by Dal Maclean
BLUE ON BLUE
by Dal Maclean
Published by: ONE BLOCK EMPIRE
An imprint of Blind Eye Books
315 Prospect Street #5393
Bellingham WA 98225
blindeyebooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Nicole Kimberling
Copyedit by Marilyn Silverman
Galley Proof by Jess Faraday
Ebook Design by Michael DeLuca
Cover art by KaNaXa
This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places or events is coincidental.
First Edition March 2020
Copyright © 2020 Dal Maclean
ISBN: 978-1-935560-68-5
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Control Number:2019955718
To N and J, of course. And to Nicole and Dawn for—this.
1
There had been a funeral. A coffin carried shoulder-high.
Then a hearse, driven down a cordoned London street between rigid lines of Metropolitan Police Service officers, heads bowed, all clad in No. 1 uniforms. Fitted, silver-buttoned tunics and trousers in a navy blue so dark, it was almost black. White shirts and black ties or checked cravats. Peaked caps, helmets or bowler hats, all according to rank and sex. White gloves.
Brian Singer had been an unarmed beat constable who’d tried to shield a woman caught in the crossfire of a gangland drive-by shooting. “Wild West London,” the media called it, then forgot about it when the next victim came in.
It had been unseasonably bright and sunny all the spring day, totally wrong for a funeral, but now as dusk drew in, dark gray clouds were piling up on the skyline like dirty cotton wool.
Detective Inspector Will Foster slid from the back seat of a black Mercedes saloon into the cool early evening air, reflexively straightening his tie and his peaked cap, tugging down his tunic with his free hand. His white cotton gloves were held in the other. It had already been a very long day.
Just twenty minutes before, Will had hovered at the edge of Singer’s modest, grief-hazy funeral reception. Now he had to try to get his head around the polar opposite—a party to celebrate beginnings, held at one of London’s most expensive addresses.
He stood for a moment taking in his surroundings, and the architecture enthusiast in him could only be impressed.
The whole long curved terrace of Grosvenor Crescent was faced with white-painted render and limestone, Victorian houses five stories high, with metal, tree-lined balconies perched on the grand white-colonnaded porticoes sheltering their front doors. The street breathed history. Exclusivity. Money.
Further along the Crescent, Will could see the flags of a couple of embassies. Belgium looked to be one of them, he thought. The UAE maybe. Maybe not. He wasn’t hot on Flags of the World.
A small knot of men and a couple of women were leaning, smoking, against a silver people carrier parked about twenty feet along the road—and watching the Merc with too much interest. But the large open camera bags at their feet explained that. Paparazzi, drawn in by the party’s extensive celebrity guest list, like flies, buzzing round a pool of honey. Or shit, Will thought with the bred-in gut-hostility of a copper to the media.
Predictably, when Will’s companions emerged from the car a second or two later, one of the paps straightened and shouted, and like a choreographed routine, the others scooped up their cameras and rushed forward in a pack. The smug peace of the street exploded into a red carpet insanity of flashes and shouts and hungry click-clicking.
In the chaos, an identical black Mercedes purred into a space behind the first, to the vocal delight of the paps, and two more uniformed officers—one male, one female—climbed out of the second car and joined Will’s group, steadfastly ignoring the relentless intrusion of the photographers.
Five guests in total had come straight to Belgravia from the funeral reception: Will, Detective Chief Inspector Jo Ingham, Assistant Commissioner Christine Hansen, Deputy Commissioner Sir Robin Dunn, and Commissioner Sir Ian McMahon.
Sir Ian was the reason of course, for the pap’s excitement. His photos would sell. Will just wished he didn’t have to be part of the background set dressing.
“Right!” Sir Ian said with a grin so brilliant it had to be for the benefit of the cameras. “We’re all here. Everyone look happy!”
Hansen, Sir Robin and Ingham grinned on cue, as the cameras flashed. Will didn’t.
