Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2

by Isabelle Grey

  She gave him a straight look. ‘I think it’s the truth.’

  He gave a cynical laugh. ‘It may very well be, but that doesn’t make it a good idea to go shouting “Fire!” in a crowded theatre, does it?’

  ‘There’s enough circumstantial evidence to suggest that Curtis Mullins conspired with Mark Kirkby to pervert the course of justice. Off the record, Curtis pretty well admitted as much to me. It may be strategic to refer the circumstances of Fewell’s drink-drive arrest to Professional Standards.’

  ‘Fewell never made a complaint,’ said Colin sharply.

  ‘No,’ said Grace as calmly as she could manage. ‘But he did shoot dead five people. The coroner is going to pay attention to the balance of his mind at the time.’

  Colin glanced over Grace’s shoulder out into the office beyond the closed door and then leaned forwards across his desk. For a fleeting moment Grace felt afraid of his coiled tension, as if she were facing an animal about to leap.

  ‘What is this, Grace?’ he asked quietly. ‘Not payback, I hope?’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘Because you know how sorry I am for what happened in the past. I accepted my reprimand, and I really thought we’d let it go and were moving forwards. It’s why I wanted to keep you on my team, made you back up to DI.’

  Grace knew it had not been Colin but her old boss Keith Stalgood who had insisted on her promotion. Besides, Colin hadn’t been left with much choice: it wouldn’t have looked good if he’d tried to get rid of her. She forced a smile. ‘It’s not payback, Colin, I promise. And I understood that I couldn’t go flinging accusations around when Mark Kirkby’s coffin was draped in the Essex force insignia. But it doesn’t mean it’s all gone away. I thought you should know.’

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I’d ever place public relations considerations before an operational lead?’

  He spoke lightly enough, but something in his eyes told her to tread carefully: Colin Pitman wouldn’t be above twisting everything so he could put in a complaint against her. ‘No. I just wanted to keep you informed.’

  ‘Good. Thank you.’ He sat back, thinking everything over. ‘It’s not the coroner’s remit to establish why a death takes place.’

  ‘Unless a coroner deems there are issues of public interest,’ Grace reminded him as blandly as she could.

  Colin shook his head. ‘Even if Mark Kirkby was corrupt, one rogue officer who is now dead doesn’t warrant that amount of attention.’

  Grace said nothing – they’d been here before, and it was a waste of breath – but this time she made no attempt to hide her contempt.

  Colin took no notice of her scornful expression. ‘Any headway on inquiries into the origins of the rifle and ammunition?’ he asked.

  ‘Ongoing, firming up, but as yet nothing actionable.’

  Watching Colin frown and purse his lips in apparent frustration, Grace decided not to name Leonard Ingold after all. The mood he was in, he might tell her to drop it, in which case she wouldn’t officially be able to involve Duncan or any other members of the team. Best to stay under the radar for the time being.

  ‘We’ve checked for a match on the ballistics, obviously,’ she continued. ‘But I also looked to see whether there had been any other homicides in the past two years involving a rifle and hollow-point bullets, even if a weapon was never recovered and no casings found.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There were none until four months ago, when there were two in a six-week period.’

  ‘On our patch?’ asked Colin.

  ‘No. The first victim was a forty-two-year-old man in Ely, an illegal immigrant from Albania thought to be operating as an unlicensed gangmaster and possible people-trafficker, the other a convicted paedophile shot near his house in Grantham.’

  ‘Anything apart from the type of weapon to suggest they’re linked?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then what are you saying?’

  ‘I don’t really know. I’m gathering intelligence. Too soon to draw conclusions.’

  Colin sighed heavily. ‘Look, Grace,’ he said, ‘if you believe Davey Fewell, then fine, so do I. You know I’ve always trusted your instincts. But you have to admit this is verging on some kind of fixation.’ He held up a hand for silence, although she’d had no intention of protesting. ‘And these are very sensitive issues,’ he went on. ‘Very sensitive. I don’t want it to look like we’re somehow trying to exonerate Fewell, not unless we’ve got rock-solid evidence, which we haven’t. And most definitely not at the cost of alienating the majority of decent coppers on the Essex force by firing an unsubstantiated barrage of accusations against a respected officer. Not when the chief constable is looking to implement further cuts right across the board. You bring me proper evidence, and I’ll throw the book at whoever deserves it. But until then you must have plenty else to get on with.’

