At sixty, Ormond was nearing retirement, and his wife thought he’d spent too much time on the force as it was. He’d been offered a decent payout three years ago, but couldn’t give up the habit. His wife had virtually begged him to take the money and leave. She dreamed of spending the rest of their days on a cruise ship; he couldn’t think of anything worse. She’d felt bitterly let down when he’d told her that the constabulary needed him to stay on. It was a lie, but she eventually accepted it. The thing was, he couldn’t begin to imagine what civilian life would be like, without power and influence. He’d lived and breathed the uniform for almost forty years. A retirement plan was in place, but there were a few loose ends to tie up before he could bear to let go. The murder of Ella Watson was one of them.
Thomas was a shadow of his former self. Ormond had watched as the man morphed into a two-dimensional caricature, his voice monosyllabic and his eyes dead. He’d seen enough victims of crime to know that the early days were life-changing, but you had to keep going. The boy, Jordan, had done a sterling job at the press conference, though offering a hundred thousand pounds for information on the Bradley case was ludicrous. He’d told him so, but Tom wouldn’t budge.
The murder of the street girl was something they saw all the time, and even expected. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; it was that Ella’s death was the more shocking because she was a decent woman, minding her own business, killed for a random bet: or that was how he understood initiation rites. He’d done his homework and DI Porter had confirmed it in so many words. Gangs all over the world initiated new members in similar ways and, recently, stabbings of strangers were on the increase. However, he now had to accept that there was no evidence yet that the killings were linked. His original plan had been derailed.
It made him sick to his stomach. And DI Porter was not doing enough. How dare she question him on such matters? Her ridiculous adherence to the churning of evidence was slowing them down. Of course it was necessary, but HOLMES was perfectly capable of keeping the case up to date. Human resources were better placed doing what a computer couldn’t: thinking. Ella had been murdered on Wednesday, and it was Friday already.
Porter had instinct. He knew that. But he got the feeling that she was going to present problems. He wanted to follow the case in a certain way, and yesterday had displayed her lack of imagination perfectly. She’d turned up at his office, read him an abridged version of the riot act and acted like a premenstrual teenager; he should know, he’d raised two.
He’d already looked into the promotion of young Will Phillips to DI, a move that would make DI Porter’s presence peripheral. Then she could be moved to a desk job somewhere to keep her quiet. But Phillips was still young; he needed a hero moment to make him stand out. Through his ex-colleague, Liam Brook, he also had strong ties to the community policing on the Beacon Estate. Some bonds, formed in youth, couldn’t be broken. Ormond was also considering secondment for Porter. She’d done a successful stint in London earlier in the year: he could send her back there, or even abroad. The EU was always asking for international representation on legal teams across the Continent. Even after Brexit, Interpol would always need the experience of good officers who’d proved their mettle. And he couldn’t deny that Porter had shown her worth.
He glanced at his computer screen. A police computer was the most robustly protected service available, and he took full advantage of that by handling all of his business affairs through it. No one was allowed in his office unless invited; it was a haven in which he could operate in complete privacy. There would always be too many questions at home. Here, he could create dozens of passwords and elevate confidentiality simply by encrypting each file for his eyes only. He’d been doing it for years. He looked at the screen and checked the balance of his offshore account in the Isle of Man. The government was tightening the noose around such tax loopholes and so he was in the process of transferring the whole lot into a new business venture here on the mainland. But it was tedious work and he left his accountant to sort out the detail.
He picked up his mobile and dialled a number.
‘Ormond here,’ he bellowed when the call was answered. He nodded and exchanged pleasantries, then dropped his voice, never sure of who might be listening.
‘I need some information on a fellow officer, and I need the utmost discretion,’ he said. ‘I want you to find something I can use. And while you’re at it, find out what she values the most in her life: cat, car, children… you get the idea.’
There was a short pause.
‘Her name is Detective Inspector Kelly Porter.’
He hung up and punched a different number into his phone.
‘Has it been done?’
‘Yes, guv.’
He was the gaffer and no one else.
Chapter 26
‘How well do you know Neil, Dad?’
Thomas Watson was driving his children home. Millie was quiet in the back, and Jordan sat up front with his father.
‘Just from the golf club. He was one of the first people to reach out to us when we moved here.’ The memory pained him and he bit his lip. Jordan saw it and stared out of the window.
‘I don’t like him.’
‘Why ever not? He’s a thoroughly decent man.’
‘He might be decent on the outside, but his staff don’t like him, and he looked disgusted when I said you were offering a reward for information about Keira’s death.’
‘I agree, Dad,’ Millie piped up. ‘I don’t think Kelly likes him either. She’s sharp around him.’
‘Maybe he’s acting strangely because he doesn’t know what else to do. I mean, he knew your mother personally. He has the resources and the power to make this investigation a priority. It can’t be easy being that close and not getting answers.’