“This is excellent PR for the Met you know. For our inclusivity drive.” Sir Ian’s unnatural grin melted into genuine wry mischief, “Well . . . apart from the billionaire bit. That’s not quite so inclusive.”
Will at last felt able to smile cynically back.
It wasn’t every day, after all, that the gay policeman-son of a vastly powerful and globally connected oil magnate, got engaged. But they all knew that “the billionaire bit,” rather than “the inclusivity bit,” was the real reason why the top brass of the MPS had opted to attend the celebration party of a lowly Detective Inspector.
James Henderson was Sir Magnus Henderson’s son and heir. That was the crucial fact.
“Okay. Let’s go in.” Sir Ian set off, tall and straight-backed, across the street, and Will and his fellow officers followed like a pack of obedient Labradors.
All of the residences on the wide, curved street were predictably splendid, but the townhouse they headed for stood out in the smooth elegance of the terrace as a center of celebration. Strings of white fairy lights festooned the immaculately manicured topiary that flanked the front door, and every huge, multipaned window for three floors was lit up and glowing gold in the gathering gloom. Sounds of music and gaiety became more and more audible, the closer they got.
Finally, they gathered on the front steps, like five black crows.
If this were a fairy-tale, Will thought idly, they’d be the harbingers of doom. As it was, they were just late.
Sir Ian rang the bell.
Will always thought Sir Ian looked as if he’d been picked by an unimaginative casting agent for the job of Good Guy in Charge. He was in his late forties, tall, lean and sternly good-looking, with good-humored shrewd brown eyes and a face that seemed too young for his short silver hair. He had a superlative record as a serving police officer who’d risen through the ranks, and in his three years as Commissioner, he’d built a quasi-celebrity persona in the press as The People’s Policeman, listening to the concerns of ordinary Londoners, even as he lived a gilded life with a high-powered politician-wife.
Will used to be of the opinion that their PR people deserved every penny they got polishing that turd, until a close member of his own team had been killed in the line of duty, and Sir Ian had given the eulogy. Will had needed to hear every well-judged, understanding, compassionate word.
He’d become an admirer after that. Sir Ian may be glitzy, but that was a public facade. A mask he wore. He had substance, and he was a copper through and through.
Sir Ian turned as they waited, and gave another wide, white smile for the paps. “All right? You all look great.”
The door opened before anyone had to answer.
A woman stood in the doorway, regarding them without any expression; a wicked witch for the fairytale, on cue. Certainly, jollity appeared alien to her and her appearance was on the edge of parody: black dress, high-necked and long-sleeved, ugly shoes, dark, graying hair pulled back into a severe bun.
Sir Ian introduced them, although their police uniforms should have given a clue.
“I am Mrs. Morris, Sir Magnus’s
housekeeper,” the woman said when he finished. “You’ll find most of the guests are in the ballroom, on the first floor, to the right.” She began to gather their hats and gloves.
Sir Ian turned to give them all the benefit of another bracing smile. “The ballroom then. Let’s mingle.”
He strode off toward a wide stone imperial staircase that dominated the back of the hall, and began to trot up the steps. Sir Robin and Hansen followed obediently, again, after him.
Ingham didn’t move. She glanced down at her uniform and sighed. “Really looking forward to mingling with the elite, dressed like I’m ready to lift them.”
Will grimaced in agreement. The original plan had been for the senior officers representing the South Kensington murder investigation team at the funeral to go back to the station after the reception, to change into their party clothes. Until midnight, the South Ken unit was still on its duty week, and would be required to take on any new murder cases in West London. And since Will was the senior investigating officer on call, he’d volunteered to drive. But they hadn’t reckoned on The People’s Policeman deciding to offer them all a lift to Sir Magnus’s house, in his own and Sir Robin’s chauffeur-driven cars.
Will would have sidled out of it, but Hansen’s urgent eye contact had made it clear that no one who valued the prospect of future advancement could refuse Sir Ian’s gesture of largesse to the minions. So no chance to stop off to change into civvies.
