Long Shadows

by DEREK THOMPSON

  He took a sip of lager and waited for the inevitable questions.

  “You look well, Craig. How is the . . .” Kieran looked at Wild’s face, and seemed to realise he’d dug himself a hole, “er, transfer working out?”

  Yeah, let’s call it that. “Pretty good. Already involved in a major case — a murder.”

  Kieran stood up awkwardly. “I need to take a piss. When I come back, you can tell me what you’re doing back in London.”

  Wild waited until Kieran had disappeared and then sent his location to Olsen. It was odds on that Kieran was ringing someone of a much higher rank. Only now did Wild notice the wet circle where another pint had rested. Dutch courage before the visitor arrived.

  Kieran looked glum on his return. Wild cut to the chase. “You remember the Tony Weston case?” Of course he remembered it. A spectacular clusterfuck of an investigation, in which Weston did a runner and his ex, Jackie, asked for protection in fear of her life, but wasn’t able — or willing — to trade information in return.

  “What about it?”

  He treated himself to a sip of lager. “I’ve kept in touch with Jackie.”

  “You always were an arrogant sod. What makes you think you could do a better job than the entire team?”

  “It’s not like that. Somehow she heard about me being shunted out of London. So she gave me her Skype ID and we’ve been talking ever since.”

  “And you didn’t think to pass this intelligence over to the Met? No, of course not, because you’re the sort of stupid bastard who thinks they can make this right all on your own.”

  “I needed to win her trust. You know how jittery she was . . .”

  Kieran stared daggers at him. “So, what do you want from me?”

  “Jackie said she had information for me, but she’ll only give it face to face. It would be helpful to have someone I can rely on as backup.”

  Kieran lifted his hands from the table, as if it were electrified. “Sorry, mate, whatever you think you’re doing here you’re on your own. You’ve caused enough damage.”

  Wild fought the urge to lean across and smack his face clean off the chair. But one copper knocking seven bells out of another didn’t really exemplify team spirit.

  Kieran sank half of his pint in one hit. Wild knew what was coming.

  “Look, Craig, it’s been good to catch up but I have to be somewhere. If you’ve any sense, you’ll pass on whatever you have to the Intelligence Team.”

  Wild rested an elbow on the table and cradled his chin. “The meeting’s either tonight or tomorrow. By the time wheels are in motion Tony would be long gone.”

  “If he hasn’t gone already.”

  Wild shrugged. They managed a few minutes of neutral conversation, mostly about the state of Wiltshire pubs. Then Wild suggested a game of darts.

  “Go on then, for old times’ sake.”

  * * *

  Olsen ordered a lime and soda water and made herself comfortable. It had always fascinated her to watch strangers. Maybe that had been part of psychology’s appeal. Craig Wild hadn’t noticed her, of course he hadn’t. He was lost in the moment, and from where she sat that moment was unbridled nostalgia. It was sweet in its way, watching the boys play darts. But she hadn’t come all that way for a case study.

  She left the bar, glass in hand, and walked towards the dartboard. “I hate to spoil the moment . . .”

  Wild turned towards her and broke into a broad smile. The other copper turned, made fleeting eye contact and then looked her up and down — about as subtle as a nosebleed.

  “Hi.” Wild half-extended a hand and then realised he didn’t really know how to behave around her in company. He lowered his hand. “Marnie, it’s good to see you. This is Kieran Byrne — from my old team.”

  Olsen stepped into the space and proffered a polite if noncommittal handshake in Kieran’s direction. “Marnie Olsen, from Craig’s new team.”

  Kieran’s smile slid off his face. He spoke directly to Wild. “What’s she doing here? Please tell me you haven’t involved her in your redemption game.”

  Olsen glared at him. “It isn’t a game. The data suggests that Jackie has been in London for some time, so she’s probably in regular communication with Tony Weston.” She enjoyed the satisfaction of putting an idiot in his place.

  Kieran half-turned away. “No offence, love, but this isn’t some countryside feud. You’re a bit out of your depth here.”

