by James Oswald
I’m standing behind Dan as I speak, so he can’t see the wink I give my aunt. She plays a mean poker face, nodding her understanding, then leaves without another word.
‘Are you going to be reasonable now, Dan?’
He nods, eyes a little more focused, a little more fearful. I remove the sock and drop it to the floor beside him.
‘OK, then. First off. What were you doing sitting in your car up the road? And I don’t mean having a quick kip.’
‘Thought that would have been obvious. Waiting for you to turn up.’
‘And what were you doing here a week ago? Back when you were spotted in the pub. Looking for me then too?’
Dan nods, then winces in pain.
‘Under whose orders though? I know we’re short staffed, but a lone stakeout well away from our normal patch. That’s not a sanctioned expense, is it?’
He stares at me, non-droopy eye squinting. ‘You think you’re so fucking clever, Fairchild. But you’re not. You’re just a spoiled little rich kid who’s got herself in far deeper than she knows.’
‘Really?’ I bend down and retrieve the sock, holding it as lightly as I can between thumb and forefinger like the manky thing it is. ‘I know you were the one who tortured Pete for information. You used a baseball bat and kept those leather driving gloves of yours on so you wouldn’t get his blood on your hands.’
Penny stares at me still, but the sneer has gone from his face. Is that a hint of worry I see there? I was just fishing. I knew he was involved, but not to what extent. His reaction is as good as a signed confession as far as I’m concerned. Time to up the ante a bit.
‘So what I need to know, and I suspect the Crown Prosecutor will too, is who fired the gun? I don’t believe for a minute you’re the brains behind this operation, so I suspect it’s someone quite senior, right?’
Penny’s eyes are wide now, and he seems to be having difficulty forming articulate sentences. I’ve got him rattled, just need him to give me a name. I know it won’t be admissible in court, but frankly I’m beyond caring about that sort of thing right now.
‘I . . . I can’t. They’ll kill me.’
I make a gun with my fingers, reach forward and press Penny in the forehead. ‘What? Like you killed Pete?’
‘Very much like that, Miss Fairchild.’
Too late I see Dan’s already fearful gaze slide past me. I spin round, recognising the voice of Roger DeVilliers’ hired muscle, Adrian. His silent friend is there with him, standing in the open garage doorway, but they are blocking the main escape. There’s only the door through to the house, where Aunt Felicity should be almost done making my cup of tea. Crap. I really should have thought it through before dragging her into all this.
‘Mr DeVilliers is very upset with you, disappearing like that and not telling him where you went.’ He nods at his silent friend, who steps into the garage, walks past me and begins untying Dan. I offer the sock, but he just ignores it, escorting the hapless detective constable out into the darkness. Good riddance to him.
‘What are you going to do with him?’ I ask more to distract Adrian from going into the house than anything. With luck, Aunt F. will see what’s happening and keep well away.
‘Nothing bad. At least not now. A tame copper’s always useful, even if he is just a grunt.’ Adrian tucks his hand into his jacket, comes out with a rather more substantial gun than the one I put to Penny’s head. He doesn’t point it at me, but the implication is clear.
‘Let me guess. Old Roger wants a word?’
38
At least I’m not drugged and tied up this time, and I can see where we’re going. Adrian’s silent friend frisked me for concealed weapons and took away my phone, but other than that no one’s laid a hand on me. I’m still not sure whether agreeing to go with them was a sensible choice. They could be taking me to see DeVilliers, or they could be making a beeline for the nearest construction site so that I can form an integral part of the foundations.
They haven’t killed me yet though. And they left Aunt Felicity alone. I have to hope that she was listening in all the while, and that she’s got the good sense to go as far away as possible until all this has blown over. I just hope that I’m around to apologise.
‘He doesn’t say much.’ I nod my head in the direction of the driver’s seat, cut off from where I’m sitting by a motorised glass partition.
‘That would be difficult without a tongue.’
I say nothing, but my raised eyebrow is all the response Adrian needs.