  Grace wondered what Colin would say if she told him about the hoodie who attacked her yesterday morning. Or that Mark Kirkby’s father had taken it upon himself to look after Donna and her children. But it would be pointless. No, worse than pointless: she didn’t want to hand him anything he might use against her later.

  ‘I understand,’ she said.

  ‘So you’ll prep your evidence for the inquest with Hilary?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’ve already fixed a time to meet.’

  ‘Good.’ He got to his feet. ‘I hear Lance Cooper came back early,’ he said casually. ‘Portugal not suit him or what?’

  ‘Not really, no.’ Grace remained in her seat, more or less forcing Colin to sit down again. ‘Peter Burnley’s murder has really knocked him hard,’ she said. ‘I think we should put him fully in the picture.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ said Colin curtly. ‘I’m as sorry as you are, Grace, and I have every sympathy for his distress, but you’re just going to have to put your foot on the ball on this one.’

  ‘I think it’s too late for that,’ she said. ‘He’s suspicious. And he’s a good detective. Surely it’s better to tell him the truth than have him uncovering Peter Burnley’s secrets for himself?’ Whatever they are, she added silently.

  Colin shook his head firmly, once again rising to his feet. ‘I’ve received assurances that there’s no connection between what Peter Burnley was working on and his death.’

  ‘And you believe those assurances?’ she asked.

  ‘I have no alternative.’

  ‘I’m scared Lance will crack up completely, trying to fill in the blanks.’

  ‘I can’t help. I’m no wiser than you are. They’ve given me no idea of what Peter Burnley was up to.’

  ‘And if it all starts to unravel,’ she said, ‘have they given assurances that it won’t be us who are hung out to dry?’

  Colin spread his hands and gave a wry smile. ‘No need for you to worry. It’ll be my head on the block, no one else’s.’

  It went against all Grace’s training and experience not to tell him about the photograph of Peter with Adam Kirkby in Vale do Lobo, but she knew that, whatever her boss might say, his job was no longer about prioritizing operational leads, and he would simply coddle her into downgrading and dismissing its significance, as he’d just done over Davey Fewell. She stood up and was heading for the door when he called after her.

  ‘Listen, if Lance needs more time on compassionate leave, let me know. It’s not a problem.’

  ‘OK. But the simplest thing really would be to tell him what little you do know,’ she pleaded. ‘If it was done formally, then I honestly think he could handle it. He’s party to the Official Secrets Act, after all. There’s nothing he can do with the information if he’s told officially.’

  ‘Sorry, no. And that’s an order.’

  Grace returned to her own desk with the uncomfortable realization that she too was signed up to the Official Secrets Act.

  35

  There was always something cheering about the sight of a palm tree, even in an airport car park,
especially when it meant that Ivo had escaped a grisly English January, and even more so when he was on expenses. It wasn’t hot hot in Faro, but it was balmy enough to be pleased he’d dug out the baggy linen jacket that always made him feel like one of those veteran foreign correspondents. No doubt about it, he had a spring in his step today and was looking forward to a bit of old-fashioned legwork tracking down the story behind the murder of an unidentified spook in a Colchester alley.

  Not that he gave much of a toss about the spook, to be honest, except perhaps that his death had upset DI Fisher; no, it was the involvement of Adam Kirkby that had really got his juices flowing and stoked up a bit of healthy outrage. Old Pa Kirkby might be a generous tipper who liked to look after his own, but Ivo had made up his mind to take a serious dislike to all the Kirkby family and was ready to embark on a mission of righteous smiting of the kind that only a great British bulldog tabloid was truly capable.

