I dart Benson a glance, then turn back to the house to ring the bell, hoping Rawlings has a girlfriend inside who’ll let us in because I have no reasonable grounds to excuse breaking into the inspector’s home.
‘Watch the dog. I suspect his bite is far worse than his bark and he sounds practically demonic.’
‘I can’t hear anything.’
She tilts her head and glances towards the rear garden. ‘Neither can I. That is odd. It’s a vicious-looking thing. Makes a hell of a racket.’
‘What kind of dog is it?’
‘A Staffordshire Bull Terrier.’
‘A Staffy,’ says Benson. Only I seem to detect the sarcasm in his voice. The dogs with the worst press are proven to be the most family-friendly so long as their owner doesn’t teach them to fight.
Flynn pushes open the door to her house, stops, and hovers in the doorway as though she’s wrestling with her conscience. ‘I won’t get into trouble for this, will I?’
‘For what?’
‘Well, he’s got a temper and I have to live here so I wouldn’t want to unnecessarily annoy him but… oh, screw it.’ I watch her march indoors, hear rustling from behind the door.
When she reappears, she’s holding a phone. ‘Ian gave me the number for his next of kin. A friend of his, I believe. He has a spare key. He said if anything happened to him to call this number. I’m assuming something’s happened, so you’d better ring him.’
I glance down at the number I recognise from my phone call to the man, the number displayed beneath Reg Atkinson’s initials.
Until this point, we’ve had nothing to tie Rawlings to the chicken shop owner. Now we have, I’m having second thoughts as to the advisability of illegally entering his house.
‘We have to go.’ I hand Flynn back her phone, motioning for Benson to follow me back to the car.
Footsteps approach me from behind, forcing me to turn back to Flynn. She glances up at me then shakes her head violently and presses her hand to her mouth. The phone clatters to the ground and I spin round at the sound of glass breaking.
Benson stumbles, but is hit again and groans as he drops to the floor. Keenan, wearing just a pair of boxer shorts, and with the stem of a beer bottle in his bloody hand, turns to leg it back inside Rawlings’ house from the living room window it appears he exited but I lunge for him, grabbing hold of his waistband and somehow pull him backwards, so that he falls into me. With my eyes on Benson who isn’t moving, I kick Keenan hard in the back of the knee, sending us both to the ground. I try to force his weight off me as he turns and push his face back as hard as I can with the heel of my hand until he chokes out a ‘fucking bitch,’ and reaches for my wrist. Bending my arm up and over my head he looks down at me then propels himself backwards on one leg, stumbling into the wall as I wrap one of my own around his, unbalancing him.
‘You okay?’
Benson croaks, and tries to stand but can’t seem to gain friction with the concrete. Blood pours down his face and he seems to be having trouble talking. I swing a look back at Flynn and order her to his side. She’s on the phone to the police while trying to hoist Benson up by the elbow. ‘You’re a hefty lump, aren’t you?’
I have Keenan on the ground, his face grazing the limestone slabs. ‘I’m arresting you for assault, to start with,’ I pant through gritted teeth.
A car, loud and fast, belts it along the road and screeches up onto the kerb, blocking the driveway.
‘Did you…?’ The words die on my lips as Flynn, who is now dragging Benson onto his feet, takes on the appearance of an embarrassed schoolgirl.
‘I called Ian when I saw you peering through his living room window.’
But it’s not Rawlings’ car. And the man who steps out of it is Pierce.
‘Alright, Keenan?’ he says, walking towards us, receiving a nod of confirmation from the man who’s doing his best to play the role of security guard. ‘You know, I take it?’ He aims his words at me, kicking Benson in the side and smiling when he yelps. I try not to let him see me wince.
‘Yes, Pierce, I know everything. So there’s no point in you trying to bullshit me to get off the hook. You’re well and truly—’ I’ve barely noticed the sudden hand slide, the gun barrel aimed at me before I hear the echoic shot break through the still air, like a single spark firework. I inhale sharply, a burst of cold air as I fall hard on my lower spine, sending a jolt of pain down my left leg. ‘Uh,’ I gasp, taking in a lungful of air, feeling it hit my chest wall and sit there.
