by CJ Carver
‘I can’t complain about your work,’ Baz had said. He wouldn’t meet her eye as he continued. ‘None of us can. It’s the way you, er . . . interact with people. You can be a bit, ah . . . temperamental.’
One colleague apparently called her irritable, another obsessive. Someone called her an Energiser Bunny on speed and that they couldn’t keep up with her and found her exhausting. Another complained she never slept (how did they know? It wasn’t like they lived with her for God’s sake) and that she was unpredictable.
She had listened to the litany of her faults with her chin raised and her gaze level. She would cry later, she told herself: bottle it up, don’t show you’re hurt, rise above it all . . . And then Baz said, ‘Look, none of us are perfect, but if you hadn’t yelled at Magellan last week, we wouldn’t be sitting here now.’
She opened her mouth to protest but he held up a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter if he deserved it or not, your behaviour was inexcusable. You made him look stupid and –’
‘I didn’t know a journalist was there!’
‘You were in a fucking pub, Lucy. You can’t let rip in public like that. Christ, the press had a field day thanks to you. “Top Cop Is Left Flat-Footed” is not a headline we wish to see again.’
‘But –’
‘It’s not the first time you’ve embarrassed him, remember.’
She raised her eyes to the ceiling in a parody of exasperation. So what? He’s a prat of the highest order.
‘Look . . .’ He took a breath. ‘I know it’s not my job to do this, but I wanted to give you a heads-up before you go and see HR.’
She snapped her gaze back to Baz. Her spine tingled in alarm.
‘I’m sorry, Lucy.’ His gaze was fixed over her left shoulder. He looked as though he was facing a firing squad. ‘But it’s been decided you’re to be transferred. Voluntarily, of course. It’s best for everyone all round.’
She stared at him. The Met never transferred anyone, not ever. It just didn’t happen. If you’d made a mistake, you were fired. And if you were fired, you couldn’t work for another force. Your career was over. Full stop. The only way for someone to legitimately leave the Met and work as a cop elsewhere in the country was for them to resign.
‘The Cleveland Police,’ he went on, ‘have confirmed they’re currently recruiting and – please don’t tell anyone this – I pulled several strings to get you jumped to the top of the list.’
‘What?’ She honestly thought she’d misheard him. Had he said Cleveland Police?
‘They have a position open for you and expect to see you at the end of the month,’ Baz sped on. ‘I know it’ll be a rush as you’ll need to be fitness and medically tested as well as interviewed but if you don’t get up there quick smart, you’ll struggle to find a position elsewhere for at least six months. And by that time Magellan may well do something really serious and scupper your career permanently.’
She could feel her eyes bug. This had to be a joke.
‘You can work out the rest of the week but I suggest you take it as leave, so you can organise yourself.’ He picked up a pen and put it back down. ‘Look, if you prove yourself up there, we’ll welcome you back, I’ll make sure of it.’
Confusion turned to horror. ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong!’
‘I’m sorry, Lucy.’ He swallowed. He still wouldn’t meet her eye. ‘It’s not my decision.’
At that point she’d totally lost it, but she didn’t want to think about the past – it still made her cringe – she wanted to think about the future. Getting herself back to where she belonged. Pulling on a pair of sweats and a fleece, she settled at her kitchen table with her laptop. First, she checked out RFC’s website – Recycling For Charity – which looked genuine enough. Apparently their charity counterparts in India snapped up each and every workable second-hand fridge, steam iron, cooker, monitor and TV they could send over there. The charity’s trustee board members were listed, and she jotted them down.
Lucy then considered the container, which had been full, its steel locking bar in place, and turned her efforts to finding out when it had been due for export. Because she knew the shipping system from Operation Orchid, it only took three phone calls to get hold of the right person. In this case, RFC’s shipping agent was a man called Lewis Cunningham of Weald Logistics who, according to their website, provided Affordable Shipping Solutions.
