by Sarah Flint
How could he forget the look of fear in the expression of the sixteen-year-old boy, his spleen removed, his spine shattered, the skin of his torso held together with large black stitches, wired up to all manner of tubes, drips and monitors yet still trying so hard to look tough. The kid’s eyes told the real story though; the way they flicked towards the door constantly, filled with terror each time it opened, in case a hooded-up enemy arrived to finish the job. Even the presence of an armed police officer couldn’t negate his fear. Teenagers like him spent their lives looking behind them, waiting for their time to be up. They knew nothing better, their lives revolved around their gang families and the respect achieved by owning, or better still, using a ‘piece’.
How could he also forget the confusion on the face of the petite Chinese lady lying on a stretcher in the same hospital, the bones in her right arm splintered by the stray bullet? A masseuse by trade, she would probably never be able to work again, her livelihood taken from her by fate, her life saved only by the fact she had lifted her arm to protect herself on hearing the first shot.
Something had to be done about it and DS Cookson’s team were determined they would be the ones to do it. Kids couldn’t keep killing kids. The guns and knives needed to be removed from the streets and local residents allowed to go about their business without fear. Trident played havoc with the gangs. It also played havoc with your home life, but if the cops on his team made a difference to just one person, then it was all worthwhile.
Photos pinned to the office wall showing their victims’ injuries had kept the team spurred on at times when the investigation appeared to be stalled. He still had copies of them stored in his phone.
Pulling his phone out from his jacket pocket, he keyed in his passcode, missing the sequence twice before it finally started to load. He started to walk again slowly, wiping his brow to clear the continuous stream of sweat prickling on his body. Christ, he needed to lose weight. He could hardly do this pair of trousers up these days. Even the shirt was tight across his gut, wet with sweat at the base of his back. He breathed in, realising it had no effect whatsoever on the girth of his stomach. Too many hours worked, too little exercise. This job was slowly killing him.
The pictures came up and he scrolled through them, shaking his head at the memory of the investigation. There had been very little forensic evidence left at the scene and almost no witnesses willing to come forward. Mobile phones and social media had proved to be their saviour. Teenagers were teenagers. Their need to chat, both before and after the shooting, placed them all squarely at the right place, at the right time, and their thinly veiled bragging on Facebook and Instagram only served to accentuate their stupidity. They would be serving a total of fifty-two years between them; twenty-five for the main perpetrator armed with the gun and nine for each of his accomplices.
DS Leonard Cookson was justifiably proud of the outcome; in fact, he and his team had been commended by the judge. He threaded the phone back into his jacket pocket, next to his wallet which was now half the thickness it had been when he’d entered the pub. The team deserved to be rewarded for their efforts and he was happy to pick up the tab.
The entrance to the park was across the road on his left. His house, where his wife and family were sleeping soundly, a further two hundred metres on the right, but he needed a piss. Momentarily he weighed up the two options, before stepping down the pavement and staggering across the road towards the park. There was something almost obligatory about stopping for a piss behind a tree, or lamp post after a night out. These days he tried to be a little more discreet, but it still brought back a vague frisson of daring at the prospect.
The road was empty, his latest abode having been chosen for the quietness of its surroundings. Only the residents and the occasional carful of children destined for the park travelled along it by day and at this time of night all was silent. His wives, past and present, might not have appreciated the number of hours he worked but they’d certainly appreciated the salary.
He followed a trail of dried mud across the road towards the gates which were locked. The local council were in the process of tearing down the ancient cafe and unsanitary toilet block in readiness for a new cafe and sports pavilion. A few metres to the right of the main gates there was a break in the railings. It had been there for years, and even though the council had repaired the metal struts several times, the local teenagers had rarely left it more than a few days before creating a new access. It was where they hung out most evenings, but it was far too late for them now, thankfully. He could well imagine the local headlines if he was caught proverbially, with his pants down.
He breathed in as he found the gap, pulling his gut in further with his hands. Even though two struts were missing, it was still a squeeze. His breath came out in a rush as he popped through the other side and he wiped the additional sweat from his forehead on the back of his sleeve. He needed to piss even more now, the pressure of the railings on his bladder increasing his desperation still further. He glanced up at the sky, just as a cloud moved slowly across the face of the moon, obliterating any last light from its pitted surface. He reached down over his belly and grabbed the fly of his trousers, pulling frantically at the waistband.
As his fingers took hold of the tiny zipper, Leonard Cookson sighed with relief before staggering forward into the darkness.
*
He couldn’t believe his luck. The bastard copper was heading, of his own volition, towards the final destination selected by Ice. Ice always provided the end point and the means, but he was left to his own devices to work out the minutia of the execution and Leonard Cookson could have been difficult. He was a big man, albeit fat rather than muscular, but he was also drunk, and drunks could be pig-headed, loud and impetuous. Now, if he did manage to shout out, the noise would be muffled within the tree boughs and any scuffle would be hidden from prying eyes. It was fucking priceless.
He grinned with delight as he watched Cookson squeeze his fat body through the gap in the railings. The man was disgusting, every bit of him, lacking in both physical and mental self-control. He deserved everything he was about to get. Maybe it was karma. Fate had intervened and his job was now going to be far simpler.