  The last time he’d been in Portugal the story had been the disappearance of Madeleine McCann, which had turned into such a media juggernaut that, frankly, the fate of the poor kid often got totally overlooked. After his third trip Ivo had got fed up and headed home, leaving it to some of the junior reporters to kick their heels in the blazing summer heat of Praia da Luz. Nonetheless he still had one or two names in his address book from those days and had arranged for the best of the local fixers to meet his flight. Ever reliable, Gavin Whittaker had been waiting with Ivo’s name on a card and was now escorting him to where he’d left his car.

  Ivo had been a little apprehensive about seeing Gavin again: the start of the Maddie saga had coincided with Ivo’s final years of drinking, when, estranged from his daughter and already well on the way to pissing away his second marriage, Ivo had not always behaved like a true gentleman. But as he and Gavin began the twenty-minute drive to Vale do Lobo, it seemed that, whatever tall tales Gavin might remember from those times, he intended to be discreet enough to spare Ivo’s blushes.

  Not that Ivo was about to pay him for his discretion. Gavin had been a small-time crook who’d married a Spanish girl and settled on the already fading Costa del Crime twenty-odd years ago. He’d become fluent in both Spanish and Portuguese, and hustled a living for himself finding locations for advertising shoots, acting as a stringer for a couple of news outlets, including the Courier, repping a couple of holiday rental complexes and acting as logistics manager for some of the drug dealers who plied their trade out of La Línea.

  Gavin had immediately shuttled west to Praia da Luz when the McCann story broke, proving himself an invaluable go-between for the UK reporters and the Portuguese journalists who had the lie of the land but didn’t want to be seen inquiring too deeply into the flaky police investigation for fear of upsetting the delicate balance of local politics. After all, once the great media circus finally left town, the local boys would have to pick up where they’d left off.

  Not that it yet had, thank goodness, for it was not Lord Lucan but the perennial interest in the McCann story that had enabled Ivo to sell his editor on a brazenly invented rumour about child-trafficking among the golf-and-bridge community on the Algarve. He’d been tempted to trace it all the way home to some uptight enclave of leafy suburbia, but had decided reluctantly that that might be over-egging the pudding. Or maybe not. Anyway, he might yet require it as a teaser should he find he needed to stay longer than planned. And meanwhile it had got him his trip signed off, which is all he cared about.

  Approaching the outskirts of the resort, Gavin suggested lunch at a little ‘shack’ he knew on the beach. He was already being paid handsomely, but Ivo understood that the meal was an expected perk and did not baulk at the Mayfair prices. At least, out of season, it wasn’t heaving with tourists.

  ‘So I guess you want a rundown of the local faces,’ said Gavin once they’d settled at a table covered with an ocean of white linen that overlooked a row of beach umbrellas and brochure-blue water. ‘Where do you want to start? Drugs, fake documents, people-trafficking, porn, money-laundering, dodgy property deals, arms?’

  ‘I’ll follow the money,’ said Ivo.

  ‘Always a sensible choice,’ agreed Gavin.

  ‘The guy I’m interested in was a financial adviser.’ Ivo wasn’t prepared to put all his cards on the table by telling Gavin that ‘Peter Burnley’ was a cover, but he had enough respect for the fixer’s talents not to attempt to conceal anything that was already in the public domain, such as his death. ‘This is him,’ he added, digging out a colour printout of the magazine photo Grace had shown him. ‘Know any of the people he was with?’

  ‘Only that one.’ Gavin stabbed a bronzed finger at the man in a white polo shirt standing beside Peter. ‘That’s Jerry Coghlan. Everyone round here knows him. The others, I’ve no idea.’

  As Ivo pulled out his trusty shorthand notebook a waiter appeared and Gavin took his time discussing the merits of the different seafood on offer. Ivo’s own taste buds were wrecked by years of drinking; he quickly ordered a burger and got back to the job in hand. ‘Tell me about Coghlan.’

  ‘Really? You never met him?’ Gavin sounded genuinely surprised.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘He was Flying Squad back in the day. Took early retirement. Very early. Several trials collapsed because of missing paperwork, and the word was that his future missus worked as a secretary next door to the CPS shredding room.’

