‘It is, of course it is. Congratulations. What about the girls who were supposed to arrive today?’
‘We… that is, it was decided we should close the place down immediately. I’m not sure what will have happened to them.’
‘Then they’re still out there.’
‘It wasn’t my call. The girls we arrested are illegal immigrants, no surprise there. They were taken to hospital. I’m sure you can imagine the injuries and trauma we’re expecting them to have suffered.’
Caelan swallowed. ‘Yes.’
‘When we’ve spoken to them, they’ll be taken to a centre, where either they’ll be helped to get home, wherever that may be, or they’ll be found housing.’ He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had changed. ‘I’ll make sure of that.’
‘What about whoever trafficked them into the country?’
‘Piotr, the geezer who contacted us in the first place, is going to tell us what he can. We’re also leaning on the receptionist, because he’s terrified of going to prison, and we want to use that. We seized the CCTV recordings, and there were some records in his desk. It looks like he made notes about the punters – maybe he was planning a spot of blackmail. We don’t know yet. It’s all hand-written, and not in English, so it’ll take time to go through and see if there’s anything useful.’
It wasn’t what she had hoped for, but it was a start. ‘All right. I’ll keep in touch. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’
‘Will do.’ Bailey coughed. ‘Thanks for last night. I know I fucked up, but at least we got those girls out of there.’
Caelan pulled her coat around her body as rain began to fall. ‘But if you don’t find the bastards who are in charge, there’ll be six more to replace them in another hotel before the end of the week.’
‘I know, I get that.’ Bailey sound more annoyed than contrite, and Caelan knew she had to back off.
‘Which hospital were the women taken to?’
‘Homerton.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘Wait a minute, you’re not planning on—’
Caelan ended the call on his spluttering. She wanted to reach South Harrow police station quickly. Achebe hadn’t replied to her email and she wanted to speak to him, as well as ask Jen Somerville if she had traced the car that had collided with Liv Hobbs’s vehicle. Ian Penrith had told her to leave Achebe’s investigation alone. How could she? She hadn’t been asked to go to Edmonton yet, even if Nicky had. As she marched along, another thought struck her, and she pulled out her phone.
‘Dare I ask where you are?’ Penrith yawned.
‘Is Richard in Edmonton as well as Nicky?’
Penrith was eating, the sounds of biting and chewing all too audible. Caelan grimaced as she heard him swallow.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Come on, Ian. Either I’m wanted on the operation, or I’m not. Why send them, and not me?’
‘You were needed last night. The job in Hackney—’
‘Anyone could have done it. They didn’t need me.’
‘You know how it is. If someone asks for a woman, you’re top of my list.’
She snorted. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Yes, Richard and Nicky are in Edmonton. They spent the night there after showing their faces in a couple of the pubs.’
‘They’re working together?’ Caelan stepped around an elderly woman who was walking a barrel-shaped Jack Russell. ‘I thought it had been agreed we’d go in separately.’
‘Overruled. Safety in numbers and all that.’
‘Nicky was working on her own before, though, wasn’t she?’
‘That was before two dead bodies turned up.’ Penrith was clearly now slurping liquid. Caelan pictured him behind his desk, his coffee cup resting on his belly. ‘We thought it best to be cautious this time.’
‘When do you want me there?’
Penrith was silent for a few seconds. ‘Let me speak to the fellow from the NCA – Reid, isn’t it?’
‘Reid and Webster.’
‘I prefer Reid. Webster looks like a long-lost Mitchell brother. I can’t take him seriously.’
Caelan laughed. ‘Now you mention it…’
‘If it was my decision, Caelan, you’d have gone with Nicky and Richard last night.’
‘Then it’s not?’
Penrith clicked his tongue. ‘Have I officially been promoted? Do I have a shiny new office, a new job title, a pay rise? A parking space that’s less than forty minutes’ walk from the building? No. And until I have those things, Assistant Commissioner Beckett makes the decisions.’
‘And takes the shit.’
His tone sharpened. ‘Only from you. You didn’t answer when I asked where you are.’