Lewis Cunningham said, ‘I’ve already spoken to the police.’ He sounded tired and not a little shell-shocked. She guessed it wasn’t every day he learned that one of his clients had a badly beaten girl locked in amongst their goods.
‘I’m sorry if it appears we’re doubling up,’ she apologised, ‘but with a case like this I’m afraid it’s inevitable. I’m sure you’ll appreciate we have to move fast, and what I need to know is whether this container was on your radar.’
‘Our driver was due to pick it up tomorrow,’ he told her, ‘for delivery to Liverpool docks and loading on to the Raipur to Chennai. She was due to sail on Monday but she’s been delayed for repairs. I expect her to sail later in the week, maybe Wednesday or Thursday.’
Chennai, Lucy knew, used to be known as Madras. On the east coast of India, it was an enormous, teeming city with a huge port to match.
‘Is this a port-to-port service?’ she asked. ‘Or door-to-door?’
‘Port-to-port,’ he said.
Which would make the container that much harder to track once it left Chennai docks.
‘Do you offer customs brokerage?’ she asked.
‘The other policeman didn’t ask that.’ He made it sound as though she’d stepped over some invisible line.
‘Do you?’ she insisted.
It transpired they did. They had direct links to Customs at Liverpool and prepared RFC’s documents and electronic submissions, sorting out any taxes, duties and excises due. They also collected RFC’s containers from three other recycling centres: Reading, Birmingham and Stirling, and shipped a container or two at a time, every two months or so, via Liverpool.
When she couldn’t think of any more questions Lucy asked for Cunningham’s mobile number – she always took a note of everyone’s mobile number in an investigation – before thanking him and hanging up. She checked her watch. Seven o’clock. Had she really been working for eleven hours? It felt more like eleven minutes. She was definitely lively today. She liked Howard’s expression. It certainly beat being called manic. She had to hope her elevated mood continued and that her despondency over Nate wouldn’t lead to a crash. She’d struggled with her ‘moods’, as her mum used to call them, ever since she was a kid, but luckily they didn’t interfere with her work. Well, not that much, she amended guiltily. And usually only when a particular event triggered her into plunging down the slippery black slope. She dreaded that happening up here. Without Nate to cover for her she was going to have to be incredibly careful nobody found out.
Wanting to check whether the charity RFC was legitimate, she dashed off an email to her old contact at the CBI in Mumbai. He responded quickly, apologising that although he couldn’t help, a colleague of his in Chennai might be able to. When she eventually got through, the contact sounded so uninterested, she requested someone else but they didn’t do handsprings either. They put her on hold for so long she reckoned they’d gone to lunch so she hung up.
On the CBI website, she did some digging. Checked her watch. Chennai was five and a half hours ahead. Past 9 p.m., their time. Nobody would be there, but still, Lucy picked up the phone. May as well test the number to see if it connected.
Yup. It worked all right. It rang and rang. Rang and rang.
She pictured an old-fashioned black telephone ringing on an empty desk in the middle of a vast office with walls coloured tobacco-brown. She could see windows hanging open to the sultry night air. Palm trees swaying beneath the city lights. The occasional horn beeping outside, people calling. Lucy was so deep in her fantasy that she nearly dropped the phone wh
en it was answered.
‘Namaste,’ a boy answered. He sounded weary.
‘Hello?’ She wondered if she’d got the number wrong.
‘Hello,’ he responded a little more brightly.
‘Er . . . I’m from England. Do you speak English?’
‘Oh, yes. I am very good speaking with your country.’
‘Am I through to Chennai CID?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he answered. ‘This is the right place you are talking to.’
‘OK. Well, I’m a policewoman from Stockton –’
‘A policewoman?’
‘Yes. My name is Constable Lucy Davies and –’
‘Please, you will be giving me your telephone number.’
Lucy rattled it off. ‘I just need some information,’ she said. ‘Who am I speaking with?’
Short silence, then he said, ‘Junior Constable Chitta.’