  Wild jabbed him in the shoulder, rocking him on his feet. “Hey, who do you think you’re talking to?”

  Kieran turned back to her, read the fire in her eyes and took a breath. “You’re making a huge mistake. I don’t know what he’s told you, but Tony Weston isn’t stupid enough to get caught by data.”

  Olsen smiled faintly. “No, but perhaps Jackie is. You know, what with her being a woman.” One glance at Wild told her he was enjoying the moment.

  Kieran shrugged his arm free. “You know what? You do what you have to do. As far as I’m concerned, this conversation never took place.” Solemnly, he packed away his darts and downed what was left of his pint. “Don’t call me again, Craig.”

  Olsen and Wild stood together and watched him leave. “And for the record, Wild, I don’t need you to speak up for me. Thanks, anyway.”

  “He has always been a bit of a prick. Good copper, though, albeit an average darts player. Right, take me through everything and then we’ll decide how to play it.”

  Olsen laid it out, referring to her notes when she needed to.

  “And this is proof that Jackie has been in London the whole time?”

  “Pretty much. The IP address has remained in the London area, according to the log my friend saw. And there’s a variation on her username on two social media accounts that reference London locations. Not many friends, though.”

  “Why wouldn’t she be more careful?”

  “I told you, people get lazy. That’s what makes police work easier than it should be — most of the time. Plus, if she was never in any real danger, the only risk would be you finding out.”

  “So why does she want me up in London?”

  Olsen took a sip of her lime and soda. “How much does Tony Weston hate you?”

  Wild considered the question as he carefully eased his dart flights into the case. “Enough, I s’pose. Which means he could be part of the welcoming committee.”

  “What is he wanted for?”

  Wild finished putting the darts away and replied, matter-of-factly, “Armed robbery.”

  Olsen gulped. “I know how much you want this, but perhaps Kieran has a point. We are out on a limb here.”

  “Maybe not. I think I know someone who will help us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she owes me.”

  Chapter 29

  Olsen sat beside Wild on the Northern Line train, watching the darkness of the tunnel slip by. “I’m still not sure about this.”

  “Relax, it’ll be fine.” He tried to ignore the churning in his guts. “Besides, she’s already started divorce proceedings and exiled me to the shires — no offence. What else can she do to me?”

  She tried to lighten the mood. “How do you even know her new address?”

  “I am a detective! Don’t worry, I’m not stalking her. It was somewhere in the paperwork. I’m not going to make a habit of this.”

  They exited Barbican Tube station, Wild navigating his way with ease.

  “Have you been here before?” She eyed him suspiciously.

  “Only on my computer. We want the third block.” Wild glanced up at the flats. Nice work if you could get it, and Steph had. He allowed himself a scintilla of jealousy, or maybe it was regret. Perhaps if he’d applied himself a bit more and . . . no, who was he kidding? He’d been happy with his lot. He just hadn’t read the signs.

  He wavered a little at the entrance, relieved to see the door was on the latch. Probably intended for the invited guests of tonight’s little gathering. He chose the
stairs, partly to clear his head and partly because lifts still gave him the creeps — thanks to one unfortunate junkie, who had taken her last hit on the way up. Or the way down.

  Olsen dutifully followed him. She wondered what sort of reception they’d receive, and how on earth Wild would get his ex-wife to take him seriously. Maybe everyone was a little more sophisticated in London. She thought about how her university relationship broke up, and how they’d never spoken again.

  “Right, this is it. Would you rather wait outside?”

  “Are you kidding? I’d pay money to see you pull this off.”

  He was still laughing as he rang the bell.

  “One minute.”

  He pictured Steph reaching for her earrings. She’d always done that last minute. He heard footsteps and then a pause behind the door, presumably taking a peek through the spy hole. “What are you doing here?”

  Olsen crowded in beside him and looked straight at the glass.

  “I don’t want any trouble, Steph. I just need to talk to you.”

  “Jesus, Craig. We’ve been through this.”

  “It’s work, Steph. Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking for. We can do it through the door if you want but your neighbours . . .”

