The window was open a little and the nets billowed inwards on the breeze. The wallpaper was torn in places and hadn’t been changed in years. Sharon only noticed it now and wished she’d redecorated the room for her daughter. The police had been respectful and everything was in order. She’d told them to take what they needed. What did she want with a load of hair gel, ghastly make-up and miniskirts anyhow? But now she found herself wanting to touch everything. She sat on Keira’s bed and picked up a mirror. She had no idea where it had come from and realised with a shock that she knew little of her girl’s life behind this door. Keira had always been fiercely private. Sharon only really came in here to pick up clothes or tell her that her tea was ready. She tried to recall a routine, a semblance of what they shared together, but she found little in her memory to hang to and say that’s how it was with her daughter.
She lay down and buried her face in Keira’s pillow. Her scent was still fresh. She closed her eyes and remembered the day she’d given birth to her. Of course, the father was nowhere to be seen; he’d fucked off months before. It had hurt. The birth, not the desertion. She’d huffed and puffed and suffered in agony for twenty hours before they gave her an epidural, which didn’t work, so she screamed some more. She’d felt as though her fanny was exploding. The downward pressure of what felt like a red-hot rock would be burned into her memory forever. Keira had been her only child.
She lay curled up in the foetal position for many minutes with memories of her baby. She knew that the papers would report Keira’s death very differently compared to that of the woman from the big house on Ullswater. She knew that value was all about money. Keira hadn’t had a job, though she’d done the odd shift here and there. She hadn’t done well at school and was always in trouble. Rich folks didn’t realise that if you were born into shit, it was almost impossible to climb out of it.
Her throat was hoarse from all the shouting. It was her way of coping. But now, alone and having to face her worst nightmare, she couldn’t manage to battle through the fog; it just kept drenching her with its murky mist.
She didn’t know how much time had passed before she finally got up to answer the door, and she’d never appreciated the compassion of her neighbours until now. Two of them stood there expectantly, and she invited them in. She made tea and they talked about the police raid. She sifted absent-mindedly through the mail as she waited for the kettle to boil, and reassured the women that she wasn’t about to top herself, though she felt like it occasionally, when the pain hit her. She opened a letter and stopped.
‘That’s odd.’
‘What’s odd, Shaz?’
‘Keira had an appointment with a fancy solicitor in Manchester booked in for next week.’
‘What about?’
‘It don’t say.’
‘Ring ’em.’
‘They’ll be closed.’
‘Tomorrow!’
‘I will.’
Chapter 20
At Eden House, Kelly was busy examining the CCTV footage and the information given to her by Sergeant Liam Brook. She was working on an action plan that was standard in scenarios where multiple suspects needed questioning: split them up and conduct the interviews simultaneously across multiple sites in the area. It was a proven technique to get conspirators to rat each other out, though sometimes, like in the Stephen Lawrence case, they blamed each other to such a convincing extent that they confused a jury and escaped conviction. Which was why it had to be planned meticulously.
She hadn’t seen Will all afternoon, but trusted that he was unearthing some nuggets of gold for their inquiry, with the help of Liam Brook. She liked Liam. He reminded her of her father – or rather, the man she’d called Dad for over thirty years. John Porter had been a reliable bobby, and risen to the heights of sergeant, like Liam. They were both tall, broad men with steely eyes that were also soft. She could see that he had huge affection for Will, and that made her like him even more.
Ormond wasn’t answering his phone.
The two men who’d earned the finger from Ella Watson before she’d headed off for her run had been brought in for questioning, but they’d turned out to be a mere momentary glitch in her afternoon: both had alibis that checked out for the rest of the day. They were guilty of indecent behaviour, not murder.
The old man who’d reported them turned out to be a mine of information and shared it with them readily. The death of the woman who’d inadvertently given him the bird had affected him profoundly, and he wanted to do all he could to help. He told them that he’d spent years watching the couriers coming and going, and knew which flats they went into and who he suspected of being responsible for grooming youngsters into skipping school and turning bad. He was like the guardian angel of the estate and he never stopped talking, giving them names associated with their current lines of inquiry and addresses where he’d seen the Cotton brothers hang out. The only downside was that Kelly’s team would have to follow every one of his leads, even if it turned out to be pure sour grapes or poor memory.
Kelly was ploughing through HOLMES. As information came in to the incident room, it was uploaded onto the IT software. Its compatibility across all county constabularies in England, Wales, Northern Ireland and Scotland, as well as the Royal Military Police, made it uniquely invaluable to any major investigation. A question could be put to the database and answers, in order of relevance, would be forthcoming in minutes. It was like having two hundred extra officers working in the incident room. For officers like Emma and Rob, it was a wet dream. Their analytical skills were constantly being pitted against the machine, and sometimes they beat it to conclusions. It was something of an office challenge.
They all needed their light relief.
Statements from witnesses flooded in from the Beacon Estate, and every one of them mentioned that their stimulus was a word from Sharon Bradley. This could be a double-edged sword: testimony that might prove crucial at trial could be made to look like coercion of a witness by the victim’s mother. It was emotive stuff and utterly biased, thus useless in court should it be their only evidence. All the statements deriving from Sharon’s network on the estate would have to be verified by independent sources or scientific fact.
