‘You sure it’s okay for me to visit?’
The cop nodded. ‘Absolutely. I told her you were coming. She was really pleased.’
‘You’re sticking around then?’
He gave her a side-eyed glance. ‘Why wouldn’t I stick around?’
‘She deserves something good in her life. Don’t fuck her over, will you?’
‘My boss, DCI Stoneham, said a similar thing.’
‘At least we agree on that.’
They walked through the foyer and down several corridors.
Rivlin finally broke the silence. ‘You seen the news? Pudovkin got his comeuppance.’
Kaz frowned. ‘Yeah, what happened there? You know anything about it?’
‘It happened at his wife’s birthday party. Quite a shoot-out. Pudovkin was killed, plus one of his bodyguards – a Brit – and Robert Hollister, the politician.’
‘Blimey! Do the police know who did it?’
‘The Met’s inquiries are ongoing, as they say. But according to Blake, the security service reckons Moscow decided he’d got too big for his boots and the FSB whacked him.’
Kaz allowed herself a small smile. ‘Hard to feel sorry.’
‘For him, I agree. But there were two other victims, both British citizens. So there’ll be a robust response. Not that it’ll get very far. You can pretty much guarantee that the killers caught the next plane home. And, as with the Litvinenko case, even if we can name them, the Russians will never agree to their extradition.’
‘What will happen then?’
‘Bit of diplomatic posturing. It’s infuriating, but there’s not much else we can do. What you won’t have read about in the news is that a few days ago, another body turned up.’
‘Who?’ Kaz tried not to look surprised.
‘Bloke called Ahmad Karim. Lebanese. Found him on the rocks at Beachy Head. But it wasn’t a suicide.’
‘How do they know?’
‘He was missing his fingernails. He was also an MI6 asset. McCain and Naylor used him to hook Pudovkin into their intel-gathering scheme. I got this from Blake, in confidence.’
‘Then why you telling me?’
Rivlin raked a hand through his hair and sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. ’Cause what happened to Nicci was their fault? And ’cause, frankly, the whole thing pisses me off.’ There was no mistaking the bitterness in his tone. ‘Ex-cops turned spooks? There’s no justification for it. It’s all a political fucking power game.’
‘So who killed this bloke?’
‘FSB probably. The theory is, that’s how they figured out what Pudovkin was up to and that’s what led to the birthday party shoot-out.’
Kaz Phelps gave him a ghostly smile. ‘Makes sense, I suppose.’
They’d reached the door to Nicci’s private room. Rivlin tapped softly and opened it.
Nicci was sitting, feet tucked under, in a large armchair listening to music. As the door opened she started, but she soon relaxed as she recognized them and held out her hand to Kaz. ‘Hey, come in.’ She pulled out the earbuds.
Rivlin smiled. ‘I’ll leave you two to chat.’ He disappeared.
‘You look better than I expected.’ Kaz drew up a chair.
Nicci chuckled. ‘Yeah, not bad for a mummified corpse.’
‘I’m surprised you can even talk about it.’
‘Therapy. We talk about everything here. Yak, yak, yak – it’s knackering. But, hey, I’m glad you came. I wanted to say thanks.’
Kaz shrugged.
‘If it hadn’t been for you and Eddie—’
‘I think you should cut Eddie some slack. He’s not a bad bloke.’
‘I realize that.’ She pointed to the enormous bouquet of flowers on the chest of drawers. ‘That’s from him. But then, he’ll know a bloke who could do him a deal.’
They both laughed.
‘It’s the way the world goes round, Nicci.’
‘Yeah. You could be right. You heard about Pudovkin?’
‘Bit of a turn-up.’
Nicci met Kaz’s gaze directly. ‘Certainly is. What do you make of it?’
‘Cops seem to think he upset the Kremlin. Who knows?’
‘Yeah. Blake came to see me. Told me the ins and outs. Sounds complicated.’
‘Yeah.’
Nicci’s eyes rested on her friend and, not for the first time, she wondered. ‘Hollister was shot too. Apparently the CPS had decided there wasn’t enough evidence to bring a case against him for what he did to Helen Warner.’
‘Really? Scumbags always get away with it, don’t they?’
