Shed No Tears

by Caz Frear

  They are, and Aiden’s a shining example. Although who knows if his brother is? His sister certainly lacked the “uncomplicated” gene.

  As does Jacob Pope. Keen to show off my rush-job research, two-thirds of it gleaned in the queue at H&M, I say, “He’s some work, eh? Killing his girlfriend because she neglected to mention she’s a cousin of a ‘business’ rival. That’s callous.”

  And childish, to be flippant. A devastating version of playing dens with your mates. “You’re our friend, not their friend. Bang bang, you’re dead.”

  “Ah, but have you seen him?” Dyer’s tone is playful, her face pure disgust. “Gorgeous cancels out callous, apparently. He can’t keep up with all the marriage proposals and naked selfies he gets sent, so they say.”

  I have no words. There’s nothing that explains that level of lunacy—or loneliness, if you’re being charitable. A minute passes—maybe two car lengths, at best—before I can think of anything to fill the silence. Maybe I do miss Parnell after all. The inane chat. The incessant whistling.

  “Do you honestly think he’ll be able to tell us anything?” I say eventually. “From what I read, Pope isn’t shy. If Masters had bragged about where Holly was buried, Pope would have said after he murdered him, surely? I mean, he practically wanted a medal for the murder. If he helped us find Holly’s body, he’d have been angling for a knighthood.”

  “Parnell thinks he deserves a medal,” she says, tip-tapping the steering wheel, eyes locked on the car in front, on its tasteful bumper sticker—If you’re gonna ride my arse at least pull my hair.

  I shake my head quickly. “No, he doesn’t. He was seeing how you’d react. He likes to know who he’s working with.”

  “Well, he should have a rough idea. We were part of the same unit back in, God . . . 2009, I think.” She wrinkles her nose. “Although, I suppose I was on Organized Crime, Parnell was on street gangs. Completely different focus. We only knew each other to say hi.”

  And we’re off again, inching a few meters closer to Belmarsh. It’d be quicker to fly to Brazil.

  “But you and Steele go way back?”

  Horns blare in the distance. Something going on up ahead. Probably some daydreamer taking more than half a second to get their head into gear as the lights turn green. A crime in this city. A breach of the London code.

  “Well, that’s the thing, we never worked together either. We just kind of know each other because we both worked for Olly Cairns, both made big strides under him. The top brass used to call us his ‘alumni.’ Olly joked we weren’t Charlie’s Angels, we were Oliver’s Army.”

  The thought fascinates me. The idea of Steele as a work-in-progress. In my mind, she’s always been the finished article, the fully formed Cop Diva, careering out of Police Training College with a warrant in one hand and a suspect’s testicles in the other.

  “It was Olly who started the Cardigan Kate thing.” Dyer throws a look over, checking I know the reference, which I do. “He’s such a windup merchant. It’s not like she even wore them that often—she’s always been a stylish one, Kate—but you know how these things start. Once he said it, it stuck.”

  “We call her Kate Kardashian now. The glossy hair. The designer shoes.”

  “You’re a braver woman than me.” So speaks the woman giving the finger to a tanker driver. “I bet you don’t say it to her face.”

  “I don’t, ’cos I’m scared I’ll catch her in a bad mood. Some of the others do, though. She thinks it’s hilarious.”

  Dyer smirks. “Isn’t HRT a wonderful thing?”

  I laugh, knowing it’s something Steele would say herself, but there it is again, that prickly undertone. One snidey little quip dressed up as a joke that says, “I’m younger than her, more game for a laugh.”

  I’m better?

  She’d have a bloody hard job.

  “Do you want some advice, Cat?”

  Not really, but when you’re in a confined space with someone three ranks higher, there’s only one career-savvy response. “Of course, ma’am.”

  She nods, happy I’ve played along. “OK, well, it’s like I always used to say to my boys when they were scared of a spider—‘Remember, it’s more scared of you than you are of it.’” I try not to look baffled. “Steele,” she explains, “she thinks very highly of you. She told me about a couple of your cases, said you’ve got great potential.” She glances in the rearview mirror, as if seeking permission from her own reflection to get to the real point. “Maybe she’s a bit scared of that potential, though. Scared you’ll surpass her, that you won’t always think of her as near-divine.” I’m still not sure where this is headed so I smile inanely. Was there advice in there? “Don’t be intimidated by her is all I’m saying. Respect her, but don’t be held back by thinking you’re less.”

