by Bo Brennan
Super shit. Her bag was in the lounge, beside the stereo cabinet. She shoved the photograph down the back of her trousers, and the empty frame under the duvet. If it was Shayla Begum down there, she’d have some serious sodding questions to answer.
If it wasn’t, India would have some serious questions to answer of her own. But hers would be coming from a sour faced disciplinary panel. She’d be out on her arse this time. Breaking and entering a dead woman’s house was about as bad as it could get. Especially on a case that didn’t officially exist.
She listened intently as the person downstairs moved quietly from room to room. Her eyes widened when she heard the bottom stair creak. Holding her breath, she slid behind the open door and flattened herself against the bedroom wall, heart hammering in her chest.
Chapter 29
Kings Worthy, Winchester
They climbed the stairs slowly, cautiously. One at a time. India wondered if they knew she was there. If they’d spotted her discarded bag in the lounge. Through the crack of the door she saw a solitary shadow appear on the landing.
One person.
Two doors.
One simple choice: bedroom or bathroom.
The shadow chose wisely. India held her breath as it shifted her way to spill across the bedroom carpet. A flimsy pine door all that remained between them.
It was a man. She could smell him.
With her gaze fixed firmly on his encroaching shadow, she silently willed him to move on. To go in the bathroom. Take a piss. Pointing Percy at the porcelain would provide the few precious seconds she needed to get the hell out of here.
But he didn’t. He just stood there, equally silent in the bedroom doorway. Maybe he could smell her, too.
Her heart was thumping so hard she was sure that he could hear it. India couldn’t. All she could hear was her own blood rushing through her ears. The loss of that vital sense left her at a distinct disadvantage.
As the uncertainty mounted, she adopted her failsafe fall-back position. When in doubt, punch it out. Fists clenched, she dropped her head and gritted her teeth, ready to charge if the door moved an inch.
In the split second that followed came a crushing blow to the back of her neck. The force sent her careering face first towards the floor. She reached out, grabbing for the edge of the bed. The duvet fell with her, partly breaking her fall. She kicked blindly backwards and her foot connected hard. Heard a low ‘oomph’ as the wind left her assailant. She grabbed at the mattress, hauling herself to her feet. Before she had a chance to turn, an arm snaked around her throat in a vicelike grip. A knee to the back slammed her face down on the bed, her bared teeth sinking into her bottom lip, her brow bone shattering the glass of the empty picture frame.
She bucked wildly against the dead weight straddling her back. Clawed viciously at the chokehold restricting her windpipe as black spots danced in her vision and the room began to fade. It wasn’t true that your entire life flashed before your eyes as it ebbed away. All India saw was Colt. Just when she was sure that she was a goner, the arm left her throat and she found her wrists pinned tightly under his knees as heavy hands gripped her biceps, keeping her down. India gulped great rasping gasps of air. Coughing and retching as oxygen finally filtered through her respiratory system inflating her compressed lungs.
Whoever he was, he’d chosen suicide-by-cop as part of his funeral plan. India was going to kill him.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growled in her ear.
India clenched her jaw and forced her face further down, pressing hard against the mattress and grinding her dead cheek into the broken glass. With all of her might, she threw her head back. Caught him unawares and square in the face. Unbalanced his weight just enough to turn her body to the right, raise one knee, and send him sprawling off the bed with a firm boot to the guts. She leapt to the floor behind him. Drew back her foot to stick the boot in as he scrambled to his hands and knees, but the fucker felled her with a solid side-sweeping leg.
India crashed to her back in a confused shower of stars, groaning as her head bounced off the carpeted floor with a muted thud.
All the air squeezed from her lungs as his weight dropped onto her chest. She felt her arms pinned beneath his knees again. Smelt blood in the air and tasted its sharp metallic tang in the back of her throat as she fought to focus her eyes on the Glock rammed in her face.
