‘Is it that bad?’ Johnny asked, after she filled him in on her day from hell. It wasn’t that Johnny didn’t disbelieve her; he was just testing whether her case was watertight.
‘No. That’s me playing it forward. I want to be prepared if I have to go against him.’
‘What’s driving this?’
‘The husband?’ she suggested. ‘They play golf together; it’s all pretty cosy.’
‘Surely you guys have rules on that: isn’t it a conflict of interest? He shouldn’t be on the investigation of the murder of a friend’s wife.’
‘You’re right, but he kind of threatened me today, and you know rank is everything, even in today’s politically correct force.’ She paused. ‘Me going up against a superintendent is like you, as a major, going up against a general, with all those years of experience and status. Can you imagine?’
‘Yes, I can. It would never happen.’
‘Without some form of backlash at least.’
He agreed.
‘There’s something else that doesn’t sit well. Will is hiding something.’ She gave him a précis of her conversation with her trusted officer and told Johnny about Liam Brook. ‘Will’s scared of Ormond and I don’t know why.’
‘Authority?’
‘No, it’s more than that. It’s as if Ormond controls them. Something happened before I got here.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You need to find out.’
‘I know. Ormond’s agenda is different to mine. My objective is cracking the case. His seems to be vengeance.’
‘He’s nearing retirement and wants to go out in a blaze of glory?’
‘It’s not even that. I don’t get the impression he wants glory: Op Eagle was a secret.’
‘So he wants to upstage you?’
‘No, I think I annoy him, but not because I’m a threat. It’s as if me cracking the case properly isn’t part of his plan.’
‘He’s rushing? And therefore likely to make mistakes.’
‘He’s acting like a rookie.’
‘What ulterior motives are possible?’
‘Well, he’s not losing his marbles, as he seems pretty switched on. The way he looked at me when I suggested that perhaps he needed to trust the detective work to me: it was as if he wanted me out of the way because he’s hiding something possibly illegal. I’ve never felt that from a colleague before. Apart from my last case in London.’
‘You’ve got to report it.’
‘Who to? One of his mates at HQ? Or take your pick of sixty-year-old white males he plays golf with.’
‘So, if Ormond has an illegal motive, what might that be?’
‘Hmm, illegal gain out of skewing a major murder investigation…’ She thought aloud. ‘Money, a cover-up, or he’s bent.’
‘What would he be covering up?’
‘Previous, as in something that the case has flagged up; or current, as in the fact that he’s promised Thomas Watson he’ll get answers. Emotions: they fuck most things up.’
‘What other cases does this possibly link to?’
‘Drugs?’
‘Your gut?’ he asked.
‘When I was in London, the coppers I saw busted for being bent, and on the take, were the ones no one suspected. But I’m on shaky ground here. I need to look into it. It’s unusual behaviour for a senior officer with so much experience. I need to dig into his past, and see what motivates him.’
‘Another investigation to add to your list?’
‘I know, it sounds crazy. But he knows that I’m unhappy, and I’m annoyed with myself for letting on.’
‘You couldn’t help it: it was your natural response to him being a muppet.’
‘Exactly. The look on his face when I confronted him: I saw it in his eyes. He knows I know, and I reckon he’s going to try to get rid of me. He’s never waded into one of my investigations before, apart from to authorise Armed Response or get a last-minute warrant. Never. And him being pals with Thomas Watson isn’t enough in my mind to take such risks.’
Johnny stroked her arm. They didn’t need to speak any more. Tonight, she could switch off and allow herself to be taken care of. Tomorrow she’d dig into Ormond and look a little closer at Will and Liam’s career paths. For the first time since she’d left London, she was fearful for her reputation and her job. She was used to searching for bastards, but not in her own back yard.
Chapter 24
On Friday morning, Thomas Watson and his two children arrived at Eden House for a press conference. When they entered the building, the place fell silent and they were greeted by a sea of sympathetic faces. From uniforms on the front desk to civilian workers sitting at computers, the caretakers emptying waste bins and, through the back, into the room that was used for press conferences such as this, the detectives setting up the tables: everyone felt their pain.
All coppers knew what grief did to a human face: it sank it deep within itself, leaving cavernous shadows etched around the eyes through lack of sleep. Rest was a thing of the past for this family: they spent their waking moments – when not collapsed for an hour here and there through sheer exhaustion – running their reality through the cogs of their inner brains, trying to figure out why… why… why. On and on it whirred, relentless. If only Mum had decided to run along the lake that day instead, if only Millie had been off school ill and she’d stayed home to care for her, if only Thomas had decided to open a bottle of Argentinian Malbec from the cellar the night before and she’d decided to skip her run with a hangover. If only.
Getting out of the house, away from the home created by the woman they all loved, had brought a slight diversion to the threesome; they could distract their minds with stuff not of her making: street lamps, dogs being walked, the sky, traffic lights, the noise of cars and so forth. Within the walls of Eden House, however, the enormity of their loss confronted them once more, violently and shamelessly. Millie held onto her father’s arm; Jordan walked solemnly behind, not daring to make eye contact lest he should crumble into a sobbing mess in front of all of these police officers.
