by LJ Ross
“The request by the criminal gang, we believe to be the Smoggies, to have DC Lowerson remove, destroy or otherwise tamper with primary evidence linking Rochelle White to the late Daniel Hepple, thereby creating a link to her partner, Bobby Singh, was an attempt to induce DC Lowerson to incriminate himself further. Having been made aware of this situation, I, with the approval of senior members of staff including DCI Blackett, re-arranged the evidence and removed one item to a safe place. The evidence therefore remains completely intact.”
Their faces were mirror images of dawning horror.
“You say you were coming here to arrest DC Lowerson?” Blackett said. “We believe you came here on the orders of a man named Paul Evershed, street name ‘Ludo’, who, in turn, received an order from Bobby Singh to kill DC Lowerson before he was able to clear his name of these spurious allegations.”
“That’s utter nonsense,” Tomlinson blustered.
Blackett turned to one of the constables standing behind him.
“Search them,” he said.
Within seconds, various items including a firearm, nitrile gloves, a length of rope, plastic sheeting and duct tape they would commonly associate as being part of a murder/suicide kit, were pulled from their pockets and from the small bag DI Terry Prince had brought with him.
There were also three burner mobiles.
As a final nail in the coffin, Ryan pulled out the mobile belonging to Paul Evershed and typed a single word:
NICKED.
Seconds later, all three phones buzzed against the carpet.
“Well, well. Look at that,” Blackett said, and then to his sergeant, “Get these three scabs out of my sight.”
CHAPTER 40
Friday, 15th June 2019
Paul Evershed’s mobile phone contained the clues to the identities of a further fourteen corrupt officers across command divisions in Northumbria, Durham and Cleveland, including DCI Coates, who was arrested at his home in the early hours of Friday morning by DS Tim Gallagher, who had been working undercover in Coates’ team for over twelve months, in his role as a special agent for the Ghost Squad.
The drugs bust in Berwick-upon-Tweed caused an overnight sensation, and was widely reported to be the biggest haul ever intercepted by a UK police force.
In the media and bureaucratic whirlwind that followed, it would have been easy for Ryan to forget that there remained another important visit he needed to make. By now, it had become clear that Sally and Mike Emerson had been taking kickbacks in respect of large-scale property deals with off-shore companies they strongly suspected to be owned and operated by Bobby Singh. Unfortunately, as Priory Developments was held under a Nevada Trust, they were unable to access the details of its beneficiaries in order to make the evidential connection.
It was clear that Simon and, possibly, Alan Watson, had died at Ludo’s hand on the orders of Bobby Singh, but it was unclear whether this related to his prospective property investment near Penshaw, or whether the order came via a member of their own family.
Ryan made it his business to find out.
He and Phillips made the drive down to Durham Hospital, knowing that Sally Emerson was due to speak at the rally organised by her brother against Universal Credit later that morning, while Mike Emerson was due to be at his office for the rest of the day.
It gave neither man any particular pleasure to know that their visit may lead to further heartache for Joan Watson, who had suffered more than her fair share already. However, it was their job to avenge the dead, who could not speak for themselves, even if it meant inflicting a measure of pain on the living who remained.
“Joan?”
She looked up at the sound of Ryan’s voice, and became very animated, her hands searching around the bedspread for the notepad and pen she’d been given the previous day.
“Do you need this?” He held it out for her.
She nodded, miserably.
“Cnt spk,” she managed, and tears pooled in her eyes.
“Sorry to have taken so long to get here, Joan.” Ryan reached across to place his hand gently over hers. “We were hoping to speak to you about Simon…”
He trailed off when Joan clutched the pen between her two good fingers and began, painstakingly, to write a message.
Phillips leaned across to read it out.
“I know…I know… what she did.”
The two detectives exchanged a glance.
“Sally?”
She wrote another message.
“Sally…Mike…talking here.”
“Here in the hospital?” Ryan wondered aloud. “You heard them talking?”
Joan nodded again, and managed to write another word.
“Worm,” Phillips said. “You think Sally’s the worm?”
Tears rolled down Joan’s face, but she nodded, and Ryan leaned forward.
“In the papers your husband requested from GCHQ, it mentioned that the handler who’d been in charge of communicating with their mole in Penshaw—the person people came to call ‘The Worm’—had been reprimanded for improper behaviour. I wondered whether there might have been an affair of some kind. Do you know anything about that?”
“Mcdge,” Joan said, and shook her head when they looked blank. “Miscrdge.”
“Miscarriage?” Phillips asked.
“Sally had a miscarriage, and it wasn’t Mike’s baby?” Ryan said.
Joan nodded, and collapsed back against the pillows, grey with the effort.
“Rally,” she said, very clearly, and Ryan understood what she was giving him permission to do.
Unable to find the words to express his sorrow, Ryan stood and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to the old woman’s forehead.
“We’ll be back to see you soon,” he whispered, and she patted his hand with her bandaged one.
