by James Oswald
Karen doesn’t say much on the drive across the city, and I wonder if I’ve done something to upset her. Maybe she’s read the papers I haven’t had the nerve to look at yet. I can’t even bring myself to check my phone for newsfeeds, but at least nobody has texted me, not since Bain confirmed when and where I was to help with a photofit ID of the girl Anna.
‘DCI’s in the conference room on the third floor, along with the rest of the feds,’ Karen says as she lets me in through the back door to the station. Time was I had my own pass, and didn’t have to sign the register. All that went when they took my warrant card away.
‘You not coming up?’ I know as soon as I ask it’s the wrong question. Her face has a kind of permanent scowl on it anyway, but it deepens in an instant.
‘Do I look like someone who works for the NCA?’
She has a point, but there’s more to it than just being pissed off at having to do their bidding. She wants to be someone who looks like she works for the NCA, and the fact that they seem to be courting me for a post despite my clearly being a walking disaster zone rankles. Having to act as my personal chauffeur’s just rubbing her nose in it.
‘I didn’t ask for this either, Karen.’ I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice. No point winding her up if she’s the only ally I’ve got in Uniform.
‘Whatever. I’ll be in the canteen.’ She heads off, walking straight through the middle of two junior officers deep in conversation. Both look at her, then at me, the question writ large on their faces. I ignore them and set off for the incident room.
‘Took your bloody time, didn’t you? Some of us have been at work for hours.’
My heart sinks as I enter the room. Not because the only person in there is Detective Sergeant Latham, or because for whatever reason he still hates me, but because I really can’t face the aggro any more.
‘It’s too early in the morning. Can you not keep the snide comments until after coffee time?’
Latham’s face reddens, and it occurs to me that this is the first time he’s actually looked me in the eye. I’d not appreciated quite how young he was when we met in the church yesterday, but I’ve got a comfortable couple of years on him, maybe more. Doesn’t matter, since he’s a DS and I’m just a lowly constable on suspension. He looks like he’s going to say something, but then a noise behind me draws his attention. I turn to see DCI Bain and Superintendent Shepherd walk in.
‘Ah, you’re here, Fairchild. Good.’ Shepherd gives me a look that’s almost as unsettling as Latham’s. ‘Sort of.’
‘Sort of, ma’am?’
She raises an eyebrow at my question, or my use of the title. ‘I was looking for someone to join our team. Someone with a decent track record and experience in plain clothes and undercover ops. You might have fitted the bill, were it not for your rather high profile.’
‘It’s a temporary thing, I’m sure.’
‘Are you?’ Bain walks up and holds out his hand. He’s clutching a folded newspaper that I really don’t want to take from him. When he gives it an impatient shake I know I have no choice. As is usually the case with the tabloids, most of the front page is taken up with a headline in type large enough for the most reluctant of readers.
SLUMMING IT WITH THE BOYS IN BLUE!
The words frame a photograph that I have to stare at for a long time before I realise it’s of me. It must have been taken a while ago, as my hair’s still down on my shoulders. I’ve never knowingly worn a tiara though, so that must be photoshopped, along with the uniform now I think about it. There’s a bit of text below the headline that I scan only briefly. Even so, I get enough of the gist.
Officers in the Met were surprised recently to find some true blue blood in their ranks. Posh cop Lady Constance Fairchild, who helped expose disgraced financier Roger DeVilliers as a serial sex offender, can trace her family history back to the Norman Conquest, but it’s the more recent affairs of the Fairchilds that might raise eyebrows in aristocratic circles.
‘It’s all bollocks, you know?’ Even I can hear the frustration in my voice. Across the room, DS Latham has a sneer on his face that’s just waiting for the wind to change. Shepherd’s more sympathetic though.
‘It is. It’s unfair and it’s unhelpful. Given what you did last year, and what you were put through, these papers should be praising your courage, not raking through your family history for any muck they can throw around. If life’s taught me anything though, it’s that nothing is fair.’
