It Should Have Been Me

by Susan Wilkins

  ‘Are you planning to involve Mum in this discussion?’

  ‘If you think that would be at all possible, yes.’

  Jo picked up her glass of fizzy water. She was beginning to wish she’d opted for something stronger. She thought about the cardboard boxes of her sister’s journals and the care with which he’d wrapped them up in tissue paper and put them away.

  ‘I’ve been reading Sarah’s journals. We got them out of the loft.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Wow! You’ve got more courage than me.’

  ‘Why courage?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps because I fear finding out how much I’m to blame.’

  ‘How can you be to blame?’

  ‘A man should be able to protect his own daughter. She was so young. Eighteen years old. Little more than a child. I should’ve—’ The back of his hand brushed his mouth. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Jo found his self-pity mildly annoying.

  ‘Why didn’t you get some kind of proper treatment for Mum?’

  ‘My God, Jo, you think I didn’t try? The GP suggested having her sectioned. I thought that would only make things worse. Grief isn’t a mental illness, it’s part of life, a normal process.’

  ‘Having your child murdered is hardly normal.’

  ‘I thought we could somehow get through it together. I didn’t understand, at the time, what was happening to her. Or to me. It was all so drawn out. Well, you know how long these things take. Waiting for the trial. Sitting in court every day, it was a form of torture. After it was over I think we both just went off the deep end in our different ways.’

  Jo was watching and listening to him but curiously she felt nothing. She could empathize with a Syrian refugee, or an elderly neighbour, she could even shed a tear over a dead cat. But faced with her own father’s pain she felt completely cynical and detached.

  ‘Listen, Dad, I don’t think there’s a straightforward way you’re going to be able to shut these people down. An injunction? On what grounds? Nathan Wade has every right to ask for a review of his conviction. I’ve talked to the producer. She says if I look at the evidence and remain convinced that the conviction is sound then they’ll walk away.’

  ‘And you believe her?’

  ‘In the absence of any other practical alternative, I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt.’

  Nick Boden had his hands clasped together, almost in an attitude of prayer. ‘Will you keep me in the loop?’

  ‘Of course.’ Even as she said it she knew she was lying.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  It was still dark when Calvin Foley collected Jo from her flat in an unmarked squad car. The Met had the lead because she’d gathered the intel. But within days the remit to seize illegal arms had morphed into a major operation with the UK Border Agency, Hampshire Police and the National Crime Agency. Ivan Rossi’s boat had slipped its mooring at high tide the previous day and been tracked across the North Sea to the Dutch port of Zierikzee, fifty miles south of Rotterdam. Rossi himself had been on board and was now under surveillance by the Dutch police.

  By 7 a.m. Foley and Boden were on the M3 heading south. Their destination was the New Forest and the tidal reaches of the Beaulieu River around the medieval shipbuilding village of Buckler’s Hard.

  Driving into the forest as pallid shafts of sun began to leach through the morning mist gave Jo a sense of eerie detachment. Overnight there had been a thick dusting of snow. The boughs of the overhanging canopy dripped with a white frosting, creating a magical tunnel through the trees. It reinforced the feeling of leaving everyday reality behind.

  Once they turned on to the byroads the snow was several centimetres deep. Their route crossed patches of open heathland clothed in a fresh white mantle. Foley was forced to slow right down, follow the tyre tracks and keep an eagle eye out for the wandering ponies that suddenly appeared like spectres in the mist.

  The DS had made several attempts at conversation during the journey but Jo had closed her eyes and pretended to doze. She had plenty to think about and the job was the least of it. Fortunately, Foley left her alone; he tuned into Classic FM – a surprising choice for him, she thought – and let it play softly in the background.

  They drove into Buckler’s Hard to find the village totally deserted. Boats bobbed at their moorings shrouded in mist. The row of neatly preserved redbrick Georgian cottages was blanketed in snow and water lapped at a slipway crusted in ice.

