by James Oswald
‘Fuck off now, won’t you?’ I flip them the bird, and somehow I just know that’s going to be the picture they use. This is why I left London in the first place, but now there’s trial prep work to be done, and the small matter of my job. I don’t care what these ghouls say about me any more. Bring it on.
My hot-headed anger cools with each step upwards. Unwelcome though their attention is, this is a lot less intrusive than straight after last year’s news broke. They’ll get bored of the story soon enough, maybe concentrate more on the man in the dock than the police officer who put him there. Yeah, who am I kidding? DeVilliers is an easy mark; there’s no sport in stripping him down. By the time I reach my front door, slide in the key that’s still clasped in my hand, I begin to realise exactly what this renewed press attention means.
Tomorrow’s going to be a really crap day.
9
At first I think the pounding is in my head, and I groan at the memory of the night before. Then it occurs to me that I didn’t drink all that much. A couple of beers in the pub with Charlotte aren’t nearly enough to give me a hangover, even if I’m out of practice drinking. Outside it’s still London dark, and there’s a rhythm to the pounding, a voice to go with it, too.
‘Fairchild? You in there?’
It’s a man speaking, shouting really. I don’t recognise him, but something in the urgency wakes me enough that the memories start to come back. The press. Fuck’s sake, will they never leave me alone?
‘Oi! Fairchild!’ This voice is different, I’m pretty sure of it. I swing my legs out of bed and lower them to the floor, stretch and yawn and rub the sleep from my eyes. Checking the bedside clock, I see that it’s only half past six, which hardly seems fair. No active duties should mean no early starts, surely?
‘Come on, Connie. Open up and talk to us, why don’t you?’
That voice sparks a memory, even though it’s muffled by the closed front door and the distance of the hallway. What’s with these bloody leeches?
I’m sorely tempted to call my new friend, PC Karen-with-a-K Eve, and ask her to send a couple of uniforms round to clear the reporters from my front door. I’ve even grabbed my phone, but before I thumb the screen awake my brain starts to work. The paparazzi were hassling me yesterday, but not like this. There must have been some development overnight that’s brought them scurrying back again, early and insistent.
‘We need to speak to you, Miss Fairchild. Can you come to the door, please?’
That’s a first from a reporter, saying please. I pull on clothes – it’s never a good idea to confront the press in your undies – and splash a bit of water over my face to try and stop myself looking too much like an extra from a horror movie. There’s nothing I can do about my hair, but the spiky punk look’s all the rage and paparazzi photos are never flattering anyway. As I pick up my phone again, my finger nudges the button and the lock screen lights up, a notification of a text obscuring the photograph of Cat that’s my wallpaper image. It’s from DCI Bain, and only the first part of the message is visible. It’s enough to explain why the press are outside my door, and to wake me up faster than the strongest cup of espresso.
Roger DeVilliers dead. Team meeting 10.00am. Your presence required.
I click through to the BBC News app, and sure enough, it’s the headline. The old bastard had a heart attack in his cell while I was drinking with his daughter last night. Well, good riddance. Except that of course his dying is probably the most inconvenient thing that he could do. The trial won’t happen, all that work gone to waste. And an army of tabloid journalists outside my door, building themselves up into a feeding frenzy.
Ah well. Better get it over with, then.
‘Did you have to talk to the press before speaking to me?’
Bain’s angry, I can see that. But he’s not really angry with me. I’m just convenient, someone for him to work out his frustrations on.
‘Given how many of them were outside my front door, I’m not sure I had any choice, sir.’ I hold his gaze, in that manner girls who have been brought up properly are not supposed to do. He breaks first, stalking across the room to the end of the conference table. He pulls out a seat and drops heavily into it before speaking again.
‘Constable Eve not with you?’
Karen-with-a-K brought me here, turning up outside my flat after I’d been explaining to the world’s press for the best part of half an hour that I didn’t know anything and so couldn’t comment. She’d filled me in on a few details as she drove me across the city, but had gone off in search of a coffee once we’d arrived.
