The evening news would carry the story that Adam Kirkby had been caught bang to rights with a Heckler & Koch G3 rifle in his attic – photographs and video footage helpfully provided on the Essex force’s media portal – plus ammunition linked forensically to the Gordon Church killing. But frankly Ivo didn’t reckon that Kirkby Junior really lived up to the hype. The arrest photos of the vigilante sniper showed an unremarkable, nondescript bloke who you wouldn’t look at twice. Except when he aimed a pathetic kick at a news cameraman who came too close. It if hadn’t been for the officers in bulletproof vests and snazzy black baseball caps holding his arms, he’d probably have fallen flat on his face. Poor chap must have lived permanently in the shadow of his handsome older brother and domineering father. Ivo looked forward to the pleasure he would derive from doorstepping John Kirkby for a quote about the joys of fatherhood.
He had already called Donna Fewell to let her know that Adam had been charged and that Davey’s testimony about Mark would never be required. Ivo had also finessed it with the head office of the building society Donna had worked for in Dunholt for them to offer her a job under her maiden name in a pleasant but distant market town, and then organized the family’s immediate relocation, making sure, thanks to a clever bit of accounting, that the Courier stumped up their first three months’ rent along with any additional costs. Yesterday he’d taken them to the station, where, managing not to blub, he had insisted on shaking Davey’s hand. The boy had looked a little bemused, but Ivo didn’t care. Hoping that the kid now had a fighting chance, Ivo had felt the cares of the world slipping off his shoulders.
He looked at his watch. All this self-congratulation, both on-and offstage, was pleasant enough, but he was eager to get on with the mysterious meeting that Hilary had requested once the conference was over. He assumed it was the Ice Maiden’s doing, and he would just have to take his lead from her.
Twenty minutes later, as all the other cowboys saddled up for the ride home, the communications director gave him the glad eye, and he followed her through a door with a security keypad, along corridors and upstairs to a suite of offices that had secured a far bigger furnishing budget that the squad rooms he’d glimpsed on their way. He was overjoyed to see Grace Fisher already there, standing beside a window. It was dark outside, and as Hilary went to close the vertical blinds, he shook Grace’s hand warmly, amused when she smiled and raised a warning forefinger to her lips. Clean cups, a coffee Thermos and a neat plate of biscuits sat waiting on a low table between two executive sofas.
Hilary invited them to sit, but remained standing. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she told him. ‘DI Fisher asked me to set up this meeting. She thinks you may have information pertinent to an investigation and wants this to be both informal and officially logged.’
‘I’m glad to be of help,’ said Ivo, ‘although I’m sure you realize that I’m not at liberty to reveal any of my sources.’
‘Of course.’ Hilary smiled. ‘Coffee?’
‘Thanks.’ He turned to Grace. ‘So how can I help?’
‘Oh dear,’ said Hilary. ‘They’ve forgotten to give us any milk. I’ll go and see if I can find some. Won’t be long.’
She closed the door quietly behind her.
‘Sorry about the amateur dramatics,’ said Grace. ‘But I might have to go on record with some of what you’ve given me in the past, and I couldn’t think of any other way to make it official.’
‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘And I take my coffee black, thanks.’
‘Good. How’s Donna Fewell?’
‘All settled,’ he said. ‘Snug as a bug. I don’t know how Davey and Ella will ever really manage to come to terms with what their dad did, but at least they all now know the full story.’
‘Thank you – for Davey and for me.’
Ivo cleared his throat and helped himself to a biscuit. ‘So why am I here?’ he asked through a mouthful of crumbs.
‘It’s for my colleague, Lance Cooper.’
Ivo wasn’t expecting that, but he was happy to sit back and listen to anything she wanted to say.
‘Do you remember I told you that Peter Burnley hadn’t even told his boyfriend that he was in Vale do Lobo when the photo of him with Coghlan and Adam Kirkby was taken?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Well, Peter Burnley’s boyfriend was Lance Cooper.’
‘Right.’