She’s got that much right. I stare blankly for a moment at the page laid out on the conference table in front of me.
‘So, what then? I can’t have a job at the NCA. What about my old one back?’
Shepherd shakes her head. ‘Not mine to give, I’m afraid. And there’s still the matter of ex-Detective Superintendent Bailey. CPS reckon he’ll likely try to bargain now that DeVilliers is dead. That’ll drag out the hearing for a while longer. Meantime, with your media profile, you’re more likely to be a hindrance than a help to any ongoing investigation.’
She’s right, of course. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
‘So my career’s over, then. Can’t go back to uniform, not after this.’ I slap my hand against the newspaper. ‘Can’t be a detective. What then – admin? Management? Fuck that.’
Bain winces at my swearing, but Shepherd hardly seems to notice. ‘We’ll review things in a couple of weeks. You never know, something might come up that distracts the press for long enough to forget about you. Meantime, you’ll just have to try and keep your head down.’
‘Who actually reads this shit? I mean, who actually cares?’
I’m not really given to flouncing, but I can hear the petulance in my voice as I drop the newspaper onto the table in the station canteen and slump into a seat. Any hope that Roger DeVilliers’ death would put a stop to the tabloid press making my life a misery has been squashed by the latest headline. So much for my career.
‘Lady Constance?’ Karen pulls the paper towards her, unfolding it to reveal the front page. I try to find the sneer in her voice, but it’s really not there. Incredulity, yes, and perhaps the edge of a smirk on her face.
‘Technically.’ Looking around the room, I see no suspicious eyes on me. At least not yet. It won’t be long before the wags start up with jokes. Then there’ll be pranks and all manner of other shit. Coppers are predictable that way, and relentless.
Karen flips the newspaper closed again, pushes it to the side and concentrates on her mug. I enjoy the silence while it lasts, more than my own coffee. ‘Knew you were posh, mind,’ she says eventually. ‘Didn’t realise you were that posh.’
‘You’ve seen where I live. It’s not exactly Buckingham Palace, is it.’
‘Why d’you live there then?’
‘I’m a detective constable. There’s only so far a salary goes. You know what London rents are like, right?’
Karen shrugs. ‘Still live with me mum, don’t I. Council flat. Well “housing association”.’ She makes little bunny ears with her fingers as she speaks, then shakes her head. ‘But yeah, I know what you mean. London housing’s a nightmare. And your place isn’t all that bad. It’s just you, and it’s a good location.’
‘Don’t tell my landlord that.’ As I say it, a horrible thought occurs to me. ‘Oh crap. He’s going to see this and think I’m loaded. Fuck.’
‘It’ll all blow over soon enough.’ Karen knocks back the last of her drink and stands up, leaving the newspaper behind. ‘Couple of months, maybe less. They’ll get bored and find someone else to bother.’
‘Easy for you to say. You’re not the one has to live with it.’
Something like annoyance flickers across her face, and too late I realise what I’ve said. I begin to apologise, but she’s quicker off the mark.
‘You reckon?’ She flips the paper open again, flicks through it a couple of pag
es, then slaps her fingers against a picture of me outside my flat. ‘Who’s that behind you in the photograph then? Who has to drive you around like you’re some bleeding aristo? Oh, hang on. You are one. Fuck’s sake, Con. This isn’t just about you, right?’
‘Yeah, I know. Sorry.’ I reach out and fold the newspaper again as she walks away, for all the good it will do. Whether she hears me or not, I’ve no idea.
13
Karen’s words sting, but because they’re true rather than that they were said in anger. I sit in the canteen for a while after she’s gone, partly because I’ve still got a mug of coffee to finish, and partly because the bustle of officers coming and going gives me enough white noise to think. Nobody seems to notice me, or if they do they give me a wide berth. I’m not sure what to do, and that bothers me more than any threats from the tabloid press.
