What You Pay For

by Claire Askew

  ‘I do have a confession to make,’ Charlie said.

  Birch snorted. ‘Honey,’ she said, ‘you have a whole load of confessions to make.’

  Her brother laughed then, properly. The sound bounced off the cell walls.

  ‘No,’ he said, still grinning, ‘I mean . . . okay, so, they said I got a phone call.’

  ‘To inform someone that you are in custody,’ Birch said, ‘yes. The custody sergeant mentioned that, when we came in. He said whoever you called, you didn’t speak English.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Charlie said. ‘I . . . may have called Toad, and let him know he might want to leave town.’

  Again, she saw Charlie register her alarmed expression.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Toad won’t tell Solomon. I promise you. I know you don’t believe me, but I promise. He’s smart. I mean . . . actually, he’s decidedly not smart, but that’s kind of part of it. He was never in Solomon’s thrall, not really. Not like the rest of us. He grew up in Russia. The guy’s seen some shit. I don’t think he was ever really all that frightened of Solomon. He’ll just disappear, I absolutely promise you. And . . . I owed him. If he hadn’t told me they were coming to your place last night, Fenton might have killed you before the polis arrived. We owe him one.’

  Birch spluttered. A tip-off for a tip-off. She could see the logic, but . . .

  ‘Charlie Birch, if you have blown this operation again . . .’

  Charlie sat up straight, smacking one palm down over his heart. ‘I swear. I absolutely swear. If I know Toad he’ll be on a flight already. He might even be in Russia already. He won’t have breathed a word to anyone. He’ll know how to disappear. And I know you won’t understand this, but he deserves a second chance. I figured that if I get one, so does he.’

  Birch was quiet for a moment, but then began to nod. She had no choice but to trust him.

  ‘You and your Russian,’ she said, at last. ‘To think, Mum was always so bloody proud of you for doing that degree.’

  Charlie shrugged. He was grinning again. ‘Mne zhal,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Birch replied, ‘you bloody will be.’

  Once again, she slung her uninjured arm around her brother’s shoulders. This time, he wrapped both of his own arms around her, and pulled her into a hug.

  On the other side of the door, McLeod knocked, and then the metal hatch clanged open.

  ‘That’s five minutes, Helen.’

  Birch looked back, and nodded at her boss. Then she unhooked herself from his grasp, and let her brother go.

  Anjan was sitting in her office. It was still before seven in the morning, yet he looked as well groomed and together as he ever did. His long, caramel-coloured coat was hung over the back of the chair: there were water droplets on it, and Birch realised it was raining outside. He didn’t turn when she walked in: he was sitting in the chair facing her desk, his briefcase laid across his knees.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, as she walked into his eyeline.

  Birch flushed a little. It was like she always forgot quite how handsome he was, and only remembered when he turned his dark brown eyes on her.

  ‘Thanks for coming.’

  She settled into her own chair, placing her tablet on the desk in front of her, and made herself look across at him.

  ‘Good grief,’ Anjan said.

  Birch remembered her bruised and swollen face, the arm strapped up across her chest.

  ‘Helen . . . what happened? Are you all right? No – what a stupid question, you’re obviously not all right. Have you—’

  Birch held up her good hand to stop him.

  ‘Anjan,’ she said, ‘I’m fine. I’m functioning. You’ll find out soon enough what happened, but right now I don’t really want to get into it. In fact, in just a minute I’m going to the hospital to be properly sorted out. But I wanted to do this first. To talk to you.’

  Anjan looked unsettled, unsatisfied with her answer. But she watched as he made himself calm back down, and return to the matter at hand.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s the development, with my client’s case?’

  Birch took a deep breath. ‘We are in receipt of new evidence,’ she said, ‘that we felt you ought to be aware of.’

  Anjan blinked, but said nothing. He was waiting for her to show her hand.

  ‘This morning,’ she went on, ‘I’ve been in touch with my colleagues over in Glasgow. We’re in the process of obtaining a warrant to search Solomon’s main residence, and a stretch of farmland about twelve miles away from his house.’

  Anjan started in his seat. ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘On the grounds of our new evidence,’ Birch said, ‘which suggests that there is the body of a woman buried’ – she passed her open tablet across the desk to him. On the screen was a Google map, with a pin at the place that Charlie had indicated – ‘there, in a shallow grave, under those trees. We believe that when we exhume her remains, we will find clothing with DNA evidence linking her death to Solomon Carradice.’

  Anjan looked down at the map for a moment. ‘Where is this new evidence coming from?’