‘Secret ops in Afghanistan. Back in oh-two. Went spectacularly tits up, and Tommy managed to get himself captured by the towelheads, stupid bastard. They tortured him, but he wouldn’t say anything. So they cut his tongue out. They were going to chop his head off too, but we got there first.’
In 2002 I was fifteen years old, worrying about exams, hating my school and trying to pretend I wasn’t all that interested in boys. Sure, I knew about the Afghan war, but there’s a big difference between that and being there, seeing action, getting injured in the line of duty.
‘How’d you both end up working for DeVilliers, then?’ I ask.
‘My, aren’t you full of questions?’
I shrug, lean back in my seat as if it’s no matter to me whether he answers or not. ‘Figure there’s not much else to do. The way I see it, I’m either about to lose my head or Mr DeVilliers will offer me a job I can’t refuse. Either way, I’d like to know as much as possible before it happens. Fair enough?’
Adrian says nothing, and for a while there’s just the muted roar of tyres on road, a quiet whistling of wind as we speed down the motorway. This isn’t the same car I was driven in before; that was much quieter and more luxurious. It’s still a stretch limousine though, and I’m reminded of the car that was parked outside my flat in London.
‘What did you have to do with Pete’s death?’ I ask. It’s a question that’s been bothering me since these two showed up in the woods a week ago. I can’t see how they fit into the operation at all.
‘Pete . . . ? Oh, right. Your boss. Yeah.’ Adrian shakes his head. ‘Nothing to do with us. That was all your mate Penny and that tit Bailey.’
‘Bailey?’ I can’t make up my mind whether I’m surprised or not. I knew he was an obnoxious twat, but corrupt enough to kill? ‘Detective Superintendent Gordon Bailey?’
‘Here, have a look at this if you don’t believe me.’ Adrian pulls out a smartphone, taps at the screen a couple of times and then hands it over. There’s a look on his face I don’t like much. It reminds me of my uniform days, policing football matches. Most of the fans were decent enough folk, happy or sad depending on the outcome of the game. But there were some who only went for the fight, who delighted in causing as much mayhem and damage as possible, didn’t feel it when it was dished out to them either. Adrian has that look on his face now.
What I see on the screen isn’t much better.
The quality’s not good, but it’s clear enough to tell that I’m seeing one of the camera feeds from the office where Pete died. Only now I can see he’s alive, frightened but defiant. He looks up at the camera, stares past the two men who are with him. One of them, wearing what looks like leather driving gloves, and holding a short wooden bat, follows his gaze. As he turns, I see the idiot expression of Dan Penny fill the screen.
‘Fuck’s sake. How did you get this?’
‘It’s not over yet,’ Adrian reaches for the phone, clicks the volume button up and hands it back just in time for me to hear someone speak.
‘This is getting us nowhere.’ The voice is familiar enough, but I’d recognise that bald spot in a line-up any time. I know what’s coming, but even so it’s a shock when Detective Superintendent Gordon Bailey puts a gun to Pete’s head and pulls the trigger.
‘Fuck.’ I don’t think I’ll ever get that image out of my mind. ‘The
y told me the tapes had all been wiped.’
Adrian smirks as he takes the phone from my unresisting grip and slips it back into his pocket.
‘The boss has his eye on many things. He didn’t know anything about Bailey’s little scam until you started looking for Isobel though. That’s when we started looking into you, so in a way, you helped us out there. You never know when you might need a favour from someone high up in the Met.’
‘What, like covering up Steve Benson’s murder?’
Adrian’s smirk turns into a scowl as something more like anger than irritation passes across his face, a tightening of the skin around those pale-blue eyes. I hold his gaze for as long as I can, but he’s clearly more used to staring down death than I am. There’s nothing to be gained from angering him, anyway, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.
‘I’ve seen the photographs, the video, all the stuff Benson dug up and passed on to Izzy. You happy working for a man who can do that to a child? To his own daughter? Happy to let him carry on doing it to other children?’
‘She’s not his daughter.’
