In Her Blood

by Annie Hauxwell

  ‘Good girl,’ said Berlin to the dog.

  The officer grunted and walked on.

  70

  DEMPSTER WAS MAGNANIMOUS when he took the terse congratulatory call from the DCI leading the local Murder Investigation Team. They had followed Armed Response in and found the box of starter pistols, just as he’d said, on top of the wardrobe. Apparently they belonged to Sheila Harrington’s husband. Some had been modified to fire and some hadn’t.

  Sheila had been taken in and would be charged with dealing and Lazenby’s murder. She’d said she had to do it to pay off a local loan shark who was giving her grief. She hadn’t mentioned Bonnington.

  Dempster hung up.

  ‘Do you wish you had been in at the kill?’ asked Bonnington.

  Jesus Christ, thought Dempster, I must be an open book. Then again, the bloke was a psychologist, social worker, whatever. It was his job to read people.

  ‘All guts and no glory – that’s me, mate,’ said Dempster.

  ‘Will you tell them how you cracked the case?’ said Bonnington.

  He knows he’s going to walk, thought Dempster. What could he be charged with? Giving a desperate woman big ideas? He knew how Lazenby worked, and he knew Sheila had the contacts to deal: she’d watched her husband do it for years.

  Bonnington had done her a good turn by taking the kids off her hands twice: the first time while she cleaned up the mess after Doyle had mutilated the dog, and then later that day to give her time to do the deed. In the process he’d given himself an alibi.

  ‘We could do you for criminal conspiracy to murder Lazenby,’ said Dempster.

  ‘I didn’t expect her to kill him. I didn’t even mention him, just the set-up in the surgery,’ said Bonnington.

  ‘So what was the idea then?’ Dempster was genuinely interested; he just didn’t get it.

  ‘Simple armed robbery. Then she would sell the pure heroin and junkies would die in droves before the police caught up with her. There would be an outcry and Lazenby would be finished. There would be a crackdown on prescribing heroin for addicts. The whole system would be exposed.’

  Dempster realised he had been right about Bonnington, but for the wrong reasons. Bonnington didn’t want the drugs out of circulation; he wanted them to kill as many people as possible. He would never be satisfied with a single death. Or even two. Dempster thought of Merle Okonedo.

  He had scored a big win, but felt numb. Looking on the bright side, which didn’t seem that bright, matters such as belting Flint and nicking his car would attract a reprimand at the most. He was the senior officer, in any event.

  Bonnington was an evil bastard, but in the eyes of the law his worst offence to date was possession of a banned starting pistol. The magistrate would weep when he heard why Bonnington had it. Dempster decided to squeeze every last drop of intel out of this psycho before he left. He wouldn’t get another shot.

  ‘So Daryl, you met Merle Okonedo through her brother, who was inside?’ He framed it as a casual inquiry, using Bonnington’s first name. Establishing a more intimate connection between them.

  ‘He was one of my clients. Unfortunately he OD’d. In one of our drug-free correction facilities.’

  ‘Her death wasn’t an accident then? You killed her,’ said Dempster.

  Was Bonnington mad or vain enough to admit it in front of thousands?

  ‘Why do you do it, Dempster? You work for a morally bankrupt state, rounding up a few degenerates. It’s just window-dressing to disguise true corruption.’

  ‘Maybe it’s like Churchill said: it’s a lousy system but it’s the best we’ve got, or better than the alternative. Something like that, anyway,’ he replied. But he knew he lacked conviction.

  ‘She was willing,’ said Bonnington. ‘But yes, I killed her.’

  Something broke inside Dempster. He held his breath.

  ‘The hand is quicker than the eye,’ said Bonnington as he tore open his shirt.

  Dempster caught a glimpse of the rage that drove him. Bonnington wanted an audience of millions, not thousands. The video would go viral.

  He thought of Berlin.

  ‘Everything’s connected,’ said Bonnington, and pressed the detonator.

  71

  FLINT WAS ON his third cup of tea when Doyle walked in. Doyle seemed preoccupied and didn’t notice Flint, even though the place was quiet. The weather was deterring even the usual hardened punters. There was a dull clap of thunder in the distance. Rain would turn the snow to slush. Flint hated slush. It ruined your shoes. At this moment, he hated everything.

