Kayleigh coughed. ‘Briony . . .’
‘Hang on a sec.’
Alison was carrying a hessian shopping bag containing a small fork, a trowel and her gardening gloves.
She stared in disbelief. ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’
Taken by surprise, Briony tried to jump up but her bulk impeded her. Instead she rolled on to her side. Alison loomed over her.
‘What are you doing?’
It took Briony a moment to recognize her. She’d only ever seen pictures and some old news footage from the trial.
‘Mrs Boden? Oh my God! I’m Briony Rowe. I was a friend of Sarah’s.’
‘What?’ Alison wore a baseball cap, a waxed Barbour and wellies; she wouldn’t have looked out of place on a country dog walk. ‘Who gave you permission to do this?’
Briony struggled into a sitting position. The camera was beside her, clamped to the tripod. ‘I’m a documentary film-maker. I did write to you several months ago.’
‘What?’
‘I asked you for an interview. Don’t you remember?’
It was hard to read Alison’s expression under the brim of the cap.
With a helping hand from Kayleigh, Briony scrambled to her feet and painted on what she hoped was a confident smile. ‘We’re taking a fresh look at the evidence and circumstances surrounding the terrible tragedy of Sarah’s—’
Without warning Alison pulled the trowel from the bag and swung it with lightning speed at the camera, cracking into the side of it. The legs of the tripod were splayed wide, holding it low and firm, it rocked slightly. Kayleigh’s jaw slackened, Briony raised a pleading hand and wailed. ‘Mrs Boden, please—’
Alison lifted her arm and brought the full force of the steel trowel down on the camera. The lens splintered with a sickening crunch.
Briony tried to grab her arm. ‘For fuck’s sake! That’s worth thousands of pounds!’
Swinging round, Alison brandished the sharp end of the trowel at her. ‘Yeah, I got your letter. In fact I read it very carefully and I’m not stupid. He’s being let out and you want to say he didn’t do it, don’t you? At least tell the bloody truth. This is for him. You’re here for him.’
Tears welled in Briony’s eyes as she stared at the smashed lens. ‘You mad bitch! Look what you’ve done! How am I going to pay for this?’
Alison Boden pushed back her cap. ‘You dare to come here and desecrate my daughter’s grave. You’re lucky I don’t whack you right in your fat little face!’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Following her briefing with Foley, Jo had to wait for her legend to be put in place. It was hard not to feel excited in spite of her reservations about the DS and his combative attitude. And however you spun it, it was a honey-trap. Scandals followed by investigations and recriminations had produced policy on this. But Jo was only too well aware of the reality she was dealing with here. Male officers preying on female targets may be taboo now. The other way round though? That remained a grey area.
Foley had made it clear that she had a choice. She could say no and go back to her old squad or she could take a risk. She’d got the impression he’d prefer her to bottle out. But if she wanted to work at the sharp end, for a boss like Vaizey, who carried about him the aura and rumour of a future Commissioner, then she needed to be pragmatic. London was a febrile city, no one wanted to see more guns added to the mix. The Met was woefully under-resourced and political clout depended on results. It was a complex problem, whether you chose to bend the rules or not. This was her chance to be part of the solution and she wanted that.
Jo was settled at a computer terminal in the Grebe office, going through the file on Rossi and mulling over how to reel him in, when her phone buzzed. Alison was trying to call her. It went to voicemail. Jo felt irritated. Staying with her mother was far from easy at the best of times. But the news of Wade’s imminent release had set Alison off on one of her downers.
Over the weekend she’d dragged out all the old photo albums and spread them across the sitting room floor. Baby Sarah in the arms of her joyful parents, her first steps, her first trike. It had always seemed to Jo that the family archive contained more pictures of her sister than anyone else. Sarah was the golden child, feted and adored from day one and as Jo had grown up, her looks, her mannerisms, every egg-and-spoon race she’d won or exam she’d passed were compared to the previous achievements of her big sister. Carl was treated differently, he was the boy. But even before her sister’s demise, Jo had lived in the shadow of Sarah. She didn’t resent it particularly, it was just how it had always been.
