by Matt Hilton
Kerry was under no illusion what he meant. He’d consider her transfer request, and promptly refuse it. He watched as disappointment sunk in, her chin falling, until she was staring at her hands in her lap.
‘If that’s all then…’ Porter said, prompting her to get back to work.
Her head came up, and her mismatched gaze danced a moment over his features, while her teeth nipped at her bottom lip. Suddenly she focussed on a point slightly above and beyond his left shoulder, and startled, she yelped and threw her weight back in the chair. Her mouth and eyes made similar ovals and her head quivered.
Porter glanced over his shoulder. All he could see was his faint shadow and a certificate of commendation hanging on the office wall: he’d received it while still in uniform from the then Police Commissioner, and the certificate took pride of place. He looked sharply at her, and found Kerry on her feet, poised to run.
‘What on earth’s wrong with you?’
‘Uh, nothing, sir,’ Kerry said. Her voice was brittle. ‘I just got a cramp.’ She rubbed her right thigh vigorously, but it was an act. ‘Excuse me…’ she croaked, and was out of the door within two seconds. She didn’t look back.
DCI Porter did. He turned and lingered over the area that had alarmed her and saw nothing…though there was something unusual about the atmosphere. Something weird. The short hairs prickled on the back of his neck.
11
She splashed cold water on her face, and rubbed furiously. Then, still dripping, Kerry gripped the edge of the sink, supporting her weight on braced elbows. Her reflection in the vanity mirror looked as rough as she felt. These days she wore her dark auburn hair short, but it still looked unkempt and stood up in tufts – throwing water at the problem hadn’t helped. Her forehead was scuffed. She had a good excuse for her reddened sclera, and pale skin: except for zoning out for a few minutes under the shower in the early hours, she hadn’t slept in the past thirty-or-so hours. But fatigue wasn’t the cause for her red glare or pallor. What the hell did I just see in Porter’s office?
As a child, when first informing her parents about seeing things, they’d worried that her heterochromia was affecting her eyesight. As a matter of course she’d been checked for neoplasm, where the melanomas can be lightly pigmented and the cause of an affected eye being paler than the other, but there was no sign of tumour or other abnormality beyond the lack of pigmentation. Her eyesight wasn’t affected, but she’d since wondered if it allowed her to see into spectrums of light beyond the norm. She couldn’t; she didn’t have superhuman vision. What she had supposedly been seeing was “corner of the eye phenomena”: a mote of dust or floater, sometimes even a swollen blood vessel in the orbit itself, taking on an unfocused shape in the peripheral vision as the muscles around the eyes tired. Whenever she saw Girl, she usually formed indirectly, and always fled or disappeared when viewed dead on. The thing looming over Porter’s shoulder was different.
What at first she took for Porter’s shadow grew denser. More shocking: the shadow moved independently of him. As crazy as it now sounded it was as if the shadow lunged at her – startling her enough to elicit a yelp and for her to scrape back her chair. Porter must have thought she was insane!
His prognosis might be right. But she’d rather find an explanation she was happier with. Hallucinations were a symptom of sleep deprivation and combined with the stress she’d suffered in the past day it was little wonder she’d fallen victim. She’d imagined that the figure lunged at her, and had conjured up details that weren’t present in Porter’s shadow. Surely her stretched nerves had added the wavy hair, and the rigid handcuff standing proud from the wrist of the hand that snatched at her. Considered rationally, the incident shouldn’t be as alarming. She could put it behind her. So why the bloody hell was she still jittery with fear?
She challenged her mind to concoct spectres to appear in the mirror. There was nothing reflected behind her except for the institutional blue doors of toilet stalls. Relieved, she dragged out a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, and practically rubbed her cheeks raw, but tentative of her forehead where Swain had struck her. She dumped the wad of damp towels in a bin, just as the washroom door banged open. A sturdy young woman bustled in, unclipping her utility belt even before she reached a stall. Instantly recognising Kerry, the woman stumbled to a halt.
It was the same constable who’d delivered Funky Adefunke’s demands yesterday. Kerry offered her a sharp nod.
