The man in the stand had told him to plant that evidence. Find a body, he’d said. Preferably male, preferably Asian. Leave this on him. No one will ever know.
Liar.
“Just setting the scene, Superintendent.”
Randle took a sip of the glass of water that had been placed out for him. He nodded, stretching his neck.
“So, Superintendent. You were promoted to Head of Force CID, you discovered an undercover anti-corruption officer had been working alongside you. How did this make you feel?”
“It didn’t make me feel anything.”
“Surprised? Betrayed?”
“No.”
“Worried?”
“No.”
“Were you concerned that PSD might have placed more undercover officers in your department?”
Randle’s gaze flicked to Ian. Ian had never told him about his deal with Whaley. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t known.
“The officers in my department were long-standing members of West Midlands CID. DI Whaley had transferred in from another force. It was different.”
“Yes, or no, Superintendent?”
“No. I was not concerned.”
“It didn’t occur to you that DS Osman might have been moved into your team as a spy?”
Randle looked at the barrister, avoiding Ian’s eye. “If that had been the case, I would have been informed as the head of the unit.”
“Unless it was you he was sent to spy on.”
There was a gasp from behind Ian. He knew Alison was there, without her nasty bitch mother. He’d spotted her sneaking in at the back after lunch. What was she thinking, listening to all this?
“We all now know that Ian Osman was a corrupt officer,” Randle said. “He was alleged to have taken bribes in local CID and he was observed by one of my team planting evidence on one of the bodies at the airport. He’s not the kind of man you would use as a spy.” He turned to the jury and gave them his most winning smile. Ian grimaced.
The barrister walked back to her paperwork and picked up a file. Ian noticed Randle’s eyes narrow.
The barrister approached Randle. Ian hated the man, but was in awe of him at the same time. Most of all, he feared him. Not only did he have power over Ian’s career, he had the power of life and death, too. The fate of DS Starling had made that clear.
“Superintendent, what do you say to the contention that the defendant was placed in Force CID to watch you and report back to DI Whaley?”
Ian felt ice run through his veins. He stared at Randle, his breathing shallow. He’d spotted Alison in the crowd, but what if Hamm’s men were there too? He’d never be safe in prison, he’d never be safe on the outside.
Shut up, he thought, staring at the barrister. Stop it. He was taking the fall for this. It was better that way. Safer. For him and Alison. For the kids.
He wanted to throw up.
The barrister turned to look at him. Ian realised he’d made an involuntary noise.
The judge looked across at him. He was a middle-aged man wearing the largest glasses Ian had ever seen. “Are you alright, Mr Osman?”
He nodded. “Fine,” he whispered.
Jane Summer, Ian’s solicitor, leaned back in her chair and peered at him. “If you’re not well, we can request a recess.”
“I’m fine.” He wanted to get this over with.
The judge pushed his specs up his nose. “Very well. Please don’t disturb proceedings again, Mr Osman.”
He clenched his fists. He longed to look round, to see who was watching. If they’d spotted Alison.
The barrister looked back at Randle. Ian forced himself to breathe.
&
nbsp; “Superintendent. Where was I? Oh, the defendant being planted to spy on you. Did you have any inclination this might be the case?’
“That’s a preposterous idea.” Randle looked across at Ian, his eyes hard. “At the time, I knew him as a good sergeant. A valued member of the team.”
You valued me, alright, Ian thought. Randle had treated him like a puppy, his to order around at will. He’d sent him as a go-between with Hamm and his men. He’d summoned him to the airport.
“In fact, he was such a valued member of your team that you and he were in contact with each other outside your professional duties, is that correct?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Randle looked calm again. Boy, the man could lie convincingly.
“Very well, Superintendent,” the barrister said. “Let’s move on to the bomb detonated on Pakistan Airways Flight 546. You were involved in the operation at the airport, were you not?”
“I was Gold Command. My role was to ensure the police were working effectively with other emergency services.”
“And you also oversaw the investigation into the bombing afterwards.”
“Working alongside Superintendent Sanders from Anti-Terror, yes.”
“The defendant’s actions led you to initially suspect a Mr Nadeem Sharif, yes?”
“We found explosives residue on his clothes, he was one of the victims of the bomb. Our Forensics investigators later worked out that it could not have been him. We closed that line of investigation.”
“And you moved on to looking into an international terrorist organisation.”
“We eventually discovered, with a lot of international cooperation, that the organisation responsible was operating out of Pakistan. The man who planted the bomb managed to get away, we’re still trying to track him down.”
“We’ve already heard testimony from one of your colleagues that evidence was found that the defendant planted explosives residue when he was at the scene. Is this your understanding?”
“I wasn’t present at the aeroplane.”
“Do you know who gave the defendant the instruction to plant this false evidence?”
“I’m not sure if anyone did.”
“You think he was acting alone?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Not with an organised crime group, maybe? Not with another member of Force CID?”
Randle blinked. “Like I say, that would be speculation.”
“In your opinion, as someone who managed the defendant, would you believe him capable of working alone to do something like this?”
Randle looked at Ian. He shrugged. “He was a competent detective. I see no reason why not.”
“Really? A lowly sergeant, taking it upon himself to plant explosives on a dead body?”
Randle shrugged. “It’s not for me to say.”
The barrister turned to the jury, made eye contact with a few of them, then returned to Randle. “On the same afternoon as the airport explosion, another bomb was detonated at New Street Station. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“Did you believe the two incidents to be connected?”
“Initially, yes. But our investigation led us to a local crime organisation in the case of the New Street bombing.”