She’d promised Alison that she’d call her brother but had been putting it off. It was breakfast time in Toronto, so a good time to catch him before he went to work. Stretching, she got up from her desk and headed off down the corridor to find a quiet corner where she could make the call undisturbed. But she decided to check the voicemail first. Ignoring Alison when she was in a state was never sensible.
The message was short, the tone sorrowful. ‘I’ve been arrested. I’m at Lewisham police station.’ Her voice cracked as she started to cry. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ There was a snuffle-filled pause. ‘I’m really sorry.’
Jo took a cab to Lewisham. Going AWOL on her first day wasn’t ideal but she hoped her absence wouldn’t be noticed. The office was busy, she’d probably get away with it.
When she got to the station she showed her ID and asked to speak to the custody sergeant. He was friendly and amenable; he explained there had been an altercation at the cemetery and the charges were threatening behaviour and criminal damage. He made a call and one of the young PCs who’d arrested Alison appeared.
She gave Jo a brief summary of the facts: a damaged camera, threats with an offensive weapon, namely a steel trowel, abusive language to the police when they arrived. She and her colleagues seemed to be taking the view that Alison could have mental health problems. They’d called the duty medic to make an assessment, meanwhile they had her under observation in a cell, where she was sitting obsessively unravelling a loose thread on her gardening gloves. The woman PC’s partner was in the process of taking a full statement from the complainant, Briony Rowe.
Jo frowned, the name was familiar, though she couldn’t quite place it. Alison hadn’t mentioned that she’d planned to visit the cemetery that morning, although she knew her mother went there frequently to tend the grave. And who was this Briony Rowe? Somebody? Nobody? Alison did have a habit of getting into rows with random strangers. This one had a camera, so what exactly was she filming and why?
Jo smiled at the PC. ‘Can I speak to the complainant? I know it’s not proper procedure. But, here’s the thing. My mother went to the cemetery to visit my sister’s grave. My sister was murdered sixteen years ago and we’ve just learnt that the man convicted is about to be released from jail.’
The PC puffed out her cheeks. ‘I see.’ She was young, still a probationer, and more used to dealing with drunks and homeless people.
Jo shrugged. She didn’t want to be too pushy. ‘You’re absolutely correct to identify my mother’s mental state as fragile – for the reasons I’ve explained. I don’t know what’s happened here, but I may be able to help sort this out.’
The PC nodded and went away to consult.
Ten minutes later a uniformed sergeant appeared, introduced himself and invited Jo to accompany him.
As they entered the interview room Briony Rowe shot a nervous glance at Jo. Her face was red and sweaty. She was seated at the table with a younger woman beside her. Jo read her guilt in a nanosecond – she’d been up to no good – followed by what seemed to be a flicker of shock.
The sergeant made the introductions but Jo had already decided to take charge.
She smiled and stepped forward confidently. ‘I’m very sorry about your camera. We will of course pay for it.’
But the colour was visibly draining from Briony Rowe’s cheeks. Shaking her head in disbelief, she spluttered, ‘Oh my God!
You look exactly like Sarah.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They all ended up standing on the pavement outside the police station, like revellers from a nightclub expelled into an inhospitable dawn. Briony Rowe had tried to argue that she didn’t know she needed permission to film. She’d explained her project to the police in the vaguest terms and readily agreed to drop the charges. But Jo had also remembered the letter her mother had received and why the name rang a bell. A film about Sarah’s murder, that’s what this nonsense was all about.
Alison was subdued, clutching her baseball cap and her hessian bag to her chest like an abandoned child, although her daughter knew this was the result of the diazepam the police surgeon had prescribed rather than any sense of contrition. She’d been released with a caution for threatening a police officer with a trowel.
Jo checked her phone: nothing from work. With any luck, she could take her mother home and get back without being missed.
Briony Rowe was hovering at her elbow. ‘Look, I never intended to upset anyone.’