  Foley parked in a puddle of slush outside the hotel. Opening her car door, Jo peered gingerly out. Snow rarely settled in London and she was wearing ordinary shoes. She hadn’t thought this through.

  But from the boot of the car the DS produced two pairs of green wellies.

  He offered one to Jo. ‘Had to guess your size.’

  ‘I’ve got big feet. Size seven.’

  ‘Yeah, that was my guess.’

  The boots fitted, she got out of the car and they began to saunter about. The brief was to pose as tourists.

  He took a couple of photos with his phone.

  ‘Can you imagine what it used to be like? Euryalus, Swiftsure and Agamemnon, great wooden ships of the line, they were all built here. Agamemnon was Nelson’s favourite.’ He seemed genuinely excited.

  Jo wrapped her scarf round her neck and pulled on her gloves. ‘How do you know all this stuff?’ He’d probably just looked it up on the net so he could play the smartarse.

  ‘Came here as a kid. My mum insisted on taking us to all sorts of places. Country walks too. She was always wanting to get out of Peckham.’

  Jo smiled but she was envious. Parents who showed you things, took you places so you learnt about history. Family outings. An ordinary upbringing. How different her life could’ve been.

  They headed for the hotel. A discreet mobile comms unit was up and running in a suite of river-facing rooms on the first floor. It was manned by two colleagues from Operation Grebe but there was no backup or uniforms in evidence. The priority was to maintain a low profile for as long as possible.

  The SIO, they were told, was down on the quay in the tiny Harbour Master’s office; it was more of a shed but commanded a good view of the river.

  Crunching through the crisp snow and taking a few more snaps on the way, they discovered Steve Vaizey consuming a bacon sandwich and chatting to the Harbour Master.

  He seemed remarkably relaxed, given the size and complexity of the operation. ‘You two are bright and early. White-out in the Channel last night but this morning a calmer sea so if I were them I’d be tempted to give it a go.’

  Foley nodded. ‘What d’you want us to do?’

  Vaizey glanced at Jo. ‘It would be useful if we could get some idea of his plans. What d’you think?’

  ‘I could try calling him. He’s left me a couple of messages, wondering why I haven’t been in touch.’

  ‘Okay. But, y’know . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, boss. I won’t spook him.’

  Vaizey nodded and turned straight back to the Harbour Master.

  Jo didn’t mind his curtness. He was focused on the job and she admired that.

  She and Foley strolled back towards the hotel. The sun had broken through and there were patches of blue sky.

  Foley smirked, scooped up a handful of snow and patted it into a ball.

  Jo wagged a gloved finger at him. ‘Don’t even think about it!’

  ‘Aww, don’t be a spoilsport. Just getting into the role.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  He shrugged and tossed the snowball away, in a long overarm cricketer’s throw; it plopped into the river. A moorhen squawked and took flight.

  ‘See, you’re frightening the ducks.’

  ‘Moorhens.’

  She shot him a baleful look.

  He smiled. ‘Sometimes I get the impression you’re not my biggest fan.’

  ‘I wonder why.’

  He hesitated, shoved his hands in his pockets. His bashful tone surprised her. ‘I don’t kno
w why. But I think it’s a pity. I like you, Jo. And, for the record, I think you’re doing a great job.’

  Her heart sank. Was Foley about to make a declaration? In the middle of all this? Surely not.

  But his gaze had strayed to the river. Perhaps he was simply trying to make friends? ‘You ever done any sailing?’

  ‘Boating. On holiday as a little kid.’

  ‘I used to do it competitively. Finn dinghies. I was pretty good as a junior.’

  Jo couldn’t decide if he was boasting again or making conversation or a bit of both.

  She decided to bat it back at him. ‘Where did you sail? On the south coast?’

  ‘Brighton. Even went to uni down there so I could carry on.’

  ‘You went to uni in Brighton?’

  The flicker of surprise in her voice didn’t escape him.

  He laughed. ‘Okay, so I look like a meathead and sometimes I act like one. But I do have a degree. Not that surprising, is it?’