‘It’s only been two days!’ Jordan’s outburst was aggressive and his father admonished him. All their nerves were frayed and it was becoming increasingly wearing living under the same roof as one another. Only Grandma kept them from snapping all the time.
‘Are you going to call Sharon Bradley?’
Thomas shifted in his seat. ‘I don’t think she’ll want to talk to me. I’m a complete stranger. She’s obviously super busy anyway.’
‘You’re avoiding the issue, Dad. You’ve just offered a hundred K for finding out who killed her daughter!’ It was Jordan’s turn to scold his father. ‘You think she’ll be too busy? I think you’re scared.’
‘What?’
Millie listened intently to the exchange.
‘You don’t want to get your hands dirty. You see Keira and her family as beneath us. You’re too cowardly to reach out because you think they’re not the same.’
His father gripped the wheel and Millie sank lower in her seat.
‘How dare you!’
‘It’s true, Dad. Drop me off here, I want to walk.’
‘No!’
‘Dad, I’m sixteen. Stop the car or I’ll give up my A levels.’ Jordan’s voice was even and calm.
‘What? This is hardly the time to make empty threats, Jordan, I’m warning you!’
‘Warning me of what? You have no power over me. You don’t even know what I like to eat. You have no idea what my favourite chocolate is. You don’t know if I’m gay or straight. Mum knew all of those things. Stop the fucking car!’
Thomas did as he was asked. His hands shook on the steering wheel and he swallowed hard as his son got out of the car, slamming the door with all his might. They were in Pooley Bridge. Millie opened her door and shouted after her brother, but he ignored her. She got in the front passenger seat and shut the door.
‘He needs time, Dad. Come on, let’s go home.’
Thomas watched as his son turned off the main road, and tears ran down his face.
‘Dad?’
He turned to her. ‘I’m sorry.’
* * *
Once the car was out of sight, Jordan went back to the main road and walked aimlessly back in the d
irection of Penrith. It was freezing, and snow fell lightly. Up on the hills, it was like a thick blanket, but on the roads it settled then turned to mush. They were due a big dump soon. He fastened his coat against the wind and kept his head down. A car slowed and a man poked his head through the open window.
‘You all right, mate? Need a lift?’
‘You going to Penrith?’ Jordan asked.
‘Yep, can I drop you there?’
‘Please, thank you.’ Jordan got into the passenger seat and the man set off.
‘What you doing walking all that way? You had an argument with your folks?’ The man stared at him. ‘You were on TV this morning! The appeal?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’ Jordan didn’t change his facial expression; it remained mute and emotionless. He didn’t know what he felt or thought any more.
‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ the stranger said. Jordan stared straight ahead. ‘I guess you’ve had enough of all that bollocks, eh?’
Jordan looked at him and nodded.
‘So how come you’re in the middle of nowhere? Where’s your dad?’
‘I got out of the car.’
‘Argument?’
‘Everything’s different now.’
‘That’s a lot of money to be offering. I guess your old fella has a few quid?’
‘We’re all right.’
‘You know people on the Beacon Estate don’t talk. I don’t think he’ll have to put his hand in his pocket any time soon.’
‘You reckon? Not for two hundred grand?’ Jordan asked.
‘They’re a tight lot. I used to live there myself.’
‘How did you…’
‘Escape?’ The man laughed. ‘It’s all right, I’m not offended. I studied hard at school. Got a good job. It’s the only way. I bet you don’t go to school in Penrith, do you?’
‘No, Keswick.’
‘Dad pay?’
Jordan nodded. ‘I hate it now.’
‘Figures. It won’t last forever. You’re angry.’
Jordan stared out of the window, trying to figure out how he came to be in this man’s car talking about his feelings. Some people were good after all.
‘Where you going?’
‘The Beacon Estate.’
‘What for?’
Jordan didn’t answer.
‘Revenge?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Not worth it, kid. They’ll be caught, you’ll see.’
Jordan stared at him. ‘Why do you have all this… belief? This hope?’
‘What else is there?’
They carried on in silence to the centre of Penrith. The man wished him luck when he dropped him off. It felt odd. Jordan walked around and around aimlessly, undecided what to do, only sure of the fact that he didn’t want to go home. He felt foolish and decided against going to the Beacon Estate. He’d ignored ten calls from Millie and felt bad about it.
He told her he’d get a bus to Pooley Bridge and walk from there. She said she needed to get out of the house too and wanted to meet him.
Chapter 27
The press conference had gone well, but being in such close proximity to Ormond had been a challenge for Kelly. Something in the atmosphere at Eden House had shifted. This was her patch: her manor. But it didn’t feel right, and she found herself eyeing everyone suspiciously, even her team.
She’d said very little to Will before he accompanied her to the press room to ready the Watson family. They had been incredible. Jordan was a formidable young man and she felt his agony. She also saw that he hated being treated like a victim: he wanted answers and she intended to make every effort to get them. Millie was sweet and very like Josie. They were both teenagers in need of space, a voice and someone to pick up the pieces. Josie had found that with her father and with Kelly. Millie had had her support ripped away when it was most important. Away from the press, Kelly had chatted to her, and Millie had opened up about her father. She gave the impression that he wasn’t coping nearly as well as he was letting on. Kelly reassured her that it was normal. She’d given Millie her personal mobile number.