The shell didn’t hurt when it pierced my stomach, but instead felt hot. Now the heat drips down the crotch of my trousers, warm and thick. I press my hands to the wound just below my ribs, feeling the sticky blood ooze between my fingers and spread down my thighs.
Pierce jerks the gun at Flynn and motions to the front door of her house. ‘Get inside.’
She releases her grip on Benson and retreats slowly at first, gathering pace when her Achilles heel hits the steep stone step into the porch. She slams the door behind her, and I wince from the vibration in my pocket that seems to instigate an inexplicable agony of realisation that I’m going to die. That I can’t answer my phone. That I won’t know whose call I missed. That I will never see my husband or children again. And that the person responsible holds the gun used to kill Natalie in his confident hand.
If I’m going to die on the cold ground beneath an October moon, I want answers because my soul won’t rest until I get them.
I tilt my head and swallow the metallic tang that’s sprung to my throat. Pierce huffs and gives Benson another kick, tells Keenan to stand and points the gun at my head. ‘Yes, I stole the gun from the evidence room. My bad?’
‘N… Nat… Natalie?’ My voice sounds hoarse. I cough blood.
‘No. I didn’t kill her. Do you honestly think I’m capable of shooting a sixteen-year-old kid?’
I almost laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
‘W… why?’ My hands begin to tremble, and as I gasp for breath my chest constricts and my stomach starts to hurt, my adrenaline waning.
Pierce glances at Keenan who stands at his side with a haunted expression on his face. Then to Benson who’s still struggling to haul himself off the ground, one eye swollen, a deep gash above it where tiny pieces of glass glisten from the street-lit wound, a pool of blood encircling his head. Pierce kneels at my side. ‘Why what?’
I hear a motor. People chattering. See several shadowy figures moving beyond the garden wall. When I look at Pierce, his face blurs. I close my eyes and envision my past self, blowing ink onto wet paper watching the colours merge. When I open them, that’s what I see, the world a mirage painted over the one I used to know.
‘Why did I shoot you?’
I nod, hack, and vomit blood.
‘I was ordered to. Rawlings got the call from his neighbour,’ he says, pointing to the house next door where I hope Flynn has barricaded herself into the kitchen, exited the back door and found somewhere safe to dial 999. ‘He phoned and told me to get tooled up, get my arse over to his place and get Keenan out of the house because you and Benson were off gallivanting and he suspected you knew about his association with Atkinson.’
His face softens, glowing, almost translucent except for the streak of blue light cast like a shadow across his forehead. The familiar bleat of a warning siren dazzles me. ‘You’re not a bad looker, Maguire. It’s a shame that if you were going to make it out of this alive, you’d be spending the rest of your life wearing a colostomy bag.’
I splutter Benson’s name but as Pierce moves aside, I glance to where he’d been lying on the ground, uncertain if I’m hallucinating when I find an empty space. Eye movement mimics the sensation of boat-sickness. I turn further onto my side and try to push myself up one-handedly, my sodden trousers glued to my skin.
Keenan’s leaning against the wall, resting the back of his head against the rough brickwork.
‘Keen… uh.’ I collapse onto my forearm and hear
a snap. Pain shoots from my wrist down my thumb and up my forearm. I scream in agony. Pierce blinks as though to erase the sound.
‘Callahan killed Natalie under Atkinson’s instruction.’
Sharp spikes of searing pain splinter my lungs. ‘Why?’ I hiss.
‘Because of what she said to us, claiming to have seen Jerome’s killer.’
‘N… Not. Because. Of. What. She. Saw?’ I splutter and gasp, my entire torso spasming.
‘No. Natalie wasn’t even there.’
So why did she say she was? I ask myself before I’m staring at the shiny gun barrel, the world shatters, and Pierce’s face pixelates into a million pieces.
SINEAD
Newport, Wales
‘Sometimes we don’t get the outcome we want, but what instead we deserve.’ That’s the caption below the photograph of the crime scene in this morning’s online news article from the Croydon Echo. Pierce’s final words were brutal, and for him at least, true. Ironic, considering he deceived so many people.
