Skirting the edge of Borough Market, her thoughts turned back to her flatmate. Once Marisa was discharged from hospital she was going home to her parents in Peterborough to convalesce. It would be some time before she returned to London and the flat and Jo wondered if she would return. The experience of the attack had traumatized her, although they hadn’t spoken about that. Marisa was the youngest of three, her older sisters had children and all lived in Cambridgeshire and the edge of the Fens. Jo could imagine that, after what had happened, her family may well put pressure on Marisa to get a job up there.
This prospect left Jo feeling lonely. They’d found the flat together and it would be bleak without her. By the time she turned from Southwark Bridge Road into Lant Street the steady flow of passers-by had thinned to a trickle. The freezing drizzle was turning to a sleety downpour and Jo held her jacket over her head as she scurried along the wet, dimly lit pavements towards the flats.
As she skipped across the rough tarmac outside the block he loomed from the shadows and they practically collided. The street lamp was out so she couldn’t see his face. He grabbed her arm and she reacted instinctively, twisting free and readying herself to land a blow.
He threw up his palms. ‘Hey, go easy! I surrender.’
Jo’s heart was thumping. Another attack? Then recognition dawned.
Calvin Foley gave her a thin smile. ‘I’ve been waiting ages and I’m bloody freezing. Can we go inside?’
‘What d’you want?’ Jo managed to keep the panic out of her voice.
‘To talk. But I’d rather do it inside.’
‘I’d rather do it here.’
‘It’s bloody sleeting.’
‘I like sleet.’
He sighed and turned up his collar. ‘I’ve been talking to Jabreel Khan. Found out he was the one who initiated the corruption investigation.’
‘So?’ What was he up to now? Some new trick?
‘I’ve worked with Jabreel. He used to be a mate. A good officer, but then they made him go undercover.’
Jo took a step backwards away from him and towards the street. No way was he going to trap her. He was big, but she was hoping she was faster.
He slipped his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘Two years is a long time undercover. I don’t think it’s done him any good. He’s changed, gone paranoid and weird. I heard the other day that he brought one of the pool cars back with a dead cat in the boot. A dead fucking cat. And he just left it there.’
‘Why are you saying this to me, why not to Hollingsworth?’ Her hair was soaking, icy water was seeping down her neck and under her collar.
‘Believe it or not, because I thought I could help you.’
‘Okay, then meet me tomorrow in the office.’
‘I want to help you, Jo. You’re a good cop. We’ve got a lot in common.’
‘Like what?’
‘There may be a way out of this. Don’t you want that? Why are you backing away from me?’ His tone went from cajoling to miffed. She couldn’t see his eyes but she didn’t need to.
‘Take a guess, Foley. I’m not as stupid as you think.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Jo knew her only advantage was surprise. She had to go for it. Spinning round, she turned on her heel and ran, sprinting through the puddles, heading for the light of the main road. Only when she reached the corner did she allow herself a brief glimpse over her shoulder.
He wasn’t moving but he shouted after her. ‘I’m trying to help you, you ungrateful bitch!’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Jo Boden ran. Within minutes the hard glittery lights along the river were in front of her. Her chest was heaving but she was fitter than she’d thought. There was no sign of pursuit. But then it occurred to her that she was probably being tracked. If he knew exactly where she was, he didn’t need to run after her.
Even though she’d altered the settings on her phone, with the right equipment that could be overridden. It struck her as ironic that she’d asked him for permission to use the PNC to find Richard Green. She had to assume that he would have no scruples about the illegal use of resources to keep tabs on her. Or perhaps Jabreel was working with him? Or maybe he’d just lied to Vaizey. There were too many things she didn’t know.
When she reached Southwark Bridge she slowed to a walk. The sleet had turned to rain, she was soaked through. As her initial panic subsided she tried to come up with a plan. Had he come to kill her or negotiate, or both? There may be a way out of this. Don’t you want that? It sounded like the prelude to an offer. The corruption charge could be made to go away if she backed off? Well, he could stuff that.