Caelan glanced around as she walked. ‘Because I don’t want to tell you.’
‘No doubt on your way to South Harrow, disregarding my express instructions to stay away?’
‘Lucky you’re not my boss really.’
‘I’ve already spoken to Tim Achebe.’
‘And there was I thinking I’d woken you.’
‘I’ve been in the office since seven. I’m on my second breakfast.’
‘A copper’s dead, Ian. Reid and Webster started this, now they’re backing away. I know you’re going to say we’ve no proof Ben Rainey’s death is linked to the operation in Edmonton, but why was he there if it isn’t?’
‘We’ve discussed this. His body was found there. That doesn’t mean he was ever in the area when he was alive.’
‘I was thinking—’ Penrith interrupted her with a loud groan. ‘Hear me out, Ian. Ben’s family said he wanted to be a detective. What if he’d heard about the new dealer in Edmonton? What if he decided to nose around himself?’
Penrith sucked his teeth. ‘And why would he do that?’
‘Maybe he thought if he found some answers, it would look good on his record. His brother told me Ben was ambitious.’
‘We all were, once. How would he have known where to look? He lived in Northolt, was based in Limehouse. Why would he know anything about Edmonton? You’re reaching, Caelan. How would he even know we’d been asking questions?’
‘Anthony Bryce knew.’
‘You think he told Rainey, even though we’ve no evidence they knew each other? How? When?’
‘I don’t know.’ Caelan shook her head, frustrated. Penrith gave a heavy sigh.
‘Have you told Tim Achebe this bright new idea of yours?’
‘Not yet, though I mentioned that Ben Rainey had ambitions of being a detective. I was on my way to South Harrow to talk to him.’
‘Phone him. Let him and his team investigate the possibility. Listen, Caelan, I’ll say it again in the hope you listen – this is not your case.’
‘What else am I supposed to do?’
‘Go back to your flat. You know Nicky’s not there. Prepare for Edmonton, and wait for my call.’
She said nothing, kept walking.
‘Hello?’
‘I’m here.’
‘You said you were going to South Harrow. You’re not heading for the hospital?’
Caelan remembered the girls from the brothel, imagined their fear, their confusion. She thought of the expertise and understanding of the medical staff who would be caring for them. She had done her part; she had helped as she had promised Ardiola she would. She had to walk away from them now, though it went against every instinct. Going to the hospital, meeting them all, giving assurances that they were safe – it was out of the question. And yet, knowing where her responsibilities ended was something she had struggled with since her days in uniform. Having to walk away after being called to a domestic disturbance, aware that the abuse would begin again as soon as the squad car disappeared. Promising an elderly man whose wife had been mugged and left for dead on a freezing pavement that those responsible would be caught, while knowing that finding the perpetrator was next to impossible. Becoming friends with the girlfriend of an East End gangster; tricking her, ly
ing to her every day until he could be arrested, and then disappearing from her life without a word. Fooling people, using them, spending days, weeks and months living as someone she usually despised. It was a strange way of meting out justice, and she had to wonder, was she making any sort of difference?
‘No. I’ll be at South Harrow in five minutes,’ she told Penrith.
11
Mulligan was standing at the filthy kitchen window, his hands on his hips, gazing down at the street far below. In the next room, the men he paid to watch his back were playing cards. He had spent all night cooking, and hadn’t slept. It was early, too early to be thinking about business. He should be at home, in bed, getting a few hours’ rest before calling for some company, having one of the new girls brought over. The voice in his brain he no longer obeyed was telling him exactly what he needed to do, and as always, it was tempting. He knew there would be no way back if he did, though. He was clean, hardly even had a drink these days. Too risky. One thing could easily lead to another, he knew.
‘Is it clear out there?’ he called. Silence. He turned, jamming his hands into his jeans pockets. What the fuck? He marched through the door, stood glowering at them.
The nearest man turned. ‘What’s the problem, boss?’
Mulligan stared around. ‘Where are they?’
‘Who?’