‘Think she went to the canteen, sir.’ I wish I could join her. Anything has to be better than this airless conference room tucked away at the back of the station. It’s been taken over by the NCA for the duration, clutter around the walls and scribbles on the whiteboards. But now the table’s cleared and set out for a dozen people, with glasses and water bottles placed at intervals, along with jotter pads and pens for taking notes. Either I’m being roped into a fairly serious strategy meeting, or someone in admin needs to get out a bit more.
‘Take a seat then. The others should be here soon.’
I do as I’m told, keeping a reasonable distance between myself and the DCI. ‘Others?’
Before he can open his mouth to answer, the door swings open without so much as a knock, and a couple of men walk in. I might be forgiven for thinking they were twins, given their identical, expensive suits and haircuts. One has a mole on his left cheek and is a few inches shorter than his companion though. He seems to notice me too, whereas his colleague’s gaze slides over me in that oddly reassuring misogynistic way, his features only changing when he sees Bain.
‘Detective Chief Inspector. Thank you for seeing us at such short notice. Shocking business, really.’
There isn’t an ounce of sincerity in the man’s voice, but Bain stands, smiles, extends a hand to be shaken and doesn’t even wipe it on his trousers afterwards.
‘It’s thrown a spanner in the works, that’s for sure. You know DC Fairchild?’
The taller one looks at me now, but I can tell he’d rather not. His almost-doppelganger is more friendly though, swapping the briefcase he’s been carrying to his left hand so he can extend the right to be shaken.
‘Jack Preston. Pleased to meet you. Wish it could be better circumstances, eh?’
Nothing from his colleague except something that might be a barely-concealed eye-roll. He doesn’t make any effort to introduce himself, but it’s not necessary. I reckon I’ve worked it out now.
‘You’re Crown Prosecution, right? Must be a bit of a bugger doing all that work on DeVilliers and now there’s nothing to show for it.’
‘It happens.’ Jack shrugs his shoulders.
‘So the case is closed then? I can get back to work?’
This time the taller of the two CPS men shakes his head. He’s probably unaware he’s doing it, much like he’s unaware of being an utter dick.
‘We’ve still got Gordon Bailey to deal with, remember?’ Bain settles himself back down in his chair. Dick takes a seat at the table directly opposite him.
‘And how long exactly is that going to take?’ I ask. I know I’m not going to like the answer by the way Friendly Jack looks at me.
‘That’s what we’re here to discuss. The two cases are closely linked, so the fact DeVilliers will no longer stand trial means we need to reconsider how to deal with Bailey.’
‘Not to mention the fact he was supposed to be our key witness against the DCI,’ Dick says. I almost miss it, since he’s very much directing his conversation away from me. Almost, but not quite.
‘You what?’
Dick looks at Bain rather than me, no doubt hoping he will tell me to shut up.
‘You did a deal with that piece of shit?’ I can’t help the anger rising in my voice.
&nbs
p; ‘Miss Fairchild . . .’ Dick finally turns to face me, his words dripping with condescension.
‘It’s Detective Constable Fairchild, actually.’ I’m on my feet now, fists clenched to suppress the trembling rage. ‘And do I need to remind you that Roger DeVilliers tried to kill me? Have you forgotten that he raped his own daughter, repeatedly? Are you really telling me you did a deal with that monster and didn’t even have the decency to let me know?’
‘I’m letting you know now, aren’t I?’
If he wasn’t sitting too far away, I’d probably punch that smug face.
‘Months I’ve been kicking my heels waiting for you lot to do your job, and it turns out you were going to let him go all along. Well, fuck that noise.’ I push my chair back, step around a worried-looking Jack. Of all of them, he’s the least likely to get thumped, but it’s a close thing.
‘Where do you think you’re going, Fairchild?’ Bain stares at me with genuine confusion.