“I’ll ask you one more time, Detective Kane.” Doug Henderson stared down at her, blood dripping steadily from his nose to splatter her white shirt, turning it crimson. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Chapter 30
The Paedophile Unit, New Scotland Yard, London
“Well done, everyone,” Colt said, keying in the security code to the unit as his team jovially jostled in the corridor behind him.
“Mine shit his pants, tried to run.” Nathan Sharp chuckled. “Thought I was gonna have to chase the fucker, but there were so many bodies he had nowhere to go.”
“Same here,” Maggie said. “Coward tried to back up through the mosque doors, but the crowd kept surging forward. Pushed him right into my arms. What about Bashir, boss? Did he run too?”
“No,” Colt said, mildly disappointed. “Bashir took it like a man.” Stood staring at him with hate-filled eyes as exiting worshippers scrambled all around them for cover. During their momentary stand-off, Colt was willing him to run. To do something, anything that would warrant his face hitting the asphalt. But he didn’t. Mohammed Bashir’s only response to Colt slamming the CAW notices against his chest was a smile.
“See if he takes it like a man inside,” Nathan said. “If only Hawk Eye could see through prison shower walls, eh?”
Hawk Eye. Colt laughed at the new moniker Clorindar had earned herself. The day belonged to her. She’d spotted every one of their targets inside six minutes, but as he held the door open and the happy faces piled back into the unit, Colt couldn’t spot her. “Where is Clorindar?”
“She was behind me,” Maggie said, looking over her shoulder. Her eyes widened as shouting rang out further down the corridor.
“Guv –” Maggie started. But it was too late. Way too late. Colt was already there. He threw the commander’s office door open to find Clorindar standing rigid as Commander Hussein read her the riot act.
“Clorindar,” Colt said. “Go back to the unit, please.”
“Stay where you are!” the commander ordered, roughly grabbing her arm.
Colt stepped towards him. “Take your hands off her, or I’ll take them off for you.”
The commander let go. Clorindar flinched away, rubbing at her biceps. She looked to Colt with hesitant, teary eyes. “Go on,” Colt said evenly. “I’ll deal with this.”
Clorindar Hussein tucked her chin into her chest and hurried from the room, leaving the door wide open in her haste.
“Who the hell do you think you are barging in here?” the commander shouted. “This is a family matter. She’s my niece!”
“She’s my officer,” Colt shouted back, looming over him. “If you’ve got a problem with any of my officers, you take it up with me. You want to get physical with someone? You do it with me. Do you understand?”
The commander slumped into his seat, sweating like a condemned man. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Yeah, I’ve got the trial back on track. That’s what I’ve done.”
“You took the fucking firearms unit to a mosque!” He slammed his fist down on his desk. “On Friday, for Christ’s sake!”
“And your point is?”
The commander’s face twisted with furious contempt. “I’m a Muslim!”
“And I’m a Catholic,” Colt shouted back. “It doesn’t stop me pulling priests from pulpits during Sunday mass, does it? But I don’t hear you shouting about that.”
“You would if you did it with bloody machine guns! I don’t see you putting as much effort into the National Front case, Chief Inspector. I told the Home Secretary Counc
illor Cooper had been charged, Clorindar just told me he hasn’t.”
“He’s gone to ground,” Colt said. “Hasn’t been so easy to find since the trial collapsed.”
“Then look harder. And do it on your own shilling. I sanction the bloody firearms units around here, not you!”
Colt ran his tongue over his teeth and thrust his hands in his pockets. Now they were getting to the real nub of the problem. “It was sanctioned by the NCA.”
“I know,” he shouted, launching a handful of papers across the desk in Colt’s general direction. “You went over my head. Once again!”
Colt let the documents scatter to the floor. His boss was a man on the verge of a coronary. The whites of his eyes growing more bloodshot by the second. “We got the job done. All defendants served. Nobody hurt. You should be happy. Money well spent, sir.”
“Happy? This week you’ve made me look like a complete prick on the court steps –”
Colt raised his brows and smirked.
“You think that’s funny?”
