Trust Me

by T. M. Logan

  ‘So what did you do?’

  The tears are heavy behind my eyes. ‘I’d been told point blank we couldn’t bring civilians out. Relief not rescue, like my CO had said. So I handed her little boy back to her. She was crying and pleading and the interpreter was telling her we’d be back the following day with more supplies. We got on the helicopters and flew back to the ship.’ I take a deep breath, blow it out again. ‘When we flew back in the next morning, we could see the smoke from miles away as we came in. One of the pro-government militias found them during the night. They’d torched everything that would burn and killed everyone they could find.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Gilbourne breathed.

  ‘Men, women, children. All of them. Lined them up and shot them. Hunted down anyone who tried to run. I found the mother’s body in a drainage gully at the edge of the camp. She’d tried to hide, tried to shield Hassan, to cover his body with hers.’

  He lets the silence spin out for a long moment before replying, his voice quiet. ‘I’m sorry, Ellen.’

  I shake my head. ‘None of it made any difference. All of our ships, all the helicopters and planes and personnel, all of the assets we had, none of it made any difference to those people. When my tour was up, I put in my papers to resign.’

  ‘You did what you could.’

  ‘But it wasn’t enough.’ I look down at the floor, still trying to put the memory back in its place and close the door on it, knowing that I’ll dream about it tonight anyway. ‘That’s why I wanted to help Kathryn. It sounds stupid but I thought, maybe this was my chance to put things right. To do the right thing.’

  ‘You’ve done more than enough already,’ he says. ‘You brought that child back to her family.’

  I pour the last inch of wine into his cup, sitting on the desk chair so I can reach.

  ‘The DNA test on Mia,’ I say. ‘How come it hasn’t been done already?’

  ‘The grandparents were reluctant at first. They had to give consent for DNA to be taken from a minor, and I think they just thought they were going to be able to keep her a secret forever. When we finally persuaded them, Nathan went out there to take an initial swab but . . . There were issues with it.’

  ‘What kind of issues?’

  ‘The lab kicked it back to us as invalid, which can mean any number of things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Theoretically,’ he says, ‘it might indicate the sample had been interfered with in some way. Rendered unusable. I mean, people think DNA is infallible, that it’s some kind of magic bullet, they watch CSI Miami and think it solves everything like that.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘But the reality is that it’s not always straight-forward, sometimes things get messed up. Hence we’re going back on Monday to try again with another sample. I probably should have just overseen the whole process myself, right from the start.’

  ‘So it’s possible that Holt tampered with the first sample?’

  Gilbourne stares into his wine, swirling it slowly in the bottom of the cup.

  ‘Well,’ he says slowly. ‘Yes. I suppose it’s possible. But I can’t imagine why he’d do that.’

  ‘Angela Clifton doesn’t trust him.’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘She doesn’t.’

  I push on, emboldened by the wine.

  ‘She thinks he’s got his own agenda.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I’d been turning it over and over in my mind on the drive back from Prestwood Ash – the strength of Angela’s suspicion, of her instincts about the young detective sergeant. ‘Maybe he’s trying to protect someone, or the opposite? Make the evidence point in a different direction, at least.’

  ‘Hang on, Ellen.’ He frowns, lines bunching on his forehead. ‘That’s a pretty bloody serious allegation.’

  ‘I know it is.’

  ‘Have you got any solid evidence to back it up?’

  I ignore his question.

  ‘Of course, there is another possibility.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘He’s the one. He’s Mia’s father. The Ghost.’

  ‘Now hold on a minute, that’s a crazy—’

  ‘But then I don’t get why he’d be worried about a DNA match. Surely your DNA only ends up on a computer if you’re arrested or convicted of something? If you’re a criminal.’

  Gilbourne takes his cigarettes from his coat again, takes one out of the packet, puts it between his lips but doesn’t light it. After a moment he takes it out again, rolling it thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger.