‘Not this time.’ Nicci stared at her hard, the way a cop scrutinizes a suspect; she’d had plenty of practice. But Kaz didn’t waiver, she simply stared back and smiled. ‘No, not this time.’
The two women sat facing each other for a moment. Nicci Armstrong reflected that she’d never really been able to fathom what Karen Phelps was thinking. She remained a closed book. But did that really matter?
She smiled. ‘I’m hoping, once they sign me off here, to rejoin the police service.’
‘Probably safer.’
‘Yeah, I’m going to stick within the law from now on. What about you?’
‘I’m going to live with my sister. She’s got a little boy now. And I’m going back to studying art. Abroad maybe, if I can get permission from the probation service.’
‘Maybe one day you can send me one of your pictures.’
Kaz smiled but her dark eyes remained inscrutable. ‘Yeah, maybe I will.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This is my third novel and completes a trilogy which began with The Informant. Once again I have relied on the generosity and expertise of various people. My good friend GC remains indispensable. Stuart McCall, a former police officer, was patient and thorough in his explanation of the world of cybercrime. Former Chief Superintendent Graham Bartlett has been an invaluable resource both in terms of providing information and of critiquing the final manuscript.
The team at Pan Macmillan have continued to give me sterling support. I have relied, once again, on the excellent advice and guidance of my editor, Trisha Jackson, assisted by Phoebe Taylor. James Annal produced a great cover, Emma Bravo led a first-rate marketing campaign, while Stuart Dwyer and his sales team got the books out there and on the shelves. Laura Carr and Anne O’Brien were meticulous copy-editors. They have taught me a good deal about grammar and syntax. But the mistakes and quirks remain my responsibility alone.
My agent, Jane Gregory, backed by an able team, is both a counsellor and a champion. Last but not least my two first readers, Sue Kenyon and Jenny Kenyon, continue to challenge and support me and bring me cups of tea. Thanks to all of you.
THE INFORMANT
by Susan Wilkins
Corrupt cops. Ruthless criminals. Obsessive love.
As a drug-fuelled teenage tearaway, Kaz Phelps took the rap for her little brother, Joey, over a bungled armed robbery, and went to jail.
Six years later she’s released on licence. Clean and sober, and driven by a secret passion for her lawyer, Helen, Kaz wants to escape the violence and abuse of her Essex gangster family.
Joey is a charming, calculating and cold psychopath. He worships the ground his sister walks on and he’s desperate to get her back in the family firm. But all Kaz wants is a fresh start and to put the past behind her.
When Joey murders an undercover cop, DS Nicci Armstrong is determined to put him behind bars. What she doesn’t realize is that their efforts are being sabotaged by one of their own.
The final test for Kaz comes when her cousin, Sean, gets out of jail. A vicious, old-school thug, he wants to put the girl back in her place. But can Kaz face him down and get her life back?
THE MOURNER
by Susan Wilkins
A murder dressed up as suicide. Corruption that goes to the heart of government. Ex-con and ex-cop unite in a dangerous quest to discover the truth. What they expose proves what both have always known:
villainy is rife on both sides of the law.
Kaz
Living anonymously under the witness protection scheme to escape her brother and her criminal past, Kaz Phelps is striving to achieve the freedom she craves. Her ex-lover and ex-lawyer, Helen Warner, is now a rising star in parliament, but it seems she’s made enemies on her way up that have no regard for the law.
Joey
Banged up and brooding, Joey Phelps faces thirty years behind bars. He’s got cash and connections on the outside, and he’s plotting revenge. He wants to find the person he’s closest to – and the one who betrayed him.
Nicci
Ousted from the police and paralysed by a tragic and personal loss, Nicci Armstrong is in danger of going under. But maybe a job with an ex-colleague will help her to put her life back on track?
If you enjoyed The Killer, read on for an extract from the first book in the trilogy, The Informant
PROLOGUE
Seeing them go, that’s what really did it for Joey. The moment of death, if he could just glimpse it. But the eyes had to be open; he liked it best when the pupils were wide with terror. Then, one click, the screen went blank. They were gone and that vacant stare shot through him like two hundred and fifty volts. Better than crack, better than charlie, way better than shagging. It was the ultimate hit. It was the power. Game over, you’d won. They were meat, you were the butcher.