Colt thought Commander Hussein didn’t need any help from him on that score, but remained silent, let it go.
“And now I’ve got community leaders jumping all over me because of you,” he ranted. “You have singlehandedly set community relations back twenty bloody years.”
But Colt wasn’t letting that one go. “Bollocks.”
Hussein glared at him.
“We don’t have any community relations,” Colt said, leaning across his boss’s desk. “If we did, they’d have given up Becky Adams’ murderer instead of tossing us a bone to make it go away.”
Hussein recoiled in his seat. “That’s an NCA case. It’s got nothing to do with us.”
“Tell that to the parents who scream at me and my team,” Colt said. “The fear of the same thing happening to their daughters is the single biggest recruitment tool the National Front have right now. Silence hasn’t helped. Neither has pussyfooting around. What we did today shows we’re serious about this issue, and we don’t kiss arse.”
“What you did today was make my niece a target,” Commander Hussein spat out.
“Every copper in the country is the target of some scumbag, somewhere.” Colt straightened up. “Clorindar’s a good officer. She doesn’t let politically correct bullshit get in the way of doing the job. You should be proud of her. I know I am.”
Hussein’s teeth creaked in his jaw. “You’re not a superstar giving an uplifting post-match speech now, Chief Inspector. You’re playing on my pitch, by my rules, and you’ve just earned yourself a yellow card. Unless you want to work for the NCA, you will toe the bloody line and you will put this right. And if that involves kissing arse, your only concern will be whose and how often. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get out of my sight.”
Colt stormed down the corridor, ignoring the slack-jawed stares of his colleagues in adjoining offices. Clearly everyone in the Child Abuse Command had heard Hussein rip him a new one. Hell, it was loud enough for the whole fucking building to hear. It was still ringing in his ears as he jabbed at the secure entry panel on the door to his unit.
He fluffed it first time. Probably a good thing. If it hadn’t been for the enforced breather, he would’ve crashed through the doors like a gunslinger in a Wild West saloon seeking the man who named him Sue. He drew a deep, calming breath, rolled his head and keyed the code again.
Clorindar rose from her seat as he entered. “Sir, I –”
“Not now, Clorindar,” he said, striding for his inner sanctum.
“I’m sorry,” she spluttered.
Colt stopped in his office doorway. “You’ve got nothing to apologise for,” he said, turning to face her. She seemed to have shrunk. Gone was the giant who’d confidently stood head and shoulders above them all earlier. In her place was a timid young girl who couldn’t meet his gaze. Her narrow shoulders hunched over a cardboard box as her trembling hands hastily filled it. “What’s with the box?”
“I’m clearing my desk, sir,” she said, without looking up.
Colt looked around at his team of bewildered silent spectators. “Are you bailing on us, Hawk Eye?”
“It’s okay, sir. I understand. I’ll never be a valued and trusted team member with external influences in play,” she said, like she’d heard the line a million times before.
“Well, I’ve got news for you, Clorindar. You are a valued and trusted member of this team – a fully-fledged one. And Commander Hussein is an arsehole whether you’re related to him or not. So bin the box and suck it up like the rest of us do. Nate, you’re on tea duty,” Colt said, pulling his wallet from his pocket. “Go get some celebratory cakes to welcome our new recruit properly.”
“Nice one, boss.” Nathan rose from his seat with a grin, as a manically smiling Clorindar dropped into hers.
“You’ve got a couple of email notifications,” Maggie said, quizzically glancing up from her computer screen. “Apparently, Harrods have fulfilled all their deliveries?”
Colt cleared his throat. “Good stuff.”
“I should say so, judging by the size of the bill.”
Colt ignored her comment and glanced at his watch. “Hurry up with the cakes, Nate. I’ve got a few calls to make and then I’m knocking off for the weekend.”
Maggie’s mouth dropped open. “You are?”
She’d obviously been too busy rooting through his emails to bother reading his schedule. “I am.”