  ‘Yeah, that rings a bell,’ said Ivo. He looked again at the photo, dimly recognizing an older version of a young detective sergeant marked out by his cleverness and ambition. ‘That must’ve been around the time of Operation Countryman.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Gavin. ‘His wife’s dead now, cancer, but let’s just say that the newlyweds got a pretty warm welcome when they honeymooned in Marbella.’

  ‘But he settled here in Portugal, not Spain?’

  Gavin nodded. ‘He’s an extremely good golfer, as it happens. Plays off scratch. Made the right connections to get in on the ground floor when the development expanded in the early eighties.’

  ‘So now he’s legit?’

  Gavin was distracted by the arrival of his monkfish and prawn kebab. Ivo ate a couple of the chips from beside his burger and waited for his companion to swallow his first mouthful and murmur in approval before asking the question again.

  ‘He plays golf with bankers,’ Gavin answered. ‘Don’t know how legit that is in your book.’

  Ivo laughed. ‘Which might explain why a financial adviser from the UK would be keen to play a round with him.’

  ‘Depends,’ said Gavin. ‘You heard about the Espírito Santo scandal?’

  ‘Sounds like a search for the Holy Grail.’

  Gavin sucked on a prawn and shook his head. ‘Massive dynastic Lisbon bank whose investment arm went bust. Among the casualties was a big development project in the Alentejo region. Not much there except rice fields, cork trees and twelve kilometres of unspoilt beaches only an hour from Lisbon. The building is all very low impact and architecturally sensitive, but maybe not so many questions asked about where the cash was coming from.’

  ‘So do a lot of bankers play golf?’

  ‘They do. When they’re not hobnobbing with minor European royalty or Spanish politicians taking time off from talking to their lawyers about their corruption trials.’

  Ivo bit into his burger to give himself time to think. He didn’t reckon the British security and intelligence services would care enough about some fairly bog-standard money-laundering, however well connected, to send Peter Burnley out to Portugal for that alone. Nor would it explain what he’d been up to in Colchester. So maybe his association with Jerry Coghlan was to gain access to his true target? Which was . . .?

  Not for the first time Ivo wished that his former assistant, the Young Ferret, had not jumped ship and, as the lad had so discreetly put it, gone ‘in-house’. The nimble little poacher had declared that he couldn’t see a way to keep his head above the choppy waters of Operation Elved
en, the Met Police’s investigation into corrupt payments made by journalists to public officials, so had turned gamekeeper and joined MI5. Ivo couldn’t blame him, although, taking the long view, he didn’t share the Young Ferret’s belief that talents such as his would never again be appreciated at the Courier or her sister titles. Cleaning out the stables of the British press was far too Augean a task to reach into every nook and cranny, especially when it was not in the interests of anyone who mattered to do so.

  Before he’d left London, Ivo had attempted to squeeze some kind of smoke signal about Peter Burnley out of the Young Ferret, who now graced the not-so-secret corridors of power on Millbank. But while his erstwhile protégé assured him he’d readily perform a favour for old times’ sake, he insisted he knew nothing at all about a Peter Burnley, not even that he’d been murdered. Which meant one of three things: that Peter Burnley wasn’t MI5, that whatever he’d had been up to was strictly need-to-know or that it was serious enough for the Young Ferret to lie to his face. Ivo could, he supposed, go back and run Jerry Coghlan’s name past him as well to see if any sparks flew, but doubted that Young Ferret would know anything about Coghlan that Gavin couldn’t tell him. Come to think of it, if the security services had any sense, Gavin would be on the payroll. In which case, Ivo’s own visit would already have been flagged up.

  Ivo pulled the photo printout back across the tablecloth, glad now that he hadn’t shared Adam Kirkby’s name with Gavin. ‘And you’re sure you don’t recognize either of the other two in the photo with Coghlan?’

  Gavin shook his head. ‘Sorry, no. But if you want me to stay on, I can ask around?’ he asked hopefully.

  Deciding that Gavin’s generous day rate could be better spent elsewhere, Ivo declined the offer. ‘Anything else you can tell me about Coghlan?’

  ‘He knows where a lot of the treasure is buried, but I don’t think he has any ambitions to be Mr Big. I’d say he’s winding down into a more-than-comfortable retirement.’