Blue On Blue

by Dal Maclean

  But nothing else.

  “What d’you want?” Ben asked.

  “I wanna know what the fuck you think you’re playin’ at,” Eve seethed. “Not visitin’ me!”

  Ben appeared to give the question some thought. “Well. I used to come to reassure myself that I’m nothing like you. But I don’t need to do that now.”

  There was a beat of stunned silence. Will had the feeling Ben had never talked to her like that before. Eve gave a derisory bark of laughter.

  “That cop fucked an inch of spine into you, you pathetic little turd? See how long that lasts, Shithead.”

  That wasn’t a random insult, Will realized. That was Eve’s name for him and Ben didn’t react because that was what he was used to.

  Then Ben laughed too, and it sounded genuine. “Actually,” he said. “Yeah. That is pretty much what he’s done.” His grin widened. “And that must make you so jealous.”

  Eve’s expression blanked. She was frightening enough when she wielded out-of-control emotion as a weapon. The absence of it felt even more ominous, as if she’d been driven beyond rage to something more dangerous.

  “Every word makes it worse for you, Shithead.” Her voice was silky with threat.

  “I don’t think so,” Ben said.

  “Sir Magnus Henderson?” Eve said. She clicked her tongue. “What he gonna say when he finds out who’s bin bouncin’ on his little boy’s dick?”

  Ben shrugged one shoulder. “Magnus knows who I am.”

  “Well . . . that saves time then,” Eve said, but Will thought he detected a moment of surprise. Eve leaned forward, but Ben didn’t move back. Somehow he was managing to look relaxed. “Magnus is gonna buy me a lawyer. The best in the fuckin’ country. None of that legal aid shit. One of the ones rich people use to argue dead’s alive.”

  Ben’s expression of unimpressed amusement slid to incredulity. “No one can argue that when it comes to you. You’ve already lost two appeals. There’s no new evidence!”

  “’uman rights,” Kelly spat. “Magnus is gonna fund a campaign. Internet. Petitions. Press. After all, we’re gonna be in-laws right? I’ve done twenty-three years in ‘ere. The judge was playin’ to the gallery when he gave that sentence. ‘E was influenced by the press, demonizin’ me . . . an ‘e wiz a misogynist. He didn’t like single mothers. Whole life sentences are inhumane . . . against the Charter of Human Rights. I’ve paid my debt to society an’ I’m rehabilitated. See? Easy. I’ve kept in touch. I see what’s goin’ on outside. I’m a victim too.”

  Fuck, Will thought.

  “No.” Ben said.

  Eve stared at him with disbelief. “You think I can’t sell it? You think I can’t do remorse and repentance and sufferin’?”

  “Oh, I know you could. But you really think I’ll help unleash you again?”

  Eve smirked. “Oh yeah. I do. Just imagine the ‘eadlines about my little boy.”

  “There’s an injunction against revealing my identity,” Ben said.

  “All it needs is the Internet. Someone to get it out there, then someone to challenge the injunction in the public interest.”

  “And who’s going to do that?” Ben asked. “Charles Priestly? He’s all you have left. And I’d say he has an interest in not revealing anyone’s identity, given who he was.”

  “He’ll do it if I tell him to,” Eve declared. Her skin was flushed with rage, but on her it looked pretty. “I’ll get it out there, one way or another.”

  “Maybe you will,” Ben shrugged again. “Maybe not. I’ve spent my whole life since I was nine years old, terrified of people finding out who my mother is. Afraid to get close to anyone, because they’d turn on me if they knew. I let it rule me.”

  Eve glowered. “Christ, you’re pathetic. You should be boastin’! I’m famous, not a useless bunch of cells like you. But you know. All your hypocrite friends. The people who let you take their photo. You know they’ll turn on you.”

  “The important people know and they don’t care,” Ben said. “And anyway . . . I thought you’d kept up. I’m a survivor of childhood abuse. In fact if you go for it, the notoriety may even help my career. In fact . . . .”