“Good for you,” she murmured. “What’s the occasion?”
“India’s birthday.”
“Course.” She grimaced and brushed an invisible hair from her face. “Have a good time.”
“Thanks. I intend to.”
Maggie’s gaze followed him into his office, and hardened as he uncharacteristically closed the door. He really must change his passwords at some point, he thought, unlocking the top drawer of his desk. India’s obsession with privacy was rubbing off on him. All thoughts of privacy and passwords evaporated when the contents of his top drawer were displayed.
An Asprey’s box and a business card sat snugly side by side.
He took out the business card and flicked it between his fingers. Commander Hussein wanted him to put things right. Colt intended to make that happen. And it didn’t involve kissing anyone’s arse. Hell would freeze over first.
He pulled his mobile from his pocket and started dialling.
As he waited for the call to connect, he took out the box and flipped the lid, smiling at the understated platinum and diamond band nestled inside. He wanted India forever, and he fully intended to make that happen, too. He’d gladly kiss her arse every single day of his life, until hell froze over and long after it had thawed.
He snapped the lid shut and slipped the box into his jacket pocket as the call was brusquely picked up.
Chapter 31
Three Years Previously
The Daily Herald
Tuesday, 17th March
TRAGIC TEEN BECKY AND UNBORN BUTCHERED
By Ryan Reynolds, Crime Correspondent
THE Metropolitan Police today confirmed a body recovered from the St Helena Pier area of the Thames on Friday was that of missing Haringey teen Becky Adams.
Miss Adams, 16, was 39 weeks pregnant when she went missing from her hostel accommodation in Haringey on Friday, 6th March. The tragic teen was last seen alive exiting Richmond Station at 1330hrs on the same day.
Becky had been stabbed seventy-two times in what officers described as a ‘frenzied attack’.
Chapter 32
Park Gate, Hampshire
India stepped from the shower and kicked her sodden, blood-stained clothes aside to stare at her reflection in the mirror.
Her skin smarted from a vigorous scrubbing that hadn’t worked. Swimming hadn’t worked either. Doug Henderson’s residue remained. Not on her, not in the marks that mottled her skin, but in her. He’d made her feel weak and vulnerable. M
ade her doubt her abilities and fear for her life. The fact she shouldn’t have been there at all, meant her options were severely limited as to what she could legitimately do about it.
Couldn’t go back to the office bloodied and bruised, needed to get her story straight first. Besides, she was too damned angry. Shit-Fer-Brains getting chippy was liable to get him chinned. If breaking-and-entering a dead woman’s house didn’t get her excluded from her exams, breaking her sergeant’s face definitely would. Been there, done that.
Wincing, she reached into the airing cupboard and grabbed the first items of clothing that came to hand. Jeans, sweatshirt, mismatched bra and knickers.
She dressed roughly, every stab of pain stoking her emotional turmoil and threatening to reignite her rage.
Slumping against the door frame she took deep, even breaths. In through her nose, out through her mouth, just as Colt had taught her. She had to get her head straight. Couldn’t afford to lose control. Had played too nicely, for too long, to go and wreck everything now.
Dragging a hand across her dry mouth, she moved mechanically to the kitchen. Yanked the fridge door open and pulled out a bottle of wine. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the corkscrew. She leant against the counter, thinking about Doug Henderson, and glugging straight from the bottle until her fat lip was numb.
She’d given him nothing. Played dumb. Even when he’d dragged her downstairs at gunpoint and emptied the contents of her bag onto the lounge floor, scattering tampons and rummaging through her personal things. He’d taken the mail she’d stolen . . . and the care home employee files she’d legitimately gained. But he didn’t have the photograph she’d shoved down her pants.
It didn’t matter. He didn’t need it. Even that prick could easily make the connection between the two women now.
India could kick herself. She’d inadvertently handed him Shayla Begum on a plate. But merely by being there, he’d inadvertently revealed that Nazreem Sinder was indeed under his protection when she died.