“The Brotherhood of Falsehoods!” he shouted, and began to laugh.
The laughter stopped abruptly as the projector showed him Collins’s ‘challenge’ on the mantelpiece: the brandy bottle. He’d got a kind of satisfaction from drinking half of it, and had thought about pouring the rest away, but decided it would be more of an insult if he left some. There’s always time for a relapse, Collins. Brothers they might be, but he still warranted a poke in the ribs every now and then.
Collins was off the list. Troy believed him when he said he’d try to get him his job back, and that, when clean, Troy was an asset at any scene.
He chewed gum and smiled. For once he felt trusted. And he trusted Collins to stick to his word.
In this concrete echo chamber, he could hear everything. He could hear the front door of the block slamming in the wind down on the ground floor. He could hear people chatting in the two creaking lifts. He could hear people in the surrounding flats arguing, babies crying, music playing. He pulled the hood tighter over his ears – the noise was playing hell with his images, but also the wind was giving him earache.
The image that came to mind was—
The lift door opened.
Troy pressed pause on the image inside his head; opened his eyes – clear and focused, no vertigo – and waited silently, holding his breath. He heard heels on the false floor inside the lift, and then heard them clattering on the concrete out here on the windy landing.
Troy got to his feet, wobbled slightly, and steadied himself against the piss-stained wall. She walked towards the external walkway and Troy took off after her.
“Oi!” he shouted.
She turned. And when she recognised him, Nicki screamed and tried to run.
Troy barged into her, grabbed her, lifted her.
She was over the railing before she knew what was happening. Clinging onto his hood, she was spinning, legs spiralling, kicking to stop her motion. And when she did stop, she swung a hand up and grasped the rail.
Troy glared at her as she screamed, as she held onto the railing by four fingertips, the other hand clamped onto his hood. He was halfway over the rail himself, but it didn’t register – all he saw was the utter terror in her eyes and her legs kicking in mid-air. Frenzy. A nail-snapping shin-scraping frenzy.
She smelled of puke.
“Please, Troy!”
He looked from her eyes to her fingers. She had three fingertips now on the rail. The rail had been painted white a couple of years ago by the look of it. You could see the rust coming back through. He could see how white her fingernails were. And he could see how wide her eyes were, and her mouth as she screamed.
Now she only had two fingers on the rail. Then one.
Troy twitched. His hoodie was taut over his right shoulder, digging in because she was pulling like crazy, and his head and upper body were getting closer and closer to her face; how she screamed! It was deafening. His t-shirt had ridden up, and the rail was cold against his exposed stomach. He tried to look up again, but the spinning came, and he felt sick, and everything spun faster and faster, and he tried to cling on...
His sweater pulled over his head and that was when his eyes opened.
She twisted as she fell through the air, screaming, fingers clawing at nothing.
He found himself on his back, staring up at the dirty concrete of the seventh-floor balcony above, and panting like crazy.
Troy got up, steadied himself against the rail, and ran for the stairs.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Weismann stepped out of the shower, rubbing his hair dry.
He looked at the phone sitting on the cistern lid and heard people outside in the locker room. There was nothing like police banter: either you joined in with it or you were chased out by it. It wasn’t bullying in the truest sense of the word, but it was certainly a close relative.
Even though most of his clothes had been protected from Nicki’s vomit by the scene suit, he’d binned his shirt when he got back to the nick, unpacked a spare and hung it in the shower room to let the creases drop out. But his other clothes were out there in the locker room.
He tied the towel around his waist and reached for the door. He hadn’t even unlocked it before he heard his name mentioned. He paused, drew closer to the frosted glass panel and listened.
“Place is fucked,” said someone.
“Job’s fucked!” agreed someone else.
“What’s the point of working your bollocks off, climbing the ladder when they promote from outside anyway?”
“I got no respect for him.”
“Me neither. Nor his sidekick, Weismann. It’s just another stepping stone for them. They got no interest in this place. They couldn’t give a shit about the job.”
“Empire-building.”
“Exactly!”
“They’ll be gone this time next year.”
“Yeah, and some other wanker will do exactly the same again.”
“But in the meantime, we have to live with it.”
“I know.”
“Look at CSI. They fucking gave it away! It’s ruined. Now what do we do?”
“Exactly.”
“We ought to get Weismann to do our forensic stuff for us, cos that Nicki lass is as much use as a woodpecker with a rubber beak. See how he likes it then.”
“Place is fucked.”
The door squeaked open and they disappeared; Weismann heard, “Job’s fucked,” just as they left.
He unlocked the door and stepped out, headed towards his locker, phone in hand. He sat down on the bench; his shoulders slumped as he scrolled to Collins’s number.
* * *
The door squeaked and Benson heard one of them say, “Job’s fucked!” He looked at them as the locker room door closed, and unfolded his arms as they approached.
Benson pointed at the locker room. “He in there?”
One of them nodded. “He’s in there alright.”
“Couldn’t fail to hear us. We were loud enough,” said the other.