‘Nice to meet you, Chitta. Now, this morning we found a girl who was very badly beaten and left for dead. She was locked in a freezer inside a shipping container due to be transported to Liverpool, and then on to a ship to Chennai –’
‘I am very sorry, but I cannot be speaking with you. Niket will be very angry.’
‘Please, it’s very important . . .’ Lucy scrambled to persuade him not to hang up, and failed. The line buzzed in her ear.
She put down her phone, baffled as to why she’d bothered in the first place. God alone knew what ringing India had cost her. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. What had Magellan said about her in her forwarding report? Oh, yes.
Lucy could be an exemplary officer, but unfortunately she jumps in with both feet without thinking things through. She calls this ‘instinct’ but in police terms this type of impetuousness is simply unacceptable and irresponsible behaviour.
Lucy sat looking at her phone and wondering, not for the first time, if she’d chosen the wrong career.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Saturday 24 November, 9.12 p.m., Chennai local time
Chitta looked at his handwritten notes. He’d been so excited he could barely read his own scrawls. Painstakingly, he re-wrote every word while the conversation was still fresh in his mind.
An English police officer. Constable Lucy Davies. She found a girl locked in a freezer due to be shipped to Chennai.
Could it be a case of trafficking? But why was she badly beaten? It would make her worthless when she arrived. He wished he’d been able to ask some questions, like whether the girl had any food and water with her, but Niket had been absolutely definite about taking phone calls.
‘The number only, Chitta. Do not engage in conversation with anyone. If you do, you will lose your job and be rag-picking the city’s rubbish dumps before the day is out.’
Chitta copied the Constable’s telephone number in extra-large letters so there would be no mistake. Carefully, he re-read the note. It was good, he thought. It was clear and concise and professional, written just like a real policeman.
Chitta propped it next to Senior Constable Niket’s phone, where he wouldn’t miss it in the morning, then he picked up his mop and continued to clean the office.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Friday 23 November, 6.07 p.m.
Dan arrived home just after six and poured himself a finger of scotch. Downed it in one gulp.
He saw Jenny open her mouth to say something then close it, obviously deciding to keep quiet. Dan rarely drank spirits. The last time he had a whisky was when their cat died three years ago. The vet had come out and put the ageing tabby to sleep but when he’d offered to take the body to the pet crematorium Dan demurred; the family had already decided they wanted Gibson buried in the back garden. Dan had been fine until Jenny left him to dig the grave. With the dead cat lying beside him, he’d begun digging and, out of nowhere, found himself sobbing like a child.
He’d wept non-stop until Gibson was buried and he’d returned to the house, where he’d drunk two huge whiskies in an attempt to gain control. Dr Orvis told Dan it wasn’t uncommon for men to be almost debilitated when someone in the family died. Apparently sorrow over smaller things that were not grieved over at the time built up so that when the tears finally fell, they came as a storm of pent-up anguish. But, Orvis added, Dan’s reaction could have been triggered by something he was unconscious of, something that his memory couldn’t bring to the surface.
Like now. He’d tried to save Stella Reavey, resuscitate her, and when he’d stood on the pavement, watching her being loaded into the ambulance, he’d felt a thick rope of grief knot itself around his windpipe. Why? He didn’t remember knowing her. But now he’d thought it over, he wondered if it was his body responding to something subconscious. He felt strangely bereft and close to tears.
‘Dan.’
He saw Jenny watching him anxiously.
She said, ‘Are you OK?’
He pressed the glass against his forehead and closed his eyes. ‘Not really.’
He felt her move closer, but she didn’t touch him. ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Promise you won’t shout at me?’ He opened his eyes and gave her a sad smile.
Her responding smile was tense and didn’t reach her eyes. ‘As bad as that?’
‘I don’t know.’ He was tempted to pour himself another drink, but he didn’t want any more alcohol in his system. He felt as though he should be ready to jump in the car at a moment’s notice, fit and able to deal with anything that might be thrown at him.
‘Tell me.’ Her eyes remained on his, wary.
