Mr Rainey hurried back in, handed out mugs of milky tea. He sat beside his wife and wrapped his arms around her. PC Daynes followed him with a box of tissues. He passed them to Mr Rainey, who nodded his thanks, his own mouth trembling. Caelan took a polite sip of her tea, tried not to grimace. Too weak. Daynes picked up a cup and sat down, his face showing his discomfort. Caelan wondered how long he’d been a police officer, whether he’d had to visit the family of a victim of violent crime before. She was guessing not.
Mrs Rainey gently pushed her husband away, a wad of tissues clutched in her hand.
‘I’m okay, Charles,’ she said. ‘Let’s try to answer their questions.’
‘Thank you,’ Caelan said. Charles Rainey nodded.
‘You’re CID, aren’t you?’ he asked, taking in Caelan’s outfit.
‘I am. I apologise for my clothes – I’m not usually so scruffy.’
Mr Rainey tried to smile. ‘Called in on your day off?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Ben wanted to be a detective,’ Abigail Rainey told them. Caelan sat forward. ‘Out of uniform within a couple of years, he’d say.’ She reached for her husband’s hand. ‘We were happy to hear it. We thought…’ She swallowed a sob. ‘We thought he’d be safer, off the streets.’ Pressing a tissue to her eyes, she bowed her head, her shoulders shaking. Her husband pulled her close again. Caelan got to her feet.
‘I’ll give you a moment. May I see Ben’s room?’
Mr Rainey’s head jerked up. ‘Are you going to talk to Joseph and Miriam? Shouldn’t we be present if so?’
Caelan held up a hand. ‘I’m not going to ask them any questions, sir, I promise.’
Rainey frowned, clearly torn between his need to comfort his wife and the desire to protect his children. Caelan kept walking. She nodded at Daynes. He remained in his chair.
She passed framed family photographs, including one of PC Benjamin Rainey standing proudly in his uniform, halfway up the stairs. She paused, studied his face. Touched a fingertip to his cheek.
On the landing, there were four closed doors. The only sound was Mrs Rainey’s muted sobbing downstairs. Caelan stepped up to the nearest door and tapped on it. Miriam opened it instantly, as though she had been waiting for Caelan’s knock.
‘Sorry. I was looking for your brothers’ room.’
Miriam gave a tiny laugh. ‘Next door. You usually just need to follow the music.’
‘But not today.’
‘Not since Ben died.’ Miriam stared into Caelan’s eyes as though challenging her. ‘We’re all creeping around the house trying not to upset each other.’
‘It’s understandable.’
The girl’s eyes flared. ‘It’s suffocating.’
Caelan took a step back. ‘I can’t imagine—’
A breath, drawn in quickly, sounding like the hiss of a snake. ‘No. You can’t.’ Miriam’s gaze was hard as she closed her door.
Caelan paused, pushing her hands into her jeans pockets as Joseph appeared beside her.
‘Still here?’ His voice was taut. Clearly, he wished she wasn’t.
‘Could I have a look at your room, please?’
He frowned at her. ‘Our room? Why? It’s already been searched.’ He hunched his shoulders as though expecting an attack. ‘My stuff as well as Ben’s. They went through everything.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Are you? What were they looking for? What did they think Ben had done?’ His eyes shone with tears. ‘All he wanted was to be a police officer. Even when he was a kid, it was all he could talk about. He loved his job. Loved it. And now he’s dead.’
‘Your mum said Ben wanted to be a detective?’
A flicker of his lips. Not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. ‘Yeah, he did. He’d have done it, too. He was like that – determined.’
‘Ambitious?’
Joseph shuffled his feet. ‘He knew what he wanted. Nothing wrong with that.’
‘I’m not saying there is.’ Caelan tried to meet his eyes, but he was staring at his socks. ‘Did he talk to you about his work?’
His head shot up. ‘No. No, it was confidential, wasn’t it?’
‘I mean generally. Listen, Joseph, I’m hoping you can help me. Help us find the person who did this to your brother.’