It was bad enough that they had to face the press. But they all agreed they had no choice. Of course it had to be done. Dad had decided to offer a cash reward too. Some cowardly bastards out there knew something, and money made people talk. Dad had explained that the police officer in charge was a woman called Kelly Porter and that she was nice. Jordan asked what had happened to the man called Neil who’d visited the house, and he’d been told that Neil was far more senior than a mere detective and was overseeing the whole investigation. They knew about the other murder the following morning, but they hadn’t been told if the two were connected. Jordan felt slightly better that a high-ranking police officer was involved.
They were shown into a large room that was like a school classroom. A woman and a man waited for them, and they watched their dad greet the woman called Kelly. The man was called Will. Jordan couldn’t bear the looks they gave him – it was something that he’d soon realised was set on everyone’s face now: sympathy. He hated it.
There were some papers laid out on the table and Kelly asked if she could go through them: there were photos of their mum, she explained, and she wanted them to be ready. The three of them had chosen them the previous day. One depicted their mother in running kit, laughing; another showed just her beautiful face, staring into the camera. They’d also picked out one of the whole family because it had been tactfully mentioned that the more emotive the photos, the more profound the public response. The more TV viewers were faced with the true human impact of crime, the more likely they were to pick up the phone or email in.
Kelly turned over the photos and Millie let out a gasp and grabbed her dad.
‘Let’s sit down,’ Kelly said. Jordan liked her. She was strong, he could tell. It was something in her eyes that made him feel as though she had their backs. She was a bit like his mum, and he imagined her being stern but fair with her
kids. He wagered that she was a good mum, like his. Millie whimpered, and Dad cradled her.
‘Millie, you don’t have to do this,’ Jordan said to his sister.
‘Dad, I can’t…’ she said. Her voice was tortured, and Jordan’s fists clenched open and shut. His anger was like a white-hot metal cable pulsing through every blood vessel in his body, charging him with the strength he needed to get through today for Millie and Dad, but also to focus on whatever he needed to do to get revenge. He knew a few guys at school who had links with the Beacon Estate. He had names. He could easily work out addresses. He’d even contemplated setting up fake drug deals, to get inside the crew. He had all the time in the world. Mum wasn’t coming back; there was no deadline. He had no other ambition than to find the two men who’d killed her and spend time alone with them. He knew how easy it was to work one’s way into a gang; Christ, they groomed volunteers for a living. He could easily, in the midst of his agonising grief, turn to drugs and misdeeds. Once on the slippery slope, he’d grow hard and dangerous, trusted by the inner few. The thought thrilled him.
‘If Millie would like to sit out, I can stay with her, Thomas,’ Kelly said.
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ Millie whispered. Thomas held her and soothed her, then looked at Jordan.
‘It’s me and you, son,’ he said.
Jordan took his father’s outstretched hand and shook it, nodding his allegiance. He saw Kelly glance at him and he read her face: she was impressed with him and he knew he could go through with it. He’d begun burying his feelings the moment he’d been given the news. Now, he could burn himself on the kettle or pull a muscle in their home gym lifting ludicrously heavy weights and not feel it until after. There was a reason: he had a purpose.
‘There are around twenty journalists waiting in the next room,’ Kelly said. ‘I’m going to brief them, then I’ll take Millie away through that door and the press will file in. When you’re ready, you can read your prepared statement. Will is in charge; he’ll guide you through and make sure everybody knows you’re not taking questions at this time. That’s still your decision?’
Thomas looked at Jordan and they both nodded agreement. It had been Thomas’s decision. They wanted to get the attention of the public, especially those living on the Beacon Estate, and they agreed that a powerful appeal was all that was required. The public would have their own questions and would ponder them, rather than turn it into a circus. The news about the trouble on the estate last night was making headlines and the residents must be getting sick and tired of the negative attention; this might be their opportunity to raise awareness of the conditions in which they lived. Jordan wasn’t stupid. He knew he was privileged. He knew how money dictated your path in life, more than any other single factor. His father was a wealthy man; that was why he was offering £100,000 in cash for information leading to any arrests.
Dad’s friend Neil had told them that their mum’s murder had become national news because of the brazen nature of the attack, and the fact that no one was safe any more. Random knife violence was no longer the preserve of gangs in inner cities; it had spilled into the suburbs and a middle-class mother of two was dead. The arbitrary nature of the crime had chilled middle England and, sadly, Keira Bradley’s murder had become a sideline. Jordan didn’t much care about the details of the other woman who’d been stabbed to death; his mind was on one thing only. She did have a use, though. Jordan had already suggested to his father that he arrange to meet Sharon Bradley. He’d followed the news on TV and watched as Sharon Bradley mobilised hundreds of people. It was inspiring and Jordan had felt something stir inside him: Sharon Bradley was doing something. He’d watched the footage of the barricades being constructed, and the desire of people from all over to join in.