I can’t tear my eyes away from the news piece even as my sleeve is being yanked on by a very bored Mai.
‘Mu-um.’
‘Yes, love?’
‘Can we go to the park?’
‘Sure. Just hold on a minute will you. I want to finish reading this.’
I try to ignore Brandon repeatedly drop kicking an apple into the side of the bed as my eyes skate down the page, absorbing the details, and telling myself that Pierce’s confession is the reason for Locke’s early phone call, to inform me the hunt for our fire-starter is over. But there’s something missing from the heavily edited article I can’t unpick from the spaces between the words though the detective in me tries.
KILLER COPPER’S BLOODSHED
S. R. Anand, crime reporter
21st October at 7.55 a.m. (updated at 8.20 a.m.)
Police attended the property of Croydon CID Detective Inspector Rawlings yesterday evening after a call from his neighbour Ms Flynn. Detectives attempted to negotiate with Detective Constable Pierce who was in possession of a firearm, but the brief standoff resulted in shots being fired and the man died at the scene. Passers-by describe the horror of watching the detective shoot a fellow female detective in the stomach before he was struck by police with a bullet to the lower spine and another to the leg for failing to stand down when ordered to do so.
Witnessing the injury to Detective Sergeant Maguire, Detective Constable Benson is assisting the Met with their enquiries. He is unable to comment on the incident.
Keenan Palmer, wanted in connection with the case that the deceased was investigating, was arrested at the scene and charged with participating in activities of organised crime. He is remanded in custody and is due to appear in front of Lady Judge Oxley for a bail hearing at Croydon Magistrates Court via video link later today, according to a police source.
I scroll down the news article to find an update posted ten minutes ago and learn that Rawlings was arrested and charged with failing to report a criminal offence and failing to report the whereabouts of Keenan Palmer, who was living in his house.
Following questioning, Keenan has been served a Section 47: Serious Crime Prevention Order, prohibiting him from associating with affiliates of the Croydon Boyz.
My breath staggers from my throat.
Pierce is dead. Maguire was seriously wounded.
And Rawlings is somehow connected.
A hard smack against my shin causes me to jump off the bed and shriek. The apple leaves my flesh throbbing. Brandon mouths ‘sorry.’
It’s difficult enough as it is to entertain two young children on a weekend but sharing a family room in a hotel is claustrophobic as well as stressful.
I’ve been avoiding Gareth’s incessant phone calls, still concerned with the way Locke studied him when he mentioned the scrape on the back of Aeron’s van yesterday. But I can’t evade the detective who insisted I refrain from leaving the hotel until she arrives at eleven o’clock this morning. Locke wants to discuss, I presume, the identity of my arsonist.
I’ve got ninety minutes. The children are bored. And we missed breakfast.
‘Right.’ I push my phone into my pocket and drag my coat off the bed. ‘Shoes and coats on, kiddos, we’re going to grab some food from the bakery and head up to Belle Vue Park.’
The children can run around, climb trees, swing, slide, and generally wear themselves out while I decide whether to apologise to Aeron for the way I spoke to him yesterday during our disagreement. He thought the children would be more comfortable sleeping on mattresses on the floor inside his dank, unheated flat and I insisted they were safer and would be warmer in a Travelodge with me.
When we arrive, the delicate drifts of fog that had fallen over the landscape overnight, leaving the world a pale reflection of itself, have dispersed. But there is still a chill in the air that makes my eyes water.
I zip my coat higher and button up the children’s hoods, so they must hold them up to avoid crashing into one another as I navigate them towards the bandstand. They sit cross-legged on the semi-circular concrete, sheltered from the sudden onset of drizzling rain, biting into their sausage rolls, and sipping ice-cold strawberry-flavoured water from a bottle that probably has more sugar in it than my cappuccino.