She had the look of a hopeful puppy. Jo wished she’d go away. ‘Really? You’ve got my email address, send me a bill for the camera.’
‘I’d rather we talked.’
This was rich.
‘What? You offering me a deal? A conversation for the price of the camera?’
‘Jo, you have to understand. I’m doing this for Sarah.’
‘That is the biggest pack of lies I ever heard.’
‘What if he didn’t do it?’
Briony’s beringed hand pawed her arm. Jo shoved her away.
‘Okay, my mother had no right to damage your camera. That’s the law. So we’ll pay for it. Equally, you have no right to harass us or invade our privacy. And you have no permission to film my sister’s grave. I shall be speaking to the council about that. Any further infringements, we will take legal action against you.’
‘Don’t you want to know who killed her?’
‘I already know.’
Jo glanced impatiently up and down the busy High Street for a cab. She was feeling frazzled. Alison seemed completely listless; Jo took her arm and steered her along the pavement.
Briony followed. ‘You’re a police officer. Miscarriages of justice happen, you know that.’
‘How do you know I’m a police officer?’
‘So you are!’ A mischievous smile swept over Briony’s features. ‘I kind of guessed because their attitude changed completely once you rocked up. It was clear you had leverage. They only do that for other cops.’
Jo felt a surge of anger. How the hell had she let this gross sweaty little person wrong-foot her so easily? She should be at work, preparing for her first encounter with the target, not dealing with this.
A bus pulled up, blocking her view of the road. Why were there no cabs? She manoeuvred Alison round the queue waiting to board the bus.
But Briony was still on their heels. ‘Over two per cent of the cases referred to the Criminal Cases Review Commission result in convictions being quashed.’
‘That’s sounds a pretty low figure to me.’
‘Not if you apply it to a prison population of 95,000. That means potentially nearly 2,000 innocent people are behind bars.’
Marooned on the kerb, another Routemaster bearing down on them, Jo took a deep breath. She wasn’t having this. Briony Rowe was like an annoying gnat that needed swatting. She turned on her.
‘Are you as crap at film-making as you are with statistics? Two per cent of the cases considered by the CCRC is not the same as two per cent of all the people in jail. To get a case reviewed you need evidence.’
‘Maybe we’ve got that?’
‘Yeah? If Wade’s innocent why has he waited sixteen years to try and prove it?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to ask him that yourself?’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
Jo felt her mother’s fingers digging into her arm. Alison turned her head slowly, her brain seemed to be playing catch-up. ‘Is there evidence?’
‘Mum, she’s just full of bullshit.’
‘I was there, Mrs Boden. Sarah was my friend.’
As the second Routemaster pulled away, a black cab appeared in the slow-moving stream of traffic. Jo waved her arm furiously. The cabbie pulled over and drew up beside them.
Stepping off the kerb she opened the back door and shepherded Alison towards the cab.
Briony grabbed hold of the door. ‘She had a stalker. Only a few of us knew about it. Sarah made a joke of it. But she was scared of him. Her killer’s still out there, Mrs Boden.’
‘A stalker? Really? I think if she had, she’d have told someone in authority about it. My sister was no shrinking violet.’
Alison blinked, a startled fawn caught in the crosshairs. ‘Why’s she saying all this, Jo?’
Seizing her mother by the shoulders, Jo propelled her into the cab. Then she got in, gave the cabbie the address and slammed the door shut behind them.
Alison began to weep. ‘Do you think it’s true?’
‘No. Absolutely not.’
As the taxi pulled out into the crawling traffic Jo felt the phone in her pocket ping with an incoming message. Thinking it might be Foley she sneaked a quick look and was puzzled to find a text from Darryl. Perhaps he had some news about Razan’s sister? He and Georgiou could be working on it together?
Clicking on the text she read:
Hi Jo, congrats on secondment to Grebe. Onwards and upwards eh! They’ve given me your desk. Found some personal stuff in the drawer. Text me your address and I’ll send it on. Dx
Stuff, what stuff? Possibly a packet of painkillers and a box of tampons. And all she’d done was move down the corridor. Jo glanced at Alison then the realization hit her like a freight train. Her address. Probably a disgruntled DC, that’s what Jabreel Khan had said.
