by Jack Probyn
It was all too good to be true.
But there was still something amiss – a fly in the ointment niggling at the back of Liam’s mind.
All he needed was the proper access to it. To follow the paper trail, to find the signatures of who’d signed off on it. And he was going to.
Liam loaded his emails. There were several hundred unread messages sitting in his inbox – some of them important, most of them requiring his attention and all of them a waste of his time. He entered Charlotte’s name into the search bar of his email filter, then hit return and waited. The operating system hesitated while it churned out the responses.
At the top was the latest email. Time-stamped in the early hours of that morning, presumably when the decision had been made to notify him of her arrival.
Bingo.
The mail was filled with the usual formal bullshit. Hope you’re keeping well, etc. What a waste of time. Just say what you’ve got to say and be done with it, he thought.
His eyes scanned the text, taking nothing away from it. What he really wanted was the attachment – where he would find the signatories to Charlotte’s appointment.
There it was, sitting at the bottom of the email chain.
He opened the attachment and read. After a few seconds of absorbing the information, he had the name, rank and department of the person from Croydon Station who had authorised everything.
‘DCS Phillipa Marston,’ the woman said after he’d located her contact details and dialled. She spoke with a thick Yorkshire accent.
‘This is DCI Liam Greene, from Bow Green.’ Liam had no intention of sticking with formalities and pleasantries. Just say what you’ve got to say and be done with it. ‘I had a question regarding DI Charlotte Grayson if that’s all right… You have a few minutes?’
‘Er, yes… Course. One second.’ Marston disappeared for a moment and then returned. ‘Is there an issue, Liam?’
‘No, not at all. I just wanted to clarify a few things.’
‘OK. Sure.’
Liam grabbed a pen and scribbled nonsense on a piece of paper while keeping his eyes trained on the screen. ‘Were you the one who authorised the transfer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever dealt with DI Grayson before?’
‘Oh, yes. For several months. She’s been a part of the team ever since I got her. Fantastic inspector.’
‘And where did the request originate? Are you able to tell me that?’
Marston hesitated for a moment. ‘As far as I’m aware, it came from outside of the service. I think there was an external request that somebody be sent to your team to assist with an ongoing investigation.’
‘Do you know who made the request?’
‘I… I… I’m sorry, Liam. I don’t know whether it’s my place to say.’
‘It’s all right. As I’m sure you can appreciate – considering you’re in charge of your own team as well – when someone puts in a request to bring someone in because they don’t think you’re doing a good enough job, that can be a bit of a kick in the teeth. Wouldn’t you agree?’
There was no hesitation in her response. ‘Completely.’
‘So, would you mind sharing that information with me? You don’t have to give me names…’
‘I’ll be honest with you, Liam. I don’t remember, and I don’t think it’s in my best interest to either. There’s… It was all a little suspicious if you ask me. I know that the LOCOG were involved, but I think there was something else going on too. I felt under a lot of pressure to second DI Grayson to you for the foreseeable future. I’m sorry I can’t give you any more details.’
‘No,’ Liam said, wearing a smile on his face. ‘You’ve been more than helpful.’
Liam hung up and placed the phone on the table delicately. He reached for his drink and swallowed two large mouthfuls, the alcohol stinging his throat. It was settled – his questions answered. The whole thing smelt of The Cabal. The secrecy, the pressure, the scapegoat of Oliver Penrose and the LOCOG. The Cabal, through their unending tentacles of persuasion, was trying to undermine him at every turn. Had been since—
A knock came at the office door. Liam screwed the lid on his cup frantically and moved it out of sight.
‘It’s open,’ he called, grabbing a pile of forms that were missing his signature and pretending to sign them.
‘Sorry to interrupt, guv,’ Charlotte said as she entered, ‘but there was something I wanted to discuss with you.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s regarding Maddison, sir.’
‘Oh?’
In her hand she held a folder. She strode across the office and passed it to him. As he took it, the chills on his back started multiplying.
‘Some of the forensic analysis came back from Maddison’s flat. There’s a match between the cement used to kill Danny Cipriano and the cement found on Maddison’s clothes. But there’s something else.’
‘Oh?’
‘Footprints and fingerprints different to Maddison’s were found at the crime scene.’
Fuck.
‘The fingerprints were found on the walls and door frame. There’s no way Maddison could have killed himself and then reached that far.’
Fuck fuck fuck.
‘I don’t think Maddison killed himself, guv. I think we should turn this into a murder investigation.’
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Liam stared her blankly, his mind devoid of any thought. In a few very brief sentences, she’d done several things. All of which made him sick with fear. First, she’d proved to him that she was straight, and the estimation that he’d made about her being bent moments ago was wrong. Second, she’d single-handedly re-opened their case and sent them back to square one. It was meant to be an easy one, open and closed. And now it looked like it was going to be open for a lot longer. Third, she’d just made her future very uncertain.
‘Excellent work,’ Liam lied. ‘Perhaps a slight oversight from some of the team, but I suppose that’s why you’re here.’ He smiled at her facetiously. ‘I want you to focus your efforts on this please. I’ll get some of the others to help you out too.’