‘That was a bad show,’ the woman said.
Kerry wasn’t sure if she referred to the shootings, Swain falling off the tower, or the fact Kerry had been blamed for his death. Perhaps she meant all.
‘It was a terrible show,’ she replied.
The woman regarded her for a second longer, then nodded, and scuttled for the furthest away toilet cubicle.
Kerry left the washroom with equal haste. As she walked between rows of lockers two constables bantered together as they stripped off their protective kit, falling silent when they spotted her. As soon as she was out in the corridor she’d be the subject of discussion. Who knew what bollocks had already been spoken about her, but she’d bet there’d be more to come. Glossy celebrity magazines had nothing on police stations when it came to lurid gossip.
CID kept separate offices to the uniformed teams in the police station, and being a specialist branch, Gangs and Organised Crime had an office distinct from their other plain-clothed colleagues. It wasn’t a case of preferential treatment, and they hadn’t been afforded any extra space or comfort, the GaOC office was as stark and utilitarian as all the others. Because of the delicate nature of the intelligence shared in the room, it was a closed-door office, air-less and stuffy, with no natural light. Even in winter it was necessary to run fans to keep the place cool. The room always stank like a teenager’s training shoe. The unpleasant odour had been added to; last night somebody had brought in their supper and the room was rank with the aroma of cold, greasy fried onions and burger meat. DS Korba was the first detective she spotted, and she wondered if the stench was coming off him. But who was she to criticise? Korba hadn’t got to go home yet; he’d been left to pick up the pieces after DCI Porter dismissed her from the scene of Swain’s death. He hadn’t slept in thirty-or-so hours either, but you wouldn’t know it from his beaming grin and clear gaze as he greeted her. He shot towards her, and for a second she thought he was going to hug her. She wouldn’t unwelcome the sentiment, but Korba halted a foot from her. He made a half turn on his heel, and announced to the others in the room. ‘Hey, you lot. D’you mind being upstanding for the hero of the hour?’
Three detective constables worked under her and Korba’s supervision: Glenn Scott, Mel Scanlon and Tony Whittle. Each of the trio was seated at individual workstations; shamed into action, they all began to rise.
‘I think that’s enough of the hero stuff,’ Kerry warned before they made it to their feet. Glenn and Mel sat again, whereas Tony took the opportunity to stretch his lower back. Creaking and groaning, he settled his backside on the edge of his desk and braced his palms on his thighs. Despite her instruction to the contrary, Korba whipped the three into a round of applause. He even initiated a round of hip-hip hooray, until Kerry swore at him. They all laughed. If there’d been any discomfort about what had happened the previous evening, it had been put behind them in a few seconds. Good, Kerry thought, let’s get back to business as usual.
Korba was dying to hear what had happened between her and Porter, but not in front of the others. He offered a conspiratorial wink, and then returned to Mel Scanlon’s desk to retrieve a file he’d dumped there. Mel squinted at him. ‘D’you still want me in the interview with you, Sarge?’ she asked, making it sound as if it was no trouble.
‘That’s down to the boss.’ Korba looked expectantly at Kerry.
‘Who are you interviewing?’
‘Henrietta Jayne Winters…Erick Swain’s girlfriend.’
‘Ah!’ Kerry thought about the brash woman fr
om last night. Hettie had more to trouble her now than a broken door and dog muck on her carpet. ‘What’s she in on?’
‘Conspiracy to murder.’ Korba shrugged in apology. ‘I know, boss. She’s just lost her fella. But Porter wanted her locked up.’
It made sense. Despite Swain’s untimely death, there was still an open double murder investigation to conduct, and until she was cleared Hettie was as complicit in the evidence discovered at their home as Swain.
To Mel, Kerry said, ‘I’ll take it from here with Danny.’ Then to all in the room: ‘If you’re up to speed with your files, leave them on my desk for me, then get yourselves home for some kip. It’s—’ she checked her wristwatch ‘—almost midday. I’ll see you back here at six o’clock, OK?’