‘And Lance won’t rest until we find out who killed him,’ said Grace. ‘I mean, really won’t let it go. I had it all figured out that it was Adam Kirkby, and that we’d finally get the case wrapped up and Lance could move on.’
‘But . . .’
Grace sighed heavily. ‘But Adam Kirkby was at work that night, in a prison, logged in and logged out. You don’t get a more cast-iron alibi.’
‘So what made you put Adam in the frame in the first place?’
‘Because of Vale do Lobo. You said Coghlan asked you about Buckingham Gate. Well, if he suspected that Peter was there to investigate their connections to Leonard Ingold, then Coghlan probably told Adam. A month or two later Adam and Mark saw Peter having a drink with Lance in Colchester. They’d have had no idea that Lance and Peter were a couple, so maybe they jumped to the wrong conclusion – all they saw was the guy who’d been asking questions in Vale do Lobo talking to a DS from the Major Investigation Team. Neither of them would want to be caught in possession of illegal weapons. Not long afterwards Peter was dead.’
Ivo didn’t get it. ‘But so was Mark,’ he said. ‘And you’re saying it can’t have been Adam. Who’s left?’
‘If it’s about Ingold, then there’s nothing,’ she said. ‘That’s the trouble. I’ve been over and over the case, but Lance simply won’t accept that there’s no big secret that we’re all keeping from him. And I can’t blame him. But it’s like he’s gnawing his own arm off over this.’
‘How do I fit in?’
‘Only that I know you’ve been digging into Coghlan. I thought, if I can put everything I know in front of Superintendent Pitman and demonstrate to Lance that there’s no cover-up, no hidden agenda, then maybe he’ll finally be prepared to let it go.’
Ivo shook his head. ‘There’s nothing new to tell you about Coghlan.’ He couldn’t bear the disappointment in her solemn grey eyes. ‘I did, however, turn up a juicy bit of gossip that, at a stretch, might explain what Peter was up to, though I’m not sure I see it leading to murder.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘I’ve got a mate in MI5. Let’s call him the Young Ferret. Used to be my junior on the crime desk. He’s never heard of your so-called Peter Burnley, but when his fur was stroked the right way he did relate some rather entertaining in-house rumours to the effect that after Plebgate and the forced resignation of a cabinet minister, the home secretary let the secret squirrels loose on the Police Federation with orders to dig up some useful dirt.’
‘You’re saying the home secretary was spying on the Police Federation?’
‘Told you it was entertaining. Know what a number two account is?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘Bear with me,’ he said. ‘So, each of the local Federation branches negotiates a whole range of offers for its members, everything from broadband deals to bridal gowns. They’re billed as rewards for the brave and difficult things the police do on our behalf. Anyway, a lot of these member services attract administration fees, which are paid into so-called number two accounts, the point being that half the time head office can’t be arsed to keep tabs on them, regarding them rather as petty cash for the local branches to dip into.’
Grace frowned, and Ivo paused to find out what was bothering her. She took a deep breath and gave him a straight look. ‘You know John Kirkby was a local branch chair?’
Ivo whistled. ‘No. I knew he’d been a copper, but that’s all.’
She nodded, evidently still running through everything that was in her mind, checking what other connections might jump out at her. Suddenly she opene
d her eyes wide and stared at him. ‘Oakmoor Wealth Management does a lot of business with Federation members,’ she said. ‘Peter had been taken for dinner by people from the Colchester office the night he died.’
‘Yeah, but they’d have no reason to worry,’ said Ivo. ‘It’s what happens to the fees once they’ve been paid to the Federation that counts.’
‘But what if Peter was following the money trail? What if John Kirkby was in charge of the number two account and asked Jerry Coghlan, his old pal from his first nick, for a good investment rate via his Panamanian banking connections?’
‘Are you suggesting that Kirkby was skimming his own members?’
‘No.’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘That would be theft. Kirkby’s far too self-righteous for that. But he might have played his cards close to his chest in terms of the bookkeeping he presented to his branch. As long as he turned a healthy profit, he was probably given a free hand to get on with it.’
