The Killer

by Susan Wilkins

  ‘Well, we’ve got the bare bones to start building a case, but it’s early days. Thing I wanted to ask you was, do you think Karen Phelps knows the Kemals?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Nicci would have preferred to lie outright, but she decided not to risk it.

  ‘Well, she’s never going to talk to me. But you could ask her about them.’

  ‘C’mon, giving you background information’s one thing—’

  ‘I just want the information to get fed back, see how she reacts. From her point of view, it could be good news. Means Koshkin was the target, not her. The Kemals probably don’t even know about her.’

  Nicci knew for a fact that wasn’t true, though she said nothing. She could’ve splurged out the whole sorry story of that night in Tottenham, the night Kaz Phelps would have got shot if Nicci and her former colleague, Rory, an ex-Army major, hadn’t turned up to save her. It was a chance for Nicci to ’fess up and get herself back on the right side of the law. After all, it was Rory who’d done all the shooting.

  But Rivlin’s attitude irked her. He’d referred to her as his chis, his informant, and it was becoming apparent that it wasn’t entirely a joke. She wondered if he’d told DCI Stoneham that he was using her in this way. She’d spoken to them as colleagues and out of a desire to help. Now an invisible line had been crossed. He was placing her firmly on the outside, handling her exactly as you would a chis – keeping it friendly, charming her, but with a calculated purpose. Before she knew it, she’d be on the register. It left her feeling uncomfortable and also unclean.

  Tom Rivlin treated her to his twinkly Irish smile. ‘It was your idea. Let her go and let her run, you said. See where she leads us.’

  ‘How come I’ve ended up as the go-between in all this?’

  ‘C’mon, Nicci – by rights she should be back in jail. But you pleaded her case and I had a word in the right ear.’

  ‘Uncle Steve, you mean?’

  ‘This is the quid pro quo, surely you understand that. How else do you think I got Stoneham to sign off on it?’

  Nicci stood up. ‘I thought you might’ve had the balls to act on your own initiative. Clearly I was wrong.’

  ‘You’re misunderstanding this whole situation—’

  ‘Am I? Run back to the boss and tell her I’m a former police officer and a private investigator. I’m not anyone’s fucking chis!’

  Spinning on her heel she stalked off.

  ‘Nicci, hang on. Please!’

  His voice drifted after her but she didn’t give him a backward glance. Dodging pedestrians and vehicles she strode onwards, driven by anger. How dare they try to use her as if she was some ex-con to be manipulated? Covert human intelligence source! It was an insult and it left her seething. She didn’t pause for breath until she reached Charing Cross Road.

  12

  Kaz stared at her phone. It was the third text from Nicci Armstrong in half an hour. She’d also had two calls from the ex-cop which she’d refused. Clearly she needed to ditch this phone and the SIM; one more item to add to her to-do list.

  Ellie was dozing on the sofa. Her breathing was heavy and regular, punctuated by the occasional snuffle as she surfaced for a moment then sank back into slumber. Kaz had opened a can of tomato soup from the cupboard, heated the contents and spooned it into her mother’s mouth. The patient had been grateful and compliant. Neither had spoken much but the process had left Kaz feeling odd. Ellie’s physical frailty was unsettling. She wanted to remain detached but the smell of her mother’s unwashed hair and damp skin spiralled her back into long-forgotten memories.

  Sitting on the opposite sofa, watching Ellie sleep, she’d replayed some of the highlights of their relationship in her mind. The venom of their last real encounter before Joey died still permeated everything. The purity of Ellie’s hatred of her daughter on that day had cut like a knife.

  Throughout Kaz’s childhood, Ellie’s preference for her beloved son had simply been a fact of life. Her two daughters were sometimes useful, mostly an annoyance and, in Kaz’s case as she grew up, a source of jealousy. But when Kaz testified in court against her brother the already tenuous maternal bond had been severed irrevocably – or so it felt at the time. The last thing Kaz had ever expected or wanted was to find herself back in this house feeding soup to her sick mother.

