The Lies They Told

by Jay Nadal

  A big briefing beforehand meant everyone knew their specific role as Karen and her team followed behind the tactical entry team, their heavy boots and equipment sending vibrations through the floor as they made their way up the dingy stairwells. A distinct smell of weed lingered in the stairwells.

  The advancing officers shuffled in a single line along the narrow walkway until they reached the apartment. Uniformed officers gathered either side, one burly officer stood facing the door, a big red enforcer in his hands. Two armed officers, one with a Heckler & Koch, the other with a SIG516, trained their weapons on the door. A further two officers stood either side, poised behind Perspex shields ready to barge through. Behind them the remaining officers formed an orderly line, each officer placing a hand on the shoulder of the officer in front so that they could move through in a methodical manner.

  They waited for Karen’s command. Due to the electric tension, the officers were tetchy. With the possibility of a firearm on the premises, Karen was in no mood to knock on the door waiting for an answer. She glanced around the estate one last time and saw the look of curiosity on the faces of residents before she gave the lead officer a nod.

  “Go, go, go!!” she screamed.

  The officer swung back the big red enforcer, and with all his might thrust it towards the door. The door offered little resistance The majority of council apartments had been made at minimal cost. The door frame and walls shook. Karen felt the vibration through her feet. The officer swung again, leaving the door hanging from its hinges.

  “Police! Stay where you are! Police!” The firearms officers screamed as they surged through the opening, closely followed by the remaining officers shielded behind their Perspex protection. All officers were well-drilled with the shock and awe tactic. The element of surprise mixed with controlled aggression led to disorientation, which allowed officers vital seconds to gain the upper hand and bring the situation under control with minimal risk to themselves.

  Darkness and silence greeted them as they stormed through the apartment. The armed officers cleared each room as they moved deeper into the flat. A commotion from the second bedroom led to more officers flooding the room.

  Voices rose as a scuffle broke out. Screams and shouts echoed through the apartment as Karen and Jade waited in the hallway. Brad and Steve followed the other officers through to the lounge.

  “Stay where you are! Don’t move! Get him on the floor! Keep your hands where we can see them!”

  Karen was in awe of her uniformed colleagues in such situations. Many days and months of training had led them to becoming the best officers in the world at dealing with acts of aggression and violent criminals.

  “Secure.”

  Having been given the all-clear, Karen proceeded into the room to find a dishevelled and dazed man face down on the bedroom floor, his arms secured behind his back with plastic cable ties.

  “Darren Finch?” Karen asked as she knelt down.

  Finch nodded, still groggy, drunk and half asleep.

  “We need to ask you a few questions, and we have a warrant to search this premises.”

  “Boss!” Steve shouted from another room.

  Karen found Steve in the lounge with an unresponsive female collapsed on the sofa. She was barely covered, and a female officer had been quick to throw a coat over the woman to maintain her dignity.

  “I’ve called for an ambulance, but by the looks, she’s out of it,” Steve said, pointing towards the empty bottles of alcohol and used spliffs. A heavy smell of marijuana hung in the air. The council had confirmed that the tenant’s name was Angie Brennan, and for the time being, Karen had to assume that this was the woman’s apartment. The council also confirmed that the woman was a single parent with a seventeen-year-old daughter called Molly.

  Uniformed officers searched the flat whilst Karen started on Finch.

  “Where were you six nights ago when Jack Taylor was murdered?”

  “Who?” Finch replied, clearing his throat and licking his lips, his eyes rolling in their sockets.

  “Jack Taylor, the guy who smacked you around, so don’t say you don’t know him. We’ve got it on the CCTV footage.”

  “No clue. You’re wasting your time,” Finch slurred.

  Karen felt a burning urge to stomp on the man’s head whilst he lay on the floor. For now he could sleep it off in the cells whilst he sobered up.

  “Boss,” Jade said as she walked towards Karen holding up a sports holdall found in the bottom of the wardrobe.

  “Well, well, well. What have we here?” Karen said as she peered in. The holdall contained bundles of neatly folded twenty-pound notes, and large bags of a brown crumbly substance that Karen assumed was cannabis, a class B drug. There was far more than she’d expect for personal use. Possession and supply would carry at least a ten-year custodial, Karen hoped.

  “That’s not all,” Jade added as she nodded in the direction of a firearms officer.

  Karen turned to see the officer inspecting a handgun that he’d made safe.

  “It was in the bag, boss,” Jade continued.

  Bingo!

  It was a good result as far as Karen was concerned. Adding possession of a firearm to his litany of crimes, Finch wouldn’t be coming out soon.

  “We found this, too,” Brad added as he came into the cramped quarters of the bedroom. Brad held up two brown paper evidence bags. “We found a machete and an axe behind the front door.”

  “This gets even better,” Karen mused.

  35

  Karen left Jade to process Finch at the nearest police station. There was little that they could glean from him for the next few hours which offered forensics an opportunity to comb the flat for evidence that Karen could use in her interview. Brad accompanied Angie Brennan to the hospital and promised to update Karen as soon as doctors assessed her.