I never made a secret of my background, but I didn’t exactly advertise it either. It wasn’t hard to knock the edges off the posh accent when I signed up ten years ago, my time in Edinburgh had softened the worst of it anyway. The fast track to CID meant I didn’t spend as much time in uniform as most officers my age, and I guess I missed out on some of the camaraderie walking the beat gives you. I still mucked in though, never shirked my responsibilities.
None of that’s going to make a blind bit of difference now. The people who knew about my past will still believe the lies put about by the papers, and the people who didn’t won’t know any better.
‘Didn’t know we had royalty visiting. I’d have polished me boots and worn me good uniform if someone had told me.’
And so it begins. I don’t even need to look up to know that Police Constable Colin Peterson is standing on the other side of my table. When I do look up, I’m unsurprised to see that he has a small gaggle of friends clustered around him like haemorrhoids on an arsehole. They’re young, recent recruits by the state of their uniforms and expectant faces.
‘Did you think that joke up all by yourself, or were you given help?’ I really shouldn’t rise to the bait, but lately I’ve been finding it hard to care.
‘Some nerve showing your face in here anyway.’ One of the other constables raises her chin as she speaks, as if trying to look down her nose at me. Either that or she’s sniffing the air like a bitch on heat. I can’t be bothered with this shit, and besides, I’ve finished my coffee.
‘Some nerve, eh.’ I push my chair back with a squeal of metal leg on canteen floor, then stand up slowly. I’m not tall, but I’m above average. My accuser isn’t, and has to tilt her head back even further to keep her eyes on mine. I stare at her for a moment, then reach out and grab my coffee mug in a sudden, swift movement that has the lot of them flinching like frightened rabbits. A small victory, but I’ll take it.
‘Be seeing you around.’ I wave the mug at them, then turn and walk away, all too aware that this is just the beginning in what will likely be a long and tiresome war.
Nobody else bothers me as I climb the stairs and walk the corridors from the canteen to the CID room where my desk is. I say my desk, but I’ve not actually used it in many months. I’m not really sure why I’m drawn to it, except that the station is a safe place, away from the tabloids, even if I’m getting hostility from some of its inmates. There’s the small matter of the girl, Anna, too. I’m supposed to be sorting out a photofit of her. I’ve a passing knowledge of how the software works, but it needs a specialist to get the best out of it. I’m still waiting for the text to tell me they’re ready, and this is as good a place to wait as any. Better than the canteen, at least.
There’s nobody about when I enter, just a loose formation of desks, each piled high with paperwork. Some have computer screens, others spaces where laptops have been hastily taken away. Case notes and other important stuff are scribbled and pinned to the whiteboards around the walls. Some are so ancient even I know what they’re about, others are more recent, crimes that are being investigated now. In a less busy station, a smaller city than London, many of these investigations would have their own teams, dedicated incident rooms on the upper floors, and morning briefings and pep talks from whichever DI or DCI had been unfortunate enough to be put in charge. There would be information to collate and put into the computer, actions generated by the program to sift through and evaluate, a hundred and one other things to do before actually going out into the real world and talking to people. Settling myself down in what I’m fairly sure isn’t the chair I used to have, I can’t say that I miss much of it.
‘Thought I might find you hiding in here.’
I look up with a start, realising as I do that I’ve been trying to work out what all the folders on my desk are for. It’s only as I see Superintendent Shepherd standing in the doorway that I understand this isn’t my desk any more. I should have known, of course. The team I worked with was disbanded. I was pretty much the only one not tainted by association with DCI Bailey. Or dead. It’s been months since then. Of course my desk would have been reallocated.
‘I’m waiting on a call from the photofit tech.’ I know it’s a poor excuse, but Shepherd doesn’t seem to mind. She winds her way through the desks, grabs a chair from the nearest one to me and twirls it around before sitting.
