Shed No Tears

by Caz Frear

  Steele laughs, zero humor. “Oh, don’t you worry, Tess Dyer isn’t afraid to blow her own trumpet. If she was playing it humble, it was for a good reason.”

  Realization smacks Parnell. “Slevin and Whittlesea were big rivals of Simon Fellows. In fact, rumor has it, Fellows made a killing taking over Whittlesea’s turf.”

  “And the officer not being ‘on the scene’ anymore sort of plays out.” Steele’s nodding, waiting for me to finish. “Dyer was in Lyon for four years. Great for the CV, maybe not so great for any arrangement she had with Fellows.”

  “There’s something else too. It’s nothing conclusive, and to be honest, I hadn’t put too much weight on it, but now . . .” Steele’s tapping her fingers together nervously. “You see, it’s a small world, the Met. Dyer’s old DCI on Organized Crime—Tom Halley—worked for me years ago, and I called him yesterday, just to ask about Fellows, get his thoughts, his recollections, you know? Anyway, I mentioned about Fellows being gay and it was the first Tom had heard of it. I know Dyer said only a select few were in the know, a couple of the old boys, but still—that sort of information on that sort of person, a big player like Fellows—that’s not the kind of intel you keep from your boss. Tom was going to ask around, call me back when he found out who Dyer got the information from. He hasn’t called yet.”

  “You think it’s not true?” asks Parnell, but I know the conclusion Steele’s reaching. “What about Vestergaard, the granddaughter?”

  “Oh no, I think it’s true, Lu. But what if she didn’t get the information from anyone. What if she already knew?”

  “Forget her never having direct dealings with Fellows.” I deliver the punch line. “She’s one of the ‘select few.’”

  Steele nods, biting her lip. “I think we have this all arseways. Olly is covering for Dyer—he’s taking the fall for the bank records because he’s loyal and he’s dying, and what can they do to him, realistically? Whereas his precious Tess—she’s on the up, she’s got a shit ton to lose, not to mention being a single mum to two boys who’ve already lost their dad.” She puts her head in her hands. “God, I really hope he’s doing it because he believes she made a one-off mistake, not because he knows she’s corrupt.”

  “So we need a link between Dyer and Serena Bailey.” I sigh. “Where do we even fucking start?”

  Parnell’s voice is serious. “We need to hand this over to the DPS now, Kate—that’s what we need to do. We’ve been sitting on clear wrongdoing for nearly twenty-four hours. It’s not right, I don’t like it.”

  “Hand what over, though, Lu? It’s the same as linking Fellows to Holly. It’s all circumstantial at the moment. We can see the picture forming, but without proof, we’re not ready to move.” She runs a hand down her face. “Anyway—and this is super confidential—but the DPS itself is about to be investigated over claims of serious corruption and malpractice. It’s going to hit the news next week.”

  “Oh, brilliant, it gets better.” Parnell does a slow handclap. “Anti-Corruption being investigated over corruption. Makes you proud to wear the badge, eh?”

  “Well, maybe now you understand why I’m not keen to hand it over until we’ve got something watertight.”

  I try an idea out for size. “We pull Serena Bailey’s phone records, see who she’s been calling this week. If we’re right about all this, there’s going to have been some frantic conversations.”

  “If Dyer’s corrupt, she’ll be communicating with Fellows, Bailey, whoever, on an unregistered phone,” Parnell says. “She’s not stupid.”

  “Then we get her in here,” I say. “Feign some meeting or other, and then me and Serena’s phone records take ourselves off to the Tavern, and I call every single number Serena’s called since this case became live again. If we’re stupidly lucky, she’ll answer. But even if you just hear a phone ringing, we’ve pretty much got her.”

  Steele’s shaking her head. “Chances are she’d have it on silent. And anyway, it’s not enough. I want something concrete.”

  And I want my mum choosing curtains for my Manhattan loft apartment.

  “Would she even come here?” Parnell wonders. “I mean, she must realize by now that we know about Masters’ bank records. Either Cairns—or Bailey, if we’re right about this—are bound to have told her.”

  “So what next?” I snap, impatient. “Short of waterboarding her, what can we do?”