  She shook her head and smiled.

  But it was mention of Brighton that had thrown Jo off balance. Her sister had gone to uni there and never come back. Thoughts stampeded through her brain. Foley was a student there too? When? Could he have known her? He was about the right age. Even thinking it was absurd.

  Reading her sister’s journals had unmoored her. They’d filled her with regret and sadness for the life she’d lost. And it was affecting and distorting everything.

  Stopping, she pulled out her phone. ‘Okay, if I’m going to do this, I need some space.’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, of course. I’ll wait for you in the hotel bar?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Glad of an excuse to escape him, Jo picked her way down the icy slipway towards the water’s edge. The tide was still ebbing, exposing a narrow band of coarse shingle, which gave way to slabs of brown river mud. Squatting down on her heels, she scrolled her phone to find Ivan Rossi’s number.

  Before clicking on it she paused to compose her thoughts. The last few days had been an odd time. Throughout her police career the job had been a refuge from the complications of her family and the past. But even now, in the midst of a major operation, when her mind definitely should be on the task in hand, her thoughts were jumbled. She couldn’t concentrate.

  Here she was, with the biggest opportunity of her career, a chance to prove what she could do, and her brain was in a spin.

  Since the encounter with her father she’d been consumed with listlessness. It was hard to accomplish even mundane things. She hadn’t spoken to Alison; she had no idea what state her mother was in.

  Now, as she stared down at the phone screen, something inside simply ruptured, desolation flooded out, tears started to flow and she couldn’t stop them.

  She pressed the call button. It rang a couple of times, then he answered.

  ‘Hey, Charlotte. I was hoping you’d ring.’

  Jo sobbed. And it was for real.

  ‘My God, are you okay? What’s happened? What has that bastard done to you? Charlotte?’

  ‘I’m sorry! I’m so sorry—’

  ‘No, you were right to call.’

  ‘I didn’t know what else—’

  ‘Where are you? At home?’

  ‘I’ve run away.’

  ‘That’s good. That’s smart.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Ivan.’

  ‘Listen to me, you can come and stay with me. I’m out of town at the moment. But I’ll call my sister and get her to let you in.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to bother anyone. And not your sister. I’m at a friend’s. But he’ll be looking for me.’

  ‘I’m going to be back in London tonight. Seven o’clock at the latest. Will you meet me then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I can help you, Charlotte. I want to help you. Are you safe at your friend’s for now?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Meet me at seven.’

  ‘You will be there?’

  ‘I promise. I’ll text you the address right now.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘Hey, not all blokes are like him, y’know.’

  ‘I’ll see you later. And thank you.’

  She hung up. Her cheeks were wet. She pulled out a tissue and blew her nose. Standing up, she felt light-headed and for a moment she thought she might throw up.

  She took several deep breaths, the freezing air zapped her lungs but helped clear her head. She walked slowly back to the hotel. Foley was standing on the steps of the main entrance rubbing his hands.

  ‘You okay?’

  She glanced around to check no one was in earshot. ‘I’ve arranged to meet him in London at seven o’clock tonight.’ Her voice sounded tiny and seemed to echo in her head.

  ‘That means he must be coming back on the afternoon tide.’ Foley clenched his fist and muttered under his breath. ‘Yes! We’ve got the bastard. Great work, Jo. I’ll let the boss know.’

  Turning away, he disappeared into the hotel. Jo watched him go. She felt completely spent. How much of that was an act and how much real? She didn’t know. She brushed a crust of ice off the wall and sat down. For the next quarter of an hour she watched her breath condensing in the frigid air.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  By early afternoon the mist was gone and the snow was melting. Jo and Foley had a sandwich in the hotel bar. Their chat was innocuous. It was very much a live operation, they remained in their undercover roles and on the lookout for any accomplices of Rossi who could well be hanging around. But there were few people about; a couple of sprightly retirees in walking boots were the only others having lunch.