Movement at the bottom of the stairs. Charles Rainey’s voice: ‘Excuse me? I’d like to be present if you’re questioning my children, as I’ve already explained.’
Joseph leaned over the banister. ‘It’s fine, Dad. We’re just talking.’
Mr Rainey started up the stairs. ‘Even so, I should be with you.’
‘It’s okay, I’m leaving.’ Caelan lowered her voice. ‘Joseph, if you think of anything, please call me.’
He shook his head, screwed up his mouth. ‘There’s nothing.’
‘Let me give you my number…’
‘Detective Small, I’d be grateful if you’d leave now.’ Charles Rainey strode across the landing. ‘You’ve upset my wife, and my children. I…’ He swallowed hard. ‘Please. Please, just leave.’
‘It’s okay. We’re going.’
PC Daynes was already by the front door. Mrs Rainey stood in the kitchen doorway, blowing her nose. Caelan met her eyes, saw the agony in them. She turned away, knowing she never should have come here to trample over their grief.
* * *
Back on the train, she found a seat, allowed her head to fall back as she attempted to relax. The visit had been difficult, draining. Had it been worthwhile? What had she discovered? Ben Rainey had harboured ambitions to be a detective. Joseph had said his brother had loved his job, seeming to blame Ben’s career for his death. Was he correct? Had Ben been killed because he was a police officer? And if so, why? There had to be more. The brutality, the torture… It had been no accident, no random attack. Ben’s killers had taken their time. People who knew what they were doing, who had no qualms about inflicting suffering.
Caelan stretched out her legs. Did Joseph Rainey know more than he had been willing to say? Did Mrs Rainey, Miriam? And if so, how could she encourage them to admit it?
5
It was always worse to go down the stairs than to climb back up. Downstairs, outside, was reality. Up here, you could escape as many times as you were able to afford.
Ryan stood on the concrete landing, oblivious to the stench of piss and decay, one hand on the cold metal banister. The stairs unfolded below him, and he stepped down, breaking into a jog as he neared the bottom of the first flight. Bounced across to the glass door that led outside, stood on the scrubby brown grass looking left and right.
Where to? He had to find some cash, and quickly, but also food. He had a couple of quid left in his pocket, but he wanted to save that. Now that his wallet and phone had been nicked, he needed every penny. Mulligan had laughed when he’d told him. Ryan had lost his temper, demanded to know who the kids who had legged it with his property were. Mulligan’s two heavies had reappeared, only leaving the room again when Mulligan chucked Ryan a wrap, told him to have it on the house and shut his mouth.
Moving quickly, he hurried along, the shadows of the high-rise blocks falling across the scruffy tarmac. There were plenty of people around, and Ryan kept his head up, looking for someone he recognised. He wanted to talk, have a laugh, something that was in short supply at Mulligan’s place. But most of those he passed kept their eyes averted. Ryan knew what they were seeing: a crackhead, venturing out between fixes.
He didn’t care. A grin split his face, the winter sun just managing to warm his cheeks. He approached a discount shop, everything from batteries to fruit for sale on the wooden tables that stood at either side of its door. A man in a red polo shirt was serving, laughing as he counted oranges into a paper bag for an elderly woman. She took them with a smile, speaking quickly in a language Ryan couldn’t understand. From the restaurant next door, the smell of spices, frying onions. A memory chased through his head – his mother making a curry: mys
terious-looking pods and exotically coloured powders sizzling in the pan before she added the chicken. How long had it been? Years. Before his dad died, before Ryan had given up on school. Given up on life. He smiled again, knowing he was wrong. This was life, his life. Marching down the street, answerable to no one, ready to grab what you could. Living on your wits.
He kept moving, his hand whipping out as he passed the shopfront, grabbing two bananas. He pushed them under his sweatshirt, curving his arm around them as though he had a stomach ache. Waited for a shout of outrage from the shopkeeper or one of the people gathered around him, knowing at the same time that it wouldn’t come. No one had seen, no one could touch him.
He waited to cross the road, watching the cars and buses thunder past him. Noticed the woman in front of him.
