Bex Wynter Box Set 2

by Elleby Harper

  “They looked important, so I kept them for you,” she said. “Now I’ve delivered your mail I want you to go. I don’t want a crackhead around my kids.”

  Her door had slammed closed, but for Karen the letters opened new possibilities. Karen had a plan now. A plan that involved a lawyer who didn’t charge until the case was finalized. A plan that was going to change their lives forever.

  “Once I get this gig sorted, you’ll never have to worry about money again,” she had promised him, waggling the embossed legal papers in his face.

  Kristian hit Times Square and let himself drift along 47th Street towards the motel. The consumerist theme park’s blinking neon signs enticed him to spend money. But Kristian had already spent his cash. Karen was expecting him. She would be pacing, waiting for his return, waiting for the heaven promised by his score. She would be cursing his delay, afraid he had gotten lost in so vast a city. Not because she worried for his safety, only because she was edgy with need.

  Kristian slowed his steps, soaking in the sights, sounds and smells. As he weaved through the crowd, he glanced at the hotels. Not for Karen and him the fancy suites they offered, unless Karen’s plans came to fruition.

  The phone in his pocket vibrated. He didn’t need to look at it to know it was his mother, demanding to know where he was and why he was taking so long. Perhaps he should have let her go out to score on her own. Yet past experience had taught him she was too likely to take the hit there on the street and not make it back to the motel. If he didn’t get there soon she’d go hunting for drugs anyway.

  He quickened his pace.

  There was a price for his mother’s schemes, but they wouldn’t have to pay. That would come at someone else’s cost, but the other woman in the equation was a stranger to him, so it was easy to dismiss her.

  Even though she had never met her, Karen reviled her as a gold-digger.

  “Imagine marrying a man twenty-seven years older than herself!” she had sneered. “What else was she after except his money? Well, Zane Wynter was my husband first and I’m not going to give that up without a fight. Gus Dickerson says we stand a damn good chance of getting everything, Ty. This time our ship’s really come in.”

  Kristian smiled to himself. If their ship came in, Rebecca Wynter’s was about to sink.

  Chapter 2

  Shoreditch Court, London

  Monday 23 April

  Sitting inside his car, Cole Mackinley had a very bad feeling about what was about to go down. He had argued his point of view with his Investigations Manager, Lloyd Fausch, but, as the newest agent to the National Crime Agency Regional Investigation Unit, his voice had been insignificant.

  “I take it your problem with using Nutkin as a decoy is because you think we’re risking his life?” Fausch’s smile held plenty of humor but no warmth. “The man was given his options. No one’s forcing him to do this.”

  But offering the bribe of dropping all charges in exchange for full cooperation to a man with the IQ of a beansprout wasn’t much better than using force in Cole’s opinion.

  Felix Nutkin was a petty thief dealing drugs on the side who had managed to slide under the police radar until Fausch had intercepted Nutkin’s file from Barking CID. Small potatoes and of no interest to the NCA save for two interesting facts: he had no prior police record and his physical description was a rough match for the youth who had shot and paralyzed Detective Sergeant Lander Dresden twelve years ago.

  Fausch held a media conference on Friday, making a big song and dance about Nutkin’s DNA matching traces on record from the old crime scene as the clinching evidence of his guilt. He had been very specific that Nutkin would be charged with Lander’s shooting when he faced court on Monday morning.

  “The passage of time has no relevance when bringing criminals to face justice,” Fausch had ended portentously, looking directly at the camera.

  Fausch was banking on the BBC circulating the news worldwide and that the news would provoke the alleged mastermind of Britain’s worst serial killing spree in recent history, codenamed Bluebird by the NCA, to return to London for the sake of retribution. By Fausch’s calculations, three days was sufficient time for Bluebird to discover the news and make plans to return to London from wherever she was hiding.

  Cole wasn’t sure if it was his current rookie status as an investigator on Operation Bluebird, or his opposition to the unit’s tactics that had earned him a minimal role in today’s activities.