Sir Ian was a notoriously teetotal fitness enthusiast, so perhaps it hadn’t occurred to him that none of them were allowed to drink alcohol in uniform. Or perhaps he didn’t care.
Ingham looked around the huge hallway with its grand white-washed columns, its lofty ceiling and gorgeous black-and-white tiled floor. “To think Jamie wanted a tray of sandwiches at the pub,” she remarked.
“You know his dad wants to book Kensington Palace for the wedding.” Will glanced at her. “But Jamie said it’d be vulgar.”
Ingham snorted. She was a tough, shrewdly intelligent half Jamaican woman from Essex—roughly five foot three, somewhere in her forties and known to the South Ken unit she headed, as “Herself”. But she looked unfamiliar in her uniform. Her bouncy dark corkscrew ringlets had been pulled back into a ruthless bun, and her pale brown skin looked subtly darker against the white of her collar. She seemed older, a figure of authority.
“C’mon DI Foster.” She nodded at the staircase, with the rueful remains of her smile. “Through the looking glass we go.”
They walked side by side up the carpeted stone stairs, until the staircase divided into more steps, leading to two opposite landings. But they didn’t need the housekeeper’s instructions to know which direction to go. The cacophony of celebration emanated from one of the doorways on the landing to the right.
The ballroom that Will and Ingham entered, was enormous, full to bursting with glamorous people dressed in bright evening clothes. From somewhere, a string quartet was playing something discreet.
The walls were pale and trimmed with elegant gilt detail; the floor, a glowing golden-brown parquet. The room was lit by cleverly placed wall-sconces and enormous glittering chandeliers, reflecting off three huge uncurtained windows in the far wall.
Will and Ingham stood just inside the door, taking stock of the sheer grandeur on display. And as they did, a few partygoers glanced at them, fixed on them, then looked pointedly away. It felt exactly as Will had expected it to feel—like turning up in fancy dress to the wrong party. Maybe the guests thought it was a raid. Or that they were strippers.
Will realized he was standing to attention so he deliberately relaxed his posture. There were other uniformed officers here, he reminded himself, except their uniforms were so emblazoned with badges of rank, that they looked like party clothes themselves.
“Fuck. This,” Ingham muttered. “Right, if there’s a bar, my old man’ll have found it.” She gestured toward the heart of the crowd. “Coming? I’ll stand you a lemonade.”
But Will shook his head. “Think I’ll hang on here for a bit, Boss. Get my bearings.”
Ingham considered him for a moment, as if she understood the fragility of his mood.
“Don’t let it get to you.” Her voice was soft. “Remember . . . it’s a celebration.” She held Will’s eyes, then turned and threaded her way through knots of chattering people, until the crowd swallowed her up.
Will clenched his jaw and moved along the side of the room until he reached a colonnade to lean against.
She was right. He was wallowing.
It had been the shock of familiarity; that was all. A brutal sensory echo of the last time Will had put on this uniform: to attend the funeral of his own sergeant.
Sanjay’s family had asked Will to be a pallbearer.
Ready to lift.
Lift!
The heavy weight of his friend in that oak box.
Treacherous memories had ambushed him all day, one after the other, exquisitely sharp as slivered glass, sliding into his flesh.
Sanjay had been driven, in accordance with Hindu custom, past important places he’d known in his life, on the way to the crematorium. And Will and the others from his team had gone on ahead to the police station to wait for the cortege to pass them. They’d lined up outside, dressed in their No. 1s, members of the public gathered all along the other side of the road, waiting too, with that same, eerie communal almost-silence, broken only by the odd sniff, a cough; now and then quiet sobbing.
Bowed heads. Best uniforms. White gloves.
Another good man whose life had ended so some gangster scumbag could make a point.
A familiar lump of emotion had lodged in his throat most of the day. Rage. Guilt. Impotence. It was hard to swallow round it.