Saw the leather handbag.
She wasn’t wearing the strap across her body; the bag was hanging from her right shoulder. As she turned her head, looking at the traffic, trying to judge if it was slowing, he reached out and—
‘Oi!’
A hand around his wrist, tight, hurting. Ryan jumped, looked down. A man behind him: bald head, squat but well-muscled. He was twisting Ryan’s arm, forcing him to turn around.
‘The fuck you playing at, sunshine?’
Ryan squirmed, tried to prise the man’s fingers open with his free hand. The bananas fell onto the pavement. ‘Nothing, I—’
He sneered. ‘Don’t give me that bollocks. You were going to nick her purse.’
The woman had also turned now, hand clamped around the strap of her handbag. A few other people had stopped to see what the commotion was. Ryan licked his lips, despair already beginning to creep into his gut. He kicked one foot backwards, knocking the bananas onto the road.
‘I wasn’t, I swear. I don’t…’
The man looked him up and down, disgust evident on his face. ‘Yeah, mate, I know what you were up to. Time for your next fix, is it? Fucking smackhead.’
He let go of Ryan’s arm, wiping his hand on his jeans as though it was dirty. Which, Ryan had to admit, it might have been. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d showered. The crowd of people were surrounding him now, jostling and jeering. Someone said, ‘I’ve called the police.’
‘You hear that? Going to be a long night in the cells, isn’t it?’ The man stepped forward, prodded Ryan’s chest. ‘Nothing to shoot up with in there.’
Ryan twisted away, trying to push down the panic. He had to run. Trouble was, there was nowhere to go. Typical. Couldn’t even snatch a bag without making a mess of it. He had to go, get some money, head back to Mulligan’s place. He was wasting time standing here, and if the police came, he might be looking at a jail sentence. He’d been warned before. In the distance, he could hear a siren. Already? It couldn’t be for him.
A few people turned, looking for the source of the noise. It gave Ryan the second he needed to push through the crowd and sprint away. He heard shouts, but no one seemed to be chasing him. After a couple of hundred yards, his lungs were aching and his throat burned. He jogged across the road, horns blaring as he zigzagged through the traffic. Down a side street, and Mulligan’s building loomed in front of him. Should he go in? If the police had his description, if they’d seen him, followed him inside… Mulligan would kill him.
He leaned against a wall, took some deep breaths. No cash. What was he supposed to do now? He could find a paper cup in a bin, go and do some begging, but it could take forever to collect enough money. Sympathy was often in short supply, and plenty of those living in the area barely had enough to feed themselves. Plus, he needed to stay away from the street for a while.
He stared up at the sky, watched the sun sidle behind a grey cloud. Felt the vibration begin beneath his skin, hardly noticeable yet, but there all the same.
Across the road were some concrete steps leading up to a delivery door. Ryan wandered across and sat down, running grubby hands over his face. He stretched out his legs, eyes on the busted toes of his trainers. Rain came in, filthy socks hung out. He thought of his mum again, what she would think if she could see him now. He should phone her, see how she was.
See if she could lend him a few quid.
Wrapping his arms around his body, he closed his eyes. She’d be ashamed, probably wouldn’t even let him in the house. Who could blame her?
A sound roused him, and he blinked as a kid sped by on a moped, a messenger bag slung across his back. Ryan watched him disappear, wondering. Pushing himself to his feet, he hurried towards Mulligan’s building, his worries about the police forgotten.
6
The house was semi-detached, rendered and painted white. In place of a front garden there was a short brickwork driveway with an estate car parked diagonally across it. The parking bays marked on the road were for permit holders only, but Caelan reversed into the nearest space. She didn’t intend to be long. She’d travelled back to Enfield to collect her car, against her better judgement. This was why she hated driving in London.
She knocked on the front door, watched a shadow move behind the frosted glass pane. The man who appeared, dressed in running shorts and vest, frowned at her.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m here to speak to DI Hobbs?’ Caelan tried a smile.