The gag and hunting knife were grasped tightly in his hands, only a slight quiver betraying his anticipation. The handcuffs and cable were easily accessed in his pocket and the rest of his equipment packed carefully into his rucksack. He was ready.
Silently he skirted down the edge of the park, keeping to the darkest part of the pavement until he came to the hole in the railings. His heart pumped hard with the thrill of the chase, but his mind remained concentrated on what he had to do. He could hear the policeman’s footfall in the undergrowth, the sound of heavy breathing at every movement. His fingers tightened against the metal grip of the knife and without a backwards glance he slipped through the gap.
Chapter 12
Friday 23rd June 2017
Charlie was running slightly late having fielded a call from Ben promising that he would try even harder to clean up his act. Maybe she would arrange for him to come with her next time she was visiting her mum at the family house. Meg, Lucy and Beth adored him and he was always the centre of attention when he was there. The so-called normality of her family seemed to calm him, focussing his attention away from his own worries onto the ups and downs of her half-sisters’ lives. She made a mental note to invite him round soon.
She was still thinking about this when she literally bumped into Hunter coming along the corridor. She ran her hand through her hair self-consciously, realising she’d forgotten to brush it before she left home.
‘Sorry I’m a little late, guv. Ben just phoned.’
Hunter’s previously pinched expression softened immediately. ‘How is he?’
‘OK. Not great. We’re working on it.’
Hunter nodded. ‘Keep it up, Charlie. He’s a good lad.’ He paused as if about to add another comment before appearing to change his
mind. Instead, he flapped a piece of paper towards her, on which he’d scribbled down a few notes. ‘Get your stuff ready, there’s been another body found. Another police officer. The call’s just this second come in. I’m going to find out what’s known and then we’ll make our way. Tell Nick he can come too.’
Charlie felt the colour drain from her face. Another police officer dead. What was going on? She pushed through the door to find the others huddled around a screen, watching as the live call was updated with the newest information.
‘What’s the latest?’ she joined them, straining to see over Paul’s shoulder.
‘Not much.’ Paul shifted over. ‘A body’s been found by some workmen in a building they were renovating at the back of Streatham Common, partially burned. A warrant card was left by the body, but the name hasn’t been aired as yet. They’re still trying to confirm whether the body belongs to the person shown on it.’ He glanced back at the screen and pursed his lips. ‘Dammit, they’ve just protected the message, so we won’t see the updates. We’ll have to wait until Hunter returns.’
Bet, Naz and Sabira stayed rooted to the spot, staring at the still screen, deep in thought. Paul broke the silence eventually.
‘I hear we missed Carl Hookham. Bet and I were going back through CCTV last thing yesterday and we have his Corsa now in Bedford Hill, a few streets away from where Brian Ashton was found. We spotted it twice within a couple of hours; the sightings match with the phone calls.’
‘I’ve just circulated him as wanted,’ Bet added. ‘The boss asked me to get it done early this morning, as soon as he arrived, even before this latest call. He wants Hookham brought in for questioning ASAP.’
‘At least we have his car.’ Charlie turned towards Paul. ‘Hopefully there’ll be some forensics in it.’
‘Yeah, hopefully. But unfortunately we don’t have him.’
‘Do you think he could be connected to this latest one?’ Charlie hoped not. They felt bad enough about losing him yesterday. To think he might be responsible for the death of another colleague was mortifying.
‘No idea as yet. Let’s hope not. Or Dennis Walters. He’s still about and hates us all.’
Charlie nodded. The memory of being hustled out of his front door was not lost on her. She could feel the frustration building already. She turned abruptly and went to her desk, pulling her equipment bag out, along with a rather hairy hairbrush that clattered onto the floor next to her baton and a spare pair of shoes. She picked it up, debating for a few seconds whether to try to clean it, before deciding against the idea.
Hunter strode back in as she was attempting to calm an unruly wave at the back of her head. He took one look at her before frowning.
‘Right, let’s go Charlie. We haven’t got time for you to brush your hair. You should have done that before you got in, like everyone else.’ He glanced around the office, his eyes skimming each workstation. ‘Where’s Nick?’
Charlie shrugged and threw the brush back into her drawer. She hoisted her bag on to her shoulder to indicate she at least was ready to go.
‘Sorry, guv, I haven’t seen him yet.’
Hunter stared around the others but they all shrugged too, the silence between them lengthening. Any progress Nick had made the previous day was well and truly lost.
‘Waster,’ he muttered under his breath and shook his head. Delving into his trouser pocket, he pulled out a piece of paper which he unfolded and slapped down on Naz’s desk. ‘Right, while we’re out, Naz, Sabira, start doing some research on our latest victim. I need you to find out everything there is to know about his domestic situation which, by all accounts, sounds complicated. You did well with Brian Ashton’s.’ He turned to Paul and Bet. ‘If and when Nick deigns to show his face, get him working on the phones of our latest victim and our other suspects. Paul, get in touch with Human Resources and make enquiries about getting his personal file pulled. We need to know any possible links between the two officers. Have they worked together at the same station, or on the same case? And Bet, likewise with Hookham and Walters, our two suspects. Is our new victim connected to either of them? Has he arrested them, stopped them or even dealt with them as victims. There must be some sort of link and we need to find it.’
