by Jamie Raven
Kline spun round and found himself face to face with Cain, who was blocking the doorway.
‘Please let me go,’ he yelled, his eyes wild and desperate.
But the detective hesitated for only a split second. Then as Kline rushed towards him he decided he was in too deep now to allow the man to escape.
So he stepped aside, making Kline think he was letting him go. Just as Kline passed through the doorway, he stuck out his right foot and tripped him up, sending him flying across the hallway and into the wall.
That was all Cain had to do because Bishop was on Kline in a millisecond, dropping himself onto the man’s back.
‘This time you won’t wriggle out of it,’ Bishop seethed.
Having retrieved the nylon rope, Bishop placed it around his victim’s throat again. Then his mouth curled into an ugly snarl as he pulled on it as hard as he could. It took him less than a minute to squeeze the life out of Peter Kline and it was obvious to Cain that the bastard took great pleasure in it.
The detective didn’t move, just stared in slack-jawed disbelief. He felt tears push against his eyes and he had to force himself to gulp air into his heaving lungs.
‘Go find the car keys,’ Bishop said, his voice unaffected by what he had just done.
Cain was frozen to the spot, his head pulsing like an infection.
‘For fuck’s sake I’ll do it myself,’ Bishop said as he got up and started searching the house.
The sudden silence roared in Cain’s ears, and he realised that what he had just seen and done would change his life forever. The shame barrelled through him and he felt an overwhelming urge to be sick. He probably would have thrown up if Bishop hadn’t suddenly reappeared with a set of keys.
‘I’ve found them,’ he said. ‘I’ve also found a door into the garage. We’ll take the body out that way and put it in the Lexus. There’s less chance of being seen.’
Cain managed to hold it together for the next five minutes. That was how long it took them to carry Kline’s body through the garage and put it into the boot of the Lexus.
It was a ghastly ordeal and throughout it Cain’s mind spun in circles and his heart hammered in his chest.
He stood just inside the front door while Bishop turned off the lights and checked that they wouldn’t be leaving behind any evidence of their presence.
‘I’ll take off in the Lexus,’ he said. ‘You get your car and go home. Forget this ever happened.’
Like it would be that easy, Cain thought, as he stepped outside into the night and walked away as fast as he could.
The first thing Cain did when he got home was to dash into the toilet and be sick. Some of the vomit missed the pan and sprayed on his shoes and trousers.
After emptying his guts, he stripped down to his underpants. Then he fired down a large brandy and snorted a few lines of coke.
He felt wretched, and the guilt started stalking him like a black shadow. He wanted to roll up and die, but he knew he wasn’t going to be that lucky. Instead he would have to live with what he had seen and done tonight.
He poured another brandy, lit a cigarette. He kept hearing Kline’s voice in his head as the poor bastard begged them to let him go. And he kept seeing the brutal expression on Bishop’s face as he committed cold-blooded murder.
Cain sat on the sofa without moving for a good hour, tormented by his thoughts and the loud beating of his own heart.
Then he remembered the flash drive that Danny had given him. He fired up his laptop and plugged it in.
It was as bad as Danny had warned him it would be. The sound bites from various phone conversations made him flinch. But what really turned his stomach was the video sequence of him shagging a girl whose name he remembered as Nicole. It was about eight months ago at a West End hotel that the firm had paid for. He wondered if the little whore had known that the session was being recorded on a hidden video camera. Was that why she had made a point of telling him several times that she was three months away from her sixteenth birthday?
Oh, Christ!
He’d been fucked over good and proper. Entrapped like the gullible pillock he was.
He switched off the laptop and switched on the CD player, turning up the music to try to drown out his own thoughts.
Another drink. Another cigarette. Another line of coke. His senses becoming more confused and distorted.
He sat down, shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes.
And started to cry for the first time in as long as he could remember.
30
Beth Chambers
Monday morning. I was up at the crack of dawn, having slept for about five hours.
Quick shower. Quick dry. I could feel the restless energy burning through me as I got dressed and went downstairs. Mum was already up and she had a mug of tea waiting for me.
‘How did you sleep?’ she asked.
‘Like a log.’
‘I’ll put some toast on. Don’t want you going to work on an empty stomach.’
She said more or less the same thing every weekday morning. But I didn’t mind. It was kind of sweet.
I switched on the TV news. The Shapiro story had been relegated to third place on Sky, pushed down the running order by another mass shooting in the States and the shock resignation of a Labour MP.
When they came to it they had nothing new to report except that Sam Jones, Megan’s ex-boyfriend, had been released without charge.
I waited until seven to call Ethan because I felt sure he’d be up by then. But there was no answer.
Damn it.
I was desperate to know if he had acted on the information I’d given him. If so, then why hadn’t he called me or sent a text message? And if not, then why was he dragging his heels?
It was a dramatic development after all; a major turning point in the investigation. Surely Peter Kline should have been interviewed by now and Danny Shapiro pulled in for further questioning.
‘You need to be patient,’ my mother said, after I told her why I was tense and frustrated. ‘They’re probably waiting until this morning to put the wheels in motion.’
