by Jane Casey
The cameraman had ducked down when the shooting began. With a wobbly hand he tried to follow the shooter as he walked out of shot at the top right of the picture. The camera swung and shuddered before it settled on a gap between two buildings.
‘That’s where we started.’
‘Want to watch it again?’ Rob was concentrating on the screen.
‘Not really.’ I turned away, feeling sick. Anyway, I had seen enough. It had been a professional job. A set-up. The killer had known what he was doing.
We would analyse every frame of the footage, and any other material we could get our hands on, but I knew that we wouldn’t be able to identify the shooter from what we had. He was a shape, no more than that. He was an emblem of hatred for the police and what we did. He was the embodiment of revenge, and we had zero chance of catching him from the footage alone.
With that cheerful thought, the embodiment of aggressive misogyny rang the buzzer from downstairs.
‘That’s Derwent. I’ve got to go.’
‘Good hunting.’ Rob leaned back to kiss me, then sat down on the sofa to watch the footage again.
‘Don’t stay there all night,’ I said as I headed to the door.
‘I won’t,’ he promised. I knew him too well to believe him.
Chapter 14
It wasn’t a long journey from Farringdon to the Maudling Estate. Derwent filled the time by complaining.
‘And your old flat was easier to get into, as well as being closer to my place. Those gates are bloody annoying.’
‘I’m sorry. We should have kept that in mind when we moved.’
‘It’s just inconvenient, that’s all.’ Thirty seconds of silence. ‘It’s a bit swank, isn’t it? Especially for a couple of coppers.’
I blushed because he was right: the flat was a conversion in an old warehouse and it was a definite step up from our last place. I loved the big windows, the wooden floors, the open-plan living area and the incredibly high-end bathroom. I also loved the view: a brick wall. Not having to worry about being overlooked was worth any money. Ever since I’d acquired my very own stalker, a guy called Chris Swain who had an uncanny ability to find and scare me, privacy had taken on a new significance. He was a rapist and an all-round creep and I wasn’t ashamed of being terrified of him when he’d proved himself to be a danger, time and time again. He’d also proved himself to be worryingly good at hiding from the police. I hadn’t seen him for over a year and neither had anyone else involved in law enforcement. That didn’t mean he wasn’t out there. To Derwent, I said, ‘We got a good deal on the rent.’
‘I reckon you did.’
‘Rob negotiated it.’
‘Good for him.’ Derwent went silent again, anger billowing around him like smoke.
And it was nothing to do with me, or the flat, or the number of traffic lights in Farringdon (excessive, according to Derwent), or the other drivers on the road (morons, to a man). It was all about disguising the sharp anxiety that had him on edge. He carried his rage like a shield, hiding what he really felt, as if anyone would think less of him for being upset at what we were about to see.
I was dry-eyed even if I was dry-mouthed as we negotiated our way through the throng of journalists, camera crews and hangers-on at the cordon outside the Maudling estate. It was chaotic, with reporters competing to do their pieces to camera, feet away from one another. Tempers flared as the cameramen fought to get the best angle, the clearest view, without having half their competition in the shot. Some of them had started filming one another.
We dropped straight into the scene I recognised from the footage on the news. Now the car park was an active crime scene, crammed with uniforms, police vehicles, ambulances and plainclothes officers. The patrol cars of the borough’s response officers were parked along the road outside. Armed response vehicles circled around the estate, which was big: eight tower blocks of varying heights, built in the 1960s when concrete was a glamorous choice of building material. The police helicopter chattered overhead, the noise of the rotors rebounding off the high-rise buildings. Everyone was looking everywhere but at the sheet-draped figures on the ground and in the van. There hadn’t been time yet to move them, I knew, but I wished someone would take them away.
‘I’ve never seen this many cops at a single incident.’
‘Incidents don’t come bigger than this.’ Derwent stopped the car more or less at random, his attention focused on one particular person in front of us. ‘Fuck, who told her to come along?’
He was talking about Detective Chief Inspector Una Burt, Godley’s second-in-command. She was front and centre, peering into the van. Looking at her, without knowing anything about her, you would form two opinions: that she had a razor-sharp brain, and that she had got dressed by putting on the first three things she found in her wardrobe in no particular order.
‘I assume Godley wanted her here. He wanted a strong response to this.’
‘He wants us to take over.’ Derwent pulled a face. ‘I can’t imagine there’ll be much competition. This job has grief written all over it. Why does he want it? We have enough trouble with Hammond.’
‘Where is the boss?’
‘There.’ Derwent pointed. ‘Talking to one of the assistant commissioners. Lucky old him.’
The assistant commissioner in question was Nigel Williams, a bulky, dark-haired man with a jutting jaw and heavy eyebrows. Nothing about his demeanour looked encouraging as Godley spoke to him, leaning forward, the words coming out fast. Most unusually for the superintendent, he looked agitated, and not just because he was talking to one of the highest ranked officers in the Met.