‘And that makes it OK, then? His wife has an affair with his best friend and he takes it out on the child? That seems reasonable behaviour to you, does it? He gets his kicks raping kids and sharing them with his sick friends. Filming it so he can blackmail them later. And you’re happy to cover it all up just as long as he keeps paying you?’
‘You talk too much. Either shut up or I’ll have Tommy shut you up like he did the last time.’ Adrian doesn’t shout. Where there was excitement before at showing me the video of Pete’s death, now there’s no inflexion in his voice whatsoever, which makes it all the more terrifying.
I’d hoped I might be able to shame him, maybe make him question his actions, sow a seed of doubt in his mind that I could exploit later on. Divide and conquer, but first you’ve got to divide. I can see now there’s no point trying to appeal to Adrian’s better nature. He doesn’t have one.
London never really sleeps, but in the small hours it slows down just a little. Instead of the black cabs and cycle couriers, tired commuters, delivery vans and construction traffic, the roads fill with street cleaners, delivery vans and construction traffic. There are fewer people walking the pavements, and fewer pedestrian crossings on red to slow the flow of traffic.
I assumed that I was being taken back to Roger DeVilliers’ penthouse apartment for another intimate chat, but Tommy the tongueless driver charts a different route through the city. It doesn’t take long for me to work out where he’s going though, and soon enough we’re pulling up outside the concrete hulk that is my apartment block. Only once the car has stopped does Adrian speak again.
‘Mr DeVilliers is otherwise occupied at the moment, but he will see you soon. In the meantime, you’re to stay in your apartment and wait for us to come and fetch you.’
‘Or else?’
‘Or else you’ll be investigated by Professional Standards, who will uncover irrefutable evidence of your corruption and complicity in the murder of your colleague Detective Inspector Copperthwaite. You will not only lose your job, but will spend many years in prison. You might not care much, but I suspect your family’s reputation will suffer at the hands of the gutter press too.’
It’s as much as I might have expected, and I can’t deny the relief at not having to face DeVilliers straight away. Nodding my understanding, I unclip my seatbelt and step out of the car into cool night air. ‘Can I have my phone back?’
‘Your phone is in your apartment, where you posted it. We’ve taken the liberty of restocking your fridge and cupboards. There’ll be no need for you to leave until we call for you.’
‘What about keys? I left mine in my aunt’s car back in Harston Magna.’
Adrian rolls his eyes, climbs out of the car himself. He takes a hold of my arm, not so hard that I might bruise, but hard enough that I know resistance is futile. Together we walk up the concrete stairs to the open air walkway and along to my front door. The first thing I notice is that it’s been painted, covering up the mark left before. The next thing I notice is the shiny new lock. Adrian produces a key from his jacket pocket, slides it in and opens the door. He reaches in and flicks on the hall light with an ease that confirms to me he has been here before, then pushes me inside.
‘You won’t have to wait long. Forty-eight hours at the most. Mr DeVilliers needs to attend to some urgent business that’s come up on account of someone sending off emails to various journalists and civil rights lawyers. As soon as that’s dealt with we’ll come and fetch you.’ Adrian pulls the key from the lock and drops it back into his pocket. ‘Don’t try to leave. We’re watching the door at all times. We will know if you misbehave again, and you know what will happen if you do.’
And with that he is gone, leaving me all alone.
I stare at the closed door, motionless, barely able to think. All that’s going through my mind, on slow agonising repeat, is the memory of that short piece of video footage on Adrian’s phone. First Dan Penny with his baseball bat and driving gloves, then Gordon Bailey oh so casually lifting a gun, pressing it to Pete’s forehead and pulling the trigger. The sound on the recording was poor, muted by the noise of the car, but with each repeat the bang gets louder, Pete’s death-spasm more violent. Over and over, faster and faster, the horror show plays in my mind, overlaid with Adrian’s hooligan expression of delight, until my stomach heaves. Necessity drives me to the bathroom and before I know it I’m on my knees, retching into the toilet bowl, tears blurring everything.
