The room looks like a war zone. There’s broken glass all across the floor, upended tables and, directly opposite me, the body of Colin Richardson. He’s on his back. Arms spread wide. Part of his head missing. There’s also blood seeping through his workman’s top. It looks like TFU took him down with a body and head shot, but I have no idea whether the bullets came from two officers, or just one. I pity them. I know what’s coming. A full inquiry, no active duty until the kill is vindicated. I get a flash memory of Richardson holding his grandchild, of him passing the young boy back to his own son, of Sharon Croft watching them all. Some poor beat bobby is going to get lumbered with the burden of breaking the bad news to them.
The pub door opens and in storms DCI Goodwin. He looks furious. ‘What the hell happened here?’
‘He shot me and TFU shot him,’ I answer dispassionately. Goodwin stares at me and I realise that until now he hadn’t been aware that I’d been hit. ‘I was wearing ballistic armour, sir.’
‘I should hope so. Are you hurt?’
‘Some bruising, sir, that’s all.’
The doctor pushes into our conversation. ‘Inspector Parker needs to go to hospital for a full examination. I know she looks all right, but please don’t underestimate the emotional and mental impact of being shot. Raised voices and stressful inquisitions are not conducive to coping with traumatic incidents like this.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Goodwin to me, in a genuinely conciliatory tone. ‘I thought we’d made this place secure, ensuring that only York would be allowed in?’
‘I don’t know what happened there,’ I confess.
‘I do, sir,’ says Alice Ross from behind me. ‘I just spoke to the two UC’s on door watch. They were briefed to stop anyone approaching the entrance and ask them for the time, or a light for a cigarette, and if necessary to say the pub was closing because of a food incident. Richardson showed them a British Gas pass and said he’d been called by his bosses to fix an emergency leak.’
‘Amateurs!’ snarls Goodwin. ‘Put it in your report.’
I start to make my way to the door.
‘And where are you going?’ asks the DCI.
‘To find the men who saved my life and buy them a drink.’
91
Danny
Paula’s long gone. She’s left me in this stinkin’ hospital with my head in bits. Now she knows everythin’. Every single shitty thing I’ve done. All the dirt I’ve swept under the carpet, she’s found and vacuumed out of me. And despite that, she’s still willin’ to give me another chance – providin’ the baby turns out to be mine.
It will.
I know it will.
Ever since I came out of the nick, I’ve wanted a family. Wanted to do somethin’ good. Raise a child. That’s what we’re all on the earth for, innit? I’d make a good dad. I’d teach my kid to avoid all the screw-ups I made. With Paula’s help we’d keep it on the straight and narrow. Do things by the book. That’s how I thought she lived her life. Until I found out my butter-wouldn’t-melt wife was shacked up to another bloke as well as me.
I still can’t believe it.
Bigamy – that’s sick, innit? Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got married mates who shag for England. Proper dogs they are. But they always come back to their missus and kids. They don’t go and play happy families in two places at once. Imagine cheatin’ on the person you’re cheatin’ with – that’s just mental.
The door opens and in comes a bloke in a suit. No doubt another consultant to blag a fortune off my private medical insurance.
‘Danny Smith,’ he says in a farmer’s accent, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Adrian Fellowes, from Thames Valley Police.’
My heart sinks. ‘Can’t you lot leave me alone? I’ve seen more coppers than nurses in here.’
‘I’m investigating the attack on you, Mr Smith. The shooting yesterday at Martin Johnson’s home.’
My blood boils at the mention of Bastard’s name. ‘I hope you lot beat the fuck out of him when you took him in.’
‘Mr Johnson was arrested and detained in custody. I’d like to get your version of events before we formally charge him. Do you feel up to doing that now?’ He starts to take out a pocket book.
‘No, I don’t, so you can put that away.’
‘I understand you will be discharged tonight, so perhaps we could fix a time when you can come to the station tomorrow?’