  “You’re spewin’ shit,” Eve snarled. “I know exactly what you are, you little fag. You can act brave, but you think I don’t remember all that screamin’ an’ beggin’ an’ blubberin’? ‘Please Mummy, pleeease don’t!’” She mimicked a child’s voice, high and thin. “I should ‘ave done it. Just closed the blades one of those times. Just . . . cut it off. It’s not like you’ve ever needed it. It’s not like you’re a man.”

  Ben sighed and scratched his forehead. “Is that all you have left?” He rose to his feet with unhurried grace. Will couldn’t understand how he’d lasted that long.

  Eve glared up at him as if she couldn’t believe what was happening. “You’d better not go makin’ decisions for your father-in-law, Shithead,” she hissed. “He ain’t gonna forgive ya when it comes out, and he realizes he could have covered it up for a few grand. You tell him what I said!”

  “If it ever came out,” Ben said. “Magnus’d use it as a corporate PR opportunity. You have no idea who he is. Whatever you do, you’ll get nothing from me or from him.” He still hadn’t raised his voice, and Will understood that his calm had been a weapon. It had given him the control Eve had sought by abuse and rage. Her old techniques to cow him. To cow Stevie.

  Ben paused, looking down at her. “I won’t be back,” he said. “Just so we’re clear. I think we can call this closure. Good-bye. Mum.”

  He walked to the door, banged on it twice and disappeared through it when it opened on cue.

  Will levered himself away from the wall and followed, keeping his expression neutral, though he wanted to laugh in Eve’s stunned, humiliated face.

  “Copper!” Eve called harshly.

  Will stopped and glanced over his shoulder. But Eve wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the surface of the table, as if she could blister it by impotent hatred alone.

  “You remember. I know things. You want any more info . . . you come back. I ain’t dealin’ wiv no one else.”

  Outside in the corridor, Ben stood, head bent. When Will touched his shoulder, he could feel he was shaking.

  “Ben,” Will said. “You were incredible. Are you all right?”

  Ben raised his head and turned round.

  His eyelashes were damp, but he gave a shaky grin. Then the grin widened slowly, until it became a brilliant Ben Morgan special.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I think I am.”

  16

  Will called Hansen on hands-free on the way back from Bronzefield and told her everything Eve had told him. And that he’d brought in James.

  There was an ominous silence.

  Will said, “I need someone else’s eyes on this, Chris. We have to change tack.”

  “That’s the first time you haven’t called me ‘Ma’am’ for seven years,” Hansen said distantly.

  Will could feel his face heating up. “Sorry Ma’am.”

  She sighed. “There’s no point pretending we don’t have history. And it’s not as if we aren’t out on the same limb. Which now includes DI Henderson.” She sounded exhausted.

  “Sussex CID are going to want to know why I saw June two times,” Will said. “And they’ll probably ask DCI Ingham rather than me. I have to tell her before that.”

  Hansen sighed. “Yes. The truth about June’s conviction can’t be kept contained much longer. I’m going to talk to the ACC . . . a DI I know. Not Alan Cochrane.” Incredible that they couldn’t even trust the head of the anti-corruption unit.

  Will knew he should feel relieved though, that the ACC might take the burden of Hansen’s shadowy investigation from him. He could get back to normal policing. But, once the ACC got started . . . Ingham would be easy to throw to the wolves, to let bigger fish escape. Even if she was innocent.

  “Can’t the ACC wait?” Will blurted. “Let me dig a little longer.�
��

  “Will,” Hansen began with weary impatience. But then she paused, gave a loud sigh and seemed to give in. “One more day. Don’t confront Jo. And for God’s sake be careful. This is getting more dangerous with every stone you overturn.”

  When he walked into the Incident Room just before lunchtime, Will expected a barrage of #hotcop related abuse, with Scrivenor setting the pace. But when he flopped down at his desk, Scrivenor, seated across the aisle, looked over at him with an almost hostile expression.

  His moustache bristled. “DCI Ingham wants tae see ye. Sir.”

  And that was when Will knew something was seriously wrong. Scrivenor never called him “Sir.”

  He stood and walked to Ingham’s office with a jittering gut. The whole Incident Room seemed subdued, though he was aware he was probably projecting. But he also knew that Scrivenor set the tone. If Scrivenor didn’t like you, no one did. And Scrivenor didn’t like you, if Ingham didn’t like you.

