Jordan was allowed to hang around and he knew that was his invitation sorted. He puffed gently on a spliff and made a note to himself to be careful not to get too genuinely high. He needed a clear head so that he could gather information. He’d put into place all the security measures he could think of: he had no ID, no traceable phone – he’d bought a pay-as-you-go – no credit card, and he’d ditched his bus pass. Should anyone be suspicious – which he doubted – the last thing he needed was to be identified and vulnerable in a place like this. By the time he was led through the streets, past the demonstration, the media and the fires to keep them warm, he’d developed an affection for the boys he was with, who’d taken him in so easily. He felt part of a tribe and it gave him a sensation of belonging that he hadn’t known before. He kept checking his pockets for the cash he’d brought with him, just in case he got sloppy, or someone spotted it. He’d stuffed around three hundred quid from his savings account into his various pockets, along with two knives from the kitchen block.
Afternoon turned to night-time quickly at this time of year, and the street lighting on the estate was random. Some of the bulbs were smashed out, and he felt as though he was being led through a maze of underground tunnels, on a top-secret mission. He supposed he was. They relied on their phones sometimes for light, and the ends of their cigarettes or rollies. The smell of weed filled the air and Jordan could feel himself becoming a little intoxicated with the substances he’d put into his system.
‘Fuckin’ pigs.’ One of the boys nodded to the police tape surrounding where Jordan supposed Keira Bradley had died. They’d gone past a few coppers, who’d bizarrely greeted them with a ‘good afternoon, lads’. He was puzzled, because Neil Ormond had promised his dad he was coming down hard on those responsible. Maybe it was the response to the heavy-handed raids of yesterday that had changed their tactics. The police he saw were more interested in keeping the demonstrations calm, rather than in teenagers going to a party.
At one corner, though, two coppers stopped them and asked if they knew anything about certain characters who’d been brought to their attention. They had pictures of faces, and showed them to the small group. All the youngsters with Jordan denied any knowledge of them. Jordan memorised their names: Tyrone Fenton, Jason Cotton and Adam Cotton. He’d heard about the Cotton brothers before, but now he feared they might be involved. This was as serious as it got. He’d expected to be dealing with some small-town drug addicts, not the people in charge.
‘Where you off to?’ the officers asked them.
‘Home.’
‘Where’s that, lads?’
‘Up there.’
They made their way up a stairwell, and Jordan noticed the name of the block: Wordsworth Towers. They approached a door and knocked, being let in after recognition and a quick conversation. The interior was as black as oil, and they were led through a series of further doorways, finally going upstairs to a large room with dozens of people crammed into it. The music was pretty loud and aggressive. Jordan glanced around with a slightly clearer head: he hadn’t taken any substances for a good twenty minutes, and hadn’t been inhaling the ganja properly. There was a moving mass of bodies in front of him, and as his eyes adjusted, he saw that groups were dancing, writhing, singing, smoking and moving together, generally celebrating the freedom from reality that came with a drug-addled brain. Through the smoke and dark he could make out figures in dark corners performing sex acts, seemingly unfazed by the backdrop to their activities. It was illicit, like nothing he’d ever witnessed for real, and it excited him.
The throbbing air simultaneously pressurised and relieved the fluid in his head, and worked to mesmerise him into a rhythm of beating and pulsating. He found himself falling deeper and deeper into the feeling of the moment. His body began to move and he danced against three girls next to him. He caught the eye of one of them and she made it clear that she wanted him. Her hand felt around his back and he sank his head towards hers. She kissed him openly and fully and he felt a thrill race up his body. He closed his eyes and she pressed against him. They moved together as one.
The deep, guttural bass pervaded every other sound as it dropped like a stone, rhythmic and repetitive. The words came in between each steady boom. Electric vibration lingered inside the eardrums, shaking the floor and making people move as one. Boys flicked their hands in synchronicity as a flow of words streamed from their mouths. Most of them knew the words verbatim. Jordan was familiar with the artist playing and could rap along like the others, making him appear more authentic. The words came like bullets and the melody was in the delivery not the music. Everyone mumbled along.