‘Do you think he’s all right?’ I asked Derwent, forgetting that he and Godley had fallen out. His lips thinned to a line, but before he could answer, Una Burt turned around, her hands on her hips, and scanned the car park. She saw us almost immediately and beckoned with the bored impatience of a traffic officer.
‘Oh, bollocks.’ Derwent put his head down on the steering wheel, just for a moment.
‘Come on. Face the music.’
He relieved his feelings by swearing under his breath as he got out of the car. We walked across to where the chief inspector was waiting, square and solid in pleated trousers and a boxy jacket.
‘Ma’am.’ Derwent favoured her with his sweetest smile. ‘What would you like us to do?’
‘I’d have thought it was obvious. Investigate the case, Josh. You’re not here to sightsee. We’ve got dead police officers here.’
‘How many?’ I asked, knowing that Derwent was struggling to keep from snapping at her.
‘Five.’
‘Only two survived?’
She nodded. ‘One who was outside the van, one other inside it. One was alive when the first responders got here but he died before they could get him into the back of an ambulance, let alone to hospital.’
There were rubber gloves discarded on the ground, now that I looked, and swabs, and a mask that someone had forgotten in their haste. All the signs of a frantic scramble to save lives. Two out of seven. A bad result. I’d been expecting it and yet I couldn’t quite get my head around it.
‘Are the survivors talking?’ Derwent asked.
‘We haven’t been allowed to interview them yet. One of them is in a bad way. The other one was lucky. Shot in the shoulder. He said they shot the driver first.’
‘Before they shot the guy by the van?’ I was surprised. I hadn’t noticed that on the film footage.
‘So he couldn’t drive away, you see.’
‘Yes, but I saw the film. The shooter came from this end.’ We were standing at the back of the van. ‘How did he shoot the driver from here?’
‘He didn’t.’
‘Two shooters,’ Derwent said.
‘Exactly.’
‘Oh, marvellous. That is all we need.’
I was looking at the bodies on the ground, each covered with a sheet to hide them from the residents of the estate. Most of them seem
ed to be out on their balconies filming what was going on below them. The sheets were thin enough that I could see the white square of the dead police officers’ radio screens lighting up every time there was a transmission on the channel they’d been tuned to. The dark van glowed eerily as the radios inside flicked on and off in unison. The tinny sound of radio chatter filled the otherwise silent vehicle. The lights from our cars glinted off the shattered glass in the van windows and the glossy blood on the ground that was still wet.
‘Can’t they turn them off?’ I said. ‘The radios?’
‘The bodies need to be examined. You know that.’ DCI Burt sounded irritated.
I did know it. But I also hated the reminder that a couple of hours earlier these had been police officers out on a routine patrol, getting to the end of a late shift in the company of their friends. They couldn’t have begun to imagine that all the radio traffic now would be about them, and finding their killers.
Raised voices behind Burt made us all look around.
‘Oh Christ,’ Derwent said. ‘The boss.’
It was so unusual for Godley to lose his temper in public that I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen him do it. He was venting his anger at a tall, grey-haired man I recognised as one of the most right-wing MPs in parliament. Geoff Armstrong was an ex-academic, an economist who’d abandoned university life for politics after appearing on television and radio criticising the government for excessive public borrowing. He hated the NHS, the long-term unemployed, single-parent families, anyone who relied on benefits and anyone who allowed themselves to be poor. He was detested in places like the Maudling Estate at the best of times, which this was not.
‘This isn’t Geoff Armstrong’s constituency. He’s an MP for somewhere in Hampshire. So what’s he doing here?’
‘Making trouble.’ Derwent set off towards them, as if his presence would do anything but make things worse. I went after him, and Una Burt followed me. I saw Chris Pettifer hurrying over from the other direction, and Pete Belcott. It was only a matter of time before every team member in the postcode turned up. I reached the little group where Godley stood, to find him winding down from the pitch of annoyance that had made him shout. He was still a long way from calm, though.
‘You are throwing baseless accusations around in order to get attention for yourself and you will positively harm this investigation if you do so on camera.’
Armstrong laughed. ‘I can see you’re scared to admit the truth, Superintendent Godley, but you can’t change the history of this sorry affair. This estate has been a disaster waiting to happen ever since Levon Cole was killed. Your police officers have been too afraid of making a mistake to crack down on the drug dealers and gangsters who run this estate and anarchy is the result. They made themselves into targets and they were too cowardly to protect themselves.’
‘Are you actually saying that they deserved to die?’ Godley snapped.
‘I’m saying it was their fault all along the line. If they had done their jobs properly they would have been safe here. As it is, no one is safe here except the thugs who make a very nice living off the misery of others. And you’re the very people who are supposed to be able to stop them. If you can’t, there’s something very wrong with the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Speculation is a dangerous thing without any evidence to back it up. You are a public person, Mr Armstrong. If you make a connection between Levon Cole and what happened here, people will assume you know more than they do. Even if we discover that this is completely unrelated to the Cole shooting, the doubt will linger in people’s minds.’
Behind his rimless glasses, Armstrong’s eyes were bright. ‘Are you trying to censor me?’