  Despite wanting to go home and catch a few hours of sleep, she still had two important visits to make, both off the record. She made her way over to Mile End and to an address in Bancroft Road. Nestled between a long line of two-storey council apartment blocks was a small parade of shops. On the face of it, they looked no different to any other parade of shops found in the myriad of council estates across London. A sandwich bar, a food store, newsagent’s and a chippy. There was nothing there to raise anyone’s suspicion. Karen was far more interested in what was happening behind the chip shop. She found it ironic that the place she was visiting was opposite Mile End Hospital.

  Karen ventured around to the side of the shops, and made her way towards the back door of the chip shop. It was a large steel reinforced door. She hammered on the cold steel with her fist. She waited a few moments before trying again.

  “I’m coming. I’m coming,” a voice came from inside along with the sound of approaching footsteps.

  A short, bald man with grey stubble and closely set eyes in a chubby face answered the door. The smell of fried food swirled aroynd them, and Karen’s stomach responded with a hungry growl. She could murder a saveloy and chips, having not eaten since breakfast.

  The man looked her up and down, suspicion in his narrowed eyes.

  “Yeah, can I help ya? I’m closed. Didn’t you see the sign on the front door?” he asked with a tone of irritation.

  Karen held up her warrant card. “I’m Detective Inspector Heath from the Metropolitan Police. You must be “Two-tone” Charlie.”

  The man shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no one here by that name.”

  Karen knew she had found the right man. He was called “Two-tone” Charlie because the man had a red and purple birthmark that covered part of his face from beneath his right eye down to the corner of his mouth and spread across his cheek to his right ear.

  “Oh, I think you do,” Karen replied barging in.

  “Two-tone” Charlie protested. “Hold on a minute. You can’t just waltz in here. I’m closed. You can come back tomorrow if you want chips.”

  K
aren folded her arms as she looked around. “It’s not your chips I’m interested in. It’s what you have going on downstairs in the basement that’s of interest.”

  “Two-tone” Charlie froze, his eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights, his lips bumbling incoherently. “There’s just supplies down there. Tubs of oil, jars of pickle, shit like that.”

  “Well, should we have a look down there?”

  “Two-tone” Charlie shook his head. “I haven’t got the keys on me.”

  Karen narrowed her eyes in mock surprise. “I would expect the keys to your basement are on the same bunch of keys that you use to lock up this place.”

  The man shifted on the spot.

  Karen took a few steps to within a few inches of him. He took a few steps backwards and jammed himself up against the wall.

  “We both know what you’ve got going on down there. It would only take a phone call and I could have a tactical firearms unit down there quicker than you can wipe your fat arse. Now, last time we paid you a visit, you had an illegal gun making factory down there and you were supplying the Connells with their shooters.”

  The man’s brow beaded with sweat, and his overweight frame struggled with a shortness of breath. He shook his head in denial.

  “That’s history. I learnt my lesson. I don’t do that any more. I’ve gone straight.”

  Karen jabbed her fingers into his podgy chest. “I don’t care if you’ve had tea with the Queen. I want a name for the job that happened eight months ago when two officers were gunned down. If someone needs a shooter for a job that big, we both know that you would be the first person that they would ask.”

  “Please. Please. I don’t want any trouble. You know I can’t say anything. I’ve not done anything like that in ages.”

  Karen smiled. “Sorry, chubby. I’m not buying that. You’re not going to turn down a monkey if someone comes looking for a gun.” She knew five hundred pounds was the going rate, and many criminals would pay even more for a clean weapon that hadn’t been used.

  “Two-tone” Charlie sobbed. “I’ll be dead if I say anything.”

  Karen shrugged. “You’ll be dead anyway. I only have to start spreading the word that you’ve been squealing like a pig. We’ll be dragging your corpse out of the Thames in a matter of hours.”

  The man’s eyes shifted from left to right as he considered his options, which at the moment he could count on one finger. “Adams,” he blurted.

  “Adams? What’s his first name?”

  “I dunno. I had a phone call to prepare two shooters. I don’t know who called me, and I didn’t ask, either. I was just told that a bloke called Adams would come by and drop off a couple of bags of sand.”

  “Bags of sand?” Karen questioned, looking perplexed. She knew a little slang from the East End, but a bag of sand was a new one on her.

  “Bag of sand. A grand.”

  Karen rolled her eyes. “How many bags?”

  “Three.”

  “And what did that give them?”

  “Two sawn-offs, and a handgun. All clean.”

  Karen took a description of the man known as Adams before she left and stepped out on to the pavement. It wasn’t until she got around to the front of the block that she leant back against the brick wall and took large breaths to calm her racing heart. She had taken a big risk going there alone. But she had a name now.

  The Broomfield Residential Care Home was a small unit that cared for less than a dozen patients. It had a softer feel to it than a normal hospital ward. The corridors were carpeted, the individual rooms were tastefully decorated, and the families could personalise each room with ornaments and pictures to make the stay of their loved ones as comfortable as possible.