*
Charlie swung the car out from Lambeth HQ and headed along the Albert Embankment. It was the end of rush hour but the traffic was still heavy, queuing up to turn across Lambeth Bridge towards Westminster. She was reminded that the Trooping the Colour had taken place the weekend before and all the roads heading towards Buckingham Palace had been closed for hours. For an instant, she wondered whether another event was in the offing, causing similar road closures.
She switched the blue light and sirens on and navigated the centre line, squinting momentarily towards Millbank and the Tate Britain on the opposite side of the river. The water of the Thames was tinged blue, reflecting the brightness of the sky and sparkling with refracted light, as each wave swirled seaward. A tingle of unease ran the length of her spine at the sight, so she concentrated back on the road ahead; luckily most of the tailbacks were in the opposite direction.
‘The name that we have is Leonard Cookson. He was a DS on Operation Trident.’ Hunter paused. ‘I knew him many years ago when he was a PC and I was a sergeant. I did a spell at West End Central police station, uptown. I’d just been made up to a skipper and he had just joined. Even while he was still a probationer he was the sort who attracted work… and trouble. I’m not surprised he got out of uniform as quickly as he could. He wasn’t a great lover of discipline, but he was a damn hard worker.’ He stopped talking and looked down at his fingers. ‘It must have been in the nineties. He’s got to have had at least twenty-five years in.’
Charlie navigated past a stationary bus. ‘He wouldn’t have had long to go then.’
‘No, only a few more years. Apparently, he worked most of his career in various CID offices around London, as well as serving postings with a few of the central squads. He’d been on Trident for the last four years and had a good reputation.’ Hunter turned to look out of the window. ‘He’s probably dealt with hundreds, if not thousands, of people during his service.’
‘And any one of them could have a grudge against him, for something he did or didn’t do.’
‘Or, like Dennis Walters, they might just hate police. Whatever their reason, it sounds like they went to town on him.’ He paused. ‘And they’re doing it quickly. Two in a matter of days.’
They lapsed into silence until they reached Streatham Common.
The majority of the police units were gathering at the main entrance to the common in a car park by The Rookery, an area of landscaped gardens with a small cafe that was popular with local residents by day and the gay community at night. Most of the communal access to the common was from the main road at this side and more units were required there to assist with setting up cordons and keeping the area sterile.
The new pavilion was across the other side of the common in a far more secluded area, backed by a ring of trees, with a large grassy area in front of it that was to be converted into playing fields. The Duty Inspector and Scene of Crime Officers were meeting at this side and a designated route to the crime scene was already in place. Charlie made her way to join them.
‘Leonard Cookson’s house is only a couple of hundred metres further on from the access road into the common where his body was found,’ Hunter said, as they turned into Ryecroft Road. ‘There’s no reply at his address at the moment. They’ve tried several times.’
‘So he nearly made it home?’ Charlie slowed the car as they swept down a slight hill and pulled up behind several police vehicles.
They climbed out of the car and Hunter stared in the direction of Cookson’s house before shaking his head. ‘Yes, nearly. He was certainly close,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘But not close enough.’ They donned protective clothing, gave their details to the loggist and headed towards the inner cordon, tucked inside the wooded area
. A ring of blue and white tape encircled tall metal fencing, which in turn protected the buildings where the body had been found. Two gates that looked to provide access to the workforce had been opened and were slightly ajar, leaving a path visible through to the building site. A heavy-duty padlock lay on the grass nearby. Parts of the building had been pulled down to be replaced with an up-to-date changing area and viewing gallery, but other parts of the original building remained, awaiting modernisation. The frontage of the new building had been constructed from breeze blocks, rows of dull grey slabs, with the windows and doors marked out with metal frames. A carcass of steel struts showed where the new roof was to be fitted. The ground all around was rutted and dry, a cloud of dust being thrown up as they walked, making the possibility of finding any footprints from either the suspect or victim extremely unlikely.
Several people, clad in white suits, were huddled together to the side of the main building deep in conversation. Charlie recognised Inspector Glenys Chapel, the same Duty Officer who had been at Brian Ashton’s crime scene, talking to a couple of forensic officers. She nodded towards them as they approached, but this time there were no words of greeting. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on them all.
‘Come through.’ She indicated a path leading around the side of the main pavilion and they followed in silence. The path wound past the frontage of the building, skirting around what appeared to be a kitchen area and a new shower unit, towards the rear where an old brick toilet block stood, the roof of which was partially missing. A pungent smell emanated from the block, a mixture of charred wood and burnt clothing, together with the strong aroma of cooked meat. It was like nothing Charlie had ever smelt before at any scene of fire or arson and it was a smell that would stay with her.
Inspector Chapel pointed to the entrance. ‘It’s not pleasant,’ she said, her face creasing into a frown. ‘I’ll tell you what we know once you’ve seen the body.’