‘He can talk; he’s as rough as they come. He was growing balls in Glasgow when people like the Watsons were cementing their future offshore wealth.’
‘He’s desperate to be one of them. Are you going to tell Kelly Porter?’ Liam asked.
‘I’m torn, man. I respect her. She’s…’
‘An innocent. I know, I see it in her. She fights for the underdog, doesn’t she?’
‘I’m not saying that she’s never seen her own tragedy. She’s got a hard side and she’s got balls of steel, but she carries all this fucking hope around with her.’
‘I know.’ Liam smiled: it felt good to be in Porter’s space. ‘How do you work with all that positivity?’ It wasn’t a real question, more a statement of surprise.
‘She believes in the truth.’
‘She’s fucking screwed,’ Liam said.
‘I dunno. She inspires people, I see it in the office all the time. Even when she meets a murderer, or a child abuser, they all diminish in front of her.’
‘The second coming?’
Will punched his friend’s arm.
‘What will we do tonight?’ he asked Liam seriously.
‘What we always do: as we’re told.’
‘Aren’t you tired of that?’
‘We’ve got no choice.’
It was true. Since their first days on the force together, they’d been bound by events long ago that would forever dictate their futures. They were brothers in more than terms of camaraderie; they were bonded in experience and tragedy. Kelly Porter had no idea what Will’s past horrors looked like, and nor would she.
‘One day there’ll be an opportunity to wring his neck,’ Liam said.
‘Stop it. I don’t wanna fucking talk about it. Just do your fucking job.’ Will’s tone was sharp, but he hated the topic being brought up; it was in the past and would remain there. Liam had more of the scrapper in him, whereas Will was more rules-driven. Perhaps that was why they’d chosen their respective career paths: uniforms imposed the law instantly; detectives took their time. They both got there in the end. Of course he’d like to see Ormond get his comeuppance. But he was also a realist who knew that would never happen. Maybe that was why he had so much affection for Kelly: because she believed in the unbelievable.
Chapter 17
Liam drove Will in a patrol car to the other side of town, to a yard used by the Cumbrian constabulary to house its larger patrol, riot and transport vehicles. Will had been on similar raids before, without the knowledge of his boss. No one knew his marriage was over, and that he had time on his hands. He hated being at the flat on his own, so he tagged along on exercises like this one. When extra feet were required on the ground, his stellar history during crowd control exercises and on the street came in handy.
A fifty-strong task force had been given the green light to step up the rounds on the Beacon Estate. ‘Step up’ was an understatement. The order had come from Superintendent Ormond that vehicles were to stop and search any miscreants looking as though they were up to no good. It sounded vague but wasn’t. Thugs and arrests were required.
The operation was coded Op Eagle and was designed to last for the best part of the evening, extending across the whole estate. They were to set up checkpoints and run a military-style zero-tolerance undertaking. Will felt slightly uneasy because he knew that at some point Kelly would find out, but, as he explained to Liam, their hands were tied. He’d take the flack when it came, and it would be worth it; rather that than tell her the truth.
He could hear her in his head and knew she’d lose her shit when she did find out. He knew how she felt about such draconian tactics. It was the worst kind of stereotyping: sending in the heavies to the underprivileged slum to weed out the baddies. But sometimes the rulebook didn’t work, and secretly Will knew that his colleagues in riot and population control, as well as those in regular squad cars, wanted nothing more than to get their hands dirty getting revenge for countless victims. They’d all had enough. Enough of waiting around for the government to pour extra resources into ordinary policing. Enough of criminals walking free due to technicalities. Enough of estates like Beacon being no-go areas.
As he walked towards the depot, he felt something inside stir: a primeval need to seek justice. When he walked in and saw the set-up before him – officers kitting up in armour, checking helmets, discussing armed-response channels – and heard the low-level hum of anticipation, he knew he was amongst like-minded individuals.