Don’t @ me. Blast the skeng.
Emphasis was heaped on the rise and fall of the lyrics. Girls in dark corners raised their arms.
You know I blast the skeng.
Free my guys from out the pen.
A group of youths created a core group of dancers jumping up and down to the rhythm.
Big man drillz.
I don’t bare pop pills.
It was clear that a crescendo was coming. Jordan watched as the mass prepared to sing the chorus. The jerking and leaping intensified.
At the party like holla, hello, hey.
At this point, the whole room erupted and sang ‘holla, hello, hey’, rising and falling as one brotherhood, arms in the air, hoodies nodding. Jordan watched and joined in. He opened his eyes to look at the girl, and she smiled, holding tightly on to him as they jumped. As the music pulsed on, she beckoned him to another room. On his way out, he noticed a tight group in intense conversation. Like most males in the room, they wore hoods, and some had bandannas over their mouths. A couple of them nodded to the girl. She pulled his hand and he found himself in front of the group. It seemed quieter over there, and the buzz of the music and the electricity he imagined coming from the girl’s body dissipated.
‘Come on, Adam, leave us alone,’ the girl said to one of the men.
‘You rubbin’ up one o’ mine, bruv, and I don’t know yuz.’
Jordan sobered up. He felt something against his back and suspected it was a blade. He thought of his mother.
‘I’m not carrying a shank, bruv. I’m staying in the tower with cousins. I came with them.’ He pointed to the group of youngsters. One of them noticed and came over.
‘He’s sick, man,’ he said. ‘Nuffin’ goin’ on, swear it. He’s safe. Calm.’
Adam smiled, then glanced over Jordan’s shoulder and shook his head. The item sticking into his back was removed.
‘Enjoy fuckin’ her, man, she’s hot.’
The girl took his hand and led him away. Jordan could feel that he was shaking. And he was no longer aroused. He wanted to stay and get to know Adam. He wanted to study his body and work out where to stick a blade so that it would fucking hurt. She led him to a mattress in the corner of the next room and fell onto it, pulling him on top of her. She was high or drunk, or both, and Jordan looked at her differently now. He held back, but she took his hand and kissed him. The music came back to him, and without thinking any more, his body responded to her. She took her top off and he stared at her. She was beautiful. Anyone else in the room was forgotten. Within seconds, she was fully naked and he was inside her.
Every fibre of his body galloped towards a precipice that had opened up two days ago and remained elusive ever since. Here and now, he ran towards it at full speed. The music, the rhythm, the thump of feet, the screams of dancers, the thud of bodies falling over and the heat all colluded to help him towards the edge, and over it. He fell, head first, blind, numbed, alive, dead and on fire.
The only thing he saw as they lay together gasping for air, chests heaving and bodies slippery with sweat, was the face of the guy called Adam.
Chapter 34
Four blocks away, armed police were preparing to enter a flat. They’d been tipped off that Tyrone Fenton was hiding there. Kelly liaised closely with the firearms chief. It was fully within her power to direct t
he operation once she’d gained authority to use armed officers. That authority had come from a colleague the same rank as Neil Ormond in Ormond’s absence, and Kelly knew it was a stroke of luck. She’d been informed that the superintendent had requested not to be disturbed as he was visiting his friend Thomas Watson at his home. It meant that she could do her job undisturbed. For the moment.
The officers moved into place after a thorough tactical meeting about the pitfalls and snagging points in the area around the flats. From where they waited, they could hear the vague thud of music, but it was not unexpected or unusual. Otherwise, apart from the barricades, which had grown larger throughout the day, the estate was fairly quiet. The rear of the property had already been secured. From her position in the stairwell, Kelly approved the entry at the front, and this was corroborated by the firearms chief. There was a sudden flurry of activity as the officers stormed forward and bashed in the flimsy door, running inside and shouting orders.