  Posing as tourists, the two cops had taken covert snaps of everyone they encountered in their wanderings, mainly the few guests and staff around the hotel. These had been sent to the control room in London and checked against the national database. Nothing was flagged up.

  As surveillance jobs went, loafing around a four-star country hotel wasn’t that onerous. Jo’s skittering thoughts gradually became calmer. Foley could be a pain but she couldn’t fault his professionalism. His eyes were everywhere, his conversation bland and undemanding.

  However as the afternoon wore on, Jo started to worry. Her histrionics on the phone to Rossi seemed to have worked. But was it all a bit too easy? He seemed such an ordinary young bloke, yet how could he be? What if she’d been played by him and not the other way round? What if her phone call had in effect alerted the gang to the fact the police were waiting for them?

  High tide was around four o’clock, it came and there was no sign of his boat. Jo announced she was going for a walk on her own. Foley didn’t object.

  As she strolled along the quay a small dingy with an outboard puttered towards her. Vaizey sat in the bow with a rod leaning against his shoulder surrounded by fishing tackle. The other fisherman with his hand on the tiller she recognized as a colleague from Operation Grebe.

  The boat came alongside and Vaizey jumped out on to the pontoon. He looked damp and cold and had a sour expression. ‘Y’know what I think, Jo. I think we’re blown.’

  ‘No sign of anything?’ She felt unaccountably guilty.

  ‘Tide’s ebbing. It’ll be dark within half an hour.’

  He tied a line from the boat to a post on the jetty. He rubbed his hands to warm them up. His companion started to unload the fishing tackle. Vaizey turned to him. ‘A large Scotch for you in the bar when you’ve finished, Alan.’

  ‘Cheers, boss.’

  Vaizey and Boden started to walk back towards the hotel. His manner was subdued but she could feel his suppressed anger. He wasn’t a man who liked to lose.

  ‘I’m sorry, boss.’

  ‘These things don’t always go to plan.’

  ‘I thought I had him, I really did.’

  ‘May not be you. If his gang’s used this place before then they’ll have eyes and ears. Possibly even someone local to tip them off. Hampshire have got officers stak
ed out in the boatyard pretending to work there. Could be that.’

  ‘Shall I try and call him again?’

  ‘No. Let’s see if he comes back to you. Then we’ll know if your cover’s blown.’

  They walked on in silence. When they got halfway up the slipway he turned and gazed out at the river. The light was already fading. The sky was louring but the rippling water had a mercurial sheen.

  Turning to face her his smile was wistful. ‘Beautiful spot, eh? Maybe I should take up fishing for real.’

  There was a softness in his eyes that she’d not seen before and suddenly the notion of him being defeated, of suffering, irked her. If this operation turned out to be an expensive failure – as it likely would – he’d have to shoulder the blame. She wanted him to know that she was on his side, absolutely and completely.

  ‘Y’know, maybe Rossi’s smarter than we thought. Some girl walks into his shop? He could’ve made me, fed me a line—’

  He raised his index finger and placed it gently on her shoulder. ‘I appreciate the offer. But I don’t need you to take the fall.’

  His touch was so light but its effect was electric. She just wanted him to kiss her.

  But he stepped back. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.’

  It was disappointing but also a relief. Her head was in enough of a muddle. She didn’t need to make it worse. He was a married man with a family. And did she actually want to commit career suicide? Probably not.

  The phone in her jacket pocket buzzed. Pulling it out, she glanced at the screen then stopped dead. ‘It’s him!’

  Vaizey turned to face her, a wry smile hovering on his lips, as if he’d known, he’d always known.

  He gave her a nod. ‘Okay then.’

  Jo took a breath and answered the call. ‘Hey, Ivan?’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The image on the screen was bleached of colour, it was almost dark but with enough reflected light from the river and patches of snow to make it possible to see what was happening.

  In the hotel suite there were four monitors lined up on portable tables each showing live-feed from a separate camera. But attention was focused on the far-left screen. Camera one.