  His orders were to remain in his vehicle and keep a watch for anyone approaching Shoreditch Court either by foot or vehicle, and radio in any suspicious activity. His counterpart sat in another vehicle at the opposite end of the street and between them they had a solid view of the road leading to the back of the court. He could just discern the electronic gates barring access to the sally port where the prisoner, Nutkin, would be unloaded and shuffled into a waiting cell underneath the courtroom. Although he couldn’t see them he knew two CCTV cameras were also trained on the area.

  He glanced at his watch, listening to his earpiece.

  Elite Agent Whittaker, riding with the prisoner, confirmed that the last of the other prisoners had been dispersed and the van was on its way to Shoreditch. Pollock and Hawkins were in position, dressed as regular security guards and were waiting in the sally port for the van’s arrival.

  Three more NCA officers were staked out in various locations inside the courtroom just in case Bluebird breached the court’s security system to reach her target.

  The success or failure of today’s mission depended on whether or not Nutkin was enticing enough bait to lure Bluebird out of hiding.

  Nutkin had been guarded around the clock in an isolated prison cell since Fausch’s news announcement. The formality of his court listing was released only a few hours before his appearance, but anyone familiar with the legal system would have been able to make an educated guess and conclude which court he would appear in based on his charges. Fausch was gambling that Bluebird would use Nutkin’s court appearance as the best opportunity to take him down.

  Cole’s eyes continued to scan his surroundings. Across the street from the court ran the length of brick wall from the opposite building. No windows or doors opened onto the street to give Bluebird either access or the ability to hide.

  Surveillance sweeps had been conducted in the street during the early hours of the morning. A police sniffer dog patrol had walked the length of the street without finding any stashed incendiary devices. The underneath of every parked car had been checked with mirrors. Surveillance tapes from cameras covering the area had been scrutinized in the lead up to today’s court hearing.

  Cole had to concede that Fausch had implemented every precaution for Nutkin’s safety, without actually shutting down the street and barring visitors from the courtroom.

  Still, Cole couldn’t shake his uneasy feeling. He had experienced Bluebird’s deception first hand while she masterminded London’s worst spate of serial killings for years, without detection.

  His ears were attuned to the rumbling of the prison van’s engine as it entered the street. Through his rear vision mirror he watched its progress. Next, his scanning eyes noted the expensively suited men and women speeding along the sidewalk, many with papers and briefcases tucked under their arms. It was his job to determine if one of them could be a disguised Bluebird.

  A solitary car approached from the opposite direction, a white Toyota sedan. It double-parked close by the sally port. Cole tensed, his lips murmuring into his mic as he relayed the information. He readied himself in case Bluebird launched a brazen full-scale attack in front of them.

  At his warning, the driver halted the prison van, stalling its approach at the upper end of the street.

  A woman hopped out of the passenger door of the sedan. Cole did a rapid assessment. Stylized make up, early twenties, one arm sleeved in tattoos, shapely legs revealed by a short, cheap skirt and ending in ridiculously high heels. Not by any stretch of the imag
ination had Bluebird morphed into this hooker. But it was possible Bluebird had accomplices.

  The Toyota rolled forward heading towards the intersection, leaving the woman exposed on the street. Her eyes cut quickly to the stationary van, perhaps judging if it was safe to cross the road, before her long legs headed for the courthouse.

  Cole’s attention bounced away from the woman, flicking over the passing pedestrians as the prison van crawled forward. When it was level with the sally port, its turn signal flashed its intention to turn from the street into the driveway. Cole guessed Pollack and Hawkins were on high alert behind the electronic gate barring further entry. He heard the engine idling as it waited for the gates to open.

  The explosion caught them by surprise. It burst with such power it blew off the van’s doors, tossed bystanders through the air and flung shrapnel flying down the street to smash windshields and embed itself into metal and human bodies alike. The windows of Cole’s car shattered into a rain of glass. Panicked screams and wailing sirens swamped his ringing ears from every direction.