‘OK.’ He took a breath. ‘I went and saw Stella Reavey today.’
Jenny didn’t move, but he knew every nerve, every cell in her body had tautened. ‘Why?’
‘I was curious,’ he said. Which was truthful enough. But there was no way he was going to tell her that Stella had said Luke hadn’t died in a hit-and-run.
‘What did she want?’
He pictured Stella stepping across the road, as neat as a pin, and handing him his breakfast. His favourite breakfast. She knew him. He could admit that now. But somehow she’d been lost with a host of other memories when Luke died.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Don’t be evasive, Dan.’ The colour began to rise in Jenny’s cheeks. ‘Either you saw her or you didn’t.’
‘She gave me breakfast.’
Jenny gritted her teeth so hard the muscles in her cheeks stood out like rocks. ‘You said she was a stalker. A crazy woman. You wanted to keep her away from Aimee and then there you are, leaping into your car before dawn and –’
‘She died,’ he said.
‘What?’ Jenny’s face went blank.
‘She had a massive heart attack. I tried to resuscitate her with her daughter, but it was too late.’ He’d followed the ambulance to Stoke Mandeville. He’d stood with Grace when she was given the news that her mother was DOA. Grace seemed to accept his presence without any trouble, and he wondered what Stella had told her. He’d desperately wanted to ask, but it hadn’t been appropriate.
The doctor who broke the news was in his twenties and had swallowed reflexively, showing his nerves. He’d jerkily explained that Stella’s medical notes showed that she had recently been diagnosed with aortic stenosis. When he’d started to elucidate, Grace had jumped in, telling Dan it was a heart valve problem, when a valve opening was smaller than normal due to stiff or fused leaflets. The narrowed opening made the heart work extra hard to pump blood through it.
‘Her arteries had hardened,’ she told Dan. ‘Restricting blood flow.’
‘Correct,’ the doctor said. ‘She was due to have heart valve surgery next week, but . . .’
‘It wasn’t soon enough,’ Grace said woodenly.
‘I’m sorry.’
Grace was sheet white, but she hadn’t cried. Dan guessed that would happen later. She let him drive her back to her mother’s house. He’d asked if he could call a relative for her, or maybe a doctor.
‘I am a doctor,’ she’d said, without any irony.
‘A friend, then.’
She thought about it. ‘Ross,’ she said. She brought out her mobile phone. ‘I’ll ring him now.’
Ross said he’d be there within the hour. Dan offered to wait until he arrived, but Grace said no, she’d be OK.
‘Can I help with letting people know what happened?’ Dan suggested. ‘Like her work colleagues?’ He was hoping Grace might give him an address for DCA & Co.
‘I’ll do it.’
It wasn’t the right time, but he couldn’t let it go without making another effort. ‘Where did she work?’
It was as though he hadn’t spoken. She climbed out of his car and walked into her mother’s house without looking back.
*
Jenny was looking at him as though he’d sprouted horns and a tail. ‘Stella Reavey is dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘A heart attack?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ She put a hand on the back of the sofa as though to steady herself.
‘Daddy!’ Aimee’s voice trailed from upstairs. ‘I know you’re back! Come up, come up here! Bring a carrot with you. Please! Neddy’s being really naughty and I can’t catch him. I need you to help me because . . .’ A stream of nonsensical chatter followed.
‘I’ll go up,’ he told Jenny.
He was halfway up the stairs when he thought that he might surprise Aimee and actually bring a carrot with him to help ‘catch’ her stuffed horse. Footsteps muffled by the carpet, he padded towards the kitchen. He could hear someone murmuring and for a moment he thought it was the radio, but then he realised it was Jenny. She must be on the phone. He was about to step on to the stone floor when he heard her say, ‘Stella Reavey’s dead. What the hell is going on?’
He froze.
‘No, he’s upstairs with Aimee. But I’ve got to be quick . . .’ Her tone was low and urgent. ‘Yes, she’s dead. A heart attack, apparently . . . What do you mean, you didn’t know?’