“Is this the same organisation which had advance warning of the planned incident at the airport? And which used that knowledge to smuggle a group of women and children off flight 375 from Bucharest?”
“They were running a people smuggling and prostitution operation. They weren’t involved in the airport bomb, but they had prior information and took advantage of the diversion to take the women and children off the next plane on the runway.”
“And now a number of them are in custody. Simon Adams, Kyle Gatiss, Adam Fulmer.”
“Adams was already in custody following an earlier crime. The other two were involved in the people-trafficking.”
“But you haven’t tracked down the ringleader, is that correct?”
“He is still at large.”
Ian noted that neither the barrister nor Randle mentioned Hamm by name.
“So this organisation was also responsible for the attack on New Street Station?”
“Yes. We believe the intelligence they received about the airport attack gave them the idea of launching a second attack in tandem, and hoping the terrorist organisation would be blamed for both.”
“How did your officers work out that it was this organisation, and not the terrorists?”
A woman in the front row of the jury coughed. Ian jerked in his seat. He’d barely been breathing.
The barrister waited while the woman finished coughing. She held up her hand and apologised, then sat back.
“How did your officers work that out, Superintendent?”
“They found video and photographic evidence of the bomber which linked her to the prostitution operation.”
The barrister checked her notes. “This woman’s name was Alina Popescu.”
“That’s the name on her passport.”
“She died in the attack.”
“She did.” Randle looked straight ahead.
The barrister tapped her file. “Superintendent, was this woman known to you or your officers before the attack?”
“No. She’d been smuggled into the country by the organised crime group and had barely left the house they were keeping her in.”
“You’d never seen her before?”
“No.”
“Met her?”
“No.” Randle’s gaze flicked to Ian, who had no idea what the barrister was getting at. He’d been taken off the case before they’d discovered Alina’s identity.
“Did you know this woman, Superintendent?”
“No, as I’ve just told you.”
“Did you know Trevor Hamm, the ringleader of the organised crime group?”
“Only by reputation.”
“Did you work with this organisation, to give them information about police operations?”
Randle looked the barrister in the eye. “No.”
“Was it you, Detective Superintendent Randle, who told the defendant to plant the explosives residue on Mr Sharif’s body?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The barrister drew something out of her file. She placed it on the bench in front of Randle. He stared at it, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Who is in this photograph?” the barrister asked. A murmur went through the jury.
“Myself,” replied Randle. His voice had lost its smoothness.
The barrister pointed to the photograph. Ian couldn’t see what she was indicating.
“This is you. And who is this woman, that you have your arm around here?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Really?”
Randle said nothing. He stared at the photo. Ian held his breath.
What was in the photo? And why hadn’t they told him about it?
The barrister drew another photo from her file. This was a mugshot of a woman. A passport photo.
“Would you say this is the same woman?”
Randle peered at the photo. His cheeks were pale. “I can’t be sure.”
The barrister turned to the judge and handed him the photos. “I’m submitting into evidence exhibits numbered 123 and 124.”
The judge’s eyebrows rose as he looked at the photos. He frowned at Randle. “You do know the penalty for perjury, Superintendent?”
“I do, your honour.”
The judge nodded at the barrister.
“Just one more time,” she said, “in case you’ve had an opportunity to rethink. This passport photo…” She held up the photo for the jury to see. After a moment, she turned so the rest of the court could see it, including Ian. “This photo is of Alina Popescu, the woman who detonated a bomb in New Street Station on the orders of an organised crime group.”
She held up the other photo. Ian drew in a sharp breath.
“And this photo is of Detective Superintendent Randle. Standing next to the same woman, Alina Popescu. With his arm around her.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Selina Petersen was an attractive woman in her mid thirties, which made her approximately fifteen years younger than her husband. She curled her lip at Mo and Rhodri as they stood on her doorstep, ID raised for her to check.
“Leave us alone,” she told them in a thick Brummie accent. “We’ve got nothin’ to say to you.”
“This would be easier if we could come inside,” Mo said. He hated doing this at the best of times, but with a relative who was already hostile to the police…
She folded her arms. “Whatever you’ve got to say, you can say it here. Howie’s in bed. Hasn’t left the house in… oh yes, five months. Since your lot slapped that tracker on him.”
Rhodri cleared his throat behind Mo. Yes, lad, I know, Mo thought. He wondered where Mrs Petersen thought her husband really was.
He resisted the urge to test her, to suggest she wake Petersen. No, she was a new widow. Regardless of the lowlife she’d chosen to marry, she deserved to be treated with respect.
“Please, Mrs Peterson. I need to talk to you about your husband.”
“He’s done nothing wrong, like I say. Now fuck off.”
Mo sighed. The woman started to push the door closed. He put out a hand to stop it.
“That’s police harassment, that is. I’ll be making a complaint.”
“I understand you don’t want to talk to us. But please. This is important.”
“I’m not wakin’ ’im.”
Rhodri let out a high-pitched sound behind Mo. Shut up, he thought.
“No,” said Mo. “I know you won’t be waking him.”
She scowled. “Why’s that, then?”
“Mrs Petersen, where did your husband tell you he was going when he removed the tracker and left it here?”
She reddened. “What you talking about? You can’t get those things off for love nor money.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Did he tell you anything?”
She shook her head. “Howie’s done nothing wrong.”
“Mrs Petersen, I’m sorry to have to tell you this. But your husband is dead.”
Deadly Fallout (Detective Zoe Finch Book 6) Page 16