  It was difficult to hear the shrill, desperate voice in his earpiece demanding answers.

  “Checking the situation now!”

  Cole wrenched open his car door and sprinted across the road, avoiding chunks of battered and bloodied flesh and metallic debris.

  The young prostitute had been smashed against a parked car. Red splatters covered her cheap skirt while blood from a gash trickled into eyes stretched into a shocked blank stare. He tugged her to her feet, urging her backward.

  A roar of flames and heat from what remained of the body of the prison van forced him from coming any closer, but not before he recognized Nutkin’s tattooed fingers amongst the severed body parts strewn over the sidewalk.

  Bluebird had got her man.

  Chapter 3

  Bridesmead CID, London

  Monday, 23 April

  Ducking through the doorway of Dill’s Sandwich Bar in search of a caffeine fix before heading into her office, Detective Chief Inspector Bex Wynter almost fell through the opening when the door was yanked open. Tumbling forward she collided with a warm body.

  “Look where you’re going next time!” she snapped as she regained her footing, even though she was well aware she was the one at fault because her attention was still occupied with the early morning appointment she had just left.

  Detective Constable Reuben Richards’s eyes shot upwards from his phone at the sound of her voice and they both registered the other’s presence with a start.

  “Sorry, boss, I always seem to bump into you!” he said.

  Bex noted his hand lift reflexively to cover his cheek. It was Reuben’s first day back in the Youth Crimes Team after sustaining injuries from an exploding Molotov cocktail on his last serious investigation. Knowing that, she reined in her sarcastic retort, simply asking, “How’re you doing, Reuben?”

  Reuben forced a smile. “Can’t fault the National Health System,” he pushed the words out bravely. “They’ve done a bang up job of fixing me.”

  His hand hovered near the vicious pink scar on his cheek. She had to resist letting her own hand hover over her stomach. That would be a telltale sign she wasn’t ready to share with her work colleagues.

  “They certainly have,” she agreed, hating that her hearty tone sounded false.

  Reuben filled in the awkward silence. “I guess I’d better get my arse upstairs. Are the lads all in the office?”

  It was natural for him to think she had come from Bridesmead Criminal Investigation Department because normally she was the first one in the office every morning. Heat invaded her cheeks as she avoided a direct answer. “They’re bound to be by this time.”

  Reuben squinted as he absorbed her words. He made no move to leave.

  “I take it you’re here for a caffeine hit?”

  “Damn straight,” she responded, glad to change the subject. “Dill’s coffee isn’t Starbucks quality but it beats that instant swill available from the office kitchen. The dishwater from your mother’s sink tastes better than that.” Reuben’s mother was Bex’s landlady.

  “Mum’ll be pleased to hear that. Anyway, I’d best head next door to CID. I expect my in-tray will be bursting.”

  “Let me grab a coffee and I’ll walk out with you. I know the others will be glad to have you back, especially Idris. He’ll welcome someone else claiming the spotlight.” Her ulterior motive was the hope that Reuben’s arrival would deflect any curiosity about her own lateness to the office that morning.

  This time Reuben’s smile was genuine.

  “Glad to be of service to our local celebrity. If I hadn’t seen it on Popbitch and TMZ I’d never have believed it myself.”

  Reuben was referring to Idris being publically outed as the illegitimate son of a well-known British actor. That had been followed by a “compassionate yet compelling” indepth personal interview published in the Daily Mirror with photos of Idris and his famous father in a somewhat awkward hug. Bex remembered how Idris had grinned and weathered the assault on his dignity without trying to put a lid on the comments from work colleagues or pouring through social media channels. He had deflected the harshest with his dry humor.

  “Idris was a minor media sensation around the office for a few days. Espresso to go,” Bex put in her coffee order, splitting her attention away from Reuben.

  “Eli said Idris copped an earful of ribbing from the boys upstairs. Being the son of a Shakespearian icon doesn’t exactly carry the same kudos as discovering you’re Robbie Williams’ long lost brother!”

