by Rob Ashman
‘Yeah, come in why don’t you, every bugger else does,’ Lang continued, slumping down onto the sofa, puffing a plume of smoke into the air.
‘Casey we need to talk to you,’ said Bagley taking a seat in the armchair to the side. Kray remained standing, happy for her boss to take the lead.
‘Is that all you lot do? Talk? I thought there was some guy out there wanting to kill me and all you people want to do is chat. Shouldn’t you be out there catching the fucker?’
‘We are, Casey,’ said Bagley.
‘Really? I have Policeman Plod sat outside in his toy car all day, while Mrs Plod here sits on my sofa drinking bloody tea. Now you two show up and I suppose it’s party time?’
‘Casey we think it might be best if we move you to a safe house until we have the suspect in custody.’
‘A safe house! Does that mean I will have more of this to deal with? Does that mean I can’t see my friends? Because if it does, then I don’t think so. I knew you lot were up to something.’
‘We cannot force you to go but we think it would be wise in the short term.’
‘Well you can think again, Tonto, cos I’m not going anywhere. This is you lot trying to make life difficult for me.’
There was a knock at the front door. Lang stubbed her fag out on a saucer, glared at Bagley and walked into the hallway.
‘Oh hi, babe, I got your text,’ said a woman’s voice.
‘I’m fucking swamped with them now.’ Casey came back into the room to resume her position on the sofa, the new woman waddled in sporting the same top-knot facelift.
‘Who the fuck are all these?’ said the new woman flopping down beside Lang and pulling a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. She offered one to her friend. ‘I can see why you needed backup.’
‘I am DCI Bagley and this is DI Kray.’
Kray stared at the new woman, her face looked familiar.
‘Can I ask who you are?’ said Bagley.
‘You can fucking ask.’ She exaggerated every word and bobbled her head from side to side. Both women laughed.
‘She’s my mate, ‘nuff said.’
‘Casey, can we continue this discussion in private?’ asked Bagley.
‘Anything you say to me, you can say in front of her.’ Lang turned to her friend, offering a light. ‘Do you know they want me to go into a safe house?’
‘You what? I thought you were under police protection already,’ she said drawing hard on her cigarette and puffing smoke against the yellow ceiling.
‘It will be easier for us to control the environment,’ said Bagley.
‘Control the environment? What are you David Attenborough now?’ Lang slapped her friend on the leg and they both rolled back their heads with laughter. ‘Look DCI whatever-your-name-is I am staying here and you need to give me more protection if you want to ‘control the environment’.’ She did the same bobbly head thing, over pronouncing the last three words.
‘You’re Jenny Wilks,’ Kray said staring at the heavily pregnant woman.
‘Are you fucking psychic or something?’ Wilks replied, slapping her hand on her thigh. ‘How’d you know that?’
‘I saw a photograph of you taken outside the courtroom on the day of the trial,’ Kray replied, the jigsaw falling into place.
‘Oh yeah, remember that, Jen,’ said Lang. ‘That was a belting day that was, we got proper leathered.’
Kray continued to stare at Wilks.
‘What are you looking at?’ Wilks said. ‘Is it because I’m pregnant and smoking?’ Kray shook her head. ‘I smoke because I want a smaller baby to make the birth easier. My brother was nearly ten pounds and it tore my mum to shreds and I don’t want none of that. And he ended up in intensive care with complications. So, before you give me any of your judgemental looks just remember I am doing this for my baby, all right?’ Wilks raised her cigarette in the air in a salute.
‘No I wasn’t thinking that,’ replied Kray.
‘Well it looked like it to me.’
‘I was thinking you two are very close.’
‘Yeah we are, like sisters.’
‘You must have been delighted when you discovered you were both pregnant at the same time.’
The women looked at each other with a double take. You could smell the wood burning as both women worked out the implications of what had just been said.
‘Yeah well sometimes things don’t work out.’ Lang finally remembered her lines.
Kray decided to leave Bagley to it. She wandered out of the house and stood on the front step, looking up and down the street for Millican’s car. She pulled her phone from her pocket and dialled his number. It went straight to voicemail.
Why do blokes always give it the little-boy-sulk routine when things don’t go their way?
46
I drag Millican across the warehouse floor into the changing room and loop his arms through the inlet pipework of a radiator, securing them behind his back. He flops onto his side. An ugly blue ridge has developed down the side of his face and his left eye has blown up to the size of an egg. His nose is bent over to one side with blood running down the side of his mouth. He doesn’t look good.
I take an energy bar from a box and munch on it, my head spinning with permutations. The opportunity to snatch Millican and use his car is an unexpected twist, neither of which I had factored into my plan, but then a good soldier will always adapt to suit the circumstances. With the police buzzing around Lang like flies around shit I need to rethink.
I break another one from the box and chomp on it as if my life depended on it.
Think man, think. Keep the mission goals in mind and think.
Millican’s breathing is shallow and a circle of blood has grown around his head on the concrete floor. His face is the colour of uncooked pastry.
