It Should Have Been Me

by Susan Wilkins

  ‘When you slept with her, did you use a condom?’

  ‘I hate those things. Well, I think you already know that. But you’re on the pill, aren’t you? Which is sensible in your situation.’

  Jo wondered what he thought her situation was. A woman, hardly virginal, approaching her sell-by date in fact, who was grateful for any casual sex that came her way?

  ‘So you guessed she was planning to have an abortion. Why didn’t you try to stop her?’

  ‘Oh, believe me, I was going to. I was following them when my car broke down. It was a bit of an old banger, all I could afford back then. The clutch went. The next time I saw her, she’d done the deed.’

  ‘Didn’t you ever try and talk to her about it?’

  ‘She lied. Said she didn’t want to be with me. Which more or less confirmed it. So I went into her room, read her journal, it was there in black and white what she’d done and how it was none of my business. She was unhinged, I don’t know, perhaps it was the hormones. I was in love with her, Jo, and I would’ve married her.’

  ‘Maybe she didn’t want that. She was only eighteen, just starting university.’

  ‘But then she took up with that idiot: Nathan Wade. It should’ve been me, Jo, not a stupid boy. She was only interested in him because she could control him.’

  ‘Whatever your view, that didn’t give you the right to kill her.’ She’d said it, it was out there. She had no idea how he’d react.

  He got off the stool, removed his tie, huffed.

  ‘Look. That was an accident, pure and simple. I decided to give her another chance. But she insisted on being difficult. I never intended to hurt her. She fell, hit her head.’

  ‘That’s not what killed her though, is it? She was asphyxiated.’

  ‘I had no choice. She would’ve ruined my life.’ He reached over to the laptop. ‘Here, read my earlier letters. I’ve explained it to you.’

  ‘I’ll read them later. What about Briony Rowe?’

  He sighed. ‘That’s not something you and I need discuss.’

  Jo took a careful breath; in this deadly game of poker, everything depended on her holding her nerve.

  ‘Why not?’

  He started to pace. ‘Bloody media! You know what those vultures are like. We do an important job. We’ve seized an arsenal of weapons. Put some serious criminals away. How many lives will that save? But along comes some meddling hack with an agenda.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘She was a loose end.’

  Jo tried to imagine the fight, the brute force required to push another human being in the path of a speeding train. He was strong enough to do it. But the most shocking thing for Jo was his cold indifference. He was pitiless. A loose end. Why had she not seen what he was? How had he beguiled her so easily? She felt foolish and feeble-minded.

  ‘Unfortunately, a loose end you failed to tidy up. Briony Rowe had a dash-cam in her car.’

  ‘What? You sure?’ A look came into his eye that she’d not seen before. Not fear or even anger, more petulance.

  ‘You should’ve guessed. She was a film-maker, into all that.’

  He frowned. ‘You’re right. I was in a hurry, I should’ve checked.’ His tone implied an annoying omission, like forgetting to collect the dry-cleaning. But Jo could see the calculation going on behind the impenetrable gaze.

  He drained his glass in a single gulp. ‘Right, I’ll have to sort that out.’

  He continued to pace, his restless energy brimming over, planning his next move. Jo watched him, the confidence was riveting. Part of her was still fascinated. But she had to press on.

  ‘I’ve been set up, Steve, accused of corruption. How are we going to sort that out?’

  He turned to her with irritation in his voice. ‘Look, you shouldn’t take that too personally. You put me in an untenable position, the point had to be made.’

  ‘Believe me, you’ve made it.’

  He gave her a considered look. ‘Okay, now we understand each other. So perhaps the situation is retrievable. Would you like that?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I could speak to Jabreel Khan. Explain that I’ve received further intel from my source and the transfer to your account was a computer error. And, you could talk to Sussex Police, make some excuse. Say we need to look at that stupid woman’s car.’

  ‘Me? I’m suspended.’ Jo had to admit his audacity was breathtaking.

  ‘I’ve said I’ll sort that out.’

  ‘Then I get my job back?’