  Finally, he says: ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re thinking of the main national DNA database. But there’s also a resource called the police elimination database, which has the profiles of serving police officers and civilian staff like CSIs. So their DNA can be discounted in case of inadvertent contamination of a crime scene.’

  ‘So Holt’s DNA is already on file?’

  He gives me a reluctant nod. ‘And as soon as Mia’s DNA’s uploaded and cross-referenced against the databases, if the father is on there too, we’ll get a familial match and we’ll have our prime suspect.’

  ‘Good,’ I say.

  ‘Amen to that.’ He puts down the unlit cigarette and swigs his wine again. ‘Do you want to know something weird? Twenty-nine years I’ve been on the force, I’ve got one of the highest solve-rates in the division and this is the only unsolved case of my whole career. Haven’t been able to get my head around the idea of this last job hanging over me after my thirty years is up – that the Ghost would still be out there somewhere, unpunished. But this is the last possible outcome I would have wanted. The idea that it might end up being a fellow officer. My own partner . . .’ He runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving tufts of his fringe standing up. ‘I just can’t see it. I can’t believe it would be.’

  I look at him, sitting in the armchair by the window in his crumpled suit jacket, one leg crossed casually over the other. Pale blue eyes – thoughtful eyes – that crinkle at the edges, square jaw shadowed with stubble. A strong hand cupping his wine, veins standing out against tanned skin. In some ways he reminds me of my husband, in others he’s as different from Richard as it’s possible to be.

  ‘What will you do,’ I say quietly, ‘when you leave the police?’

  ‘Honestly?’ He fills his cheeks, blows the breath out. ‘I have no idea, being a police officer is all I ever wanted to do. Joined at eighteen, right out of South Bucks Grammar. I only ever imagined myself doing this, I’ve tried to visualise it but I can’t see myself doing anything else.’

  ‘I always imagined myself being a mother,’ I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. ‘I thought that at some point, sooner or later, it would be inevitable. When I came out of the navy I built everything around that idea, tied everything to it. So when it didn’t happen it was like there was a big hole in the middle of my life. Some days I didn’t really know what the point was anymore. I felt like such a failure. I started thinking it was payback, karma, for what happened in Libya, for not saving that little boy.’

  Gilbourne gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘Maybe it will still happen.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m forty-one years old, Stuart. I’ve been through two rounds of IVF, my marriage is over, and I don’t think I have time to start all over again.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, holding my gaze. ‘How long have you been divorced?’

  ‘Separated for three months,’ I say. ‘Divorce will be finalised next month.’

  ‘Snap,’ he says. ‘But I’m a little bit ahead of you.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘About a year ago.’ He adds, ‘Join the Force, get divorced.’

  ‘Do you see your children much?’

  ‘Every other weekend.’

  ‘That must be hard.’

  He shrugs, finishing the last of his wine. ‘It is what it is. My own fault, mostly. Never gave my wife enough time
, or my girls, I was always too busy with the job. Always gave that priority. Didn’t realise what a failure I was as a father until it was too late.’

  I sit forward on the chair again, leaning closer to him. Catch a hint of his aftershave, fresh like the ocean. ‘You’re not a failure, Stuart.’

  He colours a little, then lifts his eyes to mine. ‘Neither are you,’ he says. ‘Neither are you. In fact, you’re the most—’

  And then I’m kissing him, my lips meeting his, not even really knowing what I’m doing, only that I am doing it and it feels good. It feels right, and it’s been so long since I kissed someone properly that I can’t believe how much I’ve missed it, the intimacy of it. The surrender of two lonely people to each other, each of us looking for a glimmer of light in the darkness.

  He pulls away, the whisper of his stubble against my cheek.

  ‘Ellen, I—’

  I kiss him again, longer this time, a deep slow kiss as he leans into me and I’m surrounded by the smell of him, the taste of him, mint and red wine and the faintest hint of cigarettes that makes me think of stolen teenage kisses from a lifetime ago. My skin feels alive with him, electricity flashing up and down my spine and as I pull away this time I’m breathless.