I wasn’t convinced so I called the press office at New Scotland Yard, asked them if there had been any developments overnight. They said there hadn’t, and I was in no position to contradict them.
I ate the toast as I moved about the house getting myself sorted. My mother was planning to take Rosie to the nursery and then go shopping, so I gave her some cash.
‘Anything special you want me to get you?’ she asked and I said there wasn’t.
We were back into the weekly routine, which worked well for both of us. My mother felt she had a purpose in life and didn’t have to spend most of her time alone. And I got to continue doing the job I loved and didn’t have to fork out a fortune for childminders.
It wasn’t an ideal situation and lacked the one ingredient that would have made my life complete: a man. Still, until I found that elusive Mr Right – or he found me – it would have to suffice.
Rosie called out while I was drinking my second cup of tea. I brought her downstairs and spent ten minutes making a fuss of her.
‘Have a great time at the nursery, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘Mummy’s going to miss you very much. But I’ll be home before you go to bed.’ Hopefully.
As I left the house I tried calling Ethan again, but there was still no answer so I left a message.
They were forecasting a dry but cloudy day. Though it was cold outside the air felt soft. I took the train from Peckham to London Bridge and was in the office by 9.15. The morning meeting, chaired by Grant Scott, was due to get under way at half past.
I used the time before then to try to reach Ethan. When he failed to answer his mobile I called the number I’d been given for the incident room in Wandsworth, only to be told that he was out of the office.
At the meeting Grant asked what they could expect from me today on the Megan Fuller murder. I couldn’t be totally honest with the team about the
story that was about to break because of the method I’d used to uncover it. I didn’t want to follow in the footsteps of Arnie Wilson, an investigative reporter sacked by The Post two years ago – for posing as a police officer!
So I said that one of my police contacts had told me there was going to be a major development later in the day.
‘I’ve arranged to meet him this morning,’ I lied.
‘Sounds promising,’ Grant said. ‘The Met are also planning to hold a press conference at which Megan’s father might make an appeal. I’d like you to go along and cover it.’
‘Will do, boss,’ I said.
After the meeting, I retreated to my desk and tried yet again to contact Ethan. No answer. Now I was beginning to fear that something wasn’t right. I could feel it in the pulse of my blood.
Was the bugger purposely avoiding me because he hadn’t yet done anything about the Peter Kline revelation? Or was he part of a team of officers that was in the process of swooping on the homes of Danny Shapiro and Tamara Roth?
Either way I needed to know, if only to stop me worrying that another reporter would be tipped off about it. That had to be a distinct possibility if Ethan had already shared the information with DCI Redwood and the rest of his team.
What a disaster it’d be if someone else was able to claim credit for what was my bloody exclusive!
Given how I had come by the information my options were limited. But I did think of one way to find out if anything was happening and that was to phone Peter Kline himself.
I pulled up the photo I’d taken of Tamara’s calendar. What appeared to be Kline’s mobile number was written on it along with his name and address.
I called the number but it rang out. I then looked him up again on LinkedIn and made a note of the investment company he worked for in the City. A few seconds later I had the company’s phone number. When I got through to the switchboard I asked for Peter Kline and was put through to the office he worked in.
‘I understand you’re inquiring after Mr Kline,’ said the woman who answered. ‘If it’s to do with anything he’s working on then perhaps I can help.’
‘It’s a personal matter actually,’ I said. ‘I tried his mobile but he’s not answering.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, we’ve also tried to contact him on his phone without success. He’s not at home either.’
‘So you don’t know where he is?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t, which is very strange because he was due in this morning at seven for an important meeting.’
‘Is it unusual for him not to turn up on time?’
‘Absolutely. And if he was going to be late we’d expect him to call to let us know.’
‘Is it possible he’s had an accident?’ I asked.
A pause, then: ‘Look, can you tell me what your relationship is with Peter, I mean Mr Kline? I think I should know who I’m talking to.’
‘I’m just a friend,’ I said. ‘We live close to each other in Little Venice. I was ringing to invite him to our place for drinks.’
‘Well, in that case might I suggest that you call back later? Hopefully we’ll know by then what’s happened to him.’
‘Have you thought about contacting the police?’ I said.
‘No, not at the moment. We don’t want to overreact since there’s probably an innocent explanation.’
Innocent explanation! I wasn’t so sure. It seemed too much of a coincidence that he should fail to arrive at work the morning after I’d paid him a visit.
A tiny alarm started ringing somewhere deep inside me. I felt I should do something but I wasn’t sure what. I didn’t really know the man and could never admit to meeting him while posing as a detective.
I told myself to calm down. He’d only been missing for about three hours. Anything could have happened. He might have decided on the spur of the moment to take the day off. He might have overslept. Or maybe he had gone for an early-morning bonk with another prostitute and had lost track of time.
Would Ethan know where he is? I wondered. Was it conceivable the police had taken him into protective custody for his own safety?
I tried reaching Ethan yet again, on his mobile and at the nick. Still no response.
