You're Next

by Michael Fowler

  ‘Someone’s got to,’ he muttered.

  She delivered another repentant look. ‘Thank you. I’m very grateful. And thank you for rescuing me last night.’ As Alex turned to leave she said, ‘I need to ring Tarn to sort out my lift. Will you get me my BlackBerry from my bag?’

  ‘I’ve already rung him and told him he doesn’t need to bother – that I was dropping you off.’

  ‘You’ve told Tarn I got drunk?’

  ‘No, of course not. I told him we went out for some food last night and I crashed down on your sofa. Half of that is the truth.’

  ‘Thank you, Alex. I owe you.’

  ‘Big time.’ He laughed and turned to walk away. ‘And take a long shower. You smell like an old wino.’

  ‘Hey, Alex King. Less of the old.’ She snatched up a pillow and slung it at him.

  Eleven

  Scarlett stayed longer than normal in the shower, soaping herself thoroughly; the last thing she wanted was to have last night's booze still clinging to her when she got to the office. Stepping out and wrapping a towel around her, she leaned her face into the bathroom mirror. She had been told many times that she resembled Taylor Swift but her reflection looked anything but this morning; her skin was sallow and her hazel eyes were slightly bloodshot and watery. She pinched her cheeks to force some colour into them. She'd have to overwork her make up today to freshen up her face.

  Returning to the bedroom she dropped the damp towel onto the bed and went to her wardrobe. She selected a light-blue shirt and dark-blue slacks and started to dress. She finished the outfit with a short blue and white striped jumper, leaving the shirt tails hanging below and chose a pair of Vivien Westwood ballet pumps. Yes, they were expensive, she thought as she turned a heel and eyed them, but they were the most comfortable pairs of shoes she had other than her motorcycle boots and trainers and she couldn’t go to work in those.

  After applying make-up, she made her bed quickly, checked her appearance again in the mirror and headed downstairs. Alex was in the kitchen, wiping down the work surface. He had shaved, waxed his hair and was dressed smartly in an open-necked pinstripe shirt tucked into a pair of jeans.

  Eyeing his tight backside, Scarlett felt herself go all goose-bumps. He looked gorgeous.

  ‘Wow, what a transformation,’ he said, taking her cup and plate and putting them in the dishwasher.

  ‘You look quite smart yourself, going somewhere?’

  ‘I’ve got a meeting later this morning.’

  ‘Anything you can talk about?’ Alex had been in Military Intelligence but now worked as a consultant in security. Or at least that’s what he told her, but whenever she had asked him about his work he changed the subject. Once she’d asked him if he worked for the security services but he had just grinned.

  ‘Now you know if I tell you I’ll have to kill you.’

  She gently punched his arm and pushed past him, catching a whiff of his aftershave as she picked up her BlackBerry. It brought back memories. She smiled to herself as she checked to see if she’d missed any calls. ‘You said you’ve spoken to Tarn?’

  ‘Yes, told him I was dropping you off. He asked me how you were, said you were a bit down last night when you left work. You said you’d had a shit day. Want to talk about it?’

  Scarlett dropped her phone into her bag and faced him. She told him about what had happened to Claudette Jackson and the repercussions for her case – that James Green had been freed.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry Scarlett.’ He gently touched her arm. ‘I remember you telling me all about that job. You worked hard on that case.’ Then, he said, ‘What’s that mean now? Is that the end of it? No more trial?’

  ‘No more trial but that’s not the end of it. I’m not letting this rest. I’m gunning for James Green. There’ll be a review this morning and I’m going to propose we put an operation together to get him.’

  Alex snatched up his car keys. ‘Well we’d better get you into work then while you’re still fired up.’

  Twelve

  Alex pulled up outside Sutton Police Station and Scarlett gathered her bag from the footwell, leant across and kissed him on the cheek, opened the passenger door and climbed out. Before closing the door she flashed him a smile, thanked him for the lift and promised to text him and give him a call later in the week. As she watched his Range Rover Sport drive away another happy memory of him sprang inside her head and she couldn’t help but grin.