  She scrolled through Nicci’s latest text: Need to speak. URGENTLY. Plse call. She had no idea what the ex-cop could want and she certainly didn’t care. She’d asked her for help and been refused. The prison authorities would protect her, that’s what Nicci had said, although they both knew it was bollocks. As she clicked the phone off and tossed it aside she became aware of Ellie’s crinkled, piggy eyes blinking at her.

  ‘How you feeling?’

  ‘Ropey.’ Ellie’s voice was barely a croak.

  ‘Does it hurt, the arm?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Kaz stood up. ‘I’ll get you some more painkillers.’

  ‘Did Bri say anything before he left?’

  ‘Not really. Tried to help himself to twenty-five grand stashed under the floorboards in your bedroom.’

  ‘Bastard.’ Ellie seemed to have found a new object for her rancour. ‘I can’t believe he just drove off and left us. What a bastard!’

  Kaz shrugged. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

  ‘What you gonna do now?’

  ‘Make a cup of tea.’

  ‘Nah, I don’t mean that, stupid.’ Ellie used her good arm to ease herself up into a sitting position. ‘I mean how you gonna sort this out?’

  Kaz folded her arms and faced her mother. ‘Dunno. You got any ideas?’

  A look of alarm spread across the poor woman’s features. ‘I don’t even fucking know what it’s about. Joey upset someone?’

  ‘Joey tried to kill them, got shot in the process.’

  Ellie’s chin quivered, tears welling up. ‘I don’t understand none of it. Joey wasn’t . . . I mean, he must’ve had his reasons. He wasn’t bad.’

  Kaz watched her mother struggling to reconcile her fantasies with reality. ‘Depends what counts as bad. He liked killing people. When I first got out the nick I tried to persuade him it was a ridiculous risk, he should stop and focus on the business. He didn’t take my advice.’

  ‘He was always wilful. But he was a good son.’

  ‘Unlike me.’ Kaz wanted to sound neutral, but she couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. ‘You never thought I was a good daughter, did you?’

  Her mother blinked at her a couple times. She looked more like a frightened child. ‘All he wanted was the two of you working together. He loved you, Kaz.’

  ‘Then he should’ve listened to me.’

  Ellie’s gaze veered off. She wasn’t ready to tarnish the memory of her golden boy by agreeing to that.

  Kaz shoved her hands in her pockets. She’d spent most of her life trying to escape the burden that came with Joey’s love. And even in death he’d succeeded in trapping her with an act of love. He’d gone out to kill for her, to prove a point. And in doing so he’d turned her into a target.

  She shook her head wearily. ‘I’ll put the kettle on and get them painkillers.’

  ‘Hang on, love.’

  Kaz stopped in her tracks. It had been a while since her mother had used that or any other term of endearment.

  ‘I need to say this.’ Ellie took a breath. ‘I been wrong about a lot of things. Late in the day to admit it, I know. Your dad . . .’ Her voice trailed off and she couldn’t hold her daughter’s eye.

  The knot in Kaz’s belly twisted, bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it down. ‘We don’t need to talk about him, Mum. Probably better if we don’t.’

  Ellie raised a beseeching hand. ‘I should’ve . . . I know I should’ve . . . I tried to . . . but he . . .’ Her voice faded to a whisper. ‘I knew it was wrong.’

  It was a shocking admission and at first Kaz wasn’t even sure what her mother was admitting. She stared at her blankly for a moment. Elli
e’s small, watery eyes turned away. She pursed her lips, dipped her head. Was this what shame looked like? Or was she begging because she was desperate, because she was shit-scared and Kaz was all she had left?

  Her insides were churning but Kaz was determined to remain detached. She wasn’t about to be suckered by some half-arsed apology fifteen years too late. Her tone was matter-of-fact. ‘You was out of your box on pills most of the time. He used to come to my room to tuck me in. That’s how it started.’

  Slowly Ellie raised her head. Kaz noticed that underneath the dye-job her roots were nearly white. ‘I shoulda stood up to him. I was just too scared.’

  Kaz’s thoughts skittered back to the kitchen in their old place in Basildon – Ellie leaning over the sink, sobbing and spitting blood, one eye socket so swollen and disfigured she couldn’t see – and suddenly her mother’s agony felt so real Kaz could even taste the blood. The knot in her belly tightened and pain ripped up through her torso. But she fought it. Then the anger came to her rescue.