  ‘You’re a good police officer. I’ve always thought so.’

  ‘I hope you’re right about that. Steven Vaizey, I’m arresting you for the murder of Sarah Boden.’

  He stared at her in disbelief. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why?’

  ‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence—’

  He was across the kitchen in two strides. With explosive speed his right fist flew straight at her head. It was a boxer’s move, a lethal punch designed to do serious damage. She jumped backwards and it missed her by a whisker. He followed with a jab in the stomach that knocked her off her feet. She slid backwards across the shiny tiled floor and slammed into one of the kitchen cabinets.

  He towered over her, hands on hips, hatred in his eyes. ‘This is your fault. It didn’t have to end like this.’

  The pain in her abdomen was excruciating. She could hardly breathe.

  Grabbing her by the lapels of her jacket, he hauled her up to her feet. As he did so the small camera concealed in her lapel came loose and clattered to the floor.

  Jo fixed him with a stony gaze, although she hardly had breath to speak. ‘Button camera . . . live streaming . . . to a remote computer—’

  ‘Rubbish! You’re bluffing.’

  He flung her on to the floor, reached over to the knife block and pulled out the longest blade.

  She tried to scrabble to her feet, but toppled sideways. He loomed over her.

  A crash and thump of boots in the hall; Foley burst through the door like a charging bull. He grabbed Vaizey from behind and slammed him against the wall. A phalanx of uniformed officers followed him in.

  The kitchen quickly filled with half a dozen police. Vaizey was disarmed and cuffed.

  Foley helped Jo to her feet. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I am now.’

  It took several moments for her to breathe normally. She felt shaky.

  Surrounded and under arrest, Vaizey remained strangely calm. His steely gaze bored into Jo. ‘This is nonsense. It’ll never stand up in court. You do realize that.’

  She glared back. ‘You’re the one who doesn’t understand. They’ve got it all, audio and video recording, broadcast quality too. You think you’re so smart, boss.’ She picked up her smashed mobile from the floor. ‘But you fell for the oldest trick in the book. Misdirection.’

  EPILOGUE

  It was 5 a.m. and the sodium-yellow drenched streets were deserted. Jo Boden and Cal Foley stood side by side in a dark patch of shadow on the rain-slicked pavement. The eerie silence was broken occasionally by the staccato crackle of the comms in the nearby van. They were in Rusholme, South Manchester waiting round the corner from the target premises while the armed response team and the local officers all got into position.

  They’d driven up from London and arrived in the early hours. Foley had suggested a curry and they’d gone to one of the late-night establishments on Wilmslow Road.

  Jo had been amazed by how much the DS could eat. He’d consumed his own meal then hoovered up what remained of hers.

  With the arrest of Steve Vaizey, Operation Grebe had been put on ice and its officers redeployed. There was a good deal of shock amongst the team. The Met’s press office was engaged in a battle with the media to present it as a case of one rogue officer and not an indication of wider corruption. The Deputy Assistant Commissioner had defended this position robustly in an interview with veteran reporter Gordon Kramer, which had been broadcast on Channel Four News. The fact that
officers like Jabreel Khan and others had inadvertently assisted Vaizey had been glossed over. Khan was on sick leave.

  Foley had joined Dave Hollingsworth’s squad, which made sense since he’d already become involved in exposing the set-up that his former boss had put in place to discredit Jo.

  The Major Crimes Unit in Sussex were investigating Briony Rowe’s death. The dash-cam footage from her Mini showed her being pulled over by an unmarked police car, hauled out of her own vehicle, brutally coshed and dragged towards the railway line. Her assailant was identified as Steve Vaizey and he’d been charged with her murder. He was also being questioned by the team set up to review the safety of Nathan Wade’s conviction for Sarah Boden’s murder. In both cases, the CPS thought the evidence compelling and expected a guilty verdict. Cynthia Fenton-Wright had reconciled with her husband and hired a top-notch legal firm to defend him.