‘Sorry, Liv’s on sick leave. She’s not well enough to see anyone.’
‘I only need a few minutes of her time.’
He shook his head. ‘Like I said, she’s shocked and hurt. Sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘Sir…’ Caelan took a step forward, but he’d already retreated, his face set in a scowl.
The door was almost closed when she heard a woman’s voice call, ‘Who is it, Adam?’
He didn’t have time to reply before she was standing beside him. Slim and athletic-looking, DI Liv Hobbs was almost as tall as her husband, whose head wasn’t far from the top of the door frame. She pushed in front of him, squinting at Caelan. Dressed in jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, she moved gingerly, clearly in pain. She wrapped her arms around her body, wincing.
‘You’re here to see me?’
Caelan raised her warrant card. ‘Do you have a few minutes?’
Her husband muttered something, and Hobbs turned. ‘I’m fine. I told you someone was coming to talk to me. Why don’t you go for your run?’
She stepped back and he emerged, his expression making his disapproval clear. Caelan smiled at him as he passed and began to jog.
‘He thinks I should be in bed.’ Hobbs rolled her eyes. ‘Overprotective. He’s a paramedic, attended way more RTAs than I have. You’d think he could see I’m okay. Anyway, come in. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Don’t worry, thank you. I won’t take up much of your time.’
‘It’s fine. To be honest, I’d rather be at work. Doing nothing drives me crazy.’
Caelan followed her into the living room. It wasn’t large, but the white walls and wooden flooring made it seem spacious. Hobbs waved Caelan onto the two-seater sofa and took her time lowering herself onto a dining chair.
‘Less painful this way,’ she explained. ‘I tried the armchair, but getting back up was agony. Too low.’
‘Your ribs? A friend of mine hurt his yesterday.’
‘Yeah? What, did he have a car crash too?’
Caelan shook her head, wishing she hadn’t mentioned Ewan’s injury. ‘No. He was shot.’
Hobbs looked horrified. ‘Shit.’
‘He’s okay, he was wearing a bulletproof vest. Cracked ribs.’
Hobbs nodded. ‘Mine aren’t broken, but they’re bruised. Adam – Adam Waits, my husband – wants me to take my time, get better, but I’ve only been home four hours and I’m going stir crazy already. I want to get back to work.’
‘DCI Achebe phoned?’
‘Yeah. Said he’d given you my address, that you wanted to speak to me.’
‘You know about Anthony Bryce?’
She dipped her head. ‘I do. I never thought…’
‘What?’ Caelan sat forward, watching the other woman’s face.
‘He came to us with information, he trusted us. We should have protected him.’
‘But the details he provided were vague, from what I’ve heard. No one could have predicted he would be killed.’
Hobbs looked up, met Caelan’s eyes. ‘You know who my brother is, where I grew up?’ Caelan nodded. ‘Well then. I know how these bastards work. Someone knew that Anthony had spoken to us, and went running to grass on him.’
‘They informed on the informant?’
Hobbs snorted. ‘If you like. At least, that’s the way I see it.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. Wish I did. Someone who wanted a foot in the door. Low-level dealer, a young kid… Both, maybe. When I lived there, I’d have been able to guess, possibly find out for sure. Now, though…’ She shook her head, dark curls flying. Wincing, she raised a hand to the back of her neck. ‘Now, I’m out of touch. No one will speak to me. The way they see it, I betrayed them, turned my back on my roots. I’m a traitor, I joined the enemy. That makes me the lowest of the low.’
‘Would your brother—’
‘No.’ Hobbs spoke abruptly, then held up a hand. ‘Sorry. Jackson’s inside, and he wouldn’t speak to me anyway. The last thing I want is for him to be dragged into this. I’d not be allowed back near the case.’
‘I’m guessing your brother’s the kind of person who doesn’t stop working because of a prison sentence, though?’
Hobbs’s eyes narrowed. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Doesn’t he have someone running his business until he gets out?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Right-hand man?’
‘Anyone who worked with him was arrested when he went down.’
Tell No Lies Page 5