  He was fuming. His conversation with Dempster had left him in no doubt that Coulthard had done the dirty on him. If Dempster didn’t have his warrant card, the only other possibility was that Coulthard had taken it while Flint was lying on the floor, out cold. The prick could get away with murder flashing that bloody card.

  Flint was younger than Coulthard, but they looked enough alike that anyone taking a quick glance probably wouldn’t notice. Anyway, who looks long and hard at a copper’s ID? Coulthard had all the bullshit to go with the badge too, from his time on the job. Bullshit was about all he did have; even when he’d been a copper he was impersonating a police officer, thought Flint bitterly.

  He waited until Doyle’s order arrived and watched him tucking into his sausage sandwich. He thought about what he was about to do. But not for very long.

  Doyle had his sandwich in one hand and his phone in the other. His fingers were a bit fat for the tiny keys, and his rings didn’t help. He misdialled, tried again, then became aware of someone standing over him.

  He looked up into the beady eyes of one of the coppers who had interviewed him about Gina’s murder. A bloke he’d often seen about the manor before that, and who he knew had often seen him. He was the live-and-let-live type, unless there was something in it for him. Flint, that was his name. It suited him.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ said Doyle, slipping his phone into his pocket.

  ‘Bloody awful weather we’re having,’ said Flint.

  Doyle waited.

  ‘It gets some people down,’ said Flint.

  ‘Does it?’ said Doyle.

  ‘Yeah. Like my mate. He’s a bit down. More than a bit, actually. He’s got stress. From work. He’s got a very demanding job.’

  Doyle was aware his sausage was waiting.

  ‘He’s gone to see his doctor about it today actually. The stress. Not to mention a broken nose, a few busted teeth, very sore ribs and a buggered arm.’ Flint’s tone was confiding.

  Doyle paid more attention. His own ribs were still sore from where he’d been kicked after that bastard had whacked him and scarpered from the lock-up. He made the connection.

  ‘Coulthard,’ he said.

  Flint’s nod was almost imperceptible.

  Doyle knew Coulthard wasn’t at home, but his girlfriend was still there. The lads had checked. ‘Got a good doctor, has he?’ said Doyle.

  ‘Very sympathetic. At the Mare Street Clinic,’ said Flint, glancing at his watch. ‘He’s just gone down there. You never know what a man will do when he’s in that state of mind. He might do himself a mischief. Nobody would be surprised.’

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ offered Doyle.

  Flint pulled up a chair and gestured to Nino for another cup of tea.

  72

  THE CAFÉ DOOR closed behind Flint. Doyle picked his teeth, contemplative. He had barely said a word. Flint hadn’t stopped talking. Some people, he thought. Some people.

  He took out his phone and turbo-dialled the lads.

  ‘Yeah?’

  He sighed. They were dragged up these days. Didn’t they know that was no way to answer the fucking phone?

  ‘Get plotted up at the Mare Street Clinic,’ he said.

  ‘What? The doctors?’

  ‘Yes, the fucking doctors! Get down there and wait until our friend from the other night shows up, then ring me. Gottit?’ He hung up.

  His saus
age was stone cold. It was turning out to be one of those days.

  ‘Got a telephone book handy, Nino?’ he asked. ‘And do us a favour and sling this sausage back in the pan for a minute.’

  Doyle tried the Hoxton Hospital, Barts and the Middlesex with no luck. But when he rang the Royal London inquiring after Fernley-Price’s health they put him through to the ward. Bingo, he thought. The nurse who answered snapped at him when he mentioned Fernley-Price.

  ‘Is this someone from DCI Thompson’s office? Again?’

  Doyle responded in the affirmative.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you? He’s still in a coma! Please don’t ring again. While we’re dealing with your calls, people are dying! Why don’t you ring the officer if you need an update?’ She hung up.

  Well, well, thought Doyle. They’ve got a man there. Must be expecting trouble. His phone rang. The caller ID informed him it was one of the lads.

  ‘Any sign?’