Benson nodded again, “Thanks, lads. Appreciate it.”
* * *
“Eddie?”
“Hello?”
“It’s Victor Weismann here.”
Eddie tensed slightly, his eyes grew hard, and his mind threw a red alert, ready for more shit coming his way. “What now?” he said. “Want my locker key? Or do you need the pen back that I stole last week?”
“Keep the pen,” Weismann said.
Pushover.
“So what’s up?”
“I need you at a scene.”
Eddie looked confused. “I thought Wonder Woman was on the ball? She’s thought of everything, don’t forget, how to—”
“Shut up. Nicki’s not doing the scene.”
Eddie smiled. That was a deliberate omission on Weismann’s part and Eddie could smell it like he could smell the car on fire somewhere nearby. He wound up the window. “Don’t ever tell me to shut up.” He took a moment, mellowed and said, “I’m listening.”
“Meet me in your office in half an hour.”
“My office?” He grinned at the phone. “My office?”
No response. He looked at the handset, frowning. “Hello? Bastard.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
“Eddie?”
He stopped in the foyer, staring at the double doors. It was so quiet in here that he could hear his forehead sweating. He swivelled left, and there she was. Miss Moneypenny.
“You’re not allowed to smoke in here.”
He looked down at the cigarette lodged between his fingers. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t realise.”
Once back outside, he finished smoking it, wondering how much more awkward his conversations with Moneypenny could get. Eddie replayed this morning’s confrontation with his dad and Wendy. He’d seen the pain in his father’s eyes battling with the pride on his face. One of them was a lie, and he knew it was the pride.
It was nice being wanted. But it was horrible being
used.
He peered through the door at Moneypenny as she spoke on the phone. And he wondered who wanted whom, and who was using whom.
He dropped the cigarette down a drain and entered the foyer again just as she put down the phone. She looked up, smiled at him. It wasn’t the wholesome smile she’d had before, and it wasn’t the coy smile he’d so admired in her. It was a polite smile, the kind of smile she’d give to anyone who walked through here. “I think we need to talk,” she said.
And he didn’t know why, but Eddie’s heart boomed – just once, a huge thud like he’d been kicked in the chest by a pissed-off donkey. “Sounds ominous.”
“Tonight? Seven?”
“I think I’m going to be working late. I got a call from Weismann.”
She nodded her understanding and looked away. “How’s Troy?”
“No idea. Look…” He twitched.
“Yes, go on, off you go. We’ll chat another time.”
“Yeah, definitely.” Eddie couldn’t bring himself to look down at her cleavage as he swept by her and through the double doors. But an overwhelming flood of coldness came over him as he ascended the stairs. It made him sad, which made him angry.
He focused the anger, squinted, and blasted through the CSI doors.
Weismann was waiting, arms folded, perched on the edge of Sid’s desk. As Eddie walked up the office towards him, Sid peered around Weismann and his face lit up. “Eddie!”
Eddie was happy to see him again, but now wasn’t the right time to show it. Now was the right time to keep the anger bubbling. He thought of Moneypenny again, he thought of Troy being a prick last night, and he thought of Troy’s father being a wonderful role-model for a drug user, and the anger soon returned. “Kettle on, Sid.”
“What? No ‘hello, Sid, how are you, Sid’?”
Eddie stared at him. “Please.”
Sid tutted, and stood. “I want you to know that the tea fund is seriously depleted. We have no biscuits… well, we do, but they’re cheap horrible things that have gone limp. And no one likes a limp biscuit…” He looked at Eddie, and Eddie looked at Weismann.
Sid put his nose in the air and walked towards the kitchenette. “I know when I’m not wanted. It’s like a sixth sense. You’ve either got it or you haven’t. Well, I’m not buying any more biscuits,” he called back, “unless I’m working in this office!”
Eddie stood before Weismann. “Is he? Working in this office?”
Weismann unfolded his arms and continued to stare at Eddie as though they were a pair of stags ready to lock antlers.
Eddie shrugged, turned around and walked away.
“Eddie.”
He stopped. Waited. Turned back. “Don’t you think this is all a bit melodramatic? You asked me—”
“Nicki can’t do scene work.”
“Why not?”
Weismann paused for a moment or two, long enough for Eddie to become impatient and turn away again. “She’s not good with blood.”
“Don’t you think she’s in the wrong fucking job, then?”
“I’m as annoyed—”
“Oh no you’re not. You haven’t seen me annoyed yet!” Eddie stormed up the office, and Weismann’s stance altered in those seconds, ready to cower. “She burned this place and she burned everyone in it. She was in the wrong job from day one and you must’ve known about it, just like her fucking useless father must have known.”
“I didn’t! I had more important things to do than monitor her tolerance for blood, Christ’s sake. You see a CSI and you assume they’re good with blood and gore. Christ. Taking over a department full of people who don’t trust you is bloody hard, Eddie.”
“You don’t say.”
“Taking over an office whose boss has been blown out to obscurity is near impossible.”
Eddie stared at him. “I forgot my violin. Sorry.”