  Feeling lifted, she walked briskly into the station, swiped her card through the security lock and skipped her way up the stairs to the first floor where The Homicide and Serious Crime Unit were based. But before going in to the office she headed to the ladies to check her appearance again. Satisfied with the way she looked, she headed down the corridor, framing her thoughts on how she was going to address the previous day’s disaster. As she approached Detective Inspector Hayden Taylor-Butler’s office she saw that his door was open. The last person I need to see right now. Being in his presence still filled her with dread. The day at DS Gary Ashdown’s barbecue when he had pinched her bum and promised her he could get her promotion regularly messed with her head. Scarlett slowed, breathed in deeply and upped her pace to speed past the opening, deliberately avoiding a look inside his room. Two steps beyond, believing she was safe, she released her breath in a sigh of relief.

  Too soon. ‘DS Macey.’

  Her whole body sagged. She hated the way he said her name: always so condescending. Biting her lip, she spun around and returned to his doorway. The DI’s office was small and narrow and most of it was taken up by his huge desk. He was sitting behind it, staring over the top of his reading glasses at her. Easing back in his chair he beckoned her in. There were two additional chairs in the office, up against a wall but he never offered her one.

  She stood in front of his desk trying her best not to look as if she didn’t want to be here. Butterflies were taking off in her still sensitive stomach. Avoiding eye contact she settled her gaze on his balding head. A curtain of closely-cut greying hair ran around it, making him look older than his 42 years.

  Removing his spectacles slowly, Hayden Taylor-Butler set them down on his paperwork. ‘I’ve had the press on to me.’

  She returned a questioning look, unsure where this conversation was going.

  ‘Claudette Jackson’s mother is threatening to sue us. She’s alleging the police are responsible for her daughter’s suicide.’ He stared at her, narrowing his eyes before continuing. ‘She’s saying that you put pressure on her daughter to give evidence when you especially knew how vulnerable she was.’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’

  ‘She’s made a formal complaint. Professional Standards have rung me this morning. They want to interview you.’

  Scarlett’s stomach flipped. An inquiry! Weeks of probing. Every aspect of her investigation into the capture of James Green scrutinised by a team of detectives who had gone over to the dark side. Professional Standards was the department's latest name change, the previous one being Complaints and Discipline. The new title was softer, though the job they did was no different. Cops feared them. She answered, ‘Claudette wanted to give evidence against Green. I spent a lot of time with her making sure she knew what was required.’ She pointed at the paperwork in front of him. She couldn’t see her report but she guessed it was somewhere in the pile. ‘I put it in her death report. I’ve listed the times and dates I contacted her. I even made special visits to her to see for myself how she was coping. I gave her every bit of support that I could, and more.’

  ‘That may be the case DS Macey, but once a complaint has been made it has to be thoroughly investigated. They will be looking to make sure you have complied correctly with all procedures, not just in relation to Claudette Jackson’s evidence and the way you dealt with her.’

  Scarlett scrutinised the look he was giving her. She thought she caught one corner of his mouth lift before returning a deadpan gaze. He’s getting off on this. Hatred burned within her
. She knew he despised her, but she wasn’t going to let him see he was getting to her again. Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘If you are alluding to what happened at court yesterday – it wasn’t my fault. The decision not to prosecute James Green and set him free was not mine. It was CPS’s.’ Snatching another breath, she added, ‘Look I didn’t want this to happen. I never expected this.’ Studying his disingenuous gawp, she continued, ‘I want to have another crack at Green. He’s got away with three rapes at least. He’s going to strike again – I know it. I want to catch him – get him bang to rights – make sure he doesn’t get away with it again.’

  DI Taylor-Butler’s eyes widened. He pushed himself forward. ‘No, you are not going after James Green, DS Macey. You will keep away from him. You’ve caused enough damage already and you’re under investigation.’

  ‘What do you mean I’ve caused enough damage? It’s James Green who’s caused the damage. He’s the one who’s left two women so traumatised that they can’t function properly from one day to the next and it’s also down to him that Claudette Jackson has committed suicide. ‘She was doing her best to stop her voice from breaking.

