She’d woken up on a narrow divan with a wet cloth on her forehead in what had turned out to be Gordon Kramer’s private inner sanctum. He was sitting on a low-slung canvas chair beside her and had offered her a can of Coke.
‘Sugar hit, it’ll bring you round.’
Her hand was still unsteady but she’d accepted the drink and managed a mouthful.
He’d lounged back in his chair and watched her. ‘Y’know one time in Helmand the Taliban got hold of me. Threw me in this stinking cellar. Dark, evil place, I was convinced my number was up. They left me there, no food, only water, two maybe three days, I lost track of time. And you think about everything. Your emotions go from anger to self-pity to despair and back again. But Homo sapiens, we’re survivors, we fight back, it’s in our DNA.’
‘I want to fight back, but I don’t know how.’ Jo managed to sit up.
‘Oh, you do. It just takes some figuring out. You’re in shock, that’s a natural reaction to a surprise attack. But you know your world and you know how to win in it. This bastard’s out to get you. Accept that, regroup, reassess. And be prepared to do what’s necessary to beat him. You’re tougher than you think.’
‘How did you escape the Taliban?’
‘My boss paid a ransom to an Afghan intermediary. That’s the other thing: know who’s on your side.’
After her fainting fit, Jo felt better. She’d consumed a double cheeseburger and chips that one of Kramer’s sidekicks had brought her and felt better still. She’d also taken his advice.
She was a cop and desperately wanted to remain a cop. Her first concern was to gather enough ammunition, in the form of solid evidence, and take it to Vaizey. She’d have to deal with how that evidence had been obtained afterwards. But she was sure of one thing – whatever had happened on a personal level between them would become irrelevant once the boss got wind of what had been going on.
Steve Vaizey was a respected and ambitious senior officer and if one of his DSs had gone rogue he’d want to be the one to deal with it and nail him. Jo also had a suspicion that he’d be more than happy to see Hollingsworth proved wrong. Separate but related enquiries would be needed – into Sarah’s murder and Briony Rowe’s apparent suicide. Nathan Wade’s innocence and his supposed suffering in prison might make a great film but it wasn’t Jo’s primary issue. She still disliked and distrusted him.
So, when she walked into the café, she wasn’t too thrilled to find him tucked away in the booth beside Kayleigh. They both looked up at Jo’s approach and greeted her with tepid smiles.
He must’ve read the disapproval in her look. ‘I’m here for Briony. We all are.’
Jo didn’t believe that but simply raised her eyebrows. ‘Then let’s get on with it.’
Kayleigh had the kit ready. Jo sat down beside her as she fitted the covert button camera in the lapel of the cop’s jacket. Nathan reached under the table to a large M&S carrier. It contained a leather briefcase with a concealed pinhole camera and audio recording device. He handed it to Jo. Tania Jones’s strategy was to record everything, as much footage and from as many angles as possible, a belt-and-braces approach.
Jo had worn a bodycam in her days as a uniformed PC, but the technology had moved on considerably. These devices were a fraction of the size, designed to produce broadcast quality footage and were a much higher spec than anything the Met had, which didn’t please the cop.
Kayleigh fixed her with an anxious look. ‘Thing is, nowadays most people expect you to use your phone. So show her that, make a point of turning it off.’
‘I do know how to fool a suspect and make a covert recording.’
‘Sorry.’ The attempt to look contrite wasn’t all that convincing. Jo got the impression that Briony’s former intern didn’t much like her.
She turned to Nathan. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Since seven.’ He flipped open a page in his notebook. ‘Twenty-five members of staff in the branding agency. Most got here between 8.45 and 9.15. But Cynthia herself didn’t arrive until 10. Says on her website she has two children, which probably explains it.’
‘Probably.’ Jo gave him a smile but his face remained taut and sombre.
She decided not to mention that during her previous encounter with the businesswoman she’d observed an impressive platinum and diamond rock on her ring finger, plus she had a couple of felt-tip kids’ drawings pinned up in her office. It was reasonable therefore to assume the hours she worked were tailored to her childcare arrangements.