Charlotte nodded, thanked him and then left. Liam stared at the door long after it was shut. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. If he was going to keep Charlotte away from anything she shouldn’t be seeing, a solution was required fast. And it was his job to come up with one.
Liam grabbed his drink, downed the rest of the whiskey and then slammed the cup down. He needed another. But not yet.
He pulled out his burner phone and called Drew.
‘Ah, guv,’ Drew answered. ‘I was just about to call you.’
‘We’ve got a problem. Charlotte’s turned Maddison’s suicide into a murder investigation.’
‘Shit.’
‘I need you to work on it and come up with a solution with me on how to throw her off the scent.’
‘I’ll do it when I’m back,’ Drew said.
Liam clambered out of his chair, ignored the aching joints in his knees and moved over to the window that looked out onto the street.
‘And… what about… Garrison?’
There was a pause.
‘I don’t think you’re gonna like it.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I followed him to the BBC headquarters. He picked up Tanya and took her to a multi-storey. I don’t know what they were talking about, but at the end of their conversation she… she…’
‘Spit it out.’
‘She went down on him.’
Liam’s body turned cold.
‘Guv…? Guv…? Guv?’
‘Come back to the station. Work on this thing for me. Leave Garrison and Tanya to me. This has gone too far now.’
CHAPTER 46
SEISMOGRAPH
There was always a certain electricity, a certain excitement, in the air whenever they received their next hit. The furore usually came from Vitaly or Tatiana or, even more infrequently, Nigel. But it was alw
ays Georgiy’s job to stifle it before it got too heavy. Excitement led to adrenaline; adrenaline led to eagerness; eagerness led to mistakes. And in this business, mistakes were unacceptable.
The rules on this one were simple. A three-part process.
And they were already onto step one.
Georgiy and Vitaly were outside Danika Oblak’s semi-detached house. Vitaly had managed to find the address with ease using various police databases that Garrison and The Cabal had given them access to, and it had taken them a little over an hour to get there. Georgiy had driven, Vitaly riding shotgun, while Nigel and Tatiana sat patiently back in the nightclub, waiting for their call, ready to begin the second phase of the hit.
They both exited the car and wandered up to the front door, surveying the area around them. In the distance, at the other end of the road, was a small Asian man wearing headphones, walking in the other direction. His chicken legs moved so fast they became a blur. Georgiy dismissed him as a potential threat instantly.
At the house, Georgiy pressed the doorbell. The sound of the television playing loudly echoed on the other side.
There was no answer. They rang again, this time holding the doorbell down until it became a monotonous, unending sound.
Eventually, the front door opened.
‘DC Oblak?’ Georgiy asked, trying his best to hide his accent. ‘May we come in?’
Georgiy and Vitaly entered without giving Danika any time to respond. Georgiy moved into the living room while Vitaly stood guard at the door, cutting off her exit.
‘You guys have caught me at a really bad time. What’s this about?’ Danika asked, rubbing her nose and wiping her mouth. She sniffled hard, and a faint smell of weed wafted through the air.
Georgiy reached inside his pocket and produced a forged Metropolitan Police warrant card. It was one of the many forms of identity The Magnate, their contact in that profession, had made for them all. Whatever they needed, he could get.
‘We’re from the witness protection scheme,’ Georgiy continued, speaking slowly. ‘We have credible threat to Michael Cipriano’s life. We need everything you have on Michael and his whereabouts.’
‘What?’ Danika asked, sniffing hard again. Her face looked pale and dark circles sat beneath her eyes. Her jumper slipped off her shoulder and she rubbed her nose with the back of her sleeve.
‘We need all the documents you have. We need to destroy all the evidence of his whereabouts.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘His life is in danger. We need destroy evidence of his address to protect him.’
Danika shook her head. ‘I don’t have any documents. I’ve never had any documents.’
‘Then where?’
‘It’s all in my head.’
‘And…’
‘And what?’ Danika asked.
‘What is the address?’
Danika rubbed her finger over her lips and let out a long breath. ‘It’s in North Ockendon. Fen Lane. Number sixty-seven.’
Georgiy committed the address to memory, then nodded. ‘Perfect. You have wrong address. No need to worry.’
‘What… I don’t… I don’t understand…’ Danika’s eyelids dropped and bounced up and down like a seismograph during an earthquake. She faltered and her legs gave way. She regained balance and composure by clinging to the wall.
‘Everything OK?’ Georgiy asked as he reached out a hand to her.
‘I’m fine. Fine. Nothing to worry about,’ she said. A white sheen covered her face, accentuated by the light coming in through the bay windows. ‘I just need to sit down. I’m not… I’m not feeling well.’
Georgiy carried her over to the sofa. There, he saw the small bag of weed on the coffee table, two thin white lines and a syringe.
‘V!’ Georgiy called.
Within an instant, Vitaly was standing in the door frame, his thick body touching either side of it.
‘Help me.’