  ‘He’s just come out of the Mare Street Clinic.’

  ‘Let’s make him an offer he can’t refuse,’ said Doyle.

  73

  BERLIN WAS PUTTING as much distance as she could between herself and the estate. Sheila would assume she was a grass the police had sent in to set her up. The minute Sheila mentioned it, no doubt in the same sentence as some choice expletives, the police would be on the lookout for Berlin, hoping to bag a recent buyer as well as their prize trophy, the dealer and murderer.

  The sirens seemed even worse than usual and she kept dodging into shop doorways as emergency vehicles and police cars raced past.

  Dempster must have ordered the raid on Sheila’s place. He had given her a heads up when she called, instead of leaving her to get caught in the raid with no chance of talking her way out of it. So he had her interests at heart after all. Maybe she had misjudged him. She tried calling him again but kept getting flicked to voicemail.

  She remembered she also had to check with Thompson about the progress he was making with her computer. She hadn’t responded to any of his messages, which, like those she had left for Dempster, were becoming increasingly urgent. He was probably wondering where the hell she was, while she was wondering the same about Dempster.

  They were all bound by a chain of unanswered messages: small, untethered pleas drifting in an abstract space. Call me. Please ring. Help me. Banal and tragic in equal measure. She thought of Nestor’s last call, a final, plaintive cry.

  She was teetering at the edge of incoherence, not even sure where she was: the streets seemed unfamiliar with their mantle of white. It struck her that the first thing we say when someone answers their mobile is ‘Where are you?’ Location is critical. Everyone in their place.

  Berlin tried to focus on what needed to be done and not on the despair she felt at having seen her last chance at peace of mind scattered across Sheila’s floor. She struggled to forget the bright promise that the ampoules held, and the darkness that was now pouring in to fill her chasm of need. Nature abhors a vacuum.

  A shadow passed over her and she looked up. A dark pall of smoke drifted to the east.

  74

  THOMPSON HAD NEVER heard a sadder conversation than the one between Nestor and Fernley-Price. He sat in a warm, bright office in a glass tower that overlooked the river, and listened again as a man was driven to a despairing death.

  Fernley-Price was clearly drunk, but apparently was soon shocked into sobriety. Nestor had a high blood-alcohol reading according to the post-mortem report, but he only sounded drunk during his opening attack on Berlin.

  ‘Berlin, you think you know everything, you arrogant bitch, but you never knew Juliet Bravo. When I said no further action I meant no fucking further action! Now look what you’ve done!’

  The next sound was an entry phone buzzer, according to the technician. He’d even been able to identify the make. Nestor broke off from berating Berlin, presumably to admit Fernley-Price. The lift doors droned.

  ‘So glad you could make it,’ said Nestor to his visitor. His tone had changed completely.

  ‘I haven’t got any money,’ mumbled Fernley-Price. There was a thud. It suggested the phone had been put down hard onto something timber. Probably the desk, although they had found it on the floor.

  Thompson wondered if Nestor had deliberately not hung up so that the conversation would be recorded on Berlin’s voicemail.

  ‘This isn’t about money, old boy,’ said Nestor. ‘I’d just like you to take a look at this.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ! What is this?’ Fernley-Price’s voice was a whisper.

  ‘It was taken by the pathologist. Did you do this, Jeremy?’ Nestor asked. His voice had taken on an eerie quality.

  ‘I …I thought she had left me,’ said Fernley-Price.

  ‘Did you kill her?’ thundered Nestor.

  ‘What? Are you fucking mad? Why would I kill her?’ shouted Fernley-Price.

  ‘Because she informed on your business partner. Doyle was her father.’

  Something crashed to the floor. The computer? Fernley-Price must have swept it off the desk. He was a big bloke and his fingerprints were found on it. The post-mortem photo wasn’t pretty.

  ‘You are fucking mad!’ screamed Fernley-Price. ‘You’re making all this up. Like at school!’

  There was the sound of a struggle, grunting, flesh on flesh, bodies colliding with furniture. Then it was over. Neither man had the heart for it.

  ‘You stupid, vain, greedy fool. It’s all your fault,’ said Nestor. His voice dripped misery.