The immediate priority was to find somewhere safe to hide, where she was completely off the grid. Going to her mother’s was not an option. It was the obvious place to look. She toyed briefly with her father’s home in Norfolk. But Foley had mentioned him, which suggested that wouldn’t be safe either.
She glanced over the parapet of the bridge at the inky river below. The tide was high, shards of light danced across the ridges of the waves. It wasn’t ideal but it was the only solution she could come up with. She extracted her phone from her bag. The text she’d written to Vaizey wasn’t finished but all the main points were there. She clicked on it and pressed send. Then she tossed her phone into the river.
Using a credit or debit card wouldn’t be too smart either, which ruled out a hotel. She checked her purse, she had a five-pound note and a couple of pounds’ worth of coins. She was beginning to appreciate what it felt like to be a target and on the wrong side of the law. And it was scary. The winter city was no place to be cast adrift. A homeless man huddled in a doorway cuddling a mangy dog asked her for change.
Setting a steady pace she headed north, cutting across Cannon Street and winding her way up through the lanes and snickets to Cheapside. She picked a route away from the busier thoroughfares so she’d have a chance of noticing anyone suspicious. When she reached Moorgate she selected a bar, still crowded with office workers, asked to use their payphone and called directory enquiries.
Through her damp jacket and jeans her core body temperature was dropping. The ends of her fingers were numb. The last thing she fancied was a night on the streets. She found herself silently praying that they weren’t ex-directory.
Fifteen minutes later Gordon Kramer pulled up outside in a red Tesla Roadster. He leaned over, clicked open the passenger door and Jo climbed in.
The relief of being cocooned in the warm comfort of the car was overwhelming. A weariness crept over her as she thawed out.
He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘He was waiting for you?’
‘Outside my flat. I chucked my phone in the river.’ She was finding it hard to speak.
He gave her a curt nod. ‘You did the right thing.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
The Kramers lived in a tall, three-storey early Victorian terraced house overlooking Clissold Park. Gordon slotted the Tesla into a permit-holders-only space outside. The branches of the bare horse chestnut trees overhanging the park railings created a stark dripping canopy.
Gordon unlocked the front door. ‘Come on in.’
‘I’m sorry about this.’ Her relief at being rescued had turned to awkwardness.
‘It’s not a problem.’
Tania was in the kitchen. ‘Oh, Jo. Are you okay?’
‘Yeah. A bit damp, that’s all.’
The couple exchanged looks and asked no more questions, from which Jo concluded she must appear more bedraggled than she thought.
She was offered a hot shower and a fluffy bathrobe.
The bathroom contained a large walk-in shower with power jets. She positioned herself in the midst of the cascade and let the needles of water pummel her weary body. She started to panic. Maybe she’d been precipitous in the text she’d sent to Steve Vaizey. Foley had his ear and it would be all too easy for him to present her allegations as nonsense dreamed up to save her own neck.
&nbs
p; There was a hairdryer in the bedside drawer of the comfy guest bedroom and an expensive bottle of moisturizer on the mantelpiece over the carefully restored fireplace. It was the kind of attention to detail that Alison would’ve appreciated. A comfortable home of the sort Jo had grown up in until her parents’ divorce robbed her of such an enviable lifestyle.
Not for the first time she found herself reflecting on how her sister’s murder had ruined everything. Slipping under the plump duvet she tried to make a plan but exhaustion snared her and she was soon fast asleep.
When she awoke sunshine spilled through the gap between the curtains. At first she had no clue as to where she was. Then she noticed her clothes folded in a neat pile on the chair. Someone in the Kramer household, she assumed Tania, had washed and dried them.
For a few moments she lay staring up at the white ceiling rose as the events of the previous evening seeped back into her conscious mind. Foley’s audacity angered her but it also sharpened her resolve. She would not be beaten. With renewed determination she got out of bed and dressed.