They were briefed at 4 p.m. It was already dark. Raids were usually carried out either before dawn or after dusk, to exploit the element of surprise. They listened to last-minute instructions and checked equipment. Detectives often had to prepare for dangerous exchanges, and their training in basic defence weaponry had to be kept up to date. Will weighed the heavy truncheon in his hand. It felt good.
He looked around and wondered where Superintendent Ormond had got the manpower from so quickly. He was a man on a mission; everyone knew that he had a personal interest in the case. Well, in as much as he rubbed shoulders with the wealthy Watsons. He had already made it clear that Keira Bradley wasn’t the motivator here. That was the irony, and Will knew it. It had taken the death of a rich white middle-class woman to stoke the fire.
The atmosphere was testosterone-charged, though Will spotted a decent number of women. They had the same look about them: hunger. He smiled. He’d done the right thing. He thought about his boss and how she might react when she heard the news, and discovered that he’d been involved, but he had his story ready. He’d say they’d needed as much manpower as possible, and that it was a direct order from the supervising officer. It bugged him that Ormond hadn’t involved the investigating team; it should be a joint operation. But he knew why the super wanted to act alone: because his ego was getting the better of him and Kelly Porter saw straight through it. He also knew that, of anyone on the force, Kelly would discern the real motivation behind Ormond’s fervour to get the case closed quickly.
The final command to load the vehicles came in, and Will followed Liam into the back of a large van. It held around fifteen of them. Further sitreps and operational commands would be delivered en route. They’d been cleared to arrest at the first sign of trouble or lack of compliance. As they set off, the tension inside the van was palpable. The officers glanced at one another or chatted quietly. Will saw that they were part of a convoy of around seven vehicles.
Back at the office, his colleagues would be working intently on the finer details of the case, crunching data and staring at computer screens. He missed the streets and this was one way to scratch that itch. Maybe they’d bump into Tyrone Fenton tonight. He hadn’t told Kelly that the reason the shithead had no record was because three years ago Liam had beaten him half to death and got away with it. Will had helped fix the evidence. Fenton’s file had been cleared as a result. The kid never squealed, and Liam ended up behind a desk for a year.
Adrenalin spiked as they neared the entrance to the estate. The high-rises loomed sinister and forbidding. The vehicles stopped abruptly and the back doors were flung open. Will stuck to Liam’s side. They were to patrol on foot and question anybody looking suspicious or loitering where they shouldn’t. Will could see a group of youths in the distance wearing hoods and scarves over their faces, a fashion statement that had been imported from US prisons, along with wearing jeans below the pant line because belts weren’t allowed in jail. It was a sad indictment of society when role models were felons. Artists and hangers-on covered their faces on drill-rap videos for fear of being identified and stereotyped. He’d watched enough of them to know the two went hand in hand: criminal gangs and explicit, violent rap music. Drill culture was infecting youth on an unprecedented level. Sure, there were outreach centres full of do-gooders willing to donate time and money to rehabilitating these young offenders, but it wasn’t enough. Who wanted to trade status, cash and easy women for meditation, penance and volunteer work? No one: that was the answer.<
br />
Jackson Akers’ flat was in full line of sight to where Keira Bradley had been butchered, and they wanted to ask him what he’d seen. They also wanted to know why he’d been so busy around the estate on his bike earlier today. They headed towards Wordsworth Towers. The estate was fairly quiet, but word of the police presence was already getting round, and it seemed from what Will heard on the radio channel used for the evening’s events that people were doing the opposite of what Ormond had expected them to do: they weren’t staying indoors, they were coming out onto the streets and balconies and questioning the police directly. This called for a different skill set entirely, and Will could hear officers engaging in Q&A sessions. It was wholly unexpected.
On the balcony overlooking the spot where Keira had died, a group of people, all ages, bombarded Will and Liam with questions. They demanded justice for Keira, they asked why the rich white woman mattered more than a mixed-race one or a poor one. They wanted to know how the police were going to protect their community. Tension ramped up, but the two officers answered as best they could and calmly explained that they were visiting properties pertinent to their investigation. They made it clear that they were only interested in anyone not complying with the law.
