by Caz Frear
“They don’t work, you know—these candles. You watch, we’ll still get eaten alive by mosquitoes.” I sit down beside him, making myself a sitting target for the little bastards. “So how are you then?”
“I’m fine. As I keep telling everyone, I broke my arm, not my neck.”
“And how are the ribs doing?”
“OK. Hurts a bit when I laugh, but you know, that’s not too much of a problem around here.” We share a grin. “If it’s not Fortnite, it’s decluttering.” Another grin. “And then there’s Ash, of course.”
Strong, dependable, kindhearted Ash. One of the good guys, for sure. You just wouldn’t want to sit next to him at a dinner party.
I use one foot to push us off the ground, the bench swinging softly. “So you’re definitely OK?”
He looks at me, confused. “God, I knew Jacqui would flap, but I was hoping for some indifference from you.”
“I don’t mean the injuries. I mean how you got them.” I take a sip of wine. “Is it all sorted now, all square? Another ‘barrel of beer’ isn’t going to drop on you any time soon?”
“It’s sorted.”
I take his word for it, proceeding to the next headfuck on the agenda. “Jacqs said Noel might be coming back. Any idea what ‘might’ means? I mean, a plane might crash into the garden in the next five minutes, but it’s unlikely—although it’s preferable to Noel being back in London.”
“He’s coming back.” Dad stares into the candle, looking solemn. Looking sorry.
“You needn’t look so fucking gloomy about it. If he’s coming back, it’s because you’ve paved the way for it to happen.”
“Frank wants him back.”
I halt the swing, turning to him fully. “But Frank hates Noel! That’s about the only thing me and Frank Hickey have ever agreed on. Christ, Dad, he had Noel beaten to a pulp for skimming off him.”
He shrugs his bad shoulder. “I’m back in the firm now. He knows I’ll keep him in line. And Noel’s good muscle, always was.”
“Give Finn ten years and he’ll be good muscle too. Is that what you want? Is that the plan? ’Cos if it is, he’s already coming along nicely—shooting at things and waving fifties around like a mini pimp.”
“Calm down.” An order, not a suggestion.
“Calm down? Are you serious? Noel being back is bad news, Dad. If he ever met Aiden, it wouldn’t bear thinking about.” I’ve never really thought about what that phrase actually means, but now I know. Now I feel it in every cell, every vein, every hair on the back of my neck. “Noel would put two and two together, I know he would. Worrying about Jacqui is bad enough, but for all her ‘neglected big sister’ act, she’s too wrapped up in herself to bother about me. But Noel makes it his business to poke his nose into mine.”
“He won’t go near you, Cat. I won’t let him.” There’s a fierceness in his eyes that says I should believe him, but I can’t afford to. “Same with Frank. Frank knows the day you’re hurt is the day me and him are finished, and Noel will know the same soon enough. I love my boy, Cat.” He takes my hand. “But you’re the good one. You’re the one that proves I did something right in my life.”
“I compromised a murder investigation. Your standards are pretty low.”
“The people responsible went to prison, that’s all that matters. And now all that matters is that you’re safe and happy. I won’t let Noel hurt you.”
And maybe he won’t, not fatally. But in the same way he always used to delight in kicking my top bunk, pulling my hair, calling me names, stealing my things, Noel’s never happy unless I’m miserable. Unless the Golden Child’s losing her sheen.
Another tick in the box for Manhattan.
“I might be moving to New York for a while.” I didn’t mean to blurt that out, but all those years of spewing vitriol at Dad means my brain-to-mouth filter can be a little leaky when it comes to him. “I guess that could solve the Noel problem.”
“Wow, that’s some news, sweetheart.” A light’s gone out in his eyes, but he still manages a weak laugh. “I can just see you now—‘NYPD, open up!’”
I smile. “I wish! Aiden’s been offered a two-year transfer, but I wouldn’t be able to work.”
“So what are the odds on you going?”
“I would have said fifty-fifty, but with Noel coming back . . .”
“Then Noel won’t come back.”