I then called Doug, my other police contact at Wandsworth. I gave him Peter Kline’s name, but didn’t tell him who he was. He said he had never heard of the man and as far as he knew nobody was being held in protective custody.
‘As for DI Cain, I understand he’s over in Lewisham, trying to persuade Megan Fuller’s father to appear at this afternoon’s press conference,’ he said.
I thanked him, and as soon as I came off the phone Grant asked me to write a piece for the next edition of the paper, even if there was nothing new.
I cobbled something together using quotes from the press office and filler material from the wires. There was so much more that I wanted to put in but couldn’t.
After filing the copy, I phoned Kline’s office again and this time a man answered and told me that he still hadn’t turned up.
It wasn’t meant to have been like this. By now I should have been breaking the story of Shapiro’s arrest. Instead I was struggling to suppress a growing panic, and hoping to God that no harm had come to Peter Kline because of what I had done.
31
Ethan Cain
Cain had spent the best part of an hour at Nigel Fuller’s house in Lewisham. DCI Redwood had told him to go there to find out more about his daughter Megan.
Cain’s brief was also to convince Mr Fuller that it would be a good idea to attend this afternoon’s press conference and appeal for help in finding Megan’s killer.
To begin with he refused because he was still furious that Danny Shapiro had been released without charge.
‘He’s the ultimate Teflon man,’ he said. ‘Nothing ever sticks to him.’
Eventually, though, he’d seen the sense in helping with the investigation and had agreed to attend the press conference. He asked if his fiancée Amy Cassidy could accompany him and Cain had said it wasn’t a problem.
To the detective’s surprise she revealed that she had never met Megan. It turned out that Mr Fuller and his daughter had had very little contact in recent years.
‘She was always too busy to come over,’ he said. ‘But now I bitterly regret not making more of an effort myself to stay in touch. Sadly that’s how it is with a lot of families.’
Mr Fuller had little to add to what he’d already told the police.
Before leaving the house the couple told Cain that they had pushed back the date of their wedding by six months.
‘It’s the least we can do,’ Mr Fuller said. ‘A small gesture of respect for Megan.’
Back in the car Cain fired up a cigarette and sat for a while to get his thoughts together. His head was fogged up and he felt bleary-eyed through lack of sleep.
He was also suffering from the effects of too much brandy and cocaine. Not to mention the weight of guilt that was draped around his shoulders like a heavy chain.
What he had witnessed last night was still chewing at his heart. He saw the whole thing being played out in his mind’s eye every time he closed his eyes. For the first time in his life he felt utterly ashamed of himself.
He had never pretended to be a good man. He had lost his moral compass back in the mists of time. Greed, temptation and a warped sense of entitlement had influenced his journey through life and shaped him into the unprincipled person he’d become. A corrupt copper, a cheating husband. And now he was something far worse.
Last night he’d been an accessory in the cold-blooded murder of an innocent man. That made him as guilty and as contemptible as Frankie Bishop.
He dragged heavily on his cigarette and snapped his thoughts back to the present. He knew that he had to somehow pull himself together and climb out of the pit of despair before he lost himself in it completely.
He retrieved his phone from his pocket and took it off silent mode. He had a bunch of mi
ssed calls, all but one from Beth.
Drew Bellamy, Megan’s psychiatrist, had responded to the message he’d left the previous evening. However it was his secretary who answered. She explained that her boss was in the States and was due to fly home tonight.
‘He’s been attending a conference in Houston,’ she said. ‘He’s catching a plane this evening and should arrive back in the UK tomorrow morning. Can you tell me what it’s about?’
‘It’s concerning one of his patients,’ Cain said. ‘Megan Fuller.’
‘Oh dear, I heard about that. It’s so awful. But I’m not sure Mr Bellamy even knows about it yet.’
‘Well, I need to talk to him as soon as possible about the treatment Miss Fuller was having since it might have a bearing on the case. Can I reach him on his mobile?’
‘Possibly, but I can tell you that he won’t provide you with information over the phone. You’d need to speak to him face to face and he’d have to verify your credentials.’
‘In that case can you get him to ring me as soon as he’s back tomorrow and I’ll come to your office?’
‘Of course, Inspector.’
Cain put in a call to Redwood to update him. He made sure he sounded upbeat and excited.
‘I’ve managed to talk Megan’s father into coming along to the presser, guv,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t keen to start with, but he’s now prepared to make an appeal.’
‘Well done,’ Redwood said. ‘Did he tell you anything new about his daughter?’
‘Not really. Seems they didn’t see much of each other and he feels guilty about that.’
‘Okay, Ethan. Where are you now?’
‘About to leave Lewisham and head back to the station.’
‘Make it snappy then and I’ll get the team together for a briefing.’
Cain hung up, relieved that the gaffer hadn’t harked back to the awkward conversation they’d had earlier.
Cain wanted to put off ringing Beth, but decided it would be a bad idea. She was obviously working herself into a frenzy because he hadn’t already been in touch. He had been putting it off because the thought of lying to her filled him with a billowing sense of dread.