Sharon was doing a fine job of bringing an end to her various disability benefits as she whirled around the estate drumming up momentum for their inquiries. Kelly had found out that she had been in a horrific car accident several years ago and had used a stick to walk ever since. Though Sharon’s new purpose in life had given her more vigour, Kelly wasn’t about to report her as a benefits cheat; the woman had had it rough.
Rob disturbed her train of thought.
‘Boss, reports are coming in of an organised police raid on the Beacon Estate. By all accounts it’s chaos down there.’
Kelly couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
‘I’ve googled it and it’s all over social media,’ he said. ‘Look.’ He linked his computer to the whiteboard, and clips, videos and news items came up on screen. The TV in the incident room was on silent for most of the time, when they were ordinarily going about their daily tasks, but when a major inquiry caught the attention of the press, they turned it up. Rob switched to local news, and sure enough, the raids and arrests on the estate were being reported.
‘Jesus,’ Kelly said.
More officers came into the incident room and they watched in amazement as events unfolded. Much of the footage looked as though it had been shot on mobile phones and showed terrified residents running away. Images from an overhead helicopter revealed a large crowd surrounding police.
‘Who authorised this?’ Kelly was fuming. She clenched her fists and an uneasy feeling settled under her ribcage. She knew the answer before Rob confirmed it with a phone call.
‘Op Eagle was authorised by Superintendent Ormond, guv.’
Kelly marched out of the office and dialled Ormond’s number furiously. She barely let him finish his formal greeting.
‘Sir, I�
��m hearing reports of a disastrous operation on the Beacon Estate of which I had no knowledge.’
‘Yes, Kelly. It was purely an operational pincer movement to garner more information. Unfortunately, a mob gathered and our officers were quickly outnumbered.’
‘Sir?’ Kelly’s blood boiled.
‘Armed Response defused the situation and we’ve made several arrests. We were after certain characters associated with the gang responsible for the most serious crime in the area. In fact, we think—’
‘With absolute respect, sir.’ Kelly spoke with her teeth locked together. She felt like punching him. ‘With respect, sir, I’m the SIO on this case. I could have given context. Which characters exactly?’
‘I don’t know names; you’ll have to talk to the operations sergeant. They were supplied by reliable intel from drug surveillance.’
‘Drug surveillance, sir? These are suspects likely to have committed both murders. We’ve been examining CCTV all day and now you’ve gone and thrown me under a bus.’
She remembered who she was speaking to and closed her eyes. Shit. For the first time since she’d been back in Cumbria, she regretted her decision to leave London. This was a man twenty years her senior in experience, and now she wondered how he wiped his own arse. Was it still possible, in 2018, to have such incompetence on the force? His arrogance staggered her.
To her amazement, he didn’t reprimand her. He was in too deep because of his relationship with the Watsons. She realised she felt sorry for him.
‘Sir, could I have the name of the operations sergeant in charge? I need to correlate Op Eagle with my own investigation. I can’t work on the periphery.’
‘I agree. It was supposed to be helpful. I don’t know what went wrong. I’ll take full responsibility.’
‘Is it true that we have two officers in hospital?’ Her voice was heavy and it took every ounce of strength not to call him a fucking muppet.
‘Sadly so, Kelly. They were beaten. Armed Response was called too late.’
‘Will there be an inquiry, sir?’
She heard a shift in his breath and could have kicked herself. She needed to be careful. Ormond was still top dog around this place and she was a mere DI. She heard him cough.
‘I think we’ll leave it there, Porter. Don’t forget that I still choose the SIOs around here. I might not sit next to your desk, but I know everything you do and it’s my impression that you’ve taken more than a few risks during certain investigations.’ He hung up.
She stared at her phone.
She’d screwed that up royally. There was only one way to regain some ground, and that was to find out exactly what had happened on the Beacon Estate. Should she have to go head to head with Ormond in the future, she wanted her facts straight.
She marched back to the incident room and spotted Will.
‘Will, where have you been? Christ, you look like shit. Sit down.’
‘I’ve been at the Beacon Estate, boss.’
‘What? Were you caught up in that raid?’
‘Yes, ma’am, I had no choice. They needed every pair of boots they could get. I volunteered.’
‘Without telling me?’
The officers on Kelly’s team all stopped what they were doing and stared at DS Phillips, then at their DI.
‘And your rationale for bypassing me was what exactly?’ She’d forgotten where she was and that she had an audience, but a cough from Kate reminded her. She stared around at all the expectant faces. Her glare was enough to make everyone move away, and she turned back to Will. ‘My office.’
She walked away. Will followed. She held the door open for him, and when he was inside, she slammed it shut. Everyone went back to work.
‘I need you to tell me what the fuck just happened, Will. I’ve got Ormond tearing my investigation apart and obstructing me at every turn because he’s involved personally. And now you’ve publicly betrayed my trust!’ Her voice broke. It was a wounding treachery. She leant over her desk, spreading her arms and staring at him. Will stood in front of her, anguish all over his face.