  Karen was greeted by Robyn Allen, the nurse she’d spoken to earlier in the evening. Nurse Allen had a kind and soft face. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a blue tunic and dark navy trousers. She greeted Karen with a hug in much the same way as meeting a long-lost friend.

  They exchange pleasantries. Robyn was clearly delighted to see Karen as she bombarded her with questions about her job, and what she’d been up to.

  Though Karen appreciated the welcome, it was overwhelming just being there. After the day she’d had, she was tired and just wanted some peace and quiet with her sister.

  Karen eventually pulled herself away from the nurse and made her way to her sister’s room. There was a stillness and a sense of calm as she stepped through the doorway. It was in marked contrast to the hustle and bustle and frenetic pace of her job. She moved towards her sister and stood by her bed. She reached out and held her sister’s hand. It was warm, thin and bony.

  “Hi, Jane. It’s me, Big Sis. Sorry I haven’t been in a while, it’s been sooo manic.”

  Even though her sister was asleep, she felt a rush of guilt as the words tripped from her lips. Her sister was asleep during most of her visits. Occasionally, she would open her eyes and stare at Karen without blinking. There was an emptiness in Jane’s eyes, no expression, no feeling, and no hint as to what she might be experiencing. Karen hoped that Jane was pleased to see her on the rare occasions of her visits, even if she couldn’t tell. She had sat there for many hours in the past, wondering exactly what her sister was feeling. Was she sad? Was she in pain? Does she experience pain? Did she know what it felt like to feel sad?

  Karen would never know the answers. But she hoped Jane found comfort and happiness at some level each time she saw her big sister.

  Jane was thin with sunken cheekbones and limbs commonly associated with someone in their eighties. A lack of movement had left her with little to no muscle and a fragility that sometimes made Karen scared to touch her.

  Karen pulled up a chair and dropped herself into it with a sigh as she flipped her head back and enjoyed the softness of the fabric. She took a few moments to just watch her little sister before she told Jane about what she had been up to recently. She told her about Manky’s antics, and what was happening in the world. It was a one-sided conversation, and Karen wondered if Jane got bored of hearing her voice and the inconsequential mutterings from a frayed and fractious mind.

  It saddened her to see how differently their lives had turned out. The shock of seeing her little sister when they were younger had left deep psychological scars. Scars she ignored or denied. Deep down she knew it was one reason she was a commitment-phobe. What happened if she settled down with someone and started a family? Was there a risk that her children might suffer complications at birth? She knew it was foolish to think that way, but she couldn’t help herself.

  She could barely look after herself, so what chance did she have of looking after her own children? She often looked at children and babies and didn’t feel that maternal tug that so many women spoke about. To her, babies were nothing more than crying and pooping machines. And as they grew older became nothing more than trouble as they bled you dry of every single penny.

  Maybe she was just a cynical old bitch, and too long in the tooth, left on the shelf by choice to never experience proper happiness.

  She sat in silence for another hour, looking at her sister and enjoying the stillness in her mind before she got up, kissed her sister gently on the forehead, and stroked her cheek. She watched her sister’s chest rise and fall with each breath.

  “I promise I won’t leave it so long next time,” she whispered. Whether she could stick to that promise only she could tell, but the guilt for not coming sooner sat heavy on her chest.

  She glanced over her shoulder as she stood in the doorway and offered the smallest of smiles before she headed off into the night.

  Exhaustion slumped her shoulders. The pillows had been fluffed, the temperature in the room perfect, even her favourite night light had been on. But no matter how hard she’d tried, she just couldn’t get to sleep. Her eyes stayed open like the entrance to the Dartford Tunnel. She’d stared at the ceiling. Nothing. Giving up on sleep, she finally heated a cup of milk and added
a pinch of cinnamon to it before settling on the sofa.

  After finishing the last few drops of the creamy, frothy liquid, Karen slipped on her fluffy carpet slippers, left the cup on the coffee table and scurried back to bed. Her insomnia had not worn off as she tossed and turned, swore under her breath, punched the pillow to get comfortable, before the god of slumber, Hypnos, blessed her with an hour’s sleep.

  36

  Karen was in early. She’d caught one of the first Central Line trains from Epping. With it being the start of the line, it guaranteed her a seat which she needed today.

  The duty sergeant confirmed that Finch had slept all night and was beginning to stir. They would give him tea and a bacon sandwich before starting the interview process.

  “You did well last night,” Skelton said as he stepped into her office. “It looks like your gamble paid off.”

  Karen nodded. “Yes. It was a good result. Forensics worked through the night and I should get a ballistics report any moment to see if the gun we recovered is linked to either murder. And the icing on the cake would be if they’ve identified any gunshot residue on the clothes we recovered from his bedroom.”

  “Either way, it looks like Finch isn’t going anywhere. Any update on the Brennan woman?”

  “Brad was with her for a few hours last night. She’s stable but disorientated. Based on what the doctors said, it sounds like booze and drugs were her stable diet. They’re organising additional support services to visit her as soon as she’s fit to talk. Brad will be back there at some point to see if we can get a statement from her. The more evidence we can get against Finch, the stronger our case.”