Nobody seemed keen to leave. There were employment rules that dictated proper rest periods between shifts, but rules meant nothing in the real world. Her team probably wouldn’t sleep, but they’d get some time with their families if nothing else. ‘You heard me,’ she said, aiming a thumb at the door. ‘Off with you, but don’t be late back. Danny, my office please.’
Hers was actually an anteroom of the GaOC office. In fact anteroom was too generous a description: it had originally been designed as a stationery cupboard. She called it her ‘cubbyhole’. Inside there was space for a chair, a small table and her computer monitor. It was stuffier even than its larger sister. But with the door shut it allowed a modicum of privacy for sensitive discussions. Korba joined her in the cramped space. The aroma of fried onions was coming off him. ‘As soon as we’re done here, you can get yourself off home too,’ she promised.
‘I’m good for a few hours yet, boss.’
‘Sorry, Danny, but as your friend, it’s my duty to tell you that you’re honking. If you make me, I’ll pull rank and order you home for a shower and change of clothes.’
‘You don’t like my aftershave?’ Danny grinned, unfazed by criticism. ‘It’s Eau de Grande Mac with a hint of fag ash.’
Kerry clucked her tongue.
Korba changed tack. ‘How’d it go with ol’ misery guts?’
‘Better than expected,’ she replied, ‘but not as well as it could have.’
‘Porter didn’t agree to your transfer, then?’
‘Nope. Neither did he pucker up. But that’s OK, I’m glad to be back.’
‘What about the IPCC?’
‘Their investigation will still go ahead, but at least I’m not suspended from duty. And from what I saw on that video, I’m not worried about their findings.’
‘You got a look at it then? That Swain…the way he went mental at the last minute…’ he halted, stared quizzically at her. ‘Remember when you asked if I believed in ghosts? Well, maybe you should’ve asked Swain, cause the way he carried on, I’d say he saw somethin’ that put the fear of God in him.’
‘Yeah, he did act strange. It was probably drugs.’ Only she knew the reason behind Swain’s wild swipes and kicks, because the spectral girl had not been caught on camera. And yet, even as he fought to hurl her from the roof, Kerry now suspected the gangster had grown aware of her ghostly companion, and when Girl hurtled at him in a flurry of desperation to save her, he’d reared away and lost his balance. Never had Girl shown herself to anyone but Kerry before, but it wasn’t something she was prepared to divulge to even her closest friend. ‘I…I can’t explain it any other way.’
‘He didn’t seem high when I spoke with him…yeah, he smoked weed, but not before we got there and everything kicked off.’
She shrugged, then leaned past Danny and forced the door shut over a ruck in the carpet. The DC’s hadn’t left the office as instructed, and she preferred to keep her latter words between her and Korba. ‘Tell you what. It’s a good job I was filmed from behind and the noise of the rain covered everything; I might’ve said a thing or two that could come back to bite me on the arse.’
‘We all talk bollocks in the heat of the moment, boss.’
‘I know.’ Kerry’s lips bowed briefly. ‘Some of the stuff I said to Swain could be deemed unprofessional.’
‘Good on ya.’ Korba winked. He changed tack again. ‘I’ve got the weapon and ammunition we seized from the house. You sure you want to be the one to interview Hettie? I mean, she might not be happy to see you after what happened to lover boy…’
‘I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. He was the one resisting arrest.’
Her words felt hollow.
It was her turn to change the subject. ‘Has she asked for a brief?’
‘Yeah. She’s got the duty solicitor, Dave Barnes.’
‘I’m surprised. She can probably afford the best.’
‘She’s pleading innocence. Asking for a specific brief might make it look as if she’s got somethin’ to hide. She’s in with Dopey Dave now, and I’ve already given him full disclosure.’
‘OK. I’m taking it you’ve planned the interview?’
Korba coughed.
‘OK, then. So we’re playing it off the cuff. I’m good to go, then. You ready, Danny?’
He hadn’t relinquished the file. ‘Just have to grab the evidence, and let the custody sergeant know we’re taking her to interview.’
‘Right. So let’s go hear what Hettie’s got to say about her granddad’s gun.’