‘It was an order, ma’am.’
‘By whom?’
‘The super, via Liam.’
‘Why?’
Will bit his lip and Kelly studied him closely. The man was in turmoil. What was he hiding?
‘Will, what’s going on? I’ve never known you behave like this. Why did Ormond make such a rash decision? It’s all gone tits-up; it was a folly on a gigantic scale. Did he get it past the chief constable?’
‘Yes.’
‘How the hell?’
‘He’s very convincing.’
‘I can see that! This derails everything we’ve done so far to finally break down some barriers on the Beacon Estate. It makes us look like fools!’
‘Ma’am—’
‘Call me Kelly, for Christ’s sake, Will. We’re behind closed doors.’
‘Kelly, I…’
‘Tell me! What is it?’
‘I can’t.’ He sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.
Kelly was taken by surprise and utterly confused. She also sat down and reached across her desk, placing her hand gently on his arm.
‘Will? What is it? Is it that Ormond doesn’t think I’m getting answers quickly enough? Is it his friendship with Thomas Watson?’
‘I think he thought he could pull it off and look the hero.’
‘But you didn’t believe that, did you? What about Liam?’
‘It’s not easy for me and Liam to disobey orders. We came from a place we don’t talk about. Ormond has been telling us what to do our whole careers. When you arrived, I thought it would all be different. And it is! You’re not in his pocket at all, and he hates that.’
Kelly thought about what Will was telling her and it made her confusion even worse.
‘Who the hell is in charge of this investigation? I need to be sure of my position and your loyalty. I’m forbidding you to have direct contact with Superintendent Ormond without going through me, do you understand?’
He laughed, and Kelly pulled her hand away.
‘You have no idea what you’re dealing with, do you?’ he said.
Chapter 21
Jackson’s brow was covered in sweat. Since the coppers had left, he’d been pacing up and down trying to make a decision. He kept looking out of the window from which he’d seen Keira Bradley arguing with Tyrone. The whole estate had erupted into chaos and he’d given the two officers a couple of old jackets that he knew he’d never see again to escape unnoticed from the estate.
He’d never witnessed anything like it. Sharon Bradley seemed to have mobilised an army and Jackson felt something stir inside him that he hadn’t experienced for a long time: pride. He heard noises outside and wondered if it was all kicking off again. He flicked on the TV: the footage was all over the news. News channels were calling it a raid. The police had been made to look like dicks. Some high-ranking bird had given a statement backing the force, yet at the same time praising the residents of the estate as heroes for helping with ongoing inquiries. What a load of horse shit.
Through the window he saw lights and figures moving around. People were coming out onto the streets again, carrying and dragging items from their homes. His eyes adjusted to the light and he realised that they were building a fucking blockade. He smiled to himself and closed the curtain, then went to the sofa and sat down, picking up the bag that the coppers had left him. Jackson had always complied in the past, to an extent, knowing the power of an institution willing to bend the rules, but these guys weren’t just wanting to buckle regulations a little; they were wanting to fucking snap them in half.
He looked inside the bag. It contained everything he needed to frame a friend. When he’d asked what was in it for him, he’d been told that if he didn’t do it, they could easily do the same to him. Before touching any of the contents, he pulled on a pair of gloves. Then he took out a small bag of hairs, a vial of fluid, and a box containing s
mudges of something between two slides. It was a veritable buffet of critical evidence.
He didn’t need to ask why. Tyrone Fenton wasn’t the sharpest tool in the drawer and he had a tendency to fire from the hip. There were reasons why he had a clean record, none of them to do with innocence, but that was by the by. They were trying to frame him, and it would be easy to pull it off. It had been done before.
He’d been told that if he wanted life on the estate to return to normal, he had to go ahead and do what was asked of him. If not, things would get ugly. Two pigs had been seriously hurt tonight, beaten half to death, and Jackson knew reprisals were coming. The coppers sitting in his flat had been unaware of that fact at the time; he’d seen it later, on the news. Was it better for him to be securely on the winning side? But which was the winning side? From where he was sitting, the cops had well and truly lost tonight’s battle, but did that mean that was the end of it? Not likely.
Everyone knew that the heat being imposed on the estate wasn’t some coincidental new government initiative, but a knee-jerk response to the fact that the murdered woman in Potton Park was a clean-living, well-bred, harmless, wealthy white member of this broken society of theirs. On the other hand, Keira was ill-educated, promiscuous, mixed race and poor, making her insignificant.
The police had made it clear to him that they wanted a clean and quick end to all of this so the Beacon Estate could go back to normal. By normal, Jackson assumed they meant quiet. No one was looking to improve or even save the estate; the powers-that-be just wanted them to get back into their box, and do it discreetly. Jackson surmised that for this to happen, the easiest thing would be for the same person to be guilty of both crimes, and he was sure that the evidence in the bag would prove just that. People could then go back to believing that the police were doing their job in keeping respectable citizens safe, the status quo would be restored, and the public could be told that the Beacon Estate was calm once more. There was one problem: Sharon Bradley. Jackson found himself admiring her.
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