‘What about her husband? What does he do?’
‘Website doesn’t say. Just says married with two children.’ Nathan’s tone was brisk.
She shrugged. ‘Okay, let’s rock ’n’ roll. Isn’t that what you telly people say?’
Kayleigh glared at her. ‘No. And by the way, in case you need reminding, we’re here to find out who had Briony murdered.’
Jo looked at the young film student, bristling with grief and hostility, and bit back a retort. Nathan simply looked sullen. They didn’t get the flippancy and the black humour that the job fostered. Jo found herself envying their certainty, their belief that, after all these years, the truth would be revealed. She had no such belief, merely a vague hope that somehow she’d get something to rescue her career.
Sighing, she picked up the briefcase and headed out of the door.
Dodging traffic as she crossed the road to Cynthia’s office she felt wired. A fainting fit followed by sugar, caffeine, food and adrenaline had thrown her metabolism out of whack. Her brain was nattering, telling her this was crazy but necessary, it was the only way to get Foley.
She took the stairs up to the first-floor office two at a time and arrived in the open-plan reception area. The CEO’s office was in the far corner and, ignoring the receptionist’s protestations, Jo steamed across the room straight for it. Cynthia saw her coming through the open door and Jo was gratified to see that her reaction was tinged with panic.
The businesswoman was quick to gather herself. ‘DC Boden. I would say come in, but you already have.’
‘Afternoon, Cynthia. I’ve got a couple of questions. It shouldn’t take up too much of your time.’
‘I follow the news. I’ve seen what the papers are saying about you. You’re under investigation for corruption. I think you should leave.’
Jo plonked her briefcase down on Cynthia’s desk.
‘I wanted to ask about an old friend of yours. Calvin Foley.’
Cynthia frowned. ‘Not a name I recognize. Are you going to force me to call the police?’
‘Think back. That night on campus when you met Nathan Wade.’
‘I didn’t meet Nathan Wade. I’ve already told you that.’ The pitch of her voice rose. Her fingers were tightly clasped. ‘What is this? Some kind of bizarre attempt to salvage your reputation?’
‘No, I’ve simply figured out what happened. It was no coincidence that you and Briony had lunch shortly before her death. You wanted to find out what she knew. And I think Briony would’ve wanted to boast to you. She would’ve told you she was about to identify the postgrad who’d stalked my sister.’
‘This is a total fantasy for which you have absolutely no proof.’
‘Murder is a kind of proof. The circumstances of Briony’s death are very questionable. So there will be a new investigation. You’ll have to answer their questions. In the meantime, I’d be worried, if I were you.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You didn’t expect him to kill Briony, did you? You were genuinely shocked. I saw that when I told you.’
‘Of course I’m shocked by her death. Who wouldn’t be? But if she threw herself under a train—’
‘She could identify him. And I’m assuming you can too. If you make a full statement then you and your family will receive police protection. How many kids do you have?’
She shook her head and scowled. ‘You would try and bring my children into this? You’re despicable.’
&nb
sp; ‘You need to think about them. He will.’
‘Who? This . . . person?’
‘Calvin Foley.’
‘I have never met him or even heard the name.’
‘What if we can prove that you do know him?’
‘I’d like to see you try.’ Cynthia got to her feet. ‘I shall be calling my lawyer, DC Boden. And he will be contacting your superiors to demand that you withdraw these malicious and totally unfounded allegations. You think you can walk in here and intimidate me with your threats? Dragging my children into it. I am not without resources. In fact, I’m quite a wealthy woman and if I don’t receive a full apology in writing for this outrage, I will sue you and the organization you work for. But I don’t think it’ll come to that.’
‘Why, Cynthia? Because I’m going to jail? Because someone’s transferred five grand into my bank from an offshore account in the British Virgin Islands? As you say, you’re a wealthy woman. Have you got any offshore accounts? These days the authorities in the BVI can be more cooperative than people think. And the IPCC will be in touch with them. It’s a theory, I’ll admit, but I wouldn’t mind guessing that money can be traced back to you.’