* * *
It seemed that the entire population of Penshaw and the surrounding villages had turned out for the Rally Against Universal Credit, which was Simon Watson’s greatest legacy. A microphone and enormous speakers had been erected beside the monument, and hundreds of people were sitting and standing on the hillside so that, when Ryan and Phillips arrived, it bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the Sermon on the Mount.
“There she is,” Phillips muttered.
Ryan looked up and saw Sally Emerson walk to the podium amidst the friendly cheers of the people she’d known since childhood, and whom she had promised to serve in public office.
“As many of you know, we lost my brother to a fatal drug overdose only a few days ago,” she was saying, and her voice rang out across the fields, echoing around the village where she’d been born. “He was a kind and loving man, who battled his own demons over the years, but managed to overcome every challenge. Before he died, he organised this rally, ahead of a Jobcentre Workers’ Strike, as a peaceful platform to raise his deeply-held concerns about the implementation of Universal Credit. As a former resident of Penshaw and a daughter of this region, it gives me great pride to—to—”
Sally stumbled over the words she’d written, as she spotted Ryan and Phillips, dressed in their best suits and flanked by two police officers in full uniform, making their way through the crowds to where she stood, at the base of the monument.
“—to, ah, to be here, today.”
As the four police officers passed through the crowd, which parted to let them through, the whispers started.
Why are the police here?
Are they here for Sally?
Why would they want to arrest Sally?
Ryan held eye contact with the woman holding the microphone, as they drew nearer.
“Please,” she whispered, and it echoed around the hillside. “Not here, please.”
When Ryan and Phillips reached the podium where she stood, Sally Emerson fell silent, and the microphone dropped from her hand with a heavy metal thud.
“Sally Emerson, I am arresting you on suspicion of soliciting the murder of your brother, Simon Watson. I am further
arresting you on suspicion of fraud, conspiracy to defraud and of misconduct in public office,” Ryan said. “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
“The murder of my brother?” Sally replied, with feigned indignation. “Why on Earth would I have wanted my brother dead?”
“One very simple reason—he had found out that you were ‘The Worm’ and probably threatened to expose your other illicit dealings. You would do anything to prevent your betrayal from being made public.”
Ryan watched the colour drain from her face and she cast her eyes to the ground, a broken woman. He looked across to the two constables, both from the local station, and gave a short nod for them to step forward.
Handcuffs might not have been strictly necessary, but there was nothing he could charge her for in relation to her moral crimes against her family and the people she’d deceived for so many years. There was no law against betrayal, the kind that cut to the core of a community, or the treachery of a daughter implicating her own father to protect herself, consigning a good man to a life of shame and hardship.
But it gave Ryan solace to know that, for a woman such as Sally Emerson, there was no greater punishment than the contempt of her peers, some of whom were recording the event on their smartphones and broadcasting it on social media, for all to see.
Sally Emerson’s wailing cries could be heard as she was marched down the hill towards a waiting squad car, but, before she reached it, an incredible thing happened.
Scab, the crowd whispered.
Worm, they said. Worm, worm, worm.
One by one, the hundreds who had turned out to stand up for the vulnerable and the weak turned their backs on Sally Emerson, who stood for nothing and nobody but herself.
CHAPTER 41
Before the morning was out, Councillor Sally Emerson had sung like the proverbial canary. She provided detailed accounts of her conversations with Bobby Singh to the police, which enabled officers from Operation Watchman to apprehend him as he tried to board a private jet bound for Rio de Janeiro.
Mike Emerson was charged as an accessory, although his charge was reduced in exchange for the disclosure of significant records kept throughout the time he was bankrolled by Bobby Singh. He was also delighted to give evidence against his wife, Sally, upon learning not only that she had been ‘The Worm’, but that the baby they’d lost all those years ago, and for whom he’d grieved, had not been his own flesh and blood. Even morally bankrupt criminals were not above a bit of hypocrisy, apparently.
Having obtained a search warrant, Lowerson and Yates made their way to Singh’s mansion with Faulkner’s team of CSIs in order to complete a thorough search of the property and, in particular, the brand-new swimming pool that had been laid in such haste.
“I still have no idea where Ludo took us, after I got into the car,” Lowerson said, as they watched the police contractors excavate the site. “The tech team are going to use Ludo’s burner mobile to work backwards and, hopefully, triangulate its position last Wednesday and Thursday. We should be able to locate whatever holiday cottage or farmhouse he used, once we know that.”
“Even if you don’t, it doesn’t matter.”
He turned to look at her.
“Without a crime scene, there’s no chance of me clearing my name. It would always hang over me…”
“They wouldn’t—” Yates started to say, but fell silent when he shook his head.
“You don’t need to say it. I know it was stupid to arrange a meeting with an informant without telling my partner. I put myself in a dangerous position and opened myself up to extortion, which is exactly what happened.”