I don’t know how much time passes before I feel able to stand, flush, wash my face and hands. It’s been a long day, I should be tired, but instead I’m shaking with barely controlled rage. How the fuck can they do this and get away with it? And that last snippet of information Adrian dropped on me. They know about Kathryn’s emails. All Izzy’s carefully worked-out plans are falling apart, the whole thing quietly swept under the carpet as if nothing had ever happened. Christ, I hope they don’t hurt Kathryn herself. Bad enough they’ve got Izzy.
I walk back into the hall, open the front door and stare out at the building across the street, searching for any sign of being watched. As if expecting me to do so, a curtain pulls wide to reveal a man’s silhouette in a brightly lit room almost directly opposite. He waves, slowly, then holds up a hand and taps the wrist, as if indicating the time. It’s late. I should get some rest. I flip him the bird and close the door.
The flat doesn’t feel like home any more. Nothing much is different, it’s still the untidy pit it always was, but I have changed. The past week has left me jittery, unsettled and very, very angry. I want to break things, mostly Adrian’s neck. And Roger DeVilliers’. I want to call up Professional Standards and tell them everything I’ve found out about Dan Penny. I’d tell them about Gordon Bailey too, but they’re unlikely to take me seriously, especially if they ask me how I know. And, anyway, the suspicion is already on me. Anything I say will be dismissed as an attempt to shift the blame onto someone else.
Through in the kitchen, I find out that Adrian is as good as his word. The fridge is full, and they’ve not skimped on the luxury. There’s a couple of bottles of champagne tucked away on the bottom shelf, packets of cold meats from Harrods Food Hall. I pick through a selection of prepared salad vegetables in tubs and little pots of pickles and preserves that must have come out of a very posh hamper. None of it’s the sort of thing I’d ever consider eating, even if I hadn’t just puked my guts out. Right now I’d kill for one of Mrs Feltham’s goat curries and a bottle of Peroni.
Actually, right now I’d kill for a shower and bed, but I’m not so stupid as to think this place hasn’t been comprehensively rigged with hidden cameras and microphones. Without scanning gear I could spend hours looking for them and not find anything, and there’s no way I’m going to give whoever’s recording my every move any kind of a peep show. There’s
also the fact my bed’s still got two bullet holes in it.
The bullet holes get me thinking though. Cat must have got in through the window, and it’s a racing certainty that’s the way my would-be assassin did too. It’s only when Roger DeVilliers got mixed up in all this that people started coming in through the door. If someone athletic and foolhardy enough managed to get in, then surely it must be possible to get out that way.
And then what? They’ll see I’ve gone, track me down and throw me to the wolves. Stupid plan, Con. You’re not thinking straight. Get some sleep, for God’s sake.
I make a cup of tea with far too much milk and a couple of teaspoons of sugar, just how I used to drink it as a child. Mug in one hand and a ridiculously fancy tin of chocolate Bath Oliver biscuits in the other, I go through to the living room and slump down into the saggy armchair. Someone, Adrian probably, has collected all my letters and put them on the low table in front of the telly. They’ve all been opened, which is just another item to add to the hate list, even if it’s only a bunch of bills and junk mail. There’s the parcel with my phone and backup battery in it, too, both dead.
It takes a while to find the charging lead, but eventually it’s plugged in. While I wait for it to come back to life, I sip sweet tea and munch biscuits that aren’t nearly as good as their packaging promised. Or maybe I’m just too tired to eat, but too anxious to sleep. Reaching for the lamp beside the chair, I switch it off and plunge the room into semi-darkness. I need someone to talk to, and Pete’s ghost, the projection of my feelings of guilt and hopelessness, is as good as anyone.
He doesn’t come, however much I stare at the darkened corner where the other chair sits. How like a man to abandon me when all the chips are down.
39
Something wakes me with a start. A distant noise, perhaps, or a touch to the back of my neck. For too long, I don’t know where I am. Then the sounds of London filter in, and bring with them the memories of last night. With a groan, I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes. On the little table by the side of my armchair, a half-drunk mug of milky tea now has a scum of hard water on the top of it. The biscuits look even less appealing in the light of day.