‘Get down! Lie down! Don’t move! Armed police!’
There was an agonising wait of around half a minute, and then:
‘Suspects apprehended. Repeat, suspects apprehended. Property secure.’
Kelly let out the breath she’d been holding and went up to the second-floor flat, hoping to meet Tyrone Fenton face to face as he was arrested on suspicion of the murder of Keira Bradley and cautioned. She walked towards the bashed-in door and went inside. The flat smelled stale, of smoke and unwashed bodies. She followed the noise and found a man on the floor, being cuffed by police. The officers from the firearms unit were stood down; it was always a relief that no one had been hurt.
‘He confirmed his name, ma’am.’
‘Thank you.’
It wasn’t Tyrone Fenton.
The man on the floor struggled, but the uniform cuffing him was twice his size and easily flipped him over and onto his feet. The young man stared at the officer and stood still. Kelly looked around. Six arrests had taken place, none Tyrone. The suspects would now be loaded into vans and the police would have twenty-four hours to interview them under caution.
She looked for wounds on any of the apprehended men’s hands; there were none. They all had the hallmarks of hardened criminals: unfazed at arrest, resistance, arrogant stares and silence.
The forensic team arrived.
She looked at her watch. Ormond’s threat was either just that, or he’d forgotten. He’d said 5 p.m. to get some answers for him, but that deadline had come and gone and he hadn’t bothered her. It was Friday night and he’d probably gone home early to start his weekend, or that was what she hoped.
They all needed a break. She’d ordered Rob home to check on Mia. Tomorrow was the weekend, but during a murder investigation, time became irrelevant. However, they still needed to look after themselves. She didn’t expect any of them back in the office tonight, except Emma Hide, who was working the late shift. The interviews of the men apprehended at the flat today would probably take place tomorrow now, as lawyers would have to be found for all of them. She was looking forward to getting to Ted’s to spend some time with her loved ones. She also needed a shower.
Chapter 35
Kelly walked wearily to her car and called Johnny, who confirmed they were all waiting for her at Ted’s cottage. The last thing she wanted was to be an honoured guest, but sometimes it just worked out like that.
She felt faint butterflies in her tummy. The last time she’d met June and Amber was in the summer, when she’d finished a particularly tricky case. With Florida and work, they hadn’t found time to see each other since then. Both her half-sisters had busy lives. June and her partner ran a chocolatier business called Silk; they’d expanded to London and Edinburgh and had been featured in a piece in the Sunday Times. Amber was a primary school head teacher. They were both successful women, but, most important for Kelly, they didn’t take themselves too seriously. They had a buoyant and easy relationship with their father, despite their problems with their mother. It had been hard on all of them. In her line of work, Kelly saw plenty of families ripped apart by substance abuse.
A quick stop at her own house in Pooley Bridge enabled her to shower and freshen up, then she bought some flowers and a bottle of wine for her father and drove to the pretty town of Keswick, over which the mighty Skiddaw acted as sentinel. She could see its outline in the darkness. How simple to be a mountain, she thought. She parked in Ted’s driveway, which was tight, space in the medieval settlement being at a premium.
Johnny opened the front door and Kelly felt the tension in her body release. She smiled as he walked towards her. He looked tanned in the light spilling out of the doorway, his life on the fells showing. His jumper fell loose about his frame, but she knew that underneath, his body was hard. That wasn’t what she relied on, though: it was the hardness of his mettle that was important to her, a mixture of what he’d experienced of the world as well as what he knew was possible. Like her, he saw the bare face of human nature when he rescued a stranded climber on the mountainside, but he’d seen it too when he’d stared into the eyes of a refugee in Kosovo: he understood what she was dealing with; he got it.
She allowed him to hold her and he kissed her forehead. He smelled clean and masculine and she wondered, not for the first time, if she should do something else with her life. They could sail away, perhaps to Florida again, and spend the rest of their lives between beach and boat. But she knew that her reality was here, with Ted and Josie and shitbags who needed catching. She smiled at him and took his hand.