  She grabbed her take out cup and they headed for the door. Riding the elevator upstairs to the second floor where the Youth Crimes Team was housed, Bex could feel the tension radiating from Reuben. Squaring his narrow shoulders, his hand flicked back to his cheek again as they approached the main office.

  She paused outside the door. “I hope you’re proud of yourself, Reuben. Because of your heroism, lives were saved that day. Scars fade, but what you did had a lasting impact,” she reminded him.

  “Thanks, Bex. I know I’m being an eejit worrying about how I look. Mum’s told me repeatedly that women ‘love a rugged looking man’. I told her she’d been blinded by Eli, although he’s more sloppy than rugged.”

  He gulped down a deep breath before pushing the door open.

  There was an instant flurry of acknowledgements from the team as Reuben crossed the floor towards his desk.

  “Good to see your ugly mug again,” Idris greeted him with a clap on the back as he passed.

  “About time you returned to pull your weight around here,” Quinn said. “I’ve been loading your in-tray in anticipation of this day.”

  “That’ll be right. I’m guessing not much work got done while I’ve been away!” Reuben returned the banter.

  “Ah, lad, are you sure you didn’t intentionally get injured just so you can use those scars to dazzle the ladies and get a leg over on the sympathy card?” Eli lifted his mug in Reuben’s direction. “It’s common knowledge that women love men holding babies or sporting scars.”

  “Just stick to your tea, Eli, and hold off on the dating advice,” Reuben retorted.

  By not skirting his obvious injuries, their good-natured humor dissipated what could have been an awkward few minutes for Reuben, accepting him back into their ranks. Bex allowed herself a swell of pride at how well her team knew each other and had gelled during their first year together.

  “Quinn, please bring Reuben up to speed on our latest cases,” she said.

  Entering her office she was greeted with the mountain of paperwork flowing from her new superintendent. She was beginning to learn that Nigel Goderich was a man fond of team meetings and colorful charts in his powerpoint presentations. Until two weeks ago the general Criminal Investigation Department had been commanded by Cole Mackinley while Bex ran the Youth Crimes Team. Budget cuts had eliminated Cole’s role. Now Bex found herself juggling two separate sets of officers and ca
se loads plus the rivalry that flared between the two sections.

  She felt her lips grimace as the image of her superior bounced into her head. Receding chin that allowed for a slight overbite, notably obvious when he issued orders in what Quinn called “a smarmy Cambridge accent”. Somehow Nigel’s thin face managed to look both pinched and conceited at the same time. She had the distinct impression she was the reason for the pinched look whenever they were in the same room together. She had filled in the superintendent’s role on a temporary basis and no matter that she insisted she wasn’t after a promotion, Nigel seemed to think she was gunning for his position.

  In his first week on the job, he had ripped the high profile Loughborough family crime investigation from their fingertips and handed it to the NCA.

  “Pack up every file and scrap of information Bridesmead CID has on the Loughboroughs because I’m convinced this case belongs squarely with the NCA. A criminal family with tentacles in vice reaching a national level is obviously better suited to their workforce,” he had ordered her.

  Before leaving Bridesmead, Cole Mackinley had spent the better part of a year building a case against the crime figures. Every member of the CID and Youth Crimes Team was invested in the investigation’s outcome. Bex had protested Nigel’s decision with barely controlled anger.

  “Sir, don’t you think that decision lacks foresight? We’re almost ready to proceed to court. We have a solid chance to put the Loughboroughs away for a long time. A few more weeks and the case will be at trial!”

  She knew she shouldn’t make comparisons, especially with the black cloud hanging over Sophie Dresden’s descent from upholding the law to corrupting it. Yet her former superintendent would rather have sacrificed her well-coiffed hair than concede a high profile case that would have garnered them weeks of media attention.

  “All the more reason to offload it smartly,” Nigel had said. “It makes good economical sense for our manpower to be put to use on cases that we can crack on and deal with quickly. A new financial year calls for restraint at the start so we have the funds to finish strongly. I look forward to your cooperation in this matter.”