  “We set a trap.” Steele has that air again, that air of knowing she’s got the winning ticket. “I call Dyer and tell her we’re preparing to make an arrest and I wanted to give her the heads-up—feels like the right thing to do, professional courtesy and all that . . .”

  Parnell and I look suitably “huh?”

  “I say we’ve got proof Serena Bailey lied about seeing Holly on Valentine Street and we’re going to charge her with Perverting the Course of Justice. But more than that, we suspect Holly was blackmailing Serena . . .” She’s totally making this up as she goes along, but one thing’s for sure: by the time she’s dialing Dyer’s number, it’ll sound as solid a theory as evolution. “Maybe they met through the escorting scene, Holly threatened to report Serena to her school, her career goes up in flames so Serena had to stop her . . .”

  “Boss, this is batshit.” And I love it. And I know exactly where it’s heading.

  “It is batshit,” she says. “And if Dyer had time to stop and think, she’d reach the very same conclusion. But we don’t give her time. We tell her Serena’s arrest is imminent, a few hours off. And then we wait for her reaction. My guess is she’ll go straight to Serena’s school to tip her off, and to warn her to stick to her story.”

  “She’ll call her, surely?” says Parnell.

  “She’ll probably try,” I say. “But the chances of Serena answering are slim. School teachers don’t wander around looking at their phones all day.”

  “Exactly. In all likelihood, Dyer will have to make a move. She’ll have to try to get to Serena before we do. And when she does, you pair will be right on top of her. See how she explains that one.”

  “Boss, it might sound like I’m sucking up, but you really are a fucking genius.”

  Sometimes there really isn’t anything else to say.

  28

  “We’re cut from the same cloth, Cat, you and me.”

  I think about Dyer’s words as we sit in Parnell’s car, a little way down from the entrance to St. Joseph of Cupertino’s. It’s a good time for thinking. The school is calm, as schools usually are outside the hullabaloo of break times, and Parnell’s quite happy to quietly gnaw his nails as he scrolls through his phone mindlessly.

  Cut from the same cloth.

  What did I do to make Dyer think this? Could she see it in me? Smell it off me? Can one fraud always recognize another?

  And am I any better, when you shine the spotlight on me? Without Dad’s protection last year, without him offering himself up in place of me, I could have found myself in a similar position, hand in glove with Frank Hickey. A little info on a rival here. A little stack of fifties in my pocket there. I’d have torn the money up, of course, given it to a beggar, used it to clean my toilet, but I still might have done what was needed to protect myself. I still might have set fire to the last remaining scraps of my integrity if it meant Steele and Parnell and Aiden never finding out the truth about me.

  See, everyone has a price. I truly believe that.

  Except the price isn’t always money. It’s just a damn sight simpler when it is.

  “How long now?” I ask, just to make a noise, to shoo away the demons.

  “Nearly an hour, I’d say. Enough time for me to play three games of Sudoku and read the entire Sky Sports website.”

  “Some lookout you are.”

  “You’ve got better eyesight than me.”

  We’ve been parked here for nearly an hour, waiting, hoping, that Steele’s trap will pay off and either Serena Bailey will bolt out or Tessa Dyer will storm in. So far, nothing. The whole stree
t’s dead, in fact. Just the odd passing pensioner and a few council workers, slowly cooking in the heat while painting zigzags on the road.

  “Anyway, you’re quiet,” says Parnell, lifting his head from his phone. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Oh, you know, life, love, and everything.”

  “What’s the ‘everything’?”

  “Nothing groundbreaking. When did I last get that mole checked? What am I going to have for dinner?” I point to one of the council workers, an Adonis in a hi-vis, a Levi’s advert–on-legs. “Whether he’s got a girlfriend?”

  How the people you love most are the easiest to lie to.

  Parnell frowns. “You get that bloody mole checked, do you hear me?” He’s fiddling with his phone again, ready to dish out Dr. P advice. “Ah, here it is—you’ve got to remember the ABCDs. Asymmetry. Border. Color. Diameter.” He looks up, squinting over at the workmen. “And as for Mr. Stud-Muffin over there, he’d be nothing but trouble, mark my words. Stick with Aiden. Take the easy road.”