He looked away, thinking of how stupid that had been.
“Mel, I can only give you my word that nothing happened with Rochelle. I was knocked unconscious and, while I was out, Ludo probably threatened her into posing next to me on the bed. That’s all I can think. But, look, I wouldn’t blame you, if you’d had enough,” he said quietly. “I’ve messed you around too many times to ask for another chance.”
Yates gave a small sigh.
“I put in a transfer request,” she told him.
Jack was shocked.
“Mel, please, there’s no need for that. I’ll move, if you can’t stand to work with me. You shouldn’t have to move anywhere—”
“I cancelled the request this morning.”
Lowerson smiled beautifully.
“Why?” he asked.
Because I think I love you, you stupid great lump, she was tempted to say.
“Because, although you were foolish, you were also brave,” she said, carefully. “Without you, we wouldn’t have been able to bring in the biggest drugs haul in living memory. We wouldn’t have toppled the Smoggies, or Bobby Singh—and Joan Watson might have lived the rest of her life never knowing who really killed her husband, thirty-five years ago.”
“Don’t you mean, last Friday?”
Yates shook her head. “Although Simon Watson was certainly murdered by Ludo, and we have the messages on Ludo’s phone to prove it, Ryan and the pathologist both believe Alan Watson had a heart attack and dropped his cigarette, which subsequently caught fire on the living room carpet. It wasn’t murder, but it still turned out to be a catalyst for all the rest.”
“God rest him,” Lowerson murmured. “His last act was the FOI request that finally cleared his name, but he never knew it.”
Yates nodded, and they shared a quiet moment.
“Detective Constable? I think we’ve found something.”
They both turned as one of the police contractors called across to them from where they had been digging up the foundations.
Lowerson and Yates both said a silent prayer, and made their way across the lawn to pay their final respects to Rochelle White.
EPILOGUE
One month later
Joan Watson passed away peacefully in her sleep, whilst under the care of the doctors and nurses at the hospital in Durham. Before she died, she spent considerable time and energy writing a complete account of all she remembered overhearing her daughter and son-in-law say whilst they were at the hospital, which was duly attested and entered as a statement into evidence.
Joan had never been a wealthy woman, but what little she had, she bequeathed to a local charity who worked exclusively with recovering addicts and who had worked tirelessly with her son, before he died.
The Penshaw Village Association thought long and hard about how best to honour Alan and Joan Watson, both as an apology and in recognition for all Alan had tried to do, to maintain the way of life and to improve living and working conditions for the miners, ex-miners and their families. After the scandal surrounding the housing contract between the Emersons and Priory Developments, plans for three hundred new homes to be built on common land forming part of Herrington Park were scrapped. Instead, the Village Association petitioned the council to erect a small memorial in Alan Watson’s memory, which was agreed by a unanimous vote of the council’s representatives.
Ryan and Phillips were invited to attend the ceremonial unveiling of the memorial plaque, which was placed near to the existing miners’ memorial garden in Herrington Park, to serve as a symbolic reminder that Alan Watson had, and would always be, a man of the people.
“Lovely ceremony,” Ryan remarked, on their way back to the car. “Must’ve been three or four hundred there, at least.”
Phillips nodded, and paused to look out across the parkland, which had once been a very different landscape entirely. Children played on the swings or played football while their parents spread picnic blankets on the grass, enjoying the simple pleasures of fresh air and sunshine.
“Nobody expects the world to stay the same,” he said, after a minute or two. “Nothing ever does. All they ask is for a little compassion during the transition.”
Ryan nodded, and gave his frie
nd a manly slap on the back.
“Quick pint?”
“Aye, go on. You’ve twisted my arm.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Penshaw was inspired by the real village and monument of the same name, which I always watch out for on the train home to Newcastle from London. The historic Penshaw Colliery, which features in the book, is of course entirely fictional. Although not from Penshaw, my father grew up in a pit village with uncles and grandfathers who worked in the mines. My overriding impression is of a close-knit community life, where people looked out for one another and helped wherever they could. In the North East, where I am from, people are still feeling the effects of the mine closures and remember the Miners’ Strike of 1984-85 as being a very difficult time, during which they felt abandoned by the state and misunderstood by those who did not work in that industry. Whilst I do not intend to make any political remarks about whether the mines should or should not have closed, I think it is important to reflect, to the best of my ability, some of the feelings and emotions of those caught up in that strike and in the subsequent closures, as with my character of Alan Watson, whose tears I shared when writing the prologue to this story.
LJ ROSS
July 2019
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, LJ Ross moved to London where she graduated from King’s College London with undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in Law. After working in the City as a regulatory lawyer for a number of years, she realised it was high time for a change. The catalyst was the birth of her son, which forced her to take a break from the legal world and find time for some of the detective stories that had been percolating for a while and finally demanded to be written.
She lives with her husband and young son in her beautiful home county of Northumberland.