My head is fuzzy, I’m not thinking clearly.
Then Jono’s words thunder into my brain, ‘It’s time to deliver justice, boys.’
I leave Millican, walk out of the changing room and scout around the vast warehouse. Ten minutes later I find what I’m looking for - a heavy metal bar. There is a set of double doors at the back of the building and the bar makes short work of the padlock, I swing one of them open and run to the car, then drive into the warehouse.
With the keys in my pocket I close up the door and head out into the yard. I have no idea which direction to go. I stride off in search of a shop, a pharmacy and a phone box.
I return an hour later to find Millican lying on his side with his eyes shut. My immediate reaction is that he’s faking, but the closer I get the more it becomes apparent he’s still out cold. He hasn’t moved since I left.
‘Come on, Chris, wake up.’ I dump the bag, kneel beside him and tap his shoulder. I try again – nothing.
I walk to the car and pull one of the newly acquired tea towels from the pack, then proceed to wipe both of the number plates clean. I fish around in the bag to pull out a small bottle, the top twists off and I remove the tiny brush, scraping off the excess. The smell fills my senses and I’m transported back to the squat where you had solvent for breakfast.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I steady my hand and draw a black line across the white surface of the number plate. After several more strokes I have transformed the letter F into a convincing E. I repeat the process on the rear number plate. That is the easy one. I do the same trick and the number 0 becomes an 8.
I stand back to admire my handiwork. The amended plates would not stand up to close scrutiny but to a NPR camera they will do fine.
Millican looks like death. I place my fingers to his neck, his pulse is strong. I unbox both the phones and insert the battery into one of them, the screen comes to life and I page through the basic set-up. The flash illuminates the locker room and I spend the next ten minutes working out the menu settings.
How can it be easier to steal a car than work a bloody phone?
Eventually I have everything I need. I pocket the SIM card an
d walk back to the car. The plates must have dried by now and I drive out onto the yard closing the door behind me.
My new strategy fizzes in my head.
This is not what I planned … it’s better.
47
‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Chris Millican, please leave a message.’ The recorded voice played once more in Kray’s ear. She disconnected the call. It was her third attempt and she had an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach that would not go away.
His phone must be dead.
Since returning to the station time had passed by in a blur. Leads were being generated on an almost hourly basis as the intelligence gathering gained momentum. The public appeal had produced a deluge of Jarrod sightings, each one leading to nothing. Every scrap of information needed to be assessed, prioritised and inputted into the huge logistical nightmare that was the investigation plan. Bagley trudged into her office and slumped himself in a chair.
‘Sometimes I wonder if we protect the right people.’ He flung his head back with his arms in the air, arching his back.
‘I didn’t think you would get anywhere with the lovely Ms Lang so I came back to get some work done.’
‘You’d think I was the one trying to kill her.’
‘She didn’t like you.’
‘She didn’t like any of us. The PC took me to one side and asked to be reassigned.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I would see what I could do.’
‘How did you leave it?’
‘The short answer to that is – badly. The more I tried to persuade her that moving to a safe house was in her best interest, the more abusive she became. We had tears and tantrums and she ended telling us to leave. And we are the ones trying to help!’
‘Just remember, she bottled the last copper that tried to help so, I would say, you got off lightly.’
‘We will maintain the protection unit but I’m not sure how long Quade will allow us to drive a horse and cart through the overtime budget. I got an email from her saying she wanted an update this afternoon, which is ACPO speak for ‘Come and see my spreadsheet’.’
‘Let me know if you need anything.’
‘Yes I will. By the way, we can’t have your boyfriend turning up whenever he feels like it.’
‘I know, I’m sorry about that. I’ve been cooling things off and he followed me to Lang’s place. It won’t happen again.’
Bagley nodded his approval. ‘Something’s been bugging me.’
‘I know, I saw her.’
‘No not that. We have a heavy presence at Lang’s place and Jarrod is bound to see that. It’s unlikely he will have a crack at taking her out. But what about the other convicted people on the list?’
‘He killed Alice Fox when we had an officer parked outside so he’s not averse to taking risks.’
‘We believe his sights are set firmly on Lang but it would be worthwhile running through the outstanding people just to me sure.’
‘I’ll take another look.’
‘Good, well I’ve got to prepare for a meeting with an ACC and her spreadsheet.’ He got up from the chair and left. Kray watched him go and shook her head.
One minute you are a delight to work with and the next you are jumping on the dick-head button for all you’re worth.
Kray pursed her lips, annoyed at Bagley’s inconsistency. Taking a fresh look at the list was a good idea. Jarrod might well change tack and have a person in reserve. She picked up the phone and spoke to Tavener to set the wheels in motion. He had wanted to meet with her straightaway but Kray stalled him, she had her own bug that needed sorting out first.
Kray pulled up a chair next to the geeky-looking guy wearing glasses and sporting a comedy comb-over. She wasn’t going to spend her time looking over the top of the wall of computer screens on his desk. Brian Taylor tilted his glasses onto the end of his nose and looked up.
‘Oh hi, how are you?’