Making her way downstairs she discovered the back of the house had been opened up to create a large kitchen-diner with sliding doors onto a patio and the garden. A lanky youth with headphones on sat at the marble breakfast bar.
He gave her a smile. ‘Hey, I’m Angus.’
‘Jo.’
‘Can I get you anything? Mum makes her own muesli mix. It’s not bad.’
‘I’m okay for now. Where is your mum?’
‘They’re all in the basement, looking at some footage.’
Following his directions, Jo opened what must’ve been the original cellar door. It led to a steep carpeted stairway. The carpet also extended up the walls to create a well-insulated basement viewing theatre.
At the bottom of the stairs she found herself in an oblong space with a large screen at one end. In front of it there were six low leather armchairs arranged two abreast in three rows.
Gordon was at the back of the room fiddling somewhat ineffectually with a laptop. Kayleigh was standing next to him, itching to take over. Tania was sitting in the front row and Nathan Wade was next to her.
Tania craned her head around. ‘Jo! You’re just in time. Come and join us. Nathan and Kayleigh have brought their surveillance footage round to show us.’
Jo sat on the chair behind. Coming to them wet and beleaguered in the night, asking for help, had left her embarrassed. It felt as if she’d lost control and been cast as the victim. She tried to adopt a businesslike tone. ‘Of Cynthia Fenton-Wright? Did you get anything interesting?’
Nathan shrugged. ‘Nah. She went to a meeting with clients, then she went home.’
Jo hadn’t been holding out much hope. She’d provided them with a couple of her tourist snaps of Foley, taken at Buckler’s Hard as part of her cover, so they could identify him. But one thing was clear about Cynthia, she had a cool head and was unlikely to do anything rash.
They spent the next hour trawling through the material Nathan and Kayleigh had gathered. It was well-shot and clear, Jo would give them that, and far superior in quality to most of the surveillance footage and CCTV she regularly dealt with. But it contained long passages of nothing in particular. They went through in chronological order. Jo couldn’t have cared less about the composition, she longed to fast-forward. She knew the only way to nail Cynthia Fenton-Wright was with a professional police surveillance team sitting on her 24/7, and taping her phone, for as long as it took. But that wasn’t about to happen.
They were getting towards the end of the footage. Kayleigh, armed with a GoPro, had followed Cynthia on foot as she took her commuter train home from Liverpool Street to Ingatestone in Essex.
Cynthia walked from the station to a substantial detached house on the edge of the village. It was set in a large plot with a high bay hedge at the front. As darkness fell Kayleigh edged forward and concealed herself between the fence and the shrubbery.
The intern sighed. ‘I stayed until her husband got home. But I was freezing. Then it started to rain.’
Tania gave her a reassuring smile. ‘No one can say you didn’t go the extra mile. Briony would’ve been proud.’
On the screen a grey BMW pulled into the drive and the outside security light came on. A man got out, walked towards the front door, opened it with his key and disappeared inside. A moment later he returned to the car, took a coat and a briefcase from the back. Cynthia came out, spoke to him. A small boy, around five years old, came from behind her and trotted eagerly to the car. The man scooped the child up in one arm. He laughed. A happy family tableau from a storybook.
Jo realized she was holding her breath as if she’d been punched in the gut. Her brain was reeling. She was staring at the screen and willing it not to be true. But as he returned to the house, carrying his son, the light fell fully on his face and there was no room for doubt. It was definitely Steve Vaizey.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
She sat on a wooden bench in Clissold Park staring straight ahead of her. The path was muddy and slushy from the overnight deluge. A friendly greeting from a morning dog walker startled her. Her thoughts were scattered and dark, she was finding it hard to think. It was easy to believe that she might be going mad.
