by Tania Carver
‘Take who you like.’
Sperring looked at Imani, back to Phil. ‘I’d better get going, then. Real police work to do.’
‘Don’t let me stop you,’ said Phil.
Sperring turned, left.
Phil was aware of being watched by Imani Oliver. He looked at her. ‘DS Sperring and I seem to be encountering communication difficulties.’ He kept his face as impassive as possible while speaking.
‘Not surprised,’ said Imani. ‘The man’s an arrogant, boorish prick.’
Phil stared at her. ‘Do I have to give you a lecture on insubordination, DC Oliver?’
She shrugged. ‘If you like. But he’ll still be an arrogant, boorish prick.’
Phil smiled. ‘You busy?’ he asked.
‘Was going to watch more hardcore S and M porn. Why, you want to join me?’
He laughed. ‘Just wondered if you fancied a ride out to see Ron Parsons.’
She smiled. ‘Better than watching the Villa,’ she said.
49
M
arina kept her hands wrapped round the cup of coffee on the table in front of her. It was too hot to drink, too milky and watery to taste. But she still held on to it. She stared at the surface of the liquid, the steam rising off it, curling away. How easy it was to slip from one state to another. All it took was the right conditions.
She looked round, blinking away thoughts too deep for where she was. A Little Chef restaurant on the A14 near Kettering.
She knew it wasn’t a particularly original view, but Marina had never liked service stations. She found them depressing places to be in. The larger ones, with their overlit atriums and overpriced food, seemed like high-end prisons. They gave the illusion of freedom and allowed a modicum of movement, but in reality there was nowhere to go. Travellers milled around the chairs and tables, went in and out of the toilets, tried to convince themselves that the shop held things worth buying. She often wondered about the people who worked there, manning the food stations and tills, maintaining the buildings. Local, static. Even more imprisoned than the temporary travellers.
That was the large stations. The small ones were even worse. This Little Chef had been made over in the aftermath of a well-publicised visit from a famous TV chef. It had been refurbished in primary colours, mainly red, with low-hanging lighting and minimalist seating. The window booth that Marina was sitting in was bright red upholstered plastic. Despite the changes, she got the sense that the makeover was an effort to maintain.
She looked at the coffee and waited. She was early. She had time to relax, bring herself down and question her actions, tell herself she was being stupid, that what she was doing wasn’t rational behaviour. Then the opposite opinion would creep in and she would confirm for herself that she wasn’t imagining things or overreacting, that she was definitely doing the right thing. Definitely.
After leaving Gwilym’s house she had made a phone call, dropped Josephina off with Eileen, got in the car and driven straight here. She deliberately didn’t allow herself any time to think things through in case she changed her mind.
The person she had phoned hadn’t thought twice and had offered to meet straight away.
And here she was.
Marina saw her come through the door, look round the room. Marina waved. Tried to smile. The woman crossed the floor to join her. She had the looks, attitude and confidence to carry off anything she wanted to wear. Figure-hugging jeans and big boots, sweater and jacket. Dyed blonde hair contrasting with her black skin. Big smile for Marina and genuine warmth in her eyes.
Marina stood up, hugged her. ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ she said.
Detective Constable Anni Hepburn smiled. ‘Neither have you. And it’s been so long.’
They both laughed. Marina out of relief.
Anni sat down in the opposite seat. Looked around. ‘Well, this place has gone up in the world.’
‘I think it may be temporary,’ said Marina.
Anni nodded and smiled.
‘So how’s Mickey?’
‘He’s fine, bless him,’ Anni said. ‘Sends his love.’
‘Send mine back. And Franks?’
Anni’s smile gave nothing away about her DCI. ‘He’s exactly the same. I doubt you’ll want me to send him your love.’
‘You doubt correctly.’
Anni gave a small laugh accompanied by another smile. Then the smile gradually disappeared. ‘So what did you want to see me about that was so urgent?’