Seems I’ve not got my message over. ‘No, you can’t. I’m not goin’ to speak to you. As far as you lot are concerned, I’m not sayin’ anythin’ to you. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.’
‘I don’t understand, Mr Smith. You’re in here because a man fired a shotgun at you. Surely you want him punished?’
‘What I want is none of your business.’
‘It is if it involves guns being fired.’
He studies me as if I’m a wall he’s just painted and he’s wondering whether he’s missed a bit. ‘Has someone got to you – threatened you?’
‘No. No one’s got to me. Now can you leave me alone, and move that plod from outside my door?’
‘The officer has gone. He was there at the request of DI Parker from the Central Mids cold case unit and I understand they’re finished with you – for the moment.’
‘Yeah, and so are you.’
He picks up the clipboard at the end of my bed and gives it the once-over, like he’s some kind of doctor and knows what he’s looking at it. ‘You were lucky, you know. If Johnson had hit you in the face you’d be blind.’
‘If a bus had knocked you down comin’ here you’d be dead.’
He gives me a disgusted look. ‘I’m done wasting time with you. Do us all a favour, Mr Smith, when they discharge you, scurry back to London and stay down there with all those other Wormwood Scrubs good-for-nothings.’
He walks out without lookin’ back, knowing the ex-con jibe would leave me hurtin’ as much as my shotgun wounds.
I swing my feet out of bed.
Time to go.
I can’t sit around on my arse any more.
92
Annie
Ray Goodwin and I are sitting, very uncomfortably, in the wood-panelled office of Chief Constable, Sir Quintin Davies.
Once the pleasantries of checking on my health have been completed, the chief, a strapping six-footer with Hugh Grant hair, gets down to business. ‘Chapter and verse,’ he demands from us in public school English. ‘I need every detail before I even think about telling the NCA we believe they have a bent copper in their ranks.’
‘May I set the scene first, sir?’ says Ray. ‘This is a somewhat complicated matter.’
‘You may – providing you make the complicated matter agreeably simple.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir. Over the past week, DI York from the National Crime Agency and DI Parker from Historic Crimes worked on overlapping cases. York was assigned by the NCA to help recapture two escaped prisoners, Colin Richardson, the man shot dead today by our firearms unit, and Callum Waters, who thanks to DI Parker’s astute detective work is now back in Full Sutton.’
‘Yes, well done on that,’ says Davies.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Goodwin continues, ‘Part of York’s brief was to interrogate a drug user and supplier called Andrew Ellison who had been kidnapped by Richardson and Waters, presumably because he was on the verge of giving up details of the upper echelons of the gang he worked for. It was during this part of the investigation that I was called by the NCA and alerted to the fact that Ellison was offering to trade details of a very old murder, that implicated bosses he was afraid of, for more lenient treatment.’
Davies’s thick eyebrows crinkle together. ‘Your simplification is far from perfect – why did this man Ellison feel the need to do such a thing? What was his motive?’
‘Because, sir, he said he would only feel safe testifying if he knew the culprits were behind bars facing murder charges.’
‘I see.’ The chief makes notes on a
large A4 pad of unlined paper, laid on a blotter on his desk. ‘Please proceed.’
‘It’s probably better if DI Parker takes over from me now, sir, as this was the point that she and DS Patel were called in.’
‘Sir, DI York and I are old colleagues. I’d go as far as to say friends, but a number of events in this case led me to distrust him. At first, I thought he was either just forgetful of facts or mistaken. Then I realised I was being deliberately misled and that he was trying to manipulate me into ignoring evidence that would incriminate him and others.’
‘You need to be specific now, Detective Inspector,’ the chief says, sternly.