His response is instant, reflexive, a simple matter of fact. The sun will rise. The birds will fly south for the winter. And my son will not set foot on British soil again if it means my daughter moves thousands of miles away from it.
“I mean it, Cat. If you want to go to New York, go to New York. But don’t you dare go because of Noel.” He looks at me with a paternal sternness that’s as unfamiliar as it is hilarious. “And don’t go because Aiden’s pressuring you either.”
“He’s not pressuring me. I’ve said I’ll think about it and he’s fine with that. If I don’t want to go, then we’ll stay, and he won’t say another word about it.” I pause, considering the truth of what I’ve just said. “But that’s why I should go—because all he cares about is being with me and that type of love isn’t to be sniffed at.”
We share a smile that says, “Mum.” God knows, she put up with a lot more than what’s effectively the offer of a two-year holiday.
“Anyway, enough about me.” I let go of his hand, shifting position, breaking eye contact. “Ange. I take it it’s serious if Finn and Jacqs have met her?”
“Serious?” He lets out a long breath. “I don’t even know what ‘serious’ means, to be honest with you. She makes me laugh. She’s kind. She’s got her own life, her own money. And before you ask, she’s forty-one, two kids—twelve and eight.”
“Oh God, don’t get too serious then. I’m a bit long in the tooth for bratty step-siblings.”
“Jesus, the thought of getting married again . . .” He turns his head. I keep staring forward. “I really like her though, Cat. And I’ve told her all about you. She’d love to meet you. I’d love you to meet her.”
“Whoa.” I put a hand up. “I’m asking about her, all right. Can we take that as progress for now?”
“I think you’d like her.”
“I think I need to think about it.”
“Christ’s sake, I’m not suggesting a two-day summit! Just pop into the pub one night, say hello.”
“Pop into the pub? And can you promise there won’t be stuff going on in the pub, or in the back room of the pub, that won’t make it awkward for me—you know, a sworn police officer?” He takes too long to answer. “So that’s a no.”
He dodges the question again. “You won’t be a sworn police officer for much longer if you go to New York.”
“And your point is?”
“Just that you’ve always said it’s what you want to do. It’s what makes you happy. And you’re going to give it all up, just like that?”
“I wouldn’t be giving it up forever and I’d get back in easily enough.” If we came back. “And anyway, maybe a break would do me good. It gets under your skin after a while. The horror of what people do. The flippancy they do it with.”
The wine’s doing its thing. I can’t remember the last time I talked to Dad like this, or if I ever have, full stop.
“America’s not the easiest place to get into. Have you looked into all that? Visas?” He’s trying not to sound hopeful.
I nod. “Worst-case scenario, I’d have to come back to the UK every ninety days.”
“And that’s a bad thing? Thanks.”
“Oh come on, Dad. It’s not like we’re . . .” I struggle to find the word. It’s not “close” because holy fuck, we’re close. You can’t not be close to the person who knows the worst thing you ever did. “It’s not like we live in each other’s pockets. We go months without seeing each other.”
“Your choice, not mine.”
“Not a choice, a necessity. In the eyes of the law, you’re an active criminal
first, a dad second. And I shouldn’t be fraternizing with active criminals. I shouldn’t be here now.”
“Then why are you?”
I could say I was worried about him. I could tell him I’d been thinking about Mum and I had the sudden and overwhelming need to be near people who loved her.
I opt for the path of least vulnerability.
“I’m working a case at the moment and we’ve run up against a few names—people you probably don’t know, but I’d say you’re aware of, and I just wondered . . .”
“Well, you can stop wondering right now, sweetheart.” Everything hardens—his tone, his face, the very air between us. “It works both ways, you know, Cat. I’d never ask you for information. You shouldn’t expect it from me.”
I twist around, frustrated. “Hold on a minute, I’m not after ‘information.’ Christ, I think our relationship is complex enough without you becoming my snout, don’t you? I just want some context, that’s all.” Anger rears its head. “Actually, what I want is for what you are to work in my favor for five bloody minutes. Is that too much to ask?”