  And don’t tell her you’re dating a victim’s brother just yet.

  For a mad, dumb second, I think of asking Dyer’s advice on that. I nearly do too, but she cuts in again, saving me from myself.

  “And I think you should take the lead with Pope, OK? Let’s see some of that famed Cat Kinsella potential.”

  There are very few places that can’t be cheered by the sun, or at least elevated a little above the gray of their norm. From graveyards to building sites, from car parks to schools, everywhere looks better with a shot of vitamin D.

  And yet Belmarsh on a summer’s day is as bleak as Belmarsh on a winter’s morning. The high stone walls. The razor-wire fences. The sense of hopelessness that clouds all beauty. The inherent jumpiness that chills the air, even when temperatures tip past thirty.

  I don’t like prisons, which might seem as obvious a statement as “I don’t like raw chicken.” But it’s not the obvious things for me; the nerves, the fear, the pin-sharp awareness that on a good-to-bad-guy ratio, you’re seriously outgunned. It’s more the realization that in my world, all roads lead here. That my job, my vocation, is geared toward this—these concrete volcanoes, these boiling pots of rage. And don’t get me wrong, this is what most deserve. While a few might deserve better, there’s plenty who deserve worse.

  Still, it’s hard to feel good about it. To bask in the grimness and consider it a job well done.

  “Twenty minutes,” warns Dyer as we’re processed through reception; bodies and fingertips scanned, clothes searched, possessions locked away. “Pope’ll want to chat. We’re a novelty, remember? A break from the routine. There’s a chance he’ll say anything to keep our interest, so be mindful of that. If we’ve got nowhere in twenty minutes, we leave.”

  We’re led across a courtyard at the heart of the redbrick fortress—four three-story blocks, each split into three separate wings, where overworked prison officers do daily battle, curtailing the movement, whims, and demons of far too many prisoners.

  “Oh, we get all sorts in here,” explains our bald, insufferably chatty PO, as we trail him through a series of locked gates and doors until we reach House Block 1, the home to Belmarsh’s long-terms and lifers. “We’re a high-security prison, see, but also a local one, which means we get the lot—shoplifters, terror suspects, debt-dodgers, pedophiles. I’ve worked with them all.” Halfway down a corridor, we come to a stop outside a door. His hand hovers over the handle, key primed by the lock. Lowering his voice, he says, “Give me a lifer, like your boy in there, any day. They’re not just passing through, see. They’re trying to make some sort of a life for themselves, so they tend to keep their heads down, toe the line.”

  “By killing another inmate?” says Dyer, pleased to shut him up.

  The PO shrugs. “Whatever he did up North, he’s been a good boy here.”

  Presumably, on account of being a good boy, Jacob Pope isn’t in handcuffs. Just the standard maroon tracksuit and a pair of trainers so white they’re luminous. He stands up as we walk in, a shocking show of chivalry given the lack shown to his girlfriend.

  Tall and lean, with eyes the color of spring grass, Jacob Pope could have been a model. He could
have been anything, if you ask me. Men this handsome tend to have an easy ride through life, picking the low-hanging fruit and the highest opportunities, but unfortunately for Pope, he picked crime, or crime picked him, and twenty bad decisions later, he’s eating his porridge next to a serial killer.

  We shake hands, introduce ourselves. Pope sits only after we do, the overhead light illuminating one singular imperfection—a small but angry gash across the center of his forehead.

  “What’s that, Jacob?” I ask, tapping my own in the same spot. “Were you talking instead of listening?” His face is blank. I let out a little laugh. “Sorry, just something my grandad used to say. It means have you been fighting?”

  He’s smiling too. “Good one. ‘Talking instead of listening.’ I’ll have to remember that.” He extends his arms above his shoulders, pushing up and down. “Not fighting—bench-pressing. There’s only two things keep you safe in prison and it ain’t the screws, I can tell you.” I look intrigued although I know the answer. “Good hearing and a good physique. Can’t do much about the first but plenty about the second. And this . . .” He traces the cut with his index finger. “Did one too many reps, got a bit shaky, dropped the weight.”