  Easy. Imagine.

  “Do you know what else I was thinking about?” This part is true, in a roundabout way. “Dyer offered me a job. Well, at least I think she did.”

  He twists to face me, wide-eyed but with no judgment. “And would you have taken it?”

  “I think I need a change of some sort. Whether that would have been it, who knows?” I shrug it off, wishing I hadn’t brought it up. “Oh, I dunno, Sarge. Maybe I should get a new hairstyle, or start wearing red lipstick, or buy a flashy new suit. That’s an easier way to make yourself feel like a different person, isn’t it?”

  “Why do you want to be a different person?” He looks genuinely perplexed. “For Christ’s sake, just don’t start acting like a different person, that’s all I’m going to say. You, Steele, Renée, and maybe Seth on a good day—but mainly you, kiddo—are the people who keep me sane in this job. If you’re going to go all shoulder-pads-and-attitude on me, I might as well bloody retire.”

  And what if I moved to New York, I want to say, would you be sad? Would you visit? Would you send me funny emails every day, ranting about Arsenal’s defense and the stinky filling in Flowers’ sandwiches?

  But I don’t say anything. A car’s slowing down, indicating, then hovering, the driver readying to park in a ridiculously tight space. I can’t see their face, although I could lay bets right now that Dyer wouldn’t be seen dead in a 2013 Nissan Micra. But you never know, so we keep watching, only turning away once the driver reveals herself to be a small Asian lady with a limp.

  Silence again. Parnell goes back to his phone and I go back to appreciating Mr. Stud-Muffin. It’s not long, though, only maybe a minute or two, before a heavy weight descends again.

  “Dyer’s sons,” I say. “I wonder what’ll happen to them if this plays out the way we think?”

  Parnell feels it like a personal ache. “Eleven and thirteen, she said. God, I remember my eldest two at that age. It’s not easy. Lots of physical and emotional changes going on.” He shakes his head out the window. “There’s never only one victim, is there?”

  “Only one we’re paid to worry about.” Brutal, but that’s the way it is.

  “She’ll go to prison, Cat, which is absolutely where she belongs . . . but Jesus, they lost their dad too. I could lie down on the asphalt and cry for them, I really could.”

  Losing both parents at a young age, just like Holly Kemp. She may have been a car crash of an adult, but I could cry for that child too.

  “When did he die?” I ask. “Was it a while ago? ’Cos she’s still wearing her wedding ring. It’s kinda sad . . .”

  Only a fraud can feel sympathy for another fraud.

  “Yeah, a good while back. Not that long after the Roommate case, I think.” He picks up his phone again. “I’ll tell you exactly when, shall I?”

  I roll my eyes. “You and your bloody phone! You’re worse than a teenager. You don’t have to check every single fact on the internet, you know? I was only making conversation.”

  He’s in a Google trance already. “Now . . . where is it? Where is it? . . . I know the Met did a fundraising thing to buy a few defibrillators. It was quite a big deal, made London Tonight. Ah—here we go . . .”

  One of the life-saving machines has pride of place just outside Elgin Library, near Gordonstoun, where Paul Dyer went to school. Paul died at the Royal Papworth Hospital on 19th October 2012, just a week before his fortieth birthday.

  I let out a low whistle. “Wow, that last bit is a kick in the guts! Goes to show, doesn’t matter how fancy your education is, how privileged you are, death doesn’t discriminate.”

  “Your health is your wealth,” adds Parnell, always one for a natty phrase.

  Suddenly, a loud wolf whistle. I glower over at the council-workers, then turn my ire on Parnell. “Fucking idiots! Are they still allowed to do that?” My hand’s on the door catch. “Actually, I don’t care if they are or they aren’t, I’m going to say something. I’m in the mood for a fight.”

  Parnell’s arm flies over. “Wait! Don’t open that.” His eyes are on the rearview mirror. “Jesus, Cat, she’s here! Dyer’s here. That must be who they were whistling at. Look—she’s heading this way on the other side of the road.”

  I twist around and there she is, all grim-faced and purposeful, designer bag slung over her forearm, her silver-spun hair iridescent under the blazing afternoon sun. Striding toward the school gates, she looks less a police officer, more like a hacked-off mother who’s been called out of a work meeting to come and pick up a sick child.