‘Yes, sir. When I had the escaped prisoners Callum Waters and Colin Richardson under covert observation on a council estate in North Derbyshire, I sent a text for back-up to DS Patel and DI York. Subsequently, I’ve checked with Security and, when I made that request, only they were swiped into the area DI York had been allocated as office space. While concealed in the garden of the house where Richardson and Waters were, I heard a mobile phone ring. Immediately afterwards, Waters came out and attacked me. I had to use a Taser to render him immobile. By the time I had him cuffed and support arrived, Richardson had fled. I presumed at the time that the call I’d heard had been made by a neighbour tipping off the tenant, Sharon Croft, that someone was in the bushes at the bottom of her garden. When I mentioned this to DI York, he said I was right - that he’d been told by the house-to-house team that a Christine Hopkins had called Croft. I later checked that information, sir, and it was incorrect. There is no neighbour called Hopkins – not Christine, not Chris, not Tina. And there was not a house-to-house statement suggesting there was. Subsequently, I found that a call from a mobile had been made at the very time I had been in Croft’s garden and had heard one. Only it was not to Sharon Croft, but to a phone recovered from Callum Waters when he was returned to Full Sutton prison.’
‘And this call turned out to have been made from DI York’s mobile?’ queries Sir Quinten.
‘No, sir. It was from a burner, a pay-as-you-go phone, with no registered owner—’
‘I know what a burner is, Inspector,’ snaps the chief. ‘I’m not a bloody judge.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Carry on.’
‘The telephone service provider has confirmed that the burner using its platform made the call from inside police headquarters at the exact time I heard the phone ring at Sharon Croft’s house.’
‘Was the geo-locating that precise?’ he asks.
‘It was, sir.’
‘Then I share your concerns, but legally this is still circumstantial, Inspector, as you can’t prove York made the call. Is it possible the phone was used by your sergeant, DS Patel?’
‘No, sir. That is not possible, as later incidents will concur.’
‘Such as?’
‘Sir, on top of that call from within police HQ, and in addition to York’s lie about the neighbour tipping off Sharon Croft, we have evidence that the burner also sent a text message to a phone owned and concealed by Kieran Crewe inside Full Sutton, just an hour before I interviewed him.’
The chief makes a note and then asks, ‘What did the text say?’
‘It said, “A said nothing”.’
‘A?’ he questions as he writes it down.
‘I believe ‘A’ referred to our witness Andy - Andy Ellison, who died in custody following his kidnap by Richardson and Waters. And I think the reference to ‘nothing’ indicates that Kieran Crewe had been told Andy had not given us any incriminating evidence.’
‘Again damning, but circumstantial, as you can’t prove it was York who sent that text.’
‘I can, however, prove it was sent from a specific spot in Nottingham, sir. The very same location that DI York called me from on his force issue phone straight after I had finished my interview in Full Sutton.’
The chief makes more notes. ‘Presumably, you established this through satellite triangulation on the phone and the GPS tracking we have on all force cars?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I wait until he finishes writing, then add, ‘During my call with DI York, he also warned me not to approach Kieran Crewe’s brother, Raurie. He told me he was subject to NCA surveillance.’
‘And was he?’
‘No, sir, he wasn’t. But at the time I believed he was, so I stayed away.’
‘All right, let me take stock of where you are – or where you think you are, Inspector. There are two specific occasions you can prove York lied to you. The first, in respect to a call to the escaped prisoner Callum Waters that York passed off as coming from a Christine Hopkins to Sharon Croft. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And secondly, that Raurie Crewe was subject to an NCA surveillance operation, when he wasn’t.’
‘That’s also correct, sir. And if I may, there are two additional pieces of evidence that are critical.’
‘Tell me,’ he says wearily.
‘I went to see Raurie Crewe at his workplace, sir. Only DCI Goodwin and DS Patel were aware of my intended visit. As arranged with Mr Goodwin, I told Crewe that, for a certain amount of money, I would stay silent about the faked death of his brother, Ashley.’
‘And did he offer you money?’ The chief’s pen is poised.
‘No, sir, he didn’t. And I hadn’t expected him to. What I had expected was for him to panic and call for help.’
‘And did he?’