  ‘Nevertheless, you have to take some responsibility for this. If you hadn’t rushed through the operation in your eagerness to capture him, the evidence against him might have been stronger and James Green would now be locked up in spite of the fact that none of the other women were able to give their evidence.’ He added, ‘Now read my lips DS Macey, leave James Green alone. That’s the last I want to hear of this. Case closed. End of discussion.’ Resting his arms on his desk and clenching his hands together he said, ‘And now I believe you have a post-mortem to go to.’

  Thirteen

  As she opened her front door, Scarlett longed for nothing more than a long, hot soak and a relaxing night in front of the telly; even if the viewing was rubbish she didn’t mind. She was drained. She'd struggled with her hangover all day and as she leant back against her door to shut it she swore never to get like that again. Having to attend Claudette Jackson’s post-mortem hadn’t helped. She hated PMs at the best of times, but the hangover made things even worse. Her stomach had roiled all the way through it and on several occasions she’d been in danger of losing what little she’d eaten. It wasn’t the sight of Claudette’s young body being medically dismembered that had caused her to heave but the smell. It always got to her. It was clinging to her clothes right now. She needed to get out of them, and quick.

  Toeing off her shoes, she spotted a small pile of post on the floor. It was just a mix of bills, circulars and a couple of local takeaway flyers and with a sigh she scooped them all up, dropped them onto the hall table and skipped upstairs, pulling off her jumper as she went.

  Half an hour later, having removed her make-up and stayed longer than normal in the bath – topping it up three times with hot water – she slipped on a T-shirt and pair of leggings and made her way back downstairs, picking her mail back up before heading into the kitchen to prepare herself some food. Her galley kitchen was not big but it was well laid out and organised. Opening the fridge, she checked she had enough salad and then took out a lasagne-for-one from the freezer and popped it into the oven. Setting the timer, she poured a glass of chilled water and began dealing with the post. After binning the flyers, she was left with three envelopes, all bills. She opened the first – council tax. She saw the amount and sighed. She was so grateful she was in a department that regularly had overtime. Under normal circumstances she would never have been able to live in this house on her wage – Richmond upon Thames was where the wealthy lived and the current value of her house was £650,000 – but the two-bedroom, early Victorian, end terrace with patio garden had been bequeathed to her after her Aunt Hanna had lost her battle with leukaemia five years ago. Her younger sister Rose had joint ownership, but she’d only been there twice since Scarlett had tracked her down to a squat four months ago, and that had only been for a few days. The last time they had been together Rose had said she would rather live in squats with her friends who were a friendly bunch of buskers and street artists. It meant that most of the time Scarlett had the place to herself.

  She finished opening her mail – the dual fuel bill and water bill – set them aside and prepared herself a larger than normal salad; she was suddenly starving. Adding the cooked lasagne, she took her plate through to the lounge, switched on the TV and plonked herself down on the sofa.

  By 9.30 p.m. she’d had enough – she was fighting to keep her eyes open and so she put her dirty plate into the dishwasher, headed upstairs, brushed her teeth and flopped into bed. But, exhausted as she was, Scarlett couldn't fall asleep. As she lay there her head started filling with the past two days of mayhem. Today, especially, had touched her and as she fought to clear her head, flashbacks started invading her brain. She mulled over Claudette’s interview, things she’d said that Scarlett had listened to time and time again while preparing for the trial; ‘I just lay there. Frozen! ...I didn’t know what to do! ...I can just remember it was cold and wet and all I could think was I hope he’ll finish soon so I can get back to my room.’ As she remembered Claudette’s words, Scarlett decided that there was no way James Green was going to evade justice. In spite of DI Taylor-Butler’s orders she was going after him. She owed it not only to Claudette but also to his other victims.