  ‘But it was her idea! She said she’d heard about Doyle from a reliable source in the City.’

  ‘I shut down the investigation Gina started,’ said Nestor.

  ‘To protect your money,’ moaned Fernley-Price. ‘She kept on at me to get documents from Doyle. A paper trail.’ He was talking to himself. ‘But he wouldn’t cooperate. We had a terrible row about it the night she walked out. It must have been the same night she …’

  Thompson could hear ragged breathing, scuffing on the carpet. Fernley-Price was pacing. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘She was setting me up. Why?’

  Thompson knew why. To bring Doyle down she needed evidence. She had used Fernley-Price to try to get it. He was collateral damage.

  Nestor wailed, pitiful. ‘It wasn’t the damn money! I thought I was protecting her. A prosecution would have ruined you. I thought it would devastate her. She … she liked nice things.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ hissed Fernley-Price. ‘You fell for her. All those foursomes, boring fucking bridge evenings, awful dinners with your bloody wine collection. You fancied her!’

  There was a terrible silence.

  ‘What would a woman like my wife see in a pathetic little bureaucrat like you?’ Fernley-Price’s vicious laughter almost smothered the sound of Nestor sobbing. ‘If anyone’s to blame for all this it’s you!’

  Thompson closed the file and shut down the computer. He gazed through the window at the cold, merciless river. He felt that Nestor hadn’t intended to kill himself until that moment.

  75

  BERLIN BARELY HEARD her phone over the din of sirens. A police helicopter flew over as she answered the call.

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Thompson. ‘It sounds like a bloody war zone.’

  ‘What?’ she shouted.

  ‘They recovered your hard drive. When the voicemail was cleaned up it was …’

  She caught the inflection of emotion in his voice. He seemed to be searching for the right word, but cleared his throat and finished his sentence in a perfunctory, businesslike manner.

  ‘Fernley-Price didn’t murder Gina.’

  Berlin heard the door slam on another suspect.

  ‘Nestor killed himself because he’d lost everything, but she was his biggest loss,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ said Berlin.

  ‘It was unrequited, of course, but just being in love can sustain a man.’

 
; Berlin had no idea how to respond to Thompson’s sudden bout of sentimentality.

  ‘Doyle told Fernley-Price about your investigation,’ continued Thompson. ‘Fernley-Price told Nestor his money was tied up with Doyle. When his old school chum had given him the opportunity to recoup his losses, Nestor didn’t ask how. He was an honourable man who turned a blind eye. But love prevailed.’

  ‘Love?’

  ‘If Fernley-Price went down, so would Gina. Nestor wanted to protect her,’ said Thompson.

  Berlin thought of Dempster.

  ‘According to Fernley-Price it was all Gina’s idea. She pointed him in her father’s direction,’ he continued.

  If it came to it, Gina was prepared to sacrifice her husband to ensure her father’s destruction. Berlin had a sudden vision of Doyle’s face when she’d told him Gina was married to his business partner. ‘Thompson,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Doyle knows.’

  ‘Knows what?’

  ‘That Fernley-Price was married to Gina.’

  She could practically hear his train of thought heading in the same direction as hers. Doyle would think that Fernley-Price was Gina’s killer.

  ‘Jesus Christ. How the hell? Nobody knows that except you and me.’

  She gritted her teeth, knowing that her silence would speak volumes. She had traded Fernley-Price for the promise of dope.

  ‘We’ll discuss this later,’ said Thompson. ‘I have to sort this out. Doyle might try to get at him.’

  A plaintive beep told her he’d hung up.

  Shit, shit, shit. She scrolled frantically through the contacts on her phone, found Doyle and hit ‘call’. It rang. And rang.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered as she turned south. ‘Come on, answer your damn phone.’ But Doyle’s phone just kept ringing.

  She ran.

  76

  THOMPSON HURRIEDLY SHOOK hands with the relaxed geek who had done the computer work for him and pressed the lift button urgently.

  ‘See you soon,’ said the geek.

  ‘I doubt it, mate,’ Thompson said. ‘This was a one-off. Extraordinary circumstances. We just didn’t have the resources in-house.’