No Time To Cry

by James Oswald

  Except that he’s dead.

  ‘Are we sure the operation’s a complete loss?’

  I’d been going to speak, but Bain beats me to it. Ever the optimist, he’s at least trying to look for a positive side to this. I’m inclined to agree with Bailey though; the operation’s fucked. In fact, it was probably fucked a week ago. Maybe even fucked from the start. I’ve been thinking about it all night, staring at the light fitting in the middle of the ceiling above my bed and trying not to see Pete’s dead eyes. This was something far bigger than we thought, or at least far bigger than I thought.

  ‘You tell me, Ed.’ Even I can hear the sarcasm in the detective superintendent’s voice. ‘Detective Inspector Copperthwaite was tied to a chair, tortured, then shot once in the forehead. Whoever did that somehow disabled the security cameras and alarms and tried to set fire to the offices we’ve been paying a fortune in rent on for the past three months. Pete was one of our best undercover detectives and they found out who he was anyway.’ Bailey’s standing too close, he always stands too close, like he’s Russian or something. When he turns his attention to me I can’t help but take a step back. ‘So I ask you again, Constable. What the hell were you even doing there?’

  I stare at him, and for a moment I’m scared. I’m a little girl back at school, being bullied in front of the class by a crap teacher who really should know better. But I’m not that little girl any more. I’ve faced down bullies before, and I know I haven’t done anything wrong.

  ‘Pete texted me. Said something had come up and could I meet him at the office. Usual protocol.’

  ‘Which was?’ Bailey’s voice drips with condescension. The bastard knows damn well what the protocol is, he just wants to show me up as incompetent in front of the other officers here. Pick on me because I’m junior and female. Well, fuck him. Metaphorically. This was meant to be a debrief, not an interrogation.

  ‘Always come by public transport. Walk a different route each time. Observe the building for five minutes minimum before entering. Use the back entrance and the key code that lets control know which officer is there. You know, all the basic stuff they teach you when you’re working undercover. The common-sense stuff.’

  Bailey stares at me, a vein in his forehead bulging ominously. Another reason why I don’t much like the man: he doesn’t take being answered back well. I meet his stare with one of my own. No way I’m backing down now. The tense silence is probably only a couple of heartbeats, but it still feels like an age before he breaks away, addresses the two more senior detectives.

  ‘We need to know how they found out he was a cop. Damage limitation too. How much did he tell them about our other operations? Who’s going to be next? I want a full review of everything Pete was involved in, going back five years, on my desk by the end of the day.’

  ‘Aren’t we going to try and find out who did this?’ I know as soon as I’ve opened my mouth it’s the wrong thing to say. Just can’t stop myself sometimes.

  ‘No. We’re not. A different team will be looking into that. And you’ll go nowhere near the investigation, Miss Fairchild. Do you understand me?’

  Miss Fairchild. Now I know I’m in trouble. No one’s called me that since school. I open my mouth to answer, but Bailey doesn’t give me a chance. Is that a twitch of a smile on his face?

  ‘Your warrant card, please.’ The bastard holds out his hand.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I’m placing you on suspension, prior to a full investigation by Professional Standards. Frankly, if I had my way you’d be out the door already.’

  I can feel my temper rising, the shock of Pete’s death the only thing that’s stopping me from punching the smug fuck. Suspension? How can he do that? Then a hand on my arm steadies me. I glance around to see Sergeant Thomas, the union rep. He’ll back me up.

  ‘It’s for the best, Con. Just for now. Don’t make a fuss, eh?’

  Not the words I was expecting at all. I look around the room, the collected male faces, eyes not brave enough to meet my gaze. Even DCI Bain looks uncomfortably at his shoes, shakes his head ever so slightly. That’s when it dawns on me. This is it. My career as a detective is over. My career as a police officer is over. And I’ve done nothing wrong.