‘Josie thinks Amber is hilarious,’ he said. ‘She’s been telling us stories about what little kids come out with at school about their parents.’
‘Everyone relaxed?’
‘Yes. Are you OK?’
‘Maybe we’ll get to talk about it later. I’m really looking forward to switching off for a few hours.’
They kissed, then he led her inside. Ted was at the stove, wearing a pinafore that said Victory is in the Kitchen. Kelly had bought it for him in London when she’d worked down there for a week during the summer. Ted had been born after the Second World War but he wasn’t too young to remember rationing.
‘Kelly! Can you have some wine?’
‘Yes, go on, I’ve given myself the evening off.’ As the SIO, she’d left work for the night shift to do. They’d call her if they needed her. She could have a few glasses, with food.
‘Ah, good!’ He hugged her. ‘Any progress?’
She paused before she answered and watched him stir something that looked and smelled divine.
‘I know it’s perhaps not the time…’ she said.
‘But…’ he filled in for her. She smiled.
‘Remember the Tombday case, and all the hobnobbing balls that were thrown for the senior glitterati of Cumbrian business?’
‘Yes, I do. Very well. I’m not proud of it.’ He had attended many of the functions in question, and had rubbed shoulders with many of Cumbria’s great and good. Senior pathologists were always welcome at such celebrations. However, the Tombday case had blown the network apart and many of the old guard were now imprisoned, or dead.
‘Neil Ormond. Know him?’
‘Of course, the superintendent? Is he running the show?’
‘Yes, but being blunt…’
‘The only way to be… He likes the limelight, doesn’t he? Don’t tell me, he’s getting in the way? He’s very old school, Neil. I should imagine he’s finding working with you a challenge. Not only are you a woman, but you’re an incredibly talented one at that.’
‘Well, thank you. I’ve got a problem, Dad.’
Ted stopped stirring. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t trust him.’
He put the spoon down and gave her his full attention. ‘Your instinct is rarely off target. Is it that you don’t like him or that you think he’s not trustworthy?’
‘I don’t know. I need evidence.’
‘Go easy. He’s a very big fish in a little pond.’
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‘Can you remember him hobnobbing with Colin Day and Barry Crawley?’
Ted began stirring again, and June appeared in the doorway. She went to Kelly and embraced her. Kelly could be particular about her personal space, but she didn’t find June or Amber invasive: it was genuine affection, and she hugged her back.
‘It’s good to see you again,’ she said.
‘Is this a serious conversation?’ June asked.
‘Just work. You look lovely, June, have you been away?’
‘We had a mini break in Paris and the weather was incredible. It’s a fierce market to break into, but Silk is in talks with a chocolate supplier that fulfils restaurant orders across Paris.’
‘Oh my God, June! That’s amazing! Come on, let’s celebrate,’ Kelly said.
‘Open that bottle of bubbly in the fridge, girls,’ Ted said. Kelly knew it would be a good one; he only ever bought Pol Roger, Winston Churchill’s favourite. ‘I do remember Neil being rather friendly with that lot. It was fairly normal back then. That is a worrisome development, but let’s pursue it another time.’
Kelly opened the champagne and the cork flew into the ceiling with a pop. She filled two glasses, then took the bottle into the lounge.
‘What’s the occasion?’ Amber asked, giving her a hug.
‘June was just telling me about Paris.’
‘I’ll drink to that!’ Amber fetched more flutes and Johnny accepted a glass, allowing Josie and Callum one too.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ted shouted, ‘I’ve got more!’
With the pleasantries over, Amber continued her story of a five-year-old who’d taken a shit in the school sandpit. Kelly wanted to catch up and listen to all of their stories. She wanted to pretend that her life was normal, just for an evening. But inevitably, conversation soon got round to the two murders. All anyone wanted to know about was the inquiry and the demonstrations on the Beacon Estate.
Little Doubt Page 18