  Fourteen

  It had been almost midnight before she finally dropped off but Scarlett strolled into the office feeling refreshed and buoyant. Other than Tarn at his desk, no one else was in. She gazed around the room, stopping at the clock on the wall, checking the time. This was unusual; generally, at this time of day the department was buzzing with activity, the squad fuelling up on coffee and going through their emails before they started their day. Her gaze returned to her partner. She was pleased the office was empty – she wanted to air her plan with him and see if he would go along with it.

  Tarn looked up as she scooted back her chair.

  ‘Morning,’ she said brightly.

  ‘Morning.’

  His response seemed laboured, almost strained. Scarlett studied his face. He looked tired. She was about to ask if he was all right when he said, ‘How was Claudette’s PM? Was it an overdose?’

  Scarlett set down her bag. ‘Looks that way. It’s not shown anything suspicious anyway. I’m waiting for the toxicology results to confirm everything.’

  ‘Sad.’

  ‘Very sad. That James Green has a lot to answer for.’ Scarlett pointed around the room. ‘Where is everyone? Am I missing something?’

  ‘Syndicate Two came in early. They’re dealing with a couple of stabbings at Streatham – a fight outside a takeaway – one dead and two in hospital. It looks like gang on gang. And George and Ella have gone to a domestic murder at Thornton Heath. A pretty nasty one according to the incident log – bloke took a machete to his partner – almost took off her head. There’s a history – the guy’s already done time for beating her.’

  Scarlett shook her head sadly. ‘Why do these women take them back? They get hiding after hiding but still put up with it. It defeats me it does.’ She slipped off her jacket and was about to ask him if he wanted a coffee when DI Taylor-Butler walked into the office. She stiffened.

  ‘Don’t take your jacket off DS Macey,’ he said. ‘There’s a suspicious death on the Winstanley Estate. Two-year-old boy. Paramedics called it in an hour ago and Uniform are on site. Mother’s known to us.’ He dropped a print-out from the incident log onto her desk and stabbed a finger at it. ‘Details are all in there, including the address. It’s already on Facebook and Twitter so I don’t know what your reception’s going to be. You know what that estate is like. That should keep you out of trouble for a few hours.’ Without waiting for a response, he turned to leave, calling back over his shoulder, ‘I’m going into morning briefing and then I have a couple of meetings, so you won’t be able to get me until after lunch.’ Scarlett watched his departure, a shudder running up her spine. She picked u
p the incident log and began silently reading, feeling herself getting tense. The Winstanley Estate in Wandsworth was one of their most notorious manors; stabbings, robbery and drug dealing were rife. It had been listed as one of Britain’s worst places to grow up in. ‘Victim’s name is Rees Tornese, just two years old, like the gaffer says,’ Scarlett read aloud from the report. ‘Ambulance service took a 999 call at 7.03 this morning from the mother that her child wasn’t breathing. Paramedics got there and found the boy dead in bed. There are some unexplained head injuries so they called in the police. Uniform have secured the scene.’ Pausing momentarily to skip-read the time-line she added, ‘Mother’s name is Kerrie Tornese, twenty-four. She’s got a couple for shoplifting and one for possession of class A. Registered with the Public Protection Unit for domestic violence.’ Picking up her bag she folded the log and dropped it inside. Then, pulling her jacket back on she glanced across at Tarn. He was gathering his paperwork together. ‘Come on, you drive,’ she said, heading for the door.’

  ***

  They took a pool car. Tarn activated the locks and Scarlett pulled open the passenger door. The stench hit her; stale burgers and fries. The empty food cartons were still in the footwell. ‘The lazy bastards,’ she said, leaning in and scooping them up. She spotted a couple of chocolate bar wrappers stuffed into the centre consul compartment and picked out those as well. ‘I bet this is Carl and Shawn, they’ve got previous.’ She threw the rubbish into a nearby bin, wiped her hands to rid herself of any dirt and picked the log book out from the door slot to check who last used the vehicle. She saw DC Jenkins’ signature. ‘I was friggin’ right, it is Carl. Well he’s got a bollocking coming when we get back.’ She dropped the log book back into place, checked the front seat to ensure it was clear of any detritus and slid into it. ‘That’s just sheer idleness, that is. What does it take to throw away your rubbish?’