  His forehead rests gently against mine, his palms cupping my cheeks. When he speaks again, his voice is breathy and low, barely above a whisper. ‘Do you want me to stay?’

  In answer, I kiss him again.

  SUNDAY

  61

  He’s gone when I wake up, and in the first delicious moments after I open my eyes I wonder if I’ve dreamed the whole thing. Lying there in tangled sheets, enjoying the half-awake warmth of the duvet, I close my eyes again and remember. Not a dream. Flesh and blood reality. The edge of a hangover lingers but it doesn’t matter: this morning is the first time in a long, long time that I have woken without a feeling of dread for what the day holds.

  The room is dark, the thick blackout curtain blocking all but a tiny slice of daylight. His scent lingers on the pillows and when I breathe him in it’s as if I can still feel his touch on my skin, the way he held me afterwards, one arm curled around my back, a finger tracing up and down the line of my spine. As if we’d known each other for years. As if we’d done this a thousand times before. I’ve not been held like that in so long, a feeling of being totally safe and secure, protected from the world.

  I sit up and reality creeps back in, bringing the guilt with it, the feeling of transgression, of crossing a line that shouldn’t have been crossed. Of doing something that can’t now be undone. I unmute my phone and check the time. It’s almost 10 a.m. On the desk, between the empty wine bottle and my handbag, is a note written on the top sheet of a hotel stationery pad. Looping handwriting that is at once strange and yet familiar.

  Didn’t want to wake you. Can I see you tonight? Take care and stay safe – remember what I said.

  - S x

  Despite the guilt gnawing at me, I can’t help but smile as I re-read the note, a little pulse of happiness in my chest. Can I see you tonight?

  I send him a text.

  Thanks for your note, the answer is yes. Call me when you can x

  I search through my handbag for a couple of paracetamol. It takes an age to find the packet but I eventually track it down in a side pocket and swallow two down with a handful of tap water. I’ve been taking a lot of these the past few days and make a mental note to buy more. I could do with some cash too. I scan the room. Something’s different about the desk this morning, but I’m still too fuzzy-headed from lack of sleep to remember what. I smile. Maybe it’s just the empty bottle of wine and the handwritten note, Stuart’s tie still hanging over the back of the chair. I fold it up and put it in my handbag to return to him later.

  I shower and dress, going downstairs for breakfast, taking time to check the corridors and stairs in case Leon has returned. But it feels better in daylight, safer, the normality of people in the restaurant queuing for their coffee and fruit juice and full English breakfasts. By the time I get back up to my room it’s gone 11 a.m., the day stretching out in front of me.

  Part of me wants to tell Tara about last night but it doesn’t feel right, not yet, I want to keep it for myself a little while longer. Instead I send her a WhatsApp asking how everything’s going and she responds with a picture of Dizzy, my cat, sitting on Noah’s lap. Noah is grinning as if he’s just won the lottery.

  Dizzy settled in OK then??? x

  Says he’s moving in with us now x

  We trade some more messages back and forth and she makes me promise to call her later. But the glimmer of well-being I woke up with is gradually melting away, every message from Tara a fresh reminder of the tragedy that’s descended on the Clifton family. I wish I had a phone number for Angela, so I could at least check she’s OK today.

  Talking things over with Stuart last night, I’d convinced myself that Holt was involved with Zoe’s case somehow, that he was hiding something. But a new day has brought new doubts, a nagging sense that there is more going on just beyond my eyeline. Dominic Church has dropped out of sight since I met him on Friday. Stuart’s team is looking for him, so how does he connect to all this and what’s he planning? Does he know another DNA sample is being taken from Mia tomorrow? Leon’s chilling warning returns to me, his voice soft and precise on the hotel landline. That child is going to pay the price. All of my certainty has melted away in the cold light of a new day.