‘Get out of my office!’ Her face was pale, she was shaking.
‘Think about it, Cynthia. Looks to me like you’ve got a very nice life. A very successful business. Are you really going to put all this on the line for Calvin Foley?’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Jo Boden left the building with a smug look on her face. Cynthia Fenton-Wright had certainly huffed and puffed, the real question was what would she do now? Without the luxury of hacking and tracking her phone – though Jo suspected Kramer might be trying to arrange this despite its illegality – they would have to rely on old-fashioned legwork.
Confronting Cynthia directly had been a high-risk strategy based on a theory for which they had not a scrap of concrete evidence. The notion that the IPCC would try and track the money that had ended up in Jo’s account was also currently a pretty hollow threat. However, her reaction did suggest Jo was on the right track. Now it was a waiting game with the hope that sooner or later she’d lead them to Foley.
Jo rejoined Kayleigh and Nathan. ‘Well, I think I got under her skin.’
‘We heard.’ Kayleigh didn’t seem that impressed.
‘She had eyes on me all the time, I couldn’t get a bug in her office, too risky.’
Jo unhooked the button camera and returned it with the briefcase. ‘You’ll have to make sure you don’t lose her. And hope that she decides not to trust any communication to the phone.’
‘Aren’t you going to help us?’ Kayleigh’s tone was petulant.
‘I’ve got something else I need to do.’
‘What? You’re suspended from duty. What’s more important than this?’
Jo was going to the hospital to see Marisa. But she didn’t see any need to explain herself. ‘You’ve got my number. Let me know what she gets up to, okay.’
‘Oh yeah, right, leave it to us.’ Kayleigh gave a mock salute. ‘And what about Briony’s Mini? They won’t give it to me because I’m not a relative. Even though I was on the insurance.’
‘I’ve explained. We’ve got to get Sussex Police to open an investigation. That’s what we’re working towards.’
‘We are. You’re just buggering off.’
Nathan put a gentle hand on Kayleigh’s forearm. ‘Come on. We’ll manage. Jo’s done her bit for now. And we’re grateful.’
His gaze met Jo’s. She still didn’t trust him.
She shrugged. ‘This could take days. Surveillance is a game of patience.’
‘Oh, I’m good at that.’ He gave her a ghostly smile.
‘I’m sure you are.’
‘Don’t worry. Wherever she goes, we’ll get it on film.’
‘Okay. And don’t be too obvious.’
Kayleigh gave her a surly glare. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’
Jo turned on her. ‘What exactly is your problem?’
‘She was doing this for your sister and if you’d only listened . . .’
Jo scanned the girl, still in her teens, trying to hang tough but choking on her own tears. She had a point. But Briony Rowe had also been intent on making a name for herself.
‘You know what, Briony was an annoying pain in the arse. Much like you, in fact. But I do care about her death and the probability that she was murdered. And once we get the evidence we need I will make sure that this is properly investigated and her killer brought to justice. And that’ll have to be good enough for you, okay?’
Jo didn’t wait for a reply. Turning on her heel, she strode out of the café.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Marisa had been transferred to a specialist ward on the twelfth floor of the Royal London. Emerging from the lift, Jo was crossing the lobby towards an open waiting area and the wards when she caught sight of her two former colleagues Darryl Tanner and Debbie Georgiou. They were at the vending machine and had their backs to her.
Shame and confusion swept over Jo and she ducked round the corner. Darryl was laughing and making some comment – probably one of his dubious jokes – as he fed coins into the machine. Peering at them from her hiding place Jo felt like a complete fool. It seemed too much of a coincidence; they must’ve come to interview Marisa about the attack. But at least Hollingsworth was investigating.