Kelly told them that there were journalists from all over the country and a few from Europe. Mum’s death was being used as an example of the precarious level of security on Britain’s streets. That was fine by him; they could do what they liked as long as it was kept in the news. He stared at his favourite picture of his mother: the one of her in her running kit. He’d taken it with his iPhone. She’d been going for a run along the lake and had forgotten her headphones. He and Millie had been getting ready for school and she’d shouted from the kitchen, asking if somebody could get them from upstairs so she didn’t have to take her trainers off. Jordan had run downstairs wearing just a towel and she’d laughed. He couldn’t remember what had prompted him to snap her with his phone, apart from that it irritated her. She hated having her photo taken.
‘Delete it!’ she’d hollered as she left. He was eternally grateful that he hadn’t.
‘Ready?’ Kelly asked.
A flustered police officer in a fancy uniform rushed in, and Jordan recognised him as Dad’s friend Neil. He went straight to Dad and took his hand.
‘Superintendent,’ DI Porter said. Jordan looked at the DI and then at Neil: he was obviously her boss, and he reckoned they didn’t like one another.
Neil coughed, and Dad nodded.
‘I’m just about to brief the press, sir,’ DI Porter said.
Neil nodded. ‘I’ll take a back seat, Tom,’ he said. As he walked to a chair behind the table, he patted Jordan on his shoulder and smiled that pained smile at him. Jordan decided that he didn’t like him either; he felt sorry for Kelly having to work for him.
The other officer, Will, brought their attention back to why they were here, and gave some last-minute instructions to do with timings and when he would use the images. It was a blur.
Kelly left the room and Jordan heard the buzz of anticipation from the journalists. He’d never been to a press conference, though he’d seen plenty of them during his A-level media lessons. He couldn’t imagine himself sitting his A levels now. He’d likely be in prison by then for murder.
Kelly came back and held her hand out to Millie, who took it. She turned to Dad.
‘There are a few more than we thought. Are you ready?’
He nodded.
Once Kelly and Millie had left, Neil took a seat behind the table and Thomas and Jordan joined him. Will checked one last time that they were ready, then went to the door and opened it. Dozens of people flooded in and took seats, but strangely, there was little noise. Jordan saw it again: sympathy. It galvanised him and gave him the strength to do what he had to do. When the noise of bodies and equipment moving had stopped, and only the clicking of cameras and the shuffling of papers remained, Will began.
Jordan reflected on all the speeches he’d given at school: for debating club, English language exams and history role plays. He’d never imagined in all that time that he’d one day be sitting next to a police officer, analysing the power of speech. He listened intently and graded Will on his powers of communication, and he was pleasantly surprised. The officer showed intelligence and flair, despite the tough task before him. He was a typical copper: to the point, monotone and brief, but he had passion. He spoke with genuine attention to detail. Then it was Dad’s turn. Jordan held his hand and the cameras clicked. It created a cacophony of mechanical tumult that hurt his head. He tried to concentrate. He’d written his father’s speech. No one coughed, fidgeted or fiddled. Jordan loved his father more in that moment than ever, and even contemplated abandoning his plan because he knew how much he’d let him down should he go through with it. But something was wrong. Dad had frozen. Jordan looked at him and at Will, then he faced the cameras. Will held up photos of Ella. Jordan didn’t need notes.
‘My mother was brutally attacked and murdered for no reason.’
The cameras clicked and flashed. No one else said a word. Thomas covered his face.
‘She wasn’t hated, or in trouble. She’d done nothing wrong.’
He paused and took a deep breath. His throat grew tight and his eyes stung, but he was determined to finish.
‘Her absence is something that we have to live with forever, but those who did this will only face the consequences if they are caught. And t
hey will only be caught with your help.’ He stared at every camera that he could see, in turn. ‘I am begging anyone who knows anything about this crime to call the police – anonymously if you prefer – to help us catch these people, so that we can reach some kind of peace, but most importantly to make sure they are never able to do this again. We would like to share our sympathy with the family of Keira Bradley.’
Neil shifted in his seat. A rumble of questions stirred the room.
‘My father is offering one hundred thousand pounds for any information that leads to a conviction for the murder of my mother. We are begging the local community to come together and realise that we’re all the same. The death of Keira Bradley must take the same priority as my mother’s, and my father is offering the same amount for information leading to a conviction for that too.’
The press went wild. Jordan locked eyes with Will and saw admiration, but when he glanced at Neil, it was the very opposite; it was almost distaste. He made a note to discuss it with his father.
‘The family is not taking questions at this time,’ Will announced. ‘Thank you all for coming.’
They were escorted out of the room and Jordan went to sit with Millie and the detective. He overheard Neil speaking to his father.
‘You don’t have to go through with it; it can be explained as a knee-jerk reaction and can be retracted.’
Jordan realised that he was talking about his father offering a reward for information about Keira’s death.
Chapter 25
After the press conference, Neil Ormond made rapid excuses to leave and headed back to HQ, where he scanned the initial report on Op Eagle. It made for uncomfortable reading, but the officer responsible had papered over the more serious flaws, and he was satisfied. No one could have predicted the sheer size and mood of the crowds on the Beacon Estate. All procedure had been followed and arrests had been made. There were dozens of interviews being conducted across the Penrith area today, all contributing to the inquiry into the murder of Ella Watson, and that of Keira Bradley, of course. Though what Thomas Watson was thinking wasting his money on that was anyone’s guess.
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