“It could be, yeah.” The shutter coming down is stalled halfway. “What do you mean by ‘context?’”
“I’m not asking you to implicate anyone in anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just set the scene for me.”
He sighs. “And whose scene am I setting?”
It’s too soon to mention Simon Fellows. His name is a total door-slammer. I need to start small, or at least smaller. I need to win trust then build up to him.
“Do you know a man called Jacob Pope?”
“I know he’s dead. Is that the case you’re working?”
“No, no. He’s just . . . it’s complicated. How did you know he was dead? He only died this morning.”
He relaxes slightly, tension ebbing from his face in small, slow increments. “Every industry has its grapevine, Cat.” Industry. “Rival gang thing, wasn’t it?”
“Too early to say.” The party line is also the truth.
“From what I remember of him, it’s a miracle someone didn’t off him sooner.”
“What? You knew him?”
“Not really, just nodding terms. I think he worked for the Pierce crowd before he got sent down, but Aaron—you know, Frank’s nephew—he used to run with him. Frank used him on a few jobs but he . . .”
I cover my ears; hear no evil. “I don’t want to know, Dad. I don’t want to know details about anything to do with you, or Frank.”
“OK, OK. Pope was a bit of hothead, that’s all I was going to say.”
“That’s an understatement. He killed his girlfriend.”
“No great loss to the world then, is he?” A pause. “He was a bright lad, though, had a sharp brain. And he used to run with a far slicker crowd than the tin-pot Pierces. He worked for this smart, dangerous bastard called Simon Fellows for years. Fellows gave him his P45 when he realized he was too volatile, too much of a liability. Is this the kind of context you’re after?”
My breath catches. The man who killed Masters was an associate of Simon Fellows.
A link?
“So you know Fellows?” I battle to keep the hunger out of my voice.
“No.”
“’Cos from what I’ve heard about him, Pope was lucky to get his P45, and not a bullet.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met the man.”
“You know that he’s a dangerous bastard.”
He gives me a look: everyone’s dangerous in my world, sweetheart.
“Oh, so you don’t actually know anything,” I sneer, hoping I’ll prick his fragile yet inflated ego. “It’s just tittle-tattle, the old grapevine again.” With a cheap laugh, I add, “God, you’re as bad as Jacqui’s WhatsApp group—all the school mums bitching about teachers and other parents.”
It works. His need to please me, impress me, make it up to me, wins out.
“Frank knows him. Fellows is a bit of a mercenary these days—happy to work where the money is, and, occasionally, the money’s with Frank.” He raises an eyebrow, smug, superior. “Although, from what I hear—and this is fact, not gossip, but don’t even think about asking me how I know—your lot are fairly well acquainted with Simon Fellows.”
“You think? He doesn’t even have a caution to his name.”
A laugh. “Well, you won’t have when you’re on such good terms with the police.”
Somewhere in my brain there’s a sense I should be reacting right now. Asking him what he’s talking about. What the actual fuck he thinks he means.
Problem is, I know what he means and we both know what he’s talking about. And it’s explosive and game-changing, and worst of all, in the few seconds I’ve had to process it, it kind of makes sense.
Dad carries on spelling it out. “Yeah, the big players, Cat—they don’t get that successful and keep their noses clean without being hand in glove with at least one senior police officer. And Fellows certainly used to be, although I don’t think the officer is on the scene now . . .”
I stare at him hard, my face frozen, my nerves rioting. “And this is fact?”
“Like I said, Frank knows him.” The shutter comes down. That’s all I’m getting.
“I suppose a name, even which force, is out of the question?”
“On Finn’s life, I don’t know, and on Finn’s life, I wouldn’t tell you if I did. We’re straying a bit too far from ‘context’ here, sweetheart. Let’s get back to New York, eh?”
I can’t conjure up New York. I can’t anchor my attention to anything remotely solid. I look around the garden, taking in objects, real life; Finn’s hula hoop, a watering can, the pair of leopard-print Crocs that Jacqui always gets defensive about. I can’t connect to any of it. Even Aiden’s face in my mind seems fuzzy and abstract.