Will shifted restlessly against the pillar.
He needed to retrench. And he needed to stop thinking about it. He’d got a second chance in the Met. He couldn’t let the past throw him like this.
He forced himself to focus instead on the buoyant crowd in front of him, until the individuals in it became real. He made himself take them in.
Will came from an average background himself: his father worked for British Telecom, his second-generation British-Italian mother was a secretary in the National Health Service. He’d been lucky enough to live near a good state school, got to uni, and worked to help support himself all the way through.
This kind of environment—James’s natural habitat—was another country altogether.
He’d always thought that truly wealthy and successful people were a breed apart. They wore their own uniforms. There was a tanned sleekness about the men, whatever their girth, while the women were uniformly slender and groomed, all in fitted dresses to set off their glossy hair and gym-honed bodies.
He idly ticked off faces he recognized: top businesspeople, the odd politician, a number of A- and B-list celebrities. All friends and acquaintances of James’s dad, who was apparently a believer in taking advantage of all available networking opportunities, including his gay son’s engagement party.
Then, across the room, Will spotted a couple of people he knew in real life. His old friend and one-time fuckbuddy Mark Nimmo—a criminal solicitor with the instincts of a starving shark—was standing beside his boyfriend Pez Brownley. Tall, slim, dark-haired, painfully on trend. Not Will’s friend really. Something more complex and antagonistic than that.
Pez looked thrilled to be regaling a very recognizable celebrity, who gave every appearance of enjoying it. But, Will thought meanly, the man was an actor.
“You’re scowling.” A glass of clear fizzing liquid was thrust in front of Will’s nose. “Sparkling water, sadly.”
Will fumbled to take the glass as Christine Hansen moved to stand at his side, so they were both positioned to monitor the party.
Will muttered his thanks and threw her a cautious side-eyed glance.
Hansen was in her midforties, medium height, athletically fit and tanned. Her cropped platinum hair stood out sp
ectacularly against the severity of her dark uniform, though, compared with Will’s jacket, hers was almost gaudy. He just had two Inspector’s silver stars—pips—on his epaulettes. Hansen’s uniform was embellished with oak leaves and crown insignia on her shoulders, red gorget patches on the collar; a multicolored ribbon sat on one side of her chest; her name and rank was embroidered on the other. The whole effect spoke of importance and authority.
“You look good in the uniform,” Hansen remarked, as if she’d read his mind. She nodded toward the crowd. “I’d say more than a few of them are hoping you’ll read them their rights sometime tonight.”
Will looked, despite himself, into the milling people in front of them, catching the fascinated eyes of a tall, auburn-haired man who held his stare just too long, before he smiled and turned back to his companion.
“Thank you Ma’am,” Will said stiffly. “You look very smart yourself.”
Hansen’s laugh sounded genuinely amused.
For as long as Will had known her, she’d worn pale pink frosted lipstick. It wasn’t fashionable, Will gathered, but it suited her perfectly somehow.
It tasted of artificial strawberries.
Will straightened uncomfortably, pulling away from the colonnade.
“Ian’s on the other side of the room, you know,” Hansen said. “You can loosen your stays.” She took a sip of her drink. “We haven’t spoken for a long time, outside of work.”
Will held his poker face.
This was a social gathering. It was appropriate to say what he wanted to say to her here, outside an operational setting. But he was aware his heartbeat had elevated.
“I haven’t had the chance to tell you I appreciate what you did Ma’am.” He sounded stilted and awkward even to himself. She turned her head to study him again. “Talking me into reapplying. Letting me choose South Ken.”
Hansen regarded him without expression. “Will, we’re so understaffed, I could’ve got next door’s Yorkshire terrier in.”
Will snorted, relieved that she hadn’t picked up his earnestness. But then her expression softened. “I meant all I said at the time though. You were born to be a copper. You never let anything get in your way.”