Straight down to business. Anni was a detective on the team Phil used to run and on which Marina used to be staff psychologist. The two women had always got on well on a personal level but had really clicked on a professional one. When Marina had needed someone to turn to, Anni was the first person she had thought of.
‘Well…’ She didn’t know how to begin. ‘Thank you. For coming to see me.’
Anni shrugged. ‘You said it was important. And it was you. I wouldn’t have given up my Saturday afternoon for just anyone, you know.’
Marina smiled, touched. She realised in that moment just how much she had missed Anni. ‘I appreciate it. Really I do.’
‘So what is it, then?’
Marina took a deep breath. ‘Well…’
And she told her. About the departmental dinner. About Hugo Gwilym’s behaviour. Her suspicions about the wine. What happened afterwards. The blackout. The meeting at the café, the underwear return. The confrontation at Gwilym’s house, the near confession. Phil’s appearance. Gwilym’s triumphant dismissal of her.
She sat back, exhausted. She looked at her hands. They were shaking as she attempted to pick up the coffee cup.
‘Jesus Christ…’ said Anni. ‘Wait a minute. Hugo Gwilym. I know that name. Is he the one off the TV?’
Marina nodded.
‘Oh wow. Looks like we’ve got another Savile.’
Marina felt so tired. Just talking about it all had forced her to relive it. She felt like crying again. Anni, sensing that, reached across the table, held her hand.
‘Hey. Come on.’
Marina didn’t speak, just held on to Anni’s hand.
‘What does Phil say?’
Marina took her hand away, rummaged in her handbag for a tissue, blew her nose. She had just about managed not to cry. Just about. ‘I… I haven’t told him…’
Anni looked at her, surprised. ‘Why not? I’d have thought he’d be the first person you would have told.’
Marina shook her head. ‘I… I couldn’t. Anni, what if it was true? What Gwilym said? What if I did go back with him, of my own free will, what if I slept with him consensually? I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t have told Phil that, could I?’
‘Yeah, but what were the chances of that happening? You should have told him.’
Marina looked her straight in the eye. ‘Would you have told Mickey? If you’d been in my place? Would you? If there’d been even a shadow of doubt, would you have told him?’
Anni thought. ‘OK, I see your point. But you can tell him now, can’t you?’
‘Soon,’ said Marina. ‘Hopefully. I need to ask a favour of you. A really big one. That’s why I wanted to see you. Why I couldn’t have just done all this on the phone.’
‘Go on,’ said Anni.
Marina delved into her handbag once more. She brought out the glass she had taken from Gwilym’s kitchen, still wrapped in cling film, still holding the amber liquid. She slid it across the table to Anni.
‘What’s this?’ Anni asked.
Marina told her where she had taken it from. ‘I think it might be, I don’t know, Rohypnol or something.’
‘You want me to get it analysed?’
Marina nodded. ‘Please. I know it’s a big ask. But as I said, I can’t get Phil to do it.’
Anni nodded. Took the glass.
‘I’ll pay if I have to,’ said Marina. ‘If it has to be done privately.’
‘Leave it with me.’
‘I just… I have to know. If it’s, if
he…’ She sighed. ‘I know that you’re busy and you gave up your day off to come all the way here and see me. But I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
‘Don’t worry. I said I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call in some favours. Get it done as quickly as possible.’ Anni’s features hardened. She was suddenly all copper. ‘If you’re right about this guy, then it’s not just you he’s done this to. We’ve got to get him off the streets.’
‘Thank you. It means… I just…’ Marina sighed. Thank you.’
Anni’s hand returned to the table, took hers. ‘No problem.’
Marina smiled.
‘So,’ said Anni. ‘When you coming home, then?’
50
‘
T
here’s one for you,’ said Phil from the passenger seat of his Audi A4.
DC Imani Oliver looked to where he was pointing. A white bed sheet had been draped and tied to the side of a footbridge over the road. Painted on it was:
Jack, are the Villa really more important than our marriage? It’s over, Jess.