‘Let ’em do their job.’
It was Sharon Bradley who spoke. The small crowd parted.
‘It’s Akers you want to see, ain’t it?’ she asked. The crowd looked from her to the cops. Silence descended.
‘We’re on our way to the address of Jackson Akers, yes, ma’am. We’re sorry about your daughter; we’re trying our best to get answers.’
‘He’s a good boy. Mind you don’t go too far with your interrogation.’
‘It’s simply important to our inquiries, ma’am.’
‘Pig.’ Spittle flew from nowhere and landed at Liam’s feet.
‘Now we’ll have none o’ that! Shut the fuck up and let ’em do their job, I said.’ Sharon’s authority overwhelmed the crowd again and they fell back. Will saw that more figures had appeared on the balcony. It seemed like half the estate was out.
‘I’m coming with yer,’ Sharon announced. Liam rolled his eyes. ‘I saw that!’ she admonished him.
She followed them to Jackson’s door and waited. After a few seconds, the door opened and Jackson registered his visitors and the people on the balcony.
‘You’d better come in,’ he said, nodding to the spectators.
‘Show’s over, give ’em some peace,’ Sharon instructed. ‘Guns, you want me to come in?’
‘Nah, Shaz, safe.’
Will and Liam entered the flat and Jackson closed the door behind them.
Chapter 18
Across the estate, a group of three uniformed officers banged on Tyrone Fenton’s door. No one was home.
Superintendent Ormond gave permission for them to smash the door in, pending a warrant. It was received ten minutes later, and one of the officers stepped forward with a battering tool, taking the door out with one resounding crack. On entering, they found the usual waste associated with drug abuse and idleness. The air was thick with stale smoke; the place had obviously been vacated recently. Ashtrays full of needles, spoons, foil and brown goo were everywhere. Clearly the flat was not a home but a drugs den. It was confirmed empty and sealed off, waiting for a forensic team to sift through the dregs.
Over the radio, reports were growing in number and urgency of disturbances across the estate. Outside Tyrone Fenton’s flat, shouting drew the officers to the stairwell, where a crowd of around thirty residents surrounded four colleagues. The situation was escalating quickly. No one had anticipated the level of anger being displayed. They’d expected everyone to stay indoors, as they did ordinarily when police patrolled. A gathering of such size on the estate had never been witnessed before, and it was clear that this wasn’t an isolated incident. Suddenly all the residents of Beacon wanted to have their voice heard. The police had woefully underestimated the scale of defiance. Op Eagle was falling apart. Officers communicated their critical assessment over their radios, but no one seemed to be commanding the operation centrally. There was no clear strategy on how to withdraw. It hadn’t been discussed.
Superintendent Ormond had not changed the orders and the commander on the ground was left to make the decision to pull the plug. What had started as a multi-locational display of control was turning into a mass protest, and they weren’t equipped. The radio crackled with requests to regroup and bring Op Eagle to a close for now, perhaps regaining a foothold after things had quietened down. Questions were heard flying back and forth; confusion was setting in. Individual pods of officers decided to follow their original orders and make their way through the streets, stopping and questioning groups of people; others abandoned the brief and made their way back to the vehicles.
Finally a decision was made and it was communicated to all officers that Op Eagle was being suspended. The new objective was preserving the security of personnel. The search for the Cotton brothers was called off and the officers prepared to get back into their vehicles. Overhead could be heard the whir of a helicopter’s blades. Police choppers carried infrared cameras as well as equipment for thermal imaging and long-range stills. They could track anybody who moved and record it in real time. It was a warning to the community of the Beacon Estate to step down.