  He stepped back as the lock chunked and felt Olsen’s shoulder pressing against his. The door arced back to reveal DCI Stephanie Hutcheson, arms limply at her sides, unconsciously emphasising her baby bump.

  “So now you know.”

  Wild scratched around for a response while his brain played with dates. Olsen saved him the bother.

  “Congratulations, ma’am.”

  DCI Hutcheson cast her a weary smile. “Steph, please. You’d better come in. Five minutes, you said? I have people coming round.” She led them inside and left Olsen to close the door.

  Wild fought the urge to say ‘nice place’ — or what he really wanted to say, which ran along the lines of ‘what the fuck?’ “Excuse me, I need to use the loo.”

  Olsen thought that Steph was on the verge of tears, or rage, and stepped into the void. “It’s a lovely flat.”

  “Thanks.” Steph swallowed and then fiddled with an emerald earring. “I don’t want to be rude, but I have caterers arriving soon. It’s an unofficial engagement party.”

  Olsen felt herself blushing.

  “Sorry, too much information? Where did you two meet?”

  Olsen made a split-second decision and stuck with the script she’d been given. “Through work. I’m a constable, uniformed . . . It really is about work. The Tony Weston case? A witness contacted Craig.” The look on Steph’s face disappointed her.

  Steph sighed and pressed her hands together. “You do know that Craig was on medication? He probably still is. You can’t always rely . . .”

  Wild appeared in the doorway behind her, the aftertaste of his prescription meds as bitter as Steph’s comments. “Shall we talk somewhere a bit more private?”

  Olsen shared a moment’s eye contact with Steph. “No need to on my account.”

  Wild glared at Olsen. “Fine. Anyone mind if I have a drink?”

  Steph flicked a hand at the window. “Scotch is on the side. Help yourself but make it a small one — you’re not stopping.”

  Wild poured a small glass of whisky, carried it over and sat down on the white leather upholstery. “New sofa. Nice. Not really suitable for Junior, though.”

  Olsen sat next to him and elbowed him hard. His arm jerked to one side.

  “I’ll get straight to the point. Tony Weston’s ex — Jackie — got in touch . . .” He winced at Steph’s raised eyebrow. She always knew how to get so much from so little. “We’ve been communicating for a while now, over Skype. The point is that she wants to meet tonight and she says she’ll give me information that will help convict Tony Weston.”

  Steph folded her arms. “What makes you think you can trust her . . . this time?”

  Olsen leaned forward a little. “The thing is, ma’am,” she didn’t wait to be corrected, “there is data confirming Jackie has been in London for several months, so it could all be a set-up.”

  Steph’s lips pursed. “Craig is still going though, of course he is. So, what do you want from me, Craig — absolution?”

  Wild swirled what remained of his whisky. “Some backup would be preferable. If it goes well, I’ll pass any evidence on to you, or Kieran Byrne, and then I’m out of it. Job done. And if it is a con, hopefully someone can stop me taking a beating.”

  Steph shook her head. “That’s not funny, after the last time.”

  Olsen scratched the back of her hand. “He’s not joking though.”

  Steph stood up abruptly. “I bet you haven’t told her the full story, have you?” She turned to Olsen. “He spent three weeks in hospital afterwards.”

  Wild figured he should have been embarrassed, but he was a practical sort of bloke. “All I’m asking for is some support. Preferably armed, although I’ll take whatever’s going.” He could see Steph getting agitated and he was sorry for that. When it came to Steph, he was sorry for a lot of things.

  She shook her head dismissively. “You stupid bastard. I don’t know which of us you’re trying to impress.” She pressed her hands together again, as if in prayer. “If I do this, regardless of the outcome, I never want to hear from you again.”

  “Agreed. Marnie will give you her number to contact us when you’ve put something in place. Goodbye, Steph, have a good life.”

  He waited as Olsen hastily wrote down her mobile number. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

  Steph didn’t see them to the door. She called out, “Good luck,” but it sounded hollow, and Olsen couldn’t be sure which of them she was talking to.