  Ingham looked up from her paperwork when he tapped on her door. Her expression darkened.

  “Come in and close the door,” she said. She wore a purple blouse and her corkscrew curls looked shorter. How the hell had she managed to get the time for a haircut?

  He didn’t sit.

  “DI Foster.” Ingham’s tone was formal and seething with anger. “You went against my express orders and interviewed June Winton for a second time. And she was probably killed because of it.”

  The accusation stole Will’s breath. “Boss . . . .”

  “She was safe as long as she kept her mouth shut!”

  Will had never seen Ingham this genuinely angry. But it didn’t matter.

  His chest felt empty.

  “You’re admitting it?” he asked in wonder. “You’re admitting she was framed?”

  Ingham stilled. “What did you say?”

  “I’m saying that I got a new DNA sample from June. And it doesn’t match the sample that convicted her.”

  Ingham was still staring at him as if he’d lost his mind, but of course she’d already known he’d found out—if Joey had warned her. And suddenly Will realized he was doing exactly what Hansen had told him not to. Confronting her.

  She said, “That’s ridiculous. A lab mistake.”

  “No. The lab is going to get the same result when they match her postmortem samples with the ones on her record.”

  But he could tell she’d already stopped denying it. “So someone knew you’d got a new sample from her . . . .” she said. “That’s why?”

  Will stared at his shoes. “Yeah. Probably. Alive, she’d draw attention as the kid wrongly imprisoned for murdering a big celebrity. Dead, who cares?”

  Ingham met his eyes. Hers looked appalled. “I care,” she said. “I fucking care!”

  Will looked away. He wanted so badly to believe her; it felt like a wound in his chest.

  He demanded, “So why did you say she was safe if she kept her mouth shut?”

  “Because.” She rubbed her face with one palm and let out an explosive sigh. “There were important people there that night. The night Ricky Desmond died. Very important people. It wasn’t a dinner party for fuck’s sake. But what June did to Ricky—that shone a light on what had really gone on, and they wanted that light turned off fast. So there was huge pressure to get it over with, fast and efficient. Right from the top. Get the killer tucked away watertight, preferably with a guilty plea to avoid going to trial an’ embarrassin’ those powerful people who’d been fuckin’ the night away at an orgy. And June cooperated.”

  “You made her cooperate,” Will accused. The spike in his chest was screwing in to his heart.

  Ingham’s eyes widened. “No!” She shook her head and her curls danced. “She made up a pathetic alibi that fell apart at once, and then she just . . . .” Ingham shrugged. “Confessed. She gave us details about the murder she shouldn’t have had if she wasn’t there. And her DNA match was icing on the cake.”

  Ingham rubbed her hand down over her face again. She looked tormented. Guilty.

  “But?” Will prompted.

  “But.” She let her head fall back against the headrest of her chair. Her eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Maybe . . . I always wondered at how easy it was. When it was happening, we just wanted to win. But after . . . ? I know Alec wondered too when he got back. One thing I did know though. She had to stay quiet to survive. Not create any . . . inconvenience.”

  “You’re saying . . . you were trying to protect her? It never occurred to you that she wasn’t guilty?”

  “No,” she said, her tone almost offended. She dropped her gaze back to him. “I told you. It was watertight. But you wanted to investigate where the DNA sample took you, like a good detective would. And I thought . . . someone was trying to make mischief for June by leaving her DNA at a new murder scene. I thought, I’d best let sleeping dogs lie or she’d pay the price. What kind of copper does that make me?”

  The pressure in Will’s chest had begun to ease, and he realized that he was feeling the beginnings of hope. “‘The kind of copper who makes those difficult decisions every day’?” he quoted.

  Ingham closed her eyes. “You believe June’s confession was false then?” Her voice was dull. Hollow.

  “Eve says Joey framed her,” Will said. Ingham’s eyes opened and she snorted with disdain. “She also said Pauline Clarkson was June’s last visitor.” Ingham met his eyes. He could see the struggle there.