‘Out, sir. There’s really no point in my being here, is there?’ I pause long enough at the open doorway to let anyone in the meeting object. None of them do, and I suspect the twins from the CPS are probably glad to see the back of me. Bain’s not happy, but then he wasn’t happy to start with, and I’m done bending over backwards to make life easy for others.
‘Can you fucking believe it? They were cutting a deal with him. With DeVilliers. Fuck sake.’
I find Karen in the canteen, nursing a mug of coffee. Grabbing one for myself, I go and join her. If she doesn’t want my company, she doesn’t say so, and now she’s stuck with me at least until my fury calms a little. I can’t believe the CPS would cut a deal with that man. Except that I can believe it, and I can see his expensive lawyers pushing for it all the way. Probably making sure I was kept out of the loop too. Not hard to predict how much I’d kick up a stink about it. Fuck, was that the real reason they suspended me? Sent me away to Scotland so I was good and out of the way? Bastards.
‘Actually, pretty much everyone knew.’
I almost choke on my coffee at her words, put the mug down quickly to stop myself from hurling it at the wall. ‘You did?’
‘Yeah, well. You know what we’re like. Coppers are the worst gossips and that’s a juicy rumour to chew, wouldn’t you say?’
I don’t say anything to that. Slumping back in my seat’s about all I can manage right now.
‘It kinda makes sense, too.’ Karen leans forward, mug between her hands. ‘I mean, you’re right. That old man was a disgusting monster who should’ve been locked away and left to rot. But he had all the intel you could want on Bailey and his gang, and more. He’d have handed it all over, pleaded guilty, gone to an open prison somewhere. Sure, he didn’t deserve to be comfortable, but he was never going to live long anyway. And it’s not as if he could go out in public even if he wasn’t locked up. Tabloids would be all over him like a rash.’
Like they’re all over me right now. She’s got a point, even if I’m not about to concede it.
‘Too much to hope the press will leave me alone now.’
Karen laughs, then covers her mouth when she realises it’s not really all that funny. ‘Are you kidding? They’ll hound you twice as badly now. But they’ll get bored soon enough. Give it a couple of weeks. After they’ve buried him and someone else has done something more interesting. Then you’ll get your nice quiet life back.’
It’s my turn to laugh, but only briefly, and without humour. ‘Looks like I’m going to have to leave town again. Shame. It was just getting interesting.’
10
I knew this was going to be a bad idea as soon as I asked for details of when and where. If I’m being honest with myself I can’t admit to any other reason for coming than to make sure that the old fucker’s actually dead and not part of some elaborate hoax to get him off the hook. Even so, coming to Roger DeVilliers’ funeral has to be one of the most foolish things I’ve ever done.
At least I dressed for the part. Aunt Felicity’s long black coat is a godsend, and the wide-brimmed hat helps to hide my face from the legion of reporters who seem to outnumber the mourners. Not that I’m mourning.
I tag on to a group of people who must have been business associates of the old man, judging by their conversation as they walk to the church, find a pew and sit. They don’t seem to notice me, or mind as I listen in on their talk of corporate leverage and backflipped options, whatever they might be. They’re so wrapped up in disaster capital talk I’m surprised they could take the time out to come here, but then again maybe this is the best place for a board meeting.
It’s been a while since I last stepped inside St Thomas’s Church. It’s far too close to Harston Magna Hall, for one thing, and I really don’t need a run-in with my father right now. God forbid my mother would show her face. She’s not in the congregation, which is a relief. I’m surprised to see Margo at the front, though. Even more surprised at how frail she looks.
‘You’ve some nerve coming here, Fairchild.’
The voice startles me, but not as much as the man speaking. Of all the people I’d expect to be here, Detective Chief Inspector Bain is not one of them. He was involved in the investigation that put Roger DeVilliers behind bars, true enough. And he’s been part of the team building the case for the prosecution. That’s not a good reason to come to his funeral though, surely?
‘Sir.’ It’s all I can manage as I shuffle further along the pew to give him and the pair who’ve come with him room to sit. I don’t know who they are, beyond that they’re obviously police. The man’s young, clean shaven, skin that must take at least an hour a day to keep that fresh. His suit is as sharp as anything I’ve seen, but instead of looking at me he is fixated on his incredibly shiny shoes.