  In another few seconds, she’ll be level with the car.

  “Turn to me, turn to me,” Parnell’s saying. “Just make sure she doesn’t see your face. I don’t think she’ll recognize my car.”

  A distant male shout carries up the street. “Oi, wait up!”

  I risk a glance back. Simon Fellows is locking his car. Tall, dark, and ominous. No cutesy kids and plates of cookies to soften the overall effect this time.

  “T—hold on,” he calls again.

  Dyer pivots at the sound of her nickname.

  “T.” He knows her well.

  Which means I call checkmate, Tessa Dyer.

  “Holy shit.” I stare across at Parnell, my breath choppy and short. “What are they planning to do? What are we planning to do? Do we let them get inside? We’re going to have to let them get inside if we want to get anything concrete.”

  Parnell watches them in the rearview mirror, knocking a knuckle against his clenched jaw. Dyer’s walking back toward Fellows. There’s a discussion. A heated one. Fellows gesticulating, Dyer shaking her head, jabbing a finger downward, as if ordering him to “Stay here.” A few more seconds and she strides off again. Fellows doesn’t follow, just thrusts his hands in his pockets and circles the pavement, head bent low. I turn my face again as Dyer draws level with us, then turn back to watch her strut past the main gates and up the path that leads to the side entrance.

  She’s either been here before or she’s been told where to go.

  Parnell picks up his phone, brings up Steele’s number. “You go, Cat, follow her. I’m going to have to stay here and watch Fellows. We can’t let a man like that—someone we know has access to firearms—take another step closer to a school. If it looks like he’s heading in, I’ll arrest him.”

  “On what grounds? We haven’t seen a weapon.” A shiver crackles through my core. “And Christ, he’s as bad as they come, allegedly, but you don’t think he’d start shooting in an infant school?”

  “I think I don’t want to take the chance. He’s here for a reason and it won’t be a good one.” He looks back. “Go on, now. He’s got his back to us. Go. Quickly.”

  I dart across the road, silently thanking myself for putting my hair up this morning. Even if Fellows does spin around, he probably won’t recognize me at a distance without my wild Celtic thatch. I follow Dyer’s path, past the main gates and up the side entrance, figuring she�
��s had maybe a minute on me, then possibly two, when it takes forever for the school receptionist to buzz me in.

  “My colleague, which way did she go?” I say, flashing my warrant card, peering all around. There are three corridors off reception and a set of stairs leading to the second floor.

  “Look, what’s going on?” she demands, arms folded, significantly less chirpy than last time. “We can’t have this disruption. The mums are panicking. Phoebe Denton’s mum said you arrested Miss Bailey at the school gates yesterday.”

  Then Phoebe Denton’s mum was getting ahead of herself.

  “My colleague?” I repeat, trying to smile, avoiding alarm.

  She leans over the counter, pointing right. “Down there, Miss Bailey’s classroom.”

  I fly down the long corridor, past lockers and posters and summer anoraks hanging on pegs. As I near the bottom, the stenciled mantra comes into focus once again.

  MISS BAILEY YEAR 2. WORK HARD! BE KIND! HAVE FUN!

  Tell lies.

  I knock, then open the door. A sea of sweet faces turn to gawk at me, in among them a woman in denim dungarees who looks about twelve, but who must be in charge. “Miss Bailey?” I say.

  “She’s gone with the lady to show her our totem pole,” announces one eager beaver. “Have you come to see it too?”

  I make a face that suggests I have, then look at the child-woman for confirmation.

  She points a finger at the ceiling. “Upstairs in the Nurture Room. Is everything OK?”

  Another reassuring smile, and then I’m back in reception within seconds, frantically shushing the receptionist as she loudly apologizes for not seeing them when they came past. I kick off my shoes, not wanting to make a sound on the stone stairs, then take two at a time up the first flight, stopping dead on the landing at the sound of muffled voices up ahead.

  As lightly as I can, I take another step, then another, until finally every word is clear.

  Threat after threat, echoing beautifully off the cinder-block walls.