Vitaly grabbed Danika’s feet and together they lowered her dead weight onto the sofa. By now her eyes were glazed over and her body was rigid. Georgiy felt for a pulse. Found one. Weak, but enough to convince him she was alive. If she was overdosing, she’d be dead by now.
‘What we do?’ Vitaly asked.
‘I go North Ockendon. You stay. Watch her. If she wake, you follow. Make sure she not call anyone. Understand?’
Vitaly nodded.
‘We need her alive. For now. But watch every move.’
‘I understand.’
Georgiy crouched down by the table and inspected the contents. Resting on the surface was a mountain of white powder that had fallen out of a plastic bag and spread across the wood. Beside it was the thing that caught his interest. A syringe. Whether it had been used or not, he couldn’t say for certain, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be.
‘How you get Michael?’ Vitaly asked, distracting his attention away from the drugs.
Georgiy stretched his legs. ‘I have an idea.’ He reached inside his pocket, produced his phone and called Tatiana as he moved out of the living room. ‘Tat, it’s me. We have Michael address. I have plan. Listen carefully.’
CHAPTER 47
GOOD EGG
Jake was sitting inside his car, unaware of how much time had passed since Michael had chucked him out of the house. He’d been trying to piece together everything Michael had told him. Which wasn’t a lot. And for a brief moment, he even thought about driving down to HMP Winchester and speaking with Freddy but decided against it almost immediately. In the past few months, Jake had tried to make contact – just to keep the semblance of a relationship alive between them – but Freddy hadn’t responded. Perhaps Michael had been right – perhaps Freddy was staying quiet for fear of any harm coming to his son. Jake didn’t blame him. He would have done the same.
Just as he was about to switch on the ignition, a liveried police car pulled into the cul-de-sac and sped past him.
‘What the…?’ Jake mouthed as he watched it whizz by.
The tyres kissed the asphalt as the vehicle skidded to a halt, and two uniformed officers alighted, charging towards the front door. Jake unclipped his seat belt and twisted in his seat to get a better look.
The two officers, both male, both dressed in uniform, pounded on the door. A few seconds later he saw Isaac. This time the man looked more flustered, like he’d just been caught with his trousers down. The uniformed officers barged past Isaac and stormed into the house. Less than thirty seconds later, they reappeared, grappling Michael in front of them with his arms behind his back. They shoved him into the back of their car, jumped in and then sped off down the road, blitzing past Jake. As they did so, Jake and Michael’s eyes met. There was a look of defeat and fear in Michael’s.
Something wasn’t right.
A knock came on the window that startled Jake. It was Isaac.
‘What’s going on?’ Jake asked as he wound down the window a fraction.
‘They’ve nicked him.’
‘Why?’
‘Said they’ve received reports that he’s broken the conditions of his protection.’
‘Where?’
Isaac stared at him blankly. ‘I don’t know. Please don’t tell Garrison…’
Jake turned the key, buckled his seat belt and gave chase, leaving the witness protection officer in his wake. He swerved into the oncoming traffic, overtaking cars as fast he could, his foot glued to the accelerator. The liveried police car was nearly half a mile ahead of him, making good progress south. It made a sharp left turn at a junction; Jake followed. Within seconds they were in the middle of nowhere. Just their cars on narrow lanes, surrounded by large fields and farms for miles either side, every now and then the flat skyline disrupted by a tree or two. It didn’t take long for Jake to catch up with the police car from a safe distance. The only problem was, they were the only cars on the road. He was too obvious, but there was nothing he could do about that; he was just grateful to be in an unmarked car. Making sure M
ichael was safe was his top priority, but right now he didn’t have a clue how to achieve that. His body was running on a dose of adrenaline combined with the fear of what lay ahead.
The police car made another turn and entered another stretch of road that seemed exactly the same as the other. No, there was a slight difference: the road was raised, and on the right-hand side was a ditch running along the length of the tarmac.
In the distance, a black van came in the other direction. As the opposing car drew rapidly nearer and nearer to the police car – a hundred feet, fifty, twenty, ten – the van swerved in front of it. The police car, reacting quickly, darted to the side of the road and vaulted into a ditch a few feet below. The sound of the crash was horrifying, like a gun had been fired inside Jake’s car.
But the black van wasn’t finished. It spun out of control, veering onto the side of the road, but as the driver corrected its trajectory and swerved into the middle of the tarmac, the van headed straight towards Jake.
He had a split-second decision to make: collide with the van and die, or swerve into the ditch and survive.
The answer was simple.
He yanked a hard right on the steering wheel, narrowly missing the van charging towards him, ripped through a bush on the road and skidded down the slope into the ditch. He stomped on the brakes, but the traction they picked up on the grass and earth was useless. The incline was moderate, and his body tilted to the side. Tensing, he tried balancing the weight of the car into the centre.
Eventually, he reached the bottom of the ditch, both hands glued to the steering wheel, his foot stuck to the brakes. The car stalled, but he didn’t care. There were bigger things to worry about. Like whether he’d shit himself in the process, or whether his arse was clenched so tight that he could make a diamond up there. Fortunately, the answer was neither. Instead, he stared directly through the windshield, paralysed, panting.