‘Yes, sir. As soon as I left he called the burner we have been attributing to DI York.’
Goodwin steps in again. ‘By now, sir, we had a recording tap on that number – the telco had been very cooperative. May I play it for you?’
‘Please.’ Sir Quentin sits back in his brown leather swivel chair.
Goodwin puts his own phone down on the chief’s desk. ‘I have it here as an imported data file, sir. The first voice is Crewe’s, the second is York’s.’ He passes over a sheet of paper. ‘This is a transcript of the conversation you are about to hear.’
CREWE: ‘I’ve just been visited by one of yours.’
YORK: ‘Male or female?’
CREWE: ‘Woman. Late thirties, early forties.’
YORK: ‘What did she want?’
CREWE: ‘Same as you. Same as the rest of your lot. Says if she doesn’t get it, she will breathe new life into something we thought long dead.’
YORK: ‘Don’t worry, I can take care of this.’
CREWE: ‘I’m not sure you can. You should have stopped this happening in the first place.’
YORK: ‘Trust me, I’ll sort it.’
CREWE: ‘Then do it quickly. She gave me one day.’
YORK: ‘Relax. It’ll be fixed by tonight.’
Goodwin turns the recording off. ‘Sir, given that DI York then failed to show for a pre-arranged goodbye drink with DI Parker, and in his place, Colin Richardson turned up with the intent to kill DI Parker, I believe there are strong grounds for the CPS to bring charges of attempted murder against DI York, as well as several other charges of corruption and aiding and abetting the escape of Category A prisoners.’
‘I agree,’ says Sir Quentin, with sadness in his voice. ‘I’ll alert the Director of the NCA immediately and then inform the CPS.’ He picks up a desk phone. ‘Is Raurie Crewe in custody? Has he told you of York’s whereabouts?’
‘Crewe was arrested at his home and is on his way in,’ says Goodwin. ‘I’m afraid he’s told us nothing about York. In fact, I understand that at the moment, he’s denying everything and will only speak in the presence of his solicitor.’
‘Sounds as guilty as hell,’ says the chief. He continues to punch in the numbers for his call.
93
Paula
I’m back in Chipping Norton, sitting in the window of a tea shop packed with winter tourists thawing out. They’re reading daily newspapers, scoffing scones and cradling mugs of hot drinks before once more braving the bitter weather. The Cotswolds is a place that’s never out of
season. All that changes in this soft honeycomb centre of England are the types of clothes visitors wear and the amount of time they spend eating and drinking, rather than roaming the streets and countryside.
On the round, rustic pine table in front of me is a pot of Lady Grey that’s gone cold and a cheese and onion panini that was much craved but rejected after a single mouthful made me feel ill. I’ve settled the bill and all that’s keeping me at the table is the clear view of the village police station. My phone beeps and vibrates as a text comes in.
Leaving now
It’s from Terry and is the warning I asked him to send when he was ready to walk Martin out of the station.
I stand, pull on my coat and within seconds I’m outside on the edge of the pavement.
My heart is in my mouth.
I can’t remember when I last felt so nervous. When I spoke to Martin earlier today, I sensed hope for us. Distracted, I walk into the road. Traffic buzzes by. I realise I am not thinking properly. It would be just my luck to get hit by a bus. I pause halfway, consider myself lucky to have wandered here without injury, and more cautiously cross to the other side.
The winter sun is low and it catches Terry and Martin full in the face as they emerge from the blue-painted front door of the police station. I can see them, but they haven’t yet spotted me. Martin is dressed in what he calls his ‘comfy clothes’ – brown cord jeans, a cream V-neck sweater over an old white shirt. No coat. He’s never looked more vulnerable and more desirable. He raises a hand to his eyes to visor the sunlight.
Now he sees me.
My legs turn to jelly.
Martin smiles. Not a forced smile. Not an alien smile. One wonderfully familiar to me.
I don’t say anything. I just walk up to him and put my arms around him.
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