‘Fine thanks, I wonder if you could take a quick look at a phone number for me?’
‘I’m just in the middle of something—’
‘It will only take a minute. I have a bad feeling and I need to check it out.’
‘Give me a second.’ Taylor’s hand whizzed around the mouse-mat closing down screens and minimising windows. Kray sat patiently, playing with her wedding ring
Her heart was pounding from having ran up the stairs, she had just arrived back at the station having visited Millican’s place. The house was empty and his car was gone. She had called the hospital and they advised her he had not shown up for work today. The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach would not go away.
Kray pulled her mobile from her pocket and retrieved a number from the address book.
‘This is it.’ She handed Taylor the phone. ‘I’ve called it several times and it goes straight through to voicemail.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Can you locate it?’
‘I can try.’ The screens lit up showing maps of the area and the locations of the cell phone masts. ‘It is not currently responding which would indicate the handset has been immobilised in some way.’
Kray sat back in her chair, running her fingers through her hair. ‘Can you give me its last known location?’
‘I should be able to.’ The screens changed again and he jabbed a finger at the map. ‘Borland Way was when it stopped transmitting, around here, opposite the garage. You can see for yourself.’
Taylor wheeled his chair to the side and Kray slid into his place. She traced the map with her finger.
Two roads, situated close together, made her stomach fall through the floor – Borland Way and Craven Avenue.
Fuck.
48
Kray flagged down the first police car that swung into the station.
‘You on a shout?’ she asked the uniformed woman behind the wheel.
‘No, ma’am, I have some paperwork to complete.’
‘Good.’ Kray slid into the passenger seat. ‘Drive to the south end of Borland Way and put your lights on - we’re in a hurry.’
‘Okay, do we need back up?’
‘No, but we need to get there fast.’
The woman radioed into the control room to report her change of movements as she sped out of the gates. The vehicles up ahead parted like the Red Sea as the flashing blue lights filled their rear-view mirrors.
‘What are we doing, ma’am?’
‘We need to find something. What’s your name?’
‘Sergeant Angela Hucknall. You’re DI Roz Kray, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, just Roz will do.’ They hurtled along leaving lines of stranded cars in their wake.
‘Borland Way is a dual carriageway. When we get there I want you to straddle both lanes and slow down. About half way up there’s a garage on the left, I want you to stop.’
‘I know where it is.’ Hucknall pulled the car onto the roundabout, turning left, straddling the white line separating the lanes. A procession of cars crawled along behind.
‘Okay, stop here. You get out and make sure the people behind are behaving themselves, I need to go find a phone.’
They both jumped from the car. Hucknall went to the back with her arms out stretched while Kray walked up the carriageway towards the garage. The road surface glistened with the earlier rain and puddles hugged the gutters. Kray scanned along the ground, her head twisting from side to side. Step by step she combed the surface in front of her, there were food cartons, cans and plastic bottles but nothing that looked like a phone.
Then she saw it. Tucked against the kerb was a silver-grey casing. Kray pulled a glove from her pocket, slipped it on and picked up the remnants of the phone. The innards were smashed and the battery missing. She dropped it into a plastic bag and scoured the area for more fragments. After a couple of minutes, she gave up and walked back to the car, the roundabout behind them was in gridlock.
‘Okay, let’s go,’ Kray called out, getting i
nto the passenger seat.
‘Got what you came for?’
‘Got some of it.’
‘Back to the station.’
‘No, my house.’
‘That’s very kind, Roz but I don’t have time for tea.’
‘Neither do I.’
Kray was sitting behind her desk, nursing a coffee and staring into space. She had been back at the station for an hour and in that time had managed to upset the forensics guys and piss off ACC Quade by refusing to engage in a discussion about overtime projections. She would have to buy biscuits to say sorry to the one and chop her arm off to appease the other.
Bagley stuck his head around the door.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘How did it go with Quade?’
‘She is covering her back for when the month-end reckoning comes around. We are spending a shit load of money on this case and she needs to be able to justify it. She’ll be fine, much better than the head of forensics.’
‘Oh, how come?’
‘Did you tell one of his supervisors that unless he dropped everything and dusted a wine bottle for prints, you were going to shove it up his arse?’
‘I might have said something along those lines. The guy was being difficult.’
‘He’s not a happy bunny.’
‘Okay I’ll make it a whole tin of sorry biscuits. I’m waiting for them to call me with the results.’
‘They called me instead. I’m sorry, Roz but the prints they pulled off the phone casing match the ones on the wine bottle from your house. That phone belongs to Chris Millican.’
‘Oh shit.’ Kray put her head in her hands.
‘There could be a whole host of reasonable explanations why his mobile ended up on the road.’
‘Is there any CCTV in the area?’
‘No, I checked. I asked the garage if their forecourt surveillance covered the road and it doesn’t. It’s late. Why don’t you call it a day and go home? We can pick this stuff up in the morning. I know what you’re thinking, but Millican is probably pissed in a pub somewhere wondering where the fuck his phone’s gone.’