Her brain, her whole body was struggling to adjust to the shock. He was Bruce. He’d known Sarah. More than that, he’d destroyed her. The numbness Jo felt, the void inside was filling with anger, a hot rage, not only for her sister but also for herself. He’d drawn her into his web. Yet when she’d become a threat he’d set out to wreck her career with the same ruthlessness he’d visited on her sister. It was hard to comprehend and harder to accept.
An hour or more had passed when Nathan Wade came strolling towards her. But Jo didn’t register his presence until he sat down beside her.
He folded his hands. ‘Gordon’s good at this. He’s been chatting up someone at my old uni. Steven John Vaizey graduated with an MSc. in psychology in 2001. Joined the police six months later. So it looks like he could well be Bruce. It could never’ve been Calvin Foley, he was only a year older than me and Sarah. A second year, not a postgrad.’
Jo said nothing.
‘We also found out Vaizey married Cynthia Fenton-Wright at Chelmsford Register Office in June 2006. She kept her own name for business purposes.’
The hollow feeling in her stomach, the desolation and sense of betrayal would take a long time to abate. But anger, and the adrenaline that came with it, was the stimulant she needed.
She turned to look at Nathan. ‘If you didn’t kill Sarah, why didn’t you argue with them? Why didn’t you keep protesting your innocence?’
He gave his head a weary shake. ‘I was nineteen years old. The police told me I’d done it. That I was so wasted I didn’t remember. I suppose I believed them. I didn’t want to upset anyone. I know that sounds stupid.’
‘Naive, maybe.’
She scanned his face. He was thirty-five, the age her sister would’ve been. He looked possibly ten years older, worn and weary.
‘When they transferred me from young offenders to adult nick I realized I had a choice: work the system and survive or top myself.’
‘Did you believe the story about Rigzi?’
‘Mostly. It meant I deserved it, I was being punished for something that was my fault. In an odd way, it made it easier. I was just another con. I behaved like a con. Problem is, now that’s how I am. That’s me. But I have to learn how to do things differently. I can’t treat everyone like they’re a scumbag with a shiv up their sleeve. Normal people get upset.’
Jo was struck by the sourness in his tone, which, she suspected, would take a long time to disappear.
He fixed her with a chilly stare. ‘D’you think anyone can change?’
‘Maybe in time. And if they want to.’
He nodded. ‘Still, I’ve found something I like doing.’
‘Film-making?’
‘Kayleigh let me get my hands on the camera a co
uple of times. I think I could get quite good at it.’
‘You two seem to get on.’
‘You mean am I shagging her?’
‘Well, yeah.’
A crafty smile spread over his face. ‘You’re not gonna like this but she reminds me of Sarah. Not in looks, obviously. But they’re very similar.’
Jo scowled, no way was she buying this. ‘Perhaps it’s just that you haven’t had sex for a long time?’
‘Same age. Nineteen. Clever. Both headbangers.’
‘Sorry. I don’t see it.’
He sighed. ‘Well, I suppose she was a very different person to you. Big sister, someone you looked up to.’
Jo decided it was politic to change the subject. On the surface, she seemed to be functioning but inside she was as bruised and battered as anyone who’d had their guts kicked out.
‘What about going to the CCRC and persuading them to order a review of your conviction?’
‘I’ve been talking to Harry, my lawyer. He says it’ll take time. My parents are both dead and I couldn’t give a toss what anyone else thinks about me. But some compensation would be nice.’
He stood up, stretched his arms above his head and gazed up at the trees, the fretwork of bare wood forming a vault over them.
‘Gives me a buzz, all this. Being outside, fresh air, proper vegetation. It’s what I missed all those years.’ He was about to walk away. ‘Nearly forgot. Reason I came out, Tania said to tell you that your mum and dad have turned up.’
‘My mum and dad? Together?’
‘Yeah. They’re all having a big strategy meeting, what should happen next.’
What should happen next? Jo was well aware that she had no answer to that question. She had her parents and a motley crew of media hacks.
Vaizey had the resources of the MPS. He could still destroy her and probably would.
It Should Have Been Me Page 30