‘My regulars, my resident crackheads. Where did Ryan go?’
Two matching frowns. He was confusing them.
‘I thought you wanted them gone? Got a meeting, you said.’
‘Yeah, I did, but Ryan’s got some of my merchandise. He’s making a delivery, his first one, and I don’t know if I can trust him.’
‘Maybe you should have thought of that before you let him leave.’
Mulligan narrowed his eyes. ‘You getting smart with me, pal?’
The man shook his head, his face solemn. ‘Only saying.’
Mulligan paced the room. ‘Ryan’s a crackhead, delivering crack. What could go wrong?’ He laughed. ‘You know what to do.’
‘You leaving then, boss?’
Mulligan stopped in the centre of the room. ‘Yeah, business meeting, like I said.’
‘You need us with you?’
‘Only one of you.’ He pointed. ‘You. Go and find Ryan.’
Obediently the man set down his hand of cards, heaved himself to his feet. ‘What do you want me to do with him?’
Mulligan smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’
* * *
Ryan hadn’t been on a bus in months. Nowhere to go, no one who wanted to see him. No money, at least not to waste on bus fares.
He held the rucksack on his lap, his hands clenched around the straps. Was he being too obvious? He licked his lips, leant back in the seat. Crossed his hands over the bag instead. He sat near the front, eyes scanning the other passengers. There were a few who looked as though they were familiar with what he was carrying. More than a nodding acquaintance, he reckoned.
Mulligan had told him where he needed to get off, and Ryan tensed, knowing they were almost there. He’d memorised the address, the route he had to take. Mulligan hadn’t allowed him to make a note of it. ‘You’re telling me you can write now, wee man? Not sure I believe you.’
Laughing at him, same as always. Ryan was fed up with it, but at least Mulligan had listened when he’d said he needed to earn a few quid. This was a chance, Ryan knew, an opportunity. If he made the delivery, Mulligan had promised him more work. He’d have to stay off the crack, of course, but it was killing him anyway. Time to move into supply, provide the means to allow some other poor fucker a few minutes’ escape from the world.
One more stop. He shifted in his seat, thinking of the contents of the bag. How much was it worth? Mulligan had told him the goods were paid for, he already had the money. All Ryan had to do was make the drop. His hands were shaking now. Would anyone notice if he helped himself, just enough to take the edge off? Would they know? He shut down the thought immediately. No. Mulligan was trusting him, and if he fucked up, he’d be dead, no questions asked. Stealing was not an option.
He got to his feet, stepped off the bus. Stood for a second on the pavement, getting his bearings, remembering what Mulligan had told him. Go to the end of the road, turn left. Left again, cut down an alley behind a row of shops. Turn right at the bottom, find the house. Three knocks, then four. Hand over the goods. Couldn’t be simpler. So why was his mouth dry, his heart thumping?
He began to walk, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and nothing else. He hadn’t travelled far, but here, the air seemed charged. He laughed at himself, knew paranoia was creeping in. He was okay, he was fine. Just out for a stroll. He adjusted the bag on his shoulders, kept striding along. Bottom of the road, and he turned left. Saw the shops, found the alley.
Heard the footsteps.
He hesitated, stopped. Nothing but traffic noise. Took a deep breath and moved off again. The alley was narrow, lined with piles of rubbish and industrial bins. Ryan glanced around. Why had Mulligan sent him down here? No one would see him, sure, but it was horrible. No doubt there were mice, maybe even rats waiting to jump on him. They went for your throat, he had heard. He swallowed, shitting it now. Rats, fucking rats. With each step he might disturb one. He tried to move faster, pulling the rucksack from his shoulder and clutching it to his chest. He couldn’t do this again. He’d get rid of the bag, go back to Mulligan and tell him he wasn’t up to the job.
His pipe was in his pocket. He could stop now, here, make all the fear go away. The rats wouldn’t touch him then. He moaned, long past realising he had made a sound. He grabbed the bag’s zip, wrenched it open, shoved his hand inside.