A head count revealed that all officers were present apart from two pairs. As they were loaded onto the vehicles, things grew ugly. The crowd swarmed and shoved, and someone threw a bottle, which smashed on the bonnet of a van. The doors were locked and word came through that Superintendent Ormond had given Armed Response the go-ahead. Officers kept their heads down and clung to seat backs as their vehicles shook with the sheer force of the crowd. Finally they were moving. One van and a squad car headed to the playground where two colleagues were surrounded, and the rest of the vehicles were told to rendezvous at the entrance to the estate and wait. The sounds of a mob gathering could be heard crackling over the radios. Officers bit their nails.
‘Op Eagle vehicle 247 approaching south playground. Approximately one hundred agitated residents, all ages. Repeat, approximately one hundred agitated residents. Situation critical.’
The vehicles bumped over the uneven roads and the atmosphere was charged with electric tension. The shouting at the playground was still at a level that, with experience, could be classed as non-threatening, but the number of officers present versus the size of the crowd made it a grave state of affairs. The order came through for the rest of the vehicles to divert to the scene. Resources were diverted to the growing crowd at the playground.
It seemed to take the convoy hours to get there, but it was in fact only around three minutes before they pulled around the corner and spotted the children’s play area, overrun with angry residents of all ages, some old, some young; children as well as families. The real concern was that they couldn’t see their fellow officers.
A warning was shouted from somewhere in the crowd, and suddenly the mob began to dissipate as if a bomb had gone off in the middle of them. Officers fought their way against the tide of residents eager to get away. People jumped the railings and others filed out of the three gates. A great roar rose and the crowd began to run. Children were trampled and women screamed. Officers had no idea whether to make arrests or save the people being crushed. It was a disaster. No one knew who’d caused the panic. Men in masks and hoodies slipped away, protected by women and children.
Three armed-response vehicles turned up and officers spilled out of them, weapons cocked and shouting warnings. The few people left in the play area froze and held up their hands. Some dropped to the floor, and were quickly apprehended with cable ties and handcuffs.
In the middle of the playground, slumped next to the sandpit, were the two officers who’d been left isolated in the enormous cock-up that was Op Eagle. In fact, it would come to be known as Op Turkey. As a few stragglers were arrested and scuffles broke out in the surrounding streets, the pair were attended
to by their fellow officers.
One was unresponsive. The other’s head lolled on his chest. Both had been badly beaten. Despite working with them on squad patrol for the past five years, the two officers who were first to attend them could only identify them by their numbers on their lapels.
‘Officers down! Get a fucking ambulance!’ one screamed into his radio, spittle landing on his friend.
Chapter 19
Sharon Bradley let herself into her flat.
She was exhausted. Her body ached, she was emotionally numb and she needed a break. She’d been going all guns blazing since early this morning, purely on emotional charge, and now she was empty. She’d done all she could to bring Keira’s murder to the attention of the residents of the Beacon Estate, but she feared that the genuine concern she’d raised would only last a day or two, if she was lucky, before everybody got bored and forgot about her daughter, unlike, she suspected, the death of the posh woman. But for now it was something to focus on and keep her busy. No one could quite believe the audacity of the police, marching in like that, thinking their uniforms and bullying tactics would get them the results they wanted. People were more likely to protect those who’d murdered Keira now. Sharon’s hopes of encouraging witnesses to come forward faded and she felt a deep melancholy.
Away from the chaos of the night, caused by the frigging bastard police, who’d thrown their weight around rather than search for the killers, the peace of her flat was welcome, but also a reminder that Keira wasn’t coming through the door ever again.
They’d had their fights, like any mother and daughter. Keira could be a handful. She’d been an independent gobshite all her life. Life. No more life.
Sharon picked up the post and dropped it on the table. The coppers had been in her flat for most of the day, searching through Keira’s personal stuff for clues. She reckoned if they were going to find anything it would be on her phone; the girl had lived on it. She went to her daughter’s room and opened the door, holding onto it, frozen on the threshold. She could hear shouts and screams coming from outside, faint now and sporadic, unlike earlier, when the streets had been a virtual war zone. Her vision of bringing the estate together lay in tatters on the roadside.
Little Doubt Page 10