  I call Matt Simms to ask if he has a number for Dominic, a workplace or a last known address, but the call goes to voicemail so I leave a brief message.

  I think about Kathryn, her flat in Little Missenden, my confrontation with her boyfriend Max on Friday night. Something was off about him too, his aggression, and I wish I’d asked Angela about him and how he fits in. He knew both sisters, he knew the Clifton family – could he be the Ghost? Was that why Zoe wouldn’t tell her sister about the new man in her life, why the relationship had been a secret – because she’d been seeing her sister’s boyfriend? Had he bribed or blackmailed Holt into botching the DNA test to cover up his involvement? I think back to Holt’s solo visit to see Max on Thursday. Come to think of it, both men seemed cut from the same cloth – both good-looking white guys in their twenties, same private-school home counties inflection, both gym-toned types who clearly looked after themselves. Did they know each other from way back? I make a mental note to flag this to Gilbourne. And I will visit Angela again to give her an update.

  I go down to the car park and within a few minutes I’m on the A40, making good time heading out of London in the Sunday morning traffic. Thinking about Max and the barely-contained violence in his words, his posture, his whole attitude when he had confronted me in Prestwood Ash on Friday night. A man on the edge.

  I’m halfway to the village when my phone pings with a new message in its hands-free cradle on the dash. I expect to see Matt Simms’s name on the display, but it’s an unrecognised number. I click on the message.

  Mia’s almost out of time

  I start a reply, then delete it and simply call the number, panic swimming through me. It rings out. I end the call and text instead, holding the phone against the steering wheel as I drive.

  Who is this?

  Don’t make the same mistake twice.

  He’s already on his way

  In answer to my question, at the end of the text he’s signed it off as if he’s writing an email.

  Leon

  Do you mean DS Holt? Is he the one?

  I push down on the accelerator and pull out to overtake the car in front. I’ve just pushed the phone back into its cradle when it rings, the Bluetooth-connected speakers bouncing the sound around inside my car.

  ‘Ellen?’ Gilbourne’s voice is taut with tension. ‘Tell me you’re still at the hotel.’

  ‘No,’ I say, overtaking a van. ‘I’m in my car.’

  ‘Listen to me very carefully, Ellen, do you trust me?’

  ‘Yes. Of co
urse.’

  ‘I need you to turn around and go back to your hotel, lock the door and wait until I call you back. Do not open the door to anyone, do you understand? Not the manager, not DS Holt, no one at all, until I let you know it’s safe and give you the all-clear.’

  ‘What’s happening, Stuart?’

  There is a pause on the line, road noise, traffic, muffled conversations in the background.

  ‘Dominic Church has shaken off his surveillance and he’s on the move. I have units out looking for him but I need to be sure you’re safe in case he comes for you.’

  ‘This is it, isn’t it?’ Pressure is building at the base of my throat, the pain rising into my larynx. ‘What about Holt? Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gilbourne says, almost shouting with frustration. ‘He’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘Where did they lose the surveillance on Church? Where was he?’

  ‘Ellen, you need to go back to the—’

  ‘Just tell me!’

  There is another pause on the other end of the line. Engine noise, the pitch rising, a siren wailing close by.

  ‘The last ANPR hit we had for his car reg was on the A40, heading north-west out of London.’

  ‘You mean he’s going towards Prestwood Ash.’

  ‘We don’t know that for certain but we’ve got the situation under—’

  I hit end and push the accelerator flat to the floor.

  62

  I speed the rest of the way there, breaking limits on every single road, my hands in a death grip tight around the wheel. I can’t sit in a locked room waiting for the phone to ring: I have to know that Mia is safe. I flash through Prestwood Ash and hit the country road out the other side, pushing up to seventy miles an hour before standing on the brakes as the turn-off for The Grange comes into view. The gates are open and I skid into the driveway in a slew of gravel, almost clipping the wall as I accelerate through and on up to the house.