The woman beside him is in many ways his complete opposite. She’s dressed for a funeral, it’s true, but only to the point of wearing dark clothes. Her crumpled black trouser suit looks like she’s slept in it, and her shoulder-length grey hair has only seen a brush for a few passes and that recently. Unlike her male friend, she’s quite happy to stare at me.
She looks like she’s about to say something, but then the organ grinds into life, old Mr Ayres the organist playing the funeral march at a pace so slow it’s almost painful. Then again, he used to be the same with the Christmas carols, so it’s maybe not a reflection of the situation.
The coffin comes in on the shoulders of a half dozen funeral director assistants, no family carrying the old man to his final reckoning here. The wooden box seems too small for the body inside it, and I’m once more hit by that niggling doubt that he’s actually dead. Maybe I should have pulled strings, begged favours and done whatever I could to attend the post-mortem. That would have been a more fitting end to my relationship with Roger DeVilliers, watching as his chest was cut open and his innards removed. Then again, it would have been galling to find that he had a heart after all.
The service is mercifully brief, in that no-nonsense Anglican way. Soon enough the coffin is making its way out again, followed by a crowd of people keen to watch it being lowered into the ground. I remain seated as Bain and his colleagues stand.
‘Not going out?’ the woman asks. Her voice is deeper than I’d been expecting, a husky edge to it that suggests a familiarity with cigarettes even though I catch no smell of tobacco off her.
‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to piss on his grave in private.’
The young man flinches at my words, but the woman merely smiles.
‘Too many bloody photographers here, too. Last thing we need is them raking over this story again. Thought you wanted to go back to work.’ Bain shakes his head at me as if I’ve done the most stupid thing in the world, which might well be the case.
‘That likely to happen any time soon, sir? Never thought I’d say it, but being suspended on full pay isn’t quite as fun as it sounds. Not given the circumsta
nces.’
‘That’s up to your station commander, Professional Standards, oh, and the commissioner.’ The woman butts in to the conversation as if Bain isn’t important. That he doesn’t complain makes me think she is. ‘You might be just a detective constable, but you’re high profile, Fairchild. Another reason why showing up here was . . . inadvisable. Just how do you think you’re going to get away unnoticed? Planning on spending the next couple of hours praying?’
‘I’m sorry. We’ve not been introduced.’ I meet her gaze, trying to work out whether she’s joking. It’s hard to tell from her deadpan expression, but there was that smile earlier.
‘No. Ed’s never been good at that.’ She holds out a hand to be shaken. ‘Diane Shepherd.’ She pauses a moment in thought, then adds, ‘I guess Superintendent Shepherd to you.’
Superintendent. So she must be Bain’s boss at the NCA. I’m surprised I’ve not met her before, more so that I’ve never even heard her name.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Latham.’ She turns to where she must have assumed her young colleague was still standing in the aisle, unaware that he’s wandered off to the entrance. He’s staring out at the small crowd, and only turns when the superintendent shouts at him. ‘Billy. What are you doing?’
He rushes back, red flushing his cheeks. ‘Sorry, ma’am. There’s loads of press out there. TV crews as well.’ He still won’t meet my eye.
‘Looks like we’re all praying for a couple of hours then,’ Shepherd says as a nervous verger steps back inside and stares at us. We’re the only ones left, and it’s clear from the way he glances at his watch that he’d like his church back now. I don’t recognise him, but then that’s not surprising given how long ago I last came in here. Some things don’t change though, and I know the layout of this place better than most.
‘Come with me. We can go out through the vestry. There’s a private entrance that leads to the grounds of the hall.’ I set off without checking to see they’re following. This is exactly the situation I might have predicted happening, if I’d thought through the whole thing beyond simply coming to the funeral. I just hope to the hell Roger DeVilliers has gone to that my parents aren’t at home. The last thing I need is to bump into my mother.