  Ellie was a user, she always had been, and Kaz was way too smart to fall for a number like this. With Joey gone, her mother would say or do whatever it took to get Kaz onside. But it was all lies and bullshit, nothing more.

  Staring down at her, Kaz refused to feel anything but scorn. Ellie raised her eyes and gave her daughter a sour smile. ‘Blokes, eh! They’re not worth a fucking candle, any of ’em.’

  ‘You’re the one who married him.’ Her shoulders felt rigid and she was close to tears, but Kaz forced herself to turn away and head for the kitchen. ‘I’m gonna go and make that tea.’

  13

  By the time Tom Rivlin got to Chelmsford the press conference was nearly over. With the announcement of Reverend Taylor’s death, interest in the case had rocketed and it was standing-room only, even though the venue had been moved to the County Council Chamber. Edging through a side door, Rivlin counted half a dozen television news crews from all the main domestic broadcasters, plus international stringers, a horde of print journalists, bloggers, photographers and radio reporters.

  The atmosphere was subdued, punctuated by the rapid-fire click-clack of camera shutters. Cheryl Stoneham sat behind a jumble of microphones on the dais at the front, flanked by the uniformed District Commander and a sharply suited, shaven-headed man in a dog collar.

  The Bishop was addressing the room in a sombre tone: ‘. . . and our thoughts and prayers are with Justin Taylor’s family at this terrible time. Especially his wife, Charlotte, and their baby daughter, Emily . . .’ He seemed about to continue, then he simply shook his head abruptly, as if to erase the horror, and wiped his nose and mouth with his palm.

  DCI Stoneham glanced at him and waited a moment. Then she turned to face the microphones. ‘Thank you, Bishop. Okay, I’ll take one more question from the floor.’

  A forest of competing arms flew up and Stoneham pointed at random. An eager young woman jumped to her feet. ‘Did Reverend Taylor know he was burying Joey Phelps?’

  Stoneham shook her head. ‘No. He was duped. By professional criminals.’

  ‘Will action be taken against the Phelps family?’

  The Bishop flapped his hand, his chin quivering. ‘Justin was an open-hearted young man, totally dedicated to his ministry. He would not have judged the Phelps family – or any other grieving family, for that matter—’

  Sensing a chink in the official line, a tabloid hack dived in. ‘Wouldn’t he have thought it all a bit odd, Bishop? Shouldn’t he have smelled a rat? Referred it up? To yourself, perhaps? Did any money change hands?’

  Colour rose in the clergyman’s cheeks. He was already overwrought and this was the last straw. The police had questioned him at some length as to why proper procedures were not followed. He seemed about to deliver a riposte, but Stoneham laid a discreetly restraining hand on his forearm and took control.

  ‘This is both a tragic and complex case involving organized crime. Four people died in this murderous shooting. And our absolute priority is to bring those responsible to justice. So I’m going to thank you for your attention, ladies and gentlemen. There will be another press briefing tomorrow at . . . twelve noon?’ She glanced at the Press Officer for confirmation. ‘Yes, twelve o’clock.’

  The room erupted in noise and shuffle. Cameras were demounted from tripods and kit was packed. As Tom Rivlin threaded his way around those heaving and shifting equipment he cast an appraising eye over the milling hacks. He noticed several well-known faces among them – reporters who featured regularly on the national television news – and it gave him a buzz. The news editors were deploying their big guns. This wasn’t another domestic or the fallout from a bar-room brawl. Stoneham had said it: this was a complex case involving organized crime. She might be fronting it, but he was the one who had the story they were all dying to hear. He was entitled to feel a little smug.

  He approached the boss, who was standing in a corner delivering soothing words to the traumatized Bishop. Rivlin hung back and watched them shake hands. He got the impression that the priest was giving the DCI a blessing, which struck him as faintly amusing. Ritual over, the Bishop turned and left.

  Stoneham picked up her sheaf of papers and gave him a wry look. ‘Right, I hope you’ve got something better for me than a wing and a prayer.’

  ‘Looks like you could use a drink, boss. My shout.’

  The DCI sighed. ‘Why not? My old man’ll just have to put up with takeaway again tonight.’