Dad and me. Criminals hand in glove with police officers.
Are these officers my enemies or my tribe?
I take one last breath, then make a decision. Pick my side.
“Dad, I need you to do something for me.” My voice shakes as a nervous, shivery energy courses through me. I feel cold for the first time in months. “And your instant reaction is going to be to say no, but it’ll never be traced back to you, I swear . . .”
“What won’t be?” he says, panicked, my nerves infecting him. “What are you on about? What do you want me to do?”
“I can’t explain why and it’s better if you don’t know, but I need you to phone my incident room. I need you to ask to speak to the SIO heading up the investigation, only her—I’m pretty sure she’ll still be there—and then I need you to tell her what you’ve just told me about Pope and Fellows. I’ll rehearse it with you. I’ll tell you exactly what you need to say.”
His belly laugh carries across the garden. Jacqui looks out the window, wondering what’s going on.
“You want me to make an anonymous call to the police? Me.” He turns 180 with some difficulty, determined to face me head-on. “And why do you think I’d do that? Do you think I fancy having every other limb broken? And that’s if I’m lucky.”
I take a few seconds to answer. I need to be calm, practical, convincing, not a cat on hot bricks. “It won’t happen, Dad. You can lay your hands on a burner phone in minutes and I promise, they’ll never trace it. They won’t even try. All you’d be doing is pointing us in a direction, and if that direction checks out, we can get all the evidence we need. Your call will be forgotten. Just one of those mystery lucky breaks that happens more than you’d think. No big deal.”
“And why would I screw over Simon Fellows? I’ve got no beef with him.”
“Because I’m asking you to. And because you owe me.”
I shift forward, reducing the space between us, praying that the person he’s seeing in front of him is his daughter, not a cop. The little girl who sat on his shoulders and bounced on his knee. The little girl who believed him when he told her, “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you, sweetheart.�
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“So is this going to be an annual thing?” he says eventually, when staring each other out becomes unbearable. “Last year—Frank. This year—this. I mean, ballpark figure, Cat—just how regularly am I going to have to compromise myself for you?”
“I think it’s called parenting, Dad. You’ve got a lot of it to make up for.”
He looks away, wounded. I’m not proud of myself, not by a long shot, but then you use the weapons you have, and my biggest weapon against Dad—my hydrogen bomb, if you like—is emotional blackmail. The reminder that he failed me. He failed all of us.
He turns back. “I want one thing in return, though. And it’s not a big thing. It’s me asking you to be a grown-up.”
“Oh yeah, how?”
“You meet Ange. You play nice.”
I guess I’d have met her eventually. Jacqui’s birthday. Finn’s communion. Maybe the mortal hell that is Christmas lunch. I’m not a total truant when it comes to my family. I turn up for the big stuff, the main calendar events. The occasions where my absence would cause more drama than my presence.
And so I nod. “Yeah sure, why not?”
Dad takes this in for a minute, nods back.
“Sounds as though we’ve got ourselves a deal then.”
26
“This is big, Kinsella. It’s a monster. A meteor.”
It’s not the lateness of the call, it’s the break with tradition; Steele’s somber tones echoing down the line just after midnight, when the standard run of play is that Steele calls Parnell, then Parnell calls me. As a rule, Kate Steele isn’t a fan of having to repeat herself. But tonight maybe she needs to. Tonight, maybe the more she repeats it, the more she can try to make peace with it. Although I could tell her right now that hasn’t worked at all for me.
It’s a quick call, just a précis. Not the ins and outs—not that I need them.
“We’ve had a tip-off,” she tells me. “Anonymous, but credible.”
An allegation about a senior officer.
A link—a bit tenuous but still noteworthy—between Simon Fellows and the Masters case.
I “wow” and “uh-huh” and “oh my God” in all the right places, and then she tells me she’s taking the morning to do some digging—it’s best she does it on her own, keep things tight for now and strictly between us three. She should be back by lunchtime, she says. She’ll give us the nod when she’s ready. Until then, we’re to act normally.