‘No, I’m asking you to be responsible about the language you use and the assumptions you make about this situation. And frankly I resent having to waste my time on this futile conversation when I have five dead police officers lying over there and we haven’t even begun to remove the bodies.’ Godley’s voice had risen again. Above the collar of his crisp white shirt, the tendons in his neck were standing out.
Derwent cut in. ‘Here’s an idea, Mr Armstrong. Why don’t you go back to Westminster and concentrate on your job instead of mucking around here trying to make ours more difficult.’
‘This is my job.’
‘This isn’t even your constituency,’ Derwent said, appropriating what I’d said without a flicker.
‘I represent the people of this country, not just the constituents who voted for me,’ Armstrong said loftily.
‘Have you asked the people of this community if they want you to speak for them?’ The assistant commissioner towered over Armstrong, who paled a little.
‘I’m sure they’re all aware of me and happy that I can give them a voice.’
‘I think you’re underestimating them,’ Williams said. ‘They have the ability to speak for themselves, I can assure you.’
‘So where are they?’ Armstrong looked up at the flats, eyeing the residents who were watching us. ‘Standing around on their balconies like animals in a zoo.’
‘We’re keeping them out of the way at the moment because this is an active investigation and that is our crime scene.’ Godley pointed at the car park. ‘Let them wander around at will and they’ll move through this area destroying any forensic evidence we might collect. It’s our only chance to gather the evidence we need to catch and convict a killer.’
Williams reached out and patted Godley’s shoulder. ‘Leave it, now.’ To Armstrong, he said, ‘You know that you can inflame this situation if you try to make us look bad.’
‘I don’t have to try to make you look bad. You’re managing that perfectly well on your own.’
The assistant commissioner frowned. ‘Be that as it may, you have a responsibility not to make a bad situation worse. I understand that you wanted to come down here to see what happened at first hand. I am aware that you were allowed through the police cordon but that should never have happened.’ And someone’s head was going to roll, I thought. Williams went on: ‘You are a civilian and you have no place here at this time. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
‘I’m not going anywhere. This is a free country and I’m not doing anything illegal. You do your job – properly, this time – and let me do mine.’
‘You know, the cameras are down there. That end of the street.’ Derwent pointed. ‘Isn’t that where you want to be, really? On every news bulletin? In every front room across the country?’
Armstrong moistened his lips with his tongue. ‘I resent the implication.’
‘And I resent the way you’re determined to make this about the police being incompetent,’ Derwent said. ‘Those coppers were doing their jobs, and they got killed. Don’t try to put the boot in just because they were paid for by taxpayers.’
‘Mr Godley can handle this,’ Una Burt said, her tone reproving.
‘Mr Godley has enough to be getting on with.’ Derwent turned back to Godley and the expression in his eyes was pure puppy-dog, so hopeful I had to look away.
Godley ignored him. ‘Mr Armstrong, I consider this conversation to be at an end. Now, I’m asking you to leave. If you refuse, I will ask some of my officers to remove you.’
‘Are you going to arrest me?’
‘Only if there’s a reason to do so. I don’t particularly want to tie up good police officers with pointless paperwork just because you want to make yourself part of the story.’
‘That’s an insult.’
‘File a complaint.’ There was something in Godley’s tone that made Armstrong take a step back. I didn’t blame him.
The acting commissioner flagged down a couple of passing uniformed officers. ‘Mr Armstrong needs an escort back to the cordon. Make sure he doesn’t get held up along the way.’
‘I can manage by myself.’ Armstrong looked left and right as the response officers took up positions on either side of them. They both happened to be big men, made more substantial
by the stab vests they wore. I wouldn’t have wanted to have a disagreement with either of them.
‘It’s no trouble,’ Williams said. ‘Thanks for your interest, though.’
Armstrong moved away with enormous reluctance. Williams waited until he was out of earshot. ‘Charles, you need to be very careful with this. I appreciate that you’re under pressure, but—’
‘It’s nothing to do with being under pressure, sir. It’s the fact that I had to waste time dealing with him when there are more important issues at hand.’
‘I appreciate you feel strongly about investigating this, Charles. But I think we should allow the DPS boys to handle it, along with the local MIT team. You have enough to handle with the Terence Hammond case.’
‘Sir, this is my plan.’ Godley had pulled himself together – back to normal, I would have said, except that I thought it was taking a huge effort for him to maintain his composure. ‘My team and I are going to run this investigation alongside the Terence Hammond case, because there is a possibility that there may be a connection between them. The local MIT team doesn’t want this one. I do. I want the local response officers to concentrate on keeping the residents out of our way. I want the SOCOs to report to me. I want Kev Cox to manage the scene. And I want Glenn Hanshaw to do the PMs.’
‘He’s not answering his phone,’ Una Burt chipped in.
‘Really?’ Godley faltered for a moment, concern knocking him off balance. ‘Okay. Well, keep trying to get hold of him. In the meantime we need to get these men off the street. Find me a pathologist to sign off on moving the bodies and they can go to Glenn’s hospital. It’s not ideal but I want to get this tidied up, now.’
‘What else?’ Williams asked.