  “Ouch.” I grimace. “Taking the old ‘no pain, no gain’ a bit too literally there.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? Screws weren’t too quick to help me, though—that’s another truth for ya. Makes me miss the Mansion. Who’d have thought a London boy would prefer it up north?”

  He’s definitely a London boy. I looked it up on the way over. But he isn’t quite the gangster boy the ain’ts and yas would have you believe. Daddy worked in shipping, while Mummy did the school run back and forth to Kingston Grammar—the school he was finally expelled from for biting a teacher on the face.

  “You preferred Frankland to here?” I ask, all casual curiosity, like I’m after holiday recommendations. “’Cos you must have known they’d move you after . . .”

  “Preferred’s a bit strong,” he says, talking over me. “You’re just swapping shit for shite, really. Food’s as rank. Mattress is just as lumpy. It’s good that my mum’s nearer for visits, but I got more respect up there, you know—and they’d have carried me down J-wing shoulder-fucking-high for killing that bastard Masters, that’s the truth. Proper fucking nuisance, he was.” His fingers open and shut, miming mouths snapping open. “Never shut up, did he? On and on and on and on.”

  “What about?”

  “Loads of things. D’ya know he once told me that he nearly let that Stephanie one go. She was a bit chunky for him, that’s what he said. He was going to say, ‘Sorry, I’ve just let the room, you’re too late,’ and let her get on her way. But then he saw she was wearing these sexy red heels and he thought, fuck it, just like that. Mad, innit? Those shoes got her killed.”

  Dyer’s chewing the side of her cheek, channeling waves of pure hate across the table.

  I move things on. “Did he ever talk about Cambridgeshire? Ever mention a village called Caxton?”

  He shakes his head, uninterested.

  “OK, so what else? You spend a lot of time cooped up in your cells, the chat must be flying when you get together.”

  “We call them rooms now, not cells. The word ‘cell’ is dehumanizing.” He’s saying it to wind me up but I apologize immediately to avoid giving him the satisfaction. “Look, he talked about anything and everything. If it wasn’t his sick fantasies, it was DIY, or fishing, or the problem with multiculturalism.”

  “I’ve worked with a few people like that. I didn’t stab them through the lung though.”

  “Then their fantasies weren’t sick enough.”

  “Care to share them?” I say it brightly, showing no fear, no hesitation about the filth he might divulge.

  He grins. “I know what this is about, you know. It’s about that Holly Kemp.”

  His eyes glint with the glory of having the upper hand for once. When your life revolves around being told what time you can eat, shit, and sleep, the power must be intoxicating.

  Dyer speaks suddenly. “Clever old you, Jacob. Although seeing as the Governor told you the reason for our visit, I’m not exactly bowled over by your powers of perception.”

  I’d almost forgotten she was here. When she’d said “take the lead,” I assumed she’d be on percussion, at least. Up until now, I’ve been standing at the mic, solo.

  Pope’s just as surprised. “Oh, so she speaks then? Detective Chief Inspector Tessa Dyer. Chris always said you were a hard bitch.”

  Dyer smiles at the compliment. I smile inwardly at the “Chris.”

  Not Christopher. Not Masters. Not “that bastard.”

  Chris.

  An in.

  Pope folds his arms high across his chest, his biceps like battering rams. “You know, Dyer, I don’t have to talk to you if I don’t want to. And I’m missing Association for this, so I’d be a bit more pally if I were you, like your mate here.”

  Association: the two-hour window where inmates are allowed to mingle, playing pool, having chats, having full-scale brawls if the wrong slur is thrown.

  Dyer looks at me, jerking her head toward Pope. “And to think, that PO said he was a good boy.”

  I look at Pope, jerking my head toward Dyer. “And to think, she said it was a waste of time coming to see you. Said you’d be all hot air, just desperate for company. But she’s wrong, isn’t she? Chris told you something about Holly. You might have found him annoying, banging on all the time, but you were friends, weren’t you? Initially, at least.”