The blow came from behind, a hard slap to the back of his head. Ryan cried out, fell to his knees, the bag disappearing. As he hit the ground, a kick thudded into his ribs. A hooded figure loomed above him. Ryan squirmed on the floor, his hands in the filth, searching for the rucksack.
Too late. It was snatched away, held up in front of his eyes. Fucker. Ryan flailed, trying to grab it. No chance. The figure turned, disappeared, leaving him on his knees. Ryan closed his eyes, a sob starting in his throat.
He’d lost it.
He was dead.
12
As Caelan entered the incident room, Jen Somerville waved her over. She was sitting at a desk in a corner, a mug of black coffee in her hand.
‘Morning. Got something to show you.’ She pointed at the computer screen. ‘Watch.’
Caelan bent closer. It was CCTV footage. A car stood waiting at a set of traffic lights, its colour and model impossible to make out in the gloom.
‘Is that DI Hobbs?’ Caelan squinted, but couldn’t tell.
‘Yep, it’s her. I’ve checked it all out. And… here comes the other vehicle.’
They watched as a dark-coloured van sped into the shot. It slowed for a second, then accelerated directly into the back of Hobbs’s car, reversed at speed and disappeared. Caelan frowned.
‘Can we watch it again, please?’
‘You want me to slow it down?’ Somerville clicked the mouse a few times, and the footage played once more.
‘For me, this adds weight to the idea that the collision was deliberate,’ Caelan said. ‘The van driver braces himself, rams into DI Hobbs, then gets out of there as quickly as he can. What do you think?’
‘I agree.’ Somerville’s tone was measured, as though the admission gave her no satisfaction. Caelan understood: watching someone deliberately smash into the car being driven by one of your colleagues was hardly a pleasant way to start your morning. ‘I checked the ANPR,’ Somerville continued. ‘It’s definitely Liv’s car, and the crash happens just as she described it.’
‘Was the van following her before the collision?’
‘It’s hard to be sure, but I didn’t see it, and I’ve checked the cameras we know about along her route.’
‘Which suggests it was random after all.’ Sudde
nly exhausted, Caelan pressed her palms against her cheeks. ‘Maybe it was accidental and the other driver panicked. Maybe I’ve wasted your time.’
‘I’d have had to check it out anyway.’ Somerville looked up, pushing her hair out of her eyes. ‘I’m not sure it was random, though. I think you’re right, and it was deliberate. Maybe they were waiting in a side street, knowing the route Liv would take home.’
‘It’s a possibility.’ One Caelan had already considered; one she didn’t like. She hadn’t wanted to believe that Hobbs’s ‘accident’ had in fact been deliberate, but after watching the footage, there was little doubt. The driver had hesitated as if picking his spot, lining up his own vehicle to maximise the impact. ‘I don’t suppose it’s worth asking if the number plate of the van was picked up anywhere?’
In theory, each time a vehicle passed an automatic number-plate recognition camera, its licence plate was read and checked against databases to see if it was a vehicle of interest. Caelan wasn’t holding out much hope of recognising the van, much less its owner, and wasn’t surprised when Jen Somerville shook her head.
‘No chance. As I said, I didn’t see the van on any of the routes approaching the traffic lights. I can’t make out who’s driving, and the plates were impossible to read during the collision. Covered in mud or something.’
‘How convenient.’
‘They were probably cloned anyway.’
‘No doubt.’
‘There’s more.’ Somerville clicked away again, and brought up an email. Caelan read it quickly – a report about a vehicle fire the previous evening.
‘This is the van that hit DI Hobbs?’
‘I’m waiting for confirmation, but it’s a black Transit, reported stolen the day before the accident.’ Somerville lifted her shoulders, spread her hands. ‘It was torched, plenty of petrol thrown around. I’d say it’s a safe bet.’
‘Who owned it?’
‘A plumber in Milton Keynes. We’re checking him out, but I’m confident he knew nothing about this.’ She gestured towards the screen. ‘He only bought the van last week, hadn’t even transferred his tools into it.’
Tell No Lies Page 10