  Birch set her teeth. He was going to try and argue with her. ‘Our informant,’ she said, ‘on Operation Citrine.’

  Anjan threw up one dismissive hand. ‘That informant’s evidence proved faulty at best over this past week,’ he said. ‘You were unable to charge my client based on that informant’s testimony.’

  Birch shook her head. ‘No. We were unable to charge Solomon because we didn’t have the informant’s full testimony.’

  Anjan cut in. ‘And suddenly the informant talks about a body? This seems highly—’

  ‘The reason,’ Birch went on, ‘we didn’t have that testimony was because the informant was in the wind.’

  It wasn’t Anjan’s style to interrupt, ordinarily. She’d got him worried.

  ‘But he’s now in our custody suite,’ she added. ‘And he’s talking.’

  Anjan’s expression didn’t change, but Birch saw him go pale. ‘Who is he?’

  She smiled. Good, this was working. ‘Obviously,’ she said, ‘I can’t divulge his identity at this stage. But I will tell you that he’s been witness to key meetings that Solomon has taken in recent times. We believe he can provide evidence to show your client’s involvement in criminal activity – both on these shores and overseas – dating back over fourteen years. And now he’s telling us about this woman’s body. If we find it, we expect to see injuries and find a cause of death consistent with his testimony. We believe we can prove that’ – Birch swallowed hard – ‘that she was murdered, on Solomon’s orders, just weeks ago.’

  Anjan said nothing. His hands were now sitting on top of the briefcase in his lap, and after a moment his gaze flicked away from Birch’s, and he looked down at those long, neat hands.

  ‘This informant—’

  Birch shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you any more about him,’ she said. ‘Except that I believe that he is a good person, in spite of his criminal actions. We believe his testimony is credible.’

  Anjan was still looking down. ‘And he’s willing to bring this testimony to court?’

  ‘He is,’ Birch replied. Her heart swelled: she could say that, and it was true. ‘Which means he is also looking for a decent lawyer.’

  She looked hard at Anjan, until he tipped his head back up and met her gaze. Then she held it, watching his eyes.

  ‘I’m going to have to back off this case,’ Birch went on, ‘in about five minutes, for reasons that will soon become clear to you. But right now as a friend . . .’ She paused. ‘Hell, as more than a friend, I hope . . . I’m asking you, Anjan. Do the right thing.’

  He was quiet again, but the pause this time was shorter.

  ‘I’ll wait to hear more,’ he said, ‘but if there is anything to this, I’ll make the call. To the firm. Let them know that I am no longer willing to represent Solomon Carradice.’

  Birch smiled, wider than she had in over a week.
‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘As for your informant,’ he added, ‘we shall see.’

  Birch stood, and Anjan copied her. He reached behind him, and shook out the length of the camel-hair coat.

  ‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that once this wretched business is straightened out, we can . . .’ He trailed off.

  Wow, she thought, have I just seen Anjan Chaudhry look bashful?

  Birch was still smiling. ‘It’s going to be complicated,’ she said. ‘But yes, I hope so too.’

  DI Crosbie wasn’t a morning person, Charlie could tell. DI Robson didn’t look all that chipper either, but Charlie had learned he always looked like that. Weather-beaten. Perhaps a little partial to the drink.

  They’d brought in coffee; that had surprised him. Biscuits, too. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected – water and gruel? He was just happy to be out of that cell, albeit in another too-bright room with plain walls. But coffee. And biscuits. And a seat with padding on it. Just don’t think about the cell – that one, or any one in the future. It hasn’t happened yet. Okay, it’s happened, but . . . just don’t think about it, Charlie.

  DI Crosbie chucked a Dictaphone onto the table. Charlie marvelled at how small it was. Again, he’d expected something different. Cop dramas always showed those big, clunky reel-to-reel tape recorder things. Mind you, it’d been years since he’d watched one. Perhaps Morse was all high-tech now. If it was even on TV any more . . .

  Focus, Schenok. Crosbie was saying the date, the time, his name, DI Robson’s name.

  ‘State your full name and date of birth for the record, please.’

  ‘Charles Arthur Birch, 20 January 1982.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Crosbie said. He didn’t sound the least bit grateful. He threw a look at DI Robson that said, Right, I’ve done my bit, it’s your go.

  DI Robson folded his arms and put them on the table, then leaned forward. The table creaked.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said. ‘Ye prefer tae be Charlie, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I mean – I’m only ever Charles when I’m in trouble. But I guess I’m in some trouble now, so . . .’