  “And Desmond’s murderer very likely killed Daria.”

  Ingham’s face twisted. “Back then, with June, I wanted it to be as easy as it seemed. So I ignored my gut, and this is the result.”

  Will drew a deep breath. He had to do this. He had no choice.

  “You ordered that intimate sample from June?” he said.

  She blinked for a second, distracted, as if she didn’t understand. And then she did. “You think I fixed her up!” She looked stunned. “That’s why you didn’t tell me about June’s DNA until now?”

  “Why did you order that sample? Why not do swabs as usual?”

  She stared at him as if she didn’t know him. His heart was hammering so hard he thought could hear the sound of it in his head.

  “I ordered an intimate sample, DI Foster,” she gritted. “Because it was suggested to me it would make sure that the conviction was watertight. No loopholes possible. You can’t understand what it was like, more pressure to get a collar than I’ve had in my whole career. More than I’ve ever seen. All the top brass were on our backs. They’d had calls from the Palace. From the Home Office. The Commissioner was on it. Every. Single. Day.” She was furious with him, no mistaking that. Whatever else this was accomplishing, every insinuation he made was destroying the relationship he’d built up with her.

  But he couldn’t stop.

  “Who suggested that the sample should be taken?”

  Her face scrunched up. “There was a meeting. In my office. Assistant Commissioner Ian McMahon was there.” Now the Commissioner. “Alison Stanford.” Now Chief Constable of the Humberside force. “Robin Dunn was Commander in Charge.” Now, Deputy Commissioner, and next in line to the throne. “I can’t remember which one of them suggested it, but they all agreed it was a good idea. Better safe than sorry.”

  Those names, a roll call of police power, rubbed in how hopeless it was. Will was a minnow. The hopelessness of what he was trying to do, struck him hard.

  How could he take down a pyramid of corruption in the Met? How could he even begin to find out the identities of every copper owing Joey allegiance? Maybe with luck, he might unearth a couple of crooked officers. But Joey’s infiltration went far beyond that. “And DC Masson?” Will demanded.

  “Jez?” Ingham frowned. “What about him? He left.”

  “He took June’s sample to the Evidence Room. And he retired a few months later rich enough to berth a yacht at the most expensive mooring on the Thames. Then he died in an accident.”

  Join the fucking dots.
/>   Ingham’s unblinking eyes didn’t leave him.

  “He said some relative left him some money. He was a good detective. A good guy. I went to his funeral.” She sounded distant. Stunned. As if that had punctured her last defense.

  Will’s lip curled.

  “Who else knows?” Ingham’s voice was tight.

  “AC Hansen,” Will said. It didn’t occur to him to lie about it.

  Ingham sighed. “Of course.”

  “And Jamie.” Ingham’s eyes shot to his, horrified all over again.

  Will said, “He thinks you’re uncorruptible.”

  Ingham flinched. “Just as well we have you then, DI Foster. To avoid any danger of sentiment.”

  The pain of that surprised him. But he couldn’t blame her, anymore than he could change what he was, or how he thought.

  She sighed. “Shit, I’m sorry. That was a low blow. So what’s AC Hansen intending to do?”

  Will clenched his jaw. “She says she’ll bring in Anti-Corruption when she has enough evidence.”

  “I see,” Ingham said stiffly.

  They were both silent for a few moments, taking in the damage. Then Will said, “I want to interview Pauline Clarkson.” And he didn’t even know himself if he was asking her for permission or telling her. “I have to follow this to its conclusion.”

  Ingham sat in silence, the back of her hand pressed against her mouth, thinking. Then she said: “You understand you’re playing with dynamite? A lot of people won’t want the Ricky Desmond case reopened. A lot of careers were made on June’s conviction. A lot of VIP embarrassment was avoided. You can back away and no one’d think the worse of you. In fact, they’d admire your smarts.”

  “I’m not backing away,” Will said and a part of him wondered if he’d just signed his own death warrant. If Ingham really was Joey’s nark, then he probably had. “But that’s why I don’t want to bring Des in any deeper. I don’t want to risk his career—Hell, his life—because of his loyalty to me.”