‘I didn’t like the man,’ said Ivo. ‘But all the same, I don’t see him as the type to beat someone to death.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Grace. ‘When Peter was killed, it was only a fortnight after Mark’s death, remember. Kirkby’s a zealot. Imagines he’s patron saint of all the boys in blue.’
‘A grief-stricken zealot,’ said Ivo. ‘One who’d kill to protect the best interests of his members?’
‘I think he might, yes. Especially after the horrors of that Christmas Day in Dunholt. His own son gunned down in cold blood. And now Peter Burnley was out to take away everything he’d worked for. I’ve talked to him. In his own eyes, John Kirkby is the law. If he thinks it’s right, then it is right.’
‘Certainly what he taught his sons,’ Ivo agreed. ‘And lovely creatures they turned out to be.’
‘No wonder we kept hitting dead ends in the investigation,’ she exclaimed. ‘I always felt like the killer got lucky, but John Kirkby had a lifetime’s experience as a police officer to guide him past the obvious mistakes. He could’ve been stalking Peter for days before the right opportunity presented itself.’
‘He was a bitter man,’ Ivo reflected, thinking back to his own conversation in the Weymouth curry house. ‘He thought the police weren’t properly respected any more, resented all the budget cuts. If he found out the government had sent someone to spy on him, well . . .’
‘This is awful,’ she said. ‘Peter was such a lovely man. I couldn’t bear it if he died just because of some tawdry political point-scoring.’
‘You can be sure no one on either side is going to thank you for bringing it to light. I mean, how much of this are you prepared to share even with Hilary?’
Grace wasn’t listening. ‘How do I tell Lance?’ she cried. ‘If this is really true, it’ll destroy him!’
Her distress made Ivo squirm at the invidiousness of his profession. For the truth was that he lived for just this kind of scandal, for the stories that proved him right about his fundamental view of the world. It was the glee he took in exposing the pettiness of the so-called great and good, in bringing shame and disgrace on hypocrites and liars that got him out of bed in the morning. He’d like nothing better than to run with the Young Ferret’s gossip about the Police Federation. He couldn’t even honestly say that he cared much about poor dead Peter Burnley; Lance Cooper’s boyfriend was merely part of a good story in which the home secretary waged a clandestine war against the Police Federation and John Kirkby thought he was above the law. But the Ice Maiden cared, and her distress made him remember just how deeply this stuff could hurt. The image of Ivo’s father and housemaster shaking hands over his mother’s death had distorted everything that came afterwards, just as this would surely do for Grace and her friend. And he couldn’t do that to her.
62
Colin sat tilted back in his executive chair, elbows bent and fingertips touching, as he listened impassively, his expression unreadable. At least he had heard her out, thought Grace. He hadn’t called a halt to her insane ramblings about the political misuse of state resources. Nor had he yet tried to defend John Kirkby. She finished laying out her theory of Peter Burnley’s murder and waited.
‘As you know,’ he said after several long moments, ‘the security and intelligence services stick rigorously to their policy to never confirm or deny. You’re not going to get anything out of them.’
‘Even in a murder case?’
‘The only time the principle can be overridden in court is when disclosure of an informant’s identity is required to prove a defendant’s innocence. That’s not the case here.’
‘But then equally the defence won’t be able to prove that Peter wasn’t working for MI5.’
‘True. But there’s also the inconvenience of your having no witnesses, no CCTV and no useful forensic evidence to tie anyone to the murder scene. And if the spooks are sitting on anything we don’t know, they’re not about to share it.’
‘What about Kirkby’s Panamanian investment accounts?’ said Grace. ‘We can at least investigate them.’
Colin regarded her levelly and in reply raised his eyebrows in an ironic question.
‘You’re saying that because they were Federation funds he’s above the law?’ she demanded.
‘I’ve not said anything. Look, even if the rumours you’ve heard are true, and the home secretary has been looking for a stick to beat the Federation with, it doesn’t mean she wants to beat them in public. That’s not how politics works.’
‘We’re not politicians.’
‘You don’t think, these days, that’s being a little naive?’