Joey stood over Marlow, nerve ends zinging, his cock stirring in anticipation. Marlow fingered his broken nose, blood dripped onto the concrete floor. Joey unclenched his fist, rubbed his knuckles. He was in no hurry. He enjoyed a bit of foreplay.
‘So you gonna tell me the truth now?’
Marlow looked up at him, trying to gauge his mood. He had to make his next words count.
‘Seriously Joe, what is this about? Someone’s got their wires crossed here.’
Joey smiled. He seemed relaxed, unconcerned even.
‘You reckon?’
Built like a bruiser, face like an angel, Joey Phelps had charm to spare. Even as a small boy he had drawn people to him; those hypnotic baby-blue eyes under thick sandy lashes, his quirky smile. Joey reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out a neat wedge of folded tissues, squatted down beside Marlow.
‘Here. Clean yourself up.’
Marlow took the tissues warily, wincing as he pressed them to his nose.
Straightening up, Joey thrust both hands in his pockets and took a leisurely turn about the lock-up. The night air seeping under the door was chilly and dank. He gazed up at the vaulted arch of the ceiling, row upon row of blackened bricks, laid maybe a hundred and fifty years before to carry the railway from the smoke to the suburbs. Joey peered around; he knew he could take his time, savour his power.
‘Look at this place. You ever think about the blokes that built the railways?’
The remark hung in the air. Marlow glanced from Joey to Ashley. Ashley, as usual, was waiting on Joey’s next move. He was picking his teeth. He’d seen some actor do this in a clip from an old film he’d streamed, thought it looked cool.
‘All them millions of bricks to lay. Now that was grafting.’
Marlow eased himself up into a sitting position and rested his back against the wall. He could feel the dampness through his shirt; icy cold, it seeped through his flesh, chilling him to the heart. He knew that Joey was toying with him. He’d suspected for almost a week now that his cover had been blown. But when Joey and Ashley had called for him that evening, full of laddish high spirits, his fears had been allayed. They’d been clubbing, done a couple of lines, had a few beers. They were going on to a party, some soap actress Joey had been shagging. Then Joey announced he needed to make a quick stop.
Marlow cursed his own stupidity, he really should’ve guessed. He was twenty-nine years old, he had parents, retired now to Swanage, two older sisters. How would they cope with all this? Should he cry? Should he beg? He sucked in a few deep breaths to calm himself; exhaust fumes from the nearby main road, rancid fat from the kebab shop on the corner. The smells of London were suddenly all there, flooding his senses in both reality and in memory. And he was sure of one thing: he didn’t want to die.
‘Listen Joe, I dunno what lying bastard’s been telling tales about me, but—’
The silver toecap of Joey’s handmade boot caught him squarely in the temple. His head jarred with the impact and ricocheted back against the wall. Joey gazed at him calmly.
‘The Net’s a wonderful thing, innit? I got a couple of illegals who’re dead clever with all that. Hack into anything. They hacked into your file . . . Detective Sergeant. A Commissioner’s commendation. Ash was impressed. Weren’t you Ash?’
Ashley, intent on quarrying with his toothpick, simply nodded. Dazed from the blow, Marlow lurched forward and vomited on the floor. Joey watched, a smile of amusement and expectation spreading across his face, as if he were waiting for the punchline to a joke.
‘You ain’t gonna deny it then?’
Marlow wiped a shaky hand across his mouth, raised his head slowly. His gaze was watery but unflinching.
‘You’re a psycho Phelps. A real nut-job.’
‘Yeah?’ Joey laughed. ‘Hear that Ash? I’m a nut-job.’
Ashley slipped the toothpick in his pocket, glanced at Joey, the blue eyes shining iridescent, sweat beading on his upper lip. Joey smiled.
‘Nah mate, you’re the sucker here. No one plays me.’
Ashley pulled a pair of vinyl gloves from the back pocket of his jeans and calmly drew them on. Now it was really going to kick off. Joey selected a tyre iron from the tools on the workbench, weighed it in his hand. Marlow swallowed hard, glanced at the door and the tantalizing chink of neon beyond; it was worth a shot.