  Crosbie rolled his eyes, but DI Robson laughed. A pity laugh, maybe, but he laughed.

  ‘We’ll see, son,’ he said.

  Charlie took a sip of the coffee. It wasn’t great, but it would do. He was fucking knackered. His hands hurt, from where he’d punched Jones. His eyes stung from crying. He very much hoped that Nella was in the hospital now – she’d promised him she’d go, right after she’d talked to the lawyer. She looked like shit, though he’d tried not to say that. She needed fixing up.

  ‘This might be a long auld slog, Charlie,’ Robson was saying. ‘Are ye ready fer that?’

  ‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

  Robson nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ve a lot to get through, son, so . . . I tell ye what. Why don’t ye tell us what ye remember. Everything, right from the start.’

  Charlie raised an eyebrow. ‘The very start?’

  Robson unfolded his arms and sat back in the chair, getting comfy. ‘Aye, sure,’ he said. ‘Why not? Tell us what ye remember, Charlie.’

  Charlie Birch knocked back his coffee, and pushed the cup to one side. What did he remember? First, before anything else? Ah yes. That.

  He opened his mouth, and began to speak.

  Acknowledgements

  I have been lucky enough to work with a team of absolute powerhouse women over the past year, and I am incredibly grateful for all their help and support. Cathryn Summerhayes is the best agent a girl could ask for, and Ruth Tross is the best editor. Thank you to Louise Swannell for helping me to reach readers in so many places, and thank you to Hannah Bond, Myrto Kalavrezou, Irene Magrelli, Lydia Seleska and Morag Lyall for supporting all of this and more.

  Thank you to Lewis Csizmazia for the truly stunning hardback cover design: Edinburgh looks gorgeous in it.

  I’m forever grateful to Scottish Book Trust for all the opportunities and encouragement they provide, and to my colleagues at the University of Edinburgh and Edinburgh International Book Festival for their support. The first third of this book was written during a residency at the Curfew Tower in Cushendall, Northern Ireland: thank you to Neu! Reekie! for making it happen, and special thanks to Zippy Kearney, keeper of the Tower keys.

  Huge thanks to Bella Hramova for assistance with the Russian words and idioms. Thank you to all those folks on Twitter who’ve answered my weird and wonderful research queries over the past year, and especially to Jenni Fagan for the word ‘rooked’! Any errors are, of course, mine.

  To all the friends I’ve stood up or flaked out on over the past year: thank you for your endless patience and encouragement. Alice Tarbuck, Stella Birrell, Leon Crosby, Sasha de Buyl, Jane Bradley, Kerry Ryan, Natalie Fergie, Colin McGuire, Dean Rhetoric. I love you all. Special mentions for Julie Danskin, who is not only a great friend but the greatest bookseller in the known world; and to Debz Butler, the strongest woman I know.

  Love and gratitude to Team Askew, who always have my back no matter how harebrained my schemes. And to Dom – maker of tea, deliverer of pep talks – I love you. Thank you.

  One shocking crime: three women need answers

  'As scarily plausible as it is utterly captivating, this is an absorbing and unforgettable debut.' Heat

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  Table of Contents

  Also by Claire Askew

  Title Page

  Imprint Page

  Dedication

  Contents

  Monday

  Helen Birch watched ...

  More than anything ...

  ‘DI Birch.’

  First book I ever ...

  Sir, all I’m asking ...

  Of course ...

  Tuesday

  Birch was in ...

  He gave me ...

  Birch was later ...

  I’m not saying ...

  Rab had steered ...

  It took them ...

  Birch spent ...

  Wednesday

  Birch sat up ...

  I found out ...

  Birch felt like ...

  They put me ...

  Birch yawned ...

  From that first ...

  They’d reconvened ...

  When I look ...

  Okay ...

  My da drank ...

  Her brother was ...

  Nobody batted ...

  Anjan was standing ...

  I’ll never forget ...

  Birch had retreated ...

  Years, I worked ...

  Thursday

  Birch woke coughing ...

  I drove about ...

  In the car park ...

  It seemed ...

  ‘But . . .’

  It was a while ...

  By the time ...

  I called Toad ...

  Birch made it ...

  Time passed ...

  Friday

  After Rab ...

  It was last ...

  The entire station ...

  There were ...

  Saturday

  Birch woke ...

  Malkie and Fitz ...

  The box of ...

  When I opened ...

  Birch had heard ...

  I walked down ...

  Sunday

  Birch had not ...

  DI Crosbie wasn’t ...

  Acknowledgements

  Endmatter page 1