I sit beside them, warming both hands on my plastic travel cup, watching the children while nervously darting my eyes across the Victorian park seeking lone men donned in camouflage garb peeking through the branches of a Ginkgo Biloba. The yellow leaves of the tree crunching beneath the feet of a raucous family and their equally noisy hounds.
We chew and slurp and brush crumbs from our coats and rub our hands to warm them.
In the summer, the café behind us with the glass façade sells ice-cream and falafel sandwiches. Today a squirrel climbs a Hawthorn and jumps onto the drainpipe to gain access to the building that’s closed for the winter.
I’ve already pulled the phone out of my pocket, holding Brandon in sight as he jumps up and legs it to one of the well-groomed pooches whom he’s intent on making friends with, walking lazily alongside its owner. Mai follows too and is ignoring its attempt to gain a belly rub, when I accept Gareth’s fifth call in less than an hour. ‘Hello?’
‘Sorry… bad connection…’ Between the blustery wind and whistling I detect his muffled words and putting them together, I’m glad I’m seated so I don’t lose my balance. ‘He’s known we were together since the day he tried to top himself, Sinead.’
My palm goes rigid and my arm begins to shake. ‘He can’t. Not unless I talk in my sleep.’
‘Aeron must have been there that day, recognised your car, seen us together.’
‘You were convinced it was his van you’d seen.’
‘The van I saw him driving that night is the same one I saw yesterday when I met you on Carleon Road, I swear it. The one with the scrape on the back, where it opens.’
I choke back a sob.
‘But if Aeron followed us to Tredegar Park then he must have known about us three years ago. I can’t imagine he’d wait all this time to respond by setting alight his own house.’
‘For what it’s worth, I don’t believe Aeron is capable of risking injury to you and the children.’
‘We’re in agreement then. That I’ve been projecting my crap onto Aeron to justify my own behaviour. So much so that I thought him capable of setting alight his own house thinking I was inside.’
‘Maybe you need to forgive yourself or it’ll fester. You’ll keep returning to the point you’re supposed to move on from until you do.’
‘Yes, Gareth.’
‘Sinead. Even if we’re not meant to be together, I’ll never stop wishing we’d tried harder to make it work between us, done it properly. No relationship that began with betrayal can survive.’
Why couldn’t we have communicated our feelings this honestly when it mattered?
*
We arrive outside the hotel, warm from walking, and skin damp
from the rain. Locke follows me inside and up the lift, walking several paces behind us, closing the door to our room, and twisting the lock to ensure the cleaning team don’t disturb us.
While the children entertain themselves with colouring books, crayons, a pack of coloured pipe cleaners, and some stick-on googly eyes, I pour Locke and myself a weak coffee using the minuscule sachets I demanded more of. I turn the volume of the television up as far as it will go without the guests in the neighbouring room complaining to the receptionist downstairs and hope the children can’t hear our whispered conversation from behind the locked en suite bathroom door. The extractor fan whirring above to dispel our words.
‘Pierce admitted posting dog faeces through the front door of your London home, keying your car, slashing your tyres, bending your windscreen wipers, and throwing paint thinner on the bonnet.’
‘I guessed it was him. I should have known he was the culprit by how quick he was to attribute blame to someone involved with our investigation into Tyrell’s murder. I assume Callahan gave Pierce the idea to do those things because Newell replicated the shit on the doormat fiasco here.’
‘I can’t comment on the living. But Pierce admitted to starting the fire that killed Evesham, before he was… taken down.’ Shot.
‘We have a witness who supports his testimony.’ That will be either Maguire, Benson, or Keenan.
Atkinson would have denied everything.
‘Pierce lit the microfibre cloth and deposited it through our letterbox too, didn’t he?’
‘I’m not at liberty to comment.’
‘You’ve no forensic evidence to prove it, but you’ve no proof to disprove it?’
I can see her struggling to restrain herself from replying.
Not my husband then.
So the secret I share with Gareth is safe, for now.
I glance down at the three-person drawing Brandon has penned.
I’ve made a mess of things. That’s apparent from the family portrait. Aeron’s stick figure is missing from the piece of A4.
I Know You (DI Emma Locke) Page 27