  Chapter 30

  Wild’s mood brightened considerably when they got outside. He gazed skyward to watch a plane’s blinking lights cross the sky. Sure, Steph’s pregnancy had been a kick in the face, but it didn’t change anything. In some ways it made things easier — no way back.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  He looked across at Olsen, aware of the sound of London’s thrum again. “Dunno.”

  Her face twitched. “Is it true, about the meds?”

  “It’s only one a day and my doctor has reduced the dose. But when I start to feel . . .” he raised a hand as if to grasp the right word, “. . . overwhelmed, I take these herbal tablets instead and they sort me out right away.”

  She narrowed her eyes for a moment. “You do realise that pills don’t work like that — instantly, I mean. And especially anything non-prescription. What you’re experiencing is a placebo effect.”

  “Who cares, if it works?”

  She didn’t bother replying. There was no point.

  They hadn’t reached Barbican Tube before a text came through on Olsen’s phone: Report to Charing Cross police station — ask for Inspector Laghari. Wild looked up the address on his own mobile and checked a map. Result.

  Wild didn’t know what to expect at the front desk, but a welcoming committee wasn’t high on his list. Inspector Laghari was waiting for them, easy to spot by his shoulder pips.

  “Detective Sergeant Wild?”

  “Sir.” Wild kept it short and sweet. Chances were that Steph had used considerable influence to strong-arm the Met into helping a fellow officer in his hour of need.

  Laghari took them both upstairs to a side room where four black-clad officers waited like a blagger’s nightmare. He heard Olsen gasp and wondered why being in a room with SCO19 — the Met’s specialist firearms unit — didn’t bother him. Then he remembered the pill he’d taken at Steph’s.

  The inspector didn’t waste time on introductions. “How long before you meet your witness?”

  Wild looked at his watch. “I have about an hour, unless she changes her mind.”

  Laghari shook his head sternly. “Let’s hope not. DCI Hutcheson went to a lot of trouble to set up your support. You need to get a result.”

  Yeah, Wild thought to
himself, she must have made all of two phone calls. He listened as the firearms team walked him through the plan. He didn’t baulk at wearing a wire, even though they freely admitted it could make him a target if things went pear-shaped. Meanwhile, he tried to ignore Olsen’s glare. He was at risk anyway and if Olsen was right, at least they’d hear him calling for assistance. He smiled darkly at the thought.

  After the briefing from SCO19, DI Laghari spoke again. Wild noted that he didn’t make eye contact and he looked like he had somewhere else to be. A rogue thought ran through Wild’s head that maybe Steph and Laghari knew one another rather well. He dismissed it out of hand, not because he didn’t believe it but because he was past caring.

  “We’ll keep PC Olsen informed at every stage of the operation. Perhaps you two would like a few moments together?”

  Olsen nodded, eyes on the ground, while Wild stared at her incredulously. He didn’t speak until the last of them had left the room. “What’s going on?”

  “Steph thought you and I were an item. I let her believe it. It didn’t seem fair that she saw you as a total loser and this way I’m kept in the loop.”

  She looked so pleased with herself. He couldn’t see how it was a benefit to either of them, but he liked the idea of her listening in. She went in for an awkward hug and ended up slapping him on the shoulder, like a much-loved horse.

  “Good luck, Wild. Assume that everything Jackie says to you is a lie. Because it will be. And let the firearms team know immediately if you think you’re in danger.”

  “You think I’m really stupid doing this.”

  Olsen matched his candour. “I think you’re trying to prove something — whether to yourself, or the Met, or even Steph is anyone’s guess. Just remember there are two murders waiting to be solved in Wiltshire.”

  Wild had to admit, as far as pep talks went it was light on sentiment, although it still packed a punch. He was all psyched to go when his mobile pinged. I’m in a hotel. Room 406. Booked under Jackie Collins. Click the link for map.

  Funny girl. He relayed the name and link and waited while they updated their plan. Olsen sat beside him, oblivious to the tactical decisions being made on his behalf. She leaned in towards him.