‘Chances are we’ll pull a better image from the hospital CCTV, actually. You could help by identifying her from that, of course.’
‘Sure. Anything I can do to help.’ I start to stand, but she waves me down.
‘You any idea how difficult it is to get this lot to leave the room?’ She waves a hand in the general direction of everywhere, and I begin to understand why nobody is here.
‘I’d have thought it would have taken at least a superintendent’s strong hint to shift them. Maybe even a chief super.’
Shepherd smiles at that in the same way a teacher might indulge a bright but otherwise insufferable pupil. ‘Ed Bain . . . DCI Bain, I should say. What do you think of him?’
Her directness surprises me, but not as much as my immediate answer. ‘I trust him. Not sure I want to work with him.’
She raises an eyebrow, but makes no comment. ‘And Billy . . . DS Latham?’
‘I get the feeling he disapproves. Either of me, or women detectives in general. I don’t know him well enough to make up my mind yet.’
‘He has a thing about procedure.’ Shepherd tilts her head to one side, and I get the feeling she’s considering saying more on the matter. Then with the tiniest shake, she decides not to. ‘But it’s no matter. I know Ed was keen to get you on to our team. He spoke to you about it, I think?’
‘A few months back, yes.’ Is this a job interview? Do I want one any more?
‘I’ve read your file, Constance.’ Shepherd pauses again. ‘May I call you Constance?’
‘I prefer Con, but sure.’
‘Con. Of course. Anyway. I’ve read your file, and the reports into the DeVilliers and Bailey cases. What you did, how you coped, well, it surprises me that you’re still only a DC. Most of your fast-track contemporaries are DIs or higher now.’
Actually, most of my fast-track contemporaries have quit and are making a mint in banking and finance, but I don’t think it would be wise to correct her. I think Shepherd meant it as a compliment. I’ll take it as one, even if I’m fairly sure I know where this conversation is going. ‘I had the offer of a promotion to sergeant a few years ago, but it meant leaving the team and going back to uniform, at least for a short while. I reckon turning them down hurt my prospects going forward. I wasn’t really bothered, mind. The pay would’ve been nice, but I’m not so big on responsibility.’
Shepherd’s frown at my explanation suggests she doesn’t really believe me. I’m not sure I really believe me either. The lack of promotion has bothered me in the past, just not enough to do anything about it.
‘You know the NCA structure’s different to the Met, right?’
‘Yeah, kind of.’
/>
‘We’re not all coppers, for one thing. Ed calls me superintendent, but that’s more of a pay grade than a rank. My background’s military.’
That surprises me. I’d thought all ex-soldiers were neat freaks, but Shepherd has the look of someone who wouldn’t bother with a hairbrush if she really didn’t have to.
‘The thing is, Const— Con. I think you’d work well in our team.’
‘Yeah, I know. But not right now. You said. Can’t say it’s not frustrating though.’
‘Well it’ll be even more frustrating to hear I’ve okayed PC Eve’s secondment to the team. She’ll be transferring to plain clothes, too.’
‘Good for her. She deserves a break.’ I say it because it’s the right thing to say, but even as the words come out I realise I mean them.
‘That doesn’t mean there’s no place for you with us. Once the media focus is off and everyone’s forgotten about you we can see about getting you on board.’
‘And in the meantime? I just what? Put up with it and try not to break anyone’s face?’
‘That would be a start.’ Shepherd shrugs. ‘But actually I was thinking maybe it would be a good idea to get out of London again. Just for a while.’
I want to say ‘But I live here’ and jut out my lower lip like a child. Some small measure of sense stops me, and instead I ask, ‘But what will I do?’
Shepherd says nothing for a while, just looks at me with an expression I’d expect from a mother to that same child, as if she’s waiting for me to think things through and work it out for myself. Finally she deigns to give me a hint.
‘That young man you found, Dan Jones. He’s still in intensive care, but the doctors reckon he’ll survive. Guess they make them tough up there.’