  Weaving through the press pack and out into the evening sunshine they headed for the Riverside Inn, far enough away, they judged, to avoid any thirsty reporters.

  Rivlin was a sportsman and a fast walker but he wisely let Stoneham set the pace. She was overweight, menopausal and her smart, mid-heel court shoes – part of the press conference outfit – meant she could only totter along. He liked her and he worried for her; she was a woman of huge capabilities who took care of everything and everyone but herself.

  She cast him a sideways glance. ‘You reckon the Kemals are our prime suspects then?’

  ‘I think so. We can connect them to Koshkin, we can connect them to the Albanian shooter, plus they have a motive. Met aren’t going to be happy to give us the lead. They’ve got a small surveillance operation ongoing, for the people-trafficking and the drugs, but it hasn’t yielded enough evidence so far to mount a prosecution.’

  ‘Nothing on the funeral directors’ van yet?’

  ‘We’re assuming they came out of East London towards Essex. I’ve got three officers trawling CCTV for potential vans in likely locations, then we’re running the index numbers through the ANPR database. But it’s a lot of footage to view and there are a lot of vans out there.’

  ‘How was Nicci?’

  ‘She’s fine. Happy to cooperate.’ Rivlin didn’t regard this as a lie. The DCI had enough on her plate. The spat with Nicci was his problem. He should have handled her with more care. It was a minor issue and he’d put it on the back burner until he could find a way to sort it out.

  As the DCI paused to get her breath and cross the road, she tilted her head and considered him. Some of her junior officers thought she had second sight; it was spooky the things she picked up on. ‘I told you she was medically discharged, didn’t I?’

  ‘She’s an alchy, yeah. Though I noticed she still drinks.’

  Stoneham shook her head. ‘Her daughter was killed in an RTA. That might cause anyone to take a drink or two. Before that, she was a bloody good cop.’

  Rivlin read the rebuke in her tone immediately. He was also shocked. ‘No, boss, you didn’t mention that.’

  ‘If your theory is right and we’re looking at a feud between what remains of Joey Phelps’s crew and the Kemals, then Karen Phelps could be key. That’s the only reason she’s still out there.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’ Rivlin was thinking about Nicci. A dead kid? She’d given no hint of that. His self-congratulatory mood was dissolving into vague unease.

  ‘You want me
to talk to Nicci again?’ Stoneham gave him a mildly quizzical look.

  ‘No, it’s all fine.’ He met her eye; he knew she was on to him. ‘Though I think she may be a bit offended by the notion that she’s acting as our chis.’

  Stoneham chuckled; his discomfort, the whole scenario had suddenly fallen into place. ‘You actually said that to her?’

  ‘I was . . . y’know, being jokey.’

  ‘Thomas, you are a silly boy. I’ve told you before: don’t play with women unless you mean it.’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean, boss.’ When she used that tone it pissed him off royally. He wasn’t her teenage son.

  ‘She’s a professional and a former colleague – treat her as such.’

  ‘I thought I was.’ He sounded petulant.

  The traffic had slowed to a crawl; holding up her hand imperiously, Stoneham stepped out into the road. Rivlin followed her across and they entered the Riverside Inn.

  He was annoyed, mainly with himself. He was ambitious, he liked to win and it wouldn’t be too many years before he had Stoneham’s job. The thing holding him back was his inability to read people accurately. He’d waded through the psychology books, he’d done courses and tried to study human behaviour at every opportunity. Men were easier but women usually defeated him – a cliché but true. He wished he could take a peek at the world through his boss’s eyes, if only for five minutes.

  He knew he was regarded as arrogant. It was the comment that kept coming up in his performance reviews, though he couldn’t see why. How could he be arrogant when it felt as though he was always playing catch-up? Self-improvement was his religion, that was why he ran. Once he had a goal, there was no stopping him.

  It hadn’t always been that way. At school he’d messed up; in the end he had to go through clearing and settle for a geography degree, having failed to get the grades to study law. Most of his mates from the running club had gone into the business world or retail. But he didn’t want to be a supermarket manager. He wanted his life to be about something more than just making money. Lurking deep inside there was still the boyish yen to be a hero, to fight the good fight. So he’d joined the police.