Jo berated herself, she had nothing to be ashamed of, why the hell was she skulking like this? It had been a knee-jerk reaction. But what did she actually fear? Their judgement? So what if they assumed the allegations were true? She’d come to see Marisa. She took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the wall in time to see the two DCs disappear into the lift with their drinks.
A sense of relief cascaded through Jo, she couldn’t help it. What concerned her more was facing her flatmate. If they’d already interviewed her, then she’d know. Steeling herself, Jo lifted her chin and walked down the corridor and into the ward. She wondered if she should’ve brought flowers. She’d spaced that out completely.
Marisa’s bed was nearest the window in one of the bays. A nurse directed Jo. She found her friend, eyes closed, dozing. Her right arm was swathed in bandages and she had patches of white gauze taped to her forehead. Jo stood rooted to the spot, she hadn’t seen Marisa since she’d accompanied her to A&E. Responsibility and guilt washed over her. This should never have happened; it was all her fault.
‘Crap picture. Makes you look about forty. If the paps are gonna get you, at least it should be glamorous and flattering.’ Marisa opened her eyes and smiled.
Jo sat down beside the bed. ‘You’ve seen the paper then?’
‘A couple of your mates kindly brought me a copy. They’ve just gone.’
‘I know I saw them.’ Jo had to swallow hard. She was accustomed to accidents and car crashes, she’d attended her fair share. But this was her best friend. ‘Oh, Mari, I am so sorry about this. It should’ve—’
‘Hey, it’s not your fault. Wasn’t you that chucked the acid. But it was you that shoved me in the shower. So I’ve seen the plastic surgeon and the treatment plan seems fairly straightforward. Couple of skin grafts on my arm and a small patch on my forehead.’
‘How’s the pain?’
Marisa smiled. ‘That’s all sorted. I know the staff nurse, we’ve worked together.’ She raised her left hand and fingered the gauze. ‘Pity this wasn’t a bit lower, they might’ve done me a nice nose job on the NHS too.’
Jo had to wipe away the tears. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your nose.’
‘Don’t blub, Boden. You’re supposed to be the tough cop.’
‘I don’t much feel like it.’
‘Paper says you’ve been suspended. But as I explained to Tweedledee and Tweedledum, you’re not stupid. If you were being paid off by this gangster, what would be the point in them coming round to throw acid at you?’
‘The theory is it’s a set-up to distract attention from the fact I’
m their informant.’
Marisa laughed. ‘Really? You could’ve easily opened that door. At least a 50 per cent chance you would’ve done.’
‘They might argue I deliberately let you do it.’
‘Yeah, but they don’t know you. I do.’ Marisa’s gaze came to rest on her. ‘This world is full of nasty people, capable of horrendous things. But you’re not one of them.’
Jo took her friend’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Thank you.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Jo spent more than an hour with Marisa and by the time she left the hospital it was getting dark. She emerged on to Whitechapel Road to join the streams of scurrying shoppers weaving between roadside stalls of stacked vegetables or bales of sari silks and the belching crawling traffic. As the drizzle started she managed to cram herself on to a bus, which took her, standing room only, down to London Bridge.
It was a wintry evening with wafers of freezing fog floating across the river but Jo was feeling more bullish. Marisa had encouraged her to make the most of the help on offer. Whatever Jo’s reservations about working with Gordon Kramer and his crew, it was her best chance of fighting back. Without them, the naturally conservative institutional forces of the police would work to silence and sink her. Marisa agreed that she had to find a way to make Vaizey listen to her. Once he understood that Jo wasn’t angling for an affair or likely to rat him out to his wife, then he’d be more likely to do the right thing.
Jo spent most of her cramped bus ride on the draft of a text to him. Text, she decided, was better than email. It was a more personal appeal but, she concluded, distant enough not to come over as badgering.
Creating a succinct summary of the events leading up to Briony’s death and her emerging belief that her sister’s killer was still at large and could indeed be a police officer, one of his officers, Calvin Foley, was no easy task. As she walked across London Bridge she tried to order her thoughts. She knew that she’d probably only get one chance to present him with her arguments and get him onside.
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