  Sipping his beer, Foley had smirked at Jo across the table. ‘So when all this stuff goes out on the telly you’re gonna be the Commissioner’s blue-eyed girl. You solved your sister’s murder. Your career’ll go into the stratosphere.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Hope you remember who your friends are.’

  ‘Are we friends?’ She was teasing him. It had become the unspoken strategy they’d both adopted to get over the awkwardness between them. But Foley wasn’t the sort to bear a grudge. He also harboured the hope that eventually Jo Boden would come to see him in a different light.

  He’d been as good as his word and used his Manchester contacts to add some weight to the search for Razan’s missing sister.

  So they were present at a dawn raid on a crack house and brothel. As usual, much hanging around and waiting was involved. Jo rubbed her hands, Foley stomped his feet. It was the end of February and still bitterly cold. Finally they heard the thwack of the door going in, the splintering of glass and wood.

  Foley nodded. ‘Let’s go take a look.’

  By the time they reached the house, a nondescript Victorian semi, several of the occupants were being marched out in handcuffs. A uniformed officer directed them up the stairs to the front bedroom. Officers were everywhere, turning the whole place over. Evidence was being bagged.

  There was a shabby divan on the floor and a woman detective was kneeling beside it. On the divan were three girls, all barely teenagers. The detective was trying to reassure them.

  Jo pulled out her phone and checked the picture on the screen. She looked at the three petrified faces. Cowering in the furthest corner was a girl of about twelve, possibly the youngest. She was clutching a ragged blanket around herself to cover her nakedness.

  Tapping the detective on the shoulder Jo Boden knelt down beside the divan in her place.

  She gazed into the child’s dark terrified eyes. ‘Amira? Are you Amira Midani?’

  There was a tiny nod of the head.

  ‘I’m Detective Constable Jo Boden. I’ve come to take you back to your sister. Your sister Razan.’

  Amira’s lips moved, pronouncing the name, but there was no sound. Her whole body was trembling.

  Jo held out her hand and smiled. ‘We’re going to get you out of here. You’ll be all right now. Come on.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The more books I write the longer the list of people I need to thank. The following have been incredibly generous with their time and professional expertise: Graham Bartlett, Andy Mays, Russ Whitfield, Stuart McCall and Jules Grant, not forgetting my good friend GC and the lovely woman from the CPS, who wished to remain anonymous.

  Thanks once again to the team at Pan Macmillan: to my editors Trisha Jackson and Vicki Mellor for their excellent guidance and sound advice; to Natalie Young and the meticulous Anne O’Brien and Andy Hawes, who sorted out my wobbly grammar and repetitive verbal ticks; and to Stuart Dwyer and the sales team, who battle, in a crowded market, to get the book out there.

  Crime writers are an amazingly collegiate bunch. I’d like to thank all my writing friends for their advice and support, especially my fellow members of the Crime Quartet: Elly Griffiths, William Shaw and Lesley Thomson. Also huge thanks to my other writing gang: Phil Viner, Sarah Rayner, Kate Harrison, Laura Wilkinson and Jane Lythell.

  Writing can be a lonely job and I’m lucky to have a wonderful circle of friends and family, who’ve always got my back. Love and thanks to Ali Hannaford, Reg Hannaford, Josh Hannaford, Pam Wall, Jim Wall, Andy Kenyon and Katie Lambert, and, last but never least, my two first readers: Jenny Kenyon and Sue Kenyon.

  After a degree in law and a stint as a journalist, Susan Wilkins embarked on a career in television drama. She has written numerous scripts for shows ranging from Casualty and Heartbeat to Coronation Street and EastEnders. She created and wrote the London-based detective drama South of the Border of which the BBC made two series. The Informant, The Mourner and The Killer are her previous three novels.

  www.susanwilkins.co.uk

  Also by Susan Wilkins

  The Informant

  The Mourner

  The Killer

  First published 2019 by Pan Books

  This electronic edition first published 2019 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-5098-0453-5

  Copyright © Susan Wilkins 2019

  Cover Image © Luigi Masella/Arcangel

  The right of Susan Wilkins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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