Imani smiled. ‘Don’t blame her,’ she said.
‘Thought you were a fan?’ said Phil.
She shook her head, eyes back on the road. Lips still pulled up in a smile. ‘My dad was. Long-suffering. Any time anything exciting happened he always said the same thing. Better than watching the Villa. I picked it up from him. It still applies. Although these days just about anything’s better than watching the Villa.’
Phil had decided to let his DC drive. He could have allowed the sat nav to give him directions, or he could have been stubborn and pig-headed and tried to find his way without it. Or he could let Imani drive. It didn’t mean he had given in to Sperring, let the bastard win. It just meant they would get to their destination as quickly as possible. That was all. He nodded. Yes, that was all.
‘You OK, sir?’
He became aware that DC Oliver was looking at him.
‘Yeah, fine. Why?’
‘Just… nothing, sir. You were talking to yourself. Your lips were moving.’
‘I’m fine, DC Oliver.’
He cleared his throat, looked round. They were headed eastbound on the A41. Phil watched urban areas become suburban. Balsall Heath and Sparkbrook were all old terraces and small estates, the houses crammed together and overspilling on to the streets. The extensions, columned porches, gated fronts and concreted-over front gardens with parked cars made it seem as if an area twice as large had been squeezed in. The grocers’ shops were similarly expansive, awnings and stands taking over the whole pavement. Too many cars and not enough road.
‘Khan’s house is down here,’ Imani Oliver said as they passed the end of another crammed-in terraced street in Sparkhill.
Phil looked where she indicated. ‘Surprised,’ he said. ‘Not what I was expecting.’
Imani frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I thought he’d have some place in the city centre. A flat overlooking the canal, something like that. A bit more Grand Theft Auto.’
She smiled. ‘He’s a good family boy, is Nadish. Still lives with his mum.’
‘His dad was a copper, wasn’t he?’
‘Yeah. He’s dead now.’
‘Sperring said the job claimed him.’
Imani gave a snort. ‘Yeah, you could say that.’
‘What d’you mean?’
She immediately looked like she had said too much. ‘Oh, you know…’
‘No, I don’t. But I think I should.’
‘OK then,’ she said with a sigh. ‘It was all a bit before my time, but I know the story. Nadish’s dad was a good copper. At first. Then he went over to the dark side. Got caught.’
‘What happened?’
‘Short story? Attached a hosepipe to the back of his car, stuck it through the window. And that was that.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Yeah. And now Nadish is the family’s main breadwinner. Pushed himself to do his dad’s old job, looks after his mother.’
‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
Imani risked a glance at him. ‘No such thing as a stereotype,’ she said.
They drove on. The cramped houses began to develop space between them as they reached the more suburban environs of Acocks Green.
‘What about you, then?’ Phil asked. ‘What’s your story?’
‘What makes you think I’ve got one?’
‘Everyone’s got a story.’
‘Or a journey. Makes it sound like X Factor.’
They both laughed.
Imani shrugged. There was a coolness to her, a composure that Phil liked. She weighed words out before answering him. She was guarded, only letting him see what she wanted to. It might make her difficult to get to know, but it would make her a damned good copper.
‘What about your name?’ asked Phil. ‘Where’s that from?’
‘Imani? It means “faith” in Swahili.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Phil. ‘You’re… what? African, then?’
‘I’m from Druid’s Heath,’ she said, emphasising her Birmingham accent.
They laughed again.
‘My family’s from there. On my mum’s side. My dad’s family’s all Jamaican. I’m a hundred per cent Brummie.’ She shrugged. ‘Everyone’s got to come from somewhere.’
They lapsed into silence. Phil wished he had put some music on when they got in, or even the radio. But out of deference to his DC he had given her the choice. She had opted for nothing.
The roads widened once more. Greenery became more abundant. Phil sensed they were nearing their destination.