As Marlow scrabbled to his feet Joey slammed the tyre iron down on top of his skull, cracking it open. He lifted the iron and blood gushed up over splintered bone and the ruptured pearlescent membrane of the cerebral cortex. Joey seized Marlow’s jaw, twisted the face round to look right at him – the eyelids drooped. Marlow had already slipped into unconsciousness. Joey shook him with frustration. He wanted to see, but it was too late. Shoving him away Joey took another couple of swings. Ashley watched in annoyance. He was going to have to clean this lot up. He huffed.
‘Yeah all right. I think that’s done the trick.’
Joey paused and turned. Ashley caught a look of feral rage and quickly stepped back. Joey’s breathing was fast and shallow. His heart thumped. He closed his eyes. Ashley had seen this enough times before, yet still he never knew how to react. He focused on the blood puddling out round the lumps and bumps in the concrete.
‘I’ll get them bin bags out the car, shall I?’
Joey ignored him, the tyre iron clattering to the floor. He let his arms hang loose. He inhaled slowly. His shoulders sagged as the tension in his muscles slackened. Ashley stood rooted to the spot; he wasn’t going to risk the noise of the door. After a couple of moments Joey opened his eyes. Ashley held his breath then Joey grinned broadly.
‘Fuck me, what a blast!’
Ashley’s nerves evaporated. He grinned too and laughed. ‘Yeah! Wow!’
Joey filled his lungs, hooted with joy. ‘Fucking bastards! They think they can get me. Send all the fucking shit-eating filth you like. I’m Joey Fucking Phelps. And you’ll never get me!’
1
A pair of brown eyes stared directly at Kaz. Not solid brown, more muddy spiked with flecks of amber. The look itself was harder to read; some anger, resentment certainly, but behind that a void, a hollow of despair.
Kaz returned the look with her own searching gaze. Then she selected a pencil from the battered tin box, a 2B, she always started with a 2B. Opening the sketchbook to a fresh page she rapidly plotted out the main features. The eyes first. Her hand moved across the sheet of one-twenty gram cartridge with practised assurance. Her own eyes darted from the face in front of her down to the drawing and back again.
Yasmin’s brow furrowed.
‘Dunno why you don’t just take a picture.’
‘This is better. You see more.’
The contours of the head, the nose, the planes of the cheek were quickly taking shape. Kaz paused and forced herself to look harder. She was missing something. Was it in the angle of the chin? Somewhere deep in the gene pool below the whores and the drug mules, the servants and slaves, there lurked a Nubian princess, mistress of all she surveyed. And that pride was still there in the tilt of Yasmin’s battered jaw. Kaz smiled to herself, adjusted the line.
A key clanked in the lock and the cell door swung open. A prison officer stood there. It was Fat Pat. A short bundle of venom, she’d always had it in for Kaz.
‘You ready then Phelps?’
Kaz closed the sketchbook and slipped it with the tin of pencils into the plastic carrier at her feet. She stood up and smiled awkwardly at Yasmin. Yasmin rose stiffly and opened her arms.
‘Be lucky babe . . .’
Kaz stepped into the hug.
‘You be out yourself soon.’
‘Yeah and he be there waiting for me. Nah, I’m better off where I am. Least I got no broken bones.’
Fat Pat marched Kaz down the corridor. Being escorted was an all too familiar routine: walk in front, wait, the body odour and rasping Lycra as Pat waddled along behind. Kaz stopped at the door to the block and stood aside for Pat to unlock it. She towered over Pat by at least five inches. At first the daily sessions in the gym had been an outlet for her pent-up rage. Later it had become part of her discipline, the way forward, the way out. At twenty-five she was certainly the fittest she’d ever been; more importantly she was four years clean and sober. And she planned to stay that way.
Pat glared up at her. Kaz returned the look with a steady gaze.
‘Y’know Phelps, you may fool the shrinks, your offender manager and the parole board. But you don’t fool me. You’re pure evil. Clever, I’ll give you that. But underneath it all, evil.’
The Killer Page 35