  I hope I’m right about this. And I hope against all hope that Dyer doesn’t mind being made the stooge—that I’ve read this right, cast us in the right roles.

  It feels weird without Parnell. Like tangoing with a new partner.

  “Friends? Let me tell you something, I’ve been locked up for nearly two years now, and I’m still working out what the word ‘friend’ means in here. We chatted, OK, passed the time, played a few cards. He taught me ten-card rummy, although he didn’t teach me how to win. Still say those cards were rigged, the wanker.”

  “But you didn’t kill him over a card game.” I open my notebook. “I couldn’t take it, listening to him, what he did to those girls. Which girls, Jacob?”

  He hesitates, head tilted. “OK, what’s it worth? ’Cos I want Enhanced Status.”

  “Ah, come on, mate, reason with me here.” The “mate” tastes like grit but it feels right to throw it in. “You killed another prisoner. Enhanced Status, extra privileges, that’s going to be a long road, I’m afraid. We’ll see what we can do, but . . .”

  “I want extra visits for my mum and more time out of my room.”

  “We’re going.” Dyer pushes her chair out. “Thanks for your time, Jacob. Enjoy the next thirty years.”

  Pope’s hands are on the table, long fingers splayed. He stares at them for what feels like a century, weighing things up. Dyer’s on her feet. I fiddle with my notebook, playing for time.

  It pays off.

  “You’ll see what you can do, right?” I neither yay nor nay but something in my neutral face reassures him. “Look, first he says he did kill her, then he says he didn’t. Reckon he only said he did to wind you up.”

  Dyer sighs, one eye on the door. “Yeah, we know that, Jacob. He’d been playing that game for years. But we came here for detail. If you don’t have any . . .”

  He puts a finger to his lips, shushing her. “So I say to Chris, ‘Seriously, mate? Holly Kemp was seen on your fucking doorstep and then she goes missing. Bit of a coincidence, nudge nudge.’ But he says, ‘That bitch made that up.’” Serena Bailey, presumably. I think about clarifying before deciding it’s not fair to introduce her name to this animal. “Then a few weeks later, we’re watching TV—the weather, although God knows why—and that one with the long blond hair and the massive tits comes on, and he leans over and says, ‘Looks a bit like Holly, doesn’t she? Only her tits were fake, which was a bit disappointing
.’ And then he starts going on about how they felt, how they stayed rock-hard, pointing upward, even when he knocked her on her back.”

  Dyer sits down again, her mouth pursed, contemplating something. Eventually, “Did Masters ever talk about friends, people he was close to on the outside?”

  It’s not the question either me or Pope are expecting, although it’s a good one. We need a name—a friend, a relative, a business associate, anyone who gives Masters a reason to be passing through Cambridgeshire.

  “He talked about his ex-wife a bit, his kids—‘my girls.’ Don’t recall no one else. Doubt he had many friends. Independent sort of a bloke—I mean, fiercely independent. Went mad if you told him one of the crossword clues, you know what I’m saying? Wanted to do it all himself.”

  Dyer says nothing. My cue to take the lead again.

  “So this stuff about Holly, why didn’t you say anything at the time?”

  “What, grass? You don’t do that in here, darlin.’ You might smack someone around the head with a cue ball, but you don’t grass them up.”

  “But when you killed him? Surely all bets were off then?”

  He shrugs. “Look, they asked me why I did it and I told them—because I was tired of fucking listening to his sick fucking stories. Subject closed. No one asked for any details and I certainly wasn’t giving them.”

  “And yet along we come and you can’t be more helpful.”

  He gives Dyer a sour look. Me, a smile. “Along you come, what was your name again? Cath? Well, what can I say, Cath? You don’t get to talk to many pretty young girls stuck in here. Gotta make the most of it.”

  I offer a small sweet grin, placing my hands together on the table. “Unfortunately, Jacob, not having access to pretty girls is the price you and the likes of Christopher Masters pay for killing them. Although at least you’ve got your fan club, eh?”

  “The likes of? Do not put me in the same category as that bastard.” The gangster patois slips as quickly as his smile. “Big difference between me and Masters.”

  “A difference in body count, sure.”