‘Ron Parsons,’ he said. ‘Tell me about him.’
‘What d’you want to know?’ she asked.
‘I know nothing about him. Everybody clams up when his name’s mentioned. Why? He’s a villain, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah, one of the old firm,’ she said. ‘Before my time. Bit of a legend, by all accounts. The usual stuff, prostitution, protection, clubs, the lot. If it was bent and there was money to be made, especially through violence, he was involved.’
‘And then prison?’
‘Well, it was a bit more than that. You see, the West Midlands force had a bad reputation at the time. Corruption. And Ron Parsons was right in the middle of it. He got caught and went down. But he made sure he went down with casualties.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Tried to take half the force with him. If he was going to do time, he wasn’t going to do it alone. Was going to name names.’
‘I don’t remember much of a fuss. Was there one?’
‘A bit. It was hushed up mainly. Most of them took early retirement or were moved where they couldn’t cause trouble. There was a lot of bad feeling. Coppers protecting their own and all that. Some wanted it all out in the open, the guilty named and tried. Everyone was tarnished.’ She sighed. ‘All ancient history now, though.’
‘Was Sperring involved?’
She shook her head. ‘No. But he’s often talked about it. Came in on the tail end.’ She looked at Phil, then quickly away, weighing her words again. ‘But you know who was involved.’
‘Let me guess. Khan’s old man.’
‘Exactly. He was caught. Given a choice. Turn evidence on Parsons and his lot, or go to jail for a long time.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Neither. Killed himself. Couldn’t live with the guilt.’
‘Jesus…’
‘Yeah. I know. Didn’t matter really. Not to the case. Parsons still went down.’
Phil rubbed his chin. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘And now he’s back. How does Khan feel about that?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said. ‘We’re not close.’
‘Right. But Parsons is working legit. Does that strike you as odd?’
‘A bit,’ she said. ‘From what I hear, he still thinks he’s got his empire. I mean, while he was away, there were others came and took his place. He created a vacuum. The Pakistani gangs
and the Yardies moved in and filled it. And Parsons can’t accept that.’
‘Like a king who doesn’t reign any more but still wants to be treated like one,’ said Phil.
‘King Lear,’ said Imani. ‘But without the madness and the daughters. Well, without the daughters. We’ll see about the madness.’
Phil gave her a sideways look. ‘You’re not like the rest of the team, are you?’
Again she weighed her response before giving it. ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘I was fast-tracked. Graduate programme. I think I’m good at what I do – not being immodest; I just wouldn’t be able to do it if I didn’t think that – but some people don’t agree.’
‘You mean Sperring.’
She nodded. ‘Just because I didn’t come up through the ranks. The hard way. I didn’t pay my dues, apparently. And he mistrusts me because of that. Told me so.’
‘It’s not because of that,’ said Phil. ‘It’s because you’re going to have his job one day.’
She pulled the car to a halt. Phil looked at her.
‘We’ve arrived,’ she said.
51
T
he house, like its owner, had seen better days.
It had been opulent once, but that was when Bucks Fizz were riding high in the charts. And it had last been decorated then too, Phil thought. He had heard of people discovering their self-defining memories and basing the rest of their lives round them. But he’d never heard of it happening to houses before. This one seemed to have reached its full potential thirty years previously and not developed subsequently. It was a large semi, with wrought-iron scrollwork round the windows and supporting an upstairs balcony. The windows looked like they needed replacing and the stuccoed front wall was mildewed. The drive was gravel, dotted with clumps of weeds. It looked like it had once been the best house in the street but while it was resting on its laurels every other house had come along and overtaken it.
Solihull was a pleasant suburb, thought Phil, if you liked that sort of thing. They had driven in past a wooded park and a golf course. Most of the houses were trim and conservatively but expensively maintained. Four-by-fours and prestige saloon cars sat on the driveways. A few Minis and Fiat 500s, presumably first cars for teenage offspring.