Back in the incident room, the investigation ran along and no one would ever guess that Kelly was questioning the loyalty of those surrounding her. They all acknowledged her and gave her updates on what they were working on. This was usually the stage where things got busy and information began to produce results that all had to be chased. The first forty-eight hours were crucial for gathering evidence, but the processing took time and patience. She set a briefing meeting for later and went to her office.
The handling of the fallout of Op Eagle was not her concern. She’d read the transcripts of the interviews with people who’d been arrested for various offences during the raids. None of them were pertinent to her own investigation. Seven of them were still in custody, but their twenty-four-hour window without charges was dwindling, and most of them had replied ‘no comment’ to every question put to them, as was their right. The local solicitors had had a field day counting the fees that legal aid would provide. The innocent had to be proven guilty by the police, and if they weren’t, then they were free to go. Instinct didn’t count, and being in the wrong place at the wrong time didn’t prove guilt by association. It was a shotgun operation and they’d lost the advantage. Maybe Ormond was in the first stages of dementia after all.
To distract herself, she sat at her desk and opened the log of what had been sent to the lab from both murder cases, sighing when she saw the sheer number of reference codes. She decided to throw herself into some work before she briefed the team, as she did every day when working a serious crime.
Lab results could take an age to return and provide them with the scraps of critical evidence needed to pass the threshold for charging. The Crime Prosecution Service had to be convinced of a conviction, otherwise it was a waste of time and taxpayers’ money. Kelly had seen the sharp downturn over the last ten years in CPS willingness to approve charges being brought. It was frustrating, but the evidence had to be bombproof. She also knew what happened when the police, convinced of a person’s guilt because of circumstances, fabricated a case and contrived the story. It didn’t take much tampering with witness statements or timings for a person to look guilty. It happened all the time.
But now, thanks to Op Turkey, they’d lost any hope of momentum and looked like bullies. It could possibly weaken their case should they ever put one together.
Next, she watched the CCTV footage of the trouble that had erupted on the Beacon Estate. She hoped she might catch a glimpse of what Will Phillips and Liam Brook had been up to. There were two cameras: one overlooked the road adjacent to Wordsworth Towers, which seemed to be the hub of the activity; the other monitored the play area where the two officers had been cornered. The footage made her shiver. It was every officer’s worst nightmare: getting trapped by an angry mob. Even with enhancing, the images were grainy when enlarged and the crowd appeared as some great heaving mass of black and dark grey. Many of the young men covered their faces with bandannas and their heads with hoods, making it almost impossible to spot indicators that could potentially identify them. Before this, Kelly had been making sense of the main players; now, there were scores of people involved. Instead of helping his friend find answers, Ormond had made it worse.
As suddenly as the mob appeared on screen, it dispersed again, though police could be seen catching several and making arrests. Then the armed-response unit arrived, and as the crowd dispersed, Kelly could see the two officers on the floor. She wondered if Ormond had seen the footage.
She called the hospital, and was told that the two men were stable. The press had been trying to gain access to the ward where they were being treated, but uniforms were guarding the entrances and only those passed by security came and went. A journalist posing as a close family member had been caught only because a bright officer had checked in with a relative he knew was in the family room. It was a close shave.
Op Turkey had attracted a wa
ve of interest nationwide, with many headlines referring to Enoch Powell’s ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech from 1968 warning that Britain in a mere couple of generations would be facing a bloodbath on her streets. The incendiary language was fucking unhelpful, but it had been brought upon them by a senior officer. The vast majority of streets in Britain were safe. Ormond had authorised an increased police presence on the estate, and Kelly had no choice but to allow him to wade in. All she could do was separate her inquiries from those of general law and order, and leave him to it. He’d already warned her to keep her nose clean. But she did call Sharon Bradley to assure her that the police presence was not sinister. After a tirade of abuse, involving Kelly apologising a lot, Sharon calmed down and told her what the residents had seen yesterday, including the fact that two officers had knocked on the door of Jackson Akers and gone inside. Kelly quizzed her about the young man, who Sharon seemed to have a soft spot for.
After that, she logged on to the police database and entered Neil Ormond’s details. His career profile popped up and she went through it carefully. The radio crackled in the background and she heard running commentary from the estate. The unrest had rumbled on and several more barricades had popped up, with a number of females refusing to move until police gave guarantees of safety. People had brought food and drink to the makeshift barriers, and they’d became quasi camps. So far the mood was amicable. But that wasn’t Kelly’s concern: that was for the realm of tactical force and public order. Hopefully it’d keep Ormond occupied and off her back. And it if worked, then a collaborative Beacon Estate could only be good for her inquiries.
Little Doubt Page 14