Darryl? Her brain was reeling. Could it be Darryl? How many hours had she spent with him in the back of that stinking van, listening to his lame jokes? They were fellow officers, colleagues, and he’d sell her out to a bunch of Albanian gangsters without a second thought. She felt sick.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Having installed Alison in front of a crackling fire with a cup of tea and instructions to call if she needed anything, Jo headed back to the office. For most of her teenage years her mother had been on some form of antidepressant or anti-anxiety medication. It spaced her out, depending on the dose, and left her suspended, not waving or drowning, just bobbing along on the surface in mental limbo. They were both used to it; for many years she’d left her mother like this and gone off to school or college, it had been their everyday survival mode.
Jo took the DLR to Canary Wharf, where she picked up the Jubilee Line, rode it to Baker Street, then switched to the Circle Line for the last three stops to Royal Oak. The afternoon had become overcast, a heavy slate-grey sky threatening rain. She had no umbrella so she quickened her pace. The offices were situated in a drab seventies block sandwiched between Westway and the railway line.
Since receiving Darryl’s text she hadn’t been quite as bothered about the Kelmendis. If they were relying on him for an address they hadn’t tracked her down – yet. But she remained alert, in watcher mode, searching out anomalies, checking faces.
As for the fat film-maker and her nonsense about Sarah, she dismissed it out of hand. A stalker? When Sarah was still at school a scuzzy boy who lived in their street had tried to sneak some photos of her sunbathing. She went ballistic and the ensuing ruckus stuck in Jo’s memory because Sarah had chased him down the drive in her bikini brandishing the garden broom. If there had been a stalker, Jo was certain her sister would’ve given him short shrift.
Running up the stairs two at a time she headed for her old team’s open-plan office. The room was stuffy and overheated, the rusting radiators had two modes: red hot or stone cold. Glancing towards the familiar desk she saw Georgiou sitting there, fist propped on her elbow, a glazed expression as she stared at the scree
n.
‘Found the Syrian girl yet?’
Jumping out of her skin, Georgiou shot Jo a startled look. ‘Ardi sold her to a bloke in Manchester. We think.’
‘Then why aren’t you in Manchester?’
The appearance of Darryl, carrying two mugs of coffee, saved Georgiou from the need to come up with a response.
‘Jo! Missing us already?’ He plonked a mug in front of his new partner. ‘I gave Debs your desk in the end, since she’s the new you.’
The two women exchanged looks; neither seemed impressed by the notion.
Jo folded her arms, this wasn’t going to be easy. ‘I got your text.’
Darryl sipped his drink, scalding his tongue. He winced. ‘Oh yeah. I could’ve posted it.’
‘It? Why? I’m only down the corridor.’ No way he was wriggling out of this.
‘Yeah, don’t we know it. You hear about the barney Hollingsworth and Vaizey had over you?’
‘When?’
‘Just before lunch.’
It must’ve been when she’d sloped off to Lewisham to rescue her mother. ‘I was out.’ She fingered her nose. ‘Had a doctor’s appointment.’
‘Still looks pretty painful that, you poor old thing.’
Moving towards her he reached out to pat her arm. Jo stepped back. ‘Did you hear this row?’
‘Happened in Hollingsworth’s office. We knew he was pissed off that Vaizey had poached you. He took it to the Assistant Commissioner, apparently. And that’s why Vaizey blew a fuse.’
‘Vaizey blew a fuse?’ This was an interesting insight into her new boss’s character. He seemed very chilled.
‘According to my spies, he told Dave it was time he took his pension, fucked off and left the Met to those who actually had the balls to get the job done.’
Jo couldn’t help smiling, even though she’d been deflected from her purpose. Vaizey must have a deal of confidence, not to mention arrogance, to speak to another senior officer, indeed a more experienced officer, like that. Or perhaps it was political clout.
It Should Have Been Me Page 8