“She’s still in charge.”
“What?”
“She’s office-based; no need for her to visit scenes. It’s a compromise. Best I can do.”
Eddie searched Weismann’s eyes, waiting for the punch line. He saw none. “I don’t know how things were done in Nottingham, but that role here in MCU is certainly not office-based.”
“You’ll be senior examiner. She’s the manager.”
Eddie blinked. He smiled, about to slap Weismann on the arm and congratulate him on a prank well executed, but... “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Weismann nodded.
“That’s not a great incentive for me to stay. And if that’s the best you can do, arrivederci, amigo.”
“You still work for me, Eddie,” Weismann said. “You’re my resource, and I deploy you as I see fit. And right now, I want you at a double murder in Morley.”
“No.”
“Eddie. I’m warning you.”
“Like I give a shit.” It took a while, but eventually a smile punched its way onto Eddie’s face. “You saw that old bag at my house this morning, didn’t you?”
“What about her?”
“She gave me some good advice. She said that I am totally dispensable, and that the world will not collapse without me in it. I’ve been giving that some thought, and much as I hate the old cow, she’s absolutely right on that score.”
“Walking out again?”
“Yep.” He rocked his head from side to side, mocking. “I’m walking out. For the last time. No fanfare required. Have a garibaldi and celebrate the good times without me. Don’t forget the party-poppers.”
“Eddie.”
“Listen, I know you’re stuck in an awkward spot here. On the one hand you’ve got Crawford breathing down your neck, and tin-tits in her new tiara, ready to scream ‘Daddy’ if you don’t do as she says. And on the other hand, you’ve got bolshie Collins who’s going to spit out his dummy and walk away if you don’t give him his old job back. I can see you’re in a dilemma. Well, let me make this a bit clearer for you, boss: I love my job.”
“What?” Weismann feigned a laugh.
“I care about the victims and I care about justice – I know how clichéd that sounds, by the way, but it’s true. She loves the status and the salary. But I love the job. I love the blood, and I love sniffing out clues among the dead and twisted. I can do that shit all day and all night. And put that together with the people I have working for me, and you’ve just about got Utopia – but don’t tell them I said that.
“Don’t get me wrong, I hated every single one of the useless bastards when we first met, but now we trust each other; we get along well, like second nature. How many people can you steal coffee from and they don’t mind? How many people can you ridicule for wearing black nail varnish and they don’t mind? We take the piss out of each other.
“She will never have that. Don’t you understand, Weismann? She’ll never work in an office full of people who will tolerate her, let alone pull out all the stops for her. Why? Because she didn’t earn their trust. She stabbed people in the back to get where she’s got, and worse than that, she spied on people, used private information to get where she got.
“I was helping Troy because he has a good foundation, and it was the best way of getting him back on course without butchering his career. But she climbed all over him, and me, to get a promotion she didn’t deserve or earn. People will never respect that. Even if she filled this place with new people, word gets around. And how long before her true persona comes out? What happens when one of them needs her advice at a scene?
“And when she needs that one last job doing, she’ll have no goodwill and no trust to call on in getting that job done. She will lose out, and ultimately you will lose out too.”
Weismann looked away, thinking.
“So. If you think that I can work in the same office as her, taking orders from her, you’re mistaken. I really couldn’t live with myself. It’s nothing to do with the way she stabbed me in the back; it’s because I wouldn’t be able to look Kenny and Sid in the eye ever again.” Eddie reached i
nside his jacket, and he handed Weismann a pen. “Here,” he said. “Now I owe this place nothing.”
Weismann took the pen. “You can’t leave.”
“Why,” asked Eddie, “you saying my head won’t fit through the door?”
“Okay.” A sigh fell out of Weismann’s mouth that rounded his shoulders and seemed to shrink him by several inches. “She’s out.”
“What?”
“Leave it with me. She’s gone.”
Eddie looked at him through the corner of his eyes. “You’re saying this just so I’ll work your double murder, aren’t you?”
“You’re right, okay? She’s no good to me.”
“How has she got through the last three years, or however long she was at Division?”
Weismann shrugged. “Never worked serious crime. Always volume.”
Eddie thought about that and nodded. “What about her dad?”
Weismann took the breath back in again, but his shoulders remained rounded. “I’ll deal with him later.” He looked Eddie in the eye, held out his hand. “I give you my word.”
“Seriously?”
Weismann nodded, and Eddie shook hands.
“You can come out now, Sid.”
“Oh, thank God for that. I was getting cramp back there, right in my calf; you know when you can feel it starting to bite? Another minute or two and I would have screamed, I know I would.” He paused, looked at Eddie. “Do you have any Fiery Jack?”
Eddie laughed, and gave Sid a hand with the tray of drinks. “Get Kenny back here, Sid. And give Troy a ring, too.” He looked at Weismann, eyebrows raised.
Weismann considered this for a moment. “Yes. Seeing as the drugs test was a fake, we can’t exactly call him a junkie, can we?”
The Death of Jessica Ripley Page 25