12
Despite her good looks, there was something reptilian about Hettie Winters. Hers were crocodile tears, and her first response to Kerry’s appearance was to clash her teeth like a crocodile ambushing a gazelle on a riverbank. Also, as in most reptiles she had a tough hide. She didn’t come across as a woman who’d recently lost her partner. Anger was her overpowering emotion, but not the raw anger other recently bereaved people displayed; hers was more like pent up hatred finally set loose. She despised Kerry, but it wouldn’t have mattered who interviewed her.
She didn’t look crocodilian. If anything, a few hours in the cells appeared to have agreed with her, because she was more beautiful than she’d looked last night in her baggy pyjamas and slippers. Her blond hair was styled and set, and her make-up was flawless – false eyelashes, false nails, all perfect and in place, and her mascara was untouched by her tears. The tight T-shirt she wore made the most of her pneumatic breasts, and her designer jeans hugged her like a second skin. Even with her shoes off, she was a couple of inches taller than Kerry. She could be the beautiful star in a reality TV show: her language was crass, and added an ugly set to her lips.
While the equipment was prepped for the interview, Hettie bitched and snapped at Kerry and DS Korba. Even her legal brief, “Dopey Dave” Barnes wasn’t immune to her sharp tongue. Then, as the tapes began to roll, and the introductions were out of the way, Hettie went “no comment” for the most part. It was a strategy many suspects played, often at the instruction of their solicitor.
‘Before we continue,’ said Kerry, with a lingering nod that included Barnes, ‘I should remind you that we are conducting this interview under the now caution. In other words, it may harm your defence if you do not mention now what you later rely on in court. That means if you continue stating no comment, anything you mention in court might be ruled inadmissible in your defence. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Hettie?’
‘No comment.’ Hettie sat back, fiddled her sapphire engagement ring to a more comfortable position on her finger. The stone on Kerry’s engagement ring was diminutive by comparison.
‘Saying “no comment” is actually making a comment.’ Kerry was facetious on purpose, to goad a response. Hettie sneered and spread her hands on the table. Displaying her engagement ring was a reminder to Kerry about whom she’d taken from her. Kerry ignored the dig, and glanced at the solicitor.
Despite his nickname Dave Barnes wasn’t stupid. Plus, due to having been given forewarning of the evidence the detectives would reveal during interview by Korba, he knew what was coming next. ‘It’s OK to tell the inspector about your grandfather’s military service…as we discussed.’
Hettie shot hi
m the stink-eye, before switching her glare to Kerry. ‘So what do you want to know?’
Kerry glanced at Korba, who was seated next to her. He delved inside a brown paper evidence sack between his feet, and passed its contents to Kerry.
She produced the Webley Mk IV .38/200 Service revolver, sealed in a translucent evidence bag, and placed it on the table between her and Hettie. Alongside it she set down another evidence bag containing the loose .38 200-grain cartridges seized from the master bedroom during the execution of the warrant. The four live cartridges found in the revolver, plus the empty brass shells from the shooting on Wandsworth Road were in other sealed bags, but had been held back from this interview, as had the projectiles removed from the bodies of Nala Dahir Ghedi and Bilan Ghedi during their respective autopsies. Those items were due for forensic and ballistic examination, and she wasn’t prepared to risk compromising the chain of custody before the results were back if Hettie managed to rip open any of the bags.
‘I’m showing exhibits DSDK-Two and SRG-One to Hettie Winters,’ Kerry announced for the purpose of the audio record. ‘Hettie, do you recognise these items, and can you tell me about them?’
‘I already told you.’
‘Yes.’ Kerry had photocopied the page from her notebook where she’d made a record of Hettie’s statement during the house search. ‘In regards to exhibit SRG-One you said, “I see you’ve found my granddad’s old bullets. He brought them back from Korea donkey’s years ago.” Is that a true account of what was said at the time?’
‘Fucked if I can remember. It sounds about right.’
Still reading from her notes, Kerry said, ‘I then asked if you had a firearms certificate allowing you to keep live ammunition, to which you replied “They’re fucking antiques. And besides, I don’t have a fucking gun.”’
Hettie folded her arms beneath her breasts.