  ‘Fine. Take it.’ I pull the card from my jacket pocket and fling it at Bailey. No doubt that confirms every suspicion he’s ever had about women in the police force. I can’t bring myself to care. I’m too angry. Resisting the urge to spit in his face, in all of their faces, I pull my arm from Sergeant Thomas’s weak grip, turn on my heels and stride out of the room. They won’t get away with this, I hear myself muttering under my breath. But the cynic in me knows that they will.

  They already have.

  My angry stride down the corridor is broken by a loud voice behind me.

  ‘Detective Constable Fairchild. A moment, please.’

  Any other voice I’d probably have ignored, but of all the people who’ve treated me shittily since Pete’s death, DCI Bain has perhaps been the most sympathetic.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘In here, I think.’ He pushes open a nearby door, ushers me into an empty room. Pete’s office. It takes me a moment to recognise it; the place has been stripped of all files and folders already.

  ‘What happened back there.’ Bain hooks a thumb in the loose direction of Detective Superintendent Bailey’s office. ‘I’m sorry. I should have realised they’d be like that.’

  ‘Like what? A bunch of bullying arseholes?’

  Bain takes a deep breath, then holds it in. I can almost see the count of ten going on in his head before he speaks.

  ‘From what I’ve heard you’re a good detective, Fairchild. Must be, otherwise you’d not have been part of this team. But if you don’t mind your attitude, then Bailey and his friends will throw you to the wolves.’

  ‘I—’

  He holds up an interrupting hand. ‘It’s not right, I know. It’s not fair and it’s counter-productive. But some powerful people are angry and embarrassed and probably scared shitless for their jobs right now. They’re looking for someone to take that out on and, guess what, they’ve chosen you.’

  ‘So what? I’m supposed to just act like a punchbag? Go home and take up knitting?’

  Bain stares at me, silent, for long enough for my rage to calm to a rolling boil.

  ‘For now? Yes. I can’t say much. I probably shouldn’t say anything at all. But there’s more here than meets the eye.’

  I remember his words yesterday, at the scene of the crime. Or, rather, his lack of them. ‘This operation wasn’t about infiltrating the local organised crime scene, was it, sir?’

  ‘Oh, it was. At least, that was part of it. The other part?’ He shrugs, but says no more.

  ‘Above my pay grade. Fucking marvellous.’ I walk around Pete’s old desk and stare out of the window. It’s not the most edifying of views: the back of offices, a yard full of badly parked police cars, distant skyscrapers knifing the clouds. London in all its murky glory. My home, or at least I thought it was.

  ‘A month, maybe two.’ Bain’s words drag my attention away from the dull scenery outside. ‘We’ll track down the people responsible, clear your name. You’ll be back in no time. Just keep your head down for a while, OK?’

  He’s trying to reassure me, I can tell. He means well, and that’s something, I suppose.

  ‘I’ll need to get a few things from my desk.’

  He nods once, then turns and leaves. I linger in Pete’s office for a while after he’s gone, unsure whether I can bring myself to move.

  I can see it in their faces. The fear. The hatred. The anger. To a certain extent I can understand it too. I’d probably be the same if some other poor bugger had found Pete like that. Everyone liked him, after all. It’s just a bit fucking annoying they all blame me for what happened.

  The joy of
an open-plan office is that there’s nowhere to hide. Everyone can see you, and watch silently as you clear all the personal shit out of your desk. Not that there’s much of it, and none of it’s all that sentimental. Maybe the only thing worth keeping is a photo in the bottom of one of the drawers. Me, Pete and DS Lowry. My first big case, breaking open a nasty protection racket. What was it, five years ago? No, six. Christ, the years roll into one.

  ‘You’ve a nerve showing your face in here.’

  It’s such a cliché, for a while I think it’s meant to be a joke. I’m too busy looking at the photo, remembering the good times. Lowry took early retirement, buggered off to Spain if I remember right. I wonder if anyone’s told him about Pete yet.

  ‘You listening to me, Fairchild?’

  I look up. The simple answer is no, but that’s not what my accuser wants to hear. Detective Constable Dan Penny isn’t someone I’d choose to spend much time with unless I had to. He’s always been a bit too full of himself to take seriously, and not much of a detective either. Lack of imagination probably explains the cliché too.