‘I don’t need your permission to make a complaint about the Federation’s financial affairs to the IPCC.’
Colin laughed. ‘Be my guest! The Federation has fought tooth and nail from the start to water down the powers of the IPCC. And even if they could investigate a retired officer, the first person Kirkby would consult would be his Federation lawyer. He’s going to get the best defence money can buy.’
‘If we do nothing, our hand may be forced by the Courier,’ said Grace. ‘I think Ivo Sweatman is planning to kick off with a big story about Jerry Coghlan’s financial operation in the Algarve.’
‘If he does, then I assume he’ll find a nice fat D notice on his desk, strongly suggesting he spike the story,’ said Colin. ‘Besides, the Courier’s proprietor supports the current government, and even without a D notice, he isn’t about to run a story that’s going to embarrass the home secretary.’
‘You’re the head of the Major Investigation Team!’ she said. ‘I’ve brought you a strong argument that John Kirkby is involved in money-laundering and murder. What are you going to do?’
‘Fine,’ said Colin. ‘Arrest him, bring him in for questioning. He’ll give a “No comment” interview with a Federation solicitor by his side. Then what? You think the chief constable wants to start a fight with the local Federation branch? Effective policing in Essex would grind to a halt tomorrow. And you can kiss goodbye to counting on backup ever arriving in time to save your skin.’
‘Lance isn’t going to let this go.’
‘That’s the same DS Cooper who accepted free foreign hospitality from a criminal armourer, correct?’ Colin sighed. ‘Believe me, Grace, I’m not trying to be deliberately obtuse or obstructive, but I am telling it like it is. You’re a good officer, with the smarts to take you a long way. If you want to run with this then I won’t stop you, but until you’ve got more to go on than a theory, it’s career suicide, and my strong advice is to drop it, and to persuade Lance to drop it too.’
‘I can’t do that, sir.’
Colin shrugged. ‘OK. Keep me informed.’
Grace got up to go. At the door he called her back. ‘One other thing to remember, DI Fisher,’ he said. ‘Anything you were told about Peter Burnley’s true identity was in your capacity as a police officer. That means your knowledge is subject to the Official Secrets Act. You might want to read up on that before you go tilting at windmills. Espec
ially if it comes out that you shared that knowledge not only with DS Cooper but also with a journalist.’
Grace managed to walk out of his office, but then, afraid she was about to vomit, rushed to the toilets. She didn’t throw up, but she felt dizzy and light-headed with anger and frustration. How dare he threaten her like that! She’d have more respect for him if he’d gone ahead and suspended her for an offence he knew she’d committed. Her overwhelming desire was to march back into his office and resign. But if she did that, John Kirkby would have won. His sort would take over the service, and slowly, bit by bit, all the unchallenged lies would become the truth.
She washed her hands and splashed cold water onto her face, avoiding her eyes in the mirror above the row of sinks. She had been here once before with Colin Pitman. When he’d been unwilling to take action against a popular officer, everyone’s best mate.
Was Colin’s pragmatism merely the tribal knee-jerk reaction that looks after its own or the worst form of corruption, the kind that muddies the waters to such a degree that all hope of truth or justice is lost in the silt at the bottom? Is that what she wanted for her career, for her life? She wished her father were still alive so she could ask him what to do.
There was a tap at the door, and Lance came in, glancing at the cubicles to check she was alone.
‘What did he say?’ he asked.
‘He didn’t tell me to bury it,’ she said. ‘But he did throw every kind of spanner in the works, including the Official Secrets Act.’
‘Then we’ll go over his head,’ said Lance. ‘Take it right to the top.’
Grace shook her head. ‘It won’t work. He blocked off every gap I tried to run through. And in the end he’s right. We don’t have enough physical evidence to persuade the CPS to charge John Kirkby with murder.’
‘That doesn’t stop us bringing him in, though? At least so he knows he didn’t get away with it. We can tell him we know what he did, even if we can’t prove it. We’ll get him in the end somehow, won’t we?’
Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2 Page 33