  ‘What do you want, Dan?’ I slide the photograph into my jacket pocket as I speak. Everything else I need is in the small rucksack I emptied the contents of my locker into half an hour ago.

  ‘I want you to explain what the fuck you think you were doing blowing Pete’s cover. Way I hear it that’s not all of Pete’s you were blowing either.’

  ‘How long did it take you to come up with that joke, Dan?’ I sling the rucksack over my shoulder while he’s thinking how best to answer. ‘Actually, I reckon you probably stole it from someone a lot smarter than you. Only, I thought you were meant to be keeping away from children these days.’

  All bluster, and the insult goes way over Penny’s head. I’ll be out of the office before he works it out, but that doesn’t stop what he said from hurting. Pete and I were close, it’s true, but we weren’t that close. Well, maybe that one time, but we both agreed it wasn’t a good idea. Got it out of our systems and worked well as a team after that.

  ‘Just so you all know.’ I raise my voice as I walk to the door. ‘Pete’s cover was blown well before I went to see him. I know you don’t want to hear that. Easier to point the finger at me because I was there when it happened. Only I wasn’t, right? I didn’t get there until after he was already dead. I didn’t lead them there, I didn’t tip anyone off. I followed protocol every time I had to go to that office. Can each and every one of you say the same?’

  I’m at the door now, heart pumping just a little bit faster than normal, adrenaline making me jittery. They’re all staring at me like I’ve got two heads or something, and that’s when it hits me.

  I’m not a part of this team any more.

  4

  I’ve always loved the buzz of London life, the energy. There’s always something happening, some drama unfolding. And the people, most of the people, are great. As melting pots go, it’s bubbling away. Right now I could do with a bit of space though, a chance to hear the night birds calling and breathe air that hasn’t been used by half a dozen other people in the last minute already.

  You don’t get much space around here. At least, not on a detective constable’s pay.

  I could ride the bus all the way home, or probably cadge a lift from a squad car heading in that direction. Instead I take the Tube to King’s Cross and then decide to walk. It’s only a few miles and the weather’s fine. Warm, but not too muggy. Walking gives me time to think, time to process what’s happened and what’s still happening.

  Pete’s dead.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I always knew this could happen. To him, to me, to any one of us in plain clothes or uniform. Policing’s a shitty job at times, dangerous and thankless. I know that, and still I do it.

  Did it. Who knows whether I’ll be able to go back, whether I’ll want to go back after what’s happened today? Talk about being thrown under the bus.

  I still can’t quite believe it. They know I didn’t break protocol, know I’d never do anything to put Pete in danger, and yet they’re going to use me as a scapegoat. I can see Detective Superintendent Bailey right now, toadying up to the commissioner. ‘Sorry, sir, terrible business. Lost a good man and wasted half a mill’ on a busted operation. All because some stupid little tart couldn’t follow orders.’ Fuckers. I’ve half a mind to take it to an unfair dismissal tribunal, but I know that won’t do me any good. All those hostile looks from my supposed friends and colleagues proved that well enough. The poison’s already there.

  Pete wouldn’t let them do this. Wouldn’t matter who it was, he’d never let the rest of the team gang up on one person.

  But Pete’s dead.

  I’ve been walking for hours now, the same thoughts going round and round. Damn them, but I can’t stop the tears. Wipe my eyes, sniff like a teenager. Come on, Con. You’re thirty years old. Don’t let them make you cry. I should be home by now, but I’ve been circling the streets, staying away. I laugh out loud; there’s protocol for you. Make sure nobody’s following. Double back and go the long way round. Fuck-all good it does.

  Pete’s dead.

  The sobs are getting harder to suppress, like there’s a lump growing in my throat and the only way to dislodge it is to bawl like an infant who’s just thrown his favourite toy on the floor. I don’t think anyone’s watching, don’t think anyone would much care, but then I hear a voice nearby.

  ‘Come on, love. Worse things happen in war, you know.’

  I can tell by the accent exactly what he’s going to look like, even before I turn to face him. Forty-something, white, what might be an attempt at a beard but is probably just laziness. He’s wearing a grey cotton hoody with the history of his fast-food diet written all across its front, and his eyes are too close together.

  ‘My best friend just died. Shot in the head. Sounds a lot like war to me.’

  ‘Just tryin’ to cheer you up. No need to be a bitch about it. Should learn to take help when it’s offered. Learn some fucking manners.’ He takes a threatening step forward and I shove my hand into my pocket where my warrant card always lives. Except it’s not there now. It’s on the floor of Detective Superintendent Bailey’s office. For an instant I feel vulnerable, but he’s just one man. One unfit, overweight man who knows nothing whatsoever about self-defence. I could have him on the pavement and in cuffs in seconds. Only I left the cuffs back at the station too.

  ‘Not today, OK? I’m not in the mood.’ I pitch my voice a little lower than normal, despite the tightness in my throat. It’s enough to make him pause, so I heft my backpack and sidestep my way past. Most people probably wouldn’t notice the hand he reaches out towards me, grabbing for my arm. But I’m not most people. I’ve had training. Even with my backpack making life awkward, I’ve got his arm twisted behind him before he can open his mouth to speak. It brings me far closer than I ever wanted to be to him. He smells of grease and body odour.

  ‘Just so you know, I’m a police officer and I’ve had a really shitty day. If I wasn’t on my way home I’d arrest you right now and throw you in a cell.’ I pull his arm up just a little further than it’s meant to go. His yelp of pain is very satisfying, but it also reminds me that I’ve better things to be doing. As I let go his arm, I shove him in the middle of the back. Off balance, he stumbles away from me, falling to his knees. Hopefully the pavement will leave a more permanent reminder of his folly on the palms of his hands, but I’m not counting on it.

  Turning my back on him, I walk away, confident he’s not going to do anything stupid. I can hear his groans as he struggles to his feet, the muffled curses getting quieter as he and I go our separate ways. At least I’ve stopped crying now, I’ll give him that much.

  But Pete is still dead.

  Old Mrs Feltham is sitting on the open stairs that lead up to my flat when I get home. Judging by the mountain of green waste and small p
lastic bowl of shelled beans, she’s been to the market recently. I’m more the convenience food type; there’s never enough time to cook. I envy her that luxury, though her old face is lined with years of hard work.

  ‘You home early, sugar.’ She shuffles to one side slightly so I can get past. For a moment I consider stopping for a chat; that’s what I’d do if it was my day off. I don’t want to have to explain everything to her though, don’t want her sympathy even if it might mean a pot of whatever she’s cooking left outside my door later.

  ‘You know how it is, Mrs F. Some days it’s all hours, others there’s not much to do.’ And before she can come up with a retort, I’m up the steps and gone.

  The flat is dark, cool compared to the summer heat outside. Nothing special, it’s just an ex-council place in an unlovely concrete block thrown up sometime before I was born. The rent’s extortionate, especially given the owner bought the place off the council for a knock-down price in the eighties. God Bless Maggie Thatcher and the right to buy. Still, it’s been home for the past five years, and that’s the longest I’ve stayed anywhere since I can remember. As I dump my backpack in the tiny hall, I wonder how much longer it’ll be before I have to move on again.

  There’s a half-empty bottle of wine in the fridge, but for once I don’t feel like getting drunk. A bit more of a search produces something that might just about make a meal. A lump of cheddar cracked with age, butter gone a bit rancid, bread that’s hard rather than mouldy. Cheese on toast washed down with a mug of black tea. It would have been white if the milk was maybe just a day younger, but I don’t like the way the carton’s bulging.

  I take my sparse meal through to the living room, fall into the saggy armchair and stick my feet up on the coffee table. Sunlight spears through the blinds, shadows hiding the worst of the mess. It’s not dirty, just cluttered. Life’s too short to spend your free time clearing